Alright, so after a pretty short hiatus, chapter 3 for TBOTP has come. Mind you, The Prowler will take his face-hiding cloth off and there will be a generally gory description here. So, with all being said, here is chapter 3.

The Prowler walked for what appeared to be 3 hours, as walking for five miles on foot with no stop was a slaughter to the feet, yet a sure way to actually get where you wanted. Granted, 3 hours without a damn single piss was torture for the bladder, but The Prowler had greater worries than pissing himself.

He finally came to his destination-the convenience store. It looked a lot more like a gas station to him, but if this was the place, then he didn't have to worry. He had found what he was looking for, just as what that burnt little man had gotten that ass-kicking he had asked for when he tried to break The Prowler's neck.

Realizing how stupid he would look for wearing a rag over his face and a 70-year old helmet on him, he saw it would be much better to just show his face, 'cause if that little man had followed him, it would be best to make himself look like an average guy, and not a masked psycho carrying a pitchfork and wearing a thick army jacket in this weather.

He peered inside the store. Nobody seemed to be in there at all, and not even a single damn bird seemed to come by this place. Strange, but perhaps he could break in and benefit himself rather than force himself to follow the rules of a free market and have to pay.

The Prowler walked over to the restroom on the side of the store, and he slowly opened the door. The place smelled and looked like crap, just as he came to expect from gas station and convenience store pit-stops, and there was a tight opening on the right side of the floor that was closed by a sewage-like covering. Perfect.

Ripping the covering free from its chain and locks, he placed his pitchfork, jacket, helmet and cloth in the opening before he placed the covering back in its place. The Prowler looked into the mirror and almost did not recognize himself, before he grinned. The perfect disguise was to not even have one.

Coming out of the restroom, The Prowler looked around before he came up to the entryway door. Peering inside one more time, he could there was still no one inside. Strange, was all he could think as the bell ringed once he pushed open the door.

He took a look around the place. The only place to hide was by exiting through the exit-way door, and he peered over the counter and yet no one was there.

Realizing he was going to start hallucinating if he did not get some hydration, he walked over to the fridge and took out a bottle of water and opened it before he chugged the whole thing down in around 3 seconds.

Taking a gasp for breath and wiping his mouth with his sleeve, The Prowler turned around and was going to go get something from the frozen food section and saw a rasping man blocking his way. He wore a red T-Shirt and red cap, and he had a crammed posture, and his face appeared withered and torn.

"You the guy who runs this place?", The Prowler asked as he pondered how familiar the man appeared.

The man merely nodded as he sucked his tongue on his lower lip, and he eyed The Prowler eerily, as if though he also was wondering where he had seen him before.

"We've met before-haven't we?", The Prowler wondered as he walked to the frozen food section, and the man just shook his head, not uttering a single word as he walked to back behind the counter, where he shifted his focus to the window peering outside over the grassland and dirt road. There was something bizarre about him that The Prowler just couldn't place his finger on.

Taking a roast out of the fridge, he moved to the counter, but then remembered he had no money on him. He stood there uncomfortably, feeling somewhat embarrassed, yet the man still stood there behind the counter impassively, staring out the window.

Wanting to make it seem like he had just placed the food there to put down some extra weight, The Prowler moved over to the newspaper bill-out, which had a door that could be pulled up and rolled out one newspaper bundle per opening.

But The Prowler had gotten more than just a newspaper. Once he had pulled up the door, a crushed body spilled out, its head appearing to be twisted to the point of a broken neck, and as he unfurled the corpse, he looked at the full bloodshed.

The mans body appeared to be young, were it not for the creases received from being bent and crumpled into a tight ball. Several of his bones were sticking out from the pressure, and some of his fingers were sliced off, open red stumps still shooting blood like fountains, and his arms and hands were bruised.

Both of his eyes were gouged out, and the blood running from them was indistinguishable from the fact that his whole face appeared to be ripped off, and his torso and head were bare.

The Prowler reeled back from the sight, the newspaper he had gotten stained red. Suddenly, he felt something going into his back, and not only was it sharp, it retched into both sides of his back.

Spinning around, The Prowler howled in pain as he threw his fist into the attackers jaw, and found he was hitting that burnt man, and his hedge trimmers flew from his hands. Looking down, he saw a severed, eyeless face, and a red hat and shirt.

The man was quick to get up, and as he jumped, he landed a double kick on The Prowlers chest, and he was thrown into the newspaper bill-out.

Still in pain from the hedge trimmers, The prowler was helpless as the man stomped his foot down onto his stomach before he raised his trimmers over The Prowlers throat.

He had just remembered something-he still had his bayonet attached to his sawn-off shotgun. The Prowler simply waited as the man was about to shove his trimmers into him.

As the man plunged them down, The Prowler whipped his sawn-off out of his belt and fired into the burnt mans chest. Blood splattered over the ceiling and floor as the man was sent flying back and through the glass exit-way door.

The Prowler grinned to himself as he struggled up. The man had truly made a spectacular exit.

As he went outside, he went back into the restroom, took a soothing piss, washed his hands, and took his stuff back out of the opening. Putting his jacket, helmet, and cloth on, he made his way out and got back to walking on the dirt road.

Nobody could possibly survive that shot. It looked his job had finally been done.

-POV change-

Seething with rage, Cropsy looked down at the still smoking bullet hole on his chest, and all the blood inside the convenience store. Walking in and picking up his hedge trimmers, he walked back out and looked back at that huge man wearing the military fatigues. Realizing that he was always alert, Cropsy looked back down at the bullet hole, and then back at that huge man.

The guy probably thought that that shot would be an instant kill, and so he wasn't alert anymore.

It would be pretty easy now, with that, to kill him right now, but he had to wait. He would follow the man, and he would strike later, to build time now that he wasn't so alert any longer.

Were it not for the nature of his burns, Cropsy would have smiled.

So, you might be wondering after this particular brutal scene:just how much crap can Cropsy take? Well, it's a slasher film crossover, so that isn't gonna be answered! You might have also noticed that there was no slasher movie reference here, and that's because they are in the middle of nowhere, and there is nothing in the middle of nowhere, so no random newspaper is gonna fly by with a Jason headline on it. Anyways, R&R...and do it now, because I am watching you, always watching...