grenade whistle

Between the furious screeching words of his “employer” and the boom of the ignition, he could still somehow hear the piercing whistle of red hot bullets narrowly missing his stupid, stupid fucking skull. If he was a little less self-preserving, he would have wished one would ping him and take him out of his misery. But as the flailing man squashed behind him slammed against him back-to-back with each grenade, the whistling bullets were replaced with explosions. Smoke that smelled like petrol, burning hair. It made his heart quake behind his ribs in the worst way.

WERE DOIN THSI FOLKS. WERE MAKING IT HAPPEN