He ran in, the axe held high above his head and swung down ferociously against the desk and as the edge bit into the wood, cracking the hundred year old veneer, and making a sound like muffled thunder. He smiled and worked it free.
The axe went up and came down again, up and down, splitting, gouging, twisting, chopping, hacking, cleaving. He kept at it until his shoulders ached. Bits of wood and chips and heady, sweet smelling dust rose and fell, settling on his hair, on his hands, in his mouth.
Heaving, he stepped back and admired his brutality.