Chris woke a little at a time, like a drowning man trying to push himself to the surface, to the sound of sirens and a police scanner and the sensation of movement. He was in blinding pain. He saw fields of crimson and gold, the colors of incoherent agony. He smelled cigarette smoke and heard two men -- presumably cops -- talking. Chris didn't even try to open his eyes. Disjointed images events of that day began to filter through his world of agony: the house, the dog, the coke, the passage, Anderson. He let out a moan.
He heard one of the cops say, "Hey, you doing all right back there, Jones? Yeah, we know who you are. Hope you feel better than you look. We're getting you to the hospital, don't worry. We figured taking you on ourselves would be faster than calling an ambulance."
Chris: "Uuuugh . . . "
"What's that you say, Jones? 'I'm a real dumbass?' Yeah, I'd say so. You fucked a guy's wife, then hid out in a closet instead of getting away. You had a baggie of cocaine on you. I imagine it'll show up on the piss test, too. Not that we need one. Shit, there's coke all over your clothes, man. You even tried to jump the guy with an switchblade. You're looking at some serious fucking time, man. I mean, you just got out of prison, Jones! Did you really want to go back that bad? Man, I'll tell you what. Drugs will miss your thinking up." The other cop laughed.
Chris hated the pigs. He hated Anderson and his slut wife and stupid dog. Most of all, he hated his bad luck. Chris guessed that he should be angry and horrified, but couldn't muster the energy to feel more than a bitter form of self-pity. He just wanted to get to the hospital and get some pain meds, right now.
After about five minutes, Chris' eyes opened and his chest started hitching. He started wiggling around. "Oh... fuck. I-can't... breah... breathe-man."
The cop said, "Oh yeah? Too much coke?"
"I... I-got-asthma!" Chris replied between gasps, wheezing heavily. He started tossing, his hands bound by cuffs.
"Shut up, Jones. You ain't fooling anybody."
"Asthma, that's a good one, huh Chuck?" The cops laughed. "Stupid shit will try anything! We'll get you some crack for your fiend attack, don't worry."
Chris' breaths became shallower and shallower. His pain didn't recede, but became fuzzy and indistinct. He began floating in a hazy world of agony, muffled radio traffic, and anger. Soon even these jumbled sensations began fading as what felt like blessed sleep took him.
The passenger cop turned up the scanner volume, reporting a domestic disturbance, covering the sound of Chris Jones' strained last breaths.

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