One tube fed saline into my right hand and another fed O2 into my nose. My shirt was missing, so were my shoes. My neck was bandaged and it hurt like hell. Aw dammit!
I remembered two things: the flash as his tiny pistol fired and the burn as the bullet passed through my neck. Dammit!
A tweed cloud eclipsed the overhead lighting. Must be Detective Sergeant Linihan, Irish tweed even in 90 degree weather.
“My, my, what has happened to my favorite nosey PI?”
“Fuck off, Linihan, unless you brought flowers,” I said in a sandpaper voice. Continue reading “Bus Stop by Michael Chandos”