The Lieutenant Medvedov sighed and raised a wearied eyebrow as he saw the man dribble out the liquid on the floor, mumbling some vaguely Vogonic poem. He was about to say something when the old man then shouted something in a singsong delirious way, waving his arms about like a mad octopus... and then promptly proceeded to slip on the liquid he'd just poured out on the floor for reasons unknown.
The lieutenant neatly sidestepped the swift toppling of the towering example of senility, looking down at the fallen form in disgust. He'd fallen flat on his face, breaking his fragile bone structure with a sound that could be described as not unlike an overripe melon being dropped from a step ladder onto slightly trodden on linoleum. The ancient man continued mumbling to himself in a pained, delirious, and obviously hallucinatory way. His words couldn't be heard past the puddle of blood and flesh on the floor, nor would they likely have been intelligible if they hadn't been so obscured.
Medvedov looked around, his sharp eyes cutting across the room. Everyone was purposely busy doing other things at the moment, most conveniently looking in the opposite direction.
He glanced back down at the mumbling figure, who had started to flail about weakly, his face still rather fixed to the floor where it had impacted. He shrugged, pulling out his .5 calibre revolver. He squeezed the trigger, slowly, deliberately.
The bullet made a sickening sound similar to the aforementioned melon-like splat as it blasted the rear of the old man's head wide open. A splatter of blood instantly splashed across the floor, the wall, and Medvedov's coat.
He frowned a little bit as he looked down at his coat, but frowned more as he saw the body - evidently not quite a corpse - keep wiggling. He pulled the trigger again, blowing more of the head off, and splattering more dark blood across the otherwise clean room.
The body stopped moving now, and the lieutenant turned away, opening the door he'd come from... but, he hesitated, and looked back. With the gun still in his hand, he squeezed the trigger again, and again.... and again, and again, in very rapid succession; the powerful rounds ripping the body to almost literal shreds on the floor. The weapon clicked once, and then he placed it back in its holster.
He left the room, a serene expression of exasperation and fatigue across his narrow face.
He didn't even get paid for this.
