"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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“We’re pinned down!” The Rustler hissed. “We gotta get outta this!”

Ragnar the Red popped his head up and 

ducked right back down, a shot from 

Machine Ranger’s rotary cannons just 

zinging off his Viking helmet. “He’s 

coming for us! I’ll rush him!”

“No! Just hold yer horses, Red.”

The cowboy stole his own peek, and was

also forced back down by a hail of gunfire.

“New kid … Powder Keg … you’re up. You’re here for a tryout; you did 

a real good job blowing up the bank―but how do you handle

yourself in a fight, boy?”

“Actually, I handle myself pretty good in a fight.” He stood 

the collar up on his black leather jacket, then ran his 

fingers through his greaser pompadour.

“You do?” Ragnar chuckled. “Good. Because I hear the 

Machine Ranger can handle himself, too. Well … have at 

him.”

“Just watch out for his guns,” The Rustler said. “All of his 

guns.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Powder Keg said, his accent thick 

with Brooklyn. “I’ll follow it if you can, alright?”

“Danged kids these days,” The Rustler said. “Everybody’s a 

wise-acre.”

“Indeed,” the Viking agreed. “Everybody is.”

###

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“Oh man! He’s not dead!”

“That guy has to be dead,” Jake said.

Machine Ranger groaned.

“Oh man! He’s not dead!”

Jake ran toward him.

The orange glow had begun to diminish. 

Machine Ranger was wiggling his fingers and trying to pick his head up off the pavement.

“No!” the Ranger said. “Stop right there, kid!”

Jake stopped running, almost to him. “What? Why? I just …”

“I know. The problem is, I don’t know what to expect from this orange stuff I’m stuck in. The Rustler’s been known to booby trap his weapons; the dirty rat hates it when someone tries to help out a guy he’s taken down.”

“Oh … really? That’s pretty …”

“Cold? Yeah … stone cold. But that’s The Rustler … he’s vicious as a rattlesnake. And that horse of his is no better.”

“His horse?”

“Yeah—you saw him, kid. The two-wheeled kind. Those two are two peas in a pod … a low-life, dirtbag pod.”

“Um … are you injured, mister? You sound okay, but I saw them run you over …”

Machine Ranger coughed. “I don’t know kid … it seems like my battle-chassis is pretty much intact …”

“Battle-chassis? What’s a―”

“Battle-chassis. It’s what I call my suit, kid. You know, like a battle-chassis?”

“Uh … okay. It’s a battle-chassis.”

“Now you’re catching on, kid. Hey—maybe you can do me a favor.”

“A favor? Sure. What do you need?”

Machine Ranger smiled. “Kid, it’s always a bad idea to agree to a favor before you find out what it’s going to be.”

###

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That’s a police order!

Jake crept carefully through the shadows. The cop had told him to take cover, and the shadows seemed to be about the best cover he was going to find.

He could feel it in his gut, he was closing in on whatever he’d been searching for.

“I wonder what happened to that cop? Hey, there he is—man, that bike sounds hairy.”

From his vantage point, he saw the stretched two-wheeler rolling up to the lawman. “Hey, there’s no one riding that thing!”

Officer Ritchie noticed too, once the bike had gotten too close.

“Oh … oh my!”

He started to run.

As soon as he moved, the cycle’s engine revved up, and the bike took off wheelie-ing after him, in hot pursuit.

“AHHH!” Ritchie hollered as he ran. “AHHH! Stop right there! AHHH! That’s a police order!”

He dropped his radio in all the commotion; it shattered seconds later, as the motorcycle ran it over.

“Oh no! That’s the third radio this week! The sergeant's going to kill me!”

###

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A doughnut ... a cop ... and a crime spree.

“Hey there.”

“Hi.”

“You’re out late, son.”

“I … felt like a doughnut, I guess.”

“Yeah? Which kind? You feelin’ plain, dipped, or sprinkled?” The white-haired beat cop had a friendly gleam in his eye.

Jake smiled. “The kind they have here, I guess.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place for those. Your parents know you’re here?”

“I don’t think they have a problem with it.”

“No? Even so, I think it would be a good idea for you to head right home after you have your doughnut; like I said, it's awful late. I’ll even treat. Fair enough?”

“I guess so,” Jake said.

“What’ll it be?” asked the woman behind the counter.

“Give him a plain, and dipped, and a sprinkled,” the cop said. “He’s still sorting out his feelings.”

Jake grinned.

“And a refill on the coffee, please.”

“Absolutely,” she said, as she went about her work.

“You know,” the cop said to Jake, “these streets aren’t as safe as they used to be. Crime’s been kicking up the last few weeks.”

“Really?”

“Don’t you read the papers, kid?”

“Not usually.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. They’re keeping most of it out of the papers anyway.”

“They are? Why would they be doing that?”

“So as not to upset the public.” The cop’s voice grew hushed as he spoke. “The higher-ups don’t want a panic on their hands.”

“A panic?”

The cop’s look told Jake he’d spoken too loud.

“I mean, a panic?” he repeated, more discreetly. “Why would there be a panic?”

“Because, the things that are going on—the theft, the destruction—they’re really over the top. And so far, we don’t have a single suspect.”

“Wow. Not a single suspect … hey, what do you mean by over the top?”

“I’m not really at liberty to get into the specifics, kid.” The cop took a sip of his coffee. “Just trust me, you’d be better off at home.”

###

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