Disclaimer: The dog wags its tail because it is smarter than its tail. If the tail were

Note: The characters and situations created in this story do belong to me (thanks to the

By Stoker1439

Copyright December 1998

"I got good luck (in certain situations)."

"Nose bleed,

Skull cap,

Pissed off,

Pissed on."
-Aerosmith, "Walk on Water"

"But if you only knew

your son's pain

how bad that he wanted you to say

you're doing just fine."

Charley smiled and shook her head as she used her teeth to tear open a bag of miniature candy bars. She poured them into a large plastic bowl, and wondered if anyone in the video store had noticed Bingo sticking half-in and half-out of a black hole. Probably not. After all, if nobody noticed that Vinnie’s "skin" was literally white as snow, or that the dynamic duo had tails, then they probably weren’t observant enough to notice half a torso and a pair of legs hanging in mid-air, either.

Wonder how they made out? Charley asked herself. She sighed mentally. Probably not very well. I guess I should’ve sent them yesterday. We’ll be lucky if they come back with anything. Of course, Bingo did come back for my card, so they must have found something.

She put the bowl down on a table near the rear door, where most of the trick-or-treaters would arrive, then brushed her off her pants. After a moment of agonizing deliberation, she mumbled, "Aw, the Hell with it," and plucked a Chocolate Nummy-Ums out of the bowl.

"Mmmmmm," she sighed through a mouthful of chocolate. "I love Halloween. Even more than all the other candy-centered holidays."

Nostalgically, the mechanic thought back to the Halloweens of her childhood. The desperate hunt for an appropriate costume, getting out of school early, wandering the streets with her older brother and sister, egging the houses of those foolish enough to offer fruit in lieu of candy; My God, was there any sweeter night in a child's life?

Charley rested against the refrigerator for a moment. She'd have to remember to make sure nothing was missing from her laundry hamper. This wouldn't be the first time Vinnie had taken advantage of one of Bingo's black holes to swipe a few of her unmentionables. A half-dozen bras and pairs of underwear had turned up missing over the last two months, and Charley had a bad feeling they had taken up residence in that black trunk of Vinnie's at the Quigley Field Scoreboard.

Boys will be boys, she reminded herself, shaking her head. But nobody ever said they'd all be perverts.

Suddenly, the sound of cursing from somewhere in the garage caught Charley's ear. Puzzled, she slipped through the kitchen, around the corner into her tiny broom closet of a den, to the door that lead into the shop. She peeked inside, and had to cover her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing out loud.

There, just as she had left them an hour ago, were Throttle and Modo, sitting at a card table near the large aluminum doors. The leader and muscle of the Biker Mice from Mars, respectively, were still trying to carve the pumpkin she had picked up a few days ago. Still! Apparently, they weren't having much success. From where she stood, Charley could see that the pumpkin, its would-be face traced on crudely in black permanent marker, was completely unharmed. It looked almost as if it was almost gloating.

But the mice's failure was not for lack of trying, however, if the pained expressions both of them wore were any indication. Both of them looked completely absorbed in their task, hunched over the pumpkin, trying desperately to impale it on those junky little safety knives tailor-made for carving the Halloween vegetable of choice. Their faces were deadly serious. Charley doubted they could have looked any nastier if they were face to face with a Plutarkian, or even Hanson.

"Ah give up," Modo sighed finally, shaking his head and sitting back in his chair. "This thing don't wanna be carved, ah ain't gonna make it be carved."

Charley snickered into her hand. Poor guys. Trying so hard.

Throttle, however, was not ready to surrender, not just yet. The head honcho of the Biker Mice would never admit defeat, especially not to a member of the plant kingdom. All his other goals--returning to Mars, stopping Limburger cold, a week-long marathon of the more sensual pleasures with Carbine (and any other lovely ladies who happened to be in the room or within a twelve-mile radius)--were forgotten. The only thing that mattered now was cutting up that stupid goddamn pumpkin.

Not that he was having any more success than Modo. The knives, no matter what they were supposed to be able to slice, couldn't cut butter. Every attempt he made met with failure.

"Lousy…" he hissed under his breath, hair falling in his eyes. Drops of sweat trickled down his face and fell on the pumpkin.

"Throttle?" Modo asked, slightly concerned. "You okay, bro?"

Throttle remained silent, still trying to cut out the pumpkin's triangular eyes. His breath was becoming quicker as he became more and more frustrated. Was he actually panting? Geez!

"Son of a bitch," he whispered, watching the blade slip over one of the rounded humps. When he applied more pressure to the little knife, it bent as if it were made of rubber.

"You little……"

Modo carefully leaned around Throttle's shoulder, unnerved by his fixation, and whispered, "Easy, bro. It's just a--"

"CUT DAMN YOU, CUT!!!!" Throttle shouted, trying to strangle his knife but meeting with failure, as knives, not being alive in the first place, can't be killed.

That, and Throttle couldn't find its throat, and it's very hard to strangle something that doesn't have one.

He slammed the knife down on the table and sighed, resting his head in his hands.

"I can save a city blindfolded, I can take out an entire battalion of Plutarkians with both hands behind my back, but I can't carve a stupid pumpkin?" he mumbled. "Something seems wrong about that."

Modo gently patted him on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, bro," he said, trying his best to be reassuring.

"Beaten by a vegetable," Throttle sighed, shaking his head.

Hmmm, Charley thought to herself. Should have figured those knives wouldn't be able to cut the mustard. Well, cut the pumpkin, any way. I'll go get them something sharper to use.

She returned to the kitchen and began digging through the utensil drawer, where she was more than a little disgusted to find all her forks and knives littered with short orange hairs. Apparently, Bingo had been searching for Charley's wallet there, too. "Oh, yuck," the mechanic groaned. "I'm going to have to run these through the dishwasher again. Dammit, I thought you guys were gonna stop shedding once fall hit!"

Well, you can't help what's already happened, she reminded herself, palming her way through the drawer with gritted teeth.

For a moment, Charley reflected sadly on the fact that she could've been sitting up in her room enjoying a good horror novel right now instead of hunting for a pair of paring knives (would that be four?) to keep Throttle and Modo from committing pumpkin-murder in the first degree. She could've gone out tonight. She could've been soaking in a nice hot bath. She could've been lying on her bed and staring at the ceiling, even, with no one around to bother her, if that was what she wanted. But no, for some insane reason, she had invited the Biker Mice over to spend Halloween at her place (once she gave them a basic explanation of what Halloween was).

Must be losing my mind. That's the only explanation I can think of.

Between work, being held captive by the super-villain of the week, and keeping the guys out of trouble, Charley had very little free time all to herself any more. It seemed like the moment the mice had crash-landed a few months back, the notion of "private time" had gone right out the window. If she wasn't helping the guys stop Limburger, then the mechanic found herself unable to get the foursome to leave her garage. They were there almost every day, from shortly after noon to the wee hours of the night. She couldn't remember the last time she had been in total control of her life, her future, or her television. When was the last time she had been able to read for more than five minutes without an explosion coming from downstairs and somebody shouting, "Oops!" ? When was the last time she had been able to enjoy pure peace and quiet? When was the last time her freezer hadn't been stocked top to bottom with hot dogs? Maybe it was the consequence of being the sweetheart of a quartet of crusaders for justice. After all, April O'Neil didn't get much time to herself; was Charley any more entitled?

So why is it, Miss Charlene Alexandra Davidson, that if your free time is so precious, you’re spending it with the guys tonight?

Of course, she knew why; she wasn't that ignorant. As much as the mice annoyed her, as much as she liked to say she’d be better off without them, and as much as she liked the seat being left DOWN, Charley enjoyed their company. The fact of the matter was, before they showed up, Charley had been a little lonely. She didn't have many really good buddies in the area, and no blood family save for a few far-related cousins nearby. Her parents were a hundred miles away in a more rural section of Illinois, her sister was on the East Coast with her idiot husband and their two bratty kids (with a third little monster on the way), and her brother was in California with his new……friend, Adrian. The Davidson children hadn't gotten together in a long time, not since Robby had killed his mother's hopes of any grandchildren from him. Phone calls cost a fortune, and visits were almost out of the question on a mechanic's salary. So it was just Charley, in the Garage, her real golden years wasting away. She had been thinking about getting a cat, but that was just way too sad.

Now, though, it was different. It was like she had four close friends—no, more like brothers (if you ignored the fact that Bingo was a girl, which wasn't hard at all)--around her almost all the time. It made Charley's lonely little garage feel less like a pile of concrete and bricks and more like a home. Their horseplay was refreshing, and they all shared a common love of motorcycles and riding And then there were their stories about Mars and their families that Charley so treasured. Even such an exotic setting as the dusty desert iceball the mice had left behind echoed powerfully of Earth. Sure, Mars had sandy deserts the size of continents, next to zero liquid, plants that migrated in search of water, volcanoes four times the size of Mt. Everest, and other oddities that left Charley speechless, but it also had mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, nephews, cousins, high school, keggers, football, warm summer nights, fishing, music, libraries, grocery stores, road trips to far-away theme parks, and almost every other treasured institution the mechanic knew and held dear. Mars was just like Earth, if you ignored the fact that the red planet's population had nearly been totally wiped out over the last decade.

Besides that, Charley had a feeling that a get-together like tonight's would make all four Biker Mice feel better, too. They had only been on Earth for a few months, and she suspected, beneath their macho facades, they were getting a little homesick. Quigley Field was cozy, but it wasn’t Mars, and it never would be.

This is just what they need, the mechanic told herself with a smile, walking to the bay to give the mice the knives she had found. What all of us need.

Charley took two steps into the garage and screamed.

The entire interior of her workplace was covered in a thick, orange goo. Huge, slimy blobs of the seedy paste covered the walls. Tiny orange hills, somewhat of reminiscent of liquid traffic cones, dotted the ground. A seed dropped from the speckled ceiling onto her head, leaving a spit-like goober in her hair.

And one whiff of the air told her what it was:

Pumpkin innards.

"WHAT HAPPENED IN HERE?!?!?" Charley shouted, eyes wide.

A cold, heavy hand patted Charley on the back. She spun around, and saw Modo standing behind her, wearing a sheepish grin on his face, where it wasn’t covered by pumpkin. Throttle, just to the left of Modo, had his arms crossed over his chest, and looking simultaneously annoyed and embarrassed. Large orange spots speckled his fur, too.

"Hiya Charley-darlin’," Modo said with a nervous chuckle. "Sorry about the mess."

Charley looked around the room, exasperated, and snapped, "What happened?"

Throttle sighed a little, then explained, "Well, we tried cutting out the face with the little knives you gave us, but they didn’t do much good. Pretty dull. We were both getting a little frustrated."
Modo nodded, then held up his bionic right arm and added, "So ah thought maybe this would help."

"Boom," Modo added with a fitting hand motion, just in case Charley didn’t understand.

Charley sighed grandly. What was that about not minding having them over?

"You guys do know you’re cleaning this up before we do anything else this evening, right?" she growled.

Reluctantly, Throttle and Modo nodded. The mechanic, cursing about her rotten luck ("Why couldn’t they have crashed in Peoria?"), exited in search of cleaning implements, or possibly, a 30-.06.

"I told you it wouldn’t work!" Throttle sighed. He blew his tan bangs out of his eyes and asked, "How did I let you talk me into this?"

"Well, how was ah supposed t’know it’d blow up?" Modo asked, shrugging lamely. "Y’always hear about how they use lasers in surgery and all that, so ah thought mine would work, too!"

"Modo, your laser is made to take out a friggin’ tank. I got news for ya: that ain’t the kind they use for open-heart surgery."

"Well, maybe they don't on Earth…" Modo retorted. "Besides, you were gettin' all strung out. That little vein in the middle of your forehead was throbbin' again. Ah didn't want you getting' all strung out an' upset over a stupid pumpkin."

Throttle smiled a little. He pulled off his sunglasses and cleaned them on the corner of his black leather vest, wiping away all the pumpkin that he could possibly manage before returning them to his face.

"Appreciate it, bro. But next time, put a little more thought into your good deeds, okay? I mean, a mouse’s head will blow up if you hit it with a laser--why wouldn’t a pumpkin?"

The big gray-furred mouse put his hand in chin for a moment, then replied, "Ah dunno. Just thought maybe Earth vegetables 're tougher than Martian ones. All that extra gravity n'all."

He kicked a pile of pumpkin guts and added, "Guess not."

Charley returned and handed each of them a bucket and mop. Together, the three of them set about cleaning up the car port, and tried their damnedest to make it spic and span.

It was, however, a losing battle. There was just too much pumpkin. The threads of their mops were soon choked with seeds, and after awhile, the stench became so overpowering that none of them (particularly the mice with their ultra-sensitive noses) could stand to be in the room.

"Okay," Charley amended after Throttle and Modo cleaned the pumpkin out of their fur, "first thing tomorrow, you guys are cleaning that up, you got that? And I don’t care if the entire Plutarkian armada attacks, you aren’t getting out of it! The Earth will just have to fend for itself."

"Yes, ma’am," Throttle and Modo muttered in perfect unison, just as the sound of screeching tires on pavement caught their ears. Years of listening to engines informed Throttle and Modo instantly of their bros' arrival. The squishing sound following after the engines died added that they had just ridden right through the remains of the pumpkin.

"Great," Charley muttered. "Now they're going to track that stuff everywhere. I've got such a headache…"

"Anybody home?" Vinnie shouted from inside the garage part of the garage.

"We’re in the den, bro!" Throttle called back through cupped hands. "Park your bikes around the side!"

"Charley has a den?" Bingo asked. "I didn't know that!"

"She does in this story, anyway!" Modo shouted back.

After a few minutes, Vinnie and Bingo appeared at the door, arms laden with videos and grocery bags packed to the brim with snacks. Modo and Throttle quickly helped them unload while Charley gaped at the number of parcels.

"What happened in there?" Bingo asked, pulling off her helmet. Her hair, freed from its metal prison, stayed "crushed" as it was in her helmet for a minute before assuming its normal style.

"Yeah!" Vinnie agreed, his mask flashing in the light. "And why’d we miss out on the fun?"

Charley just shook her head and sighed, certain of the fact that if she ever died of a stress-related cerebral hemorrhage, the mice would be the cause of it.

Throttle pulled his sunglasses off and shined them clean once again, then asked, "Remember that whole ‘pumpkin-carving’ thing Charley told us about?"

"Yeah!" Bingo chirped. "A Jack-Off Lantern!"

"Jack O’ Lantern," Charley corrected, smiling.

Bingo shrugged dismissively.

The mechanic sat down, chin in hand, and sighed, "Looks like we won’t be having one this year. Dammit. I hope the kids still know to come--"

"Kids?" Modo asked, raising an eyebrow. "Whaddaya mean?"

"Didn’t we go through this once already?" Charley asked, surprised. "I thought I already told you all about Halloween."

"Not about that part, sweetheart," Vinnie said, leaning against the wall.

Trying to avoid a big discussion, Charley said simply, "On Halloween night, little kids dress up in costumes and come around to people’s houses to get--"

"Why are they in costume?" Bingo asked.

"This kinda sounds like that 'Ku Klux Klan' thing you were sayin' about last week," Throttle said thoughtfully. "Does this mean they're gonna be burning crosses on people's lawns, too?"
"You humans have the strangest holidays," Vinnie interjected.

"No, no!" Charley shouted. "This is totally different!" She paused to mull over Bingo's question, the original one about the costumes before their talk had become sidetracked, then explained, "It's partly because it’s tradition, and partly because of the huge commercial costume industry. But anyway, they come around to houses in costume and people give them candy. Treats, you know And that's pretty much--"
"What if they don’t want to?" Throttle asked. "Give them candy, I mean."

"Well, then, you don’t give them any, but--"

Modo crossed his arms over his chest and interrupted, "Doesn’t seem right for a little kid to spend a bunch of money on a costume and then the jerkweeds won’t give ‘em any candy!"

"Well, that’s where the ‘trick’ part of trick-or-treat comes in," Charley continued, her hopes of a quick, painless explanation long forgotten. "If you don't give kids candy, then odds are your house is going to get egged, or your windows are going to get soaped, or something like that. Mild vandalism."

"Huh," Modo mumbled. "And they just let ‘em do that?"

Throttle smirked and said, "And they wonder why the youth of America is going downhill."
Shaking her head, Charley laughed, "It’s not encouraged. It just happens."

"Sounds like fun!" Vinnie cried. "You got any eggs, sweetheart?"

"Vincent," Throttle warned. He then turned to Charley and asked, "Do we have to get dressed up?"

Charley shook her head no and explained, "I give out candy to neighborhood kids, so we’re going to stay in and watch the movies."

Besides, she thought to herself with a smile, I don't think you guys would really need them!

"Then we better get started!" Bingo said, holding up both bags of tapes. "We got thirty or so in here, and they’re all due back tomorrow!"

"Even though I don't think we checked them out, technically," Vinnie added quietly.

As the mice delved through the bags, trying to decide which to watch first, Charley, unable to believe her ears, asked, "You guys didn’t actually get thirty movies, did you?"

Vinnie nodded and proclaimed proudly, "We got as many as we could find that were on the list you gave us!"

Modo held up a tape and said, "Hey, 'Mallrats' isn't a horror movie."

"We grabbed a few extras!" Bingo said quickly, snatching the tape from Modo's hand. "That's mine."

"Perfection is just part of the package deal, babe," Vinnie concluded.

Doing the math quickly, Charley cried, mouth hanging open, "That means that we’ve got over sixty hours of video and less than twenty-four to watch them in! We’ll never get through them all!"

Throttle smirked and said, "Not with that attitude we won’t."

"Dipshit! Don’t go down there!" Vinnie howled. "The dude with the knife is down there!"

"He’s doin' it! He’s doin' it!" Modo cried.

"Don’t open that door!" Throttle warned fiercely.

"Dumb ass!" Bingo screamed giddily.

Charley shook her head and smiled as the killer planted a six-inch meat cleaver in the skull of his rather unsuspecting victim. She wasn’t quite as caught up in the fun as the mice were (having seen almost all the movies sixty-eight times already), but she watched with almost smug satisfaction as the furry foursome made fun of the paper-thin plots and decried the stupidity of the actors.

Especially the ones that got killed.

"I hope these films aren't an accurate picture of typical human intelligence," Throttle told Charley, winking. "You guys wouldn't stand a chance against the Plutarkians."

"No!" Bingo shouted. "Don’t make out with the slut! That's like signing your own death certificate!"

"Ah dunno," Modo countered, grinning. "Ah think it'd be worth the risk."

"Only if you made it to third base," Vinnie corrected. "Me, I like the brunette. That's one awe-inspiring rack. Rrrrroww." He turned to Charley and asked, "I makin' you jealous yet, sweetheart?"

"Only in your wildest dreams," Charley replied, playfully smacking him with a pillow. That one little swat erupted into a full-scale war involving all four mice, Charley, all the pillows in the room, several couch cushions, a small aircraft carrier, the Senate Judiciary Committee, and Bill Gates, who likes to have a finger in everything.

DING-DONG!
"The doorbell," Charley cried, ducking a missile tossed by Throttle (which hit Bingo in the face). "Ooh! The kids must be here!" Pulling herself out of the mound of pillows and bodies, she said quickly, "Modo, you get the door and I’ll get the candy!"

Modo nodded and dashed to the back door, leaving his bros to fight over who was, indeed, King of The Mountain. He straightened his belt up, fixed his eye patch, and opened the door.

Standing in front of him were a trio of grade-schoolers--two boys and a girl--in trick-or-treat wear; one a pirate, one a ghost, one a fairy. Of interest was the fact that one of the boys was the fairy. The children's faces were aglow with delight, good cheer, and an overabundance of sugar in their systems. Their bulging bags, each one bearing a large smiling pumpkin on both sides, declared that tonight's haul had so far been a good one. Behind the children stood a tired woman, clearly their escort (and, as fate would have it, their mother as well).

"Trick or--" they started to say, then stopped abruptly, awed by the size of the mouse that stood before them. The children had to crane their necks upward to see Modo in his entirety ´ la "Kindergarten Cop," so out of consideration, the big gray-furred mouse hunkered down on his heels so that he was on their level.

"Wow!" the pirate said, a gape-toothed grin spreading across her young face. "That’s a really good costume, mister!"

Modo smiled broadly and patted her gently on the head.

"Ah appreciate the compliment," he told her.

Her mother commented thoughtfully, "She’s right. That’s really good. The fur, the muscles, the little red thingies--"

"Antenna," Modo explained.

"--yeah, they all look really good. How long did it take you to put it all together?"
"Oh, years," he chuckled

He turned his attention back to the children and said with a grin, "Okay! Let’s see what we got here! Ah see a scary ghost, an’ a pirate, and a……uhhhh….."

The gray-furred mouse stopped short when he came to the fairy-boy, unsure exactly of what to say.

"I’m Disohphonopholotolucus, one of the more notable but tragically overlooked muses!" the little boy in the pink tulle replied with more than a little bit of irritation. He had apparently already been through this routine several times that evening. "Anyone with a basic knowledge of Greek mythology knows that my power of inspiration is nothing short of amazing!" He turned to his guardian and cried aloud, "Mother, why did we have to go trick or treating in this neighborhood? All the people are uncultured philistines!"

"JASON!" his mother cried, enraged and embarrassed.

Bingo, who stood just behind Modo, said with a grin, "Well, I guess we know who won’t be getting any candy!"

The little boy turned up to Bingo and cried, "Shut up, you ignorant son of a bitch!"

"JASON!" his mother shouted again. She cuffed him upside the head and snapped, "Watch your language! And even if I did let you use that kind of language, that’s a girl, and you don’t call girls 'sons of bitches'!"

The woman paused a moment, looked at Bingo thoughtfully, then whispered, "At least, I think she’s a girl…."

Bingo grimaced and wondered whether it would be more practical to get breast implants or just kill everyone who mistook her for a boy.

Naw, she thought sadly to herself. That’d take too long. After all, mice only live a hundred fifty years or so, and I’d need four or five dozen centuries to finish up.

The boy’s mother apologized quickly and explained, "This is just a phase, I swear."

Modo nodded understandingly. Having once been a child himself, he had gone through several phases of his own, including an inexplicable one in which he refused to speak except in the third person.

No, wait. He was thinking of Ross Perot.

Whatever the case, Modo heard Charley approach from behind, and took the candy bowl from her when she showed up.

The bowl was a child’s dream, filled with tiny candy bars, bubble gum, assorted gummy animals (including the new for ‘98 Gummy Chihuahua), licorice, chocolate, Krispy bars, and, just in case one of the young trick-or-treaters happened to be diabetic, a few apples (which Charley had known before she put them into the bowl would never be taken, and ultimately, she was right).

The ghost, wide-eyed behind his sheet, asked, "How many pieces can we have?"

Modo shrugged and replied, "Aw, we got plenty! Take as much as the you like!"

The kids looked at each other awe-struck, then began scooping huge double handfuls out of the bowl. By the time their mother chased them out of it and towards the next house, it was very nearly empty.

"Hey," Modo said with a smile as he handed the vacant bowl to Charley, "that was fun!"

"Except for the little jerk-off with the wings," Bingo growled.

"Modo!" Charley shouted, aghast. "That was supposed to last all night!"

Modo blushed a little and said with a shrug, "Aw, ah’m sorry, Charley-ma’am. Ah didn’t know. They just looked so tickled an’ everything…"

Throttle nodded, put an arm around Modo, and added, "Don't blame Modo, Charley-girl. The big fella’s just got a soft spot for kids."

Charley sighed and shook her head as she dug in her coat pocket for her keys.

"I don’t suppose you guys have any of that candy you ran up on my credit card left?" she asked without much hope in her voice.

All four mice proudly shook their heads no.

"I’m not gonna sleep for at least a week," Vinnie added with a broad smile. It changed to a crooked grin as he asked, "You wanna keep me company on those long nights, sweetheart?"

"Gee, let me think," the mechanic replied saucily. "Nope, sorry, ego-boy, I’ve got better things to do. Like watching the paint flake off my walls."

As the other mice ribbed Vinnie playfully, Charley slipped on her coat and prepared to go.

"Listen, guys," she said firmly, "I’m going to go out for some more candy--assuming there’s some left in this town at eight o'clock on Halloween night. If any more kids come, just give them ONE PIECE EACH. And no snacking on what’s left! Got that?"

The mice all nodded their assent, though by the time Jason’s mother had successfully rounded up all her children, there were only two Tootsie Rolls and a pile of really wretched black licorice left in the bottom of the bowl.

And the apples.

***

At about 9:30 PM (Central Standard Time), the Chicago Police Department was inundated by calls from frantic citizens shouting something about a giant orange fireball on Wacker Street (actually, it wasn't Wacker; it was 22^nd. I just like to say 'Wacker.' Wacker wacker wacker. Sounds dirty). The boys in blue investigated the scene, thinking at first that someone might have set a bomb in a really over the top Halloween prank, but found no damage or dead bodies (much to their relief). There wasn't even so much as scorched ground or ash at the alleged site. Nor did they find the remnants of a bomb—pipe fragments, plastic explosives, Theodore Kacynzki, etc. The police were forced to conclude that absolutely nothing had happened. Even though the people who made the calls would have protested, they would’ve had to admit that there simply was no proof. And without proof, is there actually any evidence that anything has happened? Is an event's existence validated by proof? If the Earth were to explode, there would be no record that the human race ever existed. If that happened, did the human race ever really exist? It is only the mind that separates reality from truth. It is all literally a matter of perspective. By merely changing our perspective, we can completely alter our own individual truth. What is I? I am me. I am no more and no less than myself. I am formed by interaction with others. They create me as I create them. What is, is. You can not deny the fact that you piloted once more. I am the Shinji Ikari that exists in my mind, and also the Shinji Ikari that exists in Misato's mind, and the Shinji Ikari that exists in Rei's Ayanami's mind, and--

Whoops. Sorry. I'm on a Neon Genesis Evangelion kick. They get into that introspective shit all the time.

Of course, the real evidence that something had happened (and it had happened) was walking determinedly toward the Last Chance Garage, ready to destroy the thirteenth Holy Knight of the Order of St. Dumas.

Colby watched from an alley as Timmy paced down the street to his quarry. It was a strange sight: good ole Tim was huge among his own race, but here on Earth, next to the humans who scurried about him, he was a giant. Even their vehicles and buildings were dinky compared with the warrior who strode through their streets with death on his mind.

Don’t they see him? Colby wondered, crossing his arms over his chest as Timmy passed a flock of trick-or-treaters, who walked by as if they hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary. Humans are so dense! I don’t see why our fish have to wear masks at all! Nobody would ever notice if they didn't! I could walk up to somebody and go, "Hey, don’t you people see that my head, unlike yours, is large, blue, and scaly? That I have tiny little fins and gills? That I have yellow eyes?" And they'd just go, "Huh?" Geez! This planet is full of idiots! Probably not a hot idea for us to be taking their water and stuff! Their stupidity might be contagious!

Colby rubbed his arms a little. He was starting to regret accepting the assignment. Bad enough that he and Timmy didn't get along at all, but now that the assassin had taken his leave of the fish, Colby didn't know what to do, exactly.

"Colby," a familiar voice said from behind.

The young Plutarkian turned, and was surprised to see his master floating nearby.

"Master Black!" he shouted, bowing quickly. "I--I didn’t expect to see you for another hour! Until I was supposed to check in!"

"Don't worry, Ichabod," Black replied simply. He floated to the ground and explained, "I came early on purpose. I was getting bored back at the citadel. I guess you can only really watch a person's liver be ripped out by a vulture so many times before its gets old. How goes it?"

"Well, we arrived about ten minutes ago a few blocks from here," Colby explained. "I thought that this place would be as good as any to wait. It's about a half mile from that garage you said the girl was in. Timmy's on his way there now."

"Good, good," the wolf said, nodding. "You're doing splendidly."

The fish bit his tongue for a minute, then catechized curiously, "Master, I have a question. I know that you want to test this Ritz girl's physical skill, and that you want to send somebody good up against her, but…..but isn't Timmy a bit of…..overkill? I mean, he's probably going to tear her into ribbons two minutes after he finds her."

Black smiled a little, then replied casually, "Why do you think I chose Timmy in the first place? I want her dead in the long run, Colby, let there be no mistake about that. Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt that I want Bingo Ritz deceased."

"Uh, master? The sun doesn't move in relation to the Earth. The Earth orbits it, not the other way around."

The wolf grinned slyly.

"That's what you think!"

"No, Master, they've proven it."

Black's face fell.

"Really?" He groaned. "Shit! I've been going around using that line for years, making myself look like an idiot! Why didn't anybody tell me?"

Probably because they didn't want to be eaten, Colby thought to himself grimly.

"I'm going to kill that lying bastard Ptolomey next time I see him!"

"But Ptolomey's been dead for several hundred years."

Black shook his head sadly.

"I am so behind. I had better start checking the obits."

He pushed his hair back and continued.

"Anyway, if in the testing of her physical prowess, she dies, then whoop-de-doo! It's over and done with. I seriously overestimated her, and my job is almost complete.

"But I seriously doubt that I have."

"So you think that Timmy might actually get killed?" Colby asked skeptically.

Black nodded.

"How?!?!?!"

"You don't know the power of the Inferno Sword in the right hands," his patron replied softly. With a smirk, he corrected, "Or in this case, the left hand."

Secretly, though, he thought to himself, I hope I haven't made an egregious error in sending someone with that much power against her. If Timmy puts her up against a wall, and she's desperate enough, she might…… If that happens……Ugh. I'd never hear the end of it!

Shaking such thoughts from his head, the wolf said quickly, "Listen, Colby, I have an important task for you to complete while you are here in Chicago. One of even greater gravity than the one you are presently on."

"Name it, my Lord, and it will be done," Colby replied with an elegant bow. His mind was swimming with possibilities for that double-platinum credit card; a little sucking up certainly couldn't hurt at this point. Was there such a thing as triple-platinum? He was determined to find out.

"Ahhhh, Ichabod, you are so wonderfully subservient! All right. Here it is. I want you to go and meet with that Lawrence Limburger fellow."

Had Colby's eyes gotten any bigger, they would have exploded in their sockets.

"Master! Sure--surely you’re--you're joking! I hate him! You know that! I'd just as soon kill him as look at him!"

After a moment of thought, he asked hopefully, "Is that what you want me to do?"

A faint smile curled at the edges of Black’s mouth as he replied, "Your devotion is astounding, Ichabod, when it suits you to be devoted. But no, I'm afraid not. I want this Limburger to live. And I kid only when it suits me, and it does not suit me at this time. I am deadly serious. I want you to go meet with this chap, so that you might learn more about him, and by way of extension, that I might. I might have a use for him somewhere along the line. Who knows? You might work together someday. You've no need to worry, though; you’re not being replaced. I’ve put too much work into you to remove you now.

"But, if you do not obey my orders, then…."

He shrugged, as if he could not be held responsible for his own actions.

Ichabod sighed and said, "Your wish is my command, Master. But what about Timmy?"

"I shall watch him myself," Black replied simply, as if it should be totally obvious. "It should be a good show. When I'm ready to return, I'll summon you, and you will go seek him out to see how he is doing." In a far more sober tone, he added, "This meeting could be important, Colby. Do make a good impression."

He clapped his hands, as if in glee, but as soon as palm struck palm, Colby disappeared.

Black watched with approval. He didn't know exactly what would come of this meeting, but he had no doubt it would be interesting. Especially if Colby didn't realize his fly was down until after it was over.

"Now," the wolf said as he began to fade into nothingness, "time to check in on my young warrior."

***

Timmy smiled a bit as his delicate ears picked up the sound of merriment from inside the small square brick of a building before him. Even from a few feet away, he could hear and discern the voices of its occupants. There were at least four separate individuals inside; one of them, he knew, was his quarry. Timmy even had an idea which of the voices was hers. The one that was higher than the other three. It was piping, cheerful, giddy. If nothing else, there was no way in Hell any of the other three voices could be mistaken for that of a teenage girl.

Although the deep belching that kept punctuating the speech of that chosen voice left Timmy with a little bit of doubt.

It didn’t really matter if Azrael was alone or not. Oh, she’d be easy enough to pick out, even in a large crowd--according to Black, she was orange-furred and red-haired, a color combination extremely rare in Martian mice. Hard to miss. And she was a girl. The other three were male.

But finding her wasn't the issue. What if the other mice fought back? Still no problem. Timmy would kill an army of mice if he had to and still rip out Azrael's throat. Bikers or no, they couldn't be that strong. Hell, he'd probably just have to knock them out and then go about his business. Timmy was firm in his resolve. No matter how powerful her bloodline, Bingo Ritz would be dead before the clock struck midnight (leaving Timmy plenty of time to pick up a cappuccino afterwards at Starbucks).

The only worry in his mind was that he hadn't known how powerful Earth's gravity was beforehand. Most of Timmy's training had been under a much lower pull. As much as he hated to admit it, it was slowing him down a great deal. His entire body felt sluggish. Slower. The Two-Second Gut-Pull would take him at least five here.

I'll still kill that kid, he assured himself. I'll shrug this off soon enough, anyway.

He paused for a moment in the street.

Now, just how do I want to go about this? No doubt that Black

(bastard)

is watching me right this very second, so I’ve got to make this look good. Let's see. I could charge in through a wall, I guess, cut her head off before she knows what's happening…hmmmm…. But that’s a little too brutal, given the range of my skill. Besides, enough walls get broken down in this series as is. I haven't got time to set up anything really elaborate, though. And not knowing the layout complicates things. I'd still kinda like to catch her by surprise, though.

He noticed the back door, and instantly knew his course of action.

The Biker Mice were in the middle of "The Time Warp" when they heard someone knocking.

"Dammit!" Vinnie snapped, throwing his fists down in frustration. "Just when I was startin’ to get the hang of this!"

"Of course you were," Throttle agreed, raising a sarcastic eyebrow.

"How can you mess up this dance, bro?" Modo asked, grinning. "Ah mean, they even say, ‘jump to the left/step to the right’. It ain’t that hard."

Bingo snickered and added, "Except for those of us unfortunate enough to have no sense of rhythm whatsoever."

The knocking picked up, almost impatiently.

"Whose turn is it?" Throttle asked.

"Well, ah won the arm-wrestlin' match between me and Vinnie," Modo said thoughtfully, "an' Vinnie beat Bing, so it's your turn, lil' bro."

"Flip ya for it," she suggested hopefully, eager to see the scene Charley had said about when Tim Curry came down the elevator in women's lingerie, which was apparently next. As much as the mechanic had talked about it, it must have been the pinnacle of American cinema.

Vinnie pointed firmly to the door.

"Shit," she mumbled, picking up the candy bowl and resting it against her hip. Bingo strolled slowly to the door, unaware that her doom lay just beyond the wooden portal.

In which case, she probably wouldn’t have answered it.

Black will love this one, Timmy thought merrily to himself. I’ll give her just enough time to get a good look at her executioner, then BAM! Right through her throat! Then I'll split her open down to her bellybutton!

Suddenly, some subconscious voice (possibly Throttle’s old tormentor, Steve) piped up that maybe one of the other individuals there was going to answer the door. One of Azrael's big, strong friends. What then, huh, what then? Come on, wolf-boy, spit it out!

Timmy’s ego quickly countered that he could handle any of them. Same procedure, then charge in and finish the girl. No sweat.

This internal conflict, however, kept him busy long enough that he didn’t see the door opening until the short (especially compared to himself) red-haired mouse stepped outside and saw him first, thus costing him the element of surprise.

Though Timmy was himself more than a little surprised by his opponent's appearance.

That’s her?!?!?!? No, it can’t be! This can't be Azrael! Azrael--Azrael's supposed to be a mighty warrior! This can't be her! Look at how scrawny this kid is! And she's so short! Goddamn! I could use her for a toothpick! Or dental floss! Or maybe that new gum that cleans your teeth that's in the toothpaste aisle! Where're her muscles? Nice hair, but GEEZ! Black's afraid of you?!?!?

……

And Bingo was no less shocked by Timmy. She stared at him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, the same way the children had gazed up at Modo earlier. Her ears drooped ever so slightly. Even her tail stopped swishing. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

"Holy…." Bingo whispered.

Well, Azrael or not, at least she knows enough to be afraid of me. That'll keep her still for a second.

With lightning-quick fingers, Timmy started to reach for his new sword (Black’s gift to him), a grin starting to spread across his face.

"WOW!" Bingo shouted suddenly, face alight with effervescent joy. "What a great costume!"

"Huh?" the lupine assassin asked, startled. Costume? What was she talking about? And why wasn't she shaking in fear anymore?

His young target, showing no inhibitions whatsoever, circled him and exclaimed cheerfully, "This is the best costume I’ve seen all night! Man!" Bingo inspected Timmy's clothing more thoroughly, looking for a zipper or the seams on his mask while Timmy gaped. Just what did this girl think she was doing?

"Oooh!" she cooed, eyes caught by the gems on his wrists. "They're gorgeous! They look almost real!"

Bingo continued her inspection for a moment, then finally returned to the doorway.

"What’re you supposed to be, anyway?"

Remembering his mission quickly, Timmy replied in his lowest, most rumbling voice, "The messenger of your death! Quiver before my awesome visage, for it is the last thing you will ever see!"

He began to reach for his sword again, fingertips brushing the leather wrapped around the grip. The jewel in its hilt gave off a throbbing heat Timmy could feel through his fur and straight to the bone, like an electric shock. It was as if the sword was eager to begin its nasty business.

Maybe it was.

Bingo laughed and elbowed him playfully in the gut.

"Funny! You don't look a thing like Baby Spice! So, did you make it all by yourself?"
"Well….uh…..parts of it."

That was true; Timmy had pounded the metal buckle on his belt into shape with his bare hands. And the muscles were definitely the product of his own hard work. His jumpsuit, however, had been on sale at Wal-Mart. Great assassin or no, you have to cut corners somewhere.

"Well, congratulate your Mom for me! She did a great job! So, just how old are you?"
Thoroughly muddled by this time, Timmy replied, "Uh….I….five-hundred seventy-two."

"Given the number of times I’ve heard that kinda thing tonight," Bingo said thoughtfully, "I’d say you’re ten and on stilts. Still, I like it! You get the Ritziantanto seal of approval!"

"Now wait a minute here--" Timmy started to object, desperate to get back to business.

The candy bowl was abruptly shoved under his nose.

"Here ya go!" the young mouse crowed proudly. "Take whatever ya like!"

Timmy looked into the bowl, and at its meager contents, thunderstruck. Was she serious? Did she have any idea what was going on here?
Bingo interpreted his pause as dissatisfaction with the candy. She looked into the bowl herself and sighed, "I know, it ain’t much, is it? Too bad you weren't here a little while ago. We had some good stuff then. Guess you don't like apples?"

"Actually," Timmy replied, a little peeved, "I like the warm flesh of my victims, still red with their blood."

Bingo gaped at him, then mumbled, "Okaaaaaay…..Why do I get the weird ones? Anyway, red meat isn't good for you. At least, raw red meat isn't. And we don't have any, on top of that. We have black licorice, though."

"Yuck!" Timmy exclaimed. Some dislikes transcend species.

A small black hole appeared to the young mouse’s left. She reached inside and pulled out what was easily a two-pound bag of candy, which she quickly tore open and poured into the bowl.

(Note for nitpickers: Bingo only didn’t suggest to Charley that she get the candy out of a black hole earlier because she was feeling lazy, and didn't want to miss the part of Alien: Resurrection when the aliens are swimming after Ripley and Co. Who would? It was the best part of the movie!)

"That’s better!" she said happily. With one hand, she spread out the candy a little more, then pushed it back toward her would-be killer. "Okay! Go ahead!"

As Timmy, befuddled, looked at the bowl, his unknowing prey suggested, "Try one of the Oooey-Gooeey Crunchy Nummy-Num-Nums. They’re really good, though they do get stuck in your teeth."
Shrugging, Timmy scooped up a handful, then said, "Okay, now, I—"

"Happy Halloween!" she shouted, slamming the door in his face.

Bingo put the candy bowl down on the table near the door, then sprinted into the den and took a flying leap onto the couch. Her warning cry of "BANZAII!" gave Modo and Throttle just enough time to scoot over and move the popcorn bowl before their younger bro landed just between them.

"You do have a certain flair for entering a room, you know that?" Throttle asked with a grin so muted it might have been a scowl.

"Who was it?" Modo asked curiously. "More kids?"

"Just one," Bingo replied, picking up a two-liter root beer and draining it halfway before putting it down. After belching quickly, she added, "But man! He had a great costume!"

"What was he?"

"Got me. It was really good, though. He looked like a ten foot tall humanoid wolf bent on my destruction. Said he was the messenger of my death."

"Isn't that Baby Spice?"

"You got it."

Vinnie mulled this over.

"I thought she was the messenger of my death."

Throttle shook his head and corrected, "No, that’s Scary Spice, remember? Modo’s is Oprah Winfrey, and mine is Leonardo DiCaprio. Pop culture will be the death of us all. Of course, the hoardes of obsessed teeny-bopper fans’ll give Leo away before he gets within a mile of me, so I'll probably never die."

Slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp.

Fifty-five…… Fifty-six……Fifty-seven……Fifty-eight……Fifty-nine……

CRUNCH!
"Dammit!" Timmy shouted, surprising a few last trick-or-treaters nearby. "Now I’ll never know how many licks it takes to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop!"

"That the world may never know," an icy voice hissed from behind.

Timmy spun around, and, in a way, wasn’t a bit surprised to see his father there behind him (does this guy ever appear in front of somebody?). Black wore a scowl that looked as if it could kill. In his case, that was all-too possible, as he had the power of the evil eye, but let’s not get into that, shall we? The air around him crackled with raw energy. A bright red aura surrounded him, and Timmy didn't need a psychic to interpret what Black was feeling.

"Timmy," the older wolf growled, "what do you think you’re doing?"

"Well, I…..uhhh…..."

He looked hopelessly at the cleaned-off lolly-pop stick.

Oh man. I'm in deep now.

"I guess I’m not performing up to your standards, am I, sai?" he said in his humblest voice. All the while, a painful litany ran through his head: I hate this! I hate having to humble myself in front of this guy!

Black was silent.

What's he going to do? He's going to do something.

Suddenly, Timmy had his answer. With a flick of Black's finger, the younger wolf was picked up by an invisible force and held him in midair, as if he were weightless. Timmy hung there, suspended, totally unable to move. Timmy gulped. He might be the mightiest warrior in the galaxy, but he was nothing next to his father. And now his father had him floating five feet above the street, supremely helpless and vulnerable.

Suddenly, the force pushed him into an alley. Before he knew what was happening, Timmy was thrown with brutal force into the side of a building. BAM! Bricks fell out of the wall. Timmy's right arm snapped like a twig, and nearly came apart. It was all he could do to keep from screaming. Blood began to seep through his jumpsuit and dripped onto the cement below, forming small red pools beneath him.

"Damn straight," Black mumbled, shaking his head.

"Timmy, you know that being selected for this task is the greatest honor I could have bestowed upon you. Do you know who killed almost every one of this girls' ancestors? Nearly every last one of them? Me! I did it personally, because I didn't want to risk something going wrong by sending someone else against the Azraels. Giving the assignment to you means I trust you, that I have faith in your abilities."

"And I know how much my approval means to you, although you'd rather not admit it. You hate me for never being a part of your life, but my saying three kind words to you would just about put you on Cloud Nine for the rest of your life, wouldn't it?"

"So I give you the opportunity. The perfect opportunity to prove yourself worthy of my attentions."

"Now, it's a weighty mission, but it's not a very complicated one, you have to admit that. Just one thing, one very simple thing: kill the girl! It's not a difficult concept!"

"Then I find you wandering around like an idiot eating candy! Candy! Considering the bounty I plan to confer upon you for this expedition, and all the trouble I went through to get a new sword just for you, I am extremely disappointed!"

Timmy fell to the ground, the force having released him from its grip. The huge warrior, the one whose power Black had judged substantial enough to kill Azrael, who had slain a clan of huge ogres without breaking a sweat, had been reduced to little more than a mass of broken bones barely bound together by his punctured, bleeding skin. Now he was in tears. There was no holding it back.

Why? Timmy wondered with a clarity of thought that was surprising, given the pain he was in, or perhaps not. When the time comes to go off the path and into the clearing, one can perhaps transcend pain enough become pensive. It'd explain why all Shakespeare's characters talk for fifteen minutes before they die (and roughly ten after they've given up the ghost). For God's sake, why is he doing this? What good will it do him to kill me?

"I'm teaching you a lesson, Timmy," Black replied coolly. "You wanted a father in your life? Fine. I'm punishing you, like any father would his son when he disobeyed him so willfully."

Great. Now he's reading my mind. Okay, sai Black, I made a mistake. But is it a mistake worth killing me over? Because I am dying.

"Yes. You let the girl trick you! Do you really think her that naïve as to think you were simply a child in costume? It was a ruse! And if you weren't clever enough to beat her once, you will never be clever enough! She will outsmart you again and again until she finally defeats you!"

"Are you sure?" Black asked, surprised.

YES!

"Hmmmmmm."

I can beat her, sai, but I need another chance! Please! I'll do it this time for sure! I promise.

Black sighed a little.

"All right. I'll give you another chance. But just one."

A huge, glowing pentagram appeared below Timmy. It began to spin, faster and faster, until it erupted into a glowing pillar of white light. Light that was somehow cold in its brightness, like that in a hospital morgue. The pillar engulfed Timmy and stretched into the clouds.

Black watched, a small smile on his face. Timmy hadn't really made such a colossal blunder. Truth be told, the first time he himself had seen this young Azrael, her appearance had caught him off guard, too. No matter how graceful she could be, she looked clumsy, gangly. On the other hand, so had most of the others. For some reason, the Holy Knight was always strange-looking.

And her innocence of Timmy's purpose there—well, that hadn't really been a surprise, either. Black had known about her nature for years. Maybe it was growing up outside the Order, outside Dumas' influence, but this Azrael seemed so much younger than all the others. Well, maybe not younger. Unaware. Naïve of her situation. Certainly less sophisticated. Strange. Grew up in the middle of a war, mice dying all around her both there and in Ash, killed her first Plutarkian when she was ten, and yet, she was somehow innocent. Weird.

No, he hadn't made any real mistake. His blunder wasn't even really punishable, and was barely worthy of reprimand. But there was a satisfaction to be gained in hearing bones break and watching blood flow that you just couldn't get from a harsh scolding.

Suddenly, the pillar exploded. Where its base had been stood a completely healed Timmy. There was no trace of the injuries his father had wrought upon him. His clothes were even repaired! Just as well. A broken spine probably would've made him less effective as a fighter, and having to fight naked might make Timmy self-concious.

"Thank you, sai Black," the young wolf said coldly, offering a short bow. "I won't disappoint you again."

"You had better not."

When Timmy looked up, Black was gone. Somehow, the street was darker for his presence, as if his patriarch had sucked out the light like some sort of vampire. There was no other sign Black had ever been there, however. Even the trashcans Timmy had slammed into were once again upright, and showed no damage. Maybe Black (and all that pain) had only been in Timmy’s mind. It wasn’t entirely impossible; astral projection was one of the Guild-master’s specialties, one of the myriad he hadn’t passed on to his bastard son.

It didn’t matter. Timothy had many others at his disposal, all of which he was prepared to use as he ran back to the Last Chance Garage. Various probable strategies ran through his head as his stride quickened. By the time he was within fifty feet of his quarry, he had a fully-formulated plan of attack, beginning with the removal of one of the small green gem-disks around his neck.

Time to get to business!

Still running, the assassin punctured it with his long, metallic nails, then threw the disk like a tiny frisbee toward one of the garage's walls, one that was just a short distance from the door he had first met his prey at. The disk stuck to it and flashed green.

Timmy threw himself to the ground. He slid to a stop within fifteen feet of the garage.

As it turned out, he stopped just in time.

A hot gust of air streamed over Timmy's back, carrying with it tiny fragments of brick, rocks, and other little bits of rubble that could probably have put an eye out. His short ponytail was pulled, ripped, and tossed. Eventually, the thong binding it broke. Light flashed on the backs of his eyelids. The thunder roared in his ears, even though they were flat against his head. There was no way to keep the sound out.

Timmy buried his face more tightly in his arms. He shouldn't have been hit at all. Damn! He hadn't gotten far enough from the blast. No wonder. He wasn't thinking clearly enough. His encounter with Black had thrown him off-balance (how could nearly being killed NOT throw you off balance?). Seven Hells. He'd have to shape up fast, or Black would give him another "lesson."

Slowly, the noise and light ended.

Smoke billowed out of the garage. There was now a huge hole in the wall where the disk had struck. No, not just huge—gigantic!

The young wolf rose to his feet. Not bad. But he'd have to step on it. A blast that size would draw the attentions of the other denizens of this neighborhood, even though there didn't seem to be anyone around for at least five square blocks. Surely there was some yahoo with a video camera, if nothing else. There always seemed to be one of those around whenever disaster struck.

Either way, this was no time for sloth. The sooner this was over with, the better.

Timmy entered not through the smoking portal he had just made (which seemed to make that explosion a waste of effort and the special effects budget), but through the door just beside it. No sense in being predictable, after all.

His sharp eyes pierced the dusty cloud thrown up by the explosion easily, and soon, he found his way into the room where that little rat Azrael and her friends had been. The blast had caught them totally unawares.

Hmmm, he hmmm-ed, staring at the three male mice lying before him. So those are the three other Biker Mice Black warned me about. Hmm. Well, for mice, they look pretty strong. Shouldn't be too much of a problem, though.

As he scanned the room, Timmy took in the damage. There was the wall, of course, which was now a little less a wall and a little more a tall pile of gravel. It had been blown inward, with pieces flung all across the small room and all through the garage. A plastic bottle, once the proud container of two liters of the finest vintage root beer available in the windy city, had actually been driven whole into another wall (though, as Vinnie would later point out, it was still drinkable). Shelves had been knocked down, and pictures were shattered inside their frames. A small television had been destroyed, screen cracked, its innards belching black smoke, but the VCR was still running. It would live to play another day. The off-white rug lying on the floor was now even further from white, streaked black and brown by the blast. A large paisley couch with a blue-green slipcover had been overturned as well.

Wow, Timmy thought proudly as he glanced at the rings around his wrists. These new ones really pack a wallop! I'll have to thank Festus!

The mice themselves, Timmy noted sadly, were in much better shape. Bad enough they weren't dead, they weren't even seriously wounded! They all had their arms and legs and heads still attached! And their tails, too! They were covered in dust, and had a few bloody patches (mostly minor scrapes), but seemed to be otherwise okay. Unconscious, but okay.

How disappointing!

He scanned the room slowly, looking for a sign of the young mouse. She didn't seem to be anywhere amidst the broken furniture and shattered glass. Could it be that she had somehow escaped the explosion? Had she gotten up for a drink and been spared completely? Or had she left?

Maybe—maybe she was hiding somewhere, waiting to capture his back. She must have figured out what Timmy had come there to do, and now she was ready for him. Hiding somewhere, priming a laser pistol or something.

As he paced through the room, hunting his prey, Timmy noticed the white-furred mouse (the smallest of the other three) was starting to get up. Then he abruptly went back down again. Suspicious. And the big gray-furred son of a bitch was breathing just that much too fast for him to really be out cold.

There, lying near the end of the couch, parallel to the nearest wall, was Azrael. Now, if she was playing dead, then she was doing one damn fine job of it. Very still. Hmmm. But why? She was all in one piece. The blast couldn't have killed her.

Something must have hit her and conked her out. Yeah.

It hadn't been enough to kill her. That much was obvious. She moaned, and one of her feet twitched ever so slightly. She was coming to. But even though she was starting to stir, she was still as blind and helpless to his attack as a newborn kitten (although Timmy had never gone head to head against a newborn kitten, so maybe they were tougher than he knew).

It was just the way he wanted it.

He strolled slowly to where she laid and knelt down beside her, as if to awaken Sleeping Beauty from her endless dream. Of course, Timmy reflected as he freed his sword from its leather trappings, he meant to put young Ritz into a much deeper slumber. Oh well. You could only take a literary allusion so far.

He took a deep breath.

To die, to sleep, he thought to himself with a smile. And by sleep we say to put an end to the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.

Timmy smiled and lifted the sword above his head.