Theatrical Muse: Slapstick
Schadenfreude.
[ooc: abit_unsettlin used with permission.]
It’s a point of pride that she managed to get her gun drawn shortly after the first shot is fired. The action is instinctive. She hears an engine rumble somewhere behind her, someone shouts “Hey! Motherfucker!” and then gunfire. Training kicks in and she’s knocking Alan out of the way, trying to find cover and raising her weapon all in one breath. One breath that is exhaled sharply as something hits her shoulder at an angle and then quickly drawn back in as her brain registers pain.
On TV, this is when things would start to blur. Time would slow and the scene would fade to black. Life is not TV. She’s hyper aware that her shoulder is screaming, burning, wailing in pain and her left arm is hanging by her side like dead weight. She stumbles to the best cover she can find on a street corner outside a bar. A metal newspaper box isn’t much but will have to do because someone is still shooting even as the engine roars like a demon from Hell and thunders away.
“Aw, hell.”
Alan’s huge hands cover the wound and press hard. She screams through tightly clenched teeth at the stab of pain which doesn’t fade as he keeps pressure on it. She’s been shot she realizes. She’s actually been shot. The front of her light-blue blouse is turning red and her favorite leather coat now has a nice hole in the left shoulder just above her collar bone. There’s blood, sticky and hot, rolling down her back and front.
“Son of a bitch,” she mutters darkly, glaring as best she can at Alan. “You just had to pick a fight with…”
She breaks off to fight back the urge to scream again. She’s been possessed, stabbed and almost suffocated. Getting shot shouldn’t hurt this damn much but it’s the worst pain she’s felt since giving birth.
“Shut up,” he snarls.
But she doesn’t shut up. Apparently getting shot frees up her tongue and all those little things that say she shouldn’t push don’t work anymore.
“You had to pick a fight with guys you knew would fight back because it’s funny right? Three punks against you. You don’t look like much so they think they can take you but surprise, surprise, you kick their asses. And someone calls the cops while someone else calls their buddies and now look who’s paying for it.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s different when there are consequences for someone else, isn’t it?”
She’s shocked to feel a tear slip down her cheek. Alan’s angry face cracks while his eyes watch it roll down the line of her cheek to her chin. She closes her eyes tightly against any more. Bad ass cops don’t cry when they get shot, even though it hurts and she’s scared.
“10-13! 10-13! Officer needs assistance!”
Whoever made the call must be a rookie, she thinks. There’s an edge of fear in the uniform’s voice that she’s never heard from a veteran. He quickly rattles off their location in radio chatter that’s familiar and comforting. She had forgotten about the uniforms that had come to break up the fight. Uniforms whose descriptions she had heard over the radio and recognized immediately as Alan. Why the hell had she thought getting involved as a good idea?
Because she was a good guy and good guys got involved when it was a better idea to stay away. Good guys took bullets for idiot bastards who thought brawls were a form of comedy. Good guys used their good hand to grip the bastard’s forearm because they were afraid but too proud to say it. Good guys bled on street corners trying not to cry.
Sometimes being a good guy wasn’t so good.
[ooc: abit_unsettlin used with permission.]
It’s a point of pride that she managed to get her gun drawn shortly after the first shot is fired. The action is instinctive. She hears an engine rumble somewhere behind her, someone shouts “Hey! Motherfucker!” and then gunfire. Training kicks in and she’s knocking Alan out of the way, trying to find cover and raising her weapon all in one breath. One breath that is exhaled sharply as something hits her shoulder at an angle and then quickly drawn back in as her brain registers pain.
On TV, this is when things would start to blur. Time would slow and the scene would fade to black. Life is not TV. She’s hyper aware that her shoulder is screaming, burning, wailing in pain and her left arm is hanging by her side like dead weight. She stumbles to the best cover she can find on a street corner outside a bar. A metal newspaper box isn’t much but will have to do because someone is still shooting even as the engine roars like a demon from Hell and thunders away.
“Aw, hell.”
Alan’s huge hands cover the wound and press hard. She screams through tightly clenched teeth at the stab of pain which doesn’t fade as he keeps pressure on it. She’s been shot she realizes. She’s actually been shot. The front of her light-blue blouse is turning red and her favorite leather coat now has a nice hole in the left shoulder just above her collar bone. There’s blood, sticky and hot, rolling down her back and front.
“Son of a bitch,” she mutters darkly, glaring as best she can at Alan. “You just had to pick a fight with…”
She breaks off to fight back the urge to scream again. She’s been possessed, stabbed and almost suffocated. Getting shot shouldn’t hurt this damn much but it’s the worst pain she’s felt since giving birth.
“Shut up,” he snarls.
But she doesn’t shut up. Apparently getting shot frees up her tongue and all those little things that say she shouldn’t push don’t work anymore.
“You had to pick a fight with guys you knew would fight back because it’s funny right? Three punks against you. You don’t look like much so they think they can take you but surprise, surprise, you kick their asses. And someone calls the cops while someone else calls their buddies and now look who’s paying for it.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s different when there are consequences for someone else, isn’t it?”
She’s shocked to feel a tear slip down her cheek. Alan’s angry face cracks while his eyes watch it roll down the line of her cheek to her chin. She closes her eyes tightly against any more. Bad ass cops don’t cry when they get shot, even though it hurts and she’s scared.
“10-13! 10-13! Officer needs assistance!”
Whoever made the call must be a rookie, she thinks. There’s an edge of fear in the uniform’s voice that she’s never heard from a veteran. He quickly rattles off their location in radio chatter that’s familiar and comforting. She had forgotten about the uniforms that had come to break up the fight. Uniforms whose descriptions she had heard over the radio and recognized immediately as Alan. Why the hell had she thought getting involved as a good idea?
Because she was a good guy and good guys got involved when it was a better idea to stay away. Good guys took bullets for idiot bastards who thought brawls were a form of comedy. Good guys used their good hand to grip the bastard’s forearm because they were afraid but too proud to say it. Good guys bled on street corners trying not to cry.
Sometimes being a good guy wasn’t so good.