ONLY IN THE MOVIES
He ran after his partner down the dingy alley dodging garbage cans, yowling cats, and finally valulted effortlessly over the strategically placed dumpster.
The bad guys, obvious in their dark gangster garb and with vicious grins were firing constantly, the bullets whining and pinging musically off the brick walls and metal fire escapes.
A lucky shot (one in one hundred rounds fired in the last two minutes) grabbed at his arm.
"Flesh wound." he grunted to himself. "I hope that detergent ad was right about stains, this is my favorite shirt."
He reached his partner's side, barely breathing heavy. A knowing glance and a nod and they stood up together and were such a formidible sight that the bad guys threw down their guns and gave up the fight.
"You hurt?" His partner noticed the blood on the shirt.
"Nothing to worry about. I'll sew it up myself after we run these punks in." He said and shrugged ignoring the pain.
Oh yeah, right. Only in the movies. I was lying on a nice piece of linoleum in the hardware store with blood pumping out of my arm. If a herd of wildebeasts came charging down the aisle I wouldn't have been able to move, actually I would have welcomed them, anything to take my mind off the p-a-i-n!
Two, maybe three shots had been fired, bouncing around the store hitting things that made the sound even more scary. Flinching was not fun. It hurt.
"Sandburg! Get over here!" Jim's voice was insistent. Didn't he see I was hurt? I was not going to move. No, siree, not me. I'll just lie here and let the fluorescent lights burn holes in my retinas.
Jim apparently wasn't going to wait til hell froze over for me to move, cause the next thing I know he's leaning over me. Ah, my Blessed Protector saving my baby blues from the evil 3000 watt lighting.
Then - my best friend, my Sentinel did something horrible. "I gotta stop the bleeding..." he said pulling off his sweater to get at his nice clean ironed white shirt. Perfectly ironed, too. That's my Jim. Take his shirt off his own back to help me...who didn't want him near that center of pain.
"No! Jim! Hurt...you gonna hur..." I babbled needlessly.
With brutal efficiency Jim had me ground into the linoleum his hands pressing on the one spot on my body that I didn't want anyone to touch, or breathe on or do anything. HE WAS LEANING ON THAT SPOT!!
My hands scrabbled on the slick floor looking for something to grab and clout the man with. This was a hardware store, right? Where the hell was a hammer, or a nail gun, or a three meter stick when you needed one?
Okay, fine. I was in horrible pain from my wound, then where was the grey edges of vision? You know the sign just before you mercifully black out from pain only to wake up some hours later drugged to the gills and feeling nothing? If anything, things became sharper and clearer- A store clerk was hustling a matronly looking woman over to the cops swarming the place.
"Taupe! Taupe!" she was screaming as a gun was taken from her. "I got beige. I wanted taupe."
"Disgruntled DIY." someone said loudly over the constant ear grating whine in my ears.
"It isn't that bad." Jim hissed at me and shifted his pressure on my arm just enough to make the whine go up a decibel. Oops, that was me. We both flinched. The grey edges appeared and I was looking forwards to the black abyss - in vain.
Then the paramedics showed up. Funny how they make you feel better by making you feel worse. They stuck things on me, in me, manhandled me off my comfortable spot on the floor onto a gurney that had wonky wheels like one of those crazy shopping carts. Lifted me, decanted me, rolled me, pushed me, and I felt a lot better. I even didn't try to bite Jim as he unwisely put a hand on my cheek to give it a comforting pat. If only he had done that earlier when he was leaning on me I would have gladly taken a chunk out. Well, maybe.
I never did pass out. I got to watch the doctor stitch up my wound - a bloody scrape - he called it - not even a flesh wound. The local and some heavy duty aspirin took off the edge, so by the time Jim was collecting me to go home I felt better. Not great, but better.
Jim handled me carefully into the cab of his truck. Getting shot is not like the movies. You don't leap over dumpsters, or fight bad guys with your fists, you just lie there and hurt.
On the other hand, just like in the movies,I rode off into the sunset with my friend by my side.