Pulp Fiction Trunk Shot Novels & Stories

His lips moved, forming a name, DiFronzo. His voice was barely above a whisper, strained and choked. “DiFronzo… the DiFronzo…” His eyes darted upward as if trying to say more, but before the words could fully escape his lips, a deafening gunshot shattered the silence. The dealer’s head snapped back violently, the force of the impact sending a fine spray of blood across the peeling wallpaper behind him. A dark hole gaped in the center of his forehead, a perfect execution shot. His body sagged against the restraints, lifeless, his last breath stolen in an instant. The sharp scent of gunpowder mixed with the stale, musty air of the abandoned building.

The man drew a heavy black pistol from his waist. The muzzle pointed at Buzz Cut. "No—!" The shot cracked before he could finish. My whole body jerked. I watched blood run through his fingers. He wasn't dead. The bullet had just grazed his cheek, leaving a deep gash from his cheekbone down to his jaw. "The next shot," Brode said, his voice still cold and calm, "goes in your skull." Buzz Cut was flat on the ground now, face smeared with blood and rain and dirt, sobbing for his life. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, have mercy—"

I saw him stand on well-spread feet, steady his pistol as if he was on the police range. But the gelled haired guy was already sagging. Elky’s bullet had drilled through his neck. Felix fired at him again and the bullet caught the man in the chest and twisted him around. It was fast and brutal affair, causing a lot of gasps and overdone screams. The telltale jingle of pearls abandoning a neck in favor of the floor. Someone’s girlfriend fainted with so much drama I felt like applauding.

Soon they realized that their own van had arrived on their side, and on the opposite side, a truck had also arrived, and everything happened very quickly. Tulio was no longer tied up and with his gun, he waited inside the shed. Like Cloe and Gringo, he heard the truck approaching and went out the shed door, aiming at who he thought was Janio. But it was Cannibal who got out of the truck, and the mobster immediately started shooting at him. Tulio was hit and fell back without having time to shoot back. Cloe and Gringo watched everything, but from where they were, they couldn't do anything. Gringo didn't have time to catch the girl who fainted and hit her head on the ground.

Malik said, " Ohh and he is in my aim. Ohh god why he moved, anyway distract him more and whatever happens don't shoot." I made eye contact with Peter and he gave me a small nod ohh my little, he understands me. He is still under the influence of that anesthetic syringe that will help me too. Peter's legs loosened up and Francis was struggling to keep him, standing and with that, I saw the right place and I shot " I got it." Malik said and I shot, " Shit." The bullet went beside Peter's face into Francis's chest. As Malik shot him on his head to make sure he dies, I ran to my brother as I hugged him

They held thick wooden sorting sticks wrapped in jagged barbed wire. Desperately, Tracy tried to run. But her bare feet slipped on a pool of soapy laundry water, and she crashed hard onto the rough street asphalt. Before she could scramble back up, a deafening gunshot ripped through the darkness. Burning, white-hot pain exploded in her right calf as a bullet tore directly through her flesh. The brutal impact pinned her flat against the cold ground. Seconds later, one of the hitmen stepped over her bleeding body. He raised the heavy wooden stick high into the air and swung it directly at her face.

It then cut to footage from the docks' security cameras, painstakingly restored at great expense. Timestamp: Five years ago, Blackwood Pier, 3:17 AM. The scene was an abandoned seafood warehouse. The sea breeze carried the stench of salt and low tide. Shipping containers were stacked like a maze. In the deepest part of the warehouse, a young man in a bespoke suit leaned against a bullet-riddled steel column. Blood gushed from his left calf, staining his suit pants a deep brown. His slide was jammed, his magazine empty. He was surrounded by the bodies of his own men as dozens of enemy gunmen closed in. Bullets sparked against the walls around him.

“Shut the fuck up. You’re on my time.” The door suddenly slammed open, Locke and T-Rex having kicked it open. Their guns were drawn and pointed at the thug’s chest. The thug immediately hopped off the prostitute, and went for his gun on the nightstand. But Locke’s aim was true, and blew the guy’s hand off in a flash. The thug screamed bloody murder as he gripped the stump that used to be his hand. T-Rex looked at the prostitute and ordered her to get out, which she did without a shred of hesitation or modesty.

Without understanding, I raised my revolver and pulled the trigger, blasting and ripping a portion of its face off. Coagulated blood spattered the timber of a neighboring tree, and the rotten whirled away and collapsed to the pavement, motionless and still. Disgusting! When I heard Justine vault over the corpse, he came up alongside me. "Excellent shot. Are you ready to do it eighteen more times?" he inquired.

Not hired street trash. Professionals. One aimed. Too slow for me. Before the bullet left the chamber, I was on my feet, adrenaline flooding my veins like liquid lightning. My hand moved on instinct — I grabbed the weapon by the muzzle, snapped it back, slammed the butt of the gun into the man’s throat. He dropped. The other two hesitated. A mistake. I broke the second one’s knee sideways, then grabbed his collar and slammed his face into the edge of the fountain until teeth scattered like wet gravel.