"Mr. Casey? Yeah, he's been looking for Bigfoot since...God probably the sixties, right? Better hurry, Lake Kenneth is filling up fast."–Matt C, Nobility resident.

"God. It's so embarrassing. We're just getting things under control here. You know it's been three months since the last OD? That's the power of prayer, for ya."-Lyra S, Nobility resident.

"Who the fuck is Maverick Casey?"-Jason D, Nobility resident.

They damn near burned the place down. Surprise doesn't register in the deep lines and patchy stubble of Maverick Casey's face. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the puffy flesh under them.

Sleep doesn't come as easily at his age, and if it does, it comes at a steep price.

The roof of the trailer smoldered, smoke rolling along the top before drifting into the oppressive air. Maverick fingered the thin red stick, it's top wrapped in charred paper.

"Goddamn bottle rocket," he muttered. They damn near burned the place down. Obviously, the kids in town are still holding a grudge. Hell, it was an accident, even Sheriff Glaser thought so. An accident they brought on themselves.

He dropped the remains of the bottle rocket onto the ground. The grasshoppers briefly resting on the tall grass leapt from the blades and resumed their incessant hum.

Despite the danger, God forbid he had been asleep when the fire started. He preferred these tactics. Light a rocket and run. No names, no snickers.

The previous morning, he went into town to pick up his mail, the inability to keep a mailbox standing and in one piece for more than a week made a post office box the sensible choice.

He felt the eyes, even before he stepped out of the Monstomobile. He cut across the road in a slight jog. The post office door squeaked and a blast of cold air hit his face.

Beneath the garage sale signs and family event reminders on the bulletin board was a yellowed piece of paper. Barely held in place with tacks, it asked if anyone had seen Franklin Casey, Maverick's father, missing for several decades now.

Digging in his pockets for his keys, he heard the thin, breathless laugh. Dwyer and Sims, two men who knew Maverick's father. Dwyer prodded Sims, Sims nodded, with a smile that was all gum and a mouth that seemed to sink further into his face each year. Suspenders barely kept their pants secured to their withering frames.

Even to two old and broken men, Maverick was a joke.

"At least I can chew my own goddamn food," Maverick said to roaring laughter wheezing from the men.

In his twenties, Maverick was a good kid with an odd hobby, hunting for a monster in the woods surrounding the town.

In his thirties, he was a man with an obsession.

By his fifties, Maverick Casey became the eccentric, the blotch on the town holding back Nobility's reputation more than the staggering rate of drug use, alcoholism, or teenage pregnancy.

His sixties did little to improve his reputation.

He was the nut. He was the prankster's son. He was the fuckup, the weirdo, and according to a few kids, the killer.

As with all passions, age and time chipped away the veneer until only obsession and failure remained. Maverick preferred bottle rockets to the laughs and jokes.

They damned near burned it down, Maverick thought. Maybe they should have.