The hard wooden floor. The polished hard wooden floor. The gleaming polished hard wooden floor. Probably the last floor, wooden or otherwise, I will ever see. For an instant it produces in me powerful feelings of love for the floor.

Don’t kill me yet, I think, I’m not done looking at this beautiful floor.

The dildo rattles on the transcendent floor, frisking between my ankles like a contrite puppy. Instinctively I bend over to pick it up and then: bang. I am showered in splinters and the glossy confetti made from the shotgunned pages of the Taschen collection. The fantastic hole in the bookcase is where only nanoseconds ago, it seems, my head was located.

This time I don’t delay. I leap out from behind the bookcase, dildo aloft, swinging it from the scrotum like a war hammer, and charge at Schermer, who, falling backwards, again discharges the shotgun. There is an explosion that seems both deafening and impossibly quiet and then, nearly simultaneously, I am aware of a violent wind scorching my face. I wonder if I am now headless, but then I realize that it is the dildo who is headless. The blast has missed me entirely but has vaporized the entire business end of the dildo.

But I still have balls.

I vault onto Schermer and start flailing at his head with a fist reinforced, brass knuckle-style, with the contents of a plastic scrotum. My level of output, I have to think, is equal to that produced in defense of Charlie that day in front of the Frick—I am, after all, highly motivated; I passionately want to injure Schermer in a lasting way—but my results are much poorer. Not only do I fail to render him unconscious or make him cry out girlishly but I am unable to prevent him from gaining a position of superior leverage over me. I’m not pinned, but I am sustaining heavy damage on my skull. Luckily he can’t get at my face, but he’s all over my cranium. For some reason, it doesn’t hurt yet. My head is ringing but my brain merely makes a note of the damage and files the pain away for future consultation.

One sensation that I do process is Schermer’s hands around my neck and a sudden reduction in oxygen reaching my brain. Through the dildo dust fogging my vision I can just make out my last hope: the bag is only a few feet away. I throw a hard elbow that connects with something sharp, presumably teeth, then dive on the bag and extricate the gun. I am unable to issue any orders or thrust it anywhere uncomfortable or humiliating, however, before Schermer tackles me and secures my gun-toting hand in a firm grasp.

We stagger together into the bedroom, where we smash various items of furniture without resolving the issue of gun ownership. I find it forced perilously close to my head, then Schermer discovers that it’s nearly trained on him, and it seesaws like this for what seems like a very long time before there’s another terrifying crack and my face is burned with cordite.