Halloween. Samhain. One of the best holidays in some minds, John's included. It was a night for mischief, for fun, and for respects. The only down side, was trying to weave a vehicle through the miniature hordes of children during first dark, and the hordes of overgrown, drunken masses of Halloween party goers in the late nights. Regardless, John had to serpentine through the people in the streets. He was on his way to the cemetery to visit with an old friend who'd been gunned down years prior on Halloween.

Like usual, there were the typical teens drinking, drugging, and defiling, the paranormal hunters who were just annoying, and then the people trying to pay respects. John stepped out of his car and walked with a large bouquet of fresh flowers to the middle of the cemetery. The younger hooligans were being loud and throwing empty beer bottles at headstones.

"'Ey lads! Get tuh fuck outta 'ere!" he yelled. "Some people are tryin' to pay there respects on this 'allowed eve."

"Who gives a fuck, old man!" one of the drunk teens hollered back and kicked at an older headstone that was already cracked and crumbling. The stone fell quickly and the group struck up in a chorus of laughter.

John's eye twitched, but he made his way to the one grave he wanted to visit. The headstone read:

HERE LIES SGT. BRANDON PRAECHER

1900 - 1926

Veteran of The Great War

John knelt and traded out the flowers, setting the rotted ones off to the side. "'Ey Preach." He chuckled, "Ya allus got a kick outta that name." He stood slowly, "I miss ya, me friend. Wish ya was 'ere now. I could use a good gu..." John was cut short by a bottle flying by and crashing into the headstone. He jumped back and the teens were laughing... Except for the one that had a gun trained on him before John had even regained his footing.

"Whoa! Hey man, calm down! Sorry, we're just fuckin' around!" he called out in protest, the others laughter quickly dying down. Three of the kids turned and ran. John simply held the gun on the boy who'd thrown the bottle.

"Get ova 'ere... Now!" The boy complained and the first gun shot to be heard in the area rang out, though no blood was drawn as the bullet slammed into the ground a few feet in front of him. "I fuckin' said NOW!" John yelled. The rest of the teens hurriedly scattered, leaving him standing there alone. John waved his gun and the teen finally began walking over slowly. "Well 'urry it up, lad. 'Ustle!" He jogged over at that point. Many of the families who had been paying their respects had already vanished after the single shot rang out leaving just the two in the cemetery.

John stepped back as the boy got closer, the gun trained on his chest. "On your knees boyo. Get down now..." The boy began to object, and the ripe smell of piss and shit filled the air. "Christ lad, I'm na shootin' ya unless ya get e'en more stupid. Though it might be bet'er if I did at this point. Save ya some embarrassment... Now," John waved the gun again. "On your knees. You're cleanin' this shite up. Every fuckin' piece of glass. 'Ell, we might clean tuh whole grounds if I can stand your smell that long."

With the thought that he MIGHT live through this, the boy got on his hands and knees, crying, and began to pick up bottle pieces. At this point, John wasn't even sure if he was crying because he'd pissed and shit himself, or if it was because he was scared near to death. Regardless, his point was being made. He stepped closer as the boy finished grabbing piece after piece, placing his gun to the back of the kid's head. "You got all tuh glass there?" A whimpering mhmm was John's answer. "Good. Close your 'and around it an' 'old it tightly." Again, the boy did as he was told. "Tighter!" John yelled, digging the gun barrel into the boy's scalp.

"Okay, okay!" he yelled back and squeezed as tight as he could, the glass cutting into his palms and fingers.

"Good! Now, still 'oldin' that tight, put your 'ands on tuh stone base..."

"What?" the boy turned and looked at John with a brow perked, slightly confused.

"Wot wot? Did I fuckin' stut'er, lad? Put your God damned 'ands on tuh stone before I blow tuh shite out from 'tween your ears!"

The boy whimpered but placed his hands on the stone. Swiftly John's boot came down on the teens hands, jabbing glass into the skin, raking the skin of his fingers against the stone, and breaking multiple bones in his hands. The boy yelled out in agony, crying loudly and rolling on the ground.

"Wot did ya learn, boy?!" John kicked him in his stomach, mixing the smell, and all of the pain, with the alcohol causing him to throw up on top of it all. "Wot did ya fuckin' learn?!" he chastised loudly.

The boy continued to cry, and John knelt by him to check him. No guns, no weapons... He stood again. "Maybe you'll think twice before doin' it again." The curled boy gave a nod as he continued to moan and sniffle. "Good. Get 'ome an' avoid your friends... An' if ya go to tuh police, I'll find ya an' kill ya meself. Unnahstood?" Another nod and John turned, scooping up the rotten flowers from earlier and made for his car; turning the engine and pulling away as the sound of sirens closed in. Someone had called, probably the gun shot. John chuckled to himself as he drove away.