A lesser man might have been distracted by a hot, dead blonde rotting on his floor; a second to go, "Hey! You don't see this every day. I'm gonna see if she's okay."
Which is about when the ninjas and mountain lions attacked from the ceiling and killed that lesser man.
But Riggins was not of that ilk, so by the time he crossed the threshold his gun was already in his hand and sweeping the room for targets.
There were two of them: one in the kitchen to his left and one in the living area to his right. The guy to the right had a Mac 10. Now, Mac 10's are good because of the high volume of death they can spew in a short span, unfortunately they are about as accurate as Michael J. Fox playing darts. Riggins dropped to the floor and let the tomato sauce roll away as thirty bullets chewed up the wall above him and showered him with plaster and wood debris..
The other guy was just leaving the kitchen. He rounded the corner and reached into his pants to pull out a pistol -- or machine pistol -- or meat cleaver Riggins reached out with his leg and kicked the dead girl at him. The floor had a high-gloss polish on it, and he was surprised at the distance the girl's dead weight skidded. The intruder seemed surprised by the distance she traveled, so surprised that he forgot to avoid her body, and just caught the toe of his five hundred-dollar shoes on her knee. He teetered for a moment, and Riggins wondered if he was going to have to shoot him, but then gravity kicked in and pulled him hard to the faux hardwood floor, where he broke his jaw in two places. He screamed but that ignited a flame of pain in his face so he gurgled to silence and wrapped his arms around his face as he got to his knees.
Riggins appreciated the temporary reprieve, and turned his attention back to Mac 10, who had ducked behind the futon beside the TV. Riggins smiled and shook his head.
"Hey asshole!" he called out, "do you know how many pounds of force my Sig Sauer propels a projectile?"
There was no answer as the asshole quickly slapped another clip into his Mac 10.
Riggins raised his weapon and answered aloud as he fired, "Enough to blow through three inches of crappy mattress and another inch of compressed wood product frame."
He was right. The slug blasted through the futon as though it wasn't even there and then continued on to Mac 10's forehead. It didn't stop there, of course, and the exit wound it created in the back of his head forced a huge glob of brain matter to splatter against the wall behind him as his body dropped to the floor.
Riggins shook his head and sighed jovially, "Using a futon as cover. That's priceless."
He lightly trod over to the squirming guy near the dead blonde. He stooped and grabbed the guy by the collar, then hoisted him up to head height so he could talk with him, "Who are you?"
The guy didn't answer. Just grimaced in pain.
Riggins shot him in the thigh. It missed the femoral artery but shattered his femur into a hundred pieces. The guy screamed again.
"See? Your mouth works. Now, who's the girl?"
"I won't talk!"
Riggins shrugged, "All right," and he put the barrel of his gun into the guy's chin and blew the top of his head off.
When the cops arrived Riggins was in the living room, watching a soccer match on the TV from the La-Z-Boy. He had a lovely bowl of pasta in his lap and a Sam Adams in his hand.
"Hello, boys," he greeted the cops as they busted in, "I threw the bodies in the alleyway so I could eat without tripping over the damn things. Help yourselves."