Bullet

They cannon out of a barrel loud, cold, swift, eating the air. Tracing singular straight lines right up until they can’t anymore. Shots hurdling. Sideways free fall. The target’s unaware, even up until the last millisecond before the bullets hit skin.

Skin encases the skull. The skull is thick and cool looking around the brain, in technical terms. Bullets only go so far. 1,700 mph and they still can’t manage to make it all the way through. They struggle to get lodged farther in, farther in, maybe back to fresh air. Usually they end up snuggled within pink, cartoon-like mush or something.

Bullets cannon out of barrels right into a neighborhood coke dealer guys. Coke dealer sells crack coke dealer gets head cracked right through the middle. Shooting is easy. In movies, one tiny missile drives through three men. Hollywood. These men aren’t really being cracked in the head. But we see it and we like, what a cool thing.

Bullet nestled in the cavern of the mighty and shiny. One bullet at a time. Each waits their turn. Bam! Bam! Bam!

This shit is cool, man, huh. Bullets flyin, makin’ a scene and shootin’ off like fireworks. How many bullets till I feel something?

Bullets hurdle through air, piercing circularly, lurching forward. Air doesn’t even stand a chance. It just watches, moves out of the way, and then disperses. We call this elegant and proven to be worthy of slow-motion. Until impact. Until impact, and then, men’s lives are ripped apart by the explosion and left on the floor. This would be disgusting in slow motion. Then it’s over, souls float away. Elegant yet again in the imagery, but the death was not dignified.

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