Pulp Fiction Jules Gun Novels & Stories

He broke off with a gag as Meguitte reset a finger. “Jules had vampire blood in him when he died,” she reset a second finger. With the broken bones in place, the wound was not nearly as gory to behold. Far less gory than it should be. She set the hand onto the mattress at Jules’ side, palm up and explored the entry wound. The bullet had shattered the metacarpal of the middle finger, leaving nothing connecting it to the carpals, but had only broken the bones to either side. “Yes… but to my understanding, not enough?” Connery glanced between her and Fatima, who had paused in her task watching Meguitte.

He fell in beside me. “He’s unraveling,” Dylan murmured. “You scared him.” “No,” I said. “He’s just getting started.” He glanced sideways at me. “And you?” “I’m tired.” We walked in silence for a while. The halls of the compound had a strange quiet that night—like they, too, were waiting for something. Then Dylan said, “We’ve got a bigger problem. It’s Jules.” My chest tightened. Jules had trained under me in Marseille. Young. Eager. I taught him how to hold a knife—and keep his heart guarded. Told him he could be more than just a killer.

I felt his hand under my thigh, reaching for my panties; he was about to strip me of my dignity. I didn't have the strength to defend myself and couldn't fight back. I despised how the world treated me unfairly, exploiting guys. Then, a single gunshot pierced the night. The old guy collapsed, blood spilling across his shirt, and a shadowy creature emerged. A man with ice-cold eyes stood there, exuding a calm yet dangerous presence. He stood over the fallen danger and gently turned toward me. As this pandemonium unfolds, my mind is filled with fear, grief, and desperate hope. Why is Lucian's voice still echoing in my head? That nickname, Jules, so intimate and taboo.

"God, Jules. You're such a tease." Jules smiled down at her, pearly white straight teeth, that slew gods and crushed hearts. The lighting favored him, his skin was not the color of poop but a golden brown – sun-kissed. And his freckles which had been once compared to a rotten mango? Was— what the did she say?— yes, it was akin to constellations in the night sky. He was mesmerizing. And April or May or December clearly thought so too. Her lips parted, eyes wide as saucers. Her other hand holding the shot glass trembled when he brushed her hair back. Jules was about to take a sip when his wrist was snagged. The shot glass jostled and the liquid slushed everywhere.

She grit her teeth. “No,” she shook her head. “I’m okay.” Just then, Jules tried to make a run for it. He shoved Jake hard. Jake was caught off guard and stumbled a few steps backwards. Jules tore towards us, his eyes wide. He didn’t get very far. Jake caught his footing. He grabbed Jules by his shirt collar and pulled him backwards. Then he brought the butt of the gun down hard on his head. Jules crumpled to the ground like a rag doll.

Everyone froze as the sharp, deafening cracks sound of gunshots filled the air. But they didn't come from Kyla's gun. They all ducked instinctively, confusion rippling through the room like a shockwave. Then Kyla saw it… the boss, slumped in their chair, blood blooming across their dark robes like a spreading flower. The veil had shifted, revealing part of a scarred jaw. Jules. He'd taken the shot from the ceiling, exactly as they'd planned. One shot, one kill.

"Whoops!" "So, this drunk fuck dangles them over the table and declares he'll only give them back if she can beat him. BF gives him the evil eye and ups the ante, saying that she'll only play him if they play with vodka." "Oh shit, I see where this is going." "Everyone gets quiet and they roll to see who goes first. Jules managed to stop closest to the line, and then proceeded to drop one shot after another on this guy. He dutifully drank each one, but was almost green by the last ball. Jules grabbed his wrist when he went for the last shot and drank it for him, and the place went completely nuts."

I say to him as I open his phone. Lucky for me no password protection; I can go right into his messages. I scroll through the messages from his assistant, Delana. "Looks like we were right; you are running an auction at your club. You idiot. No wonder the authority knew so much about your auctions. You were running it out of a fucking strip club," I say to him. The confirmation of Jules's involvement infuriates Tatina. She pulls the curtain back again, letting Jules fry longer. "Don't kill him yet. We should turn him over to Lester. You know, just as a good faith jester," I say to Tatina. She closes the curtain back to give Jules a break.

“What are you talking about now?” “I’m talkin’ tall, fine, dangerous in the best way,” Jules said, fanning himself with a napkin. “He walked in like he owns the damn place. Lord, he even smells expensive.” Her stomach skidded. “What—what does he look like, exactly?” Jules squinted like he was trying to remember a dream. “Sharp jaw, messed hair, that grin… you know, the kind that says, ‘I’ll wreck your life and you’ll thank me later.’”

he said, I drank, the whiskey was smooth, as it burned a little. My personal assistant, Lucas, entered the room. He was a thin man, always wore glasses and looked nervous. It was why I kept him. Fear made people thorough. “Sir, a report on Mirabelle.” “Speak,” I put my glass down. “My man followed her today. Her routine was normal; Work at the cafe, home. But she made a detour this afternoon, after work.” “Continue,” my voice was calm, as I raised an eyebrow. “She went to a pawn shop, on Rue de la Misère. She stayed for ten minutes.