Start Fiction:
Donald bounced a few times as he hit the concrete. The bouncing turned to sliding, causing about as much pain as he expected. Being thrown from a moving vehicle was a totally new experience for Donald, but not the pain.
As he ground to a halt, Donald ranked the experience up there with the time he dumped his motorcycle on gravel wearing only shorts. Granted, that was born out of drunken stupidity; not people willfully wanting to cause him bodily harm. None the less, it still hurt like a son of a bitch.
The limo he was thrown from was gone. Donald lay still, staring at the street light above him. His flesh burned from the grating it received from the concrete. He knew movement was going to make his current pain pale in comparison, so there was no sense of urgency.
As he lay still on the concrete trying to breathe and calm his mind, Donald heard several voices passing by on the sidewalk. There wasn't anyone who was about to see if a white guy thrown from a limo needed help in this neighborhood. As far as they were concerned, trash day was tomorrow; his body could just be picked up then.
His breathing slowed, deepened. His mind was drawing still.
Donald realized the concrete was nice and cool; it felt good against the burning of his flesh.
Noting the relative quiet, he felt lucky he was thrown out on a street with little traffic. Not that he planned on napping, but at least he wasn't too concerned of getting run over, either.
Slowly Donald began to take an inventory of his injuries. Selectively flexing various muscles, he began checking for the responsiveness of his appendages and the presence of pain. Everything responded, and painfully. Nothing seemed broken. So far, so good.
Continuing his damage inventory, Donald was surprised as he moved his hips ever so slightly, to feel the pressure from his gun holstered in the back of his pants. Why Tony and his goons didn't take it in the first place was odd, but after his pounding from the pavement Donald was surprised it didn't dislodge and end up in the gutter. Well, in the actual sewer drain as he was all ready in the gutter.
Slowly Donald opened his eyes; his head slightly turned to the left. He studied the night skyline trying to determine his location. It looked familiar, yet nothing came to him right away except the quick onset of a throbbing headache.
As he reached up to grab his head, a woman screamed to his right. Apparently there was at least one person in the neighborhood with some concern.
"Why you do that!" she yelled at Donald. "I thought you were dead!"
He tried to roll on his side towards the woman. It was not as easy a task as he had planned. "Sorry," he said, grunting from the pain. "I'm new to the neighborhood."
End Fiction.
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