Hack waded down the humid hallway. The sound of his footfalls was reminiscent of one walking through the shallow mud in a decaying swamp. The ravaged, cracked walls of the corridor were a deep pink, like perspiring flesh, dripping with fluids that ran down the surfaces to meet the puddles that had already formed along the floor. As the large man-thing continued down the hall, he occasionally passed thick iron doors with barred-off windows that seemed to be built into the walls' meaty animal tissue.

Hack stopped to look through the small window of one of metal doors, beholding a room made of the same organic material as the hallway. Wet, pink faces pushed out of the walls, fluids oozing from their pulpy contours. These faces were locked in rictus expressions of agony, their silent screams Hack could only hear. They writhed in their walled tomb, gasping for air.  These faces Hack watched were not the faces of strangers; they were the faces of his past victims. The faces of those Hack had taken life from, etched into his mind for all eternity.

Hack slowly turned away and continued down the hall. He was not here to visit these specters, although he was here to pay a visit to a ghost long forgotten.

At the end of the hall he could see the door that he was here for. It sat separate from the others, locked with enormous chains, and noise did emanate from this room, a soft weeping to be exact.

Hack approached the door, looking through the viewing slot like the doctors back at the sanitarium used to do. Inside the room, built into the back wall, was an enormous metal goalie mask, and chained to the front was a young man. The young man’s face was not strange to Hack. For close to fifteen years, Hack would see that weak pathetic face in the mirror every morning. It was a face Hack grew to despise.

The large man unfastened the chains from the outer door and entered the cell. His heavy boots scraped along the floor as he approached the young man, his hatred growing with every step. He hated what he had to do, and someone was going to pay for making him do it.

Hack reached a large hand out and grabbed a handful of brown wavy hair that sat atop the head of the skinny little runt of a boy. The boy was trembling, dripping with sweat. Seeing the large chains that held the narrow gawky arms to the mask was almost a comical sight. The boy was a frail shell of a human worthy of any pain he let people inflict upon him.

The boy’s eyes quickly opened as he gazed into the mask of the man-killer known as Hack. With a cry born more of pain than terror, the boy let out a scream that ended in a weak, beaten sob.

"Let me die, please," begged the boy.

"I wish I could," came a slow, gruff voice that emanated from demented landscape cell. "I need some answers, Melvin, and you are gonna give them to me," the voice continued.

"No. No, I don’t want to answer you! I don’t want to have anything to do with you!" Melvin cried out with more than a hint of frustration in his pleas.

"Listen to me, you little weak bastard! Stop crying! You tell me what I want to know or we start to target people you once cared about." Hack’s hands curled into claws in front of Melvin’s face as if to stress the point.

A weak cry of "No" was all Melvin could muster.

Hack moved his mask-clad face inches from Melvin’s. Melvin in turn turned his face to the right as the voice rumbled again. "Maybe we should rip Jane into two pieces, right down the middle?"

Melvin forced himself to look into Hack’s face, and with as much strength as he could muster in his voice, he yelled, "Fine! What do you want?"

Hack leaned back on his heels and folded his thick arms across his chest. "Why? Why couldn’t I kill her?"

"You mean Knock-out, don’t you?" replied the boy with a hint of amusement in his voice. "You still don’t get it, do you?" Melvin actually cracked the hint of a smile "You’re not real, you dumb Neanderthal. You see, I have a lot of time to think in here and I figured a few things out." The frustration now showed in Melvin’s voice as he spoke. "You're my imagination brought to life. You're a wicked dream, an evil idea. You just so happened to trap me in here somehow, only tapping into certain parts of my mind when needed."

Looking distant, the boy continued. "I have a feeling the insanity that brought you out was helped along by someone else."

Hack suddenly reached out and grabbed Melvin by the throat as the voice boomed, "Why couldn’t I kill her?"

Shouting back, the boy replied, "Because a dream has trouble comprehending most emotions!"

"I AM NOT A DREAM!" The whole cell shook with the rage in the words.

"Then why are you here talking to me?" Melvin shouted back from his bonds.

The voice, now only slightly agitated, replied, "I am done talking with you."

With that, Hack grabbed Melvin’s head with both massive hands, and a vision began to flood his consciousness...

...Hack found himself in the hallway of a high school, standing before Knock-out.  He somehow knew the image shouldn’t involve the beautiful blonde metahuman. She was asking him for help with her Geometry studies.  But before the stunned monstrosity could reply, one of the school jocks, Tommy Chapman, walked up behind him and grabbed the back of his pants. Everyone in the hallway pointed and started laughing as Hack found himself running down the hall into a room, with his underwear wedged up his backside.

The room was a padded cell from the sanitarium. Hack looked down to find himself in a straight jacket that he couldn’t break free from. As he turned around, he noticed a priest talking to him. While the guards were at the door, the priest said nice things that made him feel safe, but when the guards walked away the priest told Hack things like "Embrace your anger or you will never get out of here" and "You are weak and only the anger and rage inside can make you strong enough to earn your freedom."

Hack stared deep into the priest’s eyes, past his irises and deep into the pupils where there was nothing but blackness. That was until the blackness exploded into a mass of moving shapes, taking on the form of countless ravens flying around the silhouette of a woman holding two swords. As Hack tried to turn away, he was standing face to face with Tommy Chapman. Then the image turned to Randy Coleman, another high school bully. This image shifted in form and detail several times in quick succession, covering most of the people who bullied Melvin in high school. Between images, Hack could almost see a small stranger standing and laughing. Hack turned again to run, but stopped suddenly at the sight of a female in black leather approaching quickly, doing back-flips. Then the ground rumbled beneath him and started to rise, taking form. Falling from the mound and landing on his back, Hack could see a dark face forming in the sky. Dark eyes peered down atop wicked, smiling black lips, laughing lips...

...Hack broke the hold he had on Melvin’s head and stepped back.

"You learn something you didn’t want to know?" the boy mockingly asked.

Hack stood stunned for a moment.

"Every time you get weaker, I get stronger," the boy spewed out.

"Don’t concern yourself with that, boy," the voice from the walls rumbled. "Control is a thing of your far distant past."

With that said, Hack was pulled back from the room. It was as if an irresistable force was dragging him backward from a chain around his waist.

Hack’s body suddenly arched up from the stone floor, supported by his twitching feet and the back of his neck. Every muscle in the massive form tightened, bunching and twisting around each other. His ribs felt as though they were going to burst from his chest, blood shot from the mouth holes in his goalie mask in gasping bubbles. His body fell limp for a few seconds before the wracking pain hit him again.

This time the pain that ran through the behemoth was much worse than ever. It was like all the pain he alleviated from attacking Knock-out and Permafrost was finally rearing its torturous self. This pain was crippling, and Hack could do nothing but let it run its course, seizure after body-jolting seizure.

Slowly Hack pulled himself across the cold floor of the sanitarium’s basement; the journey to travel a simple four feet seemed to take hours. The man-monster had lost all use of his legs, paralyzed from the wrenching spasms. Elbow over elbow, Hack pulled himself towards the one thing he thought could help him survive the attack -- a small piece of indented brickword that sat crooked up against the wall.

The large man worked his way to within a foot of the broken wall before his body refused to take any more orders from his twisted brain. Hack collapsed in a heap of agony. He was able to see the indents left by Knockout’s hand just a short distance from his outstretched hand. The relief to all his suffering was out of his grasp yet again.

During the fit of pain that lasted for the next six hours, Hack couldn’t control anything he was doing. It was like the outside world was gone. He never realized that his only friend found him and held him with tears in her eyes. He couldn’t see her sitting with him for hours. All he could do was see the images from his tormented slumber. Of all the images witnessed, the man-thing found himself concentrating on one in particular, the bully Melvin once knew as Tom Chapman.

The Pig Pitt was a local South Philly biker bar in one of the worst parts of town; people wouldn’t even be daring enough to go behind the bar at night to check out the dumpsters. Half stripped cars decorated the street that was bathed in broken glass and other refuse.

Inside the Pitt, the air was thick with smoke, yelling, and the roar of an old Slaughter album. The place smelled like a mixture of vomit, body odor, and urine. Looking at some of the clientele the bar brought in, this assault on the senses was not so surprising. The women dancing on the tables were far from top quality, with large badly done tattoos covering their bodies and piercings peeking out from unbelievable places. They had the moves of seasoned prostitutes, with the wear of thirty-some hard years on them.

The patrons of the bar were mostly clad in leather and chains; most of them looked as if personal hygiene was a foreign concept. Every hand seemed to be wrapped around a bottle of beer or something stronger as they howled and hollered into the night.

Tom Chapman, known here as "Dogleg," got up from his bar stool, kicked back the last swallow of his beer, and slammed the bottle back on the bar. He looked at his buddy, Gator. "Yo, I gotta go drop one. I’ll be back." He then strolled off to the washroom past his brothers-in-arms.

Dogleg opened up the door to the restroom, allowing the awful stenches to waft about. The air hung heavy with moisture, and the smell of rotting fecal matter seemed almost palpable. Molds of various strains grew in the corners of the place. Rust and lime deposits permanently changed the coloration of the porcelain about the sinks and urinals.

Dogleg opened up one of the three stalls. The first stall was caked in vomit, but the second stall just took a few swipes with toilet paper and three flushes before it was ready for use. Dogleg then dropped his pants and took his seat on the throne. Relief came to him quickly as he read the street poetry etched on the walls of the stall.

As he read, his eyes noticed something on the floor, on the other side of the stall door -- it was a large pair of workboots. Dogleg looked up to the top of the stall to see a face behind a hockey mask looking down at him.

"Fuck you want?" he asked with a little bit of shock in his voice.

The stall door ripped off its hinges as Hack reached in for the compromised man.

Outside the washroom, the bar was full of activity as the girls danced. A few men were playing some pool, while one man was getting some cheap sex off one of the dancers on the pinball table, the words "TILT" lit up above his head.

With a loud crack!, the washroom door exploded into splinters as a human form flew through it. Only the music of Slaughter boomed in the otherwise silence, everyone stood frozen in awe with their eyes on the human form on the ground -- all eyes except for a rugged man in the corner, that is.

Bleeding on the floor and riddled with splinters lay the body of the half-conscious Dogleg; his pants were tangled around his ankles as he mumbled some incoherent gibberish.

The rugged man in the corner just belted back another hit of whiskey and chawed on a large cigar that was soaked at the base.

Silently and almost in unison, all the patrons of the bar traced an invisible flight path from the prone man to the bathroom door. The threshold was eclipsed by a large man with a tattered flannel shirt, work boots, and a hockey mask. The girth of his frame was partly hidden due to the constraints of the door frame. The large man lowered his head to step through the doorway where he had more freedom to move.

Hack took four large strides out from the doorway and stopped to look at all the sheep that were staring wide eyed at him.

Crack!

A pool stick broke across the wide back of the man-killer, but Hack didn’t even flinch. He slowly turned his head to look into the face of the fool who drew his attention. It was a wiry man with black hair, a mustache and a denim vest. The man’s mouth was hanging open in disbelief, and his widened eyes met Hack’s. Like lightning, Hack threw back an elbow that connected with the man’s nose and beyond, causing the biker’s face to cave in with a loud, wet crunch.

As if on cue, everyone in the bar got up and went into action -- everyone but the rugged man in the corner.  He merely acknowledged the ruckus by looking out of the top of his eyes and allowing the one corner of his mouth to curl up in a sneer. He then shook his head and sighed.

A very fat biker with a large beard charged Hack head on, ramming his shoulder into the rock-hard stomach of the behemoth. Barely moving, Hack grabbed the hunched over man by the waist, heaved him up overhead and slammed his back onto to the hardwood floor. He then cocked back his right leg and kicked the fat biker between the legs, sending him skating into the wall where his head imploded on impact.

Hack turned his head to his right to observe the stunned onlookers in the bar, waiting for another brave soul to step forward and be part of the bloodshed. He looked at the bikers who were all acting as though they were being held back by some invisible force when he heard a crisp, clean cha-chick from the bar. Hack turned to see the sloppy bartender pointing a sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun at him.

"You wanna fight, buddy?" The fat man muttered through a mouth full of chewing tobacco, as the brown juice from his little speech ran down his chin to stain his nappy shirt. "Ya get your dumb-ass outta here before I blow it away!"

Hack faced the shotgun dead-on to look into the man’s eyes. The bartender didn’t look too confident about his authority over the powerful, heavily built monster that loomed over him.

"Looks like ya wanna dose dumb fucks who don’t know whenta quit." More brown juice violated the once white shirt.

With blistering speed, Hack grabbed the barrel of the weapon and squeezed the barrels closed. The fat man instinctively pulled the trigger and -- ba-boom!-- the shotgun exploded, sending shrapnel into the bartender’s face and knocking him to the floor. Hack stood still, holding the barrels of the twisted piece of metal, blood running down his arm from the exploded fragents.

Hack twisted his body to the right once again, hitting another man across the forehead with the destroyed shotgun he was still holding. Almost instantly, the bikers started running for the door in one collective mad rush.

Hack noticed a few bikers helping Dogleg up as the man tried to get his pants up around his waist. Hack headed straight for Dogleg, swinging his massive arms as he went. Bikers flew to the right and left of Hack as he parted the mass of escaping bikers. Some men flew into and over the bar; some shot into the walls or through the windows. Mayhem was breaking loose all over, but the rugged man in the corner just kicked back another shot of whiskey, gritting his teeth to bite off the aftertaste.

Hack finally reached the escaping Dogleg, who just about had his pants all the way up as he ran for the crowded door. But the man-monster grabbed him by the underwear and lifted him off the ground. The man dangled helplessly as Hack bounced him up and let him fall into the jockey shorts that the huge man still had hold of. Hack forgot about the escaping bikers as he dangled the focus of his humiliation in mid-air, until the elastic in Dogleg’s briefs started to tear.

Hack wasn’t done playing with this new toy yet. The big man whipped Dogleg in a half-circle and threw him, bouncing him off a nearby wall.  The masked killer caught the biker and threw him again.  This time Dogleg swam through the air and went crashing through the table in the corner, spilling the rugged man's whiskey all over the floor.

Surprisingly, Dogleg momentarily ignored Hack, trying to plead to the rugged man. His groveling appeal was cut short, however, as his blood and loose teeth choked out each word he stammered on.

"Pathetic," the rugged man said in a low, gravelly voice, shaking his head.  The man slid out of his chair and helped Dogleg to his feet.  Then, in the next fleeting moment, he snapped the biker's throat with a casual twist of his arms. Dead, Dogleg's limp body collapsed to the floor with a sickening thump.

Hack stared at the man for a moment, then punched through the frame of the doorway, splintering the wood into nothingness. Then he angrily stared back at the man. The man was very tall and broad, like a professional wrestler.

"Name’s Mastiff," the man said. "You spilled my booze, son." He peeled off his leather jacket to expose a massive, well-formed physique under a black, sleaveless shirt. Like Hack, his body was grotesque, but with tufts of hair running over his body and blood-filled veins snaking about his neck, shoulder and arms. His dark, wild hair fell into his face, slightly obscuring his feral eyes.

As Mastiff tossed his jacket onto the chair, he continued with a voice that sounded cold, brutal. "I really don’t give a shit what your name is 'cause you ain't gonna live long enough to use it again."

And like that, Mastiff jumped for Hack face-first. The masked killer would have never expected such a large man to move so fast, and was completely unprepared for the sudden attack. Mastiff ran two clawed hands across his giant opponent's chest, drawing blood instantly.

Hack grabbed his bestial opponent by the midsection and hurled him into a wall ten feet away. To his surprise, Mastiff hit the wall feet-first, absorbing the impact and using the wall to springboard back at Hack, hitting him again from the chest across the shoulder. Mastiff finished by landing behind Hack, delivering a sidekick into the arch of the hulking man-thing’s back, pushing him straight into a wall. Wood and plaster showered down on the masked killer.

"I'll hand it to ya, fella," Mastiff said, cracking his knuckles. "You're as big as tank -- and as strong as one too -- but I deal with pukes like you all the time. It's my job." Seeing Hack not moving, Mastifff leaned his head back to let out a good laugh. When he was done, he lowered his head, only to see that the large man was nowhere to be seen.

"What the hell?" was all a surprised Mastiff could get out before a large beefy fist drove into the back of his head, knocking him to where Hack once lay.

Mastiff hit the floor and rolled in one fluid motion. Rubbing the back of his head, he addressed Hack through gritted teeth. "Well, aren't we full of surprises." In the blink of an eye, the large hairy biker cleared fifteen feet and attacked the masked killer once again.

Mastiff landed and pivoted, swinging his knee into Hack’s stomach that bent the behemoth over, followed by an uppercut to Hack’s face.

"I’ll make sure not to fall for that again," Mastiff barked out, grabbing Hack by his ripped shirt to stop him from bowing backwards. "Say good night," Mastiff said with a smile as he drew back his right hand, fully extending the lethal claws that dripped blood from their fingertips.

With that brief moment to recover, Hack landed a ferocious head butt to the nose of his opponent. Mastiff grabbed for his bloodied face as Hack took the opportunity to deliver a strong baseball swing, knocking the biker back.

Mastiff hit the floor hard this time. He opened his eyes just in time to see Hack in mid-air with an extended foot heading right for his face. Mastiff grabbed the oversized boot as it came down, twisting to the left. This sent Hack buckling, crashing through a table and onto the ground beside Mastiff with a heavy thwack!

Mastiff kept up the attack by straddling Hack and peppering his masked face with punch after punch. The feral man was pretty sure his opponent was almost out of fight by this time.

"Let’s see how pretty you are without that mask," Mastiff sneered through bloodied lips.

Hack’s eyes snapped open with that comment. He grabbed Mastiff by the neck, taking the metahuman biker by surprise, and lifted his right leg while using his grip on Mastiff’s neck to help throw him into a wall.

Mastiff exploded through the wall upside down and hit a second wall behind the first, leaving a large imprint. As he rolled onto his knees, Hack’s large hand reached through the jagged threshold and grabbed Mastiff by the shoulder, pulling him back into the main room. Hack then reached for Mastiff's leg and lifted him above his head with both hands. Ten feet in the air, the biker was then slammed down, his back driven into Hack's waiting knee. Mastiff let out a roar of pain that told Hack the biker could be hurt after all. Still not satisfied, Hack let Mastiff’s body roll off his knee to the floor, but before the bestial biker could get his wind, the giant dropped his elbow into his opponent's sternum using his full weight. Knowing he was getting the upper hand, Hack reached both hands around Mastiff’s head, lacing his fingers under the bikers chin, then leaned back to hyperextend the man’s already wounded back.

The pain was unbearable, but Mastiff gritted his teeth and resisted his urge to howl in pain. That’s what this bastard wants, to hear me scream! the metahuman biker thought as he was looking for a way to break the painful hold being applied to him.

Mastiff fought off every urge to keep both hands in front of him to try and help ease the pain of the hold. He reached back with a clawed left hand, finding the side of the large masked man. Focusing the anger, fighting the pain, he drove his claws into the big man’s side. With the resulting pain, Hack pulled back harder, but Mastiff just kept digging in. It seemed like an eternity, but finally Hack broke the hold and started to move free of the wildman.

As the two combatants stood to face each other again, Mastiff held his left hand up to see blood down to his wrist. Hack stood before him with a large gaping hole just under the left side of his ribcage, blood and shredded muscle spilling down his leg.

"Deeper than I thought," Mastiff said with a devil-may-care smirk on his face, his own busted nose and bleeding mouth preternaturally starting to stitch back together.

"Whadja say we finish this game?" the biker said, beckoning Hack with his hands.

Hack broke into a charge with one thought on his mind -- the total destruction of his foe. When Hack reached striking distance, Mastiff grabbed the monster by the shirt again, placing a foot to his opponent's stomach as he fell back. Hack soon went lopping through the brick wall at the front of the bar.

Bricks punched outwards from the eight-foot hole and littered the sidewalk in front of the Pig Pitt. Through the kicked up dust clouds from the mortar and pulverized brick, Mastiff's silhouette could be seen exiting the building, waving the dust away from his face. Mastiff walked through the debris, looking to his left and his right, then across the street where he saw two of his men waiting.

"Hey! Where the hell did he go?" he yelled to his men as he walked to the street curb.

"We saw him in the dust for a second, boss," one of the bikers replied. "Then he wasn’t there no more."

Mastiff stopped in his tracks and sniffed the air. Smiling, he quickly spun to face behind him, just in time to see the incoming fists of Hack as he had jumped from the third-storey building. Both of Hack’s fists landed in a downward swing on the shoulders of Mastiff. The street, not being built to take this kind of impact, gave way, sending both men into the sewers below.

The ceiling of the tunnel cascaded down, stone and dirt showered about the two powerful bodies that dropped into the polluted waters of the Philadelphia sewers. The sound of the collapsing street echoed through the tunnels of the cavernous underworld, followed by splashing and sloshing of water.

Seconds later, the metahuman biker broke the surface of the wastewater with a bark for air. He looked around the tunnel, turning sharply, more alert than the canine he was named for. Feeling something at his ankles, all he had time to get out was "Ah, there ya--" Sploosh! The biker disappeared under the foul water again.

The water rippled, then splashed, the foul liquid surface broke by an flailing, undeterminable appendage. A few seconds later, there was another break in the water, but still no sign of who or what.

Twenty seconds later, the two men broke the surface, gripped in a deadlock. They thrashed back and forth, from wall to wall, water violently churning everywhere. Mastiff delivered a backhand that broke the hold and knocked Hack back into the wall. Taking his moment of opportunity, he then reached above the recovering man-monster, grabbing a bundle of pipes and conduits.  He lifted himself out of the water, tearing the wire bundle marked "High Voltage" off the wall.

Mastiff looked at Hack and said, "It was fun, but you lose." He then  tossed the wires into the water next to the masked madman.

Hack’s body instantly jolted and seemed to freeze in time as more than 50 thousand volts of electricity ran rampant through his body. Skin boiled, ripping from his body, and Hack let out an inhuman cry.

"Whadja know, you can talk!" Mastiff mocked as he hung from the pipes above.

A few seconds later, Hack’s body went limp and slumped along the slimy concrete wall, into the murky water. Mastiff grabbed the budle of wires by its insulated sheath and pulled it out of the water, hanging it on a stray pipe. He then lowered himself back into the water. He reached for a piece of broken piping that jutted out of a nearby wall, and bricks showered the area as he ripped it out.

Resting the thick, four-foot pipe on his shoulder, Mastiff waded over to the floating, face-down form of Hack. "Nothin' personal," he said, "I just gotta make sure you’re dead."

Mastiff then proceeded to beat the limp body of his opponent to see if there was any reaction. When he didn’t see any movement after six bone-crushing shots, he figured the big man was finally dead. As if marking his kill, Mastiff then swung the tip of the pipe downward, impaling Hack. The masterstroke was so powerful it actually anchored the behemoth to the sewer floor, sinking the body.

"Yup, you're dead," was all the biker said as he waded down the sewer, disappearing up a rusty ladder.

When he reached the manhole cover, he turned around to see the pipe still standing in the water. He watched it for a long moment. You and I could've really raised some hell together, he thought to himself. Then he started to ascend the ladder.

Mastiff’s head barely had a chance to clear the rim of the cover when a large scarred hand grabbed a handful of his hair, lifting him out of the hole. Then he was spinning, he could feel the centrifugal force as the blood ran to his feet. Wind sluiced by him and he felt like he was upside-down for a moment -- then karaaash!  Mastiff found himself lying on a car. The whole cab was caved in due to the impact of his great body weight; folded metal flanked him, and his head was barely on the car at all. As he looked into the sky, stunned for just a few seconds, he saw someone entering his vision. The stars were bright tonight, looking like pinholes in a deep blue blanket, and then the goalie mask faded into picture.

Hack pounded wild haymakers on the slightly stunned metahuman -- right, then left, then right again. Hack threw power-punches, rattling the window panes of nearby buildings. The wheels of the car gave way under the attack, ulitmately breaking off their axles. Mastiff was sinking lower and lower into the vehicle. It would be a matter of seconds before he was on the pavement.

Between gasps for air, Mastiff knew he had to do something fast. He allowed a few shots to land full force as he reached up. Feeling that he had grabbed the head of the big man, he pivoted to his side and brought up a crushing right knee.

Krahkk!  Hack took the shot hard in the jaw and stumbled back, trying desparately to regain his footing. His eyes cleared just in time to see a menacing biker boot land right where the knee had just stunned him. The concrete of a nearby wall cracked and crumbled like chalk as Hack collided with it, finally falling backwards onto the street.

"You're a crazy sonnuva bitch!" Mastiff yelled,  then smiled. He sounded like he was having some fun with the mayhem he helped create.

He walked away, toward his bike. "But I’m gonna show you who's crazier."

Mastiff straddled his customized Harley Fatboy. He looked down the street to see Hack still laid out in the middle of the road. The biker kicked the side of his motorcycle, and the machine came to life like a motorized demon. Mastiff spat, then looked at his unmoving target. A slight grin came to his face, his sharp canines digging into his curled lips. With a loud screech and a mechanical wail, the mad biker went for his prey.

Leaning in on his bike, Mastiff hit 65 miles-per-hour in the short distance to Hack.  Suddenly, the masked killer rolled in pain as the Harley drove over his arm.  Hack grasped his damaged arm as if squeezing could stop the pain from running up it. Using his head and knees, the behemoth worked his way to a standing position.

Mastiff applied the brakes, slowing down to turn for another go-around. He brought his bike to a complete stop to take a look at Hack. The big man was now standing in the middle of the street holding his mangled left arm. He had an ugly hole right through his belly, his left side was shredded, and that wasn't enough, his body was a charred, bloody mess.

Mastiff laughed. This guy don’t even know when he’s dead! The biker reached into his Harley's side bag and pulled out a length of industrial chain with a vicious hook on the end of it. "Time to go to school, son!" he yelled as the cycle laid a thick streak of rubber on the street.

As the bike accelerated, the meta-biker started swinging the chain lariat-style. Hack just stood in the road like a deer in headlights.  Mastiff threw the hooked end of the chain as he sped by, catching Hack around the neck, and jerking him off his feet.  The bike ate up asphalt, dragging the hulking form of Hack behind.  Mastiff swung the back end of his bike to the left and right, fishtailing the chain he pulled.  Hack could feel the street ripping his clothes and skin.  He even tried to grab onto the chain, but the road started to devour his elbows like a piece of fruit on a beltsander.

Mastiff pulled a full circle around the block before the masked terror gave up and finally went limp. He stopped his ride back by the hole in the road to dump the body off.

As he killed the engine, the faint sounds of sirens pealed in the distance. He got off his bike and walked back to the mound of bloodied meat that was dragging behind his motorcycle. Planting his foot into the body's side, Mastiff rolled it over. Hack's pants and  boots must have ripped off him somewhere on the third turn.  Now, the front of his body was almost completely skinless from the upper chest down. The mask was still on, although it had some serious road rash.

Mastiff placed his hand against the pinkish meat of Hack's chest. He felt no heartbeat.

"Didn't know who you're fuckin' with," he said. He started to untangle the chain from the neck of the bloody mass. "Now I’m gonna drop ya where all the shit goes."

With the chain off, he reached for the body to dump it when a bloody, gnarled hand grabbed him by the throat. The biker could barely believe it. A second hand joined the first and proceeded to squeeze the life from the mad biker.

"Can't ya just stay friggin' dead?" the biker asked, but could say no more as Hack started crushing his larynx.

Hack used Mastiff’s leverage to help him stand up where he had a slight height advantage. The biker pounded at Hack’s bloody forearms, trying to break the hold, but nothing was working. Hack was using his height to bear down, exerting more force on the windpipe of the biker. All Mastiff could do was snarl, and gasp. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t break the maniac’s deathgrip. Mastiff shifted his gaze from the bloodied sinews of Hack's arms to the eyeholes along his goalie mask. For the first time, Mastiff actuall saw emotion in the masked maniac's eyes. Mastiff saw joy in Hack...

...And it made Mastiff smile.

Screeeech!

A police unit quickly whipped around the corner a few blocks up, lights flashing and siren blaring.

Hack turned to see the cruiser. Mastiff tightened his hand into a knotted fist and swung an uppercut to the giant's groin. His iron grip gave instantly, and Mastiff let out a choked cough.

Mastiff then followed up with another shot to the masked face of Hack, knocking him back into a few dumpsters. When Hack got to his feet, he saw a second police cruiser joining the first. He looked over to the metahuman biker, who was mounting his Harley.

"That’s my signal," Mastiff said, his voice damaged and scratchy. "But we'll meet again. Count on it!" He then kicked the side of his bike and it roared to life again. "Give Freddie Krueger and Leatherface my regards, freakshow." With that, he sped away.

The first police cruiser didn’t even try to stop as it went straight for the fleeing biker. The second car screeched to a halt as Hack walked into the street to watch his opponent vanish in a cloud of burnt rubber.

"Put your hands in the air!" yelled an amplified voice from the stopped police cruiser.

Hack looked over his shoulder at the car, then kneeled to pick up the manhole cover laying by the open hole.

"I said put your hands in the air or I’ll shoot!" the voice stressed.

Hack quickly turned, throwing the cover like a Frisbee at the cruiser.

"Holy Sh--" was all that was heard before the manhole cover hit the car in the drivers-side windshield. The cover disappeared behind a vale of spiderwebbed glass.

The bloodied, sinewy monster calmly walked back into the bar to collect his prize...
 

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