POST MORTEM

BY SPIKE DAFT

Author's Note: It seems these days that all my stories are rated "R" for extreme violence. This story is no different, but considering my past reviews this is not particularly a bad occurrence. Since there is next to no fanfic in the fandom of such a great movie, I have decided to lend my talents to further elaborating the already staggering genius of Guy Ritchie's world. Enjoy!

Chapter One: Playing Opossum

He couldn't feel the floor- he remained where he had fallen when the bullet grazed his temple deeply and sent him reeling down, thoroughly stunned. He didn't feel the other bullet as it tore into his side, but then it really wouldn't have mattered anyway. He'd been through worse- four times worse.

Apparently the idiots from the Drowning Trout thought he was dead, and after some consideration he thought it might be best to pretend just that, at least until he knew what they had planned for him and the corpse that was attracting flies in the corner of the room.

" Get 'em in the car," he heard one of them say, and felt himself half-heartedly lifted, and after a moment's breathless pause, dropped back to the floor, where his head struck with a dull thud which probably hurt but for now felt soft as a pillow in his faraway state. The left side of his head and neck was beginning to feel stiff, and the pain was budding slowly but surely- tight and hot, aching, dull. His side was very wet and was making him feel cold. He'd felt this before, a long time ago. He hoped in a distant way that they would not notice his slight breathing…

" What're you waiting for, Sol?" the voice said, surging forth from the fuzzy shuffling inside the room. " We have got to get rid of these fucking bodies."

" We should cut 'em up first, feed them to the pigs…"

" Fuck cuttin' 'em up- that takes too much time. Let's go- we'll dump them for the pigs like you said, but we have got to get them out now, before anyone starts to smell this place."

"That fucking dog."

" Just get the fucking bodies, okay?" The voice was nearing hysteria. " Fucking listen to me; I'm not talking to a bloody wall!"

" We can only take one at a time," Sol said quietly. " The boot only holds one person. I don't want a body in my back seat. Too risky. No fucking way."

" Fine, fine- just get the smelly one and we'll get rid of him first."

" Fine. Help me with this- get a blanket or something and wrap him up in it… Oi! What're you doing? Put that down!"

" It's a blanket, innit? Isn't that what you wanted?"

" My mum made me that blanket. You can't use that."

" I'll use the fucking shroud of Turin if I want to- this is all we have. Get your mum to make you a new one. Would you rather lose your blanky or get caught with a bunch of smelly corpses hangin' round?" A mocking tone now: " 'Oh, hello, officer. Don't mind the smell- you know how the saying goes, "fish and visitors begin to stink after three days"…'"

A sullen "Fine, just shut up," sealed the deal.

He heard the footsteps receding to the corner of the room, heard the rustle of fabric as the other body was prepared. He heard them approach him again, and, having begun to regain his senses, thought that it might behove him to hold his breath and play opossum.

" What're we waiting for?!" Sol demanded.

" We're taking this one too, ain't we?" Vinnie hissed.

" No- no room for 'im in the back."

" Then we'll put him in the back seat."

Sol grabbed the lapel of Vinnie's jacket and yanked him close. " You stupid fuck- ain't you been listening to a word I've said? Don't you think it might attract some attention?!"

" Not really, not if he were wrapped proper…"

" No no… It's not worth the risk," Sol said, releasing Vinnie and shaking his head. " Let's get the fuck out of here, dump the fuckin' body, get our arses back 'ere and get the fuck rid of this one!"

Vinnie argued no further. He moved to help lift the other body.

A few moments more and the door shut and locked, and silence came down like a sudden summer shower.

Bullet Tooth Tony struggled to his feet with some difficulty, muttering, "Idiots," to himself and feeling appallingly low for having come to harm by such absurd circumstances, and what was more, having to stumble his way out of this mess with as much grace a two-legged dog.

There was a phone on the wall by the door- luck was still on his side. He managed a glinting grin in the harsh artificial light of the foetid room, and he picked up the receiver, jarred his brains for the number, and dialled with a bloody finger.

When the voice answered, he said, "Hello, Doug. "

" Tony! But I thought you… I went to the Drowning Trout but you weren't there…Avi came back to get his things, he was without you, said you were dead…he's on his way back to Amer-"

" Fuck the Drowning Trout, fuck Avi, and fuck America. I'm in the back room of the pawn shop- you know the one, dingy fucker on Smith street. I need help."

" I'm getting in the car as we speak. Hold on- I'll be there."

Tony hung up the phone and made sure the door was unlocked, and made his way to the filthy couch, unable to care about the dirt that coated it. He was exhausted, hurting, and furious, saturated with the worst kind of anger- the helpless kind. The kind that in no certain terms promised revenge.

Tony let out a sigh. He hated bad days.

*

Doug had no trouble finding him, and had brought Susan along, leaving her twin sister to mind the shop. Both visibly blanched at the sight of Tony, which didn't surprise him, considering how shitty he felt. They gingerly helped him to the back seat of Doug's car, though Tony tried to do it as independently as possible, as he was loath to be victim to weakness of any sort.

" Where's my gun?" he mumbled as the car maneuvered on its course back to the shop. He rested against the door panel, made tacky with blood, and whenever Doug hit a bump his swimming head screamed in protest. He vaguely realized that his blood would probably stain the fabric of the rather expensive car, but in hindsight he realised that he couldn't give a toss.

Doug shook his head. " I don't know. I didn't see it."

" How fucking comforting," Tony hissed, and shut his eyes, falling into the comforting and distant trance that only substantial head trauma could facilitate.

Susan wisely kept her mouth shut and turned forward again, whispering to her father, " Is he all right?"

" He will be," her father whispered back. " God help my cousin if Tony blames him for this."

Susan didn't reply, but she knew that if that were the case, God would not dare to get in Tony's way.