Vs. Wraith/Marx

Wraith’s pupils dilated and his gaze went far away, to something unseen, then I saw the muscles in his jaw shift beneath the skin. His eyes came back hard and found me and I slung the coffee pot at him underhand. The boiling liquid arched and he pulled the trigger and I dove right, across his body, toward Marx. The gunshot rang out loud inside the cabin even with the suppressor and I hit the floor and rolled and the boiling coffee must have got Wraith because he screamed and leapt back tipping over his chair. I came up, as yet un-shot, and there was Marx, all six foot eight three-hundred-fifty pounds of him, clutching the crowbar overhead in two meaty hands and swinging down with all his might. I took a colossal blow across forearm and skull and the world went bright black and I staggered and almost fell and cast a glance at Wraith who was swinging the gun back around. I threw a backhand fist into Marx’s broken jaw and he squealed and I ducked behind him as Wraith fired. The bullet went wide. I snaked a hand around Marx’s mandible and squeezed, using the bone-shredding pain to steer him in front of me and keep him there, a three-hundred pound human shield.

“Bullet won’t go all the way through,” I said to Wraith, pivoting Marx as Wraith circled with the MK-23.

“I know,” said Wraith. “Sorry Marx. You’re worth an extra fifty k anyway.”

“Huh?” Marx had time to grunt, then the back of his head exploded. So much for my human shield. With no brain to control him, Marx’s muscles turned off and he dropped like a very large stone. I got a fistful of the ass of his pants and clamped a hand across his decapitated throat and managed to hold his immense headless bulk upright. Fuck was he heavy, even without a head. Wraith used Newton’s First Law to his advantage and sidestepped quickly to the right to flank me. The MK-23 spurted fire but I got Marx around just in time to eat the bullet in the gut.

...

I said nothing, mainly because I couldn’t really argue with his logic. This whole thing was about me. My haunting. Wraith was just one of the assholes hired for the job. We danced our little dance a while longer. Marx wasn’t getting any lighter. My deltoids seared. My grip on his bloody throat was slipping. Wraith could sense it. He redoubled his herky-jerky circling, jab-stepping one way, leaping back the other. I didn’t want to kill him, but what other option did I have? “You sure about this, Wraith?” I said. In answer, he leapt back right, toward the fireplace. Exactly as I anticipated. I’d stopped pivoting and suddenly he found himself mid-hop, flying toward me. Too close. I let go of Marx’s neck and lunged, shooting out my left palm. Wraith’s eyes went wide and the heel of my hand smashed him in the solar plexus and he let out a loud oof and fell ass-first into the fireplace. He screamed and forgot the gun and put his hands to the floor, desperate to climb out of the coals but I stomped his chest and kept him burning. He remembered the gun then and went to raise it but I’d already stomped my other boot to his wrist. I heard the bones crack even above his screams and I stood there letting him burn.

“Done trying to kill me yet?” I said. He thrashed and screamed and I leaned down and hammered a right into his face and with that hand grabbed the MK-23 and tossed it across the room. Wraith screamed and thrashed and I held him there and counted a slow ten until the terrifyingly appetizing smell of burning human flesh reached my nostrils. I meant to let him up then, but turns out Under Armor clothing is extremely flammable. No sooner had I pulled my boot from his chest than his acrylic base layer ignited and he burst into flames. He loosed a blood-curdling shriek as his head combusted and he burned alive.
-Sledge vs. The Labyrinth, pg. 243-246