With an agonizing, glacial pace the sun dipped down and the Bouncer did everything he could to make biding his time bearable. He dared not take off his heavy gear for fear of being unprepared in the event that they were discovered and sitting still would lead to blood pooling, a lack of readiness he couldn’t afford. So, instead, he stretched and used a crush gripper to keep his hands ready for strangling perps. Twenty squeezes, four-hundred pounds of resistance each hand, over and over, first the left hand and then the right. After two hours of this he could feel every tendon in his hands and forearms. They screamed with pain but the pain was better than the anticipation of what was to come.

Conversely, Mandusa looked like some sort of eldritch horror, his prehensile hair expanded to capture every ray of light cast by his laptop screen. Carroll, the man behind Mandusa's red-tinted goggles, was researching the Bogeyman, a crimelord whose apprehension, they were convinced, would make their bones in the eyes of the NJPD. Once they were done slapping the backs of both men no doubt the officers would all be competing to sponsor them as heroes. Once they had a sponsorship they'd no longer be in the legal gray area of vigilantes, a prerequisite for joining groups like the New York Nine. They might not get into the Nine right away, or at all, but sponsored heroes could also incorporate anonymously as a limited liability company. All you need is an accountant to handle the money, keep your nose clean, then corporations would look for you as a potential spokesperson. Less glory, but glory nonetheless.

"Anything?" Bouncer asked, assuming a plank position on the floor, one of the few exercises he could do without jostling the camper they were hiding in.

“Yes, I..." sighing deeply, Mandusa grit his teeth. "Harvey, could you please take off your helmet? We're alone and you sound ridiculous."

"Can't do it!" he grunted in reply. "Takes at least 10 seconds to lock this thing back in. We get ambushed, best case scenario the baddies see my face before we put 'em in comas. Worst case I take one in the face and you gotta find somebody else to pay the bills."

"Right. It's fine." He said, unconvincingly. "I did find a crimelord that goes by Bogeyman, yes. Altered, but only aesthetically. Seven feet tall, oddly gaunt, all arms and legs, brown skin but you can't call him any ethnicity—"

"Because he's a freak."

"I ... yeah, pretty freaky. Anyway, they used to think he had a fear aura until the cops brought him in back in 2008. Would you believe he was only released two years ago? 'Model prisoner' they said. Here's a picture of what he might still look like." Turning the laptop towards where the planking Bouncer seemed to be focused. "Classic blaxploitation gimmick. Wannabe pimp though he was more a drugs guy than anything."

If a picture is really worth a thousand words the Bogeyman's words were all shouted at max volume. Pink, purple, fake fur and feathers all adorned what looked like a cartoon of a pro-basketball-playing-alien, complete with giant, black eyes that had red corneas. At first it was unclear if Harvey was looking at anything from behind that helmet of his. Finally, after three uncomfortable seconds of silence, he said "fuck's with his eyes?". Disgust evident in his voice he rose to his knees before standing.

"That I can't tell you." Carroll replied. "If his mutation had any advantage it was purely structural. Everything I'm reading gives him no advantage chemically and, according to this, he lacks an energy pattern outside of your typical nervous system's bioelectric field. He supposedly shot a few guys, disloyal criminals, never proven, and was the kingpin over a heroin organization, weed on the side when that still mattered. But guess what they finally got him on."

Beat. "Tax evasion" they said, both, at the same time.

Carroll laughed while Harvey groaned. "Son of a bitch had all the money in the world to beat any rap that came his way and a money man to make it look legit. Right? But never mind where it came from, right, city hall just wants its cut."

Clearing his throat from all the laughter Carroll rolled his eyes. "That's a cynical way to look at it."

"That's the factual way to look at it" said Harvey, checking his gauntlets "and you'd do best to remember that. We're looking to get in bed with those vipers."

"I just want to do some more good. More than I can do just volunteering."

"That's my Care; innocent as an unborn baby before the gender reveal. Good thing you have me to look out for you."

"Jesus. Please." scoffed Carroll.

"What? I'm telling you, you're going to get in front of the Mayor of New York City and you're going to fall all over yourself to kiss his ass. Wouldn't be surprised you called him "your grace" or something."

"Okay, first off, offensive. Second ... New York? We're in Jersey."

"C'mon, Care. The subway runs through all of it. Whole northeast USA is basically one big city. That's why the Nine is over it all."

"Yeah... Harv.” Carroll started, tone shifting to conciliatory, “You really think we can get in the Nine? I mean, I have power, yeah, but I’m not big on fighting. You … you like fighting but you don’t … ah … y’know…”

This gave Harvey pause. Helmet on, armored up, he was mostly immune to small arms fire and could ignore attacks from hand weapons. Hell, his helmet didn't even have eyeholes; just pinholes with cameras behind advanced lenses and outer, reflective lenses that hid everything behind them. Layers of next-gen space shuttle armor (titanium/silicate weave), butyl rubber and other feats of science in the multi-million dollar suit made its wearer as tough as a gamma-level power. Still, it was the man inside that had to be the hero. "Care, I guarantee it" he said, without confidence, counting on the audio filter in his helmet's speaker system to hide the lie.

"Man, the Nine... I mean, the last time they had someone new the Grip had just bitten that Bantam guy's head off. Remember that?"

"Oh shit, yeah. That ... that was grisly." Both men undersold the incident in which the Grip, a malformed monster of a hero, had bitten their opponent, basically, in half.

"I mean, I never blamed him, y'know? He had a concussion! That Bantam, I guess he had some sort of power that collected and redoubled impacts. Like, he could smash a truck by taking a quick jog."

"Yup."

"Just ... not tough. And Wildman? Turning on the Nine of all things. Has that ever happened before?" The clawed berzerker had tried to blow up the whole team, their headquarters and, depending on who you asked, managed to kill one member.

"Hero breaking bad? Not sure. Not legitimately, like that, not that I'm aware of." Said Harvey, impatiently.

"Grip out, that ghost guy, Revenant in. Mission supposedly died. Man, wait, when did Revenant come in? Has it been, like, twenty years!?"

"Care, buddy, c'mon. Cool it."

"What?"

"I’m trying to stay focused and you’re all over the map!"

"Cut me some slack, Harv. This is big."

"No time. The exchange is supposed to be going down in five. We need to get into position."

"Oh shit, you're right." Goggles down, Carroll slipped into his gloves and assumed the identity of Mandusa. That is to say that very little changed, but his hair, previously blocking light from escaping the RV, came alive and started touching everything in preparation for departure.

First Bouncer popped the hatch in the floor and dropped out the bottom of the RV, then Mandusa, the latter creeping low to the ground like a spider on legs of what everyone could only assume was human hair. Certainly, that’s what Mandusa thought he had.

Rounding a few corners, sticking to the shadows, the pair made their way towards the old Wildcorp warehouse. Douglas Wilde, AKA the Wildman, genius roboticist, engineer and sociopath was the owner of Wildcorp, before he was found guilty of a dozen felonies and his assets seized. Using gadgets to simulate powers he took on the persona of a savage hero.

Nobody realized that, the entire time, he was just infiltrating the New York Nine as a fifth column. His factories erupted in armies of crude androids at the same time that he detonated explosives all through the Nine's HQ. Supposedly, while the Nine, including some auxiliary members rushed to locations all over New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania, Mission kept an eye on Wildman who, strangely, didn't leave. Blown in half by one of the bombs, his top half choked out the Wildman and somehow hit the killswitch to stop the androids. The factories were all torn down to the last brick and any potential hidden basements excavated to make sure such an attack couldn't happen again. Only the Jersey warehouse remained.

"Up top" hissed Harvey. "Roof access door, fire escape. Death from above."

"Hopefully no actual casualties. I found blueprints online. Top two floors are offices, then the warehouse has a twenty-two-foot ceiling with a catwalk, elevator and stairs leading all the way down to the floor."

"I won't be using lethal force but they'll be shooting. Tell you that much. Okay, up the side. Use that mop of tentacles to slide the ladder down on the fire escape then, low and silent all the way to the top."

Approaching the building, still skittering like a spider, Mandusa stifled a scream as something grabbed his ankle. Flipping to his back, free leg and hair-tentacles at the ready, he almost attacked the Bouncer. Silently he grasped at the air, eyes big, as if to ask "WHAT!?"

Implacable behind his helmet, Bouncer made several gestures that seemed very official and urged caution (or at least it seemed that way to Mandusa) finishing by pointing ahead and to the left. Turning his head, seeing the dim silhouette of a nearby building, Mandusa squinted. A flare of light. A cigarette! One of Ricky's crew. The reluctant informant had said they were posted in the buildings around the warehouse.

A tap at the ankle. Mandusa turned back and again saw Bouncer who pointed then made a throat-cut motion. Kill the guard? No? He couldn't mean that. Clearly reading the confusion, Bouncer grabbed a golden lock of Mandusa's hair and pantomimed a whipping motion. It felt odd but, then, everything felt odd since his hair had awakened a few years ago. Awakened was the best word he could find but it didn't cover the way the hair both obeyed him but also acted on its own sometimes.

Regardless, the hair snaked out. The guard dropped his cigarette as his assault rifle toppled, clattering lightly as if blown over by the wind. The cigarette hand reached to pick it back up only to be caught up as both it and the guard's face were quickly wrapped in hair. From zero-to-sixty in one second, the guard was jerked about 100 feet down the alley, his scream almost completely muffled by the hair that threatened his ability to breathe.

"What are you doing!?" Bouncer whisper-screamed. "Just sting his spinal cord or whatever it is you do!"

"Be cool," Mandusa retorted, returning his attention to his catch, "How many?"

Eyes bulging from their sockets the gangster had already began to sweat profusely and his eyes were tearing up. He was clearly in panic mode. He was, after all, gagged by a hair tentacle and unable to comply.

"Okay, okay, I'm gonna let you talk. More than a whisper though and you get penetrated like my partner said." Bouncer jumped at hearing this, cocking his head to one side.

Slowly pulling the hair back Mandusa let the man speak. "Please, take what you want, man. Just not ... not the tentacle. I've watched enough Anime to know how this ends, man. I ain't like that."

Bouncer choked on a laugh before cutting the exterior audio on his helmet. The way he was shaking made it clear that the ever-angry sociopath was more than amused by the assumption. Mandusa was slow to catch up, however. "Anime? I don't..." and, trailing off, he looked down. Behind him the Bouncer had found the wall and leaned against it, desperately trying to hide his unprofessional, convulsive laughter. "Just tell me how many and where they are. Then you take a nap. Wake up in an hour, feeling fresh."

"Okay!" he exclaimed, then, catching himself "okay, uh, twenty guys. No, nineteen. We're barely even getting paid, man. C'mon. Okay. Okay. Uh, I dunno. We was just told to disperse. One, maybe two guys per building, two building perimeter."

"What about in the building?"

"Shit, man, I don't know! I don't! Bogey's got a crew of eight guys! Uh, they'll all be inside but they didn't let us inside! No Chupacabras inside!"

Turning back to look at Bouncer, Mandusa mouthed "Chupacabras?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry. Meant to mention ... the ... Latin gang's named 'Chupacabras'. I don't know why."

"Ah." Then, game face back on; "Is that all?" Mandusa hissed.

"Yes. I swear."

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

"Is it!?" he growled, still keeping his voice low.

"Yes! Oh God! Who are you!"

"I am ... the Mandusa!" he declared proudly, thrilled at the success of his intimidation.

Pause. Multiple blinks. “Really?" the guard replied. Tensing, he held back laughter for a moment until hair gagged him again. Gritting his teeth, confused at this reaction, Mandusa fell still until a pat on the back by the Bouncer spurred him on. Hairs penetrated the skin and the guard's nervous system was stunned into a dreamless slumber.

"What the hell? I had him terrified. He ... he just started laughing!?"

"It's the name, brother. Like I told you."

"What the hell? I'm, like, on my game, a terrifying monster of myth that turns people to stone. He was helpless, his life in my hands..."

"I keep telling you. Medusa is the myth. Mandusa isn't anything."

"Yes it is!" the whisper-screamed conversation growing dangerously loud. "Medusa plus man! Mandusa! Wait ... Medusa Man? Would that be better?"

"No. Uh, 'Gorgon', maybe? Right? Medusa was a Gorgon."

"And what about the 'M' on my belt? What about that?"

"I never, ever, noticed that until you pointed it out just now."

Scoffing, wordlessly, Mandusa stood stiff for a moment before lowering his captive to the ground and placing him in a nearby pile of soft garbage. Lowering to his arachnid-like sprawl he began skittering towards the warehouse again.

"Ca—Mandusa? Buddy? We good?" He knew the answer. The name was something Carroll had struggled with. He chose it, feeling clever, and had been refusing to change it no matter how much negative attention it got him. At least, in his funk, he wasn't likely to be distracted. Carroll was never one to want blood but, now, Mandusa was ready to kick some ass.

“Fine.” he replied, tense as hell. In short order they reached the outer wall of the warehouse and its fire escape. Mandusa tugged on the retracted ladder. "It's stuck. Damn."

"No big deal. Brace it so it doesn't move on our way up, grab me, and climb."

"Right" he nodded, still hot from having been laughed at. "We never even needed the ladder."

"Hey, c'mon, head in the game." Bouncer's concern was almost as annoying as the common thug's attitude. "You're kicking ass tonight, bro."

Rolling his eyes, Mandusa scrambled up the wall, barely touching the fire escape, hairs finding purchase in the pits between grits in the mortar of the brick wall. It was effortless as they ascended faster than a man could run. Up top, two gunmen were actually covering the area around the building. Clearly not part of Ricky's crew, both were black men in dress suits, scoped rifles slung over their shoulders. They looked like Secret Service, as if they were protecting a politician. This gave Mandusa pause but, with a pair of quick gestures, Bouncer indicated that he'd take the one on the right while Mandusa should head left.

Creeping over the edge, Mandusa fairly slid along the roof, carried by a hundred thousand blond hair tips moving like an endless centipede. Unfortunately, the hair, a permanent shining gold color, caught the moonlight a few paces away from his target. "The fuck!?" he exclaimed, reaching for his radio as distant impacts sounded.

"Spider!?" in his panic the guard ripped his earpiece out without hitting the button to call his compatriots. Staggering away, he backhanded the rifle so that the barrel struck the retaining wall around the roof. Rearing up, backlit, Mandusa was a silhouette, moonlight shining through his hair. "Centipede!?" he chirped, violent impacts ringing out somewhere, matching the pounding heartbeat in his ears, the guard quickly lost it. "What are you!?" and grabbing his rifle backwards, immediately aware he couldn't shoot it that way, he instead lunged in an attempt to buttstroke the eldritch horror before him. Instead a single hair penetrated the back of his neck as several thousand caught him, his weapon, and he slipped into nothingness, assuming that he was about to die.

Of course this was not the case. "What am I? Not even getting into that again already." Then, whisper-screaming, "Bouncer! Are you seriously playing with your fucking food right now!?" he asked without looking. Turning slowly though, he saw the red dots that were Bouncer's eyes in low light.

"What? He's ... tough. He's fighting like ... like a tiger!" The suited man feebly gripped Bouncer’s shoulder and knee, twitching as if having a seizure.

"Dude, I can see you both. He's literally tapping out. If this was, like, MMA or something, you'd be disqualified for unsportsmanlike conduct."

"No referee, no rules man. I'm just being thorough." With a CRUNCH Bouncer nailed his target with a hammerfist to the forehead. "Frontal lobotomy. Heh." A glare from Avery from behind Mandusa's goggles. "What? These are criminals, man. Besides ... he'll be fine." Both men moved quietly towards the roof access door. "What is it? CTE? You think I gave him brain damage?"

"Not doing this right now. You had your fun. Let's get our bust and make our bones."

Unlocked, Bouncer was shocked to see, assuming maximum resistance from what seemed like a formidable operation, that they'd left the door unlocked. Presumably the roof guards might have to head down to help their boss if things went south. Their boss, a former drug runner who, now, was selling weapons to an unknown third party. Creeping as quietly as possible, the pair slipped into the top floor, finding glass and steel walls surrounding pressed wood cubicles in the dark. "Empty", Bouncer whispered.

"There's a catwalk, remember? It's overlooking the warehouse floor. Bet the rest of the Bogeyman's guys are there and, by now, the buyers for whatever these weapons are."

Still, both men felt uneasy. They didn't have enough information to be confident of the situation. Finding the internal stairwell they slid along, eying the nearby elevator shaft, before finding the entrance to the catwalk. Six men ringed it, nine robed men, covered head to toe, stood on the warehouse floor. Plywood covered all the windows on the bottom levels, presumably to help keep squatters out, but also letting anyone hiding inside keep the lights on without announcing their presence."

"Where is your leader?" asked one of the robed men in a tinny, nasal voice. "You indicated his presence would be needed for this transaction. His absence introduces an unwanted variable."

"Listen at this guy. You believe this shit, Mookie?" asked one of the Bogeyman's gunmen. "Variables and shit? What is this? Math class?"

"Be cool, man.” said a second man. “He's just, ah, fashionably late. Bossman's gotta be sure everything's kosher, dig? You got that money, right?"

"As previously indicated this transaction would require ten-million U-S-Dollars in increments of twenty-dollars per individual unit. As such I have brought with me five-hundred-thousand individual twenty-dollar bills—"

"Ho-lee-shit, man. What is that vernacular?.” Irritation evident in response to the strange, tinny voice. “Okay. Good. Look, just put the briefcase on that line of crates on your left, a'ight?"

"But what of the promised ... merchandise?"

"It's in these crates all around us, man, but only we know which ones, okay? Try to screw us, we blow 'em to hell and you get shit. Be cool and you'll get what you were promised."

"This is acceptable." The robed man placed his case of money then fell silent and still, assuming a neutral posture identical to his eight identical friends. They stood still, a phalanx of statues, waiting for the next step."

Carroll Avery stood, slackjawed, trying to take in everything he saw. The bizarre robed men, the criminals standing in menacing overwatch of the soon-to-be-transaction, forgetting himself for a moment. This was very real. Nothing like the purse snatchers and muggers they'd been taking down for months. This was big. Millions of dollars of illicit weapons were here, right here, and when they gift-wrapped the thugs, buyers and sellers, for the cops, they'd be made.

"NOT IN MY CITY!" roared a voice, amplified by a personal speaker system that reverberated through his air filter. It was Harvey Weir, the Bouncer, and with two quick jerks he'd popped his gadget-filled nightsticks from under his sleeves, blasting gas pellets at the feet of the gunmen on the catwalk before leaping over the guardrail. With a massive "CRASH!" Bouncer landed prone on top of a tall stack of crates, toppling it and, in seeming slow motion, toppling them on top of the robed figures.

Leaping out himself, Mandusa swung by his hair among the rafters, gripping the vertical ties that kept the catwalk anchored to the ceiling, he kicked one gunman in the face, grabbing another's rifle away and clubbing him with it. "Damn it, Bouncer! I wasn't ready!" Laughter from below, accompanying high-pitched screams, let Mandusa know that this was just more fun for Bouncer. The bullets had started flying and his hair thrashed around, looking like a transparent field of energy, to shield him. Hands up, he felt the heat as the high-caliber rifle rounds disintegrated, a fine lead powder and a hot wind. Shouting "Sorry boys, that's not gonna work on me!", he sent out tendrils, catching the two gunmen who'd targeted him, first hairs stung their arms, rendering them numb, then more jabbed their necks. One he had to grab, tossing him away from the guardrail.

Another pair of gunmen saw this effortless takedown, turned, and with a "Fuck this! We out!" ran for the stairs, nearly knocking over the last two of their companions who were firing down towards the warehouse floor. Unbalanced, they turned to see Mandusa just long enough to catch impact pellets fired from Bouncer's nightsticks with their heads. Crumpling to the floor of the catwalk all fell still save for the faint electronic whine emitting from somewhere on the warehouse floor.

"What the hell was that shit? 'Not in my city'? Really!?" demanded Mandusa, hand over his heart, willing his nerves to subside.

"It was a… What was it called? I think it's a 'Leroy Jenkins', buddy. Shock and awe. But hold on, tracking a noise." Bouncer retorted.

"Tracking? We have maybe a minute before the, what'd he call 'em; Chupacabras. Before the Chupacabras come in here and light us up." Beat, pause, and Mandusa's ear perked up as well. Wait. What? What is that?"

"Right? Like ... like a damned fax machine."

"Or dial-up internet."

Stopping dead, Bouncer put a fist on his hip, still clutching his nightsticks. "Okay, I know you grew up poor man, but c'mon."

"Fuck you. Just ... wait a second." Hustling down the stairs on his own two feet Mandusa was Carroll again. Using his cloud of empowered hair he flung crates and shattered wood aside, exposing one of the robed men. Mouth gaping wide, he looked around himself in all directions, traumatized, in shock because he was half buried in what looked to be human heads. "What the ... just, what is going on here?"

"Hold on, hold on. Look at him. No hair. Nothing." Getting close, Bouncer clutched the man's face, looking him in the eye. "Silicone. Hell, look at this. Wow." And, holding one of the heads scattered about next to the traumatized man's own face revealed that they had, in fact, the same face.

"The buyers are Wildcorp androids? I didn't even think they were smart enough to act by themselves."

"Looks like they're smarter than anybody thought. Looks like I broke this one. Like ... his sanity."

"Gentlemen." Spoke up a voice, abruptly breaking the concentration of the pair. Bouncer was immediately in a combat stance, aiming the business end of his nightsticks at this newcomer, cycling through combat options. Mandusa's hair acted on its own, pulling him up and away, gripping a stack of crates and the bottom of the catwalk. "Look at you. Jumpy as jackrabbits but not nearly as cute. What's your story?" he asked, sipping from a glass of brown liquor with two ice cubes and a green olive in it. He was massive, dangerously fat and strangely old in appearance, African American and spoke in a smooth baritone. The white suit he wore matched his white beard and long white dreadlocks while contrasting strongly with his skin. "Is it date night?"

Moving laterally, looking for cover, Bouncer was the first to respond. "We heard word that an arms deal was going down here tonight; the Bogeyman and his men were selling something to another gang. But all we find are android parts. And who are you? The Bogeyman's lieutenant?"

"Careful!" whisper-screamed Mandusa. "He’s huge but he slid in here like a damned ninja. Something isn't right."

"Your friend's right there, robotman. You should be careful. Way I see it, this can work out right nice if I do say so myself. Seems that, with no loss of life, I still have my merchandise and the case of money our friends here obtained for me. Now, because I'm in a good mood, I'd be willing to overlook the abuse you've heaped upon my people and cut you in, say, ten G's? We both win, you were never here and I don't have to ... take action."

"Where is the Bogeyman!?" growled Bouncer, feeling the tension in the room, but turning aggressive rather than further questioning the situation like his partner.

"Shit, man, I don't know! Prison? Cemetery? That punk wouldn't dare come back now that I'm here. I ... heh, wait a second." And, laughing, he tugged on his beard. "Where'd you get that name anyway? You been talkin' to them goat-suckin' motherfuckas?" Laughing again, he shook his head. "I told them boys, I ain't no bogeyman. I'm the B.O.G..."

Relaxing a little, Bouncer stood to his full height but kept his weapons out. It was clear that the name was supposed to have an impact that wasn't coming across at all. "So you're the boss-man then? You're the top of the organization?"

"I got a crew, yeah. Thanks for recognizin'. I appreciate it. I appreciate you, man. Tell you what; fifteen gees. Take a walk."

"What's up with the androids?"

"Oh, you want storytime first? We hagglin'? Okay." B.O.G. sniffed, tossing back his drink, about eight ounces of what looked to be whiskey then chewing the olive at the bottom. "That ain't no tale. We moved in when we heard a rumor the Wildman's place was shuttered with his special merchandise still inside." Glancing at Mandusa he spoke up. "I see you checkin' the front door, boy. You lookin' for the goat-suckers, they ain't comin'. Told 'em we's havin' a conversation."

"Oh. Oh ... okay?" stammered the wannabe hero, who now felt very small before this mountainous man and his massive aura of confidence.

"Yeah, so one night them boys come in here, just ... like nothin'. Like they lived here. Comin' home. Let 'em know real quick what was up. They wanted to wake up all their friends here. Told 'em the price to pay to get their friends out. I mean, shit, I was just startin' to put feelers out there to sell the damned talkin' mannequins. Well, not talkin' much at the moment, bein' in pieces and all. Bag over there's the down payment. They were gonna buy all five-hundred-some, just ten at first, then more each time."

"Wait, you're selling them? But they're intelligent!" exclaimed Mandusa, incredulous. "They're people!"

"What's that boy? That tone, it sounds like judgment. You judgin' me 'fro man?"

“'Fro man? What?"

"What? You tryin' to be heroes, right? Walkin' up in here with that big blond ball of white boy 'fro, tryin' to preach at me about my business."

His typical anger set aside, Bouncer stood in shock as well. "But he's right, isn't he? You're basically selling ... people."

Gritting his teeth the titanic man threw his glass aside, shards exploding against a nearby wall. "Unreal. Privileged white punks comin' in here. They ain't even people! Two-hundred years ago people lookin' like you sold people lookin' like me! Now you got judgment!"

"How do you know I'm white?" asked Bouncer, far too smug in his so-clever question.

"Redneck cracker don't think I know what a redneck cracker sounds like!?"

Glancing back at his partner, Bouncer nodded slightly. He was in the big man's head, had him angry, so it was time to strike first, end it before it starts. Nodding back, Mandusa sent a single tendril extending through a maze of crates, emerging behind the B.O.G., up, and aimed right for the spinal cord, back of the neck, like a thousand times before. A few hairs lanced out, looking to stab through skin and shock nerves; instead the hairs found purchase in pores between patches of skin, not penetrating but instead gripping, like climbing the brick wall outside and gripping the mortar.

"What is this shit!?" shouted the B.O.G., reaching back, catching the end of an insanely long lock of blond hair. "Think you're the heroes, do you?" he asked, seeming to develop an extreme twitch in his neck. "Come in here, mess with my business?" and he surged upwards, seeming to grow taller.

"Shit, Harvey! Harvey, he's got me!" Carroll whispered fervently, all pretense forgotten as he failed to retract the hair, sending more and more to try and force the big man's hand open. His panic was evident.

"What? What do you mean he's got you!?" This didn’t make sense to Harvey; Carroll was the power in the pair. No thug, no criminal had ever been any kind of challenge for him.

Something shook the floor and it was clear that this was no mere criminal. "Racist-ass motherfuckas think they know better! Don't they? But I see you for what you are." Erupting, the fat man transformed, flab contracting and hardening. "No badges, no po-lice." What was a blob now stood a giant. "Dead Men..."