"Hmm, I guess Argent seems all right considering the circumstances. Taking a break from the real-world is hardly tantamount to murder." She sighed. "Well, at least we know the military goons can't get in if we can't get out, right?" She looked at him hopefully and was not impressed with the lack of confidence radiating back at her.

"Big time military, Red" he said. "Equipment and technology you can't even imagine…. Real 'Area 51' type-of-shit" he took another drag on the unluckiest of the Strikes and continued: "If they felt like it, they could come for Argent with anything from Rambo to ET. His wife is scared that whatever secrets he might be carrying would be enough for him to disappear completely. If not from our own government, then from some other one who might want to 'help' him defect. And I get to try and sort it out for a lousy 5K."

"Bummer" said Red, as she took the cheetos bag and upended it in her mouth. She didn't get much for her trouble except a fine coating of cheeto-dust that she brushed off the front of her shirt in that Red Locks goofy good-natured way that she never knew men liked. "Aw, shit" she grumbled.

Outside, beautiful rendition of Wild Mountain Thyme had ended and the rain began to patter its applause on the tin roof. The Howling Coyote Jug Band and Kazoo Chorus was tuning up and it was looking to be a regular night at Folk Camp. They paused for a moment and looked out the window to see a beautiful woman come down the hill and join the others. In a trick of the dusk and weather, she appeared to float down the rocks with her fiddle. Blake blinked twice and Red rubbed her eyes, but neither commented to the other about what they thought they just saw.

"Ummmm," Blake started, then changed his mind. "Anyway, what's the deal with these folks? Am I trapped at naked day-camp only to subsist on bark and granola?"

"Naw. They're okay folks. It's only naked camp in as much as your modesty will allow. Hell, you probably wear less on a day at the beach. And, the chow is nothing to turn your nose up at. There's a cook here that can make gourmet out of garbage. You'll be fine."

"Unlike the stiff in the freezer" he countered.

"I told you I have that covered," she said. "There's a woman here who is fond of footie-pajamas. She plans a big surprise finale with a lot of costumes and inflatable toys," she paused to let the wave of astonishment pass over Madison's face before she continued: "I passed around that it's going to be phenomenal this year and she is storing the props in the freezer for secrecy. No peekies. The cook said he'd run off any rubbernecks…."

Blake Madison waved his hand briefly to stop her. His astonishment was more a flash of unbidden curiosity at the thought of what a bunch of frozen inflatable toys might do to a herd of naked folks that from what he'd seen were mostly hung like basset hounds and tube socks with shot elastic. "Stop, please," he begged. "Poison in small doses." When he gathered himself, and lit another Lucky Strike, he continued: "The guy in the freezer will be fine. He's dead. It's the living people, particularly the one who shot him, that we need to be worrying about at this point."