The boy tightened his hand into a fist and punched the older man in the gut with all his strength. The man emitted a ghastly moan and dropped to his knees before the boy, who was now towering over him, triumphantly. The boy drew back his leather Doc Marten and kicked the older man in the throat, toppling him backwards like a sack of flour.
"How's that feel, huh?" the boy growled and continued to kick the man's now lifeless body.

Zed and the other men were nearby in the woods, searching for the boy by the light of an omniscient full moon, as well as a Magnalite flashlight. They all had their rifles now, and Nathan had his hunting dog, Casper.

The boy, who had been in an adrenaline-induced state while apparently killing the man, ceased his post-mortem assault, and studied the corpse. There was blood oozing from the man's mouth and every other orifice on the man's face. The boy had no medical training, but he would've guessed it was some type of internal injury. He rolled the stiff over and removed a buck knife from a leather sheath on his belt.

"There he is," shouted one of the men with Zed, the one they called Petey. "Git 'em, Casper," he commanded the dog. Nathan released Casper from his chain, and the hound then made an instant bee-line for the boy, who was now running along the tree-line, approximately one hundred yards away.

The boy looked back over his shoulder as he ran through the underbrush, dodging trees and ducking branches. He could see the gold beacon spraying from Zed's flashlight and could hear their demoralizing taunts. "Run you skinny bastard, run," and "kill 'em Casper boy." The dog closed the gap on the boy swiftly; a fierce red hue glowing in his nocturnal eyes. The boy headed for what looked like a birch tree and perhaps his only chance of sanctuary. He could almost feel the dog's snapping jaws at his heels. If he could only get up in that tree. He lunged for the birch, at which time he felt the dog's canines tear through his trousers and rip through the flesh of his calf as he reached for the lowest branch. The boy gasped. The dog reaffirmed its hold around his leg, pulling him to the ground. The boy bombarded the dog's head and neck with a flurry of punches, but to no avail. He attempted to shake the dog loose from his seized leg, but the aggressive hound would not yield. The pain of the bite felt like a poison passing through his blood, spreading a fiery sensation to every region in his body. He reached into his front pocket and uncovered the blade which he had removed from the older man's body. Twisting his upper body sideways, he raised the knife over the dog and brought the acute point down on the base of the canine's skull. He heard the thud, nearly a crack, and felt the blade push through the bone. The dog let out a whimper and relented its grip on the boy's leg. Without looking back, the boy sprung to his feet and limped out of sight into the woods; each step a symphony of agony.

"That motherfucker killed my dog," Nathan cried out, standing over the inanimate dog. The dead man's hunting knife stood erect atop the dog's head like a stubborn cowlick. "Casper boy," he wallowed, dropping next to his fallen pet. He rested the dead dog's head on his lap and attempted to place its exposed tongue back into its mouth. "You're fucking dead, boy!" he screamed at the highest octave of his voice. "You hear me boy? You gonna be a dead boy!"
Zed scanned the tree line for the boy's hobbled sihoulette through the sight on his high-powered deer rifle. He inhaled the fresh night air into his heaving lungs and drank in the thrill of the hunt. He could no longer feel the effects of the nearly eleven beers he'd consumed earlier in the night. He was intoxicated by another poison now, more potent than any alcohol. He was drunk with the madness of the bazaar.

The boy zigzagged his way through the trees and bushes, slithering through the arboreal labyrinth like a stalked rabbit. Up ahead, he could hear the sounds of traffic and guessed it was the main road. He stopped briefly, attempted to recover his wind, and reached down at his wounded leg. "Goddamn," he exclaimed, touching it. Looking back over his shoulder, he could see the relentless beam of Zed's flashlight, combing the nightfallen wood for his much sought after hide. God, he thought, how the hell am I going to get out of here? He knew they weren't going to stop until they killed him. He thought of the old man and his son. Not the one he kicked the life out of; the old man that had hired him to work the bazaar. He didn't want to go out that way. He continued to push forward towards the highway, tripping and tottering his way over a narrow, murmuring stream, and saturating his security guard uniform in the process. He could hear them getting closer. They had to be only fifty yards behind now.

"Hold up," Zed commanded the party. "He's up there...near the road. He lifted his rifle, set the boy's shadowy form in the cross hairs of the scope and tightened his finger around the trigger.
"Wait," Nathan said, pushing the stock of Zed's gun away.
"What the fu-"
"Please Zed, he killed my Casper boy. I want him."
Zed shrugged him away and raised his rifle. He searched the darkness for the boy's hobbled frame, but couldn't discern him from the shadows. "Now look what you gone and made me do, asshole." He drew back his arm and backhanded Nathan across the face, sending him backwards into a blackberry bush. "Next time you touch me when I'm gettin' ready to fire, I'll shoot you. You unnerstand me, retard?"
Nathan complied silently with a simple nod, and then proceeded to remove the spiny thorns from his exposed arms and legs.

On the roadway, the boy ran awkwardly along the asphalt, frantically waving his arms at the passing cars. A suped-up Nova holding a car full of teens pulled to the side and waited for the boy to approach.
"You need a ride?" the sophomoric driver asked.
"Do I ever," the boy responded with relief.
The girl on the passenger side leaned over the driver and said," I hope you get one," and heaved a half a can of Miller Lite at him. The occupants all giggled, and then the car spun away, casting a hailstorm of gravel in his direction. He shielded his face from the flying pebbles and stumbled along the macadam, right past a '57 Ford pick-up with a loose bumper.

"Frederick," Martha asserted, clutching his arm.
"I see 'em, Mama," he returned, turning the truck around. He pulled up along side the frenetic youth, rolling down the window as he spoke. "You in some kinda trouble, boy?"
The boy stopped abruptly. "Please, Mister." He could see the flashlight beam approaching the roadway.
"Well, good God, woman...open the damned door," Frederick said to his loving wife.

"That sunavabitch is gettin' in a car," Petey cried out, pointing to the Benders' truck.
Zed broke into the clear and fired off a quick shot, narrowly missing the willowy kid, not to mention the Benders' rattling iron horse.
"Whose truck is that?" Nathan asked.

"Isn't that Zed Neely's son? Zed, Jr.?" Martha queried.
"I'll see his father about this tomorrow," Freddy replied, leaning over Martha and the boy, pulling the door closed.
"You're safe now," Martha told the boy, pressing his face against her plentiful breast. The scent of fresh baked bread clinging to her flowery polyester dress, stroked his senses and made him think instantly of his mother. "You're safe now," she repeated. The '57 Ford choked and hacked its way down SR4002, leaving the memory of Zed and his cutthroats in a shroud of blue exhaust.

"What in blazes was going on back there, boy?" Fred asked.
Sitting in the cozy setting of the Benders' kitchen, the boy told them. He told them how the old man had called him to help out as a security guard at the bazaar. Being a room-mate of his son's at Wilkes University, the old man knew the boy could use the money.
"Where you from, boy?" Martha interjected.
"Wilkes-Barre," he replied.
"Oh, a city boy."
The boy continued his story, relating to them the fracas that erupted when the beer taps had been shut off at midnight. He told them how Zed and his good 'ol boys reacted when confronted by security, namely the old man, his son, and himself.
"Zed Neely and his drunken pals raise hell at the bazaar every year," Fred remarked. "They give Slocum Hollow Township a bad name, those fellas do."
The boy inhaled a mouthful of Fred's daughter's meatloaf, which was one of the most pleasurable eating experiences he had ever had.
"She's got this secret ingredient," Fred informed him about the meatloaf. "Its won first prize at the bazaar, the last three years running."
"Beans about the meatloaf, Fred. Let the boy finish his story."
The boy told them how Anderson, one of Zed's boys, had shot the place up with a .22, sending the lingering crowd behind the gaming tables for cover. The boy and the old man's son, being unarmed, hid behind the old man and his .357, which up until that point, had been displayed on his hip. Anderson, under the influence of Yuenglings Beer, as well as various other forms of alcohol, some homemade, challenged the old man and his cannon.
"Let's see how good those senile, tired eyes are, old man," Anderson quipped, drawing a bead on the withered being.
The old man, fearing for the lives of the two boys, as well as his own, squeezed the trigger, removing most of Anderson's head from his neck and scattering the crimson fragments on to the funnel cake stand, behind him. With most of his energy drained from the fatalistic results of his actions, the old man was easily rushed from behind, while the two boys took flight in the surrounding woods.
From his hiding place in a nearby, drafty barn, the boy watched Zed and the others torment the old man, shooting the ground all around him, while the twisted shape in the uniform attempted to crawl away.
"Kill 'em, Zed," Nathan instigated. "Shoot the old sunavabitch dead!"
"Bring your truck over here," Zed ordered, turning to Nathan. Nathan complied, and within moments, had his Toyota 4x4 parked in the center of the fairgrounds.
Using the butt of Anderson's rifle, Zed inflicted a kaleidoscope of pain on the old man's side. Coughing, choking, spitting up blood, not unlike when he was tuberculent, the old man summoned all his strength, but was unable to move.
"Where are your keys?" Zed asked.
"In the ignition."
"Good," he replied, coldly; calculatingly.
Zed hopped into the driver side of the awaiting truck and without hesitation, backed over the old man's head, grounding his skull into the cold, dampened earth. His body jerked violently for a brief moment, and then gave way to a complete and total nothingness.

The old man's son, springing from his concealed location, charged Zed as he stepped down, out of the truck.
"I'll kill you," he sobbed, locking up with Zed in what looked like a lover's embrace. In one quick motion, the old man's son fell away from Zed, his white shirt stained with scarlet. A large hunting knife, like the ones used to clean deer, protruded conspicuously from his torso. He tried to say something, a last word maybe, or perhaps a final damnation, but instead merely dropped to his knees. He stayed that way for a short time, his eyes glazed with shock and fear. Nathan raised up Anderson's gun, aiming it at the old man's son. He wanted to shoot someone, anyone.
"No," Zed scolded, taking the gun from him.
The boy watched from his clandestine place, along with the others, as his room-mate's life slowly bubbled out from the gaping hole in his chest.

"My god, boy. You've been through hell tonight," Martha exclaimed.
Fred pushed a second helping of his daughter's world famous meatloaf under the boy's nose. "How in hell did you get away?"
The boy told them about the older man who had been apparently sleeping a drunk off in the very same barn.
"Gotcha," he said, grabbing the boy from behind. "Gimme a kiss, pretty boy." The older man wreaked of whiskey and nicotine.
The boy began to tell them how he had fought off the homosexual advances of the older man, when his tale was interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Now who could that be at this time of night?" Martha asked herself, aloud. "Hide the boy," she ordered opening the door.
Fred hustled the boy off into another room of the farmhouse.
"Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Bender," the sheriff said. "Just stopped by to warn you we have a killer on the loose, and ask you to keep your doors locked."
Martha feigned shock.
"That's right," he continued. "There was a little trouble tonight at the bazaar...couple a people were killed including Billy Anderson and Queer Carl, ahem, I mean Carl Lapin. Zed and his boys took care of two of the killers, but the third one is still at large. He's a boy, no more than twenty, with a skinny build and a ruddy, acne complexion. You see 'em, you give me a jingle."
"You know I would," Martha replied. "Its a shame its so late, or I'd invite you in for a helping of Jo's meatloaf. A fresh loaf just came out of the oven."
"Dang, Mrs. Bender," he said, jeeringly. "I drew straws with the deputies to decide which one of us would make the trip out here."
Martha looked at him with a smirk. "Tell you what, Sheriff. How's about I give you some to take back with you, for you and the boys."
"I was hoping you would," he replied.
Martha wrapped up several slices of the prized loaf for the county cop and then sent him on his way.

Fred hid the boy in Jo's room. Jo's corpulent form laid resting under the covers. She must've been 300 pounds, the boy thought, judging by the bulging mass concealed under the blanket. She was awake, and apparently eager to talk. She told him about life in Slocum Hollow Township, her chores on the farm, and of course, the accolades she received as a result of her famous meatloaf. The boy commended her on the incredible taste, and she informed him she had been invited to a national cooking competition in Chicago. Then the discussion turned to Zed and his boys.
"Roughnecks," she described them. "They think they can get away with anything they like."
"Does the local authorities know about their shenanigans?"
Jo looked at him, blankly. "His dad, Zed, Sr., is the county sheriff. Zed, Jr. and his boys are his deputies. I thought you knew?"
As he was absorbing this latest bit of information, Martha entered Jo's bedroom.
"Coast is clear," she announced, and added, "I see you've met Jo."
The boy nodded, shivering at the thought of those bloodthirsty rednecks running around, practically with a license to kill.
Martha said, "Its best if you stay here tonight, until things cool down a bit. Fred and I will drive you up to Wilkes-Barre tomorrow."
The boy agreed, his teeth chattering from his still wet clothes.

Martha drew a hot bath for the boy in their deep, cast iron tub, the ones with the talons for legs. As the boy stood, naked, gradually easing himself into the steaming water, Martha walked into the bathroom, carrying with her some linens.
"I brought you some towels and a wash cloth," the old woman said, her eyes lingering below the boy's waist.
The boy, feeling uncomfortable under the weight of Martha's lustful stare, covered himself with one hand and received the towels with the other.
"You need anything, just holler," she said, pulling the door closed, but not all the way. He saw her through the narrow crack, standing their briefly; gawking at him. He eased himself into the bath, submerging himself to the neck.