Steven Guile Monday 24th March 2014 Louisiana   Self imposed exile. That's how it's felt these last six weeks. Nearly a month and a half since Tero Haber made his gambit in the Train Yard in Arizona. Nearly a month and a half since I skipped out on the people I had called friends. Jackrabbit. Vanilla. Yeah, even Spyke. I don't expect them to understand what I did, hell, I'm not even sure I understand it. Keeping away from hotel rooms has meant rare access to television, but I saw the Jackrabbit in a convenience store I stopped by. I'd been on the road for fifteen hours and needed some food and an energy drink to finish the drive out of Mississippi. The OWF highlights show was playing on the tiny CRT above the counter. I saw his face on the screen, and expected myself to feel a wave of relief at knowing he'd survived. But I didn't. There was only the guilt of knowing I abandoned them in Arizona. Abandoned them to whatever fate Haber would cook up. The very fact I needed to confirm Jackrabbit's survival on a TV set in a 7-Eleven made me sick. But it was the only way; I couldn't risk making a call, not even a Skype one. That's when I saw the web of chains on the screen, and EJ Slayer suspended upside down above the ring, his own blood matted to his face. I heard the Jackrabbit call EJ his puppet, declare himself 'unchained'. Unhinged more like it. And I knew then that I'd made the right choice. I left the store more determined than ever, a renewed vigor in my goal. I have questions, and I know how to find the answers. But I don't know where. The Zero People are privy to a lot of information that you don't find in a public library or on a Google search. We don't have the infinite knowledge of the Council, nor the man power of the Verity Envoy. But we gather the information gleaned from whispers, the tall tales that get passed around in bars, the details that get seen only as prefixes to "burn after reading". And it was hard to miss all the talk of an all-knowing data-bank, a font of answers that could be known no other way. They said that if you asked it a question it would give you an honest, infallible answer, no matter how strange or how obscure. They call it The Hive-Mind. Many claim such a thing cannot exist, but in the last five years I've seen enough to know that nothing is impossible. Men fallen into eternal comas, sane people turning their own guns on themselves, entire rooms of people forgetting where they are. An enigma living in a tower that does not show up on satellites, yet I've sat in its study. So if the Hive-Mind is real, it's just a matter of finding it. My research has brought me to Louisiana, where there have been some unusual stories. Billie Joe Kenway finds his long lost brother after decades of being apart. Darcy Cassidy discovers her husband Warren's six year affair overnight. Grady Wills, Rhett Jarman, and Shane Ray Howett all win the lottery. On separate nights. It isn't much to go on, but in my experience there's no such thing as coincidence. It's a dilapidated part of town, and it doesn't take me long to figure out they don't get many strangers in town here. After a few suspicious looks, I ditch the suit and tie and roll the sleeves up in a failed attempt to look less conspicuous. I'm wasting my time, I'd need three years of hair growth and one of Jed's more battered wife-beaters to even hope of fitting in here. I begin to doubt my sources, wondering how the "font of all knowledge" could possibly be located in 'Hick Town, Louisiana'. They said to find the Colton Family, for all the help that is. There's no Yellowpages here. That's when the hobo approaches me; I assume he's a hobo, though here it's kinda hard to tell. He touches my arm and the first thing I do is check my wallet. Not that anyone here takes MasterCard. But the guy doesn't go for my wallet, or my phone. Instead he mutters, "I know you're coming." It takes me off guard, but I'm quick to respond. "What?" But the hobo says no more, just wanders off without glancing back. I call after him, but it's as if he's gone deaf. I've seen crazier things, so I'm not spooked, but it was fucking weird. I've always heard strange stories about Louisiana folk, though. I decide to take a look in the local store for some supplies, even hoping maybe I'll find a map- the signal on my cell died out a half hour down the road. The store better resembles a shack, and as the wooden door creaks open I realize my hopes of finding a map are slim to none. I'd be lucky to get clean water here. The woman behind the counter is a round lady, more rough-looking than half the men I've passed on my way here. I figure she might have heard of this 'Colton Family'.. "Pardon me," I say in greeting, feeling more and more out of place with every word. "I was wondering if you might know-" But she cuts me off. "You're on the right track," she says. And when I try to ask what the hell she means, she concludes with "We'll meet soon. Just keep walking, city boy." Okay, so now I'm spooked. I'm starting to think this whole town has gone crazy. I return to the path, an irrational feeling in my head telling me that perhaps this wasn't a lost cause after all. The street, if I can call it that, narrows off towards the end, the light fading as the street lamps become more and more sparse. I'm resolute, I carry on against my best judgment. Though fuck knows how I'm going to defend myself if it comes to that. I'm not likely to scare anyone off by waving an energy bar at them. I'm starting to doubt the 'keep walking' advice when the path comes to a dead-end in front of a small wooden hut. It can't be more than 8 square feet, not even as big as the broken down hut the Jackrabbit inhabited. That was back before it was burnt to the ground, of course. This, I figure, is the point where ten hillbillies will jump me and rob me for what little I'm carrying. But instead, a solitary man steps from inside the hut. His face is a mess of wiry black hair, his flannel shirt torn and his jeans stained with mud. He looks at me with an unblinking glare, and asks in a thick Southern drawl: "You here fer?" A dozen lies flitter through my brain; a lost uncle, a wedding, a new life, an autograph. Instead I find myself telling the truth. "I'm looking for the Hive-Mind." The hillbilly smiles a toothless grin, and what happens next is barely describable, even by me. Before my own eyes the hut begins to shift and change, rising up out of the ground. The wooden panels become polished glass, the roof becomes a storey, a second storey, a third. The shining glass hut is now twelve storeys high, and counting, and the rickety entrance now an elegant revolving door. I look back to the hillbilly, but he has been replaced too. His beard is gone, his hair trimmed. The flannel is a suit, the wife-beater is an ironed shirt. He has a goddamn tie pin. He smiles, a flawless smile now. "You took longer than we expected, Mr. Guile."   * * *   He is a prisoner in his own mind, a captive of the chains of his own making. And so he resides restrained in a cell of cold steel within his psyche. He has clasped chains to his own wrists , to his own ankles, and a metal bond around his neck. In the material world, the steel would cut his skin, raising welts where the hard edges cut against the flesh. Yet here they leave no mark but the knowledge that he has forged them himself, link by link. Confinement is nothing new to the Jackrabbit. He has been imprisoned in hospital beds and motel rooms. He has been held captive, locked down inside a government facility by the fanatical Doctor Libor Radnik. Prodded and poked, the Jackrabbit had felt the sanitized invasions of the pharmaceuticals Radnik used to sedate and understand him. He needn't have bothered, the Jackrabbit didn't understand himself. But longer than all these things he has been a prisoner within himself, wanting so desperately to be somebody else, to be Jay Ethelon, longing to be free of the schism. The prison of the mind is always open, no walls to hold him and no bars behind which to cower. Just a cold concrete ground and the chains that anchor him, sagging from the ceiling, draping across his shoulders and his crossed legs. From the ceiling dangle a dozen prisoners, pulling on the chains, wrapped too in those same steel bonds. Blonde hair is matted to the Jackrabbit's face, but otherwise he is naked, a mass of sinewy muscles and scarred tissue. He knows each scar well; the L shape from a Draco ladder shot. The zig-zag of multiple lead piping blows to the forehead from Talon. The sliced chin from an exploding Christmas bauble courtesy of Lorenzo Demarco. He was their victim. All of them, each and every time his skin tore he was a victim of other men. Lesser men, carving out a legacy on the body of the Jackrabbit. His hand reaches to his neck, rubbing at the cold metal plate that encases it. In another lifetime, a noose crushed this windpipe, lynching him ten feet in the air. He is dangling there now, he feels the tightening around his larynx, hears the baying of jackals beneath him. He claws at the noose; tearing, wrenching, until it falls loose to the ground. It lies amongst the others now, just another chain in the prison of the cerebra. They are his friends, they are his only friends where the others have abandoned him. The chains never turn their heads, the chains never stab him in the back. Where he has been left to fight his own battles by men, the chains remain his allies against the oppressors, his soldiers in the war against the Movement that would burn his home. He sees their faces here, floating apparitions above the prison. The grinning Savior that creates casualties. The dead eyes of Redemption, as he commits sins. The cold stare of the Enigma as he shares himself with his new friends. Hypocrites all, and then there is their charlatan leader� The Jackrabbit stands from his cell and takes a step towards the edge, standing eye to eye with the man they call Slayer. He is the jailor, snug in his faded body armor, the man who cast down the Jackrabbit amongst the chains. Slayer laughs, jabbing a fat finger at his captive, but the Jackrabbit has been poked enough, and he bites the finger that taunts him. Slayer turns and runs, and the Jackrabbit pursues him at a slow walking pace, the taste of black blood on his tongue. He steps free of his prison and begins the amble down the endless gray corridors, passing cell by cell in his wake. He ignores the screams of the prisoners on the ceiling above him, their white flaying limbs, their dirty claws. Slayer is goading the Jackrabbit, taunting the Jackrabbit.. no, he is fleeing, the laugh is a throttled whimper, the fear is evident in his eyes. Slayer is the fly, and he is caught in the Jackrabbit's web of chains. The Jackrabbit's eyes pierce him, but the pursuer does not smile, and does not laugh. He takes no pleasure in the end of Slayer. This is no longer his pleasure, there is no joy in removing a cancer. The ceiling-prisoners are baying and snarling for the desecration of Eric Jameson, the condemnation of the condemner. But instead the Jackrabbit reaches out a hand and strokes the damp cheek of his jailor, caressing him as the chains begin to swallow him up, putting a final end to his movement. "Hey yo, JR.." Vanilla's voice penetrates the prison, the lights flicker, the other prisoners go quiet. "You in there, man?" He turns around to see her standing there, the lone apostle of innocence in this wretched place. Her hair is blonde this week, her shirt neon pink, a stark contrast to the grays and blacks of the endless concrete maze. "Why are you in my prison, Vanilla?" the Jackrabbit asks plainly. There is no bounce left in his voice these days, especially not here. "Prison? Uhm� this is a motel room, silly.." she responds, contradicting all logic. The Jackrabbit makes a point of pulling on one of the chains that swallowed EJ Slayer whole. "It seems a prison to me, Vanilla," he tells her, "how else do you explain the chains and the prisoners and the janitor with the mop bucket?" "What janitor? That's Jed.." Sure enough, the janitor does resemble Jed. A large hulking man, his skin a dark ebony, muscles protruding from his wife-beater. "Jed.." he concurs. "Glad to see you awake, boy.." the janitor says in Jed's voice. "I don't sleep any longer," the Jackrabbit informs him, "the time for sleeping is over. Too long I have spent dreaming, too long I have spent in the endless nightmare thrust upon me by my oppressors." He pulls the chains close about him, a shield against the draughts. "It is cold here..." He sheds the prison like a cloak, letting the cells and chains and concrete fall to the floor to be replaced by wallpaper, a television set, a pristine bed with a ticking clock handily placed beside it. He is wearing torn jeans, their bottoms frayed to threads. Vanilla and Jed stand in the doorway of the motel room. "We brought you back a McFlurry", Vanilla says, an excited look in her eyes, a tub in her hands like it was the answer to a question he'd been asking. "Extra chocolate, extra ice-cream. Your favorite." It probably was his favorite once. But that was a long time ago. The Movement had taken ice-cream from him. "Give it to Stevie," he says, not remembering if Stevie likes ice-cream or not. There is no time for focusing on ice-cream-related matters anymore, not whilst EJ Slayer and his cronies still haunt his home like unwelcome poltergeists. Were poltergeists ever welcome? He would ask them one day. "Stevie's gone, ya know that.." Jed says, folding his arms with an air of impatience. "Treacherous bastard ain't been seen since the Train Yard, since.. well, since�" The Jackrabbit had been a victim in the Train Yard too. Tero Haber had finally cornered them, and would have killed them all if not for.. if not for.. "Since I turned their minds inside out, made their brains scream..." There was no use pretending any more. The Jackrabbit had wormed his way inside their tiny subservient brains. He notes the stunned silence from his companions, the looks on their faces, the way they won't step any closer into the room. "Yeah, since that," Jed finishes lamely. He shakes his head. "Look, I came here ta suss if you'd seen hide nor hair of Stevie. Ya ain't, so I'll get back on the trail. You uh.. take care at the pay-per-view, boy. I didn't rescue ya ass for you to get throttled half to de-.." He stops himself. Nobody mentioned the lynching since the Jackrabbit had discharged himself from the ICU. It was the proverbial elephant in the room now, he could see it shifting around in the corner looking for peanuts. 'The Movement killed the Jackrabbit', that's what the elephant said. The Movement had put the final nail on the coffin of the idiot. And then the Jackrabbit had woken, reborn, with a single prerogative. The OWF had to be rid of the Movement. They had left a path of victims, and the Jackrabbit would stand in the corner of every single victim until the threat was a memory. And then he would hunt that memory, he would seize that silvery orb, he would crush it in his palm. And it all started with Slayer.. "Soooo�" Vanilla interrupts, completely ignoring the elephant. Jed had left, possibly without saying goodbye. "I thought I should tell you something." "You don't think I can do it." It was a statement, a fact. He could already feel her doubts, they oozed out of her, an unspoken puss from an unseen wound. "Do what?" "Beat Slayer." They all thought it. Not just Vanilla and Jed and Spyke, but the OWF too. Slayer had spent months convincing everyone that the Jackrabbit was worthless, that he was the bottom of the pecking order. "No!" she exclaimed, "of course not, no. Not everything is about.. about that! Don't you think this Slayer thing has� has become too much? You're not the same, JR... The Movement have changed you.. " "I am the change the OWF needs, Vanilla.." Yet he does not look into her eyes, knowing how they will pierce him, how they will strip him down. "I am evolved, I am empowered, I am a.. a victim no more." "You know, you were never.." she starts, and only when he finally raises his eyes does she find the confidence inside them to carry on to a finish, ".. never a victim to me." " So cried the children as their brother was beaten. So cried the widow as her husband was executed. So cried the rebels as their fearless hero hung." "What are you even saying?! You're not a brother, or a husband, or a.." "But I will be!" His voice is raised now and he finally stands from the bed. The elephant is gone, the room is gone, just he and Vanilla alone in the void of space. "I will be the brother that the OWF never had, the husband that it never married! I will be the hero that it needs because it needs one!" "This isn't your way!" she is shouting now too, though she'd never meant to be. Her eyes had somehow become damp. "The way you speak, the way you act� What you did on the show last week� that isn't your way!" "It is the only way! I will strike at them until they whimper, until they bleed, until they leave my home and I am mounting the summit of their remains.. And where will you be, Vanilla? Where will you be?" "I� " she faltered, she closed her eyes. "JR.. Spyke asked me to marry him.." * * * Steven Guile Monday 24th March 2014 Louisiana   I have no fucking clue how to respond. Five seconds ago I was staring at a filthy redneck in front of a broken down hut. Now I'm being smiled at by a power suit in front of a high-rise building. "Who the hell-" I start, logically, but the man holds out an arm, inviting me to walk through the revolving door. I'm skeptical, and make damn sure that he doesn't follow me into the compartment as I push the glass around on its axis. It permits me into a polished corridor, white marble tiles and one of those welcome desks that could fit five receptionists but only has one. She smiles at me, but the suited man gestures me to follow. I oblige, my brain still ticking over what a hidden ten storey office block is doing in the middle of a swamp. I don't rule out the possibility that I've been knocked out and this is an elaborate dream. I jog to catch up with my guide as he leads me further down more pristine corridors, the floors and walls an immaculate, sterile white. It's straight out of those horror movies, it just needs a zombie breakout. "Where is this?" I decide to ask, and receive the obvious answer of "Louisiana." I decide to take another approach. "Who are you?" "My name here is Jonah Colton." The Colton Family. "Here?" "I'm also known as Jacob Chosa, or Jayden Carter, or Joshua Cadle, or John.." "Right, right. Jonah, then. Why didn't I see this place before?" "You did, you just did not know it." Somehow I'd expected riddles, and Jonah hadn't disappointed. He continued to lead me through identical corridors, and I became frightfully aware that I wouldn't find my way back without his guidance. I began to try to keep a mental tally- first left, third left, second right, first left... "Only when you truly know what you are looking for are you able to see it. Until then, you do like everybody else- you see what I wish you to see." I give him a look that makes it plain I don't understand. Was that the second left turn, or the third? "Do you see the gun rack?" "What?" I follow Jonah's pointed finger, though he does not slow his pace. But he is pointing at a water fountain, as pristine as the rest of the building. "It's just a.." "Gun rack." The water fountain is gone, in its place a locked cabinet of what appear to be M4 Carbines. A feeling of dread comes over me. "Where the fuck did they come from? Actually, why the fuck do you even have those.. !?" "Perception is entirely what we make of it, Mr. Guile," Jonah says. "You of all people should know that.." They're gone. Of course they are, replaced by a potted plant, with flat white petals. "Peace lily," I observe, "that's cute.." He doesn't respond to banter though, as we stop in a door way. At first glance I take it to be like every other polished glass door we've passed so far, but then I notice that it's actually a dirty grey color, concrete or.. "Lead bricks", Jonah informs me. "It's the only way to keep the voices out." "Voices?" "Do you think you can best me in a little duel, Mr. Guile?" he says, ignoring my question entirely. I can't say I'm surprised, I feared it may come to something like this. It was all going a little too easily.. "What kind of.." "I am a Luna Moth, light as the wind. What are you?" I don't understand for a second, and then I see it. A light green flutter in front of my eyes, the moth dances through the air in front of me. "What are you?" Jonah repeats. I watch the moth for a second more before slowly mouthing my reply. "I am.. I am the Barn Spider, arachnid digester of the Luna Moth." I watch for Jonah's reaction, which causes me to nearly miss the appearance of the spider as the Luna moth falls haphazardly into its web. "Then I am the Noctule Bat," replies Jonah confidently, "soaring predator of the Barn Spider. What are you?" The flapping of dark wings makes me flinch, the bat plunges just an inch from my face and I leap back. "I am the Bat Hawk," I tell him hastily, "swooping devourer of the Noctule Bat.." This time I anticipate it, and dodge out of the way just in time as the massive bird of prey glides by, plucking the bat out of the air. "Then I must be the Golden Eagle, lord of the skies and consumer of the Bat Hawk." The hawk didn't stand a chance as the massive eagle dive-bombed it, pinning it to the ground and breaking its neck. I felt like that hawk, trapped and in no control of its own fate. Because I realized the Golden Eagle was the top of its food chain. "What are you?" asked Jonah, and I saw the glint in his eyes. It occurred to me starkly then, that I had no idea what the stakes were in this little duel. I'd engaged Jonah in his game without ever questioning why, such was my eagerness to discover the Hive-Mind. And Jonah hadn't even given but a hint to suggest that I wasn't here under false pretenses. I suddenly felt very much like Jonah's prey. "I am man," I said, suddenly. "Slaying the golden hawk for naught but a trophy." Jonah simply smiled, showing the perfect teeth that I'd once perceived as missing. "Very good, Mister Guile. You may yet see the Hive-Mind..." * * *   Feverishly, Spyke tears at the plastic pouch that has been concealed in his sleeve. The parking lot is dark, quiet, abandoned. The perfect place to use his stash. He had been interrupted in the subway earlier, some fucking kids came by for a make-out session, forcing him to move on to somewhere more private. He couldn't get caught, not with so much riding on it now. If Vanilla finds out, he is screwed, but he needs his fix, he can't hold out. Stevie had nearly rumbled him during a meet with his dealer in Arizona. The travelling schedule of the circus freaks had made it hard to keep a regular supply, but he'd managed it by calling in a lot of favors and paying over the odds. The hood of a Mitsubishi is his makeshift table, and he pulls out one of his maxed credit cards to make a line. Stevie vanishing couldn't have been better timing. Spyke had gone to the Train Yard, jumped through fucking hoops to keep the smug asshole happy. He wasn't against a bit of blackmail if it kept his new squeaky-clean image in check. It was the only way to hold on to Vanilla since she'd gone all "reformed" on him. She is still the Vanilla he knew all those years ago, just tidied up around the edges, and with access to a rich wrestler guy who has no idea how to spend his own money. She'd got a sweet deal and he couldn't let Stevie ruin that for them. One more check before snorting the first line, feeling the rush go to his head. The motel parking lot is still empty, just abandoned cars and a flickering light. Spyke lowers his nostril to the hood, which means he doesn't see the fist connect with the side of his skull. He hits the concrete hard, and his first thought is that he spilt the stash everywhere when he fell. His second thought is that he is seeing stars and there's an intense throbbing in his temple. He grabs the side of the car to get up, lifts his head, and sees the bottom of the boot. He hits the concrete again and now he's definitely got a broken nose. He tries to get his bearings, how many of them are there? He glances up and sees the enraged face of the Jackrabbit, alone. "Hey� hey dude�" he manages to splutter as the massive guy pulls him to his feet by the collar. "I told you I know what you are," screams the Jackrabbit. "I told you I know how you think. All the dirty thoughts, all the lies and deceits and the schemes. I saw your fate and I judged you, and I found you unworthy." What the fuck? What the actual fuck? Spyke hits the floor a third time as the Jackrabbit shoves him down, and before he can crawl he is pinned down, the snarling deranged face staring down at him. "Was this not clear!?" he demands, and Spyke has literally no idea how to answer. All he can think about are the stars in front of his eyes, the taste of iron in his mouth. "What made you think you could call her yours?!" "Vanilla..?" he manages to whimper and wishes he hadn�t as the Jackrabbit yanks him back up and slams his spine against the car, its alarm screaming out suddenly. He loses the feeling in his legs. "I have chosen to stand against liars and frauds, abusers and cheats," the Jackrabbit yells. "I have chosen to stand against those like you. And where you look to deceive your way into our lives, I will make for you a different fate. An apt fate, a fate which you deserve.." The words are garbage to Spyke now, a mess of hysterical noise mixed with the thrumming of the car alarm. He can hear Vanilla's voice shouting 'what the fuck is going on?' but that is a distant memory of another time in the future. He is a child, Andrew Taylor shares a bedroom with his brother Shaun. His brother who hates him and beats him for it. He is Andrew Taylor of Sanborn High, his hoody being yanked over his head by Rick. Rick has always been an asshole, but his legion of friends find the whole thing hilarious. He is a teenager, behind the bike sheds with his best mate Dean, giving the younger kids shit when they walk too close. He's making out with Donna, and with Leta when Donna isn't looking. He's ten years older, they call him Spyke, and The Rogue's Gallery is where they hang now. Spyke is a cool name, like that guy on the TV, and Dean is Skullz now, and Donna they call Dolly. He doesn't make out with Dolly anymore, he's got his eye on the new chick at the club. A Nine Inch Nails track is blaring, but he makes a beeline for the hot chick with the green hair and the Metallica T-shirt. "Hey.." he says, playing it cool. "Hey.." she replies, she's playing it cool too. "I'm Spyke.." he says. "I know," she replies, "I'm the Jackrabbit." There's a manic laughing and the hot chick is gone, just the laughing all around him, and the sound of chains. �I said no, I said no� Vanilla is his girlfriend now, and he's sat on a merry-go-round in the park. He's spinning the ride around and around, before jumping off and planting his Nu-Rocks on the seat. The park rotates around him, trees, houses, slide, houses, trees, houses, slide, trees.. He hears her giggling and looks across to see her smiling at him. The cigarette hangs loosely from her mouth, the end stained with her lipstick. "You.. you having fun?" he says, for lack of a better thing to say. "Are you?" she responds, a question to a question. "Yeah.." "Me too," she replies finally, "I'm getting the Last Laugh�" He hears him laughing, the shrill manic laughter, and the sound of metal chains. Wasn't there somebody else here before? �I said no, I said no� He is in a bedroom. It's Dolly's bedroom, there's those shit boy band posters on the wall. Her taste in music sucks, but her sucking is amazing. He fucks Dolly whenever Vanilla is out of town. He also fucks Kismet and Pixie too, in exchange for a share of the stash. He takes another drag, blows the smoke into Dolly's face as he climbs on her. They are naked, sweaty, she's stoned out of her mind but that just encourages him, the door swings open. Vanilla is standing there, a look of shock on her face. "Wait.." he calls after her, but stumbles on Dolly's jeans as he gets up. "Fuck you, Spyke" somebody shouts back. It's a girl, he thinks, some girl.. �I said no, I said no� He is eating kangaroo steaks for fuck-knows-what-reason. The Jekyll & Hyde Club, he recalls. There is someone here with him.. isn't there? Isn't there someone here with him? �I said no, I said no� He is being shot at by suited men in a Train Yard, they're surrounded, Spyke and the Jackrabbit and Stevie Guile. Wasn't there somebody else with us? "No," the Jackrabbit tells him, "nobody you need concern yourself with." �I said no, I said no� He is in a hospital room, he is knelt down beside a hospital bed, there's a ring in his hand with a diamond on it, fuck-knows-why. Why would he be holding an engagement ring in an empty hospital ward? �I said no, I said no� He is in a parking lot, he snorts a line and then he gets punched. He tries to get up, he gets kicked. He is bleeding and his stash has gone everywhere. Four car alarms are going off, their lights are flashing too. A well-built man is sat cross-legged on the tarmac, with dirty blonde hair, and a stern looking face, some chains wrapped around his shoulders and arms. He sees a girl too, with dyed hair and a punk rock t-shirt. She is crying, and pulling at the arms of the chained blonde man, backing him away. "I said no," she screams, "Listen to me Jackrabbit! I said no! He proposed� but I said no! I said no!!" Spyke is bleeding from his head and his nose, his shirt is ruined, his stash is gone. The girl is staring at him now. "Who are you?" he asks the strange girl, "Have we met?"