NAME WITHHELD:
The pistol shot was a muffled pop, flat and small and tiny in between the crumbling explosions. NameWithheld caught the muzzle flash of the second shot, a flare like a painted stripe across his white-streaked vision. He didn’t feel a thing. The bullet punched through his shoulder and blood started running down his upper arm. The muzzle flashed again and he felt stinging pain in his thigh.
NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN:
Moss felt something tug at the bag on his shoulder. The pistolshot was just a muffled pop, flat and small in the dark quiet of the town. He turned in time to see the muzzleflash of the second shot faint but visible under the pink glow of the fifteen foot high neon hotel sign. He didnt feel anything. The bullet snapped at his shirt and blood started running down his upper arm and he was already at a dead run. With the next shot he felt a stinging pain in his side. He fell down and got up again leaving Chigurh’s shotgun lying in the street. Damn, he said. What a shot.
NAME WITHHELD:
NameWithheld saw himself in a shop window that had somehow not been shattered by the blast. His right arm hung loosely at his side and he was limping like a cripple.
NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN:
He saw himself limping along in a storewindow across the street, holding his elbow to his side, the bag slung over his shoulder and carrying the shotgun and the leather document case, dark in the glass and wholly unaccountable.
NAME WITHHELD:
Muzzleflash. The plate glass fell out of the window. Shards shattered, fell like music.
NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN:
As he passed the little round ticket kiosk all the glass fell out of it.
NAME WITHHELD:
He dropped to the floor.
Get up, he told himself. Get up. He’s not escaping. There’s no way.
His arm flared white-hot with pain.
Ignore it.
Get up.
NameWithheld pushed himself to his feet.
He crossed Savile Row with blood sloshing in his shoes.
NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN:
When he looked again he was sitting on the sidewalk. Get up you son of a bitch, he said. Dont you set there and die. You get the hell up.
He crossed Ryan Street with blood sloshing in his boots.
NAME WITHHELD:
NameWithheld brought up the shotgun. NameWithheld fired, missed. NameWithheld thumbed back the hammer and triggered a wide spread: buckshot sprayed. NameWithheld flew backwards. The pistol jumped out of his hand as if it had been kicked. He reached for his stomach. He skidded into the gutter, his hands clutching at his midriff, blood between his fingers, holding it in.
NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN:
He spun with the shotgun and thumbed back the hammer and fired. The buckshot rattled off the second storey balustrade and took the glass out of some of the windows.
NAME WITHHELD:
Close range, no more than ten feet: lead shot peppered him, spun him around like a top. He collapsed in the gutter. There was the rich tang of gunpowder in the cool morning air. Like the smell of fireworks. Bonfire night.
NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN:
Chigurh stepped back behind the corner of the building and stood with the pistol upright at his shoulder, waiting. A rich tang of gunpowder on the cool morning air. Like the smell of fireworks. No sound anywhere
by Napoleon64