Pulp Fiction Trunk Shot Novels & Stories

I call back, hoping he can hear me over the ringing in his ears. “DUNNO. VINNIE TOOK DOWN THREE.” I nod. Behind Frankie, a man materialises from the shadows, his arm outstretched. He has a 45 revolver in his hand - real Dirty Harry fantasy motherfucker. I know the sort. The kind who’ll call out, “‘Say hello to my lil friend,’” before they pull the trigger because they think they live in some kind of movie. I shoot him right between the eyes. He actually looks surprised for a moment. Then falls forward.

Then I rose, grabbed a pillow from the bed, and walked toward him. “What are you doing, Steel?” he stammered, shrinking back like a whipped dog. “I left the mafia long ago. You know that. I stopped the killings, the dirty business, all the underground filth. Do you know when I last pulled the trigger on someone?” My eyes bored into him, sharp and unflinching. Slowly, I pressed the pillow against his chest—and fired. His scream ripped through the room, echoing against the four walls. “You f*cking bastard!” he writhed on the floor, clutching his bleeding chest.

Phut-! With a low sound, the middle-aged man collapsed. The blonde man walked over to the fallen middle-aged man and casually shot him once in the right cheek. Then he turned the body over with his toe and shot him once more in the back of the head. Phut, phut. Each time a bullet hit, the middle-aged man's body briefly convulsed. The liquid slowly spread around the body of the man sprawled on the dirty floor. Blood should certainly be red, but due to the darkness in the alley, it appeared pitch black. The middle-aged man looked as if he was lying on a pool of black oil.

He spanked one of the girls on their backside, laughing like a king in his own kingdom. Pathetic. My finger rested on the trigger, the crosshairs resting perfectly on his chest. One move and his life would be over. One shot. That was all it took. The glass shattered. Parker’s body jerked violently and he slumped back into his chair. The girls around him screamed as blood spilled down his shirt. I didn’t wait to admire my work. I broke down the rifle with practiced speed and slid the pieces back into my bag. Then I slipped down the roof and made my way back to my car.

then collapsed, thrashing on the floor. "My eyes! My eyes!" Silvio walked closer, calm and almost casual. He raised his gun and pointed it at the man writhing on the floor, still clutching at the melted mess of his face. A single shot cracked through the air. The man's body jerked violently before collapsing, limp. The bullet had punched straight through his forehead Blood exploded everywhere, covering the floor and a droplet of blood landed on Silvio’s cheek. He pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the blood from his face, then looked down one final time at the corpse. No expression. Just silence.

One shot cracked through the room. And Riccardo Marino slumped, bleeding from a hole in the middle of his forehead. The muzzle of my gun smoked slightly. Somehow, he looked smaller in death, like a regular old man rather than a sex-trafficker who’d been able to host all of Philly’s most dangerous for years. Something white-hot cooled in my chest. It was done. Killian stepped up next to me and clapped my shoulder. “Good shot.” I smiled, thinking of Paige. “I’ve been practicing.”

Trisha opened her mouth and scolded, 'M, the quality of this domestic glass is too good, and the bullet didn't go through. Kristen Oliver quickly pursued the man's figure, suddenly his eyes lit up and he said, 'Trisha, move five centimeters to the left, two shots.' Trisha did not hesitate, and pulled it twice in succession. The huge recoil made her shoulders hurt. The last bullet of these two shots hit the man's calf accurately. 'Beautiful.' Kristen Oliver praised, two people high-five. Patrick Cotton put down his outstretched hand, and he could only helplessly signal, 'Let's go, there should be someone coming across.'

The elder Liam twisted his torso with feline grace; the bullet grazed his shoulder, tearing through the fabric and drawing a thin line of crimson, but missing the vitals. Before the fugitive could fire again, the ebony cane swung through the air like a whip. It struck the fugitive’s wrist with a bone-shattering crack. BANG! The second shot went wild, the bullet buried in the floorboards inches from the unconscious Brother Sheng’s face. The ricocheting casing struck the thug’s cheek, the heat and shock causing him to lose control of his bladder in his semi-conscious state.

I was crying at the same smiling as I faced towards Zayne whose gaze had then turned from me to the screeching of a police car that had been trying to reverse from its position. It seemed that the car had been shoved out of its position by the truck as it passed through. “Hey, Cop. Stop that car. I said stop … I’m warning you … I’m warning … ‘Pow!’.” I told the police officer to stop so many times but he didn’t listen to me, I had to take the shot. What else would be expected from a Mafia lord, the kill shot delivered on the first try. I shot through the front windscreen as the bullet led through his forehead, instantly killing him.

My hand went to my gun and the moment he stepped from behind the tree, I aimed and fired, making him collapse into the floor within seconds. I walked toward his unconscious -probably dead- body. I bent down and took his arm, I pulled the sleeves up and like I expected, the tattoo, the mark they went with was there, clearly engraved over his skin. One of Frank's dogs. Red veiled my sight as I let go of his arm, I pointed the gun at his head and fired again, just making sure, he actually died.