Pulp Fiction Trunk Shot Novels & Stories

He forced himself to stand up and endured the pain he felt in the side of his abdomen. "You can't get out of here alive!" Trist insisted. Trist didn't hesitate to step on Clement's friend's stomach again because he fell asleep again. Trist threw the gun where it then looked for something that could be used to kill the friend. Trist sees the bamboo used to murder Dylan. Trist immediately picked up the bamboo and then hit it on Clement's leg due to his friend's loud shouting.

“My partner will just have to–” I never find out what Nick’s partner will have to do, because as fast as I can, I pull the handgun from Mary Sue’s lifeless grip and fire off a shot. A black dot appears in the middle of Nick’s forehead as he flies backward and collapses in a lifeless heap of spasming limbs on the church floor. ***

The other vehicles are slowing down to get away from the trouble. “Careful boys, you might kill your boss on the trunk” he slid his window open and start firing at the man on his side. 40 seconds and I will lose sight of them again. I pull the trigger aiming at their front wheel. They lose their balance and fell of the bike watching Chris get off. “That was bad… you should have shoot them in head.” Chris as he is heading his way “Too much blood for tonight…” I lay my back on the chair and take a deep breathe. Yes, too much blood. I grab my phone and read Frank’s message.

It was over before they could blink. Two shots for Marco, center mass. The squibs taped to his chest detonated on impact, spraying a dark crimson mist. He dropped in a heap. Hendrix charged like a bull. I sidestepped, put one in his knee, then his skull as he buckled. The packs burst, painting the concrete with convincing gore. Chris fired wild, but the boss was poetry. A clean headshot. The round struck the squib hidden in his hairline, detonating it in a spray of red and bone fragments. His body crumpled without a twitch. Fake blood pooled quick on the concrete, the air thick with powder burn and the metallic tang of the theatrical blood.

My chest clenched. Another shot rang out, louder than the rest, cutting through the chaos like a blade. I turned just in time to see Padrino stagger, his body jerking as the bullet struck. A crimson stain bloomed across his charcoal suit, spreading fast. His sharp eyes widened for a fraction of a second before his knees buckled. “No!”

On instinct I spin, gasping as I look behind me to see Frankie standing there, his arm stretched out straight, a pistol in his hand. He looks forward and I spin again, back towards the men in the masks. They’re flat on the floor, completely still, but my eyes widen when I see the pools of red spreading out around their heads. Head shots. Head shots. Frankie, from fifty feet away in a dark room, executed two perfect headshots with about five seconds’ notice.

"Perfect." Then the muzzle flash. Pain exploded in my side as the bullet tore through my ribs. I crashed to my knees, hot blood seeping between my fingers. Above me, Greg stood with his pistol raised—smoke curling from the barrel. Jeff roared. But Greg was faster. His second shot took Jeff in the shoulder, spinning him into the vault door. The third shot clicked empty. "Pity." Greg tossed the gun aside. "I’d hoped to make this cleaner."

The hollow-point slug plows through his side, clipping a kidney and ruining some blood vessels, but he’ll live if we can get him to a hospital in time, or if Frank doesn’t shoot him between the eyes. That second outcome looks like a definite possibility as Frank hobbles forward, babbling something incoherent about God and vengeance and cocaine. The pistol rises again, about to finish off Bill once and for all, when Bill’s car bursts from the dust-cloud and plows into Frank head-on, sending everybody’s favorite crooked cop through a windshield for the second time in one day. Behind the wheel, panicked Trent keeps the gas slammed down until the car rolls into the side of the crashed Cadillac,