Outcast

The group of goons dashed through the alleyway, pressing up to the walls and peeking around corners before making their next dash.

"This way, this way!" The green-mohawked leader at the front whispered.

"Homeschool! Keep up!"

"Soory, eh! Uh, I mean, soory dog!"

"And shut up!"

"Word!"

They dashed around the last corner, and came upon the massive factory. The three stacks had stopped spewing smoke earlier that day, when a majority of the crew had called it a day. Only a few lights remained on in the higher windows, where an occasional dark figure could be seen moving back and forth every now and then.

"Remind me again why we're robbing this place, eh-er…homie?"

"With the recent disasters, from the BP Spill to the nuclear meltdown in Japan, special resources and their distributors are taking huge hits right now. This chemical factory has been in business for over 30 years, but is on the verge of folding. We're just gonna help them clean the place out, and take whatever money the dropped stocks left behind."

The wood of the docks creaked beneath their feet as they continued along, the soft sound of the waves swelling around the support beams beneath them, and the occasional seagull above them.

They ran up to the fence and pressed up against it, the leader glancing up at the lit windows.

"OK. You know what to do."

"Sure thing, Duncan."

"Don't use my name!" The punk hissed.

The pale-skinned figure in the hoodie slowly sneaked up to the guard shack, carefully peering in through the window at the lanky guard reading a tabloid, with two masked men on the cover.

Carefully removing his golden Z/cowbell necklace and wrapping the chain firmly around one hand, he slowly crept over to the door and tried to open it as quietly and smoothly as possible.

Once it was open just enough, he slipped inside and stood up straight and tall behind the guard, reclining in the chair. He raised the bell and Z up high, then swung it down firmly against the back of the guard's head. The guard went down without so much as an "Oof!" The magazine fluttered down to the floor, along with his limp body.

"OK!" The teen called out to his associates.

The mohawked punk and his three henchmen quickly slipped up to the guard shack, two of them dragging the guard underneath a desk while the third searched his pockets and belt until he found the keys.

"Got 'im!" The third henchman called out.

"Good. Open the gate."

The goon pranced up to the gate with the stolen keychain, quickly fumbling through the various keys until one finally unlocked it.

"Let's go!" He hissed as the gate swung open on its hinges.

The five crooks sneaked into the grounds, quickly dashing over the open front area to the main factory building.

"Keys!" The leader called.

The goon with the keychain from earlier returned, flipping through frantically for a new key to unlock the loading bay door.

When he found the right one, all five of them lifted up the massive metal door, pushing it high up enough to allow it to roll back into place on its own like an automatic garage door. They all stealthily sneaked in, breaking off into two groups: The hoodie-wearing homeschooled teen, the mohawked leader, and the goon with the keys in one group, and the other two in the other group.

The one with the mohawk turned to the pale-skinned one with the golden necklace and sunglasses, even though it was as pitch-dark inside as it was outside.

"Alright, homeschool. This is your time to shine. You'll be our lookout, OK? Get up to those catwalks up there…"

The punk gestured up to the metal catwalks high above them, at least 50 to 60 feet in the air.

"…and keep an eye out for any guards or anything else. If you need to alert us, just use the whistle we practiced earlier."

"You mean like this, eh?"

He then pursed is lips and prepared to do it, only for the punk to slap a hand over his lips. "No! Not now! Only if you need to! Got it?"

"Mhm!" He murmured from under the hand.

"Good."

As soon as the hand was gone, the pale teen nervously asked: "So if this goes well, will I finally become part of your crew, eh?"

"Yeah sure, whatever." The punk responded in a clearly annoyed tone.

"Come on, let's go!" The one with the keys hissed.

"And will you finally refer to me as something cool instead of homeschool, like, say, The Zeke? Or how about Zed-Rod?"

"Yeah, whatever, sure, fine! We'll work out what to call you when – and if – the heist goes well. Just get up there and do as you're told! Got it?"

"Sir, yes sir!"

And with that, the bling-slinging teen vanished into the shadows towards the nearest metal staircase.

"Ugh." The one with the keys muttered as he shook his head. "Why did we have to bring him along? I can only handle so much of 'eh, eh, eh' and 'dog, homie, yo,' man!" He complained as the two of them turned and ran off towards one of the offices.

"Easy help for hire." The leader replied. "He's a sap who'll be willing to do anything for us. Even if this does go well, he'll be assigned to mundane stuff like this every single time he is part of a job. Plus, he'll make a great decoy for the police in case we ever fail. They snatch him while we get away."

"Aha! Clever, dude. Very clever."

"I know."

The awkward teen was panting and gasping as he finally reached the top of the stairs, now faced with the array of suspended catwalks before him.

"Oh, boy, eh."

He slowly edged out onto the first one, tightly gripping both rails for support.

"Oh…how did I ever get here, eh?"

He didn't even notice as two dark shapes fluttered by quickly outside the nearest skylight.

The two goons were busy ripping out file drawers, sloppily riffling through folders, binders, and papers, searching for anything of value in addition to the stacks of money they had already found.

Soon, the punk leader and his key-wielding sidekick had returned.

"Luck?"

"About a dozen stacks, but the rest is just paperwork and other boring crap." One reported.

"Yeah." The other agreed. "All that's left is that safe over there, and none of our stuff can penetrate it."

The second goon gestured to said safe with this statement, lurking in the corner with its bulking frame and the promise of the valuables that were surely inside.

"I'll handle this." The leader said, cracking his knuckles and walking over to it.

He slowly knelt down next to the safe, carefully placing his right ear up against the door firmly, then lightly grabbing the dial and slowly turning it.

Meanwhile, the goon with the keys leaned out of the doorway to glance both ways, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious.

He thought he saw a flutter of movement suddenly move around the corner nearby.

"Huh? Homeschool?"

The key-wielding henchman slowly slipped out the door and approached the spot where he had seen the movement.

Then his vision was enveloped in blackness as a powerful force grabbed him and swiftly knocked him out.

One of the ransacking goons noticed the sudden departure of the key-wielding one, and asked aloud: "Hey, where'd Carv go?"

The other one looked the same direction, where the door was half-open.

"Carv!" He hissed.

No answer.

Then they heard the premeditated whistling, coming from outside the office and high above them, followed shortly after by…

"…No! NO! Stay back, eh!"

The pale teen slowly backed up down the catwalk as the caped figure approached ominously.

"I swear, I'm innocent, eh!"

"And what are you doing trespassing in this chemical factory? You just here for some petty cash, or are you seeking to steal the dangerous chemicals to make a weapon of mass destructiveness?" The caped figure asked in a deep, distorted voice that sounded like it was coming from the back of his throat.

"No, eh! I mean, I don't know! I'm just the lookout, dog!"

Then, before he knew it, he was backed up against the end of the catwalk. There was no way out except somehow getting past the masked figure or…

…he turned briefly to look behind him, and saw that the only thing below the catwalk was one of the massive vats of chemicals.

"You scum are all the same." The masked man declared firmly. "My sidekick is busy taking care of your friends down in the office. But I feel like handling you myself…personally. Something about you, just the way you look, and talk…just makes me despise you."

"No, eh! Please! Don't make me, yo!"

He then quickly removed the necklace, wrapping the chain around one hand, and began twirling it menacingly in the air above his head.

"Alright, freakshow! Think fast!"

And then, the caped figure delivered a single swift kick to the intruder's stomach, sending him tumbling backwards over the railing in an instant.

"NOOOOOOOOO!

Hostman ran up to the railing and watched as the teen plummeted straight down, falling over four stories until suddenly landing with a sickening dense SPLUSH in the variety of pale greenish-yellow chemicals in the vat below, sending a good amount spilling up over the edge and onto the floor below.

"Whoops. Sucks to be that guy." Hostman muttered.

"AUGH!" Another scream sounded down below.

"Uh-oh! Hang on, Pythonicus!"

And with that, Hostman quickly whipped out his grappling microphone and fired it down towards a lower overhanging pipe. The claws extended and clamped around the pipe. Leaping up and over the railing, Hostman swung down low over several vats before detaching the hook and dropping to the floor, just several yards from the office.

Just then, another one of the henchmen flew out the large office window, smashing it to pieces and crashing to the floor in an unconscious heap.

"Pythonicus!"

Hostman ran to the office door and looked inside…

…just in time to see Pythonicus crack his snake whip at the third goon. The small teeth of the snake head briefly pricked the goon's shoulder, in just a brief enough moment for the tranquilizers that the teeth were tipped with to take effect.

The cringing goon clenched his shoulder tightly, already feeling the toxins take effect as his vision grew blurry.

"Ugh…Oof."

He collapsed to the floor, rather calmly as if he was merely falling asleep.

"Nice work, Python!"

"Sure. But I lost the other one! The one with the mohawk and the piercings. I think he was their leader, too! I caught him just as he was trying to crack the safe, and he stole off with a bag full of stacks of money!"

Hostman quickly leaned out the door and glanced both ways. There was no sign of any other person in the factory, save for the two other unconscious goons lying outside the door.

Just then, sirens could be heard drawing closer outside.

"Oh, well. At least we got most of them, right?" Hostman replied as the two quickly fled the office, racing towards the nearest stairwell. "We can leave three of them for the police. 3/5 is a majority, right? Like, if I were to get 3 out of 5 on a test, that'd be…what, 80%?"

"More like 60%." Python replied flatly.

"Oh, well. That's still most of them!"

"Were there any others?"

"Just some typical wannabe, complete with a hoodie, fake bling, unnecessary shades, and a sorry attempt at using slang. I kinda accidentally knocked him into a vat of chemicals. So there probably won't be anything left for the police to find, even if they did think to look in there."

"Smooth. You could'a just left him for the cops…or for me."

"Remind me again why we can't just off these guys and be done with it?"

"It was your idea, smart one! You said, and I roughly quote: 'If we just kill these guys, then soon there'll be no one left to fight, and then we'll have no reason to keep doing this, and then the headlines won't be talking about us no more!' So by keeping them alive, as redundant as it is, we can at least come back to keep ourselves in the news again and again."

"Oh, yeah. Nice logic on my part, if I do say so myself."

"So…what about the one that became acquainted with chemicals?"

"An accident. I'll try not to do it again…as satisfying as it was."

They quickly reached the top floor and slipped through the door that led back out to the roof, just as the first wave of officers burst inside, calling out commands and reports to each other as they found the first few unconscious crooks.

Several months later

"They're the men who have captivated the city and the nation…and we don't even know who they are! Two masked men who have been taking on crime in this city by storm, striking fear into the hearts of Toronto's greatest criminals. From the Escaped Psycho Killer with a Chainsaw and a Hook, to the mob boss Francisco 'Big Daddy' Martinez, to the lowest of muggers and bank robbers. The masked duo known only as Hostman and Pythonicus have been making more headlines than the brewing World War III. Already, crime is beginning to decrease in this city. But will the mere threat of these men be enough, or will some criminals take a little more convincing than others?"

"But the criminals aren't the only ones who are, rather, 'not pleased' with these men, Josh." His blonde cohost added.

"Right you are, Blaineley!" Josh replied. "Toronto's DA, Courtney Clinton, fresh off her landslide reelection, had this to say:"

Then the image of the young, charismatic District Attorney of Toronto appeared on the screen, speaking in her usual high-pitched voice. "I don't care how effective these two spandex-wearing freakshows are. They're still operating outside the law, and making our real law enforcement officials look bad. We certainly won't be working alongside them anytime soon, and we may even consider pressing charges if we can get a solid lead on their identities, their location, or both!"

"Ouch! Harsh words, aren't they? Our full-length, long-form interview with DA Clinton will be featured tonight on my special airing tonight: The Men and the Methods Behind the Masks! I'm Josh Wallace, reporting live from Toronto, Ontario!"

Chef turned off the TV and turned to his partner, who was sporting an equally smug grin.

"Ah. Every paper, magazine, TV ticker, Tweet, Facebook post, online banner, every headline imaginable is talking about us! Isn't it glorious, Chef my man?"

"It sure is. For once, I can finally see why the multi-media coverage is so desirable. People are finally talking about us, but this time, for a surprisingly good reason!"

"Indeed. And the best part: They have no idea who we are! The mystery of our true identities is also more entertaining than if they knew from the start! Good call on that one, Chef. Good. Call."

Just then, Chris's cell phone started beeping.

He lifted it out of his pocket and glanced at the flashing screen, with a small reminder typed on it.

"Oh, nuts! I almost forgot about the fundraiser event tonight! It's in an hour at Josh's mansion!"

"Ugh. Do I have to?"

"Well, it would be appreciated…"

"But we don't even contribute to these fundraisers. We just show up for the photo-ops and then leave."

"But the publicity! The headlines! …Not as much as what we're getting right now, but the more the merrier!

"I still don't like going. I hate dressing up in those monkey suits. I'll take the spandex over the tux any day."

"Fine. You don't have to. I'll go by myself and waltz around in my favorite tux, martini in my hand, rubbing elbows with all the most famous TV personalities in Canada, while you stay home with the cat."

After a pause, with Chris giving a sly grin to Chef, Chef merely shrugged.

"Eh, I'm fine with it."

Chris's grin was quickly replaced by a glare. "Fine. I'll go."

30 minutes later…

Chris McLean was laughing alongside several pretty women in dresses, martini in his hand and his finest tux ironed out just for tonight.

"Oh, yeah. That was a killer! I can't believe I hit such a streak of perfect jokes that time! It did, after all, win my the Gemmy for Best Comedy Act that year!"

"Ah, Chris McLean." A familiar voice called out.

Chris turned around and saw his friend Josh approaching, several women around him as well, including his cohost, Blaineley.

"Howdy, Josh. How many exes you got with you tonight?"

The ladies around them giggled mischievously, while Josh chuckled it off.

"Counting or not counting Blaineley here?"

"Oh, can it, Josh." Blaineley growled, her smile disappearing rather quickly as she clearly couldn't handle the joke as well as Josh could.

"I'm just glad you could all be here. These fundraisers, beyond doing good work for the needy in Canada and abroad, are just a great chance to get together and congratulate ourselves on our most recent successes, right? How about those last Gemmy Awards?"

"Oh, yes." Chris commented, somewhat blankly. "Congrats on Best Reality Show Host, by the way."

"Thank you, Chris. But it still doesn't hold a candle to your four consecutive wins of that award just prior to me. I felt like Jay Leno trying to fill in for Johnny Carson."

"Oh, you're too kind. Though I think Johnny Carson and I would've gotten along fairly well, don't you?"

"I guess we'll never know."

"Excuse me, gentlemen. And ladies, of course."

Then the familiar Hispanic walked over to the group, sporting his trademark outfit from the boots to the red shirt and small necklace.

"Ah! Alejandro! Good to see you again." Chris said as he patted him on the shoulder.

"Likewise. And I could never thank you enough, Chris. Do you know what an honor it was to become the youngest individual ever to announce the winner of a Gemmy Award? Thanks to your connections, that title now goes to me. I can't thank you enough, Chris."

"Nonsense, Al! Of course you could."

You could've started by mentioning me at the Gemmies. Chris thought bitterly to himself.

"Although I must admit, I don't think any of the Gemmy winners, or nominees, or hosts, or anyone involved with the Gemmy Awards for that matter, will be well-remembered this year." Josh interjected.

"What do you mean?" Chris responded.

"Haven't you seen all the headlines from here to Vancouver? It's all about those two masked guys."

"Ugh. 'Hostman'? Are you kidding?" Chris replied. "Ridiculous."

"Regardless of their lack of originality, and the fact that they're wearing spandex 20 years after it was cool, they're obviously getting the job done. That Psycho Killer was one of the top 10 most wanted outlaws in all of Canada." Josh commented.

"And 'Big Daddy'? They took down Canada's #1 mafia boss? They must be doing something right." Alejandro added.

"I don't know. They're probably just a couple of guys who are just looking for fame." Chris retorted with obvious contempt in his voice.

"Could be…But if that's the case, maybe we should see more superheroes emerging all across the country." Alejandro returned.

"Maybe."

"Gee, Chris. Sounds to me like Ms. Clinton isn't the only critic these guys have." Blaineley quipped.

"Hm?"

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're jealous of this Hostman and his sidekick."

"Meh. I just think they're not that original, creative, or interesting. That's all."

Just then, Chris's phone started ringing.

"Oh, hold on."

He looked down at the caller ID, and saw who it was.

"Ah, my old partner from shows past!" He announced loudly to his friends.

"Hatchet? Hey, why didn't he come?" Josh asked.

"Uh…His only tux didn't come back from the drycleaners."

He then answered the call.

"Yo, Chef. What's up?"

"Chris. We've got a situation."

Chris swallowed nervously.

"Um, do excuse me for just a moment, everyone."

After a murmured flurry of "OK" from several of the guests, Chris turned and walked off, trying to look as nonchalant as possible.

"A new show offer-type situation, or an uh-oh time-to-spring-into-action situation?" He whispered.

"Sirens are going off like crazy outside. The whole trio of emergency vehicles – police, firefighters, ambulances – are all racing by."

"What does the police radio say?"

"Something about a suspect of unknown gender, able to leap up great distances, climb up walls with incredible speed, and growling and hissing like some kind of animal."

"Alright. I'll be back in 10 minutes. Where are they heading?"

"The docks."

"Then let's take the chopper…er, I mean, the Host-Copter!"

"Really? Do you have to attach the word 'Host' to everything we use, from the weapons to the vehicles? What's next? The 'Host-Toilet'?"

"Don't get cute with me, man. We've got a job to do! We'll focus on object-naming like a psychopathic redhead when we get back from handling this job."

20 minutes later…

The small red helicopter flew over the skyline of downtown Toronto, following the line of flashing lights and sirens in the streets below.

As they hovered along, the police radio's station crackled to life once again.

"All units, all units, be advised: We have a triple-hostage situation here. Suspect kidnapped three prisoners and is believed to be willing to dispose of them. Proceed with extreme caution.

"10-4."

"Man, where'd you ever get this special connection to the police radio channel, anyway?" Pythonicus asked casually.

"When you're famous, you have friends in high places."

"And your friends in high places didn't find it odd that you wanted to know how to access the police force's channel?"

"Not the way I asked for it: What's the most interesting, dramatic, and off-the-radar radio channel in all of Toronto? Flash a little white…" One of his teeth sparkled to emphasize this point. "…and a lot of green…" He rubbed two fingers together in the universal gesture for money. "…and I was golden."

"Smooth."

"All units, suspect has arrived at abandoned dock warehouse. Surround and secure the perimeter."

"Showtime." Pythonicus muttered.

"Alright, so you'll stay here with the chopper, right?"

"Huh? But I want to be part of the action!"

"So do I, but we can't leave the chopper unattended now, can we?"

"It has an autopilot!"

"But can the autopilot prevent it from being easily taken by the police? Or by whoever this villain is?"

"It could, with some adjustments…"

"But it can't now, so you stay!"

Pythonicus muttered under his breath as he pulled the lever that dropped the rope ladder out from underneath the right landing strut.

"OK, keep her steady over the warehouse now…"

Hostman opened the door, carefully stepping out onto the strut and peering down at the scene below: The warehouse, surrounded on all sides by the emergency vehicles and with officers dashing around like ants as they set up roadblocks and blockades.

"Alright. I'm going in!"

And with that, Hostman leapt out of the cockpit and grabbed onto the ropes of the ladder, sliding down to the lowest rung, where he paused for a moment to halt his fall. Then, after another moment, he let go of the bottom rung and dropped down to the roof of the warehouse.

Careful to avoid the waving spotlights of the police below, he carefully crawled across the roof down to the nearest window. Hanging upside-down, he peered inside.

What he saw was, indeed, rather shocking.

The three kidnapped individuals were none other than the goons from the chemical plant heist several months back, including the one who had handled the keys, known as "Carv."

All three were tied together in a circle by rope, bandanas wrapped around their mouths. And before them stood a figure, its back to the window that Hostman was looking through. It stood fairly tall, shrouded by shadows due to standing at the edge of the range of light cast by the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling above them. Its hands were on its hips in that satisfied manner, and Hostman could barely make out a hood hanging behind it. Its head was clearly bald, with only a few stray strands of long, scraggly hair hanging down.

He couldn't hear what was being said, as he could barely see the figure's chin moving up and down repeatedly, but he intended to find out.

"So, you all thought you could leave me behind, did you?" The figure spoke in a gruff, almost suppressed voice. "Ain't that always the way. People like you make me sick…always leaving me in the dust…always abandoning me…always making me the outcast."

"Mmf! Mmphmmhmmm!"

"I could care less about what you all have to say, though. You'll all soon suffer the way I did."

"Hold it right there, fiend!"

The figure spun around on its heels, revealing its full ugliness to Hostman. On each foot, there were only three toes now instead of five, and all of them were prolonged and clawed. There were several noticeable tears, stains, and holes in his dark blue jeans and pale, vomit-green hoodie. His skin, from his head, to his hands, to his feet, was pale green like his hoodie, wrinkled, and withered. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, with bags hanging obviously under them. His teeth were longer and sharper, stained with things that Hostman didn't dare think about.

Even the valiant Hostman was noticeably disturbed by this sight and cringed in disgust while recoiling in fear at the same time.

"Yeesh! What the heck ARE you?!"

"Ah…Hostman. I was wondering when you'd show up."

"You…You mean…you wanted me to come here?"

"Better believe it. I got as many cops on my tail as I could and lured them all over Toronto to draw you out. How fitting that your sidekick isn't with you on this one. It's just you and me, once again. Mano-eh-mano."

"Who…Who are you?"

"Don't you remember me? Several months ago, you and your sidekick thwarted me and my friends here at the chemical plant." The figure gestured to the three tied-up goons.

"The chemical plant…YOU!" He exclaimed as his eyes widened with realization. "You were the wannabe? The one I kicked off the edge into the vat of chemicals?!"

"Exactly, detective."

"What…what happened to you?!"

"The chemicals, of course. Bleached my skin a sickening green, mutated my fingers and toes, caused all my hair to drop out. Believe it or not, I looked just slightly worse in the immediate aftermath. But upon crawling out of the vat as the police arrived, I knew I could not seek help from them, for never would they want to, and never would I want them to. So I went into hiding, and found this abandoned old warehouse. I've been living here, in the dust and the dark and the cobwebs, with only the rats and the insects for food."

"Yuck. Not exactly your five-star restaurant."

"Quite the contrary. Such a long-term exposure to a harsh environment and brutal surroundings helped me to evolve and fit more into the form I had taken on after my mutation. I am now…"

And then, before Hostman could react, the figure leapt up over his head and landed on top of a tower of crates, perched on all fours like an animal.

"…much more agile."

It then leapt off the tower, spun around and did a flip simultaneously, then landed on the side of another tower, narrowly clinging to it with one claw and hanging off the side like King Kong.

"…much more maneuverable."

It then leapt off the tower and landed on the floor right in front of Hostman, first on all fours, then slowly, smoothly, and ominously rising to his full height.

"…and a much more worthy adversary than before. Gone are the days of whirling fake jewelry above my head in an attempt to look threatening. Born are the days of being the most-feared creature in all of Toronto. Born is…"

Hostman's jaw dropped as the figure slowly lifted its head and stared right into his eyes, the black eyes of the mask and the bloodshot eyes of the creature locking for a few silent moments.

"…The Feral Freakshow."

Hostman gasped, as did Pythonicus, listening through the communicator in his ear.

"And now…it's time for my revenge."

"In your dreams! I'll beat you even more easily than before!"

"On the contrary…"

The figure then moved over casually to the three tied-up figures and reached down into the space between the three of them in the middle. It stood up and revealed the bucket that had been concealed.

"Shortly before that chemical plant went under, I went back to retrieve a sample of the very chemicals, from the very same vat, that forever transformed me. Had you not shown up, I was just going to use it on these three poor fellows."

A series of muffled cries of fear emerged from the men.

"But now that you're here, I'll just use it on you instead!"

Hostman ducked and lunged at the Freakshow, who easily sidestepped the tackle and instead sent Hostman crashing into the three hostages, knocking them all over with more muffled grunts.

"Hahahaha! THAT was satisfying!" The Freakshow laughed. "Perhaps now I can get all four of you with one splash!"

He reared the bucket back to throw it forward, only for Hostman to spin around and fire his grappling hook. The claw hit the pail and knocked it straight backwards, out of Freakshow's hands.

"NO!"

Freakshow spun around and leapt after the bucket, catching it in midair, while it was still upright, just before it could hit the floor.

In this brief window, the rope slipped off the three hostages, who were now lying sideways on the floor. Both quickly managed to get out of it and onto their feet, removing the bandanas around their mouths.

"Come on, let's get outta here!" One shouted.

"Right behind ya, Carv!"

The three goons quickly dashed off into the darkness while Hostman slowly climbed back to his feet.

He turned back to face Freakshow…

…only to see nothing in sight.

The single light bulb slowly swung back and forth with slight creaking sounds, briefly throwing the range of light back and forth over the small open area.

"EYAUGHHGH!"

The fierce sound, a mix between a shriek and a gargle, came from behind him. Hostman only had time to spin around, take in the sight for a second, and calculate his next move.

In a swift second, he ducked and swung a single fist straight up, knocking the bucket straight up into the air out of Freakshow's hands once again.

Only this time, the chemicals within shot straight up out of the bucket, even higher than the bucket itself, and showered up onto the single light bulb.

In an instant, the bulb fizzled, sparked, and then shattered in a final shower of sparks. The effect of the chemicals traveled up the wire and similarly short-circuited every single light in the warehouse, creating a cacophony of sparks, shatters, and bursting bulbs that plunged the warehouse into darkness.

"NO!" Freakshow roared just before a majority of the chemicals fell back down and showered himself with a fizzing sound while Hostman barely managed to dive out of the way. Only a few drops of chemicals stained his cape, eating away at the fabric and creating quarter-sized holes.

In an instant, Hostman ran over to the nearest tower of boxes and began pushing against the bottom one.

While Freakshow was still rubbing the chemicals out of his eyes, he heard the ominous creaking of large, heavy wooden containers. Shaking his head side-to-side wildly to shake off the liquids faster, it glanced up with blurry eyes in the direction of the sound…

…and was instantly crushed by the wooden crates, pinning him to the floor with a final "Oof!", followed by a groan of pain and defeat.

"You know what they say: What goes up must come down!"

But just then, the sound of a door being blown open across the warehouse could be heard.

"POLICE! We've got your hostages, and the building is surrounded! Come out with your hands up! This is your only warning!"

With one final glance down at the single arm protruding from underneath the crate, Hostman turned and fired his grappling hook once again, this time at the open window he had come in through.

As the red helicopter took off, Hostman took a closer look at the holes in his cape.

"Heh, heh…holey guacamole, Hostman! What happened to your cape?"

"That freak took some of the chemicals from the plant where he was wasted the first time and was gonna use it on me. ME! He was gonna turn my beautiful face into…that! The thought!"

"I know, right? I can't imagine what he must've looked like…"

"It was bad, Python. REALLY bad."

Just then, the radio crackled to life once again.

"Building secure. We've discovered a discarded rope, a puddle of suspicious green liquid, and a bucket that it was presumably contained in, all underneath a broken light dripping some of the liquids off of it. There was a toppled-over pile of crates nearby. But no sign of the suspect."

"Huh?!" Hostman exclaimed. "But…I knocked over the pile of crates to pin him down! He was supposed to be right there for them to capture! He couldn't have got away!"

"He got away once before." Python commented.

"I guess…but the good news is, he's got nowhere to go."

"What do you mean?"

"He had retreated to this same warehouse after our first encounter. He refuses to seek help from the outside world. Even if he finds another warehouse or abandoned building or something, he'll remain as far away from the human world as possible. It's what he was saying to the hostages before I intervened: He's always been an outcast, especially since his transformation. There's a real question for you, Python: To whom does an outcast turn to? Where does an outcast go for refuge? And worst of all: What does an outcast have to lose?"

The red helicopter flew off into the night, the silence being the only response to Hostman's question.

Author's Note: And there you have the origin story of the one "villain" you all probably expected the most out of me – Ezekiel.

And yes, as the addition of two new main characters to the story's description indicates, Ezekiel will be one of this show's two main villains; the other being everyone's favorite loveable redhead psycho/sociopath. But shhhh! Hostman and Pythonicus don't know that it's her yet! ;)

And one last thing I forgot to mention last time: This particular story, since it's being uploaded more as a genuine hobby/fun activity for me to do when I'm bored, rather than a serious story I need to keep on top of like my "Second Season" trilogy, is an exclusive special story JUST for you guys here on ! Yep! The Total Drama FanFiction Wiki won't be seeing this one at all, so enjoy that special plus while you can! ;)

Next chapter: A villain who went too far in her obsessive endeavors, and was subsequently changed forever – both physically and mentally – by her determination. Try to guess in the reviews who YOU think it will be!