"Hold the fuck up!" I snapped, glaring at him. "You want me to spend how long in some isolated shithole before I can go outside?"

"Ah... somewhere in the range of about two years," Mr. Interview answered after a moment. I snorted and pulled a cigarette from my pants pocket.

"You're real damn funny. Shtop thah cah." The last bit was muffled as a spoke around the cig as I lit it.

"You wouldn't last a day without our protection if you didn't protect yourself," he replied as I inhaled a melange of burning gas, toxins, and a highly addictive substance. "You're gonna have to quit smoking if you want to survive, also. Besides, it's expensive." I blew smoke in his face just to be an ass.

"I work out a lot and do several forms of martial arts. I'm sure I'll do fine. Now stop the car."

"No." God damn him. I watched the road. We came to a light.

I was out the door and jogging away, cigarette in my mouth, faster than he could react. A glance over my shoulder allowed me to see him pulling... something... from his pocket. I dove behind a trash can as he leveled it at me. I heard a loud thunk. I dashed behind a car. He stepped out of his car-tank, leaving it with the door open in the middle of the road as he moved towards me. I looked back at the can I had used as cover.

A wicked metal dart was lodged in it. The end looked greased.

Uh oh.

I dashed into a Clownburger and ran into the bathroom.

"Homeland security!" I heard him yell. I imagined him in his black suit, only with his hair slicked back, with sunglasses and a goatee, instead of how he really was, with parted hair and a clean shave. It was an amusing thought. I ran into the bathroom and pushed a slightly ajar stall door inward, hopping atop the piss-coated toilet bowl (off of the piss-coated floor). I slid over and crouched so I wouldn't be visible unless the door was pushed in. I listened closely.

Then, I feyed. I saw everything in my line of sight, but also was feying everything through it. I feyed some dude in jeans at a urinal, as well as the urine. I turned and feyed the door swing open as a person walked in. Then it swung open again. I remembered how I couldn't fey Mr. Interview through the wall of the building I had been interviewed in, though I was beginning to fey other things.

I refocused myself as the other man went to a urinal while the door opened. I jumped and gave Mr. Interview a face-full of my left foot, followed by a shot from my right foot. As he rolled backwards I ran forward and kneed him in the face.

"Why couldn't you just leave me alone?" I yelled, kicking him in the balls. I ran out the door, saw something I was entirely unprepared to see, and ran back in. "One of the freaky fuckers is outside! How'd it get here so fast?" I screamed at him.

"I told you they'd be after you," he answered as he got to his feet, clutching his sensitive area. The Hexodile entered. He pulled out a pistol and shot it in a head one-handed. It stumbled back, then continued forward. I looked for a weapon. Finding none, I took a last puff of my cigarette, ran forward, and shoved it into the creature's eyeball.

It swung a hand at its head, trying to get my cigarette away from its eye. I pulled back.

Its attack proceeded to decapitate itself. Of course, this was only one third of a success. Two more heads to go.

I tried not to think about if it could keep going without heads.

"This wouldn't be such a problem if you hadn't jumped me," Mr. Interview snapped, pulling a silver ring from his pocket and putting it on. He looked up and yelled, "Stand back!"

I tried to; the Hexodile grabbed me faster than I could see. I cried out in what I confess was a less than masculine manner as cold metal closed around my right wrist.

I felt the unyielding fingers compress, then squeezing fat and muscle, then fracturing bone. A punch to its arm only bruised my left hand.

Then the arm released me and fell to the ground. I feyed a sort of spiritually-formed gun in his hand, projected from the silver ring. His mundane pistol lay on the ground beside him. He fired into a head, and it exploded bloodily. The same happened with the other head. It fell to the ground and the bits of it dissolved in bursts of searing steam; I felt my skin burn where the blood had splashed on me.

Panting and whimpering, I clutched my right hand and slumped against the wall, falling to the floor in a relatively dry spot. Oh god, the hand. You wouldn't know it with how I described it, but back then, it hurt like hell. My wrist was basically destroyed. I could barely register anything, but from what I could tell, he told the police he was from Homeland Security, and that was that; he took me to his car.

I woke up in a room of soft brown colors with metal braces visible on all of the walls, a metal door with a digital lock beside it. I woke up in the bed I would wake up in every morning for about two years.