DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.
Bounty Hunter
By Rusty Dillingham
--Chapter Thirteen – The Hunted--
Once again, Fang the Sniper had killed a man, but that was life. It didn't bother him that much. Out here in this drab, rough world often colored by blood, it was hard not to get mixed up in such dangerous situations that called for the boom of a gun. Death lay like the devil's curse on this land.
Not that he liked the idea of killing without gain. There was little point to him in taking a life were there no profit in it. He was irritated by the notion of people like the Kangaroos blasting their way to the end of their troubles, with no thought given to the consequences. Men like that were bound to die violent deaths—the exact sort of deaths they dished out themselves. But he could see why they had chosen that path rather than his.
The people on the receiving end of his fire weren't exactly shining pillars of civility, either. Fang couldn't recall a time he'd taken a life and regretted it, but though he had never before given it much thought, knowing the people he'd killed were miserable things the world wouldn't miss (if it wasn't better off without them), the fact that he'd committed such sins always left a strange, empty feeling inside his chest somewhere. He'd almost never considered it to be a troublesome feeling—maybe it'd been a little disturbing after the first victim, but it was more or less an inconvenient, aggravating sort of cognizance that dwelled inside somewhere but didn't make itself all that apparent. It had been that way ever since the terrible things he frequently did in the name of bounty hunting had started growing routine.
But the older he got, and the more lives were stopped forever by his hand, the more he began to think about it. Sometimes he would sit in his chair amidst the darkness of his home and begin to dwell upon what he'd done. He wasn't distressed by the thoughts. Instead, they left a tiring feeling inside him. Maybe it was because he was just getting older—not that he was walking-with-a-cane old, but more time added to a man's body did funny things to his mind and soul. But he decreed that all deaths he'd taken had been necessary, and that was that.
He tried not to think about it as he sauntered his way down New Mettle's main street boardwalk, able to do little against the eyes watching him. It felt like everyone took a look at him. Women, kids, he could deal with. Men, almost all of whom were a bad-looking lot, were another story. A vast majority of them were packing heat, some semiautomatic pistols, some shotguns, and none of these people looked the least bit capable of operating them safely. It was frustrating to travel in such open ground with potential adversaries everywhere, but he didn't have much choice. Only his sense of self-awareness and caution could see him through this.
An unending swirl of aggravation-born thoughts circled his mind: This bloody town. Nothing but a boil on the ass of the world. Couldn't even have a name that makes sense... 'New Mettle'? Doesn't even mean anything. Where the hell is Old Mettle? Nowhere. What's mettle got to do with anything around here? Just a bunch of hired guns, drunks, and drunk hired guns.
He saw, on the opposite side of the street, a young woman and her child taking care to avoid a pair of rough-looking gunmen in desperate need of a bath. The men spared no expense in sizing her up, smarmy smirks and all. In frustration she hurried away from them, the kid's hand in hers. The men shared a grin, rotting teeth and all. Fang would have given anything to kill them.
He passed yet another bar—it seemed bars and casinos made up more than half of the town—and glanced in through a window. A waitress about his age was struggling to serve drinks to a rowdy group of yet more gunmen. He could hear them laughing and making crude jokes about her bust. One of them tried to lift up her skirt, and she swatted the hand away furiously. He only caught a quick glimpse of her expression, but read her distress as easily as he saw the midday sun.
Get to the hotel, a voice said, but he only moved slower. Something inside him hurt. At the same time it was afire with the rage of that same burning sun.
A coyote wearing a brick-red cowboy hat and old-fashioned six-shooter gunbelt eased past him with an amiable: "'Scuse me."
Fang didn't stop, but he hadn't failed to notice the blindingly shiny City Marshal badge pinned to the guy's red silk vest. Great, he thought, once the initial oddity of seeing a veritable cowboy wranglin' his way around town had passed. Just another annoyance to deal with amidst a myriad of others.
On the other side of the street, a two-story building with a sign reading "Palm Resort Hotel & Casino – The Most Beautiful Oasis in the Desert!" came into view. Fang had seen worse-looking places in his life, but not many. The hotel's drab brown paintjob and clay fixture made it almost as appealing as sleeping in a doghouse. He stopped across from it and leaned against a wooden support pillar, studying the entrance and every window he could make out from where he was. He was old enough to know he should take it slow and easy, instead of racing in there and maybe getting his bones blasted from his body like earlier in the mine. He hadn't forgotten that damn setup.
Eventually, when he saw nothing out of the ordinary, save for the fishy characters who kept glancing his way, he hurried across the street and stepped through its wide-open door.
The place was empty, minus an old man at the termite-infested counter, some kind of cat Fang didn't care enough to guess the exact species of. The man looked up from what he was doing, saw Fang, and seemed to just stop, though his expression did not change.
Fang looked back, returning the silent examination. He took his gun out of its holster and ejected the clip before slapping a fresh one in—he was paranoid about keeping it full—and sliding it back onto his belt. The man stared.
"The mole," said Fang.
The old man seemed to hesitate for the barest of moments, then glanced upstairs.
"Last door on the left."
There was a room connected to the main lobby. Fang glanced in there and saw nothing, then turned his attention to the stairs that led to the second floor. He paused, glancing back at the man, who just stared at him.
Then he slowly began heading upstairs, eyes sweeping the area in front of him. He was ready to finish this hunt.
In his anxiety, he failed to notice the man was watching him carefully.
The customers of the Black Jack heard Zipp the Coyote coming long before they saw him, eliciting almost universal facepalming. He was whistling a totally jovial, totally annoying tune (the theme song to Gunfight at the A-O-K Corral), his obnoxious spurs jingling a delightful symphony in the background while his big red boots clomped repeatedly on the wooden boardwalk leading up to the bar. Zipp was the sort of person who would fail miserably at a game of hide-and-seek regardless of the prize, if only because making an endless sequence of noise meant people were paying lots of attention to him.
He swung open the bar's door with enough flair to severely embarrass everyone who saw it. "Howdy-howdy-howdy!"
With an even louder chorus of jingling and clomping, he came marching into the room. "So, y'all havin' a party in here without your beloved town marshal, eh? Can't have none-a-that, nopers, not happenin'. Against city ordnance, that is. Just like firearms and ugly wome—"
He inexplicably stopped and looked down at the floor, where he saw Hondo the Scorpion laying in a pool of his own blood with a bullet hole in his chest.
"... Ew."
Most of the bar's patrons had generally centered themselves around the body, unsure of what to do about it. Juarez was at the bar, looking sicker than death itself while the bartender searched for something to settle his stomach. The javelina turned in his seat, saw Zipp, groaned, rolled his eyes, and went back to looking like he had the flu, indigestion, and gonorrhea all at once.
The customers turned their thoroughly annoyed focus to Zipp, who was standing there with his nose upturned.
"Hey, this is the fourth person killed this month!"
"A hell of a peacekeeper you are."
"Why don't you do your damn job for a change?"
"Don't you know how? Does this make any sense to you at all? Are you gonna do something about this?"
"What's the matter with you? You think we're not sick of all this shooting? You think we can walk around safe out there?"
Zipp held up his hands innocently before the angry mob. "Easy there, pilgrims, easy! Hold it! Hold it! Easy now!" By then everyone had calmed down but for some reason Zipp kept going—"hold up, dang it! Goddamnit, shut up!" And he suddenly pulled his six-shooter from its holster and blew a shot straight through the ceiling to quiet an already silent crowd, which for its part screamed and hit the floor like they'd just been dropped from a roof.
"A'righty then," said the coyote, slipping the noisy thing away. "Now, why don't y'all calmly tell me what in sam hell happened 'round here?"
"Well, what in thunderation do you think happened!?"
Zipp tipped his hat higher over his brow with a thumb and thought for a second. "Somebody... got shot?"
They all glared at him.
"Uh... So... what?" he asked, stone-faced.
"Didn't you see the guy who done it out there!? He just walked out like a minute ago!"
"He did?" Zipp spared a look at the doorway. I passed by the guy? Hell nah. I didn't pass anybody on the way over here. "How about that."
"Can't you go arrest him!?"
The plucky look on Zipp's face was erased as if by magic. "What?"
"Go arrest him!"
"You... want me to... go after this guy? Who just shot this guy?"
"Yes, marshal, that's what we're saying."
Zipp glanced between the customers and the door. He wondered how quickly he could get out of town before someone took a shot at him next. "Well, gee, uh..."
"It was that... that guy that's on the wanted poster you stuck outside your office! He just rolled into town and blew the hell outta Hondo here! Sonofabitch owed me eighty bucks!"
"What're you waitin' for!? What's that badge on your vest mean? It means you gotta get your ass out there and take this guy down!"
Zipp pulled at the silk handkerchief around his neck and cleared his throat. "Well, uh... Hm, well, y'see, it's like this—I don't get paid very much, and—"
"C'mon, hero, get out there and do your stuff!"
"Hero?" asked Zipp, before looking contemplative. "Well, I am a hero, I reckon."
"Yeah, sure. Now, go."
"And heroes gotta do as heroes does... or somethin', hell, I dunno. But y'know—"
The bar's patrons could only stand there, staring at him, completely bewildered by the cowboy wannabe.
"The world needs more heroes. And folks, I tell ya, ain't many heroes these days. None of this city slicker laws and rules stuff to go by out here in hell's ass, too, tellyawhat. Nope, nothin' like raw, unbridled, untamed law-and-order-bringin' justice of the west to set a man's balls in place for the rest of his days—"
"Marshal," interrupted somebody amongst the increasingly agitated crowd.
"Yes?" asked Zipp politely, in the way a man who has no idea what he's getting into does.
"If you don't get out there in the next couple of seconds," came the statement in a very calm, subdued tone, "we're gonna go get a rope, and hang you from it like we're dryin' our laundry."
Zipp stood there.
"And then we're gonna get some sticks, and beat you like you're a fucking piñata."
Zipp just stared back. The crowd returned the gaze with completely stoic expressions. Things had just gotten strangely still outside.
"Ah," he eventually replied quietly, suddenly looking like a lonely man in the middle of a cemetery at midnight. "Yes. Well. Ahem. Reckon I'll just mosey on out there and... and get that guy... and bring'im in. Like I'm s'posed to."
And he began shuffling backwards, biting his lip, before turning and marching to the door, spurs and boots at minimal jingling-clomping noise. The crowd watched until he was out the door.
Fang pulled his pistol from his belt as he stalked down the poorly-lit hallway. The floor was old wood, and he had to take care to remain quiet. His boots, containing hardy steel plating amidst his worn shins, were heavy enough to make a lot of noise when he didn't necessarily want them to do that, but he preferred the protection they gave to anything else. He pointed the pistol at every doorway he passed, before he finally arrived at the specified entrance to what could easily turn into hell, should he go in unprepared. But he was.
He straightened himself alongside the door and stealthily tried the handle. It wasn't locked.
Here we go, he thought to himself. In the swiftest movement he could manage he threw the door open and pointed his pistol inside, bolting in and sweeping its tip at everything in sight as a huge burst of adrenaline flooded through him.
Nothing in the main room. The apparent bathroom was the only other fixture present. It wasn't entirely closed, but Fang slammed the bottom of his boot into it as hard as he could. He came damned near blasting it off its hinges, but ignored it in favor of rushing in and doing another sweep, and he found—
--nothing.
The adrenaline was still moving, but Fang was only slowing down. He looked in the shower. Nothing. The hell—
He juked his body back out into the main room, where the bed was, and saw no closet doors the mole could be hiding in. He threw his body to the floor and pointed the gun under the bed. Nothing.
There's... nobody here.
Save for the rotting bed, a small dresser, the old television that probably didn't work, and the table it sat on that was nearly falling apart, there was nothing of remote interest here. There weren't even any bags or suitcases, nothing that might have signaled Claw's presence. Fang's adrenaline rapidly began to dwindle in favor of total confusion.
There's nobody here.
He stepped closer to the dresser. His hand flashed up and knocked the small clock sitting on it across the room violently.
THERE'S FUCKING NOBODY HERE!!
He gripped his .45 tighter, enraged and confused at once. He knew one thing, though--he'd slaughter every gun-toting worm in this whole town, starting with that asshole downstairs. But why would the man lie to him? Was he trying to throw Fang off the trail? Or was he a friend of Claw's? He didn't understand.
The other rooms. The other rooms! Gotta try the other--
"Freeze, fleabait."
Fang did so.
After a silent few seconds, he mustered the gusto to very slowly turn in place, pupils dilating. His lip turned down as he struggled to keep from losing his cool.
The gaping maw of a silver semiautomatic pistol was staring him right in the face, and the hand that held it belonged to Sombrero the Gila Monster.
"We should really stop bumping into each other," said the gila monster pleasantly. "I think I can help put an end to that."
Fang didn't even feel the bead of sweat that began to curl down his brow. Few men could keep a straight face while helpless to do anything about a gun shoved in their eyeballs, and Fang knew he wasn't one of them.
"You," he growled, voice deep and grotesque, like something out of a horror movie. Just seeing the reptilian outlaw made his blood run hot.
Sombrero could tell, and he reveled in it. His vile eyes, the only one of his baleful facial features he allowed the world to see, were practically laughing at Fang themselves, biting at the bounty hunter with mocking cruelty. Fang couldn't see it, but knew there was a delightful smirk the size of the moon under the bandana taking up the lower half of Sombrero's face. It was total nirvana for the lizard. It was a nightmare for the weasel-wolf.
"The legendary bounty hunter, caught with his britches down like a schoolgirl." Derisory drenched Sombrero's snake-worthy tone. "Guess that's what happens when you're a shriveled-up has-been cur like you. My new friend downstairs at the desk says howdy, by the way. You'd be surprised what people around here will do for a little bit of money."
Fang breathed through his nostrils loudly, his expression harder than stone as he stood and regarded the bandito before him. The stares of hate that came from each of them could have cut through granite. That lizard... That lizard and his stupid hat and his flashy guns. Fang couldn't believe what was happening. It was just completely unreal, like nothing before that had happened in his life. He'd always been so careful, and now to get jumped by this idiot... It was humiliating.
"Is that all? You don't have nothin' to say before I blow your whole freaking head off your shoulders? No last words? No pleas for your life? No smarmy insults? No raw, steely fortitude and fierce determination in the face of adversity?"
Fang remained silent, looking for a way out of this. He found none.
"That's too bad. I guess I'll just have to kill you. And I was hopin' to have a nice, long monologue."
"Drop yourself dead off a cliff and stay there," Fang said bluntly, able to at least retain his pride.
Sombrero's brow rose, as if he were impressed. "That's a little better. Nice to see some fight in you before I air your skull out."
Fang's crude look didn't change. There was nothing to say that his gun couldn't say better—if he could only use it without getting himself capped.
"Oh, don't worry. They've got a special level of hell reserved for big-shot bounty hunters." Sombrero seemed to enjoy taunting Fang as much as he would enjoy killing him. "A nice little circle where all you macho fucks can hang out and drink beer and share sad little stories about the one that got away. I guess in this case, that'd be me. The pleasure's all mine."
"It wouldn't be, if you were man enough to face me without that thing up my nose. Holster that gun and give me a fair shake."
"Uh-uh." The pistol swiveled ever so slightly from side to side, in unison with Sombrero's shaking head. "Not happening. You're more trouble than you're worth, you cur. I've had to come a hell of a long way. Damn near walking around like I got the crabs, I been sitting on my bike for so long, and all just to kill a broken-down lawdog like you."
"I'm flattered. Out of curiosity, any idea where your boss is?"
Sombrero stared at Fang, with the sort of condescending look one gives a dying animal.
"Are you still after that guy? Some bounty hunter you are. I could've caught that idiot ten times over by now if I were in your shoes. But you might be interested to know I saw him peel outta here a couple minutes 'fore you showed your ugly face at this dump. Guess he heard all that shooting you were doing. Don't really care myself; never liked workin' for the guy anyway."
The poisonous look on Fang's face did not give, upon hearing that. He didn't even so much as look like he'd suffered a minor inconvenience.
"He will be mine soon," he said in the most undaunted tone the lizard would ever hear.
Sombrero did an admirable job of feigning fascination. "And just how do you know that?"
"There's nowhere else he can hide. Just because the people of this town don't like me doesn't mean I won't find him. This is the only speck of civilization for God knows how many miles around. Nothing north, east, or west of here but death. He'll be mine." Fang nodded. "As will you."
Sombrero gave a derisive shrug. "Maybe in your next life. Now," he pointed with his free hand to Fang's pistol, "you holster your gun."
Fang made no effort to do so.
"I said, put it away." Sombrero's thumb flicked the hammer back with a chlick sound that nearly deafened them in the silence.
"You say you're going to kill me. Seems to me it makes no difference whether it's out or not. Maybe I should hold on to it in case you do something stupid. And knowing you," Fang nodded with unnatural confidence, "you will."
Sombrero had no immediate response for that.
His free hand flashed to his other semiautomatic, jerked it from its holster with a unexpected swiftness, and in an explosive boom, he shot Fang's gun straight from his grasp. The little black weapon flew into the wall with a crash before clattering to the floor. An extremely alarmed Fang somehow managed to remain motionless.
The lizard stared at him with malicious hatred, eyes narrowing so thin a razor could have cut them.
"Not today."
Jagged hadn't been making very good time, and he needed to with Fang still God knew how many steps ahead of him. His wonky new airbike, ridiculous as it might have looked with its goofy pink-and-white paintscheme, wasn't by any means easy to pilot, nor particularly fast. It was nothing compared to Dry Horn's. Suspiciously enough, it felt a lot like Dry Horn's, maybe with some changed exterior parts here and there, but he didn't think much of that. Instead, he had much more important matters to contend with.
Like trying to figure out why the hell the engine had died.
The hyena was on his knees, inspecting the confusing mess of pipes and engine block, clueless as to what was wrong. The machine had suddenly cut power as he'd been puttering across a sandy rise like a snail out of hell, and he hadn't brought anything that could be of remote use in this kind of situation. Jagged had come close to pulling out all the fur on top of his head by then, as he studied the confusing assembly of mechanics. Torque, the Norse God of Motorcycles had thrown up, and bam, there was his ride.
Guess I should've paid more attention in auto shop. And, uh, gone to school.
He poked some random part jutting from the engine. It fell off. "Goddamnit!"
The next minute was spent entirely on trying to get it back into place. "Rgh. Stupid... hate rabbits..."
He stood straight and glowered at the scenery, which consisted of nothing whatsoever in every direction. If there was ever a place that could truly hold the honorable title of The Middle of Fucking Nowhere, he'd found it. Survival was circumscribed by the necessity of fast travel in this harsh land, and he had failed miserably at that—not to mention he was out of water.
He moved to the other side, ignoring the wind whipping at his fur and getting more sand in it. "Damnit, damnit, damnit, damnit, damnit."
A thorough study of the engine on this side revealed a great deal of nothing at all. He stuck his hand inside the maze of metal and nearly burned the thing off on something that was still hot, causing him to almost jump five feet backwards. "OW!! OWWW-OW-OW! DAMNIT! DAMNIT DAMNIT DAMNIT DAMNIT!"
If he ever figured this out, he deserved a medal. He released his aching finger and threw his hands at the cloudless sky in an unfathomable rage, mouth flapping in an incredible salute to swear words everywhere. "Crap stupid shit ass--" Etcetera, etcetera.
Stupid Sand Hill. Stupid sand. Stupid wind. Stupid airbike. Stupid Fang. Stupid, stupid, stupid airbike. Jagged kicked the side of the array of steel, praying that would make it do what he said. It didn't. "WORK!!!"
He inspected the blamed thing for the umpteenth time in the last ten minutes, putting what little knowledge he had of engineering to use. The most Jagged knew about airbikes and motorcycles was how to make them go really fast and make really loud roaring noises, though. That, and they made handy beds in a pinch, especially after being told he couldn't sleep on a bar stool. He began poking and prodding various parts of the engine, as if to input some top-secret combination that made things magically come back to life.
I—don't—believe—this. I don't believe this. Idon'tbelievethis. I... don't... believe this!
Exhausted and annoyed beyond all comprehension, he let his ass collapse back onto the idiotic-looking machine's uncomfortable seat and just oozed anger.
"Why..."
He put his hands on the handlebars.
"... won't..."
He clenched his ass.
"... you..."
He suppressed his wanton alcohol withdrawal (and failed).
"... start!?"
And then he noticed something. The air smelled kind of funny, and he knew it wasn't him.
Jagged slid off the bike, regarded the empty surroundings wordlessly, then looked like he'd just crapped a chicken.
He bent at the knees and looked beneath the airbike. There was a puddle of gasoline in the sand below it, highlighted by periodic dripping from the gastank above. He noticed a line of gas stretching behind the airbike, running all the way back from whence he'd come, as far as he could see—and he could see far. All the way back into nowhere. The same scenery that was north of him, and south of him, and east of him, and west of him, and all the others in-between. Emptiness except for that long, horrible line of gas.
Jagged's mouth opened so wide his jaw seemed to almost unhinge itself, like some demon creature born of hell's fire, and there came a word said in the most shrill, unholy, God-forsaken voice ever emitted from a living thing:
"FFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUU--"
"—UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU—"
Fang and Sombrero paused and glanced at the hotel room's ceiling, unsure of what to make of the sudden expletive from hell that seemed to be soaring across the entire world.
"—UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU—"
Smiley, Speedy, and Shifty looked up from where they sat on their airbikes, situated on a butte that overlooked the long, distant Sand Hill horizon, but well aware of how much gas they had left, unlike a certain hyena.
"That voice sounds awful damn familiar," commented Shifty, staring at the sky.
"No it doesn't, stupid," said Smiley. "Don't be stupid. Idiot."
"Okay, boss."
"—UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU—"
Sergeant Baker's gaze shot up from his desk in Station Square, and he stared at the window, incredulous.
"Bill, what in the shit is that!?" he boomed.
"Probably your wife," was the reply from the area beyond his office's door.
"WHAT!?"
"I said, nothing, sir. Probably just a Flickie or something." Or your wife.
"—UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU—"
Sonic the Hedgehog's ear twitched, but the rest of his body did not move from the comfortable position it was in. The soothing lash of ocean waves battled the word for supremacy.
Tails jolted upright from his beach towel and made a face. He looked sideways at the lounging 'hog, who was wearing ridiculous sunglasses that shone under the bright sunlight.
"Sonic, do you think we should—"
"It's called a vacation for a reason, dork."
Sonic jiggled his drink, eliciting the approach of a waiter.
"Another martini, sir?"
"Keep 'em comin', Chachi."
"—UUUUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKKK!!!"
The word departed in a vulgar sweep across the atmosphere to send his message of misery and despair throughout the land of all sentient things. Jagged turned on a heel and plopped into the sand, leaning his back against the useless hunk of machine, staring into the bland, desolate wasteland around him and dwelling on his endless, pathetic misfortune.
Not gonna cry, not gonna cry. Gonna be a man about this. Not gonna cry.
He sat there, content to look like the personification of miserable. Not gonna cry.
He looked at his still-hurting finger and sucked on it to lessen the pain. Not gonna cry…
Something began beeping quietly. It took Jagged about ten seconds to work up the will to find out what it was. He reached onto his belt and took hold of his cell phone, before looking at its little HUD.
In insultingly bright green neon letters, the words "YOU'RE FIRED" screamed up at him, preceded by his GUN supervisor's phone number.
Jag put the phone away. He brought his palms to his eyes, sniffed loudly, and couldn't suppress his immeasurable frustration enough to slow down the rapidly oncoming waterworks.
"Not gonna... not gonna... not-- ah, fuck it."
"Any little gizmos you got on you that I should know about?" Sombrero asked.
"Besides the foot I'm gonna cram up your ass the second you take your eyes off me?"
"Yeah, besides that."
Fang hesitated, then glanced at his belt, where his fiber cord, extra ammo, and a tiny taser lay. He thought of his knife—and knew he could put it to disappointingly minimal use without bringing immense risk to himself. He wasn't very good with it anyway. It had come in handy at times where his deadeye aim didn't, but there was little point in amateurishly swinging a knife at somebody who was holding two guns. "Just the usual kind of tools a man needs to haul scumbags like you to jail."
"Guess you won't be havin' much need of any of that, where you're goin'. Shame it'll all go to waste. I suppose I can just hold onto it for you, or sell it to the store down the street. What would you prefer?" There was far too much pleasance in the question.
"That you let me go?" Fang asked condescendingly, well aware there was a two thousand percent chance of that not happening.
"Please," said the lizard, "don't insult my intellect."
"And just how am I supposed to insult something you don't have?"
"Speak for yourself, cur. You think I'm so stupid, how'd I get the drop on you? Mr. Legendary Bounty Hunter? Got a reply to that one?"
"If you were smart, you'd have killed me already," Fang said. "But if not that, then I guess you've at least got some nerve in you, stalking me all the way out here like some freak."
"It wasn't that hard." Though he spoke as if in glee, Sombrero's voice was embittered with scorn, and there was a scowl to his eyes behind the laughter in them. "You're not as smart as you think you are. All it took was some focus, and bang. Here I am to rain on your parade, asshole."
And then there was almost a twinkle in his eye, as he took immense pleasure in saying: "Plus, let's just say a little birdie helped me out along the way."
The hard look in Fang's expression broke. The grin beneath the white bandana swelled.
"You know what I'm talking about, don't you? God, the look on your face right now, it's just..." Sombrero shivered. "... so great!"
"What'd—" Fang started, feeling his level of perspiration increase like never before, "what'd you do?"
"Oh, I just stopped by the ol' home on the range. Saw you there, thought I might as well ask that home's very friendly owner what you wanted, where you were goin'. That kind of thing. Good-lookin' woman. Long cool woman. Not really into goats—usually. But she was so fine." Sombrero drank in the horrible look on Fang's face like it were a glass of water. "She kinda needed some pushing to fess up, but it didn't take too long. Especially when her kids came in the room! Man, was that great. Seriously, you'd have to have been there—"
"You little bastard," Fang spat, as the hatred in the room exceeded volcanic proportions, "you're just a slimy, two-bit—"
"Easy, lawdog. I left her just the way you left her." Sombrero cocked his head to one side. "Or did I? Just one more of life's mysteries you'll never get to know the answer to."
Fang shook his head back and forth, the violent thoughts in his mind too much for any normal person to bear.
"Hey, I'll tell you one, just 'cause I'm awesome: I put the screw in the tuna."
"If you talk this much to everyone you're about to kill, I think they'd prefer it if you just shot them first and saved your blabbering for afterwards."
"Oh, I only do it when it's someone like you listening. 'Specially after what you did to me. See this?" Sombrero tapped his other pistol's barrel against the white bandage lining wrapped around his shoulder. "Remember? Now how'd we get into this dark, dismal situation, hm? Oh, yeah. It's a real damn shame you missed, isn't it?"
"I didn't miss."
The venomously delighted glint in Sombrero's eyes evaporated. His whole body seemed to freeze up, like he'd just been locked inside an iceberg. Suddenly it was the gila monster who was almost speechless.
"Didn't miss?" he seethed so quietly, Fang almost didn't hear him right.
"I needed you alive, in case you knew where your boss was going." Fang's eyes smoldered as an incredible rage came alive in Sombrero's. "Your big friend was too dead to tell me."
Sombrero was still. The look in his eye became worse with every passing second.
For his part, Fang remained stoic. He could hear the lizard hissing and spitting with unbelievable fury under that dumb-looking bandana. The lizard was almost shaking, but the gun remained still. Sombrero's brow deepened so far into his face it began to obscure his vision. Fang knew he might as well have just ripped the gila monster's dignity from him with a rusty scalpel.
"You... didn't miss."
No response. Sombrero's expression strongly reminded Fang of boiling water.
"You... didn't... miss... Are you kidding me?"
Fang stood there. Horrifically insulted beyond belief, the lizard could only do the same, eyes wider than Fang had ever seen them.
"You... goddamn, miserable, stinking son of a cur..."
"You don't seem to like that," mused Fang.
Sombrero jabbed the gun back and forth in Fang's face, incensed beyond help. "I'm... going... to kill you... SO HARD..."
"Freeze, Fang the Sniper!"
The voice came from behind Sombrero—and a little to his left. The lizard felt his jaw drop open, stared at Fang for a moment longer, then curved his head to the side just enough to where he could look at the voice's owner from the corner of his eye.
Standing there, a silver revolver pointed straight at Sombrero's head, was none other than purported town marshal, Zipp the Coyote.
"What?" sputtered Sombrero, before he repeated much louder, "what!?" then, "WHAT!!!?"
"Y'hard of hearing, son? I said stay right there."
Fang remained still, eyes darting between his would-be captor and the new threat on this makeshift field of battle. Zipp was right in the doorway, blocking the closest means of exit. The coyote made no effort to indicate he was aware at all of Fang's existence. Sombrero's eyes somehow got even wider, but his own gun seemed locked where it was as if it were nailed there.
"Who in the hell are you supposed to be!?" shrieked the gila monster.
"I'm the law 'round here." Zipp snatched his other revolver in his left hand and began spinning it around on his index finger, while Sombrero stood flabbergasted at both this revelation and the coyote's very presence. "Seems to me some damn ol' fella got himself killed down at the Black Jack, and I aim to wrangle in the critter what did the killin'. Keep them hands where I can see 'em, Sniper."
Sombrero went completely slack-jawed under that bandana. Fang caught himself from doing the same.
"You—you think I'm—YOU THINK I'M—ARE YOU STUPID OR SOMETHING!?"
One eyebrow of Zipp's raised over the other. "Well, lesse. Description I had of you said y'had a hat, evil look in the eye, guns, all that. Seems to me y'all fit the description mighty close, buddy."
"Well, WHAT THE HELL ABOUT HIM!?"
Zipp paused, then studied Fang intensely. Fang just stared back, his eyes faintly humorous, but otherwise totally removed from this absurd debacle.
"That ain't Fang the Sniper," Zipp eventually stated in as intelligent a tone he could possibly manage, which was altogether very unimpressive. "That's Nack the Weasel."
"Ahagfk—they—" Sombrero waved his second gun around like he were on crack. "They're—you—THEY'RE ONE AND THE SAME YOU IDIOT!!"
"Yeah, whatever. Next you're gonna tell me Sonic the Hedgehog can turn into a werewolf at night. I wasn't born yesterday, son. And I am very insulted by the accusationin' you're pullin' on me like some kinda rookie tinhorn. Now you holster them guns and put your hands on toppa that hat—Say, that is a very nice hat, I'd just like to tell ya—"
Fang watched carefully for an opportunity—any opportunity. He was fast, but Sombrero wasn't as incompetent as he made himself out to be. He knew that from experience, and was well-aware of the risks of grabbing that hand that held the pistol pointed at his nose. Plus, the gila monster was holding another gun, and could plug a wild hostage just as easily as he could spit on the floor. Damn it, gotta do something...
His eyes narrowed. He didn't like playing hostage, and wasn't going to put up with it.
"My name, you leather-clad moron, is Sombrero. They do not call me Fang the Sniper. They call me Sombrero for a reason. They call him Fang for a reason. Why the hell do you think they call him Fang the Sniper? Does this fucking HAT look like a fucking FANG to you!?" Sombrero tap-tap-tapped the pistol's tip against the notorious canine that jutted from Fang's mouth, eliciting an even more irritable expression from the bounty hunter than usual. "What does this look like, huh!? Yeah, this looks like a freaking sombrero, right here!"
"Well, now how'm I supposed to know how you got your nickname? Hell, you might be hidin' one-a-them pointy teeth things inside your mouth. Open up, show me your teeth."
"My—what!? No!"
"C'mon," Zipp gestured to Sombrero's mouth with his other revolver (and put it a little too close to it for comfort, too). "Open wide, lemme see."
"Are you crazy, get that thing outta my face!"
"Oh, it's easy. I don't mind if you ain't brushed today, son—"
"What're you, a dentist too? I said n—"
"Open yer goddamn mouth and show me!"
"NO!"
"Quit actin' like a putz and do it!"
"NO!!"
Like a bolt of lightning that suddenly crashed into the room, Fang broke hard from where he stood and flashed towards one of the windows. The feeling of adrenaline racing through his body returned instantly, but he'd been unable to figure out the absolute best course of action to take—and so he had simply opted for the one that most likely wouldn't get him shot. It was his only chance.
Sombrero did a double-take when he realized what was happening. "Sh—"
With a jarring crash of glass, Fang barreled straight through the room's window. He felt his whole body shudder at the impact, but only then did he actually remember they were two stories up. Oh God—
He collapsed onto the boardwalk's roof and rolled once, twice, then thrice. His awkwardly pivoting form ran out of roof tiling. Nobody down on the ground seemed to realize someone was about to make a hard crash-landing, when--
--Fang came falling an entire story down to the dust with a disturbingly deep and flat thud, smack on his side between a couple of townspeople who'd been walking peacefully along. They jolted back, taken completely off-guard.
And he lay still for a moment, for though his mind screamed for his body to take action, he could take none.
He couldn't move his legs, yet they roared at him in pain. By that alone he knew they'd taken the brunt of the impact. It was like nothing he'd felt in them that he could remember. They had hurt him unquestionably before, though for reasons he wasn't sure of, but now was pure hell.
He tried to move again, and only found himself wincing at the fire in his lower body.
Sombrero stared in bewildered disbelief at what had just transpired. He whipped around and glowered at Zipp, who just stood there looking confused. "You... you ruined everything!"
"Everything of what?" asked the coyote.
Outside, Fang gasped for breath. He could feel the eyes on him again; his body finally began to obey his mind. Gotta move—gotta move. He stumbled to his feet with all the dignity and grace of a newborn calf, and ran. Shocked citizens of New Mettle hurried out of his path, but he could see others purposely moving into it. A chill ran through him.
I have to get out of h--
"RrrRRGH!!"
There was another crash behind him. He turned in mid-run to spare a fast glance back where he'd come, and saw Sombrero the Gila Monster smashing his way right out of that same hotel window from whence he'd come, destroying whatever part of it Fang had missed. The gila monster leapt straight over the boardwalk's roof in a completely audacious lunge and landed right in the middle of the dusty street on his legs, his enraged state granting him incredible strength. There weren't many sights that could unnerve Fang the Sniper, but his blood ran cold then.
Zipp hesitated inside the hotel room. Calmly, he turned and began to clomp back down the stairs.
Fang's feet clapped against the sand and twisted him sideways. He launched himself towards an alley, half an instant before there was a gunshot. Wood from the building beside him splattered in his face.
Sombrero charged forward like a bull on the rampage. He grabbed a woman unfortunate enough to be near his destructive path and threw her out of the way. "MOVE!! All of you get outta the way—"
"That's Fang the Sniper!" somebody ahead of him yelled. "He's got a bounty on him!"
"Five thousand for Fang the Sniper's head!"
"He's runnin' for it! In the alleys!"
"Kill the Sniper!"
"Kill him!"
Fang heard it all. Dirty, mangy bastards. He was flying around building corners, struggling as hard as he ever had to get through the veritable maze of wood and nails, and find his way back to the Queen, his only ticket out of this hell. Behind the main street of New Mettle lay a mess of square wooden homes, arranged in an insult to civil planning engineers everywhere. It made for a hell of a makeshift labyrinth. Fang hurried around a building and just missed having an ear blown off. Another round nicked his thigh. A third cut the tip of his tail.
A feeling he wasn't used to was beginning to force its way into him, and he perspired more from knowing it was there than from his run or the lethality of the world around him.
The feeling was fear.
Sombrero stayed out in the streets, running along each grimy storefront and staring down into the dusty alleys and small side streets for where his prey might have been. No sign of the bounty hunter dared show itself. He continued on like a leopard moving in for the kill, heedless of the various townsfolk hurrying out of his way, lest they reach his notice. He panted loudly, struggling against the will to run inside that puzzle of buildings and get himself lost.
Fang's legs pumped back and forth as fast as he could manage, knowing there were people behind him. He couldn't slow down at all.
Somebody with a gun was suddenly in front of him. Fang slid to a very sudden stop, sand and gravel spitting out in front of his feet. "Shi--"
BOOM. The man flew sideways, gun flying from his grasp.
"HE'S MINE, you CURS!!" came the wild, manic voice of Sombrero, from out in the street. Fang was almost grateful for a nanosecond.
He rounded another corner and made himself slow down to catch his wind. The sudden run wasn't helping his legs; they were becoming agony incarnate.
He cringed, grit his teeth, and shut his eyes as hard as he could, unable to drown out the sounds of shouting and gunfire all around him. He opened his eyes and stared down at his steel-calved boots. A strange feeling of numbness was sweeping through his lower proportions. And yet still they burned, almost to the point of intolerability. Pain jolted from his lower back, down both legs, and into his feet. Oh God, I hurt.
Breathless, Sombrero peered into yet another alley, wondering just how far deep the maze of buildings went—and bang came a shot that missed him by a matter of inches. He whipped around on a heel and brought a pistol to eye level, blowing the unlucky individual who had tried their luck to kingdom come.
You curs think you can take me!?
Distracted, he brought his other gun to bear and exploded a shot at another man holding a shotgun. The man stopped short in his tracks and collapsed backwards in a heap. An incensed Sombrero centered his aim down the street and killed yet another man with bloodless cruelty. People scattered.
A quick look into the street was all it took, and Fang realized what was happening. This was his chance. He could get across that violent road of death, find the Queen, and—
"You go out there right now and you can kiss your purple ass goodbye, son."
He swiveled around. Zipp the Coyote was holding a door to one of the alley's random buildings open. "In here."
"How the hell did you get—"
"In," Zipp repeated.
Fang didn't waste another second. He was inside that building before almost before Zipp realize it.
Sombrero was getting himself completely lost, by then. He finally gave in to his instinct and ran into the closest alley to him. He stopped once he'd reached the side of a building blocking his path, with two other roads that stretched down towards yet more. Where the hell did he go?
He stalked forward at a brisk pace and stared down another alley that led outside the town. He hurried down it, stopped and looked both directions, and there was nothing but distance and desert. What. The. Hell.
He turned around and— "ARRRGH, GET OUTTA MY WAY!" The man dove for cover while Sombrero throttled the air around his head like a child severely in need of Prozac. "I'LL KILL ALL OF YOU SO FREAKING HARD—"
Zipp watched the gila monster's tirade from a window. "That boy drinks too damn much coffee."
Fang just panted, cringed, and hurt all at once. He had taken a seat on the dirty floor, unable to comprehend what was happening to him. He could hear people running past outside, and others yelling on the opposite side of the building. All for his head. And he was almost completely defenseless.
"Couldn't pay me a million dollars to go out there and get that Fang the Sniper fella," Zipp continued. "They don't pay me enough for this gig to do stuff like that. Boy's a crazy-man." He watched as Sombrero kicked somebody in their posterior and stormed onward, searching endlessly for the bounty hunter he hated so and muttering something about shoulda stayed in med school.
Fang just sat, concentrating only on what to do. The fear began to leave him. In its place a fire began to burn.
"Can y'move?"
Fang felt his legs, and noticed the pain was beginning to evaporate as well. In poor shape as they might have been, he was tougher than leather, one of the few redeeming traits that had kept him alive this long in such a miserable career filled to the very brim with war stories and battle scars. A few quick bumps and taps with his hand against his thighs confirmed the dissipating aggravation. He didn't know what was wrong with him, but hoped they could hold out for as long as it took to get him through this. He felt his vigor return.
His cold purple face stared at the wall with a deadly glower. These men—they thought he was a coward. They thought he was just someone else—someone who they could push around, like the women and the children. They didn't know him at all. He wasn't going to take this—be treated like this.
Nobody makes a fool out of me.
These people...
Fang the Sniper breathed harder, the horrible cruelty that dwelled quietly inside of him sparking alive with the fire of a phoenix.
... They'd taste the bitterness of their greed, their stupidity, and their blood.
"No way a fella like you can handle all them boys out there lookin' for your head." Zipp craned his head over his shoulder and watched Fang for a second. "Reckon you oughta—hm?"
He saw Fang had risen, and was near the other door that lead outside into New Mettle's main street, where men and death lay in wait. Zipp cocked an eyebrow.
"You're not—you ain't really goin' out there?"
Fang didn't look back. "I aim to." He stared at the door.
"Y'sure? Y'aint no Fang the Sniper, I'll bet."
Fang didn't answer that.
"Well, hey," Zipp remarked, "y'need a gun?" He gestured to one of the old-fashioned revolvers he carried.
"I'm sure I can find one that's not being used."
And then Fang was out the door before the coyote cowboy could consider offering protest.
Sombrero stared down the other road, waving his pistol at some imbecile who'd tried his luck once and then had taken off in retreat. He was getting even angrier, and it showed with every tone his manic voice yelled. "You try that again, you son of a bitch, and I'll kill you so fast your head won't even have time to spin before I blow it off! You hear me!? You all hear me!?"
He turned around and continued stalking the streets like an over-eager dog. "Bunch of goddamned furries! Hate all you furskins so much. All of you can go to—" He raised a pistol and blew a glass window near a fleeing man to hell. "RUN, LITTLE MAN! HAH-HAH! Ride like the wind, Bullseye!" He cackled maliciously, a demon-possessed clown laugh not at all suited for someone who wasn't wearing a straightjacket. "Wooo-hahaha! Yeah!"
By then the street had cleared itself well of anyone who would challenge his violent authority. Some of them had taken to finding cover on the road's boardwalk, some inside the storefronts, others behind the old-looking automobiles and aerobikes that sat near the bars, most of which were broken-down and rusting.
A drunk-looking gunman stood dumbly and watched Sombrero's crazy antics. He didn't hear the rapidly approaching stomp of boots behind him until it was too late.
Fang slid forward and slammed the soles of his boots into the back of the man's ankles, pitching the gunman completely off his feet and onto a waiting fist that slammed into his kidney. As soon as the effective meatshield was on top of him, Fang felt around the man's belt for a sidearm, grabbed it, and let loose a blazing hail of lead straight at—
"Hrk--!" Sombrero dove for cover behind a shed like he was about to get hit head-on by a plane. The wood paneling on the building just behind where he'd been was blown to shit.
Fang jolted to his feet and with his free hand, smashed his meatshield's head into the glass window Zipp was watching from. The man collapsed again in a heap. Fang was finished with him just in time to see another New Mettler rush in with a knife's tip aimed at his nose. He ducked under the flying arm, grabbed the doberman by the fur on the back of his skull, and smashed it into the only remaining glass panel as hard as he could.
"Damn," Zipp mumbled, watching glass spill at his feet while all hell continued breaking loose outside.
The town's gall seemed to re-energize. Someone behind a stack of supply crates took a potshot at Fang, missing by a mile. Fang returned the favor, but in contrast, didn't miss. Another rogue gunman down the street tried their luck. Fang made him pay for it. A stab of fire boomed at him from closer range, and the bullet pounded the storefront behind him, spattering the back of his head with tiny fragments of wood. Fang dealt with that one just as swiftly as he had the others, driven now by pure animalistic instinct.
Sombrero had scrambled to his feet by then. He bent his body up at the edge of the shed, gripped his silver guns tighter, and peeked around just enough to make sure Fang's attention was off him. He took aim, popped off a pair of shots, and knew instantly one had missed, but the other--
--also missed after Fang caught wind of what was happening. After ducking his frame upon hearing the first shot, Fang whipped about and returned the favor.
Pow came a shard of metal into Sombrero's face, the round just nicking the side of the shed and spilling paint and debris straight into his eyes. "NNGH-- Goddamnit!!"
Fang focused his attention on a trio of gunman taking cover behind a dust-covered car that likely hadn't moved in years. The trigger was pulled three times; only two shots came, and the lucky one quickly understood why. "Ah, shit--"
There was a quick whistle. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Zipp toss one of his gleaming, silver-finished revolvers out the broken window. With speed that could only be witnessed in person to be truly understood by the rest of the world, Fang caught it with his other hand, cocked the hammer back with his thumb, and blew a hole through the third gunman's head a nanosecond before the man was to take his shot.
He tossed the empty gun to the ground, and was suddenly set upon by an SMG-wielding gunfighter who jumped from a nearby alley with alarming rapidness, sudden enough that most men would be able to avoid the surely-coming volley. Fang the Sniper was not most men. With the fluidity and fleeting quickness of a fencer, he spun about in a flash, bent his knees, and palmed the revolver's hammer twice, deep, thunderous booms the last thing this one ever heard.
With one hand, Fang picked up the fallen SMG before it had even finished clattering to the ground. It spat burning death at gunmen racing into the Black Jack; the revolver thundered to keep Sombrero at bay.
In the distance he caught sight of someone cooking a grenade. The man must have thought Fang couldn't hit so small a target at such a distance. Fang disproved that theory with a single shot from the SMG that ended that would-be encounter in a fiery explosion that all but blew apart the nearby building's corner.
A round pinged off the SMG and sent it flying from his grasp. Fang juked around on a heel and let the revolver continue its violent song.
There came a shot from behind him, and Fang felt something hard blow through the side of his thigh like a hot knife through butter. The familiar, sudden feeling of pain bolted through his whole body. "Gah!" Onto a knee he went, knowing damn well who'd taken that shot. I'm gonna shoot you AND your stupid hat!
"Geez-almighty, boy, you think you gonna take on this whole town?" There was Zipp just behind the open doorway. Fang had been ravaging Sombrero and the beleaguered gunmen from the same spot the whole time.
"I will if I have to!" spat the bounty hunter.
"Like hell you can, more people out there than you got ammo! Get your dumbass in here!" Zipp reached a hand out and hooked it around Fang's arm, pulling him into the building again just as gunfire commenced raining upon them like shells from a battleship.
Zipp dragged Fang over to the other door and paused a moment, examining where the bounty hunter had been hit. "Well, ain't that pretty?" he panted.
Fang spent a moment to check it too, and discovered to his somewhat unexpected distress that his whole right leg was already dressed bright red in his blood. He knew it was worse than it felt—when the adrenaline left him, he'd be hurting.
"Better get that cleaned up—" Bang! Zipp almost hit the floor after that one. The round ricocheted off a wall and blew through the roof. He tucked his cowboy hat lower over his head and glanced out the window, where yet more eager gunmen rose like wildfires. "Don't suppose you can ride too well with that, hm? Better git you to Claudia's."
"Why are you helping—" Bang! Fang boomed a shot from the borrowed revolver out the window, sending some unlucky soul flailing behind a barrel. "Why are you hel—" Bang! Another round burst through the wall near him. "Why the hell are—" Bang! "Goddamnit—" Bang! "Ah, who gives a shit."
Zipp positioned himself near the building's back door. "Got a truck out there, little ways up the alley. Don't suppose you have any problem rollin' on outta here in that?"
Fang immediately thought of the steed that had served him steadfastly for his whole career, the Marvelous Queen--
... and knew getting to it at this point was near hopeless.
"No," he eventually said, the barest tinge of disappointment in his voice at the word.
Zipp seemed to notice, but said nothing of it.
"C'mon." He opened the door, did a quick look-see outside, and hurried into the alley. Fang was right behind him while bullets continued fragmenting the areas around them.
Sombrero dispensed the empty cartridges of his pistols, and was struggling to reload them while still holding both guns in hand. It wasn't a particularly professional- or graceful-looking act, but he didn't care. Bastards. Gonna come in there and fill you so full of holes, you'll look like a water tank that just sprung a buncha leaks. Or, somethin'... like that. He was too pissed off by that point to come up with any remotely clever comparisons.
He looked up, realizing the return fire from inside the building had ceased. "?"
Oh, don't tell me—
There was a roar of an engine. Sombrero took off from where he stood, down a side street, white boots clomping loudly against the hard-packed earth. He skirted around a corner and saw an open-top truck kicking up a massive cloud of dust as it peeled away from town. In the truck's bed, he could make out a purple figure. "Oh, no you d—"
POW! came a shot.
Sombrero felt something nail the very top of his left shoulder, something that had come from the distant truck. He rocked on his feet, staggering a few steps backwards, flabbergasted.
He glanced down at where the revolver's round had struck. He looked up at the truck, then again at his shoulder. Blood began trickling down from the wound onto the cartridge belts that criss-crossed across his torso.
He... he didn't!
Sombrero studied the wound, then stared at his bandaged right shoulder.
That...
That...
"AAAAHHHH, YOU SONOFAWHORE!!! AAAGH YOU BASTARD!!! OHHH I'LL KILL YOU!!!" BANG BANG BANG BANG boomed his pistols in a hopeless rage against the fleeing truck. "KILL YOU KILL YOUUUU!!!"
He ran as hard as he could a few buildings down, where a white-as-bone airbike sat in wait. Sombrero lunged right over the back of it into the pilot's seat, and with a scream, the machine was alive and just as eager to chase down some bounty hunters as he was. You're not getting away from me! I'll chase you to hell if it means I gotta stay there!
The airbike rose swiftly, as if an eagle rising to hunt its prey, and one rapid twist of the throttle was all it took to leave New Mettle behind and set Fang the Sniper back in his sights.
You're wrong, you cur.
Sombrero's eyes locked tight on the truck, bouncing across bumps and sand as it fled. He increased the throttle output with another twist, and he gained.
... You'll be mine!