Peter H. Cropes

Dimitri Warnock and the boy's papa laughed as they remembered their fishing experiences from earlier in the afternoon. They sat at the counter of the Rawhide bar, a tough bar not too far from the lake. They had golden, crisp beers and they snapped the provided peanuts open as snacks.

A shady figure sat at the far end of the bar, unseen by them. It was Eustace K. Dobbs. He wore a false outfit and there was malice in his heart.