"-and the look on his little porcelain face! Priceless!" Mirthless laughter filled the pub as Karofsky flung the door open. He sauntered up to the bar, Azimio grinning smugly beside him. Each head in the dingy establishment turned as the bulky young men entered, pushing their way through the slovenly drunken crowd. Karofsky took his usual seat at the bar—after Azimio had pushed away the poor sap who until very recently had been seated there—and with a loquacious wink at the barmaid, demanded tow mugs of ale.

"Merci, Mademoiselle," said Karofsky with a smirk as the lithe young maiden filled the order. She was blushing, shaking furiously as she fumbled with the mugs, flattered and terrified to be addressed in such a way by the most sought-after man in the village, and its most prolific hunter.

Karofsky tossed down his francs, leaving a sizable tip for the girl. An easy grin splitting his heavy features, he took a large gulp of the amber liquid—and almost immediately thereafter began to cough and wretch. "What is this bile?" he demanded, slamming the mug to the bar. "Don't I deserve the best?"

The poor woman suddenly became very serious. She trembled head to dainty foot as she took back the mugs from Karofsky and his counterpart. "Of course, sir… my apologies-"

While she busied herself in the back, looking for a better brew, Karofksy and Azimio continued their (largely one-sided) conversation. "That little freak… Thinks he's so much better than all of us with his stupid book and his snooty airs… One of these days I'll show that—that girl!"Karofsky ranted in this vein for some time, and the rest of the bar's patrons, once engrossed in the antics of their idol, eventually lost interest. When the barmaid finally handed him a mug, he barely nodded, downing it rapidly, before continuing. "Why, I'd like to—here he stopped, spitting into his tankard with pointed gusto. Satisfied, he placed the mug down, leaving a mark on the dusty bar.

Azimio sat silently throughout this, surveying the rest of the pub's patrons with cool disinterest. Most of them sat aimlessly, staring into their drinks, ears pricked to anything that might give them a clue as to how to be like Karofsky. They watched and listened, begging for spare scraps of manhood embedded in his braggadocio.

It was like this wherever Dave Karofsky went. The son of a successful merchant, he had grown up with his every whim indulged. His merciless harassment of other village children had gone largely unnoticed by doting adults, most of who dared not to insult young David's powerful father. As he grew into young adulthood, his playground taunting became cruel insults and escalated to physical violence. No one dared cross Karofsky as he grew older. He was simply too terrifying.

It didn't hurt that he was very attractive, either. The portrait of classical masculinity, Dave Karofsky had a strong jaw, bulging muscles, and thick chestnut hair. He was the object of affection of every girl in town. Since he was such a successful hunter as well, for every maiden that would die to be his wife was a man who would kill to be as successful.

Everyone listen to Dave Karofsky. Rich, powerful, and extremely popluar, he was the most feared man in town, almost revered as a god by "the common folk," as he called them behind their collective back.

Every woman wanted him, every man wanted to be him.

Still, he was not happy.

"Master,"Azimio prodded. The door to the bar swung open, and in strode three beautiful women: Santana, Brittany, and Rebecca: the town's most notorious women of ill-repute. As they walked, in every man in the joint looked up, transfixed by the sweet smell of woman suddenly permeating the alcoholic smog of the pub.

They worked nights in a brothel owned by a commanding, mannish woman known as Sue Sylvester. Though they had many men who paid to be with them, each girl's only goal was to ensnare Karofsky. They followed him wherever he went, but still he barely acknowledged them. No one understood why he did not instantly jump at the opportunity, for all three of them were gorgeous.

Brittany was tall and fair, with long, sweeping blonde hair that swished behind her as she walked. Most of the men she seduced were intimidated by her height and her tendency not to speak. It was likely a good thing that she rarely opened her painted mouth, however, for what she had in looks she lacked in intelligence.

An exotic beauty with sensuous curves and raven tresses, Spanish-born Santana was the image of a temptress. Her full lips and brilliant grin often enthralled men, but the cruel wit to escape her perfect mouth left them broken. To her, men were nothing but toys, their affection only a game to play by her own rules. She was the unofficial leader of her small group of whores, as she exuded confidence with every fine step and toss of her dark mane.

Rounding out the group was Rebecca, a homely girl who despite her physical shortcomings still managed to be sufficiently attractive. She was smart and fairly pretty, but a childhood accident had impaired her vision and coordination. Still, she had a number of suitors—most of whom were merely settling for what they could afford if not Santana or Brittany. It seemed Sue, a hard-hearted woman to anyone else, had taken the young girl under her wing, adopting her as a sort of lackey.

Together, though they worked in the desperate, hushed trade of prostitution, the trio made up the most lusted-after women in the village. Karofksy would have been an easy catch for any of them, even Rebecca, but he never showed any interest. Still, they fought relentlessly amongst themselves over who, when he finally relented, who be the one to finally take him to bed.

"David," cooed Santana, striding toward the bar. Every face was staring as she made her way to Karofsky's barstool. The married men shamelessly drooled as she wafted past, eyes hungry. Brittany and Rebecca followed close behind, noses in the air. The barmaid looked away, turning crimson as she busied herself with a rag.

Karofsky looked up just as the maid looked down, wondering what had incited this change. He stopped as he noticed Santana standing over him.

"Why, Mademoiselle," he said, paling. "What a... pleasant-surprise." Obviously he lied, as his face was a mask of indifference as she sidled over and held out her slender hand. Karofsky took it, nervous, and brought it to his lips.

Santana tossed her glossy black hair over her shoulder, laughing. She loved having this sort of control over the most feared man in town. Even David Karofsky was putty in her hands. The pub was silent, watching as she worked her black magic.

"I know," she said, her voice a wink, "Imagine meeting you here." She gestured flippantly around the dingy pub, knowing well that this was the man's favorite haunt.

"Imagine…" Karofsky said weakly, avoiding her dark gaze. Brittany and Rebecca snickered from their station behind Santana.

"So, I heard you had a record kill last week," purred Santana, though this meant nothing to her. She had heard some men talk about it, jealousy underlining their voices, the night before at the brothel, and chose to bring it up as a way to entice Karofsky into conversation.

"Yes-" Karofsky cleared his throat. "Yes, I… it was the biggest rack I've…" Here he stopped, now painfully aware of the carefully placed set of breasts in front of his face. Santana smirked, her laughter a mirthless bell in the sordid establishment.

"Oh, David, I'd love to see it," she said, as Rebecca and Brittany found themselves rocked by fresh peals of giggles. "Why don't I come over—tonight?"

"Tonight?" The nervous, embarrassed hunter flushed. "Well, maybe some other time…" he sputtered. Santana's eyes narrowed—how could Karofsky have turned down such a blatant proposition?—but she continued to torture him with her gaze.

"Some other time?"

"Sure." Karofsky gulped and Santana stuck up her nose, seething.

"Fine." She turned to her lackeys. "Come on girls." One of these days I'll have that man, and he'll know a real woman… Santana thought as she stalked away, dejected.

When they had left, Azimio turned to his master. The entire bar was buzzing about what had just happened. "How could you turn her down? Playin' hard to get, eh?" Karofsky shook his head and stared into his mug. "You must be mad!"

"She's not the one that I want," Karofsky muttered, eyes still averted. The buzz began to subside as the pub patrons gave up straining to hear Karofsky's conversation. Slowly the effects of the women's presence wore away and all that was left was the audible moan of the shattered dreams of old men.

"Brittany then?" inquired Azimio. "My, she's a beauty as well."

"No."

"Rebecca? Why—surely you could do better… Why, I can't imagine you'd fancy her."

"None of them."

"But—"

"Shut up." Azimio was silenced by his, but only for a moment. Then he suggested, "What about the barm-"

"Shut up!"

Karofsky's voice was a low growl as he looked up from his mug to glare at his companion.

Azimio backed away and turned to his own drink. "Whatever you say, mate."

Karofsky, angered, stood up and left. Azimio looked up as if to follow, but decided against it. Karofsky was in a mood. And it was not wise to cross him.

~oOo~

"Papa, what are you doing?" Kurt asked, laughing nervously as he entered his home. Burt, wearing an enormous pair of goggles, was seated in the middle of the sun-strewn floor, surrounded by loose pieces of various unfinished contraptions. The comically balding man didn't notice his son walk in, as he was intently tinkering with something small and shiny that made a funny clicking sound as he toyed with it. Kurt approached him gingerly, hoping not to upset his contented-looking father.

"Her, Papa," he said softly, holding out a hand. "Let me help you clean this up—"

"Not now, Elizabeth!" Can't you see I'm busy?" Kurt stepped back. His face fell.

"Father," he urged, "It's me, Kurt."

"—Go watch your son! …oh, Kurt…" Burt blinked up at his son through the magnificent goggles that seemed to magnify his cloudy eyes. After a moment, the fog in his gaze seemed to clear as his memories flooded back. The corners of his mouth turned down ever so slightly as he replied,"Of course, of course...Did you get the—"

Kurt held up the basket he had been carrying on his arm. "It's right here," he said, referring to the bread he had gotten a discount on.

"What about—"

"Papa, I got them. Don't worry." Also nestled in the basket were four eggs, small ad brown. They had been a bargain.

"Very good, very good—have you seen the dog-legged clencher?" Kurt had no idea what this meant, but bent to look for it amidst the other things on the floor. After a moment, his eyes fell upon a srange-looking tool that to his eyes looked to be exactly a "dog-legged clencher."

"You mean this?" he asked, holding it up for his father to see.

"Yes, that. Now I…" Burt trailed off, mumbling, and turned back to his 'work,' once again distracted. Kurt sighed, set the basket down and the table, and, taking his newly acquired book with him, started upstairs. He took the narrow staircase to the room he called his, and closed the door.

Glaincing around the familiar space, Kurt could not help but imagine it as something—well, more grand. Kurt saw the room in his mind with luxurious carpets, tapestries, and candles—a chamber deserved by a royal. All the heroines in his books lived in palaces like the one he wanted for himself, had been whisked away to a perfect life by some handsome prince. He knew that he would never have that—a prince, a castle.

But was it so wrong that that's what he wanted?

Either way, he knew that he did not have it as bad as he could. Burt had been successful, and he and Kurt had enough money to survive. The cottage Kurt and Burt resided in was far nicer than the decrepit shacks occupied by many villaers. Still, things were becoming tight. Kurt could not afford to support his reading habit, and was already forced to accept such generosity from Mssr. Shuester. He had also been forced to pick up a job at the bakery to support himself and his invalid father. Luckily, Mr. Evans was kind enough to let him take home the day's leftover bread.

Kurt hated having to rely on others. It killed him every time someone took pity on him. The Hummels were proud people, strong and defiant. Determined. With things the way they were, however, Kurt often had to swallow his pride.

Kurt shook his head at his own thoughts. The Hummels lived a comfortable life, an anonymous life, a life free of disruption. That was all he could ever ask for.

Slowly, Kurt stepped over to his bed. He set his book down and lay back, staring at the blank ceiling. After a few moments of pondering, he pulled it out and began to read.

Reading was Kurt's way of coping. It always helped him distance himself from reality, especially on a day as vile as this one, after teh morning's eents. . After Karofsky had left him in the alley, Kurt had had only a few moments to colect himself before he had to run to work. He had been late, but ever-kind Mr. Evans had overlooked his tardiness. perhaps the man took pity on Kurt after seeing his dirty clothing and mussed hair, or perhaps he knew that Kurt was a far harder worker than his own son, Sam. Either way, the rest of the day had been fairly routine.

Kurt had show up for work, and immediately been required to take care of some baguettes that Sam had neglected. Kurt did so without complaint, for he did not want to put his friend's reputation in jeopardy. Sam had likely been off somewhere with Mercedes, a black girl who the otherwise-kind Mr. Evans did not approve of. The two had been involved in a tryst for some time. Mercedes was Kurt's best friend, and as much as he wasnted not to, he liked Sam. So he diligently kept the lovers' secret.

The rest of the day ws not so bad, if not exceptionally brilliant. It waas simply tolerable. Throughout his work, all Kurt could think about was coming home to the book, the book Mssr. Schuester had so kindly give him, that Karofsky had all but destroyed.

Now that he had begun to read, all of Kurt's problems seemed to melt, leaving his mind clear.

For a moment, the world was alright.

~oOo~

Karofsky stormed down the street. As ususal, he failed to aknowledge the "Hey!"s and hollers of people he ran into. Karofsky was furious.

There was something about that little loser that just made his head feel as though it was about to explode. Kurt Hummel-the bane of Karofsky's existence.

Karofsky couldn't explain what it was that kept him from leaving Kurt alone-the feeling that despite Karofsky's hatred made him seek out Kurt. He told himself it was just the need to terrorize the smaller boy, to make him hurt, to see him cry. But Karofsky wasn't so sure.

There was something in the way Hummel was so distant-like a puzzle Karofsky had to crack. He was always so cool, so level-headed. Even from the time the boys were young, Karofsky already showing signs of the cruel, manipulative creature he would prove to be, Kurt was always so mature. Nothing Karofsky ever did or said seemed to get to Kurt, and this drove him mad.

Kurt drove Karofsky mad, adn he was furious about it.

As he made his way through the-slowly dissipating-crowds of people in the market square, Karofsky made up his mind. He would finally get to Kurt. He had the perfect plan.

~oOo~

the nock came at the door, quietly at first. Kurt didn't notice. He was at his favorite part of the the book, where the heroine discovers that her prince was beside her all along, in disguise. He knew the lines by heart, and was mouthing them to himself as the knock came again, stronger.

Kurt halted, setting the book down. "Papa?" he asked.

"May I come in?" Burt sounded nervous.

"Of course!" Burt pushed the door open, and Kurt stood. Before him was his father with a look on his face unlike any Kurt had known him to make in years. His eyes were sad, and deep with an understanding all but missing in the last several years. "Father?" Kurt asked, softly.

"Burt walked gingerly to the bed and gestured for Kurt to sit down with him. "Son, I..." A small, uncomfortable silence filled the even smaller room, as Burt struggled to find the words he had lost for so long. "I know times have been rough. I ... I haven't been the best father."

"Papa, you've been a wondeful father," Kurt insisted. He lied, however, for though he loved his father, the man had not been the most attentive parent since Kurt's mother had died. Kurt knew it was not Burt's fault; he had not been himself since the death of his wife. Yet, he still resented the loss of a major portion of his childhood.

Burt must have sensed this, since he sighed before continuing. "Kurt, I'm sorry. I've been... lost. And you have been such a good son." Tears welled up in burt's newly clear eyes. For once he seemed to be feeling what he was saying. Kurt was thrilled, but dubious. Many times before, Burt had seemed to be lucid and then had relapsed to his foggy state, his few minutes of clarity again embraced by mist.

"Papa..."

"I'm proud of you son," Burt choked. Kurt blinked, not sure how to respond. Never had such words come from his father. It was always, "Fetch this, will you, lad?" or "Take it like a man, son. You want people to think you're a sissy?" before Burt again slipped into mindlessness. But this time, Burt's gaze was sincere. After a moment, tears sprang to Kurt's eyes.

"Really?" he asked.

"Really." Burt put an arm around his son's slender shoulder. "You're growing up to be a brilliant young man." Kurt grinned through his happy tears. Burt grinned also, for what seemed to be the first time in a long time. Suddenly though, Burt grew serious. "I won't always, be around, you know, son, and you're going to need to find a little woman-"

"Papa!" Kurt exclaimed, nearly laughing. "Papa, I-" he dared not say that he did not, did in fact never want the company of a woman, but instead said, "Papa, I'm young still! I don't need to marry yet!"

Burt chuckled, but concern was laced across his features. "I know, but... you need someone for the timesthat I'm-not there."Another silence followed. Kurt's mind raced. How could he tell his father, who had so few good days as it was, that he was a freak? It would break the poor man's heart. Burt sensed Kurt was uncomfortable, though unaware of why, and changed the subject.

"Kurt, did you see that contraption I was working on earlier?" Kurt nodded, but he had no idea what the thing was.

"Well, there's set to be a fair soon, on the other side of that forest... In the next town over-What's it called?"

Kurt answered, then said, "Wait, papa, do you plan on entering?"

"Of course! This invention is sure to be groundbreaking!"

"But that's a two-day journey-by foot!-and I don't think you're ready for it."

"I appreciate your concern," Burt said, "but really, I'm ready. Besides," he added, "I'll take Rachel." Rachel was the Hummels' horse, a small, spirited animal with a flowing dark mane and an uneven temper. She was difficult to ride, and even if one could win her trust, she tired easily. Rachel had been Elizabeth's horse, and no one had been able to ride Rachel since her passing. Besides, Burt hadn't ridden in years, and Rachel hadn't been ridden in just as long.

"Papa-"

"Kurt, I can do this." Kurt sighed, doubtful. "I think I can win. And if I do," he stopped, laying a hand on Kurt's shoulder, "you won't have to work so hard.

"Is the prize really worth it?" Kurt asked, incredulously. His father wasn't well, and this was not a good idea.

"Son, I want to do this. I have to do this. Please."

"But-"

Blaine cut him off. "It will only be a few days, Kurt. I'll be fine."

Kurt looked down, contemplating. Finally he looked into his father's eyes. "Alright. Just be safe."

"Thank you son." Abrubptly, Burt got up to leave.

"Wait, when do you have to leave?" Kurt inquired, as he stood up after his father.

"Now." Burt said this, and left the room. Kurt followed him.

"Wait!" Burt turned around, only to be surprised by Kurt flinging his arms around his waist.

"Whoa, hoho," chuckled Burt, but there was something serious in the way he looked fondly upon his son. "Kurt, it'll just be a week."

"I know," Kurt said into his father's shoulder. "Just be careful."

"I love you," Burt said, blinking a tear from the corner of his eye.

"I love you too."

~oOo~

The boots on the pavement were loud as gunshots. Karofsky noticed this, and it made him even angrier, and more persistent. He would've liked to shoot Hummel. Ever since the previous day, making teh twerp hurt was all he could think about.

Karofsky knew that about this time, Kurt would be leaving his job at the bakery, where he worked with that kid with the huge mouth. Any minute now, Kurt would walk out of that door, and...

~oOo~

"So, I'll see you tomorrow?" Sam asked, as he and Kurt walked out of the back door of the bakery.

Kurt laughed, a shimmering, bell-like sound, and replied, "Only if you're not too busy with your girlfriend to show up for work!"

Sam punched Kurt's arm jokingly. Kurt's wince was imperceptible, so Sam simply laughed and walked away. "Au revoir!"

Kurt smiled and turned the other direction. He had begun humming to himself, when all at once, he was jumped from behind.

he tried to shout, to Sam, to anyone, but a large handhad been clapped over his mouth. He could smell the scent of beer, hide, adn gunpowder that belonged to Dave Karofsky. He struggled, kicking and writhing in the large man's grasp, until Karofsky finally let him down, sending him to the dusty ground. Kurt spat, trying to rid his mouth of the taste of sweat that had permeated it.

"Turn around, and get up." Karofsky growled behind Kurt.

"David," Kurt whimpered.

"I said, get up." Kur did as he was told, and got to his feet gingerly, turning to face his attacker. He was surprised to see Karofsky ws alone.

"What do you want?" he asked, his shaking voice defiant.

"I want you to face me like a man."

Kurt gaped. Karofsky was easily twice his size. Karofsky noticed this hesitation and sneered.

"What? You're not man enough to take me?" Karofsky's cruel, flat tone sent fingers of ice down Kurt's spine. He stood, rooted to the spot, for several moments before stuttering his response.

"Karofsky-I am a man."

"Oh." Karofsky cocked an eyebrow.

"I am more a man than you, David." Kurt gulped, amazed at his own courage.

"Then why don't you provtout?" Karofsky's eyes were black chips, his face a mask of stone.

Kurt's voice was now level. I don't need to fight and intimidate to prove that I'm a man, David," he said. "If anyone isn't a man, that's you."

A prominent vein in Karofsky's thick neck bulged in fury. The ensuing silence between Kurt and Karofsky was broken only by the sound of the larger man's labored, furious breathing. What seemed to Kurt like an eternity passed, before Karofsky finally spoke in a voice that was not his own. "I am not a man," he said, and grabbed Kurt's neck. Kurt tensed, thinking he would be strangled. But what came next surprised him greatly: he was being kissed by Dave Karofsky.