His head felt fuzzy as he slowly opened his eyes. There was an ache in his chest and in his head; he felt sick. He was forcing his eyes open, alert for imminent danger. The light was dim, albeit brighter than the tree grove. It was cold, the air was still. A basement perhaps?

There was a creak above him, the boards shifting ever so slightly. There were more creaks, stairs, heavy footsteps, uneven with a third beat. Finally, he came into view.

"Ah, you're awake," said the man.

He was tall, having to duck his head under the low ceiling. He walked with a limp, leaning his weight onto a cane. His pants were brown corduroy, too short for him, hanging an inch or two above the tops of his shoes, revealing his tan socks. His jacket was purple velvet, his shirt orange, and he wore a green tie.

Perhaps he was colorblind? Either way, he reminded Bo of a cheap knock-off of Batman's Joker.

His eyes were sharp and his nose was big and hooked. His hair was curly and a fade between ginger and salt and pepper, piled on top of his head.

He was smiling down at him, crouching in front of him, letting his cane rest on the floor.

"I take it you're the man they call Allen Ridgefield," Bo said, lifting his face.

"I take it Luke told you about me then. I suppose I should thank him. I'd hope you got my message this morning."

"Andy was a good man. He didn't deserve that and you know it."

The man's smile faded. "A piece of meat, that's what he was. Just like you're going to be."

Bo shook his head, still keeping his face high, refusing to hang his head in defeat. "I've been tortured before, you don't scare me. And as far as I'm concerned, I'm already dead."

He was slapped and the man drew closer, moving behind him. "If I wanted any lip from you, I'd open my fly," he growled, a hand creeping up Bo's neck.

Bo twisted his arm, wrist bound to the armrest of the chair he was in. The ropes pulled taut and he found that his struggle was futile.

"Oh," the man purred. "You want to hit me, don't you?"

Bo didn't reply and kept staring straight ahead. He could feel the man's breath on his ear, warm and damp. Allen's hands were big, and on him, the one still on his throat, fingertips pressing into his jaw.

"Where am I?" Bo finally asked, trying to pretend as though he wasn't bothered.

Allen chuckled, and he seemed to be a bit intoxicated as he did. "My, that's a good question. 'Where am I?' he asks." Bo could sense him grow closer. "The house of the rising sun."

Not the answer he was looking for, but it was something. A metaphor perhaps? Allen seemed to be the type.

It was then that that hooked nose of his dipped into blonde curls, taking in their scent. He laughed again, his voice big. "We're going to get along just fine, I think."

And Bo hoped, for his sake, that he did not survive this.

The morning after Luke's return to the Duke farm, he found that he was the first to rise, as he'd hoped. Quietly, he left a note for Jesse, called Clayton from wherever he had been, which this morning happened to be his usual ceiling dwelling, and the two of them took off with General Lee into town.

Cooter's Garage, which had been opened just for them, served as their command center of sorts. And the mechanic had been there, working out the dents in Jesse's truck. Luke and Clayton met him, General smoking out of his car form.

He smoothed out the wrinkles in his jacket, walking up to them. Cooter glanced up at them, his face somber and it seemed as though he had a hard time looking at Luke.

"Would you like to remind me again why we're here?" Clayton asked, hinting at the fact that he'd been roused from sleep without much explanation.

"I'll get right to the point, I'm takin' matters into my own hands," Luke explained.

Clayton laughed mischievously. "Oh, now we're talkin'!"

"And it took Bo gettin' caught for you to make this decision?" Cooter asked, his gaze cold.

Luke gave him a dangerous look. "Cooter…" It was a warning.

"Look, I ain't happy with you right now, doesn't mean I won't help you. What's your plan?"

"First things first, we get that file outta the jailhouse. Clayton, you know what I'm talkin' about?"

The little man nodded. "I do indeed, cher."

"Think you can get it?"

"Undercover or disappearin' act?"

"Disappearin' act. If Rosco's in there, I don't want him recognizin' you."

"Consider it done," the man said with a slight bow.

In an instant, he was gone, rematerializing within the span of a few minutes. As he held out the file folder, he made a displeased sound.

"The filin' system in that place is horrific," he complained.

"Yeah, we can thank Enos for that," Luke said, flipping the folder open. "Oh, look at this, they don't even got Allen listed as a suspect."

"What's it all say in there?" Cooter asked.

"Few suspects, none of 'em checked out though. They all either had an alibi or didn't match any details at the crime scene. No witnesses either."

Cooter took the folder from him. "No witnesses? Really?"

"Doesn't surprise me with a man like Allen. He's elusive, more of a ghost than anythin'."

Clayton hummed. "He should be easy to find then."

"What else does it say in there?" General asked.

Cooter flipped to the victim reports, eyebrows raising. He blinked a few times and shook his head slightly. He handed the folder back to Luke. "Maybe you should take this one."

Luke rolled his eyes and took it from him, steeling his gaze against the contents. "Let's see. West Virginia victim was strangled to death, North Carolina had his throat cut open, hitchhikin' John Doe and Andy were stabbed."

"What's with the change in cutlery?" General asked.

"Perhaps to throw the Feds off his scent," Clayton suggested.

Luke shook his head. "No, Allen's always been about trial and practice, he practices everythin' he does. He was tryin' out different methods, seein' which ones worked best and felt right to him. That's why he held off for so long, he wanted to make sure he was ready, he wanted everythin' to be perfect."

"Alright, so that settles that. How're we supposed to find him?" General asked.

At this, Luke dug in his shirt pocket, pulling out a photograph. "I'm glad you asked." He handed it to General, who looked at it.

It was a group of men, kneeling and sitting on the ground. He found Luke's face among the dozen others. A dozen other faces that he didn't recognize.

Luke pointed to the man next to him in the picture, the one on his right. "That's Allen."

The man had a big, hooked nose and a wolfish grin. A grin that made General's stomach turn.

Meanwhile, Clayton had gotten hold of the folder and was flipping through the rest of it. After a moment, he clicked his tongue. "Mais, you only read the cause of death, you don't know what else he did to them."

"Is this somethin' we wanna know?" Cooter asked.

Clayton's eyes raised to meet his and he shook his head. "Not in the slightest, mon ami."

Luke took the folder back from him, eyes scanning over what the little man had pointed out. Autopsy reports and medical examinations. Other than the causes of death, all four victims had been treated relatively the same. Strikings to the face, most likely to correct behavior, cuts from jeweled rings to go along with the wounds. All too familiar, all too much like the Russell Williams experience. Blisters around the wrists and ankles suggested that they'd been bound for long periods of time. However, all of that wasn't even the worst part. The four boys had been kidnapped, bound, beaten, violated, and murdered.

And the man that had done that to them was still walking free. There was no justice for them.

"We gotta find him, and fast," Luke said, closing the folder.

"Where do we even start?" Cooter asked.

"If I know Allen, he's gonna be hidin' in plain sight. But not the way you think. At first glance, you wouldn't think that he's some kinda murderous sociopath. If y'all meet him, he's gonna be friendly. He'll smile at ya, ask you how your day was."

"And he's got the fashion sense of a colorblind pimp," Clayton added.

Luke nodded. "That too."

"So we're lookin' for a seven-foot clown with an ugly mug, got it," General said.

"Shouldn't be too hard," Cooter said with a grin.

The courthouse became occupied again, Detective Tollefson pacing back and forth uneasily, brow furrowed, the sheriff was wringing his hands nervously, and the aberrant man from the previous day who'd introduced himself as Jay.

"Wh- uh, what'd you find on Ridgefield?" Rosco asked.

"Nothing good, sounds like this guy's a real nutcase," the detective grumbled. "And unfortunately, escaped from the Springfield Psychological Institute a couple of months ago."

"He's loose?"

Tollefson nodded. "And he's got quite the history with your Luke Duke here. Sounds like he might be our guy."

"So how do we find him?"

The detective shrugged. "Simple, we follow the Duke boy. I got a hunch he'll lead us right to him."

"Sounds like good detective work, Mr. Tollefson," said Jay.

"Yeah, and you're still here."

"You know you love me."

Detective Tollefson rolled his eyes. "Debatable."

Jay bid their return to the hardware store. The man, reportedly, had a half-baked idea that wasn't as half-baked as the detective had made it out to be.

"You're not the only one that can do detective work, Mr. Tollefson," he said as they walked in the door.

Just as before, the red-haired woman stood behind the counter, chewing bubblegum and looking up at them over the rims of her glasses. She gave them a grin, snapping her gum in her mouth.

"Mornin', Miss Kim!" Jay exclaimed as they entered.

"Well," she drawled, looking at the detective, "what can I do for ya?"

Tollefson cleared his throat and produced a photograph from his pocket. "We're looking for this man. Jay here tells me he might've come in here a while ago, maybe last week?"

Miss Kim took the photograph from him and tilted her head up, studying it through the lenses of her glasses. After a moment, she nodded. "Yeah, I remember seeing him. Kind of an odd feller. Friendly. But odd." She handed the picture back to the detective.

Tollefson nodded. "Is there anything else you can tell me about him? Did he buy anything?"

Miss Kim thought for a moment then nodded. "He bought some rope, a roll of duct tape, and a shovel." The woman made a skeptical look, eyes moving to the side. "I asked him if he was kidnapping somebody, as a joke. He laughed, played along, then left. But now I'm thinking he wasn't playing."

Tollefson nodded despondently. "You'd be right."

Miss Kim shook her head distastefully. "To think something like that would happen in a little town like this. Ain't nowhere safe. Scary world we live in these days."

Tollefson nodded again. "Thank you for your time, you've been a big help."

The woman nodded again and Jay and Tollefson left, walking out onto the street.

"So that's evidence, isn't it?" Jay asked. "Buying those things."

Tollefson nodded. "Yeah, but one could argue that it's all circumstantial. Let's catch up with Duke. Maybe he'll find something we won't."

Vague details are the result of the respectin' of wishes and reluctance to share on his behalf. Would I say I blamed Luke? Maybe a little, but I've since come to forgive and forget. I believe the only man truly responsible is that no good, rat-faced, heartless, worthless, sonofabitch, pile of rotten horse shit animal that they call Allen Ridgefield.

There were hours of cold and restless, hours that contained fear and pain. He supposed that his morals and his idea that he was already dead quickly disappeared. He wasn't quite sure what brought on this change of mind. But all of a sudden, he found himself fighting to survive. And fight he did.

His knuckles grew raw and his fingernails drew blood. He fought until his breath was ragged and his heart was pounding. He grit his teeth against the pain that took his very being. There were tears in his eyes, he could feel them wet on his cheeks. They stung the corners of his eyes, stung the scratches that had rendered his face raw.

The man's hand found itself in his damp, blonde hair again, holding his head flat on the ground, forcing him to look up at him. He was a sadistic son of a bitch, Bo had to give him that.

The floor was cold under him and he could feel it was dirty. Maybe the laceration Allen had carved into his thigh would get infected and with any luck he'd die from it. There he went again. Thinking about death again.

As he stared up into the man's face, which, he deduced, was ugly by his standards, he could see the sinister grin that was creeping up his mouth. His lip curled and it was enough to make Bo sick.

"Does it hurt yet?" the man asked. This was about his fifth time asking this.

He was busy digging his hand into the wound of Bo's leg, tearing at the still-sensitive skin and causing unnecessary pressure. It was painful, to say the least, but he wasn't about to give him that satisfaction.

"No." His voice was shaking and it sounded pathetic but he was sure that was all he'd be able to get out right then.

Allen hummed, hand loosening in his hair and instead moving to a more soothing, stroking motion. "See, I don't believe that."

He lifted his head to look directly down at him, and in the dim light of the room, Bo caught sight of a few white, shiny scars on the man's ear. He remembered Luke had told him that Clayton had actually bitten Ridgefield. He didn't really believe it at first. But now….

Bo reached up with his bound hands, grabbing a lapel of the man's jacket, making sure he didn't pull away. Then, he lifted his head, just a little, just enough to leave his neck exposed. It was an invitation of sorts. He needed him back down here if his plan was going to work.

Allen took the bait with a grin. Bo could tell he was thinking he'd won. And that ear with its pale scars came close. The very second Bo felt the man's mouth on him, he struck. Like a snake.

He could taste his skin in his teeth. The man was crying out in pain, trying to pull away. Bo shoved him, kicked him, and made him tear away. And within a moment, there was blood, and a twisting, sickening feeling sank in Bo's gut as he spat, blood and flesh. He looked back at Ridgefield, who was reeling and scrambling away. He saw his eyes. The look of pain and fear.

He could still taste the blood on his teeth, so he flashed a smile, though it was more like a grimace. "Does it hurt yet, you son of a bitch?" he asked, voice raising. "Does it hurt?"

Allen didn't even reply, just stared at him, wide-eyed. And that's when Bo realized. Andy hadn't fought. None of the others had fought. He wasn't used to this challenge. He was used to fear and obedience. Well, to Hell with that. If he was dying, he was dying on his own Goddamn terms.

The basement fell silent save for the sound of heavy, labored breathing. It was then that Bo realized something. And it was a wonderful revelation. He was now the one in control. He held up his bound hands, eyeing Allen.

"Let me go," he growled.

Allen didn't move, only continued to stare at him, hand covering his mutilated ear, blood running down the side of his neck.

"Let me go or so help me I'll tear your other ear off."

Again, there was no reply as the big man struggled to his feet, backing away uneasily, eyes still wide. And within a moment, he was stumbling back up the basement stairs, slamming the door shut behind him.

Bo thought that it must have been an odd thing, really. Like a rabbit attacking a fox. The same concept as your food trying to bite you back. Either way, he was alone. And Allen was keeping his distance. Without wasting a moment, he started working the ropes around his wrists loose with his teeth. Maybe, just maybe, he was getting out of there tonight.