I've been in a lot of sticky situations since I started this whole vigilante gig. One time, I was trying to get a cat out of a tree for some old lady, and the kitty was not having it. Since then, I've always worn my trusty hockey mask. Another time I caught a purse thief by tripping him with my golf club, but it turns out she was running away from someone who had actually tried to steal her purse. I had some real trouble explaining that one to the cops. But never have I ever been this deep in the shit.

Pardon my French.

I tried to turn too quickly, my sneakers struggling to find purchase on the worn concrete. My shoulder slammed hard into a brick wall, but through my football pads I barely felt the impact. I took off down the alley, splashing through a puddle and knocking down a few trash cans behind me. Something told me they wouldn't slow down the people on my tail, but at the moment I was desperate for time. There was no chance I was getting away on foot; I needed wheels. Wheels and some better weapons. A 5 iron and a hockey stick are great for dealing with regular old street thugs and purse snatchers, but the dudes I was dealing with were not what I would call normal.

As if to punctuate my thought, a liquor bottle flew past my head, shattering on the pavement ahead in a flash of liquid flame. The molotov forced me to take a sharp right, to avoid catching myself on fire, and I found myself face to face with another brick wall. I practically skidded to a stop, chest heaving. I heard the horde of foot steps file in behind me, accompanied by a few murmered jeers and some chuckling. I heard a metal pipe fall heavily into someones palm. I swallowed behind my mask, sweat beading down my forehead and onto my lips until I could taste the salt on them. I spun on my heel to face my attackers.

There were about a dozen of them, all accounted for, dressed up in various shades of purple. One guy stood taller than I was, the others close to or below my own height. There was an array of shabby, improvised weapons in their hands. A length of barbed wire wrapped around a baseball bat, a long chain, a couple of knives. The long, raven hair that hung to my shoulders stuck to the sweat on my neck, my eyes darting from thug to thug. I felt like an alley cat, cornered by a particularly mean and illegal squadron of Animal Control. A lady with a spikey green mohawk sneered, twirling a cricket bat around. It was a decent looking bat, nice condition, some weird purple spray paint on it but nothing a little remover and some elbow grease couldn't-

Easy, klepto. This isn't Pawn America. You can get your own cricket bat once you make it out of here alive. If you make it out of here alive. I sighed, my palms slick as they gripped the black tape that wound around the length of my hockey stick. Things were not good; I was outnumbered, outgunned, outmatched. Still, something told me I wasn't outwitted. These guys were big and menacing, but I doubted they had a complete set of brain cells between them. If I played it smart, I might have a chance of getting out of here.

"Alright," I said, trying my best to sound confident. I spun my stick in a lazy loop, pacing slowly back and forth. "Now that I have you punks where I want you, who's in charge around here?" I pointed my weapon at the tall man, a burly caramel skinned guy who seemed to be holding a disfigured car door as a weapon. He looked like he could just whack somebody upside the head with the whole Cadillac. Or at least with a Prius.

"Is it you, big fella?" I asked jovially, and before he could answer I shifted the curved tip of my stick to the lady with the mohawk. "Nah, it's you right? That hair is a sure sign." The thugs looked around at each other, still sneering, but a little puzzedly now. They hadn't expected the good ol' switcheroo. Things were going well; I just wish I could tell that to my heart. I felt like a hummingbird or a small dog when its owner gets home. A million miles a minute. If these guys didn't take me out I was pretty sure I'd just go into cardiac arrest and drop dead on the pavement. As I continued to spout nonsense on auto pilot, talking for dear life, I was cut off by a man dressed in a fine purple tuxedo. He stepped forward from the crowd of gangsters, and as I inspected him I caught notice of a dragon tattoo climbing the side of his neck, and a pair of brass knuckles on his fists. He flicked aside a cigarette he had been smoking, and looked me up and down.

"Are you kidding me? You're just a kid," he said, looking back at his cronies. "He's just a kid! How old is he, 14? 15?"

"Actually, just turned 21. And I'm having a helluva birthday," I said, swinging my hockey stick so it rested on my shoulder. "Listen, buddy. I don't know who you are, or why you and the rest of the Minnesota Vikings are on my ass tonight, but I'll tell you what. You all walk away now, and none of you will spend the night in jail. And that's for the lucky ones."

None of them budged. They all kept their eyes on either me or the guy in the suit. He was clearly the leader. He narrowed his dark eyes at me. I felt a tingle travel down my spine. He held himself with some serious confidence, and he looked like he was made of liquid titanium. He was a seriously scary guy, and he hadn't even done anything yet. Oh, boy, I really was in the hole. The guy tilted his head a little.

"Nice mask, kid," he said, lighting another cigarette and taking a long drag. He blew the smoke into a huge ring above his head, and as it floated up and away he spoke again. "What's your name?"

"Oh, no, I'm not tellin' you that, pal," I said, my feet itching to run, to sprint out of here. But there was nowhere to go: I was trapped. And in the equation of fight or flight, I was running out of options. The guy grinned, blowing more smoke from his nostrils. He finished the second cigarette and stomped it beneath a shiny loafer.

"Let's trade then," he said. He extended a hand towards me. "I'm called Hun." I looked at the hand, and cautiously walked forward to shake it.

"Jones. Casey Jones."