"Armed and dangerous. Such an amazing combination when you have evil on your mind," Fred Taylor thought to himself.

His intentions certainly were not honorable. Once again an urge reared its ugly head. A craving Taylor felt that only fresh-drawn blood satisfied. His need for greed drew Taylor into another small, easy to access business.

All too well Taylor knew, "When his .357 Magnum barked people snapped to!"

The power coursed his veins fulfilling his lust for blood and an air of invincibility settled over him. Invincible. The word provided Taylor with power like nothing else he encountered. Being Deputy Dog of Astatula had presented hunting opportunities not previously accessible to him.

"But Sheriff Brock Daniels stole that golden plum from me and for that someone close to the lawman must horrendously suffer!" in his madness Taylor reasoned.

Reflecting on the concocted scheme to force Cody's return to his 7th Cousin in Palo Pinto, Taylor realized the plan failed miserably. Just the mere sound of that monster's name alone pushed Taylor over the edge of sanity.

He located the sexual predator Rickie Wolford while surfing online. But after hearing Judge Stancil permitted Cody to remain in Astatula, "Where he never belonged!" Taylor protested to no one in particular, he decided Rickie Wolford was expendable.

He could not leave loose ends implicating him in any of his foul deeds. That was intolerable. Plugging Wolford between his beady eyes became a necessity. The terrified expression on his stool pigeon's face when Taylor appeared at his door quenched the burning anger Taylor felt at his failed plot.

That left the "process server" Daryle Morgan to attend to.

"He bought the farm. Hook, line and sinker as the clock struck midnight!" Taylor smiled warmly at the recollection.

The timing of Morgan's demise was impeccable and Taylor loved the poetic beauty of the kill.

Another failed conspiracy of Taylor's occurred in Palo Pinto. He remembered the lucrative scheme he had with Earl Anthony Schroder. The plan dictated Schroder's son be locked away in the notorious Sierra Maya Institution for Wayward Boys in El Paso. The most violent and dangerous juvenile facility in Texas. That was where Earl Anthony Schroder said the worthless scumbag belonged on whatever trumped up charge would land him there fastest.

Taylor did not care what Earl Anthony Schroder thought. As long as the money rolled in. It was a simple task. Being a Deputy, Taylor had no problems arranging Cody's permanent residence of that fabled facility. He would have been well on his way, too.

"If Beth Sorenson had not stuck her nose into the situation upon the untimely death of Earl Anthony Schroder!" Taylor fumed to himself.

The thought made him livid.

"The road kill on the stream of life dodged a major bullet," Taylor reminded himself believing, "he was fortunate to sustain a glancing blow from the vehicle you were driving, That's all. It really wasn't another screw up."

Fred Taylor could not accommodate screw ups. If they happened someone paid in blood.

"The next time the little weasel would not survive!" Taylor vowed standing in a metal washtub scrubbing his bare skin raw with a metal brush. His rage evident.

Taylor ditched his car under an overpass in Oklahoma. He swiped a pickup truck from under the nose of a Used Car Salesman.

"What a fantastic test drive that was!" Taylor chuckled with a certain degree of swagger, "It definitely would be the last pitch that salesman ever made."

Taylor could have snatched any vehicle he desired. It was the interaction with the soon-to-be cold slab of meat he preferred. A battle of wills occasionally intrigued Taylor. He never lost these confrontations.

Back in Texas the Boogey Man would soon be enroute to haunt the worst nightmare Cody Schroder ever experienced. Taylor wanted a feast and blood carrion appealed to his palate. Remembering the mole spent most of his play time at Sullivan Lake, Taylor decided that would be an appropriate starting point for the hunt to commence. His .357 Magnum was ready.

At the moment there was a Chevron gas station luring him in.

Making his pit stop quick Taylor told himself, "Better make that banshee in Astatula Victim Number Ten."

He would. The ninth one lay on the floor of the service station spilling blood from a bullet in the back of his head. He used to be somebody's something or other. Who knew what? Taylor did not care. It was no loss to him.

Feeling refreshed Taylor boasted, "There is nothing, nothing at all, Sheriff Brock Daniels can do to prevent the inevitable!"

And if the lawman got in his way Taylor had a special little present with Daniels name engraved on it waiting for him.

"Let Beth Sorenson proclaim that event in her ongoing campaign for Mayor. It would surely be the ideal platform," Taylor decided.

He could see the headlines now: "She could not even keep murder out of her own backyard."

Taylor laughed out loud at the irony of the slogan. He was such a highly intelligent man he scared himself. With his truck refueled, and new money from the cash register at the Chevron burning a hole inside his pocket, Fred Taylor pointed his wheels west.

"Ready or not Astatula. Let the games begin!" he screamed into the night.