Car Bomb

George stumbled down the hall, one hand on the wall and the other holding his stomach. With every step, his feet drug a little more.

“I’m not going to make it,” he mumbled.

The explosion rocked the hallway, and George thought the building might be coming down on top of him. Pain erupted in his guts like a volcano, burning and tearing at his consciousness. He felt his pulse hammer in his temples as he struggled to take another step.


“Don’t you think you might be a little dramatic in that description?”

Martin turned to look at his wife, Carla, and gave her a sheepish grin. “Dramatic is what sells stories.”

“Really? Drama about having the flu and not making it to the bathroom from the couch?”

Martin felt his face heat up from his blush. “This is supposed to be a crime story where the hero got shot in the gut.”

She nodded, looking at him with a skeptical smirk. “Right. Sure. And the fact that you had a little case of the flu last week has nothing to do with that description?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay Mr. Writer,” she said, a devious grin spreading across her delicate face. “Then what exploded in the hallway?”

Martin turned back to the screen and frowned. “Uhhhh. Car bomb?”

She laughed as she left her husbands office.

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