PITTSFIELD AFB, NEVADA

   The US Army is a wonderful organization, filled with
brave men and women dedicated to defending their nation.
Unfortunately, there are always a few who just don't seem
to fit in.  Some, finding out early on that they'd made a
mistake, resign. Others, a bit more aggressive, find
themselves courtmartialed, convicted, and sent to Fort
Leavenworth, in Kentucky.
   But a few, more deadly than the rest, require special
treatment.
   They go to what the Department of Defense calls
Pittfield Air Force Base.  The inmates, however, call it
something else.
   They call it the Pit.
   
                 The Bookwyrm Press presents:
           MAYHEM, INCORPORATED #4 "Double Crossing"
   
   From the outside, the Pit didn't look like much.  It
was your ordinary, run-of-the-mill military installation,
and with the exception of a few diehard UFO fans who don't
pay much attention to the news, it's pretty much ignored.
   Underground, however, it's a different story.
Underneath the harsh, and totally evil, glare of
fluorescent lights, stone-faced guards in ballistic armor
toting heavy weaponry keep a close eye on the men and
women in their care.  Thanks to their vigilance, no one
has ever broken out of the Pit.
   Unfortunately, they were completely unprepared for
someone breaking *in*.  Therefore, it was no surprise that
the attack was successful.  The guards never knew what hit
them, as the fancifully clad figures, chrome glinting in
the glow of those few bulbs which had survived, made their
way down the corridors.
   Their leader, resplendent in crimson armor, held one of
the guards up by his crotch. [The story will now pause for
the winces of 50% of the readership].  Feeling better?
Good.
   As she interrogated her guest, eyes glinting behind a
smooth golden mask, one of her minions arrived
breathlessly. "Lady Ishtar!"
   She squeezed her hand slightly, and dropped the now-
keening guard.  Slowly, with feline grace, she turned
toward the interruption.
   "What...is...it..." she hissed.
   "I'm not sure, my lady, but I think we found him!"
"Show me."  With nary a glance towards her prisoner, she
strode out of the room, cape flaring behind her.  Down the
now darkened corridors she strode, steel boots clicking on
the linoleum.  Neither the fairly widespread bloodstains,
nor the cries of the dying broke her stride, as she
followed her minion.
   Finally, in one of the deepest parts of the prison, she
stopped before a massive iron door.
   "Open it!" she commanded.
   "My lady, do you think it's wise?  He is dangerous.."
   "As am I.  Open it...*now*" she replied cooly.
   The soldier gulped, and moving toward the barrier,
attached a small black case to the lock.  Gears spun, and
with an audible CLUNK, the bolts slid back.  Glancing
nervously at his master...um...mistress...
   Glancing nervously at Ishtar, he spun the wheel, and
pulled the door open.  The flickering lights shone on a
massive figure, bound by heavy metal restraints to the
floor.
   "Ari Ohara, I presume" Ishtar purred.
   For his part, Ari was unimpressed.  Sure, she looked
kinda hot, in that tight metal getup, but if he and she
were alone, and he wasn't slowed down by these Author-
damned chains, he'd have her singing his tune.
Straining mightily, he managed to make his bonds creak.
Behind the metal-mesh helmet, he grinned as the bitch
stepped back.
   "Come closer, honey...I wanna take a closer look at
you." he rasped.
   She approached, driving her boot into the side of his
head. Ohara grinned.  "I like a girl that plays rough.
But don't you think it'd be more fun if we both could
play?" he leered.
    Lady Ishtar looked down at the bestial form before her
with a mixture of disgust and pity.  Mostly disgust.  If
she had a choice, she would have let him rot.  But she had
a need for a man of his talents.
   "You once drove for the demolition derby
circuit...correct?""
   "Yeah...it felt goooood..."
   "And the reason you are here is for your actions toward
your commanding officer..."
   "He was a man of great taste..." Ari replied, licking
his lips.
   "You'll do.." she murmured, raising an arm.
   His reply died on his lips as a slim bolt of energy
pierced his skull, followed by darkness.
   
                         -><-

   Slowly, reluctantly, consciousness returned to Ari
Ohara.  As the mists parted, Ari found himself dressed in
a black leather jumpsuit, it's sable expanse only broken
by the silver skull over the breast pocket.  His
surroundings were harder to discern, but the darkness
around him felt...big.
   A sole light hung over his head, pinning him in it's
light.  He stood in a crouch, eyes darting about him,
unsure of what lay belong the circle of light.
   Ishtar stepped into view, flanked by guards hefting
vicious-looking rifles.  "I'm so glad you could join us."
she purred.
   "Did I have a choice?"
   "Not really.  I suppose you'd like some answers..."
   "Actually, I'd like to..."  The rest of his sentence
was drowned out by a growl from the darkness.  Not just
any growl, but a deep, resonant howling which made the
"Hound of the Baskervilles" sound like a Pound Puppy.
   From out of the darkness two red lights glowed, and
moved closer, as the roaring grew.  The source became
evident...a car.  No family sedan, the long black shape
looked like the mutant hybrid of a hearse and a
locomotive.  And it was charging straight for him.
   As he considered his options (Number one, scream.
Number two, soil himself), the car swerved to the right,
stopping just short of his frozen form.  With a hiss, the
drivers side door opened, revealing just a hint of the
flickering displays within.
   "Ari Ohara," Ishtar murmured, "Meet your new
vehicle....the Bleedwagon."
   Ari gaped, as the driver, a dapper man in a lab coat,
walked over.
   "Beautiful, isn't she?  She's got computerized
regenerative braking, 4-wheel iridium helix transmission,
gyroscopic adaptive suspension, and enough raw power to go
from 0 to 300 in 5 seconds."
   "Nice..." Ohara whistled, barely noticing Ishtar
leaving with her escorts.  He slid his hand over the
composite outer shell, sensing more than feeling the heavy
frame beneath.
   "What else can she do?" he whispered.
   The lab-coated figure grinned, "I'm so glad you
asked... Bleedwagon?  Battle mode!"
   Triggered by his vocal command, the car responded by
undergoing a formidable metamorphosis.  The front fairing
split in the middle, retracting slightly, to reveal a
rotary cannon flanked by two reinforced spent-uranium
battering rams.  The side panels extruded  wheel-like
multibarrel grenade launchers, while racks of minimissles
rose from the roof.  The windows, already capable of
withstanding 50-caliber machinegun rounds, were sheathed
in further armor, extruded from the doors and wiper wells.
As Ari paced around the transformed vehicle, he noted two
small nozzles extending below the rear license plate
[which read "BLEED"] between the two massive exhausts.
   "Let me guess" he smiled. "Oil slick?"
   "Napalm."
   "IN-teresting..." Ari smiled dangerously. "And to
return to something less...noticeable?"
   "Another simple vocal command...Bleedwagon! Cruise
mode."
   Ohara watched the weapons retract into their cunningly
concealed compartments.  "Bleedwagon...Battle Mode!", he
called.  When nothing happened, he turned to his
companion, a mild look of confusion on his face.
   "You look mildy confused" the technician remarked
unnecessarily.
   "What happened?  It didn't change!"
   "Oh..sorry, I forgot.  Right now, it's only calibrated
to my voice. Hold on..."
   He ducked his head into the vehicle, tapping a few
buttons on the console above the rearview monitor.  "Come
over here...sit it the drivers seat."
   "You don't have to tell me twice." Ari chuckled,
settling into the slightly-mushy bucket seat.  Like a
child at his winter-solstice-celebration-of-choice, he
gazed at the blinking lights, buttons, and LED displays.
   "Right now, it's in calibration mode...when you put
your hands on the wheel, it'll trigger the internal
scanners to align the seat and wheel position."
   Ari did as expected, marveling as the controls
reconfigured for perfect ergonomics.
   "Watch for the speech calibration readout...when it
comes on, state your name."
   Just then, the light flickered on.  As instructed, Ari
spoke his name..."Ari Ohara."
   A quiet, menacing voice (sampled from old Vincent Price
movies), issued from the dash. "Calibration
complete...what is your wish?"
   "Um...what is your name?" Ari asked the waiting
scientist.
   "Carter Fannon"  came the response.
   "Well, Carter, did you say you were the only other
person who could drive this thing?"
   "Yeah...I designed it."
   "Nice job...Bleedwagon..." several lights blinked
expectantly, "Battle mode!"
   Once again, the transformation commenced.  Ari chuckled
slightly as Carter moved in front of the car, smiling
broadly.  Casually, he placed his hand on the central
console.
   "What do you think?" Fannon called.
   Ohara depressed a red switch, and bucked slightly as
Carter became a fine red mist.  The main cannon, salvaged
from a stolen A-10 Thunderbolt II, was carefully mounted,
and recoil was minimal.
   "I....LIKE IT!"
   Smiling broadly, he put the car back in cruise mode,
and drove out of the warehouse.  Although the internal
sensors clearly showed the exits, he made his own door.
   
MEANWHILE, SOMEWHERE ELSE....
   
   Chicago...the Windy City...home of some of the most
rabid sports fans in existence.  However, the group of
figures marching down the dimly-lit streets of the South
Loop did not appear to be heading for a Bulls game.
Although their faces and forms belonged to various races
and genders, their cold faces and compact gestures showed
them as belonging to the same brotherhood.  They were all
killers.
   And as they fanned out into Grantham Park, it was clear
that they were following someone.  And whoever that was,
was in deep trouble.
   A sudden noise emanating from a stand of less than
immaculately trimmed bushes caused the team to turn,
almost in unison, and train flashlight-equipped carbines
at the source.
   Slowly, fearfully, the cause of the-aforementioned
noise clambered out of the shrubbery [dramatic chord], and
stood revealed.  It was a young boy, about 13.
   "There you are, boy...we were getting worried..." one
of the hunters called, in a completely unsuccessfull
attempt to sound sincere and caring.
   "I-I-I'm not goin' back!" the boy cried, backing away
from the encircling forms, "I don't wanna!"
   "Listen, boy..." the leader of the squad said coldly,
"You are coming with us...one way or another."
   "Bets?" came a voice from behind them...even the ones
on the far side of the circle.  The hawk (as native
Chicagoites called the cold wind off the Lakes) blew
around them, bringing a sudden wave of disorientation.
When their heads cleared, their target was gone.
   Mr. Garth was not going to be happy.
   
   TO BE CONTINUED....
   
   HUH?
   WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH DOKKANNEN AND HIS CREW?
   HAS MARIO FINALLY LOST IT?
   WILL WE HAVE TO WAIT TWO MORE MONTHS TO FIND OUT?
    THESE QUESTIONS, AND MANY MORE, WILL BE ANSWERED...
   ON SUPERGUY!!!!