Pulp Fiction Trunk Shot Novels & Stories

👤👤👤👤 Nicklaus made to enter the truck box when two men appeared from behind pointing their guns at him. Gwen hits them off with the car and steps on the brake. He nodded and entered confidently. He grabbed handcuffed Fibonacci by the neck and flung him out. . "The skull gang are approaching". Abruzzi alerted. Nicklaus looked around and saw black jeeps approaching, he quickly pulled out the pistol behind him and blew Fibonacci head. The gunmen in the jeeps quickly jumped down but it was late already as Fibonacci dropped dead to the ground. The gunmen returned to their various vehicles and drove away.

Vicks took out his pistol, firing three shots at Wilbur through the opening. The van began to slow down, and Vicks flashed a triumphant smile. He was certain that Wilbur had been shot, so he lowered his pistol to take a look when the van braked sharply and sent Vicks crashing into the sides of the trunk headfirst. "F*ck, that hurt!" Vicks rubbed his forehead. He turned around to see that the driver's seat was now empty. The trunk was opened the next second, and Vicks saw a figure charging in. "You're just in time, Wilbur Penn! Take this!"

“You like what yo’ feelin’? It’s all for you . . . ” “Oh, don’t I know it, Dear-heart,” purred Blue Sue. She locked eyes with Easy, smiled, and slowly began to sink to her knees. And that’s when Fat Freddie shot him in the head. Twice, once above each eye. The sound was muffled by the partiers inside. Easy tried to say something, but his mouth moved silently. Both his eye sockets—eyes now missing from the impact of the bullets—oozed blood while crimson also streamed from the perfectly matching round holes the 32 slugs had made.

The first video file opened. It was grainy, shot from a distance, but unmistakable. A warehouse. Blood on concrete. A man on his knees, begging. Sandro’s silhouette moved through the shadows, calm, precise. A single gunshot. The body dropped. Another clip: flames consuming a rival’s shipment, men screaming as they burned. A third: Sandro in a back alley, pressing a knife to a throat while Luca watched with approval. The timestamps were recent. Weeks, not years.

"I don't like the cabin up north! And I don't like being an investment!" I pulled the trigger. BANG. The heavy recoil sent a sharp burst of pain straight up my forearm, but the bullet hit exactly where I wanted it to. It didn't take his head off—I wasn't a trained mafia executioner—but it punched straight through the shoulder of his yellow coat, the force of the round throwing him backward against the iron grille of the transport truck.

The whisper tore from his throat, thin and broken. The basement was not a basement. One wall was a shrine to violence…knives, axes, a crossbow, all polished to a gleam and displayed under small, careful lights like precious artifacts. But the other side… the other side was hell. Photographs, dozens of them…Pinned to a massive corkboard. Men and women, their eyes wide with a terror so raw Ian could feel it in his own gut. Some faces he recognized from news reports about the Trunk Killer. Others were strangers, their final moments captured forever.

He felt his vision getting blurry and he jerked his face to clear his vision. With a lot of screaming and grunting and trashing he pulled away. Blood dripping from Vincent's mouth and a rough stitched on his lips. "You use it too much." He said and pulled open his zipper. "And this." He pulled out his dick and with a sharp knife chop it off. Vincent was trashing in his chair. "J-Jona...." "Shhhhh" Jonathan pulled out the gun and placed it on his temple. "You are free to go" and a bullet passed through his skull. Jonathan stumbled and backed away from all the blood. He looked back at Aiden with a faint smile.

We still got it. But victory is short lived when I hear Vincent cry out. I turn towards the sound of his short and he's on his knees, crimson blooming across his chest, but he's got Lupe in a death grip. They struggle, and I watch as Vincent drives his knife up under Lupe's ribs. The rival president's eyes go wide, then vacant. When the echo of the last gunshot fades, we're the only ones left standing. Vincent slumps against a pillar, breathing hard.

“You were part of the machine. And now you’re going to pay for it.” Without rushing, I grip the gun with both hands and point it at his head. He closes his eyes, sobbing. I pull the trigger. The shot echoes loudly inside the warehouse. His body falls backward, hitting the boxes. Blood spreads quickly across the concrete floor, forming a dark pool. I stay standing, looking at him. No emotion on my face. No regret. Just a cold, satisfied emptiness. Declan approaches from behind and places his hand on my shoulder. He doesn’t say anything. Harvey also steps closer, stopping beside me.

I said. She shook her head. Tears blurred her eyes. “Do not do this to me. Please.” I raised the gun. My hand did not shake. My chest did. Frankie’s shot landed before mine. A single round. Clean. Back of the head. She fell forward on the concrete and did not move. He looked sick. He looked empty.