There was
no mistaking that he had been shot. It was a new sensation
but a recognizable one for which no appropriate similes
existed. It wasn’t like anything. Not the
sharp sting of an insect or like being hit in the stomach with a
hammer. It didn’t feel like anything except what it
feels like to get shot. He knew now. Either the
impact or the entry caused him to ejaculate in his pants. His
fluids glued his clothing to his body. The wound wasn’t a
small toothless mouth or a reproduction of "Ascent of the Blessed" done
the size of an Indian Head nickel: it was a bullet hole in
his stomach. The metaphors arrived slowly. His
belly now contained a tiny baby of lead who sucked the nutrients from
his body. Then it was a fisherman’s sinker plugging
a hole in the ocean. A .45 mm paperclip fastening his
mortality to his immortality.
