“Check it out, an old shack,” J.T. said.

“We don’t have time to check some creepy shack out, J.T.,” Kristen said. “We have a two hour hike back to camp and maybe an hour and a half of sunlight.”

“Oh, come on. It’ll only take a second,” J.T. replied. “Besides, God might be in there. It would be shameful of me to deny you a little getting to know you time with God just because we’re expected back before daybreak.”

“Truth be told, I’d rather spend some getting to know you time with you,” she said kissing him lightly and leading him inside the shack.

The furniture, if you could call it furniture, was threadbare, the wood rotted and metal rusted. J.T. opened the pantry. “Not much selection: spam or rum?” J.T. said.

He tossed a can of spam over his shoulder at Kristen, who screamed.

J.T. had a smile on his face until he turned around and realized why she had screamed. The gun-toting, long-haired, Jesus-looking sonofabitch blocking the exit barked, “Hello, I’m Cowboy Jack, welcome to the party shack.”