4

He walked towards the car, flipped a glance over his shoulder, spun around on his heels and bang bang, shot him with two fingers. Sigmund reeled around one and a half times and crumpled to the cobblestone street. “Ah, but you fall so easily, my friend,” the murderer said as he disassembled the weapon into his pockets. Satisfaction was easy to come by with Sig.

Sigmund lay on his stomach, face down, spread out and ridiculous, moaning on a three second interval. Small tracts of breath rose from the side of his head. Despite Albert's apparent disinterest, Sigmund had wanted some credit for a doubly preconceived murder; besides, he had the more theatrically rigirous half of the act. Sigmund continued to whimper and, keeping about with a believable trauma, began to push himself across the uneven street, his right shoulder hunched over as if it was lead weighted.

From the car: “It’s cold, Sig, let’s go. Get up.”