Free Lone Lake Killer by Ian Maxwell

Chapter 1
    The yet to kill killer was picking out berries when the guy pulled the gun. Some called it scavenging, others rummaging and a few others foraging, but Lars called it his morning fix. And without his morning fix he was in no mood for bullshit, especially the ones that involved dweebs pointing guns at him.
    From the looks of it the guy in the cashmere sweater, the one pointing the shotgun at him seemed like he was one of those uppity weekend warrior-cum-urban forager type posers. Urban forager , thought the killer – yuck, why would anyone willingly gobble up sulfur and piss covered mushrooms. He kinda got rural foraging and its benefits but urban? What had the planet come to?
    And for some reason this urban forager had felt threatened by the yet to kill killer and felt the need to be a hero or a cowboy or something worse. Was it his own unkempt coat, wondered the yet to kill killer. Perhaps he should tend to his disheveled appearance and maybe wash more often. After all he was a stone’s throw from Lone Lake.
    But none of that mattered at the moment as the urban forager took aim.
    Yeah, he’d heard of people getting angsty around guys like him, but had never come across such a gun moment . The usual tip of the hat from one dude to another did the trick. Hoping to diffuse the situation, Lars waved his right hand in a friendly gesture. But the urban fellow who was probably a Class D douche read the signal wrong and assumed it be an offensive gesture.
    The guy in the cashmere sweater cocked his shotgun.
    “Wufk,” what a nutcase? With no time to rhyme or reason Lars lunged at the urban forager.
    Watching the killer pounce, the guy in the cashmere sweater pulled the trigger.
    CLUCK
    Lars expected a bang or a boom but it was just a quiet cluck. Perhaps the guy had a suppressor.
    CLUCK
    Lars felt no pain. It was the adrenaline. Yep, adrenaline was supposed to mask the initial pain. Yep, Lars had a barrel of adrenaline. Or perhaps the guy was shooting blanks.
    And again CLUCK… CLUCK… CLUCK
    Yep, the idiot’s brand new shotgun – most likely from a nearby Supermart – had jammed. Or the safety was on. Probably both. Whatever the issue was, the killer didn’t mind. You lost some, you won some and this one had Win with a capital W written all over it.
    Sailing through the air, the killer landed on the guy and crushed his windpipe. The urban forager was dead as a dodo. No two ways about it.
    ‘Fuck, did I just kill a fucking guy,’ thought the killer, ‘but, but it was self-defense. The guy pulled a gun. But the gun did jam,’ festered the killer. Not sure about the law’s stance on semantics, the killer decided to play it safe and clean up after himself.
    As the dead guy slid to the ground, the killer caught a whiff of something that was delicious… something great… something porcine. It sure wasn’t the dead guy, no the douche smelt all flowery and French. Nope. Must be wild hogs then. Yeah, a stray bullet must’ve hit a nearby hog and burnt its skin.
    As he rummaged around for the elusive sow, the killer kept circling back to the scene of the crime… the scene that had the guy… the guy in the silly cashmere sweater, his aviators and shotgun… Shotgun.
    ‘Shit, it’s coming off the shotgun,’ thought the killer.
    Examining it closer, Lars noticed the sow-powered lubricant oozing out of the shotgun. The cashmere dude, apparently a gun noob, had gone to town with the sow-based lubricant like a guy trying anal for the first time. And of course, the results hadn’t panned out as expected… or as some would say, exactly as expected.
    ‘Amateurs,’ the killer shook his massive head in derision.
    Having never been a gun guy himself Lars saw no use for the weapon. Kicking away the gun, Lars threw the dead guy over his shoulder and trudged out of the crime scene.
    ***
    “Dude, you sure this is the spot?” Tyler scanned the savannah style wilderness at the edge of town.
    “Umm, it’s Deputy,”