The Exodus

Blood dripped onto my bright white bathroom rug. It was only a flesh wound. I could self-diagnose due to the fact the new bullet wound was next to an old bullet wound.

"That fuck ruined my rug." I thought, leaning against the bathroom door-jam, readying myself for my big-push to the toilet seat.

With one great expense of energy I pushed myself from the door, grabbed a towel and landed hard on the toilet seat. Dammit, now I'll have to tighten the seat back down.

My anger swelled as I applied the towel to the wound on my left shoulder. I was lost in rage.

Once I flushed the burrito I had for lunch, I'd have the chance to be mad at the fucktard that shot me.

Right now my rage was directed at the sonofabitch that sold me the burrito. That thing sank so hard in my stomach, screaming to get out, I cramped-up just as I saw the guy's gun pointing in my general direction.

Not able to react to anything but the fucking burrito ripping through my colon like a roller-coaster, the guy got two crappy shots-off before I could fart in his general direction.

From the standing fetal position I was able to pull my gun and aim through the pain of the burrito, the burning sensation of the hole in my shoulder paled in comparison.

Now for my Exodus and then off to have the bullet wound sown-up and to have a chat with that bastard that sold me the burrito.

One guy's armed with a gun, the other a burrito.  Who would've thought the incompetence of the burrito guy almost got me killed?

The burrito guy's gonna be doing his own exodus after I force him to eat his own work...