AN- Sorry for the wait... But... here.

All at once, Mort seemed to come back to life.

He awoke with his heart pumping as Shooter towered over him, staring down at him with a half smirk pulling at a corner of his lips.

Mort stared up at him with wide eyes, his mouth slightly open, dragging rapid breaths in his lungs. He wasn't sure why he was breathing so heavily. Maybe he was from just find out from Katie what happened, or that he fainted then awoke to Shooter, or that Shooter was back in his life. Maybe it was all three the made Mort feel like he was going to burst out at anyone at any second.

At the current moment, that anyone was standing next to him. That anyone was Shooter.

"You son-of-a-bitch!" He screamed as in one suddenly motion he was on his feet, then tackled Shooter to the ground. Mort plunged his fist into Shooter's face as he continued to yell.

"YOU RUINED MY LIFE!" He punched him in the jaw. "SHE HATES ME!" Whack. Right across the face. "YOU MOTHER-"

Before he could finish, Shooter pushed Mort away, and was on his feet. He grabbed Mort by the collar of his shirt, and threw him against the tree. Mort felt the air being wiped from his lungs as he hit the tree. Shooter grabbed his throat, "My. Rainey. I suggest that you calm yourself down. You're gonna get yourself killed one o' these days." He let go of Mort, who dropped to the ground.

Mort swallowed, rubbing his throat, glaring up at Shooter.

Shooter took a cigarette out of his pocket and put it to a lips. "Oh don't your worry." He told Mort as he took a small matchbook out, striking a match on the back of it. He put the flame to the end of the cigarette, watching Mort intently. "You'll thank me soon enough."

"What do you mean I'll thank you?" He asked suspiciously. "Thankful for what?"

He leaned over, and blew a breathful of smoke into Mort's face. Shooter grinned but said nothing as he stood up. He tipped his hat to Mort, "G'bye, Mr. Rainey."

Mort resisted the urge to chase after him. So... he only watched as he weaved through the trees next to his home. He leaned back against the tree, holding his forehead in pain, or in deep thought. Either way, it didn't really matter. All he wanted to know was why he'd be thankful to Shooter?

Slowly, Mort stood up, brushing the dirt off of his pants as he made his way back into his home. He trudged up the steps, and walked into his home, his head hung low, staring down to his shoes. Mort grabbed a half-empty bag of Doritios and Mountain Dew as he walked to the couch, throwing himself on it.

With a heavy sigh, he reached into the bag, pulling out a handful of the cheesy chips. All at once, he stuffed them into his mouth. Stale. He cracked the can open, and took a deep swig of it. Luke warm. This is what his life consisted of: Stale chips, warm Mountain Dews, and for company he had a backwoods, redneck, psycho hick. Great.

With a glared, Mort threw the bag of chips a small distance away from the couch and set the Mountain Dew on his coffee table. He stood up off of the couch and walked to the phonejack. In annoyance, he riped the cord out of it then walked back to the table. He picked up his phone, throwing it on the ground. Then he strode over to the fireplace, and pushed the face of the clock down, so he wouldn't know what time it was.

He had a new plan: Sleep until he was dead. He'd spend his whole life sleeping. That way, he couldn't be bothered. At least he wouldn't be bothered with reality that way. He could deal with a few nightmares now and then.

Mort took the blanket off of the back of the couch and laid down again. He put the blanket over himself as he let out a soft sigh, closing his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to die while he was sleeping. Then there would be no pain. Then the image of Katie's face of when she told him what he did wouldn't haunt him.

He closed his eyes tighter, trying to force himself to sleep. Why would he be thankful to Shooter? What would Katie do? Find a new job? Hate him forever? What if he died tonight? Would she attend his funeral? Would anyone find him? Mort was not afraid of death, but he was a bit fearful of dying alone and never being found. Any sane person would have the same fear. Right? Of course.

Mort rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. He felt his eyelids drop, but he opened them. He now wanted to organize his thoughts, his dozens of questions. Why would he give thanks to that hick?

He fell asleep trying to figure out the reasons.

(Two weeks later)

An eager knock on the door.

Mort sat on the couch, staring at the flames that casted shadows around the room. Dancing shadows. He took another drink of whiskey and took a long drag of the cigarette, as he mentally noted what the shadows were doing.

Another knock. Then a few more.

He wet his dry lips, and turned his head toward the door. His face was pale. Very pale. Almost unbelievably pale. His chocolate eyes were also very dull in color. Whiskers were going on his jaw from the lack of shaving. With a great sigh, he pushed himself off of the couch.

More knocks. But this made him go no faster. He took his time.

He pulled the door open. For a few moments he had to squint to get his eyes back into focus.

"Where have you been, Mort?" She asked hysterically, "I've been trying to call you for three days now."

Mort slowly turned his whole body back to the empty phonejack on the wall. Then to the phone still lying on the floor. "I dunno." He answered as he turned back to her, "Why do you care, Katie?"

She stared at him, then gulped and dropped her eyes. Katie took a deep breath then looked back up to him. "We need to talk." She told him, forcing her way past him as she walked into his home.

Mort stared at the empty space infront of him. For a few moment he stood at the door. He shrugged. "Okay." Mort turned back to Katie, closing the door. "What do we need to talk about?" He asked again, wetting his lips.

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Next Chapter: The drama will build... Just you wait until you read it.