#maxinehales

He listened to the crunching of the snow as his assailant, his head spinning and throbbing. The man tried to move, tried to maybe get up but he couldn't figure out how to work his limbs. Arms felt like jelly, in fact, he could hardly feel them at all. They were simply limp extension of him that occasionally would sting and throb to remind him they were attached. He turned his head, opening one eye halfway, feeling the socket swelling and preventing him from opening it completely. Gunther started to give a small, weak laugh in spite of himself, his position being nostalgic.

His mouth had gotten him beaten several times before, not so much during his prime, when he was the one on top. He was usually the one who came out on top, the one spitting on the man beaten into the ground and walking away. In his last years alive, however, the role was switched. He was no longer the ruler, he was the prisoner.  When he'd bad mouthed his captors, which Gunther had a horrible habit of doing, and they all pulled him aside and take turns using him as a punching back. He used to fight back, but as the days progressed, he grew weary.

As the days progressed, he had stopped talking shit. And now, even when he had the strength to fight back, he still lost. Bloody Soviet scum. Gunther would have to get regain his dignity. He would have to find a way to hurt the damned Russian--worse than the man's bludgeoned faced. There was something, he was sure, but he would have to wait and plot. For a moment, he considered luring Mikhail to that lake, but it was unrealistic. The likelihood he could get the man to the lake and into the lake was nearly impossible. And way too quick.