Steve, postman Steve, the man they couldn't kill. Thats what he often told himself as he drove down the same boring roads. Day in day out handing letters to the bored or the crazy for staying there. Haddent hunted for a while, heck, no one went hunting any-more, seemed to be that you fell in love with the town for the wildlife and hunting scene and after you set up a house you never hunted again. Steve flashed back to when him and his baby cousin used to spend all day firing at wolves and deer alike, the times they spoke regularly and were as thick as theives. But when he took over the silversmiths at the same time he got a promotion to head of sorting they never talk now, shame. Driving down the same roads, he could proberly remember this very same road if he shut his eyes.... so he did.

The soft purr of the van as it drove in a straight line, the whipping of the air as it flowed through his window, hit the van doors and rebouded into the back of his neck, it was the life. The darkness consuming him as he drove, the once soft purr of the engine became a soft lullaby pulling him under

"Awake!" was the first thing he said as he jolted up, the beamers hitting his face as he swerved to avoid the moving object in-front of him, the van lercing to the side and getting stuck in the side. Looking up he could see the problem. He has nearly hit the Highschool RV... Again....

Exsamining the situation, he had arrived at a house, they had all