[ WP ] '' Ha ha ! COME ON ! Roll over and die , like the dog you are ! ''

Troy dug his fingers into the rain-soaked soil, raking his broken body across the mud; his essence congealing with the Earth's. 
 
 `` Haha! COME **OOOOON! ** Roll over and die like the **dog** you are! Aha!'' 
 
 Sergei's abrasive Russian accent rises above the clamor of the pattering rain. The two men to his immediate left chuckle in amusement. 
 
 `` Why do you keep trying? You're dead already, huh?'' Sergei steps forward, leaving his colleagues behind. He scoops a tire iron from the ground and waddles towards Troy, his rotund form rippling with each stride. Troy whimpers as he hears the footsteps get closer. 
 
 `` Should have paid money back, Mr. Nealy.'' Raising the tire iron above his head, Sergei huffs a pig-like grunt as he brings it down full force on Troy's calf. The dull thud of metal on flesh is accented by the crisp crackle of a bone shattering. Troy screams out, his voice hoarse with agony. His body begins to shake, half from fear and half from shock. He tries dragging himself forward, but he can feel the bone in his leg scrape and stick into the mud. The pain is instant and horrifically sharp. He screams again, nearly passing out. 
 
 `` Just keel him already,'' one of the other men bellows in an ever thicker Russian accent. 
 
 `` Fine, fine... no fun for Sergei.'' Sighing in disappointment, Sergei tosses the tire iron to the ground and takes his pistol out from under his trench coat. He struggles to pull the slide back as his fingers slip across the polished metal of his Baretta. Troy, still clinging weakly to consciousness, is suddenly snapped back to reality by the telltale metallic click of a hammer being cocked back. He knows his time is up. 
 
 `` Pleeeaaase... I.... I have a f-family...'' Troy's voice, barely a whisper, sputters through the raindrops coursing down his face. But Sergei is unfazed. He'd heard every desperate dying speech ever concocted, and he had lost the ability to empathize long ago. 
 
 `` Sorry, friend.'' He was n't sorry. `` This is what happens when you take from client and never give back.'' As Sergei trains his crosshairs on the back of Troy's skull, Troy employs the last of his strength to roll partially on his side, screaming, `` For *eight* **fucking** dollars?!'' 
 
 A thundering gunshot ripples through the construction yard, nearly drowning out the rain. Troy's body goes instantly limp and ragdolls to the ground with a muffled squilch. His blood begins to form a crimson stream slowly meandering through the mud. 
 
 `` Eight dollars?'' Sergei grunts to himself. `` Fuck... movie is expensive these days...''
