"They call me Powder Keg—alright?"

Powder Keg jumped up from behind the wall. “Hey there!”

“What the …” Machine Ranger said. “You’re not The Rustler … or Ragnar the Red.”

“Look who’s eyes are workin’ … congratulations on that, Machine Loser. Hey, I’m the new guy … an’ they call me Powder Keg—alright?”

“Well,” the Ranger said, his arm cannons sighted on the newcomer, who looked the part of a 1950’s street corner hood, “you were almost the Confetti Guy. As in, these guns were about to―”

“Blow me to bits? Whew! I’m sure glad that didn’t happen.”

“Didn’t happen yet, you mean. You with those other two, junior? The Viking … and the Cowgirl?”

“That depends!” The Rustler piped up from where he was crouched behind the wall.

“Yes!” added Ragnar the Red. “That depends very much on what happens next.”

“I’ll take the bait,” Machine Ranger said. “What happens next?”

“Some fireworks,” Powder Keg said. “Hmmm …”

He pointed at an automobile that was in a long line of them parked along the debris-strewn street.

“You know, I’m not so sure these cars are legally parked.” 

His eyes glowed red.

“Someone’s gonna have to move them.”

The car exploded in a fireball, and launched up into the air.  Then it smashed back into the Earth, a burning, smoldering heap.

“Consider me the valet!” He laughed in wicked delight. “A nice full gas tank, thank you very much.”

Then, he pointed at a pickup truck, and it met with the same fiery fate.

“I’m glad to see everyone’s not driving around on empty; running out is no joke.”

Machine Ranger, noticing how close he was standing to another parked car, took a few cautious steps away from it.

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