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   Kentucky threw himself into the game. He seemed to get off on killing

   hobgoblins.

  

   `I'll take my halberd,' Kentucky began with a smile, `and I stab this

   goblin.' The next player began to make his move, but Kentucky

   interrupted. `I'm not done,' he said slowly, as a demonic grin spread

   across his face. `And I slice it. And cut it. It bleeds everywhere.'

   Kentucky's face tensed with pleasure.

  

   The other three players shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Par

   looked at Faggot Killer with nervous eyes.

  

   `And I thrust a knife into its heart,' Kentucky continued, the volume

   of his voice rising with excitement. `Blood, blood, everywhere blood.

   And I take the knife and hack him. And I hack and hack and hack.'

  

   Kentucky jumped up from the table and began shouting, thrusting one

   arm downward through the air with an imaginary dagger, `And I hack and

   I hack and I hack!'

  

   Then Kentucky went suddenly still. Everyone at the table froze. No-one

   dared move for fear of driving him over the edge. Par's stomach had

   jumped into his throat. He tried to gauge how many seconds it would

   take to extricate himself from the picnic table and make a break for

   the far side of the room.

  

   In a daze, Kentucky walked away from the table, leaned his forehead

   against the wall and began mumbling quietly. The jewellery heister

   slowly followed and spoke to him briefly in hushed tones before

   returning to the table.

  

   One of the guards had heard the ruckus and came up to the table.

  

   `Is that guy OK?' he asked the jewellery heister while pointing to

   Kentucky.

  

   Not even if you used that term loosely, Par thought.

  

   `Leave him alone,' the heister told the guard. `He's talking to the

   aliens.'

  

   `Right.' The guard turned around and left.

  

   Every day, a nurse brought around special medicine for Kentucky. In

   fact, Kentucky was zonked out most of the time on a cup of horrible,

   smelly liquid. Sometimes, though, Kentucky secreted his medicine away

   and traded it with another prisoner who wanted to get zonked out for a

   day or so.

  

   Those were bad days, the days when Kentucky had sold his medication.

   It was on one of those days that he tried to kill Par.

  

   Par sat on a metal bench, talking to other prisoners, when suddenly he

   felt an arm wrap around his neck. He tried to turn around, but

   couldn't.

  

   `Here. I'll show you how I killed this one guy,' Kentucky whispered to

   Par.

  

   `No--No--' Par started to say, but Kentucky's biceps began pressing