Pulp Fiction Pawn Shop Scene Novels & Stories

He looks confused and he contemplate what was going on the shots were fired and all the men pointing guns at me lay dead on the ground. I get up to my feet. Stephen looks shocked and before he could attack me, he is punched from behind and falls to the floor. I look at the Russian Mafia leader giving me a slight nod and smile at him. It was a smile of gratitude....

I cut him a snide glace when he ends the call and he accelerates the car after the light turns green. “Up there by the pawn shop, drop me off” I nearly fail to conceal my distaste as I inform him, hands crossed over my chest and hooded eyes glaring out the windshield. I get down the car swiftly and vanish through the doors of the pawn shop, glancing back a whit to see Ciel’s sedan accelerating away. I step back out of the shop just when the owner tries to address me. Sliding my hands into the pockets of my coat, I exhale softly, darting to my left and strolling down the sidewalk.

This feels like the setting for some gangster movie. I step forward boldly, pushing through the next door into a large open warehouse-like space, blinking against the sunlight spilling in through the upper windows of the building and sweeping my gaze around to take in the interior. It’s like a maze full of pallets, the boxes stacked upon them boasting various liquor brands. There’s a table in the middle of the room with an array of chairs around it and a half dozen guys hanging around, as well as Gavin Holley, the guy from the club the other night. Cole’s with him, and from here, it looks like they’re engaged in a heated conversation- one that’s cut short when the door bangs closed behind me

BACK AT THE WAREHOUSE Immediately Frank's car got drove out of the premises, three armed men dropped into the warehouse and shot parcels of tear gas all around. Charles had made sure to tell the three hitmen to barricade the doors so person would escape alive. In the cover of the tear gas, they began shooting at the men who had been gathered at the warehouse. The few men who survived the impact of the tear gas had died. They were blown up alongside the entire warehouse. This is little peanut, do you copy pineapple 200?

I hear her say. Instantly my blood pressure hews back to normal as I slowly look up at her. " Huh?" Now she stops stacking the chairs and focuses fully on me. " well...." She asks. " Umm...yeah, I will need your help in finding a pawn shop." I was hesitant. " Fine then, there's one on just three blocks away from here on out, do you want me to take you?" She stacks the last chair on the table. I wouldn't want what happened earlier to repeat itself, but what can I do when I barely know my left from my right around this humongous city. One thing is certain, this juncture I will not let myself be deluded again.

He takes several steps back and then turns and walks away from me. “Leo, stop! STOP!” I run after him, but he ignores me and I chase him until we are in the back room of the pawn shop. He skids to a stop when he sees my dad crouched down over a lifeless Frank, blood pooling on the floor and splattered on the walls.

Outside, Thomas was leaning against the wall, watching a couple of kids race their bikes down the street. I tossed him the roll of cash. “All yours.” He eyed me, then smirked. “You look like hell. That guy almost whipped your ass in there.” “Almost doesn’t count,” I shot back. “Next one’s yours. Let’s see if you can keep your teeth.” That wiped the grin off his face. “Yeah… maybe we’ll stick to you for now.” “Thought so.” We headed straight back to Vega’s pawn shop. The man in the leather jacket was behind the counter this time.

I toss her the keys, “You drive.” She catches the keys and smirks. “Buckle up, baby.” As we get closer to the pawnshop, I’m glad that we took the chevy. With every mile we take, the area becomes sketchier. With its large number of graffiti and liquor stores, it reminds me of my old neighborhood. Homeless men loiter around the corners holding signs, and prostitutes in fishnet stockings and extremely revealing dresses work their hustle. I try not to look too closely at the shifty-eyed men congregating in front of sordid looking vehicles with tinted windows.

I stare at the floor, my hand in my pocket, fingers tracing the bevel of the watch face. The pawn shop is on Vernon Boulevard. High-end pretensions, but the location is gritty. The windows are barred. The interior smells like stale cigarette smoke and old metal. Glass cases are filled with the debris of other people's bad luck—watches, rings, guitars. Other people's sacrifices on display. I approach the counter. A man in his sixties looks up from a ledger. Faded tattoos on his forearms, eyes that have seen every version of a lie. "Help you?"

“We should head out to the basement. It's time to end this.” The dim light in Russo’s basement cast eerie shadows over the walls, giving the place a menacing feel that matched the intensity burning in my chest. The air was thick with the smell of smoke from a metal drum nearby, flames flickering inside as if eagerly awaiting a sacrifice. Russo’s men stood at the edges of the room, silent, stone-faced, the embodiment of Italian mafia resolve.