His ribs were spit now, under the evolved fascia, gaping each time he moved, chewing through flesh. Joe let himself fall against a nearby car and slid down to a sitting position. He stretched left to take pressure off the side wound, and the glass of the window above him shattered and fell down, an artificial snow. Bullets ricocheted of a dark street lamp and punctured into a store display. The mannequins inside cared not. Joe spun the silencer off his Ruger, it was fouled, useless, and unnecessary. It fell to the ground, ironically loud. He reloaded and set the gun in his lap. He grabbed the buckle of his belt and yanked, various things falling off, charms, accessories, empty compartments. He thought in odd phrases and slow realizations. In the same movement he threaded it back around his back and lashed it down high, over his ribs, to hold himself together. Just as he noticed the strange silence, more gunfire cracked open sheet metal all around him. With a wavery head, he noticed one round had stopped just as it was exiting. It looked like a flower. He laughed internally. Death orchids or glory roses? "...and death will never know my name" He gurgled. He blinked a bit. "How overdramatic..." He fell completely down too the ground now, his weighted should rig flopping around, it now being unbelted. He crawled oddly on his left side. Almost as an afterthought he grasped his pistol, which had fallen off his lap like a surprised cat off the lap of its owner. As he reached the tail end of the car, more gunfire destroyed the rear panels. A last lunge of the legs propelled him backwards on a leather shoulder plate and he fell into full view of the street. His assailant was crouched down near the back of a pickup on the opposite side of the two lane one way. He looked to be reloading. Joe grabbed the rear bumper of the car, in some places still hot from the rending and pulled himself to a sitting position with his left hand. Crossing his right arm over the strained left, he fired. He kept firing until seventeen rounds were spent blindly and dropped the piece. The last round had stove piped. He pulled even harder with his left hand, right still crossed over it limply, and lifted himself enough to get his legs back. As he did, he flopped over the trunk of the car, as if bowing. His right hand was back scrabbling under his left shoulder. His luck was with him. Two rounds had torn though his opposite’s knee, and one had torn the optics off of his rifle. He was kneeling on his good knee, with one hand on the ground, trying to finish reloading through the pain in his awkward position. Joe found purchase and pulled out his second gun, a large revolver. He took time to aim this time, his head smashed cheek down, the gun sideways. It bucked and spun of in a pirouette across the trunk lid, scoring a spiral through the paint. The man's head disappeared. Joe thought it a funny thing for a man’s head to disappear. When the police arrived later, with Fright and Ghost hiding in the growing crowd, after the light was let back into the area and old ghost slept, they mainly found it funny that he had been found humping a car.