“Well. I told you it would be like shooting fish in a barrel,” crowed Doug, Sr. watching Slow Eddie Holcum getting his ass whooped on the shiny tactical police van monitor.

“Dougie, it seems to me one of your fish sprouted wings,” replied Sheriff Lovelace innocently.

“The hell you say?” demanded Doug Sr.

“Yep,” said the Sheriff. “Jake flew the coop.”

“Well hell,” Doug Sr. put forth. “I figured that big dumb sombitch would have been the easier of the two. Guess it don't matter anyhow seeing how we'll have a deputy waiting at his mama's house, right? Cause he's too damned ignorant to go anyplace else.” Doug, Sr. laughed.

“We'll see, won't we?” Sheriff Lovelace grinned along.

Doug Jr. belched and swallowed bile and shivered at the feel of hot fingers around his throat squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.

Damn, damn, damn! Jake intoned to himself as he lay in the ditch on the access road above the McDaniel Mansion, cold as hell and broke as a convict. He wished he could get his hands on Junior's greasy turkey neck. The valley below was lit up like a Christmas parade. It told the only story to be told. After catching sight of a shadow where there should not have been any shadow and tapping the query on his headset, Jake did the only thing his instincts screamed at him to do, and that was to jet! He put forth everything he had into making these long legs of his pump up that hill like he was taking a hill in Iraq only to discover at the top more county deputies moving in a patrolling pattern. They're looking for something... me! For fuck's sake!

The first chance of safety to catch his breath he found by lying in a watery freezing cold ditch when rage focused his mind on one thought: to choke the living shit out of Junior Atwell. Yes, Junior had done it this time, truly and well, broken those unbreakable bonds of a lifetime. Always, always they'd forgiven his sneaky sniveling pranks and lies. Jake didn't know why anymore. They'd always just known, in their blood, that he'd never betray them. They'd never betray each other. Not for a woman, not for money. Not for anything.

The story continued to play out clearly below his hideaway. Huge exterior halogen lights came on and what looked like the entire Washington County Sheriff's Department turned up the long tree-lined drive. Last, and certainly not least, the Tactical Command van, otherwise known as the Spam Can completed the caravan. Jake's green eyes darkened when he picked out Eddie's handcuffed form limping escorted in handcuffs to a waiting patrol car that departed immediately.

Before the Spam Can stopped rolling, Sheriff Lovelace was out shouting orders through a bullhorn. Then, obviously pleased with the night's festivities Doug Atwell Senior stepped from the van grinning like a opossum. Rounding out the trio was the shitbird himself, Junior Atwell. Jake ground his teeth in impotent fury while watching Junior laughing and trading backslaps with the Sheriff and his deputies.

He'd put up with a lot from that little shit over the years. Jake felt his heart break a little. He'd loved that little shit too.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Jake grew up in the mountains of Washington County. Lived there all his life. The only times he'd ever left were with Junior and Eddie. Once they went down to Knoxville, Tennessee to see Van Halen. Another time Junior stole that red corvette and they'd piled in and gone to Virginia Beach. He knew these hills and valleys like the back of his very own large hand. He'd been hunting, fishing, trapping, growing pot, and hanging out in these woods since he was seven years old. Right after he watched Sheriff Lovelace shoot his Daddy down in the street like a dog. The woods were his only refuge. Jake's daddy had been backing out to the street from the First National Bank with a 12-gauge in hand and a sack of money in the other when Sheriff Lovelace took the simple shot to the perpetrator's back.

Ever since, Jake hadn't had a lot to say to anyone. Many took Jake's silence for stupidity. The school teacher knew better, and so did Slow Eddie Holcum. Jake met Eddie in second grade when he watched Eddie stand up to the biggest bully in the whole school, Matthew Stills (future Deputy and Psychopath) and tell him to lay off of picking on Junior Atwell, who was on the receiving end of daily ass whoopings. With Junior sitting on the ground crying and Eddie standing up fierce and proud before the gargantuan Stills, Jake uttered a few of his rare words, “Yeah. Leave the fat little shit alone.”

Dumbfounded, all the kids on the playground turned to stare at Jake who was nearly as tall as the husky Stills and he saw what he knew would be there, what's there in the heart of all bullies... fear.

From that moment on they were inseparable, the three amigos, the three musketeers, the three avengers, yes, even, sometimes, the three stooges. They complimented each other. Jake grew into the strong silent type, red hair that would never cooperate with a brush and green eyes the color of the bottom of South Holston Lake. Junior Atwell went from a loud abrasive, spoiled child to a loud, abrasive, spoiled adult. Slow Eddie grew into the bad boy school hunk. Never interested in sports but blessed with athletic ability, he whipped Virginia High's best on Saturday nights on Hamburger Lane. The three friends lost their virginity on the same weekend, learned how to drive the same old farm truck, shared their first quart of moonshine, toked their first number together, and (beside Junior) ate their first and last hits of acid together.

Lying in that cold wet ditch, on that miserable October night, Jake reminisced that Eddie had the heart of a lion. He might be a fist fighting, beer drinking, pot smoking, lady stealing, outlaw of the first degree; but his word was bond. He'd give you his last dollar and even smoke his last joint with you. If you put your hands on Jake or Junior, he felt it.

Jake rolled out of the ditch and slithered through the trees towering above him. His battery pack from the now useless headset snagged on a twig and fell. Crabbing around sideways, he recovered the block wondering why a tiny twig caught it... and why it felt so fucking light. He slipped open the tiny cover with a thumbnail. No battery. Hat explained why his warning taps went unheard and Eddie opened the door and went inside the trapped house: because Junior had commandeered the task of loading fresh batteries. Jake flung away the headset in fury then set out with grim determination crab crawling with the tree line above the access road, looking for a break. Soon, he saw it, like a gift from heaven, an unattended brand spanking new taxpayer funded Washington County Popo Dodge Charger.

Just as he touched the door handle gravel crunched behind him. Without thought or hesitation, Jake kicked his left leg straight out behind with the force of a mule. He felt the heel of his boot sink satisfyingly deep into someone's solar plexus. Twisting around, he planted his striking leg firmly on the ground and rolled his shoulders to strike with his right fist having just registered the brown uniform and chrome badge of a second deputy. His first two knuckles crunched into the deputy's pointy chin. The man's head snapped back. Jake grinned. The deputy's eyes rolled up in his head before he even hit the ground.

Turning back to face the winded deputy recovering from foot-buried-in-gut-syndrome Jake found the man still on his knees gasping for breath. Setting his step for a field goal, Jake kicked his jaw into the next county. Two for two on the chin. Not bad. Even better, a few seconds search netted keys to the cruiser and three hundred in cash.

The Charger fishtailed down the narrow access road into the morning's sun. Jake had exactly two things on his mind, survival... and vengeance.