Out For a Stroll by Kenny Stetson

Rolling along out across the entrance way passing gas, through the sliding doors of the hospital. The daylight dazzled me. While lifting a hand to shield my eyes, I rolled towards the 15 steps next to the wheelchair ramp. Severely bruised, and having banged my head on the pavement, I struggled to stand up unassisted by pulling myself up on the handrail. The midday sun shone onto my battered skull. Finally, I regained my balance and limped down the street, one slipper missing, conscious of my sad appearance. But the limping meant nothing, everybody limps from time to time. I felt distantly relieved at my successful escape from the clinic, although the sun was still seriously messing up my vision. No more fat nurses or dioxide dinners with the old white cancer man.

As I shambled along the sidewalk, a figure emerged from a doorway somewhere in the wall ahead of me. I heard the drumming sound of a lady’s shoes tapping over the concrete. The harsh click-clacking was still echoing inside my skull as I burst into a fit of coughing, spewing phlegm. An indistinct figure, silhouetted against the light, she moved across the street through the wavering heat. A growing dark shape, like the shadow of a person approaching a source of light. The force of a renewed bout of coughing took control of me - I trembled. Too late, my eyes acknowledged that she was a shower of black arrows, flying towards me out of the haze. Struggling to avoid the barrage, I stepped on the tip of my gown. As I fell headlong onto the pavement, I felt the stinging pain of low flying arrows piercing my back. The sensation grew worse, until it felt like a fizzy building collapsing on top of me, for about ten seconds.

At that moment the clicking heels suddenly grew fainter, and my coughing died down.

Coughing is natural; it keeps the phlegm from settling permanently inside the lung, where it would eventually cause irreparable damage. And never mind women. We live on the same planet, and women are alright, although an indefinite fatigue had long since collected around my efforts to communicate with them.

The row of cars was clearly a secret message from the professor. I threw two Linoquine pills into my foaming mouth and started down the sweltering street, shambling, my bathrobe without a belt, open at the front, my shrivelled member dangling.

Although the pain was acceptable, the shady entrance of a closed-down shop seemed irresistible as a good place to lie down for a rest. I entered the shade and crumpled in a pile of semi-dried vomit. A sour odour emanated as I broke the grey crust with my elbow.

As my head touched the floor, there was a loud snoring noise. I spat out two teeth and some bloody saliva and looked up – there was nothing. I fumbled around in my robe’s pocket to find more pills.

Being shot with a well-designed weapon is not necessarily a painful situation. Even less so a prolonged situation. Rather, the brain merely registers a foreign object. No more. This is the only discovery. I say this based on experience, and to explain my situation. I felt calm and peaceful. Blood squirted from my side. I am out shopping. Just as I am about to hand over the money for this stuff I have been saving up for for months, this thing hits me.
Who shot me?