The sun fought its way though the clouds like a desperate Chinese man trying to get off a crowded bus, and golden droplets of light spattered the ground like warm liquid. The campers loved the mountain in a way only two men could, and the mountain loved them with a quiet and stoic fatherly silence, only murmuring with the sounds of running trout and leaping deer and owls and mosquitos and chipmunks and birds and bears and marmots and rabbits and woodpeckers. Deep in the woods, a killer lurked, blocking the light with his golf umbrella of death.
The killer was hungry, and the hunger gnawed at him like a beaver gnawing at a tree until the hunger fell over into the pit of his stomach. And as the poisonous fish shimmered in the water, the dam inside the killer's stomach burst and the hungry anger surged through him like a wave of mashed potato gravy flooding into a town of peas and carrots.
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posted by sciurus at 9:44 AM on July 9, 2008