I used to be a deer hunting guide to Hollywood’s elite. When I was twenty-eight, I was highly sought after to guide Hollywood’s most insane and socially awkward celebrities.

I had always found deer hunting the most appetizing of sports ever since I was eight years old. It was where my dad and I would spend hours and hours. Years of psychiatrists and industrious ambition could never do for me what those years of spending time with my dad did. The thrill of the hunt through the pines and deep marshes, over into the open plains was addictive. It was my drug of choice. My heart would race and a passion would rise up in me that no woman could ever stir. Hunting was my life. It was the air that I breathed. It was raining that Friday morning when he flew in. I could tell that the leather clad rock star was going to be trouble. He wasn’t a day into the hunt and he was already wasted. I tried to ignore his lewd outbursts and the careless way he handled his rifle, little did I know the danger he would put us in.