The first thing the Mayor felt, when we finally woke up, was his ribs. The pain was almost psychotropic, like a bad trip he couldn’t escape. The fact that he had slept slumped sideways in his car, his damaged side right on top of the parking brake, didn’t help. He didn’t remember falling asleep — not where or when.
The second thing he felt was the gun. It was against his temple, and it was surprisingly warm. Not like it had been recently fired, but more like it was alive. He closed his eyes and let himself imagine the gun moving and growing, like a metallic vine, wrapping around his head, enveloping him.
The broken ribs were making him crazy.
The gun disappeared. When he turned to see where it went, he felt a sharp pain and then everything went away. He noticed, just before he disappeared into the blackness, that he was parked on Swiss Avenue.
