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Response #3: peanuthead

“Damn birds.” Dean muttered to himself. Dean was certainly in an ill mood this morning. It was a beautiful crisp autumn morning. The kind of morning Dean might have found himself jogging down his suburban neighborhood roads. He would wave to the neighbors. On his head he wear a warm wool cap, his long-sleeve Nike sweatshirt would cover his arms and match his blue jogging shorts and black jogging shoes bearing the same symbol as his shirt.
Dean would jog, content and looking the part of a model in a sportswear magazine.
If people only knew.
This was not one of those mornings and Dean was not in his regular suburban habitat. He wasn’t wearing his regular jogging attire, in it’s place was the same white shirt, with a black tie and dress coat he had worn to the cocktail party the previous night.
This was not a good morning for Dean.
Things didn’t go as planned for Dean.
Chirp Chirp
Birds singing in the forest.
Frustrated, Dean tossed the ankles he was using to drag her body to the ground.
“Shut up!” He cursed the trees.
How could the birds be so happy? Things were not good right now. Any one of the other times Dean had done this he would have welcomed the literally chipper tone of his woodland companions, but not today. He was tired, hung-over and, most of all, scared.
This was sloppy. This was unacceptable. This was going to lead them to him.
Cursing the trees under his breath he placed her ankles back into his hand and began to drag her. Peering up he took account of the trail he was leaving. Her lifeless body was carving it’s way through the dead autumn leaves on the ground, making an obvious trail from his BMW parked along the highway to were they were going.
He had parked the BMW in the dark. He didn’t think it would take this long.
Dean made a frustrated mental note to kick the leaves back into a more natural setting on his way back to the car.
He hadn’t moved her ten feet before he heard it again.
Chirp Chirp
Birds singing in the forest.
Without considering the possible consequences Dean retrieved his handgun from his jacket and fired at no particular direction in the trees.
“Shut up!” He cursed the trees.
One couldn’t help but think of the infamous poem by Mr. Poe.
…Quote the Raven

It wasn’t a hunting rifle. Brad was sure of that. From where he sat perched on his seat against a giant oak tree waiting for elk to pas him by he tried to pinpoint were the gunshots were coming from.
That was a 9mm. Something softer sounding than a hunting rifle.
Who’s hunting with a 9mm?
These stupid city slickers out here.
Brad spit his chewing tobacco off the edge of the tree and watched as it feel to the red and yellow leafy ground.
He had left his Sheriff’s badge at home two states over. He was on vacation and no mood to go hunt down so moron using an unsafe weapon.
IT took two minutes of guilt ridden thought to convince him to leave his perch.
“Stupid, city slickers…” Brad muttered to himself as he lowered himself down from the tree.
Chirp Chirp
Birds singing in the forest.
The birds sure do sound pretty this morning out here though. Brad thought to himself.

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