Reginald “Mullet” Bellows cursed god, the mountains and the weather. On his way up the mountain, he’d been pulled over for an expired tag by that son–of–a–whore Deputy Scott Amos, then he’d had to sit another ten minutes for the lecture on danger in the woods that the deputy delivered with such enjoyment, and then he’d finally gotten up to the campsite only to discover that Burl Mascotti hadn’t left the supplies where they were supposed to be. He’d found them stuck in the hollow trunk of a pine tree, not a spruce, after a thirty–minute search in the failing light. Burl was a fucking moron. He couldn’t recognize one tree from another. His only redeeming quality was that he’d do whatever it took to make money. And he could bullshit with the best of them. He had a great act going—a philanthropist who took in unwanted zoo animals to give them a retirement home. Right. What he gave them was a shot of drugs so strong they couldn’t even stagger away from the stupid fuckers who paid upwards of ten grand to shoot a panther or a tiger.
