((This story is meant to be a solo-write, not a multiple-person RP.))

I lay face down in the dirt, my entire body racked with pain. I cough, and the sheer pain that runs through what are at least two busted ribs makes me groan. I can hear the men rummaging through the back of my old, dented Model AA. Wood hits the dirt, and the sound of liquid sloshing around confirms my suspicions; they're taking the goods. They're laughing and joking as they transfer the barrels over to another truck. I should've known better, not to come out in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere by myself, with nothing but my good intentions and $800 in apple-flavored bathtub whiskey.

I get my hands beneath me and try to force myself up onto my feet; maybe I can sneak away while everyone's occupied. With my ribs I can hardly breathe, let alone fight, but I might be able to sneak away and get back to town, maybe even to a doctor. A heavy boot to the side sends that plan - and all the air I had in my lungs - out into the night sky. The kick sends me rolling over onto my back with a grunt.

"You aren't getting away that easy, Guido," the man who kicked me says. I hear the man spit, and feel it land on my chest. I open my eyes and find myself staring up at a pistol.

"Easy, man," I say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. "There isn't any need to start shooting. You've got the whiskey, and you've got my wallet. Killing me won't do you any more favors."

The man's eyes narrow; he doesn't seem terribly thrilled by the idea. "Yeah? It'll keep you from going to the fuckin' cops!"

"I can't go to the cops," I say, trying to channel my inner car salesman. But that's easier said than done when you have a baseball bat-shaped dent across your ribcage. "I was out here selling you booze, you think that I want the Bureau coming down on my head if I make it out of this?"

The robber watches me for a second, and lowers his gun. "I guess you have a point there. But if you say anything..."

I nod. "Yeah, I know."

He starts walking away, and I think I'm in the clear, at least mostly. They didn't even take my truck. Already I'm making plans about how I can get to town, to the hospital, when the man suddenly stops in his tracks.

"Nah, fuck it," He says. He raises the pistol, and pulls the trigger.

I got very, very lucky. I was laying in the dirt for several hours, flitting in and out of consciousness. The gunshot didn't hit anything major, thank God, but I was still found by a fisherman lying in a pool of my own blood. Thankfully, he was a doctor from the local clinic, and managed to get the bleeding stopped and got me to the hospital. It was touch and go for a while, but somehow I managed to make it through alive and fully intact. I spent a full month in the hospital. The visits from local police was the worst part; every few days it was another interrogation. I didn't give up anything, though; even though I got fucked over, this isn't a police matter. I can handle this myself. They discharge me 32 days after I got robbed. A cop follows me to my truck, hand on his gun. As if the guy's going to be sitting in the driver's seat waiting for me.

My first stop is a trip to the bank to withdraw my last $50. Then I move onto Harry's Pawn and Gun. The building is about as nice as you would expect; wood-paneled walls, and a glass counter filled with jewelry and guns. Harry is smart enough not to ask about the likely-looking .357 that I selected. Good choice on his part. I buy six bullets as well; I won't need that many, but it's always nice to have extras for complications.

The first target is shacked up at a small motel outside of town, with only a single female companion for company. I wonder if his wife knows; probably not, the way he acts whenever he picks up the phone. Poor woman, being married to such a bastard.

I make my move the next day; I don't bother to walk or choose a different car. My only extra precaution is the black mask that covers my face. It only takes a couple of kicks to boot down the front door. I wonder how I look, framed in the doorway with my revolver raised. Not that it mattered. His companion lets out a scream as I pull the trigger. The gun kicks more than I expect, but the bullet tears through the man's chest. I linger just long enough to see him collapse back and a trail of blood start to run down the entry wound. One down, two to go.