The voice from the telescreen was still pouring forth its tale of prisoners and booty and slaughter, but the shouting outside had died down a little. The waiters were turning back to their work. One of them approached with the gin bottle. Winston, sitting in a blissful dream, paid no attention as his glass was filled up. He was not running or cheering any longer. He was back in the Ministry of Love, with everything forgiven, his soul white as snow. He was in the public dock, confessing everything, implicating everybody. He was walking down the white-tiled corridor, with the feeling of walking in sunlight, and an armed guard at his back. The longhoped-for bullet was entering his brain.
He gazed up at the enormous face. Forty years it had taken him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished.
He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother... NOT!!!
Smith had noted the bulge of the pistol installed in the dark skinned waiter's apron. As the suave young epitome about to inherit the regime reached for his weapon, Winston nonchalantly flicked his lighter as if to fire up another cancer stick.
He spat out an exhalation of Victory Gin past the flame and a blue, oily flame engulfed his assailant. He screamed less from pain and more from the ruination of his looks. Smith scooped up the pistol as he fell on to the chessboard splaying the pieces with burning vitriol.
"Check-mate. M----rF-----r" quipped 6079 as he unloaded two slugs into the burning mess.
"Now you've really done it, Smith."
The whole of the Chestnut Tree came to its feet. Smith's paranoia was 100% totally justified. Apparently they let only one traitor into the killing party at a time. Smith waved the gun back and forth.
"Don't come a step closer."
"You can't kill us all" contra quipped the hard core party members.
"Bootlace production up 23%" droned the telescreen.
A sudden crunch of bone broke the monotony of the Mexican standoff. A high kicking foot had collided with a party members jaw irredeemably fracturing it.
"Martin!"
"Smith, run!"
It was O'Brien's manservant: the Chinese looking one. He immediately recognised the diamond shaped expressionless face.
The room errupted in chaos as the Kung Fu master tore into the throng. Smith fired wildly wounding the thrashing party members.
They were a pair of twins caught up in the melee. Winston felt especial venom towards them. New upper class simpletons but sent to enjoy the feast Daddy had given them.
"Smith. 6079. I implore you. Do not fire."
It was O'Brien on the telescreen.
"They are my sons. Let them live and Julia goes free."
"I know what you're thinking. Did he fire two plus two equals four shots or two plus two equals five shots? Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I've kinda lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya punks?"
One of the twins reached for his tool. And two shots rang out in defiance of the contra logic of the party.