With your foe blinded, you turn your attention to the encroaching mass of monkeys. There are a lot of them, maybe hundreds, but they're weak. You dive into the fray, striking out with punches and kicks like you're raining down bolts of lightning. They fly away from your onslaught, dropping in droves, many more fleeing. Your victory seems certain. Then there is a pain, a certain tightness in your chest. You look down and see a furry fist emerging through your solar plexus. You manage a weak glance over your shoulder and recognize the gorey eye sockets of your nemesis. You didn't hear him coming, and now you can't hear him laughing.