Jack Flak - "3 Amigos"

They came up on him fast - out of nowhere. Jack pulled out his phone, and took the picture. It was clumsy, as he fumbled trying to find the 'camera' feature - "not real convenient", he thought. It may have saved his life - but he couldn't be sure. Jack didn't scare easy, but he liked to know who he was dealing with before a brawl - and he had never seen these guys before. "It would be too easy", he thought to himself - "to take them all - before they knew what hit'em". But he needed to play it cool.

"Hey, you guys look good - hope you don't mind that I took your picture", Jack said as he hit the red 'stop engine' button on the bike.

The three guys just sat there, on their horses, and starred. Jack got the message. They didn't say much, but he got the message. Jack was sitting on a dirt bike - a small bright green Kawasaki. He'd been riding all morning through the brush, around the lake, up and down the muddy paths. Feeling over-confident and adventurous, he had strayed too far from camp - and didn't even know what property he was on out here in East Texas. His camp and friends were back in Mineola - maybe 4-5 miles down the path behind him. He wished they were here now.

Jack was in Wood County, Texas - known for a lot of real old-time moonshining and drug running - and he thought - "you can't make this stuff up" - and smiled a little. "Hey - sorry guys, I must have taken the wrong turn somewhere - actually, I don't even know where I am!" The older guy said - "just move-on buddy, go back the way you came".

Jack was sitting real uncomfortable. His AK-47 (yes, AK-47) was tucked in his belt, under his poncho. The safety was on and it protruded so far up-and-out that it nestled up tight into his right armpit. That's why he knew he was safe - it was a semi-automatic and Russian accurate. The grip was custom made in Israel and the clip was full. He was embarrased a little - having rode out of the Mineola campsite wearing a mexican cape. It was cold that morning, and he wanted to take a ride in the mud, but didn't want to feel constricted or get too hot on the trail. So he thought the cape was a good idea - but not a real tough guy fashion statement. "These guys must think I'm a real freak", he thought.

He wondered if they knew he had it (the AK, or something else), or just didn't suspect anything at all. Jack watched the three closely - sizing them up. He worried about the Mexican-American guy on the left - he never took his eye off him, he was really focused on Jack - and kept sizing him up. The young guy on the right spooked him - big time - he figured he'd seen action somewhere - maybe Iraq or Afghanistan - he looked like a 'military' type - quiet, but confident. Neither one looked like they were packing - but hard to tell. The older guy in the middle was the wild-card. He smiled, just smiled big - and did all the talking. He controlled his horse too well - he was the boss - no doubt.

Still, Jack stayed cool and kicked the bike over. It started up smooth - and he was glad, he didn't want to make a spectacle of trying to start the dirt-bike in the cold, flooding the carb or overchoking it. He wished he was on a horse, like the 3 amigos facing him. That would seem a bit more manly and 'western'. But his bike was faster than a horse, and that gave him some peace.

"Look - I didn't mean any harm - you guys have a great day - don't get too cold out here!" Jack yelled out - and rode off - back the way he came.

Later, at the campfire, Jack shared his story with the other guys. They were all cooking smores and telling weak ghost stories. The lake was calm, still, like glass. The moonlight reflected off the surface - pristine. Grant looked over the lake and thought he saw some movement on the other side. The bushes moved, and he thought he saw figures moving in the brush, under the moonlight. Grant was Jack's buddy who, for some reason, knew and loved firearms. Grant pulled out a scope from a black bag and held it up to his eye. "Shhhhh!". Jack and the other guys fell silent and looked. "It's nothin", Grant said, and put the scope back in the bag. Without letting the others notice, he slid his rifle from under his chair and leaned it up against his thigh. And put another marshmellow on a hanger for his third smore.

While the conversations went from football games, to trucks, to women, to fish - Jack slowly walked over to Grant and whispered in his ear, "keep an eye out - appreciate it buddy". Grant smerked, and never took his eye off the far side of the lake.