Cory Nightwater and Frank Martys walked through the jungle stealthily. At first, they prowled with care, but later, with all thoughts of silence forgotten. Cory was there for the hunt, Frank was there to die. Of course, these intentions hadn’t exactly been made public.
Without a word, each slipped away from the other. Cory circled around a clearing, expecting Frank to call out for him from the other side, waiting for it. He never did. Finally, worried that some jungle beast might have claimed his prey, he stepped through the bushes. He saw Frank walking away from the clearing on the far side, staggering. Without any hesitation, Cory raised his rifle and fired. Frank toppled over oblingingly. Cory walked over to inspect his kill.
He noticed the blood, but also the absence of an exit-wound. He turned the body over to see the hunting knife sticking out of its chest, its hands clenched around it. Then he saw the glint of lead from his bullet on the trunk of the tree at the roots of which, Frank Martys lay dead by his own hand. And Cory Nightwater, cheated of his kill, screamed.
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