Young Pocahonto was a fearless young lad. He had been brought up in a white family after they slaughtered his parents, keeping him in a tiny cabin made out of twigs, where he spent most of the day weaving dreamcatchers. He hunted for the family, cooked their food, and cleaned their living area in exchange for two meager meals a day and shelter. He fell asleep each night early and dreamt of roaming the beautiful green landscape on his horse, Spirit Wind, and snatching the gold coins off of a white man and mowing him down. How he laughed in his dreams.

The family taught him the English language. They had raised him as their son. He excelled in his lessons, he was a genius writer and mathematician. At the age of 10, he made his first spear and went into the unknown for three days, naked in the snow, hunting for caribou, freezing, sleeping under rocks. He came back with a dead deer slung over his shoulders and set it on the family porch. They ate for a week.

At the age of 12, he had grown into a wayward young man. He spent all day one day making belts out of hog nipples, and was about to leave them on his master, Artemis', bedside table, but when he came into the house, he noticed Artemis had left his journal on the dining table. Pocahonto picked it up and read bits and pieces. He was intrigued, he tore the house apart looking for more journals, and that he found, even the ones dating to when they first adopted him as their own. He read, read and read some more, and he was getting ticked off. He was just now discovering that his parents had been gored years ago by these, these monsters! He read some more details. They were slaughtered near the Fire Spirit Lake, two miles east, he had hunted there once, the previous year, and killed three badgers and turned their faces into masks for him and the family. He headed east.

He came upon the Fire Spirit Lake encampment, crawling with red indians, smoking their pipes and dancing nude. He started to dig with his hands, anywhere. To find the mangled bones of his parents. A real great big indian tried to stop him, claiming that this was sacred territory. Poco, filled with rage, didn't care.

"Do you want to fight about it?" He asked, the bile rising in his heart, spitting venom. He was getting into fighting position, flexing his muscles and crouching down to get a crotch shot at this great big b******.

The great big b****** started swinging but Poco was two quick, jumping like a madman and grabbing the b******'s neck and pulling him into a stomach punch, and he was out. The b****** doubled over in pain and began to cry.

Some more b******* got up and tried to start something, which was excesserbated by young Poco's anger, he grabbed a rock and smashed in two boys his age's faces, and started clubbing the stone at a particularly ugly woman who was grabbing him with her outgrown fingernails. Two big men grabbed his arms and in minutes had him held over the fire. "What are you doing here?" one of them asked.

"I'm looking for the tomb of my ancestors!" yelled young Poco, feeling no pain like a true martyr. "My name is Poco and ten years ago my mother and father were killed by two white devils who took me and raised me as their own!"

An old man piped up, "Pocahonto? Oh my, it's been so many years."

"Who the Hell are you?"

"I watched you as a baby while your parents were off fighting the great war of Xenio. Release him!"

The two men swung young Poco away from the fire. He was in a daze on the ground when the old man came up to him, with a pipe between his lips. He carried him into a cavern over yonder, and layed him down on a long strip of leather and lit the bonfire. The old man revealed himself as Arrow Master, a retired warrior from before the Xenio wars, but young Poco could see through his facade and realize the old man was just a junkie. Arrow Master sucked on an opium pipe like it was a mother's bosom. This all faded into memory as Poco drifted off to sleep.

He awoke to the screaming of lobsters in a pot made of a man's skull. Arrow Master had noticed the young man and explained. "The river three miles east has the absolute best lobsters."

He had been up since 5 am trapping lobsters. He cooked them and cracked them with a clay knife and gave some to young Poco.

A young warrior must eat if he wants to grow up and kill.

Arrow Master explained his parent's death much to the young boys shock and awe. About how the whites came in with their w***** and their smack and disease, about how two white devils had raped the young boy of his birthright, turned him into a slave and buried his parents in a shallow grave, rife with decay and worms were their bones as they slid down the muddy embankment one winter morning and landed at the old man's feet, how repulsive was the smell. They sat in the cavern eating lobsters and vegetables, the Arrow Master showed the young boy how to smoke opium, the boy nodded off and sobered up three days later in a field a few hundred yards from the house where he was raised.

He walked around fatigued into the white people's house, wondering whether it was all just a dream. But then the shocked look on their faces affirmed that what he had seen was real and not just fantasy. He grabbed a knife set down over the dining table and slashed at the white man's face. He bled, as the boy severed nerves and cut off his nose, and began to stab him in the neck and chest. He grabbed the woman onto the floor and stabbed her in the eyeballs and in the breasts. He choked her until he could no longer hear her high-pitched screams or irregular heartbeat. He emerged from the bloodbath covered in red, the stench of death lingering off of his tongue days after he ate their bodies.

Smoke billowed out of the trees as the house burned to the ground and the garden was destroyed, he even torched the small cabin that used to be his home and watched all the dreamcatchers as they were destroyed by the inferno. He had undergone a transformation profound to him, but he didn't care about what any of it meant, his death wish beared on him too heavy, and he would spend the rest of his days trying to crawl off the floor of weakness, his main Achille's heel being that of a destroyed red boy's dream and he would begin a terrible life of theft and walk around angry, jonesing for opium, drinking the fire water, gambling like a roughneck on payday. A red boys dream tangled in the strings of his dreamcatcher, burning in a cabin somewhere, Arrow Master speculated as he nodded off into space.