Quick and dramatic, the transformation looked like it hurt, but it was over in a matter of seconds. Now, after idling all this time, failing to identify anything it saw, the onboard computer in Bouncer's helmet was going off like a klaxon. "Threat identified" it vocalized, augmented reality data filling his vision. A few bullet points were more important than the others; Big O.G., AKA Big Original Gangsta, estimated power level Phi, and a notification of "Extreme Caution" strobed dangerously. Stunned, in a fugue state, frozen in a defensive posture, Bouncer struggled to grasp the rapidly changing situation. Meanwhile, the B.O.G. wound yards of Mandusa's hair around his fist.

"Harvey!" he whisper-screamed in a panic "snap out of it! He's gonna kill me!" and the strain was obvious. Though his prehensile mass of hair had never been rated they estimated it to have a strength of at least Zeta level with toughness at or near Sigma level. Still it couldn't penetrate the skin of this man who looked like he could throw a tank or rip an SUV in two. Finally, shouting, "Dammit! Bouncer!?" and Carroll’s voice cut off; he was gone.

Jerked through the air, Mandusa collided with his partner. Bouncer hit his knees then fell on his hip and skidded, the impact dulled by his armor, but it was enough to get the mental journey back through the fog started as he slid into a pile of crates.

He needed a plan. Watching his partner fly backwards through the warehouse, hair lashing out at surfaces, pushing away to prevent an impact on his body. He was pulled between heavy crates, into walls and finally, a support beam that gave out from under the catwalk, causing a cascade of debris. Harvey, the Bouncer, wannabe superhero, disappeared from view beneath a mountain of artificial bodyparts and shattered wood.

Finally reaching his assailant, perhaps a hundred-foot length of undulating hair coiled between them, and Mandusa’s side collided with the B.O.G.’s fist. With a shockwave that shook the walls the hair, coils forming a tight, thick shield, cushioned the impact as best as it could. Still, for Carroll it was still like falling from the roof of a two-story building.

The impact shot him up vertically and over the big man and he spiraled, landing behind his attacker, near the open door B.O.G. had previously come out of. The second impact, on the floor, made it clear that the first had cracked some ribs; Mandusa’s struggles to quickly pull himself upright making this clear through the language of pain. His hair retracted to a manageable length, because if it extended too far it would lose strength, and then Carroll Avery, the man behind Mandusa's goggles, was dead for certain.

Puffing at the chest, shrugging off his suit jacket, the B.O.G. tossed it aside, then his dress shirt. The slacks had fallen off on their own and his brown leather loafers had exploded. Beneath it all was what looked like a wrestling singlet. "Damn ... Italian leather. You ruined my shoes, 'Fro Man." His voice was different. Deeper. Monstrous. "Hell of a thing to do to a man. All you had to do ... was business. But instead, instead of doing business, you ruined my shoes..." He was fully a foot taller, his mass having not increased but moved, leaving not a fat man but what looked to be a seven-foot-plus bodybuilder of impossible proportions. "Your friend just got squashed. You want to do better? You want to survive? Huh?"

Unable to draw a deep breath, backing away on one knee, Mandusa still struggled to lift himself without aggravating his very fresh rib injury. Almost on its own his hair started to tightly wrap the injured area, acting like athletic tape to lessen physical stress. "Oh?" he coughed. Blood. "Well, yeah, that'd be great, if it's still an option."

"Beg", the B.O.G. growled. "Beg for mercy, 'Fro Man. Make it real ... I let you walk."

Gritting his teeth, Mandusa thought about it hard. Heroics were one thing but dying here, anonymously, to an underground crime figure with no public presence didn't sound very attractive. After all, who'd know that he'd broken? If it went public somehow people would understand. Not like he had some big reputation to defend after all. He was badly, clearly, overmatched. After too pregnant a pause he grunted out, with much effort, a "please".

"Please what, 'Fro Man?" B.O.G. was playing with his food, trying to draw some entertainment from the aggravation they’d caused him.

Having never felt so vulnerable, never been in such danger, Carroll wasn’t prepared for this situation at all. "Please ... don't?"

The big man chuckled sardonically. "Ain't had to humble yourself too much have you?” He circled his prey, looking to cut off his perceived escape path. Man, comin' up, 1980 or so, I had to be hard. Guns on the street, everybody joinin' up, my mama just wanted to send me away. Away from Jersey, somewhere safe, but we didn't have no money. So I joined. No choice. Humbled myself so the bosses would use me. Kissed that fuckin’ ring…”

Lumbering forward, looming over the Mandusa, B.O.G. tried to close the distance between them slowly; knowing any sudden lunge would likely fail at this range. “Then I got big and then ... bigger. Turned out the fatter I got the bigger muscles I could get, the taller I could get... Kept under the radar all this time. Cops don't know who I am, 'Fro Man. Know why?"

"Why's that?" he gasped, hoping and praying to keep the big man talking until he could figure out some sort of plan. Without his awareness a lock of hair snaked back, around the catwalk and towards the rafters.

"I was subtle. Early on, I hardly ever even let on what I could do. Hell, me, the real me, could quit, could go legit while the Big G worked as muscle, the real me laundering what Big G earned. Then, I started moving up, and it was less about gang war in the streets, less about the color of your outfit, more about rackets. More money to clean. Got my mom out the ghetto. Then I knew I was a boss.

Had a territory, but only as the B.O.G., not as me. Nobody never seen me 'cept my crew. Not the real me. Until today. And you ... you just couldn't find it in yourself to do business!" On that note, the B.O.G. whipped around, telegraphing a downward haymaker meant to spread Mandusa all over the warehouse floor, in so doing he cracked the concrete foundation. With a thin shriek Mandusa sailed up and away, borne on a grappling lock of hair attached to he knew not what. Holding position, knuckles sunk into the crater they created, his head followed Mandusa’s movement as he sneered. "It's disrespectful!"

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"I get it!" adrenaline was kicking in. "And I apologize! Really, it was just mistaken identity!"

Standing abruptly the big man pointed at Mandusa, shouting "Bullshit!" and kept pace, following him.

Up and angling for the stairs to the first office level Mandusa tried to keep the conversation going. "We thought you were the Bogeyman! Remember!? A minor player who didn't even have powers!"

"Too late, boy! I been doing this since before you were born! I let you go, the word gets out, I'm made on the street and everybody knows the legitimate businessman broke bad decades ago!"

"I don't even know your real name!" Mandusa shouted back, aggravating his ribs.

This gave the B.O.G. pause. After all, this white devil probably couldn't tell him from any other fat brother, right? On the other hand. "Oh, where are my manners? I'm Tyrone. And you are?"

"Are you fucking serious!?" Mandusa shrieked before dropping abruptly, a crate swept up and tossed in one motion narrowly missing, exploding in a shower of wood shards and android feet. “Why tell me that!?”

"Because you done fucked up, boy! Get it through that thick head! You a dead man!"

He did, he really did, and so, like a spider, he rocketed along on many tendrils of hair and made it to the stairwell that led to the offices.

"That's right, 'Fro Man! Make your escape. You head out there, go home and, on the way, maybe say hi to all them Chupacabras outside.

Carroll stopped cold. More times than he could count today he was shaken out of his game. Looking down at the hulking giant, he realized that, while he was getting lost in thought, B.O.G. was making his way up the catwalk with an unnatural quiet. He was a single spiral below Carroll, one foot on the guardrail, obviously gauging the distance for a jump. "Dude. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Face twisting up in confusion, B.O.G. was taken aback by the pain and emotion in Carroll's voice. "Wrong with me? Man, what you think this is? A game? This serious!"

"I'm trying to do good. Help people."

"Oh yeah? And how's whoopin' my boys do that?"

Looking around, Mandusa saw the six men B.O.G. referenced, four of whom he'd knocked out personally. "They're criminals. I had to ... I just had to, to defend ... innocents."

The confusion, the loss of confidence, the doubt, something gave B.O.G. pause. "What's your name, son?"

"You know I can't tell you that." Though half his face including his eyes was obscured by his translucent goggles the quivering frown on Carroll's face conveyed his desperation.

"You're dead anyway. Don't make it uglier than it has to be."

"I reject that. I, no, just no." B.O.G. had to pause. There was a grim determination to this kid that was almost admirable. Clearly, in spite of everything, the youngster was far from giving up.

"Okay. Okay. Who we hurtin'? Huh? Robots? Law don't even recognize them as people. We stealin'? Who we stealin' from? Supervillain, turncoat on the biggest superteam ever was? People gonna cheer that. You wanna say that stinky motherfucka down there–” B.O.G. pointed down where Bouncer was buried. “--was the mastermind? Okay. I don't blame you. Don't change nothin'. I ain’t gettin made on account of you two. I ain't losin' everything because you. Fucked. Up..."

"Go to Hell, Tyrone! You know I could never have proven it was you. I only know your name because you told me."

Now B.O.G. felt a twinge of regret. Maybe this could've been avoided after all. "Okay. Yeah, I got hot for a second. Fucked with you when I didn’t need to. Heh. Sorry, I guess. My bad."

"So ... what's that mean? Can cooler heads prevail?" The frown faded. For just a second both men shared an earnest smile, laughing weakly.

With a quiver the smile faded from B.O.G.'s face, falling slowly into a deep frown. "Sorry again." And he leaped, nearly destroying the guardrail he leapt from, bending it monstrously, narrowly missing as Mandusa rocketed up the stairs, towed by a lock of hair attached to the rafter. Sparks flew as conduit stretched and insulation tore, lights flickering, the landing just as destructive as the take-off. "C'mon, boy! How the hell you gettin' out of here!? Huh? Every angle covered by Mexicans with assault rifles!"

Entering the office, Mandusa was immediately aware that, in spite of the deep darkness visible through the windows, red track lights, emergency lighting perhaps, were enough for an observer to make out his silhouette. If he went out right now he’d be a sitting duck. Ideas exhausted he slid under a desk just as the B.O.G. ducked sideways through the door.

"I'm done speakin' reason, son. Done apologizin'. Ain't no angel, but you had to know, you go vigilante, not even police endorsed, that's dangerous." The big man waited and listened. A distant cracking sound reverberated through the building and the emergency lighting died. "Ah, shit. I did that, didn't I?"

"How'd you know we aren't endorsed?" asked Mandusa, feeling out the room with hairs, before immediately gliding to another desk further into the room.

Moving quickly homed in on Mandusa's previous position. "Ha! It's obvious. You two shoulda' known Bogeyman ain't around here no more if you was workin' with cops! The fuck? Oh, yeah, you were here." Feeling around, sniffing, B.O.G. detected a particular kind of soap. "You're usin' that castille oil and mint shit, right?"

This added an alarming element. Was the hulking brute capable of tracking by smell? Reaching for his next hiding spot, he called out "How'd you know?" and immediately slid away.

Creeping more slowly, gigantic bare feet making no impact, no sound, B.O.G. found not where Mandusa was but where he'd been yet again. "Oh, you slippery, 'Fro Man. I'll tell you, air's too clean up in this office. Atmosphere's constantly bein' replaced now that we got the power goin' again. Had it, anyway."

B.O.G. listened carefully but Mandusa wasn't quick to reply. The delaying tactic was working but he had to slow it down more, try to work out his next big move. He was well aware that it was B.O.G.'s concern for his 'boys' downstairs that kept him from just leveling the whole building around him. If he could avoid contact, he might have a chance. "My name isn't 'Fro Man!" he shouted, trying to project his voice off to the side before skittering away.

Leaping, B.O.G. sunk into the floor, breaking floorboards and nearly going through in his haste to finally catch his quarry. "Shit! Fuckin'!" Sinking his fingernails into a nearby section not compromised by his size and power he called back. "And what is it, huh? What's your name? I told you mine!" He was still gingerly trying to pick himself up.

"You don't get the real name, Tyrone. I don't plan on killing you. All you need to know is that I'm the Mandusa."

This elicited a snort. "Mandusa!?" He'd found his feet but wasn't completely certain where his target was this time. "What kind of stupid name is that anyway? Ain't too late to have 'Fro Man on your headstone, son!"

"Oh, I dunno. I kind of like it." Rang out a third voice, tinny and echoing, followed by a deafening blast and a flash of light that showed both the B.O.G. and the black, armored form of a gunman, inches away, firing directly into the B.O.G.’s left eye with a .50 caliber pistol.

“Wha…?” The big man staggered. All fell still for a moment, then the B.O.G. was heard to cough, then gasp and, finally, to roar...