Refuse Ingo's drink

You've been around enough men to know that when they start trying to get you drunk they probably have ulterior motives. You decide to politely refuse.

"No, I don't want your disgusting toilet water," you say, passing the clay pot back to Ingo. He seems to accept your answer, but half a mile down the road you feel his hand creeping onto your leg. You slap it away and he laughs.

"Come on, love, give us a feel," he roughly squeezes your breast through the corset, pushing your soft, vinyl-covered titflesh to overflowing. You swat his hand away again. When he reaches between your thighs you punch him right in the mouth.

"Alright, then," says Ingo, rubbing his jaw. "Walk the rest of the way."

He gets his filthy boot on your hip and pushes, sending you sprawling out of the cart and rolling off the road and into a thicket. Brambles tear at your smart vinyl and open painful scratches on your hands and face as you go crashing down the ravine. Bruised, a little bloody, you nevertheless survive the fall without serious injury. You get to your feet and swear that you will someday have your **** on the peasant called Ingo.

Dusting yourself off and massaging your bruised bum you realize that you've lost the shotgun somewhere in the brambles on your way down. You start towards the slope intent on finding your weapon when you hear something moving. It's loud, as if moving wildly through the surrounding forest, but it does not sound big. No larger than a person. It's making a strange panting sound. As you are straining to hear which direction it is approaching from it emits a spine-tingling howl, simultaneously human and inhuman.

You look back up the slope of the ravine. Your shotgun could be anywhere.