Serialized Prose by Tristan
Proust Valanche awoke in a pool of his own blood, his eyes glazed over, his brow dripping sweat.
"What happened?" He shrieked, as he looked from side to side and up and down, but with nothing in site. Sirens shrieked around him, the pulsing of the blue and white, and a circle of firefighters and policemen closed in on him.
"You’re lucky to be alive," the one with a bushy brown mustache said, "you were shot eight times."
"Aw damn," Valanche said, "one more and I could start rapping." The whole crowd laughed as Valanche stood up from his pool of blood and brushed off his shoulders.
"You really should go to a hospital," a meek paramedic meekly said to Proust.
"Ha! Ha HA! Hospital. That’s funny." His feet left prints of blood in his wake, as he walked off to his car. "Time to find the bastard who shot me."
The sun set over the horizon, and soon night fell in tow. Sitting in a car a mere three blocks from the crime, a man in a bright yellow bowler cap and a brick red leather jacket sat huffing his cigar, puffing smoke rings out into the night, cackling to himself as he reflects on the perfect crime. His phone rings, and he answers, saying, “Yes, boss; he got up and walked away. Everything went according to plan.”
TO BE CONTINUED?