Preparations complete, Rambo readies himself to fire. His biceps glisten with sweat, his face is grimy with dirt. A long coil of cartridges wraps its way around his chest like a sleeping python. He hefts the two machine guns in his hands, pauses a moment to get his balance, then starts to shoot.
In front of him, the foliage erupts. Leaves vanish as if snatched away by an unseen hand, branches explode and are flung high in the air. The firing seems random at first, but every bullet in that deadly barrage of gunfire has its intended target. The massacre is merciless, unstoppable. When the guns are finally empty and the echo of their pounding has died away among the trees, Rambo looks at the results with satisfaction. There it is - a perfectly trimmed hedge.
Rambo smiles. He loves gardening. It's the one bright spot in his retirement. He puts the guns away, then reaches for the flame thrower.