“Motherfucker.” I stomped my way to the truck, bending down to take a better look at the prankster’s handiwork. My blood simmered to a dangerous temperature. The dead coyote had been uncalled for. I had let it slide, filing it as a last-ditch effort by some punk before the town hall meeting. There was the mysterious hate mail too, but getting trashed was no news to me. I was used to it from being (A) a celebrity, and (B) a major asshole.
