Sam stepped up to the shooting line and prepared to fire. He was the only one on the range, so he didn't need to worry about other people. Mind you, this was also the most remote part of Yellowstone National Forest you could be in and still be on the ground. It was called Fairyland, for the tall spires that rose out of the ground, and the generally surreal feel of the place. Fewer than a hundred people had ever been here, primarily because it was really remote. Very remote.

A loud crashing sound echoed from the forest, just as he let the arrow slip. Sam jerked and swore: the arrow had missed the target and sparked off of . . . a nearby rock.

Swearing, he turned and contemplated the thing or person that had appeared to disrupt his practice. Sam unsheathed his trident as he did so, bringing it to full size as he swung it.

"Wh—

". . ."

"You're a Grimm? How is that possible? I liked that show, but. . ." He trailed off, as the boar-like thing started running. Towards him. Angrily.

Swinging the trident, he set it, butt-first, into the ground to meet the boars attack, which was strong enough to shift his foot, both giving him a nasty bruise and knocking the trident out of his hands, which caused him to fall, the trident clattering to the floor, as the boarbatusk thing turned slowly, lining up for another run. Sam grabbed his trident off the ground, chambering the cannon concealed within the middle prong. He lined it up, and was about to take the shot when the boar put on a burst of speed that prevented him from firing his weapon accurately.

Sam triggered the weapon anyway, and a blast of scintillating energy shot from the muzzle of the weapon, hitting the boar in the head, which had no obvious effect.

The white patches must be armor or something, but at least the blast had an effect. It was hard for it not to have an effect, but he had faced plenty of things that were only marginally affected by it. At any rate, the thing had landed a pretty thumping whack to him and his weapon, which was fine, but too many more hits and it might get damaged.

It was swinging around for another thump, and this time, Sam began running towards the boar thing, turning the trident so that it faced the monster. Gathering speed, he ran past the side of it, slashing as he did so. Unfortunately for him, the beast also slashed, sending him flying, only to hit a pillar of stone with a crash that forced every molecule of air from his lungs. Landing with a woof, he stayed still for a moment, listening to the forest, the birds, the gasps of pain from his bruised back, the clouds scudding across the sky, and the boar thing that was trying to kill him.

Just as well, as he hobbled to his feet, and tried, largely successfully, to blot out the pain, long enough to find and pick up his weapon from the ground and fire up a blast from it at the boar thing. It jerked back, and he fired another one, and another one, shooting until the thing was dead.

"And then there were none," he muttered, only to curse as more rustling noises came from the tree line.

And then there was a . . . big, bird-like, swooping thing? The Morrigan, he called it, because it was like the Celtic deity of death and destruction. And wow, did that thing take the cake, even those massive feathers it was firing at him!

Much as discretion is the better part of valor, so is cowardice the better part of discretion, and the best part of cowardice is knowing when to run for the trees. Literally, in his case.

Sam grabbed up his backpack—thanks Luna he had finished packing it before the boarbatusk showed up—and ran, sticking his monster dooming fork into its sheath, before sprinting towards the oak and pine and balsa and cork trees that littered the horizon.

It was with a heavy heart that he abandoned the place that was now being overrun with these weird Grimm things, but he could have some fun with them. As he ran, he pulled out a box of matches and yanked out a dozen matches, looking along the tree line for where he had to drop the now lit match. There! The string poked out of the dirt, and Sam dropped the matches there, pocketing the box, running even faster, because if he wasn't out of there by the time the matches hit the fuse, then he would be in deep—

That was what he had been waiting for, and now there was a sudden pain and a long kiss good night.