He didn't want to kill them all. But he owed it to them. They'd laughed. At him. That long and convoluted laugh that makes sure you know they are not laughing with you, they are laughing at you. The first four had gone down by his pistol. Four down out of six shots? He was losing his touch. The next four went down in a pink spray of intestines by shotgun. Satisfying work. The last ten were dispatched by high powered rifle, the last six of which were felled thru the nightscope as they made their pitiful attempts to hide in the woods. They were'nt laughing now. Just like all the others before them. All those who had asked. He'd silenced them all. If only they hadn't laughed. It was the same everywhere he went. "What's your name?" He'd tell them. They'd laugh. He'd kill them. It was a lonely life being Roscoe Peehole.