Adventures in Bad Writing II

[Time for more bad writing! Here’s part one.]

The sun kissed my fresh bullet wound with a gentle warmth. I was awakened by the cold steel of a revolver to the back of my head as it struck me like a pile of bricks burying my hangover. I told him to take my wallet, it was all I had. He took it and then shot me in the leg.

There was bread in the air and it was the only thing that kept me going. I staggered to the bakery leaving a trail of blood across the floor like a river of red death. “I’ll like some bread please, sir,” I asked the gentleman behind the counter, built strong like a wolf and with the hands of a killer, a medieval knight perhaps, or a small bear.

“There’s no bread,” he said nonchalantly as though it weren’t a bakery. “This is a coffee shop,” he continued, “we don’t serve bread. Only coffee and pastries.”

“I’ll have a pastry then,” I said feeling faint. I’d lost a lot of blood and perhaps I was delirious, but I don’t think I was. It was a damned fine pastry, flaky like pie dough, chewy like a good pastry. There was strawberry jam inside, it reminded me of my leg. “Hey, gotta phone?” I asked the shopkeeper. “My leg’s busted.”

I took the phone and collapsed. I woke up in the hospital with a team of surgeons working on my leg. “What is this?” I asked them.

“He’s out,” said one surgeon.

“He’s out?” asked the anesthesiologist.

“Yes, he’s out. He’s conscious.”

“He’s out or he’s conscious?”

“He’s conscious.”

“Well, let’s put him back out.”

“Put him out? He is out. He needs to be unconscious.”

“What do you mean he’s out? He’s conscious.”

“That’s what I mean, he’s out. He’s out of the anesthesia.”

“Oh!” Said the anesthesiologist knocking me out again. Or in. I wasn’t quite sure then.