General Lee's Revenge--The Ballad of Bo Duke

Chapter One: Run, Rabbit

(A/N: Did you read the Attention Reader? Did you? Did you? Go back and read it if you didn't. Go on. I'll wait.

TW for death.)

There was a song that often got stuck in his head. He'd hum to it while studying, he'd find it stuck in his head when he went to sleep. His father used to sing it, just milling around the house. He sang it while working on the car, while building shelves, while reading the newspaper. It was part of his childhood, so he sang it too. He remembered the lyrics, the sound of his father's voice while singing them.

"Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run. Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run. Bang, bang, bang, bang goes the farmer's gun. Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run run."

And run he did, wide-eyed and ears alert, as fast as he could muster. Like the rabbit he sang about. Run, rabbit, run! His heart pounded in his chest, breath stinging his lungs, blood warm against his skin.

There was no farmer with a gun but a wolf with savage teeth and a thirst for blood. His blood. One moment he was running and then the next the wolf's teeth were in him, dragging him down. To drown him. To kill him. In a matter of seconds, he was choking, drowning in his own blood, light fading from his eyes as he cried. As he died. Blood seeped into the thick forest floor with its bed of leaves and twigs, ready to welcome him back into the earth.

And that blood, which perhaps future poets would try to turn beautiful, never once was beautiful. It was only ever just red and spilled senselessly and without remorse, no justice for its being there, only the simple fact that it was and forever would be. Because there was no emotion in it, only raw nature, as if it were necessary.

The wolf, however, did not cry, nor did it feel remorse. It reveled in the end of the hunt with apathy, knife meeting flesh. It was, in fact, no wolf but a beast of a man, eager to kill, thrilled by the hunt, as if it was his only true nature. His lip curled when he grinned and he stood tall over his prey, breathing hard from exertion.

Running wouldn't do for the next one, the man thought. He was much too crippled to run after them like this. He'd gotten lucky this time. The poor, young man had tired himself quickly, leaving himself almost no energy to run. He would have much preferred that he'd tried to hide instead, like the last one. That was fun. And the gratification of outsmarting them gave him a rush he didn't know he needed. But there was no gratification in running. He could barely walk as it was.

With a huff, he knelt, putting his knife back into the young man's skin. He was still warm, very warm in fact, despite that his heart had stopped beating. No, running in fact would not do for the next one. He'd need to figure out a way to keep them from doing so.

Aptly, the man took hold of his victim's ankle, bringing his knife across the back of it. It was a clean cut, and he felt the tendon slack and recoil under his hand. Yes, that would do just fine for the next one.

He grinned in satisfaction, moving to pick the limp body up. "Now, to put you where you'll be found."

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It had been Grant's idea in the first place. He and Tank had found it in the junkyard and brought it to the farm for General to see, who called Thunder and Diablo. It was raining that night, and quite windy.

With an orange extension cord pinched under his hood, Diablo ran it from the house to the barn, smoking out when he was safe and dry, handing the cord to General, who connected it to the black cord of the television. Grant pressed a button on the device and out came static. Thunder unfolded the antennae, the rabbit ears, and pointed them to the sky. Slowly, a picture began to form, and audible words came between the static. But it wasn't enough.