It wasn't the bullet that struck Buddy in the chest after all

Okay, so it wasn't a million pounds per square inch that hit Buddy in the chest, but it sure felt like someone swung a Buick at him.  The force of it propelled him back through the air a few feet, whereupon his heels tripped over one of the corpses which littered the floor of that crappy motel room.  He tried in vain to retain his balance but unfortunately the more he contorted the more the room spun around him.  He smashed his head off and end table perched below the window and slumped to the ground.

Unconsciousness threatened to pull him under like undertow, but Buddy was nothing if not stubborn.  In fact, three or four of his ex-wives would probably attest to him being the most stubborn son-of-a-ditch-digger alive.  He grit his teeth and vowed not to go down without a fight, so even through concussed and wobbly vision he opened fire into the dark space at the back of the room he suspected his attacker to have gone.  Each pull of the trigger squeezed his guts a little more until, after his sixth and final shot, he felt sure he was going to puke into the ugly, trampled carpet beneath him.

He remained stationary on his back and wondered if unconsciousness would take him before the shooter could put a couple rounds into his belly and finish him off.  The blood oozed from the gash behind his ear, only to seep into the threadbare carpet and its multitude of other stains which had come before -- some of them probably blood as well.

Buddy felt like a fly within a Venus Fly Trap as he watched the darkness close in around him.

The End

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