The pain was unbearable.
A large wound had formed on the man's right shoulder. It was a very serious wound, as a sharp weapon cut down into it, forming a gap at least four inches deep. His arm was barely attached.
But he didn't care. He couldn't. The pain was bearing down on his sanity, as he slowly realised something very obvious by now.
He was dying.
He didn't want to die.
He slowly adjusted, in an attempt to comfort his burdened and weak posture, now being coated in crimson red. The pain stung, shoving him onto his back again, now grilling the gash.
It was stupid, really. He wanted to finally be able to eat something. As he looted the top of the motel, he heard the man behind him muttering a 'hey'. The man had raised his weapon already- a meat cleaver- and was in a defensive stance. He took this as an offer to fight and charged... But it didn't end well. He was dusted, wounded, and choking on blood.
All of the thoughts here lasted the last ten seconds of his life, as a cleaver domed him, splitting his head open...
Guess that's what he got for being a Bad Mutha.