Page 120 of Hunted: Season Two

Did someone fuck with it?

Hassomeone been fucking with it?

Am I just being paranoid because that’s what happens when you deal with a psychotic brat for months?

Once I reach the back end of my vehicle, I click the switch for the tool light I had installed, only to yet again be disappointed.

How didthatstop working?

And fucking when?!

Irritated grunts become irked grumbles as I fish my phone out of my pocket, hit the flashlight button, and lift it to find the area where I keep my spare cans bolted down.

To my surprise, they’re not there.

At all.

Again.

Not fucking possible.

There’s no fucking way that my cans aren’t here.

They have to be.

Moving the light around frantically from side to side, visually inspecting the territory, convinced Kid just put them back in the wrong place, something that would be unlike him,but not nearly as fucking preposterous as the damn things growing legs and going for a fucking stroll through town.

Additional huffs are expelled during my continued search that annoyingly has me coming up empty handed.

Literally.

I have no gasinmy fucking tank, I have no gas toputin my fucking tank and am supposed to be picking up someone else who is stranded, something I can’t fucking do if I’m stranded myself, which shouldn’t be possible unless someonestolemy shit.

Another unhappy grunt bounces my frame as a gust of cold slaps my cheek is a sobering manner.

Ofcourse, someone stole my shit.

‘Tis the season to steal from me…falalalalala…fuck off.

This happened last year too.

Some asshole swiped some of my tools – probably for quick cash at a pawn shop – when I stopped to grab a burger in Crystal Waters.

Huh.

Maybe going to Crystal Waters is the fucking problem.

Perhaps next year we should plan to go somewhere else for a holiday celebration.

I don’t know.

Disney, maybe?

Pulling up Kid’s number to call for aid – an irony not lost upon me in spite of my increasing irritation – is accompanied by me casually leaning one bent arm against the truck for support. Not having many contacts – let alone many I call – gets meto him fast; however, before my thumb can hit the button an unexpected, sharp pain lands in my kidney causing me to drop my device along with my jaw in agony, unknowingly providing the assailant with the perfect opportunity to cover the territory tightly with a damp rag. My body instantly attempts to flail, to throw the arm backwards for a counterattack, to do whatever it can to create space between me and the unseen aggressor, only to find itself trapped due to the attacker’s arm slung snuggly around my throat.

Faint, sweet smells savagely begin conquering my senses, one by one.

Overpowering my nose.

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