In the midst of the excitement, a sole bullet is fired. It seeks and finds its target, but no one notices. The fireworks are in the heart of the finale, rapid succession of multiple colors and shapes. Not a single soul tears their eyes from the display of pyrotechnics gracing the sky. No one hears anything but the rumble the hills echo from the explosions. No one heard him die. No one saw him die. Not a soul dared think that something besides excitement and a few drunks would be a product of the bicentennial of Mason, Pennsylvania. No one knew Jason King would be dead, particularly not Jason.