He pulls himself out of the overturned car, crawling, dragging an arm behind him. He's battered and bruised, several bullet wounds are quite visible. Very weakly he sits himself up, blood seeping from an open wound on his cheek. He tries to get a smoke but his hands are too busted up to do something so mechanically defined.
That was a blast, he thinks.
Max smiles weakly to himself, the sound of high heeled shoes clopping against the pavement draws his attention to see a figure which stops before him. A feminine form, curvy and sultry. She kneels down to Max and takes a pack of cigarettes out of his front pocket, and takes one out and puts it in his mouth.
"Thanks doll," Max says, his voice raspy and congested.
"Anytime," the woman says.
She takes a wooden match and strikes her thumb against it, causing it to spark into life, and then she brings it to Max's mouth. Max puffs on the cigarette, and he feels the smokey air in his lungs, he lets out a cough. Spitting out a trickle of blood, which isn't a good sign.
Max looks up at the woman, and smiles at her.
"How are you feeling, Max?" she asks him, obviously seeing the rough condition that he is currently in.
"I had better days," Max replies. He takes a long puff from the smoke, savouring it like a chef savours the steam of a fine meal.
The woman tosses the match aside and stands up, she pulls out a revolver from her pocket. She puts the gun to Max's temple.
"Ready for the next phase?" she asks.
"I think so," he grimaces bitterly and nods. He turns his head away and takes another drag.
BANG.
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