It starts off in medias res, with people all of a sudden noticing that they have amnesia, or gaping wounds, or breasts.
It's not actually a story, it's a snippet. Or three lines. Or a description of what I'd write if I were writing a story.
Everyone is gazing, looking, watching, and glancing. If Rodney went blind, it wouldn't make any difference--he'd *seem* to be staring off into space, and John would be eyeing him. Rodney would also be fidgeting with something as he spoke, possibly a beer or a gun, because there's no business like stage business.
At least one word has to be looked up in a dictionary, and I probably checked the definition myself, because I wanted to be sure it meant what I thought it meant. Ten other words are probably wrong.
The point-of-view is painfully tight, like a pair of someone else's shoes that the author put on, walked a mile in, and then couldn't pry off.
It's raining adjectives and adverbs and we are all drowning.
There is at least one small but important word missing, e.g., "Blood is thicker water."
The Rule of Threes inserts itself sneakily into every crevice. It is clever, remorseless, and all-powerful. It bends innocent sentences to its will, sways them to its creed, and is often redundant. Three, three, three.
The title is a word or phrase of dubious relevance exposing the desperate, last-minute clutch of a panicky author.