Leslie Blackwell Leslie Blackwell
Recommendations: 21

the lead bullet it "spat" out... (though you probably don't really need to use spat or spit as the bullet entering the cheek would suffice)

Leslie Blackwell Leslie Blackwell
Recommendations: 21

Shot three times by a man on the run and survives so to speak, shoots assailant once and kills him instantly.

Jordan Hewitt Jordan Hewitt
Recommendations: 13

This is a true story my friend. The officer described in this was shot three times. Once in the head. Then the stomach. Then the leg. He actually survived all three shots and killed the assailant with a single shot to the head. I spoke with him. A hell of a survivor. The kid was declared a martyr and he had to flee in order to keep the Chicino Movement Supporters from killing him. The paper said the wounds were self inflicted. That's a damn lie. His actions that night lead to an all out war within the confines of Denver Colorado. Aftermath resulted in over 30 people shot, an apartment building destroyed by explosives the Chicinos were planning to use against the government, and the only death was the 'Martyr' Officer Snyder Shot. For years the other officers blamed Snyder's partner what happened to him. He doesn't. She did exactly as he told her. Stayed at the car. This was before modern policing so I had to update it a little. If you want more information on what happened PM me and I'll answer any questions you may have.

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Jordan Hewitt Jordan Hewitt
Recommendations: 13

A Shame


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She had a friend.

This writing contains explicit content and is only for adults. You have been warned.

I swear in this. There is also a little gore. Lovely little combo.


It's strange how all large house parties end up the same. A festering collaboration of disintegrating youth and delinquency. They all hold that same stench. A collection of alcohol, sex, marijuana, and vomit fills the air above and ferments, waiting for you to approach and began its assault on your senses. Parties are loud. They can be heard from a great distance. Thumping music. Cheering crowds. Screams and laughter emit from a single location. A calling to the masses around. A call to criminal mischief and regrets bringing all types of crowds to increase the size of this diseased group. More alcohol. More drugs. More women. More fights. It slowly become a living organism itself. The residence becomes alive, each participant a cell, completing a self chosen job. Drink. Fuck. Fight. Repeat. Most anyone is invited, only requirements for entry are falling morals and whatever alcohol you can conjure up. Everyone invited. Except for me.


Strange what a badge and gun do to your reputation at a party. Simply my presence will send a few tipsy individuals scrambling. I let them run. I'm not here for them. No. I have bigger fish to catch. The brass want someone to question. Someone to inform them of this rebellious movement gaining strength within our city. Within my city. I leave the light bar off. No need to alert them before I get what I came for. The glory of a noise complaint is it's anonymity. Although this neighborhood is ruled by the rebels, preventing any noise complaints from neighbors, anyone can file a complaint.


"I don't like this song. A little too loud for my taste" I remark to my partner.


She nods with a smirk."Let's check it out" she chirps out.



"Baker 21 - Show us on scene for a noise complaint - requesting additional units" I pipe over the radio.



"Baker 21 - we show you on scene, stay safe" dispatch replies.


I reach for the plastic handle to my door. It's worn smooth over the years of opening and closing. The oils and coarse surface of my hands have glossed it over. I pause. And take a breath. "One... Two..." Smash! Before my door opens a beer bottle, half empty, shatters over the window of my door sending alcohol and brown glass in a magnificent explosion through the air and across my cruiser. A few seconds later and that would have been my head. I throw my door open and lock eyes with the kid that threw it. His body still bent forward from the release of his beverage. Cheers emit from the crowd as he regains his balance and straightens his posture. He pumps his chest out at me. That's our man. His tattoos show his affiliation to the group we're after and he just committed assault on a peacekeeping officer.


"You’re done you little shit" I murmur as I slam my door closed and begin my advance towards him. One hand on my holster and the other holding my mag light. I send the beam of light directly into his face, keep him distracted while I go to snatch him up. But the crowd seems to have a different plan. Booing echoes around me. Swearing intensifies as we get closer. "Fucking pigs" seems to be popular phrase with this group. A shame they lack respect for what we do. I'm going to take pride in ending their little party. I reach forward and snatch the punk who threw the bottle then drag him back towards my cruiser. I need to get him away from this crowd, away from the chaos in order to make my arrest. Unfortunately the mass in front of me disagrees with the apprehension of their own. Like white blood cells fighting against a foreign body they begin to advance.  


"STAY BACK" I yell out.



"STAY BACK" my partner joins in. Her voice doesn't carry the power mine does, but I'd rather her backing me up then her being a silent witness to this hostile mob.



"STAY BACK, STAY THE FUCK BACK!" I yell into the crowd.



"Let him go! Let him go! Let him go!" The begin to chant back. More bottles began raining down on us. Shattering behind us. Shattering at our feet. This situation is turning bad quickly. I increase the pace of our retreat and yell over the crowd to my partner,


"GET BACK TO THE CRUISER AND GET THE SHOTGUN".


I hear her reply but the words are drowned by the mass in front of us. My back hits the door of my cruiser but the distance between myself and the crowd hasn't changed. I see a flicker In the night sky above. A bottle has found its path leading towards my head. I release the suspect to shield my face from the alcoholic projectile. The bottle bounds off of my hand and lands at my feet. Although that move saved myself from glass wounds, the little shit I was trying to arrest took the chance to run.



"STAY AT THE FUCKING CAR" I yell to my partner as I begin my foot chase after him.


He isn't fast, alcohol has taken effect on his body and he stumbles every few steps in his attempt to escape me, giving me opportunities to catch up. I'm not letting him get away. His path seems jumbled and confused. He clearly doesn't have a planned escape route and the thick scent of liquor leaves a breadcrumb trail for me to follow. We enter an alley way and the distance between us slowly decreases. He rounds a corner and I lose sight of him. I begin to turn with him, but I wasn't quick enough.


I hear a loud crack as I'm met with the barrel of a gun. The lead bullet it spit out enters my cheek. It tumbles and tears it's way through my jaw, smashing bone and teeth, burning the skin inside as the concussion wave destroys everything in its path. The molten lead exits  through my neck, taking skin and life along with it. My ears ring and my eyes cease to see anything around me. The pain and blood blinding me. The excess gunpowder scalding the remnants of my face. I reach up towards the gun and attempt to push his arm away from me. Another crack and a bullet enters my stomach. Muscle and skin are shredded as it finds a home near my spine. I continue my struggle with my attacker, survival is on the line and adrenaline begins pumping through me. A third crack and his bullet tears through my leg, dropping me down to one knee. Perfect height for an execution. I jam my fingers into the cylinder, preventing the live round from being struck by the hammer. Preventing the round from exiting his revolver and ending my life. My trembling hand fumbles the holster on my belt as I feel strength leaving my body. The clasp pops free and I wrap my fingers around my pistol. Smith and Wesson have come to save me as I shove the barrel of my weapon to what I can make out to be his lower chin, and pull back the trigger. A single bullet rips the life from my attacker. His body becomes limp and his corpse hits the ground with a solid thump. My vision is blurred but I can make out shapes. I'm quickly dying but I'm sure as hell not going to die next to this fucker. I grab his weapon as I holster mine and begin my journey back to my car. I can't speak, my jaw hangs loose and any calls over the radio would do me no good. I attempt to stand but the third bullet doesn't agree with me and I collapse to the ground. Not here. I can't die here. I shift my weight to my good leg and prop myself up on my hands. I slowly shuffle my body forward in a painful crawl. My muscles strain as my energy decreases with each forced lurch forward. I can see red and blue lights. A Crown Vic coming to my rescue. Fellow brothers and sisters in blue coming to keep me alive. No. It's not moving. It's my cruiser. 3 comments


Officer Adams must have spotted me. Through the ringing in my ears I can hear her yelling to me. I see boots come up to me and hands wrap under my shoulders. She's got me, dragging my corpse back to the car. I can feel the strain in her arms. I sorry I wasn't lighter Becky. She props me up against my door. The smell of alcohol still drips from it. I'm losing the battle between life and death. My soul is slowly slipping, my breathing is becoming hindered by the amount of blood leaking from my neck. I search for something to grasp onto. Something to keep me here. I find Adams' face. I wish I hadn't. I see nothing but panic in her eyes as she's attempting to decide which leak to stop. The right choice could save my life. The wrong choice could end it. But is there really a choice? I can feel the warmth of my blood over my skin, perhaps I'm too far gone. Her look of desperation confirms my last assumption.


I'm twenty six and already dead. I have no legacy behind me. I have no children to carry my name on. I have no wife to mourn my death. No family to bury me. Just myself and the Officer who spent the last year in the same car as I. Five days a week we've shared the cruiser my dying body is propped up against. A home away from the decaying apartment I sleep in. That is if I sleep. Five years serving this city and I’ve already seen enough shit to haunt me for centuries to come. Unfortunately I won’t get to enjoy those many years of drunken regret and and loneliness. Death has a grip on me and the fucker won’t let me go.


Adams holds onto my bloodied hand. Dirt from my retreat cakes my hand as that kid’s blood mixes with mine. My grip loosens as hers tightens. Shes saying something to me. I can’t hear her. It’s most likely the typical shit you tell someone who is already dead.


“Its going to be alright”, “You’re going to make it”, “It isn't that bad”, “Don’t you leave me”.


A shame It won’t be alright. A shame I won’t make it. A shame it really is that bad. A shame I’m going to leave you. A shame...


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