I was fourteen the first time I fired a shotgun.  

It wasn’t at a pile of rusty cans in the back woods, or swallows out by the local pond.  It was at a human being and I shot and killed him, and I thank God for that, I do.  I thank God.

Everyone deemed me a hero that day, and if that wasn’t the whole truth, well, who was I to disagree?  I was just glad to still be alive.

But it’s been thirty-two years now, and something’s been itching at me more and more lately, like flies growing larvae in some of The Butcher’s old meat.

I have a confession to make, and if you pay attention, you just might learn something. I know I did.

I learned that not all adults could be trusted.  That two wrongs sometimes do make a right.

And most important of all, from The Butcher himself: when you sense crazy in the air, you don’t just walk away.

YOU RUN.

Because the only thing worse than smelling rotten meat, is being it.