Question by AngryChair: Opening to cops/robbers story?
Frank Basso slammed the tumbler glass down onto the bench and clumsily dropped a handful of ice cubes into it. He staggered to the liquor cabinet, smashing bottle following bottle on the floor as he swiped them away to reach the whiskey. His bloody hand wrapped about the bottle-neck. He glanced at the tumbler.
“Fuck it,” he whispered in a gravelly voice. Frank twisted the cap off of the whiskey bottle and gulped it down in mouthfuls. He gasped for breath and poured the remainder over the bullet wound in his left upper arm. Frank winced in discomfort as the whiskey cleansed the wound, the sting shooting by means of his arm and ramming into his heart like a runaway locomotive. He dropped the empty bottle to the floor, smashing into thousands of tiny mirrors that glared up at Frank with a thousand faces. Frank slumped against the bench and wrenched the lid of the sugar jar off. He grasped handfuls of sugar and threw them against his arm, hoping to stem the blood flow and avoid infection.
“Son of a bitch!” he screamed, “son of a god-damned bitch!” Frank’s fist pounded the wooden table top. He walked into the next space and flung open the cupboard doors, revealing rows of neatly hung shirts and trousers. Frank thrust his arm into the middle and pulled out a loud, red and yellow patterned shirt. Disgusted, he tore 3 even strips from it and wrapped them around his wound tightly, pulling them taut with his teeth.
“Where the fuck is this place?” Frank growled. He noticed a street directory sitting atop the dressing table on the far side of the bedroom. He grabbed it and leafed through the book to the largest map of downtown Manhattan he could discover. Frank’s stubby, bloody finger traced along the streets, his mouth silently wording each street name as his eyes swept along it.
“God-damn it!” Frank threw the book against the wall and watched its pages flutter to the ground. His head whipped around at the sound of a key turning in the lock of the front door. Frank slowly backed against the bedroom wall and made a snub-nosed .38 Specific from his dark green overcoat.
“You in there, sweetheart?” came the call from the front space. Frank heard the door click shut, paper bags getting placed on the bench and glass getting crushed below shoes.
“What the hell…?”
“Get the fuck down and shut the fuck up!” Frank whirled about the corner and levelled the silver barrel of his revolver amongst the wide eyes of the tall, blonde woman he now located himself face to face with. She dropped her handbag and let loose a piercing scream. Frank advanced upon her, cocking the hammer on his revolver. She screamed louder and covered her ears. Frank pulled the trigger, the lady only screamed louder. He pulled the trigger again, however the woman remained standing. Frank flicked the cylinder out and was greeted with six empty chambers.
“Dammit, Sonny!” Frank kicked by means of the front door and raced outside, darting past the heads of these who had opened their doors to see what all the commotion was about. He bounded down the flight of stairs two at a time and leaped from the foot of the stairwell to the glass double doors of the entrance to the apartment building. He identified himself on the pavement outside, bloodied, revolver in hand and staring at half a dozen petrified pedestrians. Frank quickly holstered his weapon and drew a cigar from his breast pocket. He created a book of matches from his sleeve and lit the cigar, taking a extended draw as he strolled down the street. The oaky taste of the cigar lingered on his palette as he puffed lightly and exhaled by way of his nose. In the distance, Frank could hear the cacophonic sound of a number of police sirens wailing. He quickened his pace and spotted a dark blue Chevrolet Impala parked on the corner. He jogged up alongside the vehicle and smashed the driver’s side window in with the butt of his empty revolver. Frank reached in, unlocked and opened the door. He ripped off the ignition cover beneath the steering column and plunged his correct hand into the jungle of wires. His fingers located the red power wire and the brown ignition wire and stripped an inch of insulation from every with a pocket-knife. He touched them both together, and the engine started to snarl beautifully. He crashed the gears and floored the accelerator, speeding down Clinton Street and turning onto the Williamsburg Bridge. Frank squealed about onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, pushing the Impala to fourth gear. He spat the cigar stub out of the window and glanced into the rear view mirror. Five patrol automobiles raced past the Williamsburg Bridge turnoff, continuing down Delancey Street and away from Frank. He quietly exhaled in relief. Frank looked down at his bandaged arm, the blood was beginning to clot about the wound and soak by means of the dressing. Once more Frank cursed loudly, his voice ringing above the sound of the roaring massive-block V8 engine hidden below the blue bonnet of the Impala.
“How the fuck could you do this to me, Sonny? Son of a bitch, we were buddies! I’ll locate you I swear to God I will.”
^The opening of a cops and robbers story I’ve been working on. Any feedback would be significantly appreciated.
Very best answer:
Answer by Pecos Bill
Please eradicate the cursing first thing. It does not add to your story it only cheapens it. Just say ‘he cursed’ and that will convey the character’s feelings.
Try not to over-explain. He threw sugar against his wound don’t tell us why. Show us why as the flow of blood eases more than the subsequent couple of minutes. If you really feel it needed to say that it will possibly fight infection, do that in a conversation.
“Why is there sugar stuck in your wound?”
“To preserve it from finding infected.”
Hold writing.
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