Disclaimer: My disclaimer has a first name, it's O-S-C-A-R, my disclaimer has a

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

by Stoker1439

Copyright December 1998

"If only I was taller, if I had a million dollars

maybe then you'd be with me.

If only I was eighteen, and had the courage of the A-Team

Maybe then you'd be with me."

Sing with me now! "This is the story that never ends, oh it goes on and on my friend…"

Like most Biker Mice, Modo has a natural affinity for explosions. Fireworks, scribs, grenades, rockets; you name it, he likes it. Despite his laid-back nature, he's actually strangely fond of them. Not quite so much as Vinnie, of course, who Modo feels is obsessed, but he still finds them pretty entertaining.

Of course, Modo prefers it when they are at a bit of a distance (having had an arm blown off in one), so he was understandably peeved when the side wall of the garage was suddenly blown wide open during an animated debate with his bros over whether or not the writers should've let Michael Meyers kill Jamie Lee Curtis in the original Halloween (Vinnie’s argument of "con" for the sake of the sexy lingerie scene in True Lies had won some definite points with his gray-furred bro). Then, BOOM! There was such a thing as timing, for God's sake!

The blast had caught the mice completely unawares. No suprises there; none of the villains the mice had faced had a habit of saying, "Hey, I'm gonna blow up that wall behind you! Just thought I'd let you know!" before they chucked dynamite at them or whatnot. It would've been nice, but you could only really expect so much from the criminally insane. And if they had been told about the explosion, well then, it would sort of have defeated the purpose, now wouldn't it? Bad guy might as well have just come in through the door, which certainly would've been much less dramatic.

Modo would gladly have sacrificed drama for the sake of a little advance notice, however. In his book, all "drama" meant was pain and death (though admittedly, "Pain and Death Troupe" doesn't have a very nice ring to it, and probably wouldn't draw many participants). As was, his guts felt like someone had been using them for a treadmill. Wearing track spikes. Sharpened track spikes. Even though he had been sitting on the right side of the sofa, far from the center of the blast, Modo had still found himself picked up by it and thrown through the air. He had landed hard, stomach-first, on the side of an overturned coffee table that had gone unmentioned in previous descriptions of the room (whoops!). The impact had knocked him momentarily unconscious, and had nearly brought up his lunch. Twice. He was still fighting to keep himself from retching.

Ah wonder if this is another Halloween tradition? Modo thought wearily. If it is, ah think ah liked the part where we gave candy to little kids more. Damn, Earth has some dangerous holidays!

He opened his single eye slowly. Spots floated through his pale red field of vision, the aftermath of the explosion. Even when it cleared up, the room was full of smoke, and dark. The concept of visibility was a joke. Modo could barely make out the features of the room. Of course, the blast had done a rather violent job of rearranging it, so he probably wouldn't have recognized it even if he had been able to see. On top of all that, the force of the blast destroyed the overhead lights. And, to make matters worse (or darker, at any rate), Charley had also turned off the lights in the garage’s main bay before she left, so only a scant bit of hall light filtered in through the brume. The whole experience was vaguely reminiscent of a being in a seedy, smoke-filled bar, though explosions are usually a great deal rarer in those.

Except in Ash, as Jamespolychronopolus would gladly attest.

Ah guess Limburger's super-goon of the day is here. Hmm. Ah was kinda hopin' we could get through one night without fightin' for our lives. Doesn't that guy ever take a day off? Oh well. Let come what may, ah guess. If there's nothin' to be done about a situation, no use complainin' about it.

Modo stayed where he was, lying perfectly still on the floor while he got his bearings. After all, he had no idea of who or what had ambushed them. At this point, playing possum was his best chance of staying alive, or at any rate, to see their new foe before he saw him.

Wait. Better make that, "before he or she saw him." Phew. Feminist backlash averted.

Besides that, his stomach still ached like a bugger, and vomiting wasn't yet out of the question. Modo wasn't about to get up before he absolutely had to. If his life was suddenly on the line, then yeah, he could probably get the strength to jump up and out of harm's way, but he'd much rather wait and let those funky innards calm down a little before he made any sudden moves.

Carefully, Modo glanced around the room, making sure to keep the right side of his face pressed flat against the ground. That way, he'd be able to see what was going on around him, but, if he was lucky, he wouldn't be seen. It was Throttle's failsafe plan in case of explosions. Lie low, then beat the shit out of whatever had caused it.

The left side of the room was almost completely totaled. In fact, there wasn't really enough left of the left side of the room left to describe, so I won't.

The only notable feature of what was left of the left side of the room was Throttle, who was lying there. His head was turned, facing Modo, so the older of the two mice could easily see the long bloody gash across Throttle's cheek. Oooh. That was going to be a while healing. The tan-furred mouse's eyebrows were scrunched up, but his face gave no further clue whether or not he was conscious, nor did the rest of his body. He laid completely still, flat on his stomach, arms stretched out before him as though he had suffered a fatal aneurysm in the middle of trying to catch a football (wouldn't that just spoil Homecoming?). Not so much as a hair twitched. Modo couldn’t be certain whether his bro was playing dead as well or was genuinely unconscious. Or worse. It sent a shiver of fear up the older mouse's spine. Why did Throttle have to be so damn good at this game? Made it harder to tell when he was faking and when he was genuinely hurt. A valuable skill, but it had given Modo no end to worries during the Plutarkian War in similar situations.

There was no sign of either of his younger bros to his left, so Modo carefully turned his face the other way and looked to the right.

The right side of the room, while still in existence, had become a shambles. Most of Charley's stereo had been ripped to ribbons by flying debris (and the warranty didn't cover attacks by murderous super-villains). Her bookshelf had tipped over, spilling the mechanic's personal library across the floor. Pictures had been thrown from their hooks by the power of the explosion, and laid shattered in their frames. The television was a smoking black hulk. Modo prayed that the tape inside had survived—after all, if it was destroyed, then they had to pay for it, and there was no way in Hell Modo was chipping in for a copy of Death Becomes Her. It was good, but it wasn't that good!

But it got worse; anything that had been on the left side and hadn't been immediately destroyed had been tossed to the right as well. Most of the furnishings on the left had been utterly atomized, and were nothing more than a fine coating of dust and ash across. All the surviving remnants were still beyond help; every piece of furniture, every picture that had fallen from the walls, every one of those tea figurines Charley collected, was ruined. In fact, Modo reflected, the only thing that had survived had been that coffee table he had slammed into.

Typically.

Smoke was still heavy on the right, too. Near the hole (formerly the wall), the winds had chased away the worst of the dark fog, but it was taking longer it to dissipate further into the room.

At first, he couldn’t make out more than a pale shape lying sprawled across the couch, which had been turned on its side in the blast. Once the smoke dissipated a little, Modo recognized it instantly as his white-furred bro.

Vinnie, for those of you not paying attention.

Frantically, Modo looked his younger bro over. A litany of Please don't let him be hurt, please don't let him be hurt ran through his mind. Was he okay or not? He was breathing, yeah, but—where was his other leg? Where was his other leg? Oh God no no not Vinnie too—

Oh, wait. There it is. It was just behind the other one. Both legs. Okay. Phew.

On second thought, maybe Vinnie was little too okay. He was already half awake—which was a good thing, but he began to push himself up and onto his feet…

....just as Modo picked up the sound of kitten-soft footfalls coming through the torn apart hallway.

Dammit! Don’t move, bro!

But unfortunately, Modo wasn’t telepathic (although he did have an uncanny knack for picking winning teams in football pools), so he could only watch in horror as Vinnie groggily arose. Modo had to do something, but what? To call out his bro's name would throw away their hand, but a groggy Vinnie might be caught off guard by their assailant.

And once caught off guard…

Modo's imagination briefly played out scenarios too messy to repeat here. He'd have to do something, and fast.

Suddenly, he had it.

Sticking out his tongue for that extra degree of precision, Modo began to snake his tail toward Vinnie’s leg. It navigated its way carefully around table legs and debris. Never did the furry gray serpent move more than a centimeter from the floor, never did it vary in its course.

Eventually, the tip of Modo's tail reached Vinnie's leg. Slowly, but with no unnecessary hesitation, the older mouse wrapped it around his younger bro’s right calf, then squeezed. Vinnie’s eyes flapped open, startled. He started to gasp, likely in preparation to shout, "WHAT THE HELL???", then stopped. He closed his eyes, then quickly flopped back down on the couch, trying with all his might to mimic the position that had come so easily when he had been unconscious. Vinnie's breathing slowed down greatly, but was still just off enough that a careful observer would have figured out that he was indeed awake.

Can’t win ‘em all, Modo consoled himself. S'good enough for now.

The footsteps grew closer, and Modo closed his eye in preparation. If the stranger chose to waste him first, if the footsteps stopped beside him, then he would have to be ready to move in a heartbeat. If not, he had to watch the assailant unseen and be ready to defend his bros when the time came.

Y'know, it's the suspense that kills me.

Something in the pace of the steps told Modo that he wasn’t the target, or at any rate, wasn’t the first. It was too quick, the strides too long. Unless this person (or persons) was planning to come to a very, very quick stop when they got to him. That kind of logic could get you killed, but you have to make assumptions every now and then.

Momma always said somethin' about assumin' things. Ah can't remember exactly what it was, but it did have "ass" in it.

The big gray mouse snickered to himself, then forced himself to pay attention.

The steps continued, growing closer, closer.

Modo began to prime his arm cannon.

Closer. Now they were slowing down.

The cannon began to charge up.

Modo's breath quickened.

Closer.

A pale blue glow began to fill both barrels.

The feet stopped beside him.

Modo's eye snapped open.

Me. It's me, Modo thought to himself, adrenaline coursing through his system. Okay, then. Here we go. One, two, thr--

The steps began again, moving away.

What?

Aw, shit! He musta seen Vinnie!

Modo looked up and caught a fleeting, hazy glance of their assailant--a huge, black shape with a long, bushy tail--before he (the bad guy) turned and stared straight at the mouse. Modo very quickly returned to playing possum.

Dammit! he chided himself. He caught me! Well, get ready, Modo, 'cause--

But the footfalls continued, still moving away. The stranger either hadn’t seen him or didn’t care that the gray mouse was awake. Neither possibility made Modo feel particularly better.

The footsteps continued past Throttle, and past Vinnie. He would pause momentarily, then keep walking.

What’s this guy doin’? First he blows up the one side of the garage—a nice lil' explosion, too, and then he doesn’t do anything after that!!! Man! This guy doesn’t know how to do his job right! Limburger’s really scrapin’ the bottom of the barrel on this one!

Something tightened around Modo’s left calf. Even before the thin tail uncoiled, he knew one of his bros was trying to get his attention. Throttle, no doubt. Vinnie would've tried for his right leg, which was closer.

Modo slowly opened his eye and looked to his left. His instincts were dead on; when he looked up, Throttle (very much awake and thusly not dead) was already mouthing something to him.

Which was a problem, as Modo was a piss-poor lip-reader (greatly complicated by the fact that mice don't really have much in the way of lips).

Uh oh. Dammit, I knew I shoulda paid more attention when Chance taught us how t'do this! Crap! What’s he sayin’?

Throttle continued mouthing his elaborate plan to Modo for several minutes, complete with audio-visual aids and diagrams, before noticing his bro's distress. He sighed a little, then moved his nose ever so slightly, dropping his glasses down so he could make eye contact with Modo.

Ah. Now the message was clear.

"Modo, didn’t you hear what I just said?"

Well, this message was, anyway.

Slowly, Modo shook his head no, shrugging his shoulders slightly in embarrassment.

Throttle silently mumbled something, then motioned with the tip of his tail toward their assailant, who had made the mistake of leaving his back open to the mice (and that was one friggin’ big back!). Then he made a shooting motion with his thumb and forefinger.

Modo nodded knowingly. He carefully moved his right arm into position, careful not to scrape it against the floor, and began to prime it once again. Satisfied, Throttle gently eased his pistol from its holster into his hand, then began to draw a bead on their aggressor's back.

Quickly, Modo tapped Vinnie on the shoulder with his own tail. Vinnie snapped awake, wide-eyed. A frantic shaking of Modo's head was barely enough to keep him from blurting out, "What?"

Gently, the gray-furred mouse motioned with his head toward Throttle, then raised his arm cannon and pointed carefully at the huge shape before them.

"Pa-koom," Modo mouthed.

Vinnie, fortunately, had been a much quicker study in lip-reading than Modo, and understood the plan immediately. In fact, he had been hoping and praying for it while he pretended to be unconscious. Hoping and praying for it even while he was unconscious. Dexterous white-furred fingers pulled one of his flares from his bandoleers, though Vinnie was careful not to expand it just yet, lest the sound should give him away. His face bore the same elated expression as a kid on Christmas. Who knew? Maybe this kind of thing was Vinnie's idea of a real Christmas present.

Ah shoulda known that scarf ah picked out wasn't gonna cut it, Modo concluded, shaking his head.

Just as he was getting ready to ventilate the creature that stood before them—Modo still wasn't quite sure what it was--he noticed that Throttle, who was supposed to give the signal, was looking around frantically, as if something was amiss. Well, that wouldn't do! They all had to hit the guy at the same time! What was he doing?

Throttle whipped his head around again. Now Modo could see the look of fear on his face. Panic played across it like a violin in the hands of a master. Was he—yeah, he was! He was biting his lip! Geez, something had him spooked! Throttle's face was usually so emotionless it was impossible to tell what he was thinking!

Why's he look so worried?

Modo realized abruptly that during his brief survey of the room, he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of his youngest bro. Throttle had caught his attention, and he had forgotten all about looking for her.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit SHIT!

Modo scanned the room with fearful eye, all worries of being noticed forgotten.

Dammit, where was she? Where? Dammit! She hadn't made any effort to get her bros' attention. Was she just trying to evade their new enemy's notice, like Modo and Throttle had been? Or maybe she was just on the other side of the room.

More likely, she couldn't signal them. She'd probably had been hurt in the blast. Bingo was right behind it, after all, and if there was one thing Modo had learned, it was that being right behind an explosion could have painful consequences. Maybe even deadly ones. Bing was still pretty small, compared to her bros; getting clipped by a piece of rubble that would have stunned Throttle or Vinnie could kill her.

But Bingo was nowhere to be found. Nothing in the room betrayed her presence. Not a long, skinny leg sticking out from behind something, not a puff of red hair peeking up from under a bookshelf, not even (thankfully) a spray of blood on one of the cream-colored walls.

A twitch of orange suddenly drew Modo’s attention to the floor a few feet ahead of the assassin. Between his legs (don’t read too much into that, pervert), Modo could see an orange hand—undeniably belonging to Bingo-- starting to move. It clenched into a fist, the released. Coiled, and repeated.

She’s wakin’ up......Dammit, Bing! Stay still! Maybe he won’t--

The assassin stopped and knelt beside Bingo’s half-conscious body. He paused thoughtfully, then nodded slightly to himself. His tail twitched, and shook back and forth, as if it were—wagging?

Hmm. That a waggin' tail, or are you just happy to see—wait, he is happy to see her! He's not after all of us! He’s lookin’ for Bing!!!! Hey! No fair f’r old cheese soup t’go after us one at a time! That's discrimination! Y’kill us all at once or you just don’t even bother! That’s the way it goes!

The wolf--for Modo could now see that was exactly what the hit-man was, a wolf--chuckled, then withdrew a long, silver sword with a jewel-studded hilt from a scabbard on his back. He raised it slowly over his head.

It was, as expected, Vinnie's voice that broke the silence. Oh well. It had to happen sooner or later. That he had waited so long was admirable, given his extreme lack of patience and the fact that he was heavily armed. Wearing a single pistol could shorten Vinnie's ability to bide his time by 2.532 minutes. A mouse could only wait so long.

"Eat this!" Vinnie shouted, throwing his flare with the deadly accuracy of a major league pitcher directly at the wolf. No sooner had it left his fingers than he was reaching for his pistol to follow it up.

"So much for the element of suprise," Throttle grumbled, quickly firing off a round of his own.

Modo grimaced and laid down a barrage of lightning-blue laser fire, simultaneously hoping that when the wolf passed out or died, he wouldn't land on Bingo. The impact would probably break her ribcage wide open, given his size.

The Martians’ missiles flew toward their target with deadly accuracy. They were some of the finest technology their home planet (and Plutark, counting Modo's arm) had to offer, designed to kill, maim, or at least cause some really major boo-boos. Each struck its target at approximately the same time, square in the back of the wolf's neck.

He should've fallen forward, dead. His upper back should've been burned to a crisp, blackened like overdone chocolate chip cookies. His clothing should've split wide apart. At the very least, he should've said, "Ouch!" or "What the Hell was that?"

But he didn't even flinch.

"What in the Hell?!??!" Vinnie shouted (apparently making up for the assassin not doing it).

Modo gaped. What was going on here?

"I guess we’re gonna have to rethink our strategy on this one," Throttle muttered, wide-eyed behind his glasses.

The wolf turned his head over so slightly (well, at least he had noticed their presence) and snapped in an irritated fashion, "Do you mind? I’m trying to kill someone here."

Vinnie sprang to his feet and shouted, "Well, we ain’t about to let that happen, wolf-boy!"

"Yeah!" Modo agreed, a snarl creasing his face. "We're kinda attached to Bing."

"Just who are you?" Throttle rumbled in that great Clint Eastwood voice, "and what do you—"

Throttle paused, and Modo knew why instantly. Whoever or whatever their new pal was, exactly, he was suddenly acting bizarrely. He bit his lip, as if desperately trying to keep something in his throat from climbing out and making itself known to the world. He clapped his hands over his snout, wrestling to keep his words inside, then turned his back on them.

"I think he's gonna throw up," Vinnie mumbled.

"May as well," Throttle sighed, shaking his head. "This place couldn't be much more of a mess if he did."

Suddenly, their assailant could hold it in no longer.

"Timmy!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. Just as quickly, he turned his face away. Oh, to bear a scarlet 'A' in one's own name!

Throttle, Modo, and Vinnie all looked at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"You gotta be joking!" Vinnie guffawed.

Timmy blushed and dug his toe into the ground.

"You're named 'Timmy'?" Throttle asked, nearly in tears.

"That name sucks!" Modo giggled. "F'r you, anyway!"

"Were your parents mean," Vinnie asked, "or just stupid?"

"Okaaaaaay," Timmy grumbled, pulling off a few of the green disks around his neck. He pierced their surfaces between his long thumbnail and fingernails. "I think we’ve heard just about enough from the peanut gallery." He tossed them at the mice and shouted, "Catch!"

Reflexes forced the mice’s hands up before their brains could say, "Hey! Don’t catch that! It could be dangerous!" (not that they would've listened). They had spent a long summer trying to get one of Mark McGwire's seventy homers when the Redbirds were in Shy-town. All three of them caught the little disks expertly--

--and were thrown halfway across the room by a trio of small explosions! Luckily for our hirsute heroes, these bursts paled in comparison to the one that had demolished the rear wall. Extremely paled. The difference between black and white, to be exact. The only injury they incurred was dirty fur from the smoke and shellshock from hitting the wall head-first, though they would not be aware of this for several moments, when they more fully found their places as members of the conscious world

More than enough time, Timmy reflected, to do what had to be done.

"Now," he said firmly, tightening his grip on his sword, "to get back to business."

He knelt on the left side of Bingo’s still-unmoving body and placed the sword just above her neck to judge his aim. Timmy moved it slightly to the left, then right, then left again. He nodded, satisfied with where his blade would come down.

The huge wolf raised the sword above his head once more.

Deep breath.

The sword came down.

Timmy smiled as he watched the bright flash of silver. Normal eyes wouldn't have been able to see it, but Timmy's were shockingly fast. The sword went down, down, and suddenly was at her neck. Any second now, the blood would start spurting. Timmy opened his mouth to catch a little of the sanguine fountain. That'd be a much better treat than that candy bar earlier.

And he waited.

And he waited.

And he waited.

"Hey, what gives?" Timmy demanded angrily, looking down to see what was going wrong.

Well, it wasn't a problem with the sword. It was still going down. But shouldn't it have hit a few seconds ago?

Suddenly, Timmy noticed a blank darkness just below him. He understood instantly.

Just as the blade had begun to part the hair of the young mouse's neck, a black hole opened beneath Bingo. Instantly, she pulled a Titanic into its inky black surface and disappeared. When the astounded Timmy’s sword did strike, it hit the floor (cutting up the carpet, but no Martian necks).

"Dammit!" he shouted. Tricked again!

Another black hole opened just above the unsuspecting wolf. Something alerted him to its presence, and he turned just in time to get a size 12 boot square in the nose.

Owee.

A very concious Bingo used Timmy’s face as a springboard and back-flipped away quickly. The force knocked him to the ground as she landed near her bros, who had come around just in time to see her two-point landing.

"Nice one," Throttle commented with a smirk as he accepted her helping hand up.

"Blast from Behind two-sixty," she replied proudly.

He smiled.

"Somebody's been boning up on her maneuvers."

"Coulda told us you were awake," Modo chided, breathing a sigh of relief.

Bingo grinned and thumbed toward the mice’s assailant.

"Is that guy really named 'Timmy'?" she asked.

Vinnie nodded and replied, "Limburger just keeps finding the strangest guys to send against us, doesn’t he?"

"Must be part of a work-release program with the Interplanetary Nuthouse," Throttle agreed with a slight grin.

Timmy suddenly leapt to his feet.

"What'd I do?" Bingo asked, puzzled. "Give you a bad candy bar? Sorry I didn't check the expiration dates or nothing, but there ain't much left in this city! I had to dig into my private stash back at the Score--"

Modo clapped his hand over Bingo's mouth and hissed, "Bing! Does the phrase 'secret hideout' mean anythin' to you?"

"Oops!"

"You have another secret stash?" Vinnie asked, puzzled. "I thought I found all of 'em already!"

Bingo grinned.

"All but one."

Timmy crossed his arms over his chest, frustrated.

Drawing himself up to his full height (grazing the ceiling as he did), Timmy growled as loudly as lupine-ly possible, "I don't know who this 'Limburger' guy is, but he didn’t send me, and it had nothing to do with the candy bar—which, I must admit, was really good! No! I—"

"Maybe you picked on him when he was a little kid or something, Bing," Modo interrupted, "and he's come back for revenge."

"Not to the best of my knowledge," the wolf shouted. "And 'Timothy' isn't that stupid a name! It means--"

"That would make sense," Throttle intermitted. "I guess if you had a name like 'Timmy' and were a big hulking brute like him, kids would be inclined to pick on you."

Bingo shook her head and added, "No, that can't be it. Outside, he said he was 572 years old. So I don't think we were ever in school together or anything like that, unless he didn't hardly age at all for the first five hundred or so years of his life and just had a real sudden growth spurt."

"Or he was held back a long time," Vinnie added.

"Yeah."

Timmy tapped his toe against the ground.

"You wanna say somethin', kibble-breath?" Vinnie asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do."

Throttle shrugged and said, "Well then, by all means, spit it out."

The wolf blew his white bangs out of his face and tried to remind himself of the importance of his mission. This delivery had to be just perfect.

"I, Timmy, was specially appointed, brought from three dimensions over, and sent here to this backwater little planet to destroy you—"

He pointed a finger firmly at Bingo.

"--Azrael, Holy Knight of the Order of St. Dumas, by Klaus Black, Master of the White Wizards’ Guild! Your death sentence has been passed! Quake in terror!"

Bingo looked as though she'd just bitten into an extremely sour lemon.

"Black?" she moaned. "Oh jeez, not that chode."

" 'Quake'?" Vinnie asked. "I love that game!"

"You do have the most interesting friends, Bing," Throttle commented.

The youngest of the mice sighed and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Doesn’t the most evil guy in the universe have better things to do with his time than send guys to kill me?" she asked sadly. "He needs a better hobby!"

Modo waved a finger in her face and corrected, "Now, Bing, we don’t know that he’s the most evil person in the universe."

"Right up there, though," Throttle agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"We’re not gonna argue semantics again, are we?" Vinnie wailed.

Timmy barked angrily, "AHEM! Are you forgetting about someone?!?!?"
Bingo sighed and asked casually, "So, what’s the story, morning glory? You were sent to kill me, huh?"
Timmy nodded and said proudly, "I, Timmy, the greatest warrior of the White Wizards’ Guild (who doesn’t use namby-pamby magic), strongest of my kind, most powerful pupil of my master, the great Baytor--"

"Wait a second," Vinnie interrupted, a grin spreading across his face. "You were taught by a guy named 'Baytor'?"

"Yes!" Timmy cried triumphantly. "I was taught at the knee of the great Master Baytor! He--"

The lupine assassin stopped when he realized the mice were once again laughing at him, making jokes at his expense. Apparently, there was going to be no end to the hilarity tonight. None of his other targets had been like this!

Severely annoyed, Timmy strolled quickly over to where the mice stood, laughing their heads off and pounding the walls hysterically. He stopped short of where Bingo was rolling on the floor, holding her stomach and wiping away tears.

"Don’t you take anything seriously?!?!?" he shouted, arms crossed over his chest. "Dammit! I’m here to kill that Ritz girl, and all you do is make jokes! Where's your sense of drama?"
Modo bristled. That again.

Timmy suddenly pulled his sword free of the ground and pointed it at Bingo.

"In the name of sai Black, I will destroy you, Azrael!"

Before anyone could make another witty remark (and the mice do have remarkably quick wits), Timmy lunged at Bingo, sword drawn.

"DIE!" he screamed.

Bingo dodged hard to the left, barely missing having her tail lopped off.

"Mine!" Vinnie cried, pulling one of his guns and firing a few rounds at Timmy. But once again, Timmy took them as if they were little more than flies lighting on his shoulders. He just kept going, like he hadn't even been touched.

Vinnie stared at the pistol in his hands. It had never failed him before (except for two pages back).

What is this guy?

Frustrated, he dashed at Timmy. Throttle's cries to wait fell on a pair of ears that conveniently went deaf at moments like these.

Timmy sighed and slipped his sword back in his scabbard.

"You better keep that handy, sweetheart," Vinnie said with a sinister grin. "Cause you're gonna need it!"

He launched into a flurry of punches and kicks. Speed was one of Vinnie's strong suits, and he had the power to back it up. This guy couldn't even block them all! Hmph! He might have been big, but contrary to the Godzilla ad blitz of that summer, size not only doesn't matter, it isn't even relevant!

But….he didn't. Somewhere around punch number two-hundred seventeen, it dawned on Vinnie that Timmy wasn't fighting back at all. And he wasn't blocking, either.

But—but why not? I'm giving it everything I've got! And then some! Go down, you lousy mother—

Then Vinnie saw something with infuriated him more than anything else.

Timmy wasn't even looking at him! He was casually remarking to Bingo about how he was going to tear her into ribbons and wear her for a belt.

"Dumb-ass!" Vinnie shouted, firing a roundhouse punch at his foe. "Pay attention to me!"

And with that, the wolf did.

"I haven’t got time to waste on minor annoyances!" Timmy shouted, landing a side kick in Vinnie’s stomach. The white-furred mouse didn’t even have time to groan before the sheer force of the kick sent him flying into a wall. Vinnie's arms and legs spasmed outward. Then he fell still. The impact was such that it caused the wall to break into spiderweb cracks (which seems to happen to a lot of walls in this story, doesn't it?).

Modo gritted his teeth and charged headlong at Timmy, right arm raised in a beautiful clothesline.

"Another one?" he asked casually. "All right, but can we please hurry it up a little bit?"

Instead of the clothesline his movements suggested, however, Modo suddenly cocked his fist back and let it fly. It pistoned outward with enough sheer power to knock the head off a person’s shoulders.

But even such a powerful blow doesn't do any good if it doesn't hit its mark, which in this case, it did not. Timmy shifted to the right, caught Modo’s arm, and threw him over his shoulder as if he was no heavier than a feather. Modo crashed square into Vinnie, who was just starting to rise to his feet when his bro slammed into him.

"Maybe ah shoulda tried the clothesline," Modo mumbled retrospectively.

"Vinnie!" Bingo shouted, eyes wide. "Modo!"

She turned to Timmy, who stood perfectly still, as if inviting her to attack.

"You bastard!" she screamed, launching a tight roundhouse kick at Timmy’s gut. It hit perfectly on target. But despite the fact that Bingo had often used this same to break down doors (and get cans of soda out of stubborn pop machines), it had no effect on the mice’s fearsome opponent. He merely grunted, absorbing the force of the impact as if it were little more than a touch.

Timmy smiled, looked right into Bingo’s startled eyes, and asked, "Is that all?"

Bingo’s face became fiery red.

"Okay, jerkoff!" she shouted angrily. "Now you're goin' down!"

She jumped up, left arm raised, and wrapped it around Timmy's neck, intending to try that "Stone Cold Stunner" thing she had seen last week on Celebrity Deathmatch. It was a move she had been dying to try for the past several days, and now, it seemed, she finally had the chance.

Not to mention a reason.

What Bingo had overlooked, unfortunately, was the fact that the move is virtually impossible to pull on someone who is five feet taller than you and outweighs you by several hundred pounds. End result? Nothing happened. Bingo hung suspended over the floor, arms wrapped around Timmy's throat like some grossly large pendant.

"Ah shit," she grumbled, trying to touch the floor with one foot. "Can we try that again?"

Before the young mouse even saw it happening, Timmy pulled back his fist and landed a haymaker on her chin. It broke her grip on his neck (hardly a threat in the first place) and sent her flying straight to the ground.

"That’s gonna leave a mark," she whispered, pushing herself up weakly and nudging her nose back into place.

Something heavy landed abruptly on Bingo’s back. She realized quickly that the intrusive force on her spine was Timmy’s large foot. And you know what they say about guys with big feet--they’ve got big......

.....swords.

Timmy’s sword, which was rather large as a matter of fact, suddenly made contact with the back of Bingo’s neck, slicing easily through the collar of her fatigue jacket.

"That was too easy," he said with a smile. "I don’t know why Black’s so frightened of you."

"He is?" Bingo asked, surprised. "Huh! That's somethin'!"

The sword began to press down.

"Bingo! Get down!" Throttle shouted.

The sound of the bike’s engine cued Bingo in faster than Throttle’s words. She flattened herself against the ground even tighter than she already was just as Throttle’s bike, a black and silver flash, raced into the room, scooted past its owner, and leapt into the air.

"WHAT?!" Timmy shouted, shocked.

Despite his fighting skills, Timmy wasn’t fast enough to get out of the way this time. Throttle’s bike collided with him with a force only slightly less than that of Limburger being launched by a catapult (in other words, a freight train). The bike quickly pinned him against the wall and fired its forward laser into Timmy's face. It did no more to end his threat to the mice than nailing him with a squirt gun, but at least it kept him busy.

Busy enough, it turned out, for Vinnie, Modo, and Bingo’s bikes to join the fight inside the garage. The three quickly shot their grappling hooks into Timmy’s clothing, blasted a hole in a nearby wall (consequently destroying the garage’s downstairs bathroom as well), and raced outside, dragging Timmy behind and out into the cold night.

He's gonna have some nasty road-rash, Bingo reflected with a slight grin.

Throttle, the one among the mice who had been bright enough to avoid direct combat with Timmy, knew that the bikes wouldn’t be able to get very far with the wolf behind them. He could slash the tow ropes all too easily. And Throttle was far to practical (although his bros said "cynical") to hope that being drug for a mile or so would have any effect on a guy who didn’t even blink when he got a laser in the face.

Of course, that wasn’t why he had called on the bikes at all (though it would've been a nice bonus); he just needed time to get his bros up and around.

"You guys okay?" he asked, lifting Vinnie to his feet and reaching down to give Bingo and Modo a hand (one each).

"Been better," Modo grumbled.

Vinnie rubbed the back of his neck and nodded, then snapped, "So, what’s the plan, fearless leader?"

Throttle looked around the den and said quickly, "We haven’t got enough room to fight in here. Too much junk. We’ve gotta get outta the garage, or else we’ve got no chance. And we’ll need our bikes if we’re gonna match this guy."

Modo cocked an ear and said, "Sounds like they’re on their way back right now."
"Wolfie musta gotten loose!" Vinnie shouted. "He’s faster than Walt Flanagan's dog!"

Bingo bit her lip quietly as Throttle began to block out a preliminary strategy. Nervousness, anger, and guilt were all equally at war on her face. Her lips twitched, her mouth started to open, and then she clamped it shut. It was as if she wanted to say something, but couldn't bring herself to. It wasn't like her not to speak her mind.

"Somethin' on your mind, Bing-bro?" Modo asked, interrupting Throttle's speech.

"Huh?" she asked, snapped out of her trance.

"You look like you got somethin' on your mind."

"She'll have to save it," Throttle said quickly. "Our rides are here! Let's go!"

Suddenly, the entire room was bathed in a pale blue-white light, like a thunderbolt had touched down within the rubble. The sound of squealing engines filled the air. Metal flashed in the hole the bikes had blown in the wall. No sooner had the four Martian motorcycles entered the room than their riders leapt aboard, quickly donning their helmets.

"Out the front!" Throttle shouted, leading the way towards the car bay of the garage through the den. When no easier way presented itself, he used his bike’s main laser cannon to blast the door between the two rooms. The Biker Mice rode through a flurry of splinters into the still pumpkin-caked garage.

"Whoo!" Vinnie shouted, increasing the power of his helmet’s shield to keep the smell out. "This place reeks!"

Bingo nodded in firm agreement and snapped, "Pumpkin, nothin'! You guys overturned a Port-a-John in here, didn't you?"

"Not this time," Throttle said with a shrug.

"Doesn't matter! We won’t be here long!" Modo shouted, blasting the metal doors of the garage.

The middle of the doors bulged outward, then exploded. Huge shards of metal were torn out by the blast and thrown across the street. Around the hole, what was left blossomed like giant metal flower petals, leaving just enough room for the mice to jump through it and ride out safely (much to Vinnie's disappointment).

The four of them quickly rode to a halt outside the garage, waiting for Timmy to burst out the door (or the hole) behind them.

It was, it turned out, a long wait (though nothing compared to the line at the video store).

"Where is he?" Vinnie asked, eagerly fingering the triggers on his bike's cannons.

"I don’t get it," Throttle mumbled. "The way the bikes were gunning out of there, I thought that guy was right behind them."

The four bikes honked eagerly in agreement, headlights flashing.

"Yeah?" Bingo asked her ride flippantly. "Then where is he?"

It was Lil’ Hoss who answered, bucking violently to the right and honking insanely. Modo was barely able to hang on.

"Lil’ Darlin’?!?!" he asked, bewildered. "What’re you--?"
Instinctively, his eyes followed Lil’ Hoss’s headlight to the top of the garage, where a huge black shape loomed. The light cast his giant shape on the building behind him, like an extremely large, capeless version of Batman. The glistening green gems on his wrists and around his neck identified him immediately as Timmy.

As if his monstrous size and shape didn't.

"Nice entrance!" Vinnie commented thoughtfully.

Throttle revved his engine, instantly calling his bros to attention.

"Let’s head for the warehouse district," Throttle said quickly. "We’ll do less damage there."
"Killjoy," Vinnie grumbled under his breath.

Modo shook his head and said with a grin, "No wonder we’re an endangered species."

Throttle gunned his engine once again, tearing the night’s quiet serenity apart with a soul-tearing roar.

"Let’s rock--" he shouted.

"--AND RIDE!" the four mice called out together, flying through the sedate night streets at speeds no terran bike has ever achieved (outside their owners’ dreams, that is). Those unfortunate enough to have homes on the avenue they dashed down found their windows abruptly shattered by the resulting sonic boom.

"Hey!" Vinnie shouted suddenly. "How’re we gonna lure that turkey Timmy to the warehouse district if we lose him?"

Modo peeked into his rear-view mirror and gulped.

"Ah don’t think that’s gonna be a problem, bro!" he cried.

Throttle, Vinnie, and Bingo quickly looked back.

About one hundred feet behind them was Timmy, sword drawn.

Gaining on them.

"Holy shit!" Bingo gasped.

"Yeah!" Modo agreed. "He’s one fast mother-f--"

"I bet his feet hurt!" the young mouse interrupted. "He's not even wearing sneakers!"

(Cue waterdrops on the side of the other three mice’s heads).

"Maybe we ought to think about losin' him," Modo mumbled, ears drooping inside his helmet.

"Hey!" Bingo shouted. "I think he’s getting ready to--"

Timmy leapt suddenly into the air. The gravity-defying jump carried him over twenty feet straight up before he peaked and began to fall towards earth. He pulled his sword high up over his head, and started to bring it down in a screaming arc.

"Scatter, bros!" Throttle shouted.

The four mice barely had time to pull apart before Timmy landed. His first strike cleaved the very pavement he landed on in two. Instantly he pulled the sword free and swung it hard to his left, exactly where Bingo had been a second earlier, before banking hard and shooting ahead.

"I’m not done with you yet!" he shouted, pointing one long finger at her.

"Well, we’re done with you!" Modo growled, launching a volley of lasers at Timmy. This time, he did not absorb their impact, but deftly avoided them. Did that mean that he couldn't take them? Was he weakening?

Apparently not, as the wolf ninja easily took a round from Vinnie.

"Dammit!" he snapped, frustrated. "I hate it when The Writer drops erroneous hints!"

Ahh, shaddup, pretty-boy.

Timmy pulled a fistful of daggers from a hidden pocket on his jumpsuit and threw them toward the mice. The streetlights played off their polished surfaces as they flew at the mice.

And missed them completely.

"Loser!" Vinnie shouted, all grins, until his bike let out a horrible scream of agony. All four bikes did, as a matter of fact, which stunned their riders. Had they accidentally ridden over a bed of tracks? Or someone trying to cross the street? What was wrong?

"Keep moving!" Throttle shouted, trying to calm down his ride as best he could. "We'll check it out as soon as we get to safety."

Bingo felt something warm and wet against her right calf.

Shit! she thought, panicked. He didn't get me, did he?
But when she looked down, she realized the stain spreading across her pant leg wasn't blood. She slipped two fingers through it, and stuck them under her helmet to catch the liquid's scent.

"Gas?" she mumbled. "But—"

Suddenly, it became all too clear. She didn't even half to see the stream of gasoline shooting out of the side of the bike to understand.

"He cut my fuel line!" Bingo shouted angrily.

"Mine, too!" Modo cried. He clapped his hand over it, although it didn't make steering any easier.

He's trying to slow us down, Throttle realized quickly. Dammit! We won't get very far like this, but if we stop to put on a patch….

"Whadda we do?" Modo shouted.

Tearing the bandanna from his neck, Throttle shouted, "Plug it however you can! Keep moving, and whatever you do, don't slow down!"

Throttle quickly stuffed the cloth into the long, nasty gash in his tank. It looked like a red rose had bloomed in the side of his bike, a rose which was quickly growing darker as it fed on the leaking gasoline. Couldn't be helped.

He wiped his hand on his pant leg, then looked back.

"He still following us?"

"Yeah!" Vinnie shouted back. "He slowed down a little, though! I think he's getting tired."

I doubt we're that lucky, the older mouse thought to himself morosely. He might be conserving his strength, but that's the extent of it.

"Bing! Vinnie! Spread out, and try your rear rockets!"

The younger half of the Biker Mice nodded. Bingo and Vinnie slowed down, then took separate sides of the street.

"Ready?" Vinnie called across.

Bingo nodded and hit the large yellow button on her dash at the exact same moment Vinnie did. Four rockets, two from each bike, flew from their tails and screamed toward Timmy.

But they missed by a mile. Timmy jumped just in time, another amazing leap as high as the first.

Vinnie saw it all in his rear-view mirror, and his mouth curled in disgust.

"Bing!" he shouted. "Try and hit 'im while he's still in the air!"

She nodded and repositioned her bike's rear cannon. Another volley of missiles streaked through the night sky, toward the wolf falling toward the earth.

Hah! Vinnie thought proudly. Dodge that, jerkoff!

Of course, there was no way that Timmy could. The two mice had aimed as carefully as they could, and even adjusted for the acceleration of gravity. There was no way the missiles could miss. No way in Hell.

So Timmy did the next best thing. He did a flip in midair, and kicked the missiles away. Kicked them away. What was more, he used a separate kick for each missile.

"Show off!" Bingo shouted.

Timmy landed easily on the street and smiled at his foes.

"Come on!" he laughed. "Is that all?"

Vinnie pulled to a dead stop in the middle of the street and dismounted his bike.

"I'll give him, 'Is that all'," he grumbled.

This looks like trouble, Bingo thought grimly. She turned and shouted up the street.

"Throttle! Modo! Vinnie's let his ego get in the way of his sensibilities again!"

Despite the distance, she could almost hear Throttle's sigh.

The two riders ahead of her turned around and joined her where she had paused, just a few yards away from Vinnie's bike.

"Vincent!" Throttle shouted as the white-furred mouse approached Timmy slowly. "Come on! We haven't got time for this!"

"You know our bro," Bingo mumbled half-heartedly. "Carpe diem. Don't put off beating up the bad guy till tomorrow when you can do it today."

Vinnie showed no signs of have heard his bro's order. He continued toward Timmy, who simply stood where he had landed, as if waiting for him.

"If you want it this way," the wolf said coolly, "then fine. I'll fight you. But can we please make this one a little quicker than the last? I'd like to kill your little red-headed pal and get out of here."

"Oh, this'll be short and sweet, sweetheart," Vinnie said with a smile. "Just two hits. Me hittin' you, and you hittin' the ground."

"I doubt that."

"How long do you think he'll last?" Bingo asked, turning to Modo.

"Ah give him two minutes, tops."

"Vinnie or Timmy?" Throttle asked.

"Vinnie."

"That's what I thought."

"THANKS FOR THE ENCOURAGEMENT!" Vinnie shouted back, annoyed.

It was nearly his downfall. While Vinnie's head was turned, Timmy leapt into the air, poised for a picture-perfect side snap-kick. Only the warning cries of his bros saved him from a total head-ectomy.

"I don't think so!" Vinnie cried. His grabbed Timmy's extended leg and tried to bring him over his shoulder for a throw. But Timmy quickly countered, planting one foot on Vinnie's shoulder, meaning to leap off. His best-laid plan thwarted, the mouse released Timmy's foot while pushing upward. Timmy fell to the ground and landed flat on his back, very surprised.

"All right!"

"Huh," Modo mumbled from the sidelines. "Maybe he does have a shot."

"Do it, bro!" Bingo cried happily.

Vinnie smiled smugly. Let his bros think what they want. There was no way he was going to lose to wolf-boy over there. Maybe he beat him once, but that was it. He just hadn't been ready, that was all. Now he was going to finish this stupid fight for once and for all.

Starting with a knee to the stomach. Vinnie got a running head start, jumped—

--and very nearly landed knee-first on concrete! A split-second before Vinnie would've come down on Timmy's (hopefully) sensitive innards, the wolf rolled out of the way with speed that was nearly incomprehensible.

"Holy—" the mouse whispered as he watched the wolf dash a few feet away.

"You'll have to do better than that!" Timmy laughed.

"You think you're gonna impress me by running away?" Vinnie shouted.

Timmy pulled his sword from its scabbard and sneered, "Why would I want to impress you, rat-face? Seems to me you're the one who wants to be Mister Big-Stuff. You play the hero so people will praise you. What you really wanna do is run away with your tail between your legs."

Vinnie's grin fell away. His fist tightened. No one accused him of being a coward!

"Of course," Timmy continued thoughtfully, "I'm the same way, really. I trained and became the greatest warrior in the galaxy so that people would stop picking on me about my name (for all the good it's done). I guess you try to be the Big Man because of your face. You're ashamed of it, aren't you? Oh, the left side's okay, I suppose—I'm not a mouse, so I don't know what's attractive for your species, and I'm not a woman, either, so I can't appreciate it that way. And I'm also straight as a straight can be, so don't even say it. But the other side….my God. What happened? Somebody throw you in a blender when you were a baby or something? Did one of your parents scald you with hot water? Were you attacked by a dog? If I had a face like that, I wouldn't go out in public. I wouldn't want to subject others to the horror of having to see it."

Vinnie was practically shaking with rage by this point. His face was the one area that he, admittedly, didn't have a shitload of confidence in in the first place. But the true fury had set in when he realized that there was no way Timmy could have seen the scars he got during the Plutarkian war; they were covered up by the mask. So unless ole Tim had X-ray vision, that meant that he wasn't sickened by the right side of his face—he was talking about the left.

"YOU BASTARD!"

Blinded by rage, Vinnie charged. Any idea of just messing up this guy a little, letting him slink away with a broken eye or arm or spine was forgotten. He was going to kill him. He was going to unzip the sucker's guts and leave him bleeding in the street, but not before he gouged the bastard's eyes out, ripped his tongue from his throat, and stuffed his dick into his lying mouth (all those horror movies had put him in the mood for that kind of thing)!

It wasn't until Timmy slipped his sword between Vinnie's ribs that the mouse realized that maybe, just maybe, Timmy had planned this. That he, Vinnie, had, in fact, been tricked.

He looked down at the sword, half of which was sticking out of his back, and gulped.

"Pride is an awful master, isn't it?" Timmy said with a smile.

The first drops of blood appeared on Vinnie's chest.

All three of his bros screamed; none of them was sure who screamed first. For all their dire predictions that Vinnie wouldn't last for the duration of the fight, they hadn't thought he would actually get hurt. They hadn't thought he'd get anything worse than a black eye or a few bruises. They thought he'd get knocked around a little, and then they'd keep running.

Throttle could've kicked his own ass. Dammit! Why in the Hell had they played around like this? They should have just kept going, on to the warehouses, and made a plan. A real plan. But no. They had stopped so Vinnie could try and take this guy on, and he, like an idiot, had gone along with it! Some leader!

In the midst of this, he saw, out the corner of his eye, Modo getting ready to lay the smack down on Timmy himself.

"Modo!" Throttle shouted. "Don't!"

"What?" the gray-furred mouse shouted, eyes huge and filled with fire. God! He was pissed! One thing for sure: Hell hath no fury like Modo when someone he cared about was hurt.

"Bro, that guy just—"

"I know what he did! But right now, top priority goes to getting Vinnie out of here! You get the bikes, I'll distract him, Bing, you black hole him out of—"

Then Throttle noticed the strange expression on Bingo's face. It was a combination of frozen terror and complete and total concentration. She held her arms out strangely in front of her, like she was trying to ward something off, or trying to cast some kind of magic spell, in an odd crouch.

This is no time for fooling around!

"Bingo!" he shouted. "Did you hear me? We gotta get Vinnie out of there! Now--"

She was silent for a moment more, then said through gritted teeth, "I heard. You…get…him. I have to….stay…..here…."

"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!" he screamed.

"Just….go in and….get him away from Timmy," she whispered. A wave of pain sloshed over her face. "Then I'll….help."

What is she doing? Is she that afraid of this guy?

Throttle shook his head. They'd have to hash this out later. Assuming they didn't die in the next twenty minutes.

Modo was already rallying the bikes.

Dammit. I'll have to do this without help.

Throttle did the only thing he knew to do. He ran to where Vinnie stood (paralyzed by fear or pain or something to that effect), the Knuke-knucks that studded his right glove on full power. His entire fist glowed bright green.

"Let him go!" Throttle shouted, hoping that the combination of his expression and the site of his glowing fist would convince Timmy to do just that. He didn't have time to fight this guy while Vinnie was hurt.

And besides, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

"Sure," Timmy agreed, smiling. But let me get my sword out first. I'd hate to lose it."

He began pulling the blade from Vinnie's chest.

Unforeseen by the others, Bingo's face tightened.

The last of the sword slid out of Vinnie's chest. The white-furred mouse swooned and fell backward into Throttle's arms.

"I can't….believe I…..'swooned' ," Vinnie mumbled. "That is so….lame …."

Timmy smiled and held his sword aloft.

"Azrael!" he shouted, turning and facing in Bingo's direction. Do you see your friend's blood on this blade? Soon, it will be your—"

He stopped. Bingo was helping Throttle drag Vinnie down the street to his waiting bike.

"Hey!" the wolf shouted angrily. "Pay attention, you—"

It was then that he noticed that his blade was not sheathed in Vinnie's blood. Very little of it was. Only the tip of the sword was red. The rest was clean and dry as when Timmy had pulled it from its scabbard.

"What in the Hell?" he shouted in disbelief. "What's going on here?"

But there was no answer, for the mice were already flying down the street.

"You won't get away that easy," Timmy growled. "You're mine, Azrael. And if I have to kill all of your friends to get to you, I will!"

Throttle lead the way down a side-street, which still, in the end, lead to their goal of the warehouse district, although not the way he had originally chosen. He had wanted to take dozens of twists and turns, to confuse their pursuer, at least for a few precious seconds. But with the holes in their gas tanks leaking precious fuel, and Vinnie's injury, they couldn't afford to waste any more time.

"How do you feel, bro?" Modo asked, turning his head slightly to see his passenger.

Vinnie, only slightly paler than usual, snapped, "I'm fine!" He winced and tightened his grip on the wound on his chest. "I could ride if you'd let me!"

"No way, bro! That dude knifed you! Sworded you, actually! You're bleedin', in case you hadn't noticed! Once we get you patched up, then we'll see."

"He'll have to be able to ride, and probably to fight still," Throttle grumbled. "We're all gonna have to be pulling on this one."

"No problems here!" Vinnie cried. He breathed in sharply as the blood continued to seep through his fingers. "Bring him on!"

Throttle glared at Bingo fiercely, who rode close by Vinnie's bike to keep it moving with them. It's AI could keep it up and moving with the others, but it would take someone riding beside it for it to know which way to go, and how quickly.

Why didn't she help out? What was she doing, just sitting there? She chickened out! Bing, if you're that afraid of him, say so, and you can go, but….This isn't like her! She's never backed down from a fight like this before! Did—did getting beaten at the garage do something to her? Are you hurt? What's going on with you, Bing-bro?

"This guy’s good!" Modo grumbled. "Too good!"

Throttle nodded, then said quickly, "We gotta call a time out on this one, bros. This guy is too tough to take on without some kind of real strategy! Our standard plan isn’t gonna work this time."

"You mean, hit them until they stop moving—" sharp breath "--isn't enough?" Vinnie asked, eyes wide.

Nodding, Throttle said, "We gotta slow this guy down long enough to get some cover. Modo, that’s yours!"

Nodding, the big gray-furred mouse pulled to a stop.

"Ever'body off," he said, helping Vinnie onto Throttle's bike.

Modo then turned and raced down the street. The other three bikes and their riders pulled to a stop and watched, knowing they had to wait for Modo to fully engross Timmy before they could seek their oh-so-temporary hiding place.

"You do know what to do this time, right, Bingo?" Throttle said, an icy edge to his voice.

Bingo nodded firmly, and watched Modo shrink until he was little more than a dot at the intersection, with a larger, darker dot approaching.

Her thoughts, however, were far from Modo. Her eyes watched a fresh, Coke-can red drop of blood emerge from between Vinnie's fingers. It traced a bloody stream across his chest, and slipped silently across his stomach.

A flash suddenly lit the world ablaze.

"Bing," Vinnie coughed with a snicker, "you’re missin’ the fireworks."

"Right," she laughed nervously, turning her attention to Modo’s short fight with Timmy. "I was just thinkin’ is all."

Vinnie raised an eyebrow and asked, "You do that?"

Bingo stuck out her tongue and watched as Modo laid into Timmy with a double-blast from his arm cannon, then threw a pair of grenades at the wolf warrior. They punctuated the night with the sound of their explosions, like a duo of pompous pops. Only one had any explosive power, though; the other was a simple smoke grenade.

The second the billowy brown cloud appeared, Throttle shouted, "GO!" and raced with Vinnie toward a small abandoned warehouse about a hundred yards from where they stood (abandoned warehouses being a fixture of any action-adventure series). Bingo paused just long enough to pop a black hole under Modo. When he reappeared, it was just outside the door of the place, which all four mice quickly rode into.

Once inside, they cut their engines and turned off their headlights, then coasted into a rear room and closed the door adjoining them with little more than a squeak.

No, they didn’t squeak; it was the door.

"Man," Modo whispered, pulling off his helmet and wiping his brow as Throttle helped Vinnie off his bike and to the floor. "This guy’s tough! Ah hit him with everything ah got, and it didn’t even phase him!"

"Not even the grenades?" Vinnie asked, amazed.

"Not even."

Bingo popped a First Aid kit from a black hole, which she passed solemnly to Modo, who started to set about the task of patching up Vinnie's wound. She heel-sat beside him.

"You okay, bro?" she asked, eyes somehow larger with worry.

Vinnie nodded and pointed to the blood on his chest.

"It's just a scratch," he reminded her with a smile. "Barely hurts at all." He tousled her hair lightly and winked. "Afraid you'll have to put up with me a little bit longer."

The younger mouse breathed a sigh of relief.

"I did the best I could."

"I know. And I'm still breathing, right? So it was enough."

Throttle shook his head and sighed.

"We need to do some heavy-duty brainstorming here, bros. We can't keep running forever. And we can't hide, either. He found us at the Garage; he'll find us wherever we go. So we need some kind of strategy. But nothing we do seems to have an effect on this guy. He has to have a weakness, I'm sure of that. Trick is gonna be figuring it out."

Bingo, rose to her feet slowly.

"I think I know what to do."

"You do?" Throttle asked with all the warmth of an iceberg. "You see something we missed, Bingo?"

She shook her head no.

"I heard something that everyone's been ignoring."

A sigh.

"Bros, Timmy isn't here because he wants to kill the Biker Mice from Mars. He's here because he wants to kill Azrael. Bingo Ritz. Me."

"Duh," Vinnie agreed, nodding, as Modo placed a piece of gauze on his chest. "But what's that got to do—"

"If he wants to kill me, then there's no sense in you guys getting hurt because of it."

A small black hole appeared to Bingo’s left, from which she pulled the Inferno Sword. It was her link to the Order of St. Dumas, the strange religious group she was bound to serve as its chosen warrior. The lucid cobalt stone in its hilt winked brightly in the light, as if eager for the coming combat.

"I’ll handle him," she concluded firmly. "You bros go home, prop your feet up, get a little rest. Maybe draw me a hot bath, 'cause I've got a feeling I'm gonna be aching 'til I get home."

The three older mice looked down on Bingo disdainfully, even Vinnie, who was sitting below her on the floor. It was all she could do to not to be crushed under the weight of their heavy disapproval (which they seemed to carry in surplus when she said stuff like that).

Okay. She was expecting this. She knew they didn't understand her position as Azrael. No surprise there; Bingo really didn't have a clue what it meant, either. She didn't like the idea that just because her father had the title, she had to take it up, too, along with all the inherent danger. The sword was cool, but that was the only good part. And near escapes with other goons sent courtesy of Klaus Black had given the young mouse a burning desire to shove the Inferno Sword straight up St. Dumas's consecrated ass. It frequently put her life in danger, and by association, that of her bros. Not as frequently as Plutarkians put their lives in danger, but enough that it was becoming a pain in the ass.

Vinnie's injury tonight, however, was the first time any of her bros had actually been hurt because of her, however. It had scared Bingo half to death. Modo wasn't the only one who worried about his bros' welfare, after all. They were all the family she had. Her father was dead, Wallenczech was dead, and she had no blood brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, grand-parents, or anything like that. She couldn't afford to lose them.

So she had to stand on her own two feet and kick Timmy's ass all by her lonesome. Of course, that meant getting her bros out of the way, or at least, to get them to stand on the sidelines, the way she, Throttle, and Modo had watched Vinnie in his encounter with Timmy.

That might prove more difficult than besting the wolf. She was too young, they'd say, like they always did. And all the previous times, she would have agreed. She really had been too young to stand a chance on her own. It's a little known fact that twelve year-olds have a suprisingly difficult time fighting killers from the Great Beyond all by themselves and coming out victorious. So Bingo had cowed to her bros' insistence that she drop all such nonsense immediately for years and years and years.

But not today. Now they were up against a bad guy that they couldn't beat by conventional means, one who had already proven he could beat her bros. They had to use a different approach. And who knew? Maybe that different approach was her, Bingo, taking on Timmy all by herself. Maybe since she was Azrael, she and she alone could beat Timmy. She might be the only one in the whole wide cosmos who could.

Although she'd be damned if she had any idea of how…

Modo smiled sadly, put a hand on Bingo’s shoulder, and said with a gentleness that nearly killed her, "Bingo, don't be ridiculous."

"We know you feel bad about Vinnie getting hurt," Throttle added, nodding, "but that's no reason to take everything on yourself."

Vinnie nodded and said, "Yeah, Bing! It's nothin'!"

"I know that," she snapped back, "but—"

"You don’t have to face that jerk alone," Throttle continued, pushing the hilt of her sword back into the hole. He was smiling warmly now; the iciness from earlier was completely gone. "No matter who sent him, or why, bros stick together, remember? Your fights are our fights, and ours are yours. You know that."

Vinnie grinned and said, "Ain't no way you're keeping me out of life-threatening peril!"

"But bros, I'm serious! Maybe I can beat him by myself! If I can, then there's no reason for you to stick around! You'll only get hurt!"

The others were silent for a moment. Maybe, just maybe, they were considering her suggestion seriously. Maybe they'd let her handle it, like she wanted. But Bingo doubted she stood more than a snowball's chance in Hell wearing a scarf in a hot tub. There was no way they'd agree to it. She was still just a kid to them, one whose determination was not so much "admirable" as "cute" and maybe "annoying."

She knew it for sure when Throttle put his hands on her shoulder and slipped his glasses off. He never did that unless he really, really, really wanted his point to hammer home.

And there was no way in Hell he'd do it just to say, "Okay."

"Bing," he said quietly, "we appreciate it, you know that. We know you wanna keep us safe. But we wanna do the same for you, and letting you charge in alone would be letting you commit suicide. Look what that guy did to Vinnie already. That's not keeping you safe. Bros don't let each other do stuff like that, and you know it."

"But—"

"There's safety in numbers. Our best chance of beating ole Tim out there is to take him on full force. We might not have figured out his weak point yet, but we will sooner or later. We just have to keep our eyes and ears open."

"I know that—"

"And you already tried to fight this guy once, remember? Back at the garage? He took you out just as easy as he did all of us."

"Yeah, but—"

"But nothing. This is just the way it is."

A silent moment passed.

"Fine," Bingo growled, shaking herself loose from Throttle's hands. She stood with her arms crossed beside Vinnie, fuming.

"Your face'll freeze like that," Modo said with a gentle grin.

"I just hope you guys don’t live to regret this," she grumbled.
"Given the strength of this guy," Throttle muttered, replacing his glasses, "I’m not so sure we will."

"Okay. Now, let's see if we can't figure out just what to do here. We know that lasers don’t do any good, explosives are a joke, and brute strength isn’t going to get us anywhere. He’s too fast, too strong, and too smart."

"At least he doesn’t seem to have any special powers," Vinnie said thoughtfully. "You know, like mind-reading or fireballs or anything like that."'

"He might have a 'Fatality' move," Bingo suggested. "Like pulling his face off and breathing fire and all that good stuff."

Modo shook his head and sighed, "He may as well be readin' our minds. He knows what we’re gonna do before we even do it!"

"And he knows how to push our buttons, too," Throttle mumbled.

Vinnie blushed a little.

"Oh, hey!" Modo shouted. "What about our bikes? We still gotta patch ' em!"

Throttle nodded and asked, "Bing, do you know where we have any Flex-Plate Shielding left?"

She shook her head no.

"Remember how my tailpipe got cracked a few weeks back? I used that last piece we had in the Thunderpipe to patch it. It's been on for over a month; there's no way to pull it off now. Unless one of you has a stash somewhere, then we've got none left."

"Dammit. If we don't patch those holes soon, all our gas'll leak out while we're sitting here. If we have to make a fast exit, we'll have to do it on foot. Fast as Timmy is, I don't think we'd get very far before--"

Modo drew a single finger across his throat, and Throttle nodded.

They were all silent as they pondered the question. Something had to be done all right. If they could just come up with something temporarily, then maybe Charley could fix the tears later with a welding torch. But that'd have to be later. And using lasers was out, too. Too much risk of starting a fire. And if that fire got to their gas tanks…

...goodbye bikes (and, in the ensuing explosion, probably goodbye Biker Mice, too).

"Are they big holes?" Vinnie asked suddenly.

His bros stared at him for a moment. There was a dejected, reluctant look on his face, as if he wished that he hadn't said a single word.

"Well, no, not really…." Modo began, still puzzled.

Suddenly, he had it, before Bingo and Throttle could even give the problem a second thought. Modo might not be MENSA material, but his emotional IQ is without parallel. Only one thing, one possible solution to the problem, could make Vinnie look so glum.

"Bro, you don't have to—"

"Yeah, I do. Now are they big or not?"

Throttle and Bingo quickly inspected each bike, and concluded that no, they weren't very big at all. But they did need to be patched, and quickly.

Vinnie sighed, then handed Throttle his pocket knife.

"Take what ya need."

"You sure?" Throttle asked.

The younger mouse nodded.

Shrugging, Throttle knelt beside him and carefully slipped the knife's worn blade under the edge of Vinnie's mask. This was going to be a precision operation. One wrong move, and his bro would be able to breathe through his cheek.

There was a tiny raised lip where Vinnie's face ended and the cold, silvery metal began, and it was here that Throttle wedged the knife. It wasn't easy getting under it. When the mercurious malleable metal had first been placed on Vinnie's mug two years prior, it had molded so tightly to his features that it had wrapped itself around some of the hairs around his scars. Throttle had to cut these in order to pull it up. He snipped as many as he could before just jerking up on it.

"OW!" Vinnie shouted, jumping up. "That hurt!"

"Easy, bro," Modo said, holding him down. His hand slipped behind Vinnie's back—and that's when he first realized that while he and his bros had seen Timmy's sword pass the entire way through Vinnie's body, there was no exit wound.

What in the Hell? Modo wondered.

He felt around, up, down, and all across Vinnie's back. Modo searched for the tell-tale trickle of blood, or a tear in the flesh, but found nothing. He checked underneath Vinnie's bandoleers and his bandanna, knowing that was too high up, but looked anyway. Nothing.

"Bro," Vinnie said suddenly, "I'm not into heavy petting, if you don't mind."

Modo quickly stopped, and reminded himself to check a little closer later. There had to be a hole in his bro's back somewhere.

Right?

Bingo hunkered down again beside him and popped a black hole to her left.

"Here, bro," she said, pulling something large and folded in the center from it. "This'll keep your mind off it."

She unfolded the object and held it open in front and off to Vinnie's left. He started to smile and didn't stop. It was as if he was entranced. A small runner of drool appeared at the corner of his mouth. He barely shook when Throttle tugged at spots where his mask had adhered to his face, scarred flesh to metal. Truth be told, he probably wouldn't have noticed the detonation of several high-powered explosives in his ears.

"What is that?" Throttle asked with a slight smile.

"The 'Hooters' calendar from back at the Scoreboard," Bingo replied proudly.

"Ahhh. Good one."

"I know my bros." A look of disgust crossed her face as Bingo switched her grip to one hand, and then to the tips of her fingers. "Yuck! It's all sticky. Damn you and your compulsive masturbation, Vinnie!"

"Uh, yeah," Throttle agreed, blushing slightly. "Damn your compulsive masturbation, Vinnie."

The tan-furred mouse handed Modo a quartet of small slivers of metal he had cut from Vinnie's mask.

"Hurry and get those on our bikes before they grow together," Throttle said quickly.

Modo rose to his feet and set about his task while Throttle carefully folded up the knife and tried to reform, to the best of his ability, what was left of Vinnie's mask. He pushed, where he could, the silvery surface over what had been cut away. It was a futile effort (nearly as frustrating as carving the pumpkin). He gave up when he saw a runner of blood trickling down Vinnie's cheek from where one of the scars had been cut open. Better to just let it how it was for the time being than for the metal to adhere to an open wound.

"We're done," he said finally, rising to his feet. "Let's get back to work on figuring out what to do about Timmy."

Bingo folded the calendar shut and tossed it back in a black hole, glad to be rid the filthy thing. Vinnie slowly came out of his trance.

"Is there any left?" he asked, trying to mask his embarrassment.

"Believe me, bro," Bingo said, helping him to his feet, "there's more left than was taken……. " After a moment, she added, obviously faking cheerfulness, "And it looks like…..you've…..healed up a little, too."

"Right."

"Well, you have."

"I hate liars."

Bingo decided not to press the issue further. Vinnie's scars had indeed cleared up a little since they had last seen the light of day (again, two years ago), but the area on his right cheek where the metal had been cut away still looked like a dirt race-track after a hard day of riding, with huge, dark blotches and patches where fur would never grow again.

And Vinnie knew the topography all too well.

"As soon as we beat this guy," Bingo added, "and we can get the bikes back to Charley to get them fixed up, we'll tear the patches off and you can have 'em back."

"Damn straight," he agreed without a hint of humor.

Bingo sighed and shook her head as the four mice gathered in a rough semicircle, leaning against their bikes for support.

"So let's recap," Throttle said coolly. "We're up against a guy who's bigger than all four of us put together, could tear a bus apart with his bare hands, can run almost as fast as we can ride, seems to know umpteen-billion different martial arts, is a skilled swordsman, isn't vulnerable to lasers, missiles, grenades, or normal physical attacks, could probably take a hit from a Plutarkian Planetary Pulverizer and not even blink, and isn't afraid to fight dirty."

"Where’s a nuclear holocaust when you really need it?" Bingo grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest in frustration.

Throttle’s eyebrows rose.

"There’s a thought," he said with a sad smile, "but I don’t think it’s feasible, Bing."

"Not in your drab little world, it isn't," she replied, smirking.

"Seriously, though, there has to be something we’re overlooking. Some crucial fact."

Bingo started to open her mouth, and instantly Throttle reminded her, "That doesn't have anything to do with the fact that you're the only one he wants dead."

She snapped her fingers in frustration.

The mice were silent for a moment, thinking. The silence would’ve been deafening if Modo didn't have that annoying habit of tapping his foot when he thinks (which doesn't happen a lot, given the small amount of time he spends in deep thought). "I kinda like the nuclear holocaust idea," Vinnie mumbled after a few minutes had elapsed. "It’s short, sweet, and to the point. I mean, sure, everybody on Earth dies, but, you know, it's gonna happen sooner or later, right?" He shrugged.

Throttle shook his head.

"We haven’t turned all our bikes’ lasers on him at once," Bingo said thoughtfully. "Maybe one big blast would do some damage."

"Might work," Throttle conceded, "but I don’t think so. Conventional weaponry just doesn’t seem to have any effect on this guy."

Modo, chin in hand, said thoughtfully, "Wait a second. What about this little disks around his neck? An’ on his arms? What’re they?"

Throttle considered this.

"They must be some kind of compact explosives. Powerful little mothers. But I think he’s the only one who can detonate them. Otherwise, they all would have gone up when you nailed him with that first grenade, bro, or when my bike hit him with its cannon." He paused. "They didn't, did they?"

Modo shook his head no.

"Before Bing brought me back here, ah saw him through the smoke. They were all there."

"Still," Throttle continued, "there might be a way to use them against him, if we can figure out how to set them off. We need to get a hold of one of them to find out."

"If that’s what you want--" a voice said suddenly.

The mice’s heads jerked around suddenly. They barely had time to register a shadow standing in the doorway before Timmy threw a pair of the tiny disks toward them.

The foursome barely had time to split up and run before the disks blew. Even though they all managed to get a few feet from the center of the blast, sparing their lives, it was still massive enough to throw them from their bikes and wide apart.

Timmy smiled as he watched them skid across the floor.

"You said you wanted to see them."

Throttle pushed himself to his elbows weakly, unaware of how much time had passed. The last several minutes were a black haze. All he was totally sure of was that the explosion had sent him flying, and that he had slammed back-first into a radiator on the far side of the room. His spine fairly screamed bloody murder. For a brief moment, he thought he might be paralyzed, but that fear was quickly assuaged by the sharp pain in his legs, like small metal claws had been set in them. His glasses hung askew on his face. While mentally screaming from the pain, Throttle did notice the strange view of the world it created; above the tops of his frames, there was little more than shadowy static. Below them, everything was perfectly in focus.

Carefully he pushed them back into place. One arm was on the verge of snapping, but at least there were no cracks in the lenses.

Not broken, Throttle told himself with a sigh of relief. They’re not broken. They were broken, you'd be up shit creek. You'll never find a pair of these on Earth, and unless Limburger opens up that Transporter of his for public use, you won't be able to go and get a new pair for quite some time.

Shit. What happened? We were standing there, talking, and then--

Footsteps.

Throttle turned, and from the floor, saw a pair of large black feet advancing toward them.

Timmy.

Dammit! How’d he find us so fast?!?

Then again, we did spend a Hell of a lot of time talking and getting Vinnie patched up and everything. He probably had time to go door to door. I would've loved to have seen those peoples' expressions when they opened up their doors to him. Hmm. Maybe they tried to give him candy, too. Hope they got better results with it than we did.

Throttle quickly jumped to his knees and made eye contact with the warrior, but Timmy didn't seem to care one whit. This time, it didn't matter to him whether or not his foes were awake. He just continued walking, as casually and slowly as if he were on his way to the mailbox to see what nice Mr. Postman had left.

Frustrated, the leader of the mice spun one of his guns out of its holster. He knew it would do no good before he pulled it, but it's useless to try and fight reflex. Besides that, running at him and trying to best him in a fist-fight would be even more futile. Might as well try something that might actually work.

Throttle cranked the power up to maximum and began laying down a steady stream of fire right on the wolf's chest. No effect. The only consolance was that the sheer force of the high power setting was slowing him down a little bit.

Go down, damn you, go down! Why won’t you just die and leave us alone!

"Vinnie! Modo! Bing! Get outta here!" Throttle shouted, never varying his attack. He hoped they were awake to hear him.

"Bro!" Modo protested groggily. "You can't--"

"Go! I’ll keep him busy!"

You do have a suicidal bent; you know that, don't you?

Throttle gritted his teeth and continued firing, a sick feeling in his stomach that no matter what he did, it wouldn’t stop Timmy. He'd just keep on keeping on, never pausing for a second. And so far, his opponent was proving him right. He just kept coming. What was worse was the knowledge that at any time, Timmy could make one of those amazing leaps, pull his sword, and cleave him right in two.

And wouldn’t that just disappoint the ladies. And a large segment of the male population, too, if those leers I got from Jimmy weren't just in my imagination. Well, we can't have that.

He pulled a trio of folding grenades from his pocket and threw them at his assailant. The end result was, as expected, nil. Timmy just took a few quick, gliding steps to his right. Once the grenades went off, Timmy resumed his original course.

What am I missing? What am I missing? What’s the key?

Suddenly, Throttle’s bike raced to his side and trained its laser cannon on their foe. It fired full tilt, but the lupine assassin continued onward at that same maddeningly slow pace, chuckling to himself. He was a freakish jugernaught who could not be swayed from his course, no matter how much brute force was applied.

Still, Throttle mumbled a brief thank you to his bike.

Six more lasers blossomed suddenly on the wolf’s chest. Without turning around, without making the slightest backward glance, Throttle knew his bros and their bikes had joined him. In a way, it really pissed him off, but he still smiled in spite of himself. Sure, they didn’t listen, but what real bro would?

"Aren’t ya even gonna thank us?" Vinnie asked with a snicker as he slipped down to Throttle’s side.

"Ingrate," Bingo said, shaking her head as if truly disappointed.

"What’re we gonna do with you, boy?" Modo queried.

Throttle just smiled, a smile so small that it might be missed if you weren’t looking for it.

None of these warm and fuzzies had any effect on Timmy (big surprise), who drew his sword abruptly and stopped.

"There you are," he said with a smile.

The four mice stopped firing (along with their bikes) and looked at each other, puzzled.

"We’ve been here the whole time, dipweed," Vinnie snapped, puzzled. Had wolf-boy lost his mind?

"I wasn't talking about you," the wolf sneered. His face lit up, and he added, "Hey, now both sides of your face look almost the same."

Vinnie growled and started to charge him, but Throttle held him back.

"Vincent, you were stabbed in the chest a few minutes ago," he reminded him. "How about taking a little break between that and the next time?"

The wolf nodded and pointed his sword squarely at Bingo, who grimaced a little.

"That was a nice trick you pulled, Ritz. Black told me you were clever. I didn't really believe him until now."

"What did she do?" Throttle asked, eyes narrowed.

Timmy held up his sword (an audio-visual aid! He's an effective speaker!) and snarled, "It took me a few minutes to figure out why there wasn't any blood on my sword after I stabbed your little pal. Thing should've been covered if it went the whole way through. But you popped a black hole inside him, right where the sword was going in, then another on his back, where the sword should've popped out. Am I right?"

Bingo smirked. Vinnie patted her on the back, and Throttle just stared at her.

"Judging by the amount of blood that was on the sword," Timmy concluded, "I'd say I only actually cut into him about an inch. Didn't even hit anything vital."

"Don't sound so disappointed," Vinnie growled.

"So that's what you were doing," Throttle said softly, turning to Bingo, who stood by him with her arms crossed over her chest. "When I wanted you to help get Vincent out of there."

She smiled.

"Sorry I didn't tell you when I did it, but I really had to concentrate to hold his sword and the holes in place. Took everything I had. Plus, I suck at anatomy, so…"

She shrugged a little. Throttle smiled.

"What?" she asked with a smirk. "You didn't think I was afraid of that walkin' douche-bag, did you?"

"Noooo. Not once."

Timmy sighed. Were they just going to keep ignoring him?

"RITZ!" he shouted. "You’re the one I want. Face me, and your friends are off the hook. They can go with my blessing."

Bingo’s eyes narrowed.

A black hole opened slowly to her left. Her bros could see the hilt of the Inferno Sword rising from it, like Excalibur rising from…..uhhhh….whatever lake it popped out of in the first place. Little help, historical fiction buffs?

"Bing," Modo hissed, pushing the sword back in, "didn't we just have a long, drawn-out conversation about this?"

"I don't care," she said quietly, eyes never leaving Timmy. "It’s my fight."

"Can we have a minute to talk?" Throttle asked quickly.

Timmy growled a little, then shrugged and said, "Sure, why not? I can hunt you down no matter where you go, and you can’t destroy me, no matter what you do, so I guess waiting a few minutes won’t kill me."

The mice quickly huddled, although their bikes made a protective front line of defense around them, in case Timmy changed his mind.

"And just what," Throttle snapped, "did you have in mind, Bing? Come on! Use your brain here!"

"Well, it couldn’t hurt to try, could it?"

Modo raised an eyebrow and said, "Hurt? Naw. Kill ya? Looks like."

"And he as good as said he'll let you guys go!"
Throttle shook his head firmly and said, "Suicide ain’t an option here, Bing. We need time."

Bingo rose from the circle and said firmly, "That’s what I’m gonna give us. Time."

She took a flying leap over the bikes before her bros could physically restrain her, and upon landing, stood no more than five feet from Timmy, bare-handed. The young mouse sunk into a fighting stance, one leg forward, bent, the other behind her, fists raised in a protective guard.

"I’m ready," she said firmly.

"Good," Timmy said, smiling, "although you have to know by now it’s futile. You can’t beat me. There's absolutely nothing you can do. I am unstoppa--"

Suddenly, he disappeared.

"What the f---?" Vinnie started to shout. He paused. "Hey, what the f--- is goin’ on here? I’m getting’ f---in’ beeped out!"

Modo shook his head and said, "Bro, you know stories for BikerMice.com can’t have the f-word in ‘em."

Vinnie sneered, then snapped, "I hope The Writer’s changes his mind and posts this on his site with the f-word! The f-word is f---in’ cool!"

Throttle, not preoccupied with the discussion, patted Bingo on the shoulder and said, "Nice one, bro. Tell us next time you get a brainstorm, okay? Starting to wonder."

Bingo bit her lip and mumbled, "Sorry."

Smiling, Throttle asked, "Black-hole under the feet, eh?"

The youngest of the mice nodded proudly.

"Like you said, I couldn't overpower him. And I'm not that good with the sword yet. But if I made him think that I was going to fight him that way, then he wouldn't be looking for a trick. No way he'd see that one coming.

"Unless he was looking at his feet."

"Well, he wasn’t. I don’t suppose he’s trapped in some pocket universe where he can't get out, is he?"

Chin in hand, the young mouse said thoughtfully, "Not that lucky. He’s somewhere, but I’m not sure where I sent ‘im. Doesn’t really matter; the hole’s closing, and he can’t come back through. They’re one way unless I want ‘em otherwise. And nothing can hold them open once they start to—AHHHH!"

Throttle looked at his screaming bro, unsure of just what was the matter.

"Bing!" he shouted, grabbing her. "What's wrong?"
Face contorted with fear and strain to stay upright, Bingo motioned toward the ground with her head.

Quickly, Throttle glanced at the floor. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He was in the middle of trying to get Bingo to just tell him what was going on when he caught a glimpse of what was so terrifying her. Jerking his head back, he saw a disembodied forearm tightening its grip on Bingo's right thigh.

"What in the Hell is that?" he shouted.

"TIMMY!" Bingo shouted. "IT'S HIM! HE'S GOT STINKY FINGERS, AND I CAN SMELL THEM FROM HERE!"

"Hang on!" he shouted, slipping his arms around her from the back and pulling up with all his strength. "Ugh! I thought you said he couldn't get back through!"

Throttle heard the sound of his bros running over. Vinnie's arms slipped around his own waist and began pulling with him. The force increased suddenly as Modo contributed his massive strength to the effort.

But Throttle's feet continued to slide along the floor, closer and closer to the black hole before them. Silently, Throttle cursed picking his boots for the nifty metal thingies on them as opposed to a pair with better traction.

Then, suddenly, the foursome began to move backward. For no apparent reason, the combined strength of Throttle, Modo, and Vinnie was abruptly enough of a match for Timmy’s strength to start gaining ground, and pulling Bingo free.

"No! Don’t! Wait!" Bingo snapped.

"WHAT?!?!?!?"

As Throttle watched, horrified, she started pulling at his fingers, trying to free herself not from Timmy, but from him. Biting at them, even.

She’s f---ing hysterical, Throttle thought to himself. Hmmm. Vinnie was right about the f-word…

"Let me go!" she shouted. "This is what he wants!"

"What he--" (He's saying this line out loud, so don't get it confused with the next line, which is in italics and is being thought.)

"Stop pulling!" Throttle shouted.

"What?!?" Modo groaned.

"Are you kidding?!" Vinnie grunted.

"Just do it! Bing, close the hole!"

The blackness began to narrow until it was nothing more than a dark outline around Timmy’s forearm, but it would go no further.

"I can’t!" she howled. "It won’t go shut!"

The pull began to increase again. All four mice began sliding towards the hole. Timmy’s forearm disappeared into its surface, but with it went Bingo’s leg up to the thigh.

If we pull, he'll get loose! If we don't, he'll pull Bingo in with him!

"Bikes!" Throttle shouted. "Now!"

The four Martian motorcycles roared over to the hole, eagerly waiting for Throttle's command. He pointed to the hole with his tail and shouted, "In there!"

The bikes circled around the hole, spacing themselves out, and angled their cannons properly. The barrels glowed bright blue, and--

"EXCUSE ME!" Bingo shouted, eyes huge. "BUT I'M KINDA ATTATCHED TO MY LEG! I'D PREFER NOT TO HAVE IT BLOWN OFF!"

Throttle gritted his teeth and shouted, "Okay, okay! Stop!"

As her thigh sank lower and lower into the hole, and Bingo's other knee scraped against the ground, she widened the hole. Her other leg teetered on the edge, but some of the pressure was relieved.

"Now the pervert’s gropin’ me!" she shouted. "Sexual harassment! Sexual harassment!"

"Where's Ken Starr when you really need him?" Vinnie grumbled.

Now all four of them were in trouble. Throttle was practically squatting on the ground, trying his damnedest not to pull Bingo out but not to let her go any further, and Vinnie was already half heel-sitting himself. Modo had wrapped his tail around Vinnie’s waist and was trying desperately to pull his bros out like the anchor on a tug-of-war team, but to no avail.

Something's gotta give. We can't just sit here pulling but not pulling forever. Something has to--

ZIP! All four mice went down the rabbit-hole, which quickly closed after them Their bikes gathered around the spot on the floor their owners had disappeared into and honked nervously, unsure of what to do.

They mice fell out of the hole, as it turned out, onto a wax-coated wooden floor in one huge pile. Bingo "landed" first, flat on her face. That was painful enough all by itself, but then she was treated to the exquisite pain of all three of her bros falling on top of her. A pair of feet--Vinnie's clodhoppers, she concluded later--kicked her in the head. Pain flared in her skull, and each successive body landing on top of the young mouse brought its own special misery and increased her agony tenfold. Briefly, she succumbed to unconsciousness. But never a good sleeper, Bingo came around quickly, although the acute pain of her four massively muscular bros lying on top of her hadn’t diminished any.

"You guys weigh a freakin’ ton!" she shouted angrily, trying to push her way up. "Ugh! I pity your bikes!"

After another minute of trying to free herself, Bingo realized that her bros weren’t coming back with their own one-liners or put downs.

Hmph. Slackers.

"Bros?" she asked, trying to wiggle her way free of the pile. "What’s goin’ on? You okay?"

It was about this time that Bingo got her first good look around her surroundings. She honestly hadn’t known where that black hole she had created to rid herself of Timothy had gone to. It was a spur of the moment thing. Bingo had picked up the hint from Modo; whatever the mice tried, Timmy seemed able to anticipate their plan. So Bingo had to pop the hole under the wolf's feet with as little thought as possible. Too much might have meant Timmy becoming wise to her plan. Thus, the location of the exit hole was totally random. Whatever had crossed Bingo's train of thought at that moment, that was where Timmy had been sent. In truth, it had been as much a mystery to her as to Timmy.

Now, though, she knew where it had led. It gave itself away. The pulsing beat she could feel through the floor. The darkness sliced by swords of neon light. The hordes of demons, covens of witches, murderers, and monsters, freaks and just about everything else under the sun, or possibly under the ground. A place where blood trickling down lips and garish painted faces were the norm. The only place where four very large mice falling out of a tear in the space-time continuum into a gymnasium wouldn’t be noticed.

She’d sent him to a high school Halloween party.

"Crap," she mumbled. "Hope he didn’t kill anybody. I’d feel really bad if some innocent folks got murdered just ‘cause I didn’t plan ahead."

Her face tightened into a glare.

"Except for that goddamn cheerleader."

She then turned to her bros, who apparently were still lying on top of her, and snapped, "Hey! Move it or lose it!"

But they did neither.

For they were unconscious.

"Oh come on!" Bingo shouted, exasperated. "What kinda shit are you tryin’ to pull, The Writer?!?!?! We make it through umpteen hundred explosions in this story, we get the shit beat out of us by this Timmy freak, but my bros pass out ‘cause we fell through a black hole? That is crap!"

Hey, you know, you are very expendable.

"Oh yeah? I don’t seem to be dead yet!"

AGGGH! Just shut up!

"What’s the matter, little girl?" a now-familiar voice asked. "Confused?"

Bingo looked up nervously.

There, above her, loomed Timmy. Given his size, he looms very well.

"Great," Bingo mumbled. "The Writer's against me, and now Dimwit shows up. God, how you mock me."

"It’s very simple," Timmy said, oblivious to her words. "While you were trying oh-so-futilely to free yourself, I used a little cocktail of my own devising to knock your friends out. When introduced in the bloodstream, it causes spontaneous sleep. I thought using your friend’s bodies to pin you would be an effective way to keep you still. Besides that, it keeps them from interfering. God, I could’ve finished up hours ago if not for them!"

"Wait a sec," Bingo said, eyes narrowed. "You could’ve just killed ‘em, nitwit. Are you more compassionate than most bloodthirsty killers, or are you just exhibiting a significant lack of brains?"

Timmy sighed, wiped a hand across his brow, and mumbled, "Look, it’s been a long night, okay? Just quit picking on me!"

"What?" she asked innocently. "You? Why would I pick on you, the Master Baytor’s right hand man?" Smirking, she added, "Or does he prefer his left?"

"Hey, gimme a break, okay???? It’s taking everything I have to keep these stupid humans from noticing us!"

Bingo glanced around the room and noticed nobody noticing her.

"And here I thought it was general teenage indifference," she murmured, chin in hand.

Timmy just shook his head and pulled out his sword.

"That’s a powerful force on its own, I admit, but I didn’t want to take any chances. Invisibility spell. Much as I hate using magic, it does come in handy every now and then. The last thing I need is for any of them to get it in their heads to be a hero, and I really don’t want to waste the rest of this perfectly good evening killing them first then having to come after you."

"No rush on my account!" Bingo shouted.

Oblivious to her words, the wolf raised his sword high above his head, and before Bingo could move, pushed her face-first into the floor with one large foot.

"Ow!" Bingo shouted.

"Prepare," Timmy said with a snicker, "to become—Ritz Bits!"

The sword began to come down, its edge coming parting the hair on her neck.

"Agh!" Bingo shouted, still struggling to free herself.

Okay, okay, don’t panic! Don’t panic! Uhhhhhhhhhh--Drop something on him! Drop ‘Czech! Yeah! Okay, now where’s that stupid place? That warehouse we hid in? Goddammit, I gotta start lookin’ at street signs!

All Bingo's thought processes disappeared as the sword began to part the flesh of the back of Bingo’s neck. White blankness filled her mind and the entirety of her being before it exploded into a caphcony of static. Lightning bolts of pain arced up and down her spine. Every single cell in her body was on fire. She was aware of just one thing, but it was crystal clear in her mind:

How much pain she was in.

And as she screamed mentally, she screamed out loud, too. And she couldn't stop. It may have been flesh the sword had cut, but it was as if though something far more vital was being

completely and utterly destroyed. The pain was impossible. It was as if someone had somehow taken all the anguish Bingo had ever felt in her entire lifetime and encapsulated it into one quick burst. Needles of red hot fire burrowed tightly into her spine, as if her body had fallen "asleep", as feet do.

But then….the pain began to fade, until there was nothing more than a dull ache at the base of her neck. At first, Bingo thought she was dying, and she was disconnecting from the real world. Hence the ebbing pain. But by degrees, she became aware of something warm and wet making paths down both sides of her neck, and it didn’t take a delicate Martian nose to know it was blood (although it certainly helped).

She was alive. Too alive, given the pain she still felt. And the relief of pressure on her neck informed her that the sword was gone as well.

Carefully, she traced her one free hand across the back of her neck. It was there that Bingo had her first surprise; the injury that had caused her so much pain was no more than an eighth of an inch thick.

Bingo slowly opened one eye and began to lift her head up. Apparently, Timmy hadn’t yet removed his foot, as she found her head being pushed back into the floor again. At least this time, though, she could see what was ahead of her.

The dancing teenagers had parted like a living, wildly gyrating Red Sea, to make way for a suprisingly tall Plutarkian in clothes that looked like something out of "Interview With the Vampire." Bingo quickly concluded that he was gay. How couldn't he be, with that kind of outfit on? Everyone in the room was staring at him; some were even complimenting him on his costume. He mumbled some thank-you's, then turned back to Timmy.

"What do you think you’re doing?" he growled, arms crossed over his chest.

"What does it look like?" Timmy snapped back. "I’m killing this ‘Ritz’ clown!"

"And making bad puns with my name," Bingo mumbled.

Her head was ground back into the floor.

Okaaaaaaay. About time I got my tail outta this mess. But as long as Bigfoot’s got his size twenty-two's on my noggin’, I’m stuck! Hmmm……Maybe I can black hole myself down and out, like I did back at the garage—no, can’t. Might suck my bros down with me. And if I did, as soon as I popped out, they’d land right on top of me! Right back into the frying pan! Gotta bide my time. That’s a last resort.

Her left hand began to tingle slightly. At first Bingo thought it had fallen asleep, like her tail and right leg had (like she said, her bros were freakin’ heavy!). But no, this feeling was something different altogether. Cautiously, she looked down at her left arm, the only appendage not covered by the mouse pile, and saw a small black hole opening beside it.

One she hadn't opened herself.

What the fuck--?

From the black hole slid the hilt of the Inferno Sword, the gem in its hilt glowing, casting a pale blue light on the crescents surrounding it. As it slid into her palm--she did not reach for it--she could feel the smooth leather bindings around the handle and crosspiece against her fur. It was warm, like the blade of Timmy’s sword had been when it had started to do its dirty business on her neck.

Weird. But hey, a break’s a break.

Her fingers tightened on the handle.

"What is your problem, you pompous toad?" Timmy demanded angrily. "I’ve captured her and I’m killing her! That’s what Black wants!"

Colby narrowed his eyes and said coldly, "You would’ve killed her all right, and then Black would’ve had both our heads! That isn’t the way he wants it done!"

"What does it matter how I kill her?" the young assassin snapped. "She’s just as dead no matter the technique! Why complicate matters when I've already got her prime for the kill?"

"And that’s why you’re still stuck with a name like 'Timmy'! You don’t follow orders!"

"Better than being a butt-kissing bootlicker!" Timmy growled. By this time, he had grown angry enough to stride right over to Colby and say spit out his words less than an inch from his face. Had Colby not been so certain that Black would intervene if his young ward (that'd be Colby) was in any real danger, he would have been absolutely terrified. As was, he remained calm, cool, confident.

A pity that he was dead wrong, but he'd never know that.

Colby pushed his fin back, as he always did when he became frustrated, and snapped, "I really don't need this right now, okay? I just spent two hours talking with a guy that makes me physically ill just being around him. So how about a little cooperation, all right? You either do this the right way or it doesn’t count. And Master Black was most specific on how the girl was to die, remember? You don’t want to be 'Timmy' forever, do you? You want to be 'Rip' or 'Lacerate' or 'Sneer' or some other name like that, right? Have some ambition!"

"Okay, okay," Timmy sighed grumpily, like a scolded school-child.

"So kill her right. I assume you remember the way Master Black told you to do it?"

Nodding, Timmy held up his sword and pointed to the gem in the hilt. "I have to run this through the back of her neck. The whole way. The blade has to come out her throat, and the gem has to go the whole way in. And I have to leave it in until her body stops twitching."

Would've done that a minute ago, anyway, Timmy thought angrily. I was gonna drive the sword the whole way through into the pavement if somebody hadn't interrupted me.

"Good." Colby snickered. "Looks like you’ve got some long-term memory after all."

Timmy sneered.

"I’m off, then," the fish announced, turning. "I’ll be dining at that 'Planet Hollywood' place that’s so popular in the Guild. Master Black told me I could earn some bonus points on this mission if I kill Bruce Willis. He's got the strangest grudges."

"Hope you choke," the lupine assassin mumbled under his breath.

Colby swept out of the room, the same horde of teenagers staring after him, puzzled. Then they went back to their neo-post modern jitterbugging.

"Who was he talking to?" a Gothic vampire asked a headless corpse to her right. "I didn't see anybody."

"Beats me," the corpse said from his chest.

Timmy turned to the mouse pile and said firmly, "Okay, Ritz, now it’s just you and—"

She was gone. Now the white-furred mouse was at the bottom of the pile. The remaining bodies had shifted slightly, as if somebody had finally managed to crawl free from underneath.

"What in the Hell—????" Timmy shouted, glancing around the room. His thoughts were in a panic. How had she gotten free? Where was she? Where was she? She couldn’t just vanish—no wait, yes she could! Those damn black holes! But she couldn’t have teleported without risking taking her bros through with her, at least the white-furred loudmouth! So how--

She must have wiggled free when he was talking with that idiot Colby! Yeah! She didn’t have time to earlier, because he caught her too fast. But given a few minutes—it was unlikely, but she must have wrenched herself free. Then again, it made sense. Martian mice were renowned for their strength, even females.

Although Timmy still wasn’t entirely sure that Ritz was a female….

Whatever, he was sure that Bingo had managed to pull her way out from under her bros. Okay. But where had she gone from there? She wouldn’t abandon her "bros", would she? No. No. Definitely not. Not after what he’d seen tonight. Impossible.

Wherever she is, the young wolf thought quickly, scanning the room, she can’t have gone far. She’s on foot. No, wait! The black holes again! But she wouldn’t go far. So she’s in here somewhere. I just have to figure out where.

Timmy walked carefully to the door, then began working his way through the throng. Partygoers found themselves roughly pushed aside by a huge, invisible force that would have bothered them were they not so busy enjoying themselves.

She’s still invisible to them, so I can’t count on the crowd’s reactions to point her out. And I can’t cut the spell, or I lose my own cloak of invisibility. I gotta find her on my own. This is my own fault for not taking the fight somewhere else, and for using that goddamn hocus-pocus. I was weak. This death is going to have to be nothing short of spectacular to make up for it. The sword through the neck thing, then……hmmm….Oh, I got it! Crucifixion!. Give her body to sai Black as a trophy. He'll love that.

But the task of finding Bingo was proving difficult. For as Timmy moved among the humans in their costumes, he found himself becoming steadily more and more disoriented. Arms and legs and heads flailing about, clowns and goblins dancing, it was too bizarre to make any sense of. The mixture of the macabre and the fantastic in bizarre juxtaposition made Timmy's head swim. A punk with a face covered in strange symbols swooped toward him, mouth dripping something red, then veered away. Scantily-clad flappers hip-checked him left and right, throwing him off-balance. There must have been twenty people dressed as Death, complete with scythe at his side, for no matter where Timmy turned, there he was. The tall, dark figure of the what lies beyond. Against his will, he found himself staring at the specters wherever they popped up, and at one point, one of the figures waved back.

It was almost as if Death was…..

Was……

Following him?

Stop that! You’re letting your imagination run away with you, idiot. It’s just a popular costume is all. Remember "Scream"? There is no real personification of Death—save me! I am the figure of Ritz's death and the death of the Order of St. Dumas with it!

Flashes of red and black danced across the wolf’s field of vision. Things were starting to blend together, like in some drunken hallucination. It was getting harder and harder to stay focused. And nowhere could he find Ritz. Nowhere! She was simply one more freak in a room full of them.

Timmy shook his head, trying to free himself from this vertigo, and made his rounds of the room quicker and quicker. He raced around, examining everything that crossed his vision that looked orange or red, everything with fur, but to no avail. The darkness of the room dampened colors into pale grays and muted pastels, except when a light was shining directly on them.

Again, Death seemed to be wherever he looked.

Growing steadily more frustrated, Timmy began panicking, growing sloppy. He started pulling people out of the crowd in desperation at the slightest hint of a resemblance to Ritz. But every time, he found that it was just another ordinary partygoer; most of the time, it was just a kid in a shoddy werewolf costume (he thought for a moment that he had found several relatives among the crowd, but it was just his imagination). Now the teens were becoming shaken as the invisible force began to come after them.

Suddenly, something caught Timmy’s eye.

A few feet ahead of him, he saw something long and thin snaking across the floor. A tail, he realized quickly. But not a costume tail. A costume tail, he knew, could not move like that, independent of whether or not the body did. It was a real tail.

A mouse’s tail.

Could it be?

Timmy carefully looked the figure up and down. It was partially obscured, but he could see blue jeans, and a field jacket, and furry hands through the sea of arms and legs. Ritz! It had to be!

……

Wait a minute…..was she--she was! She was talking to someone! What disrespect! Hunted by the premier assassin in the entire universe, and that stupid little bitch had the nerve to stand around and chat!

Just for that, Timmy thought angrily, I’m really gonna make this hurt! You haven't known pain like I'm gonna give you!
He paused for a moment when he realized that Ritz was talking to another hooded figure of Death. Damn it, how many of those were there in this room?

It’s not Death, he’s not after me, Timmy reminded himself, weaving his panicked mantra into a rosary. And if it is Death, well, it makes sense that he’s talking to Ritz, because she’s just met the end of her rope!

Timmy grabbed her arm and yanked her over to where he stood.

"Now you die, you little bitch!"

His sword flashed as he pulled it up to the ceiling, light glinting off its polished surface.

" ‘Little bitch’ ?" ‘Bingo’ asked, in a voice deeper than the one she had exhibited so far. "Hmm. Nobody’s ever called me that before. ‘Bastard,’ yes, but never ‘little bitch.’ That’s new."

"WHAT?" Timmy shouted.

He took a second look at his ‘Bingo’, and realized abruptly that he had been sorely mistaken. For while this was definitely a mouse, and they were definitely wearing a green fatigue jacket and blue jeans, and even the same white t-shirt Bingo wore, it wasn’t her. In fact, even though Bingo could be confused for the opposite gender, this individual was clearly male (although he did have skinny little legs, probably the fault of his own art style). This individual was a brown-furred mouse, with chestnut hair caught in a pair of ponytails, one slung over his shoulder, one flung behind. Two long shanks of hair fell around a pair of mischievous blue eyes, and past his shit-eating grin.

"Hiya," he said, winking.

"You’re not Ritz!" Timmy shouted.

"You’re smarter than you look!" the mouse answered. He then thumbed behind him and said, "Hey, my friend here wants to talk with you."

A confused, tired, and frustrated Timmy followed the boy’s thumb to—

Death.

NO!

"Ask not for whom the bell tolls, ass-hole!" Death shouted. "It tolls for thee!"

Timmy eyes grew wide with terror, but shut tight the second Death’s fist collided with his chin in a haymaker that sent him skidding across the floor. Had the wolf been a character whose name rhymes with 'Timmy', he might have enjoyed the slide, as it gave a multitude of chances to peer up skirts (bet you can't guess who).

Death pulled off her hood with orange-furred hands, and said with a smirk, "Thanks for lettin’ me borrow your costume, 1439."

"No problem," he answered, munching on a handful of Cheesy Poofs. "Just glad to be of assistance."

"Sorry I bitched at you earlier," Bingo said, handing him back his hooded cloak and scythe, "but, you know, after an evening of running around fighting this guy, and nothing seems to stop him, I dunno, I guess it just got on my nerves."

Stoker1439 shrugged and pulled the hood over his head. "S’understandable."

"Say, um, isn’t it a little odd for The Writer to be in his own story?" Bingo asked curiously. "I mean, this has gotta be some kind of paradox."

"Not really. Some writers put themselves in metaphorically, through a character; I just thought, 'What the Hell?' and popped myself in for once. We don’t have many Halloween parties back home, so I figured I’d crash this one. But hey, I got some friends I’m meeting here, so why don’t you go kick that guy’s ass? I wanna get on to the next story."

Bingo asked hopefully, "Am I in it?"

"Probably," The Writer replied, draining a cup of punch.

"What do you mean, 'probably'?" the younger mouse shouted angrily.

"Well, there's a realistic chance that Timmy will kill you, and if you die tonight, then you won't be in the next story, now will you? Unless it's a flashback story…"
"Come on!" Bingo cried. "You know! Tell me!"

Stoker1439 snickered and said, "What? And take all the fun out of life? I think not!" Noting Bingo's increasingly homicidal expression, he began to inch toward the other side of the room and mumbled, "Well, I've got friends waiting on me (I won’t name names, or I’ll get in trouble for not mentioning someone), so Ciao!"

Bingo watched him disappear, and wondered whether there was any special significance to The Writer showing up in a Death costume.

"Probably just trying to spook me," Bingo concluded, shaking her head and pulling her sword out. "That guy is so fucked up."

Hee hee! I said it again!

By this time, of course, Timmy had risen to his feet, and was understandably upset. Pissed would be a better description. Extremely pissed would be even more apropos. He was also mildly surprised by the fact that Bingo's punch—a punch from the weakest of the mice—had sent him flying, but rage slipped his concern into a box, sealed it, and left it in the attic of his subconscious.

"You little—" he snarled.

"Little what?" she asked, face deadly serious. "Look, pal, I’ve had it up to here with you. You wanna finish this mano e mouse-o? Fine. Just you and me. But we do it away from the innocent bystanders. Fair?"

"Fine by me," Timmy growled back.

Bingo popped a pair of black holes beneath the two of them. They descended slowly into the gym’s basement. Both landed without a sound. Neither said a word as they sized one another up.

I have to beat this guy. If I don’t, I’m dead. That’s all there is to it.

One of them would not walk away. Limp away, possibly, but definitely not walk.