Steering Blind
Jack sat in the driver’s seat, hands slightly trembling. A creeping unease began to bubble inside him — the first time he truly felt fear in this duel.
He glanced at Norman, who was now backing away again, putting distance between them — clearly preparing for another body slam. Jack instinctively knew: he couldn’t stay still. The last hit had felt like being sideswiped by another speeding car. The impact was massive, more than just brute strength — it was calculated.
Panic surged.
Jack slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The car lunged forward.
He couldn’t see anything in front of him.
The windshield was still smeared with Hugo’s remains — a thick mix of fur, blood, and bone. The wipers were useless, screeching across the glass but only smearing the gore deeper into the view. He was driving blind — fully blind — like a man trapped in a steel beast.
And that’s when it happened.
Three bystanders, standing too close, never had a chance.
They were crushed instantly — reduced to meat paste under the tires. The car tore through them without even a pause. Their bodies splattered across the street in chunks of bone, blood, and flesh. What was left behind couldn’t be identified. Not even their own families could recognize them.
Norman kept charging from behind, unshaken.
Jack, still blind, drove full speed into a concrete wall.
BANG!
The impact rocked the car. Jack’s body slammed forward in his seat. He spat blood. Again.
He cursed, then slammed the wipers again — but it was useless.
Too sticky.
He couldn’t see. The gore clung to the windshield like glue. His only option now was desperation.
Jack threw the car into reverse and began spinning wildly. Donuts. Fast, erratic circles in place. He figured if he kept moving inside the same radius, he wouldn’t hit anything new — and Norman wouldn’t get a clean shot at him again.
For a moment, it almost worked.
But just as Jack started to feel safe—
BOOM!
A new body slam crashed into the driver’s side door.
Norman had found his timing again.
The door bent inward like crushed foil. Jack’s head slammed sideways. Blood burst from his lips.
His hands trembled.
“One more hit… maybe two…”
“I’ll be dead.”
Hydraulic Wash to the Rescue
Jack twisted around, eyes darting through the rear windshield. He was panicking. Real panic—not just adrenaline, but that real kind that crawls under your skin and makes your spine feel like it’s vibrating.
“Shit… I’m gonna die,”
he muttered to himself.
But just then—he saw it.
There. On the edge of the curb. A fire hydrant. Bright red. Like a button in a video game screaming “PRESS ME TO SURVIVE.”
Jack didn’t hesitate.
He floored it.
The engine howled.
As he flew past the hydrant, he yanked the wheel and twisted the rear of the car just enough.
BANG.
The tail clipped the hydrant. Metal cracked.
A pressurized fountain of water shot thirty feet into the air—violent, wild, and glorious.
Jack slammed the brakes.
The tires shrieked. The car spun in place like a dancer possessed. A clean 180.
And now his windshield—still smeared with Hugo’s sticky remains—was staring straight into the geyser.
The water hit like a holy blast.
Chunks of white fur.
Patches of golden skin.
Flesh. Guts. Bone.
All of it exploded off the windshield and flew down the street like cursed confetti.
For three full seconds, it looked like Hugo’s ghost was getting exorcised.
Jack leaned forward in his seat, gripping the wheel with wet palms.
Then he saw it.
Clear vision. No more blur.
He raised a fist and shouted with everything in him:
“OH YEAH, BABY!”
And that’s when he spotted Norman—low and fast, sliding toward the side of the car like a missile wrapped in muscle.
Jack didn’t even blink.
He slammed the gear in reverse.
The car screamed backwards with enough force to rip pavement.
And just in time—
BOOM.
Norman ran straight into the side-blast of that hydrant.
The water smashed into him like a goddamn cannon.
He went flying five, maybe six meters—hit the asphalt and rolled like a ragdoll.
Sprawled.
Bleeding.
He groaned.
Jack grinned.
He adjusted his grip, leaned back in his seat, and whispered—
“That’s better.”
Speed and Fury
Jack slammed the gas pedal.
The steel beast roared—engine howling like it smelled blood. His tires bit into the asphalt, and the car surged forward with animal rage.
Norman was still on the ground, groaning, trying to crawl away. But Jack wasn’t having it. He’d already read Norman’s next move.
Norman sprang to his feet and rolled to the side—just in time to avoid getting run through.
But Jack had planned for that.
He slammed the brakes mid-charge and spun the wheel. The car skidded sideways in a violent, burning drift.
BAM!!
The tail of the car whipped like a hammer and smashed into Norman’s ribs.
There was a wet, horrible crack. Norman was launched like a broken mannequin—sent flying over fifty meters. He crashed into the side of a building, then bounced off and hit the ground like a sack of meat.
But Jack didn’t pause.
He kept going—relentless. Tires screeched. Smoke exploded from the exhaust.
Norman, coughing up blood, barely managed to stumble toward a moving civilian car in the next lane. He pressed against its right side, using the vehicle as a moving shield, running alongside it for cover.
Jack reacted instantly.
He swerved to the left side of that same car—his side—creating a deadly setup: Jack on the left, Norman on the right, and a clueless commuter in between.
Jack leaned forward and peered through both front side windows—driver’s side and front passenger’s.
And there he was.
Norman.
Bloody. Gritting his teeth. Staggering but determined. Still alive. Still a threat.
The driver? Completely unaware. Tapping the wheel, humming along to some radio hit. Oblivious to the monster tailing him on both sides.
Jack’s fingers tightened on the wheel.
“Let’s end this.”
SLAM!!
His car slammed into the commuter’s like a bodycheck from hell. The civilian car jerked sideways, tires screaming, then flipped into a brutal roll.
Norman was blasted off his feet from the shockwave, barely dodging the car as it tumbled past him and crashed into a building.
The vehicle crumpled like foil.
No way the driver made it.
Norman lay beside a crooked lamppost, chest heaving, blood pouring from his mouth.
He should’ve been out.
But slowly—grinding through pain and broken bones—he rose again.
One foot planted.
Then the other.
His left arm hung useless, but his right curled into a fist.
He whispered, low and sharp:
“I’m… still… not done.”
And those eyes?
Not just furious—
Murderous.
Door Check
Jack’s car rolled forward, steady and menacing. The ruined civilian vehicle lay behind him like roadkill, and the road ahead seemed empty—until Norman got back up.
Bloodied, bruised, barely breathing—he still ran.
He pushed off the lamppost with what little strength he had left and chased after Jack’s vehicle like a man possessed. Step by step, he gained ground. Incredibly, he caught up—reaching the side of the driver’s door, still running alongside it.
Jack caught a glimpse of him through the mirror. He narrowed his eyes.
That limp gait, that trembling hand, that look of sheer madness…
He’s done for, Jack thought. This guy’s got no juice left. Time for a humiliating finish.
Then, without warning—
Jack slammed the brakes.
The car screeched and jolted. At the exact same moment, he flung open the driver-side door.
SLAM!!
Norman, with no time to react, crashed face-first into the open door. His body whipped sideways and tumbled across the pavement like a ragdoll, scraping and bouncing violently.
Jack calmly pulled the door shut and rolled down the window—just an inch. Just enough to speak through it, but not enough for Norman’s deadly claws to reach inside.
He looked down at the mess of blood and flesh sprawled beside the car.
“Hey, man,” Jack said, almost casually. “I don’t even remember why we started fighting.”
He chuckled, leaning slightly.
“But seriously… you don’t have to go this far for a damn dog. You’re barely alive. I could end you right now—one flick of the gas pedal and you’d be pulp. But you know what? Forget it. We’ve got no real beef.”
Then he turned the wheel slightly, stepped on the gas, and rocketed down the road—tires shrieking, engine screaming at full throttle. Within seconds, he was gone, vanishing into the distant haze.
He truly believed there was no hatred between them.
To Jack, that German Shepherd was just a stray—nothing worth dying over.
But what he didn’t know…
was that to Norman, that dog was family.
Just a Stray Scooter
Norman lay on the sidewalk. Still. Gasping for air.
He didn’t move—just sprawled there like a dying stray. Not a warrior. Not a man. Just a battered, half-dead animal catching its breath in the gutter of the world.
People passed by.
No one stopped. No one asked.
One kid even paused, leaned in—and spit straight into Norman’s face. A fat glob of phlegm landed right between his eyebrows.
Norman didn’t react.
He was too tired. Too broken. Too far gone.
So he lay there.
One whole day.
One whole night.
Then, morning.
He pushed himself up—slowly, limbs shaking, skin twitching with leftover trauma. He stood like a man who’d crawled back from the grave, barely holding it together.
Every car that passed made his jaw clench. He stared at each one with pure resentment. Cold eyes. Quiet fury.
But he didn’t attack them. Couldn’t.
They were all hiding in their steel shells. Like cowards behind iron walls.
Then—something different.
A red scooter.
Rattling down the service lane.
Not a car. Not a beast. Just a worn-out scooter driven by a middle-aged delivery man—half-distracted, smoking a cigarette, one hand on the bars, the other doom-scrolling on his phone.
No helmet.
No metal cage.
Just flesh and bones and wheels.
Norman’s gaze sharpened. His shoulders twitched.
“Finally…”
Then—slash.
One claw. Quick and clean.
The man’s neck snapped sideways with a sickening crack. His head flew off like a kicked watermelon, soaring into the morning fog.
The rest of him slumped on the scooter for half a second… before tumbling off in a limp mess of limbs and spilled takeout.
The scooter keeled over, skidded a few feet, and crashed against the curb.
Its back wheel kept spinning.
Round and round.
Like nothing happened.
Norman stared.
For a long moment, he stood in silence. His breath heavy. His body trembling. Then—regret. A flicker.
“Shit. That’s illegal.”
He glanced around.
No one saw.
He turned and walked off—disappearing into an alley before the guilt could catch up.
Meanwhile, a block away…
Another delivery guy was limping down the street. On foot. Shirt soaked in sweat. Nose full of snot. A paper bag of dumplings swinging from one tired hand.
The name printed on his shirt?
FUCKLIN.
Big white letters. Off-brand. Faded.
His real name was Frank.
His scooter had been destroyed in the Tormentor explosion a few days ago. Since then, he’d been doing door-to-door deliveries by foot.
And now—there it was.
A red scooter.
Still warm. Still running.
Still technically ownerless.
Yeah, there was a corpse. Yeah, it was missing a head. But hey—dead men don’t hold titles.
Frank didn’t hesitate.
He walked over, grabbed the headless body by the shirt, and flung it to the side of the road like trash. Then he propped the scooter back up, swung one leg over, and grinned.
“Oh, sweet…”
He twisted the throttle.
And just like that, Frank rode off.
Like it was his all along.
Payback’s a Bitch
Norman walked.
One step at a time.
Every bone in his body still aching.
The sidewalk shimmered under the dying light of dusk.
Streetlamps flickered on.
Crows circled overhead.
Everything felt… quiet.
He slumped down near a bush by the apartment parking lot. Just sitting there, breathing. For once, the city wasn’t screaming. No chaos. No engines. Just a bit of peace.
Then—
A car pulled into the assigned parking spot across the street.
Nothing dramatic. Just a normal pull-in.
Door opened.
A man stepped out.
The figure walked toward the apartment’s main entrance. About fifty meters out.
Norman glanced over lazily—just curious. Then his body stiffened.
“Wait a second…”
Same stupid face.
T-shirt. Shorts.
It was him.
Jack.
The same bastard who had killed Hugo.
The same coward who fought from behind a steel cage on wheels.
Norman didn’t even think.
He just moved.
His body, half-broken, limped forward with a quiet fury—until he was suddenly right in front of Jack.
Jack froze.
He looked up—and up—and up.
Norman was towering over him.
Bloodstained. Torn. Breathing like a beast.
His eyes wild.
Jack’s jaw dropped.
“Oh shit…”
He turned around.
His car was too far.
He’d never make it.
He dropped to his knees like a sack of bricks.
“Please—please don’t kill me!”
He threw up his arms, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.
Norman didn’t speak.
He just raised a claw and slashed.
Blood exploded from Jack’s chest.
The coward collapsed, rolling on the pavement, clutching the wound, screaming:
“Oh my God! I’m dying!!”
His voice cracked. He sobbed. He kicked his legs.
But he wasn’t dying.
Norman could’ve ended him.
He could’ve taken off his head clean.
But he didn’t.
He just turned away.
Walked down the street with a slow, almost casual gait.
Behind him, Jack writhed on the ground, crying in a puddle of his own blood and spit.
Why spare him?
Maybe because Norman remembered.
That day…
Jack had the chance to floor the gas and run him over like roadkill.
Turn him into another wet stain on the pavement.
But he didn’t.
Maybe this…
was Norman’s way of returning the favor.
“Payback’s a bitch.”
But mercy?
That’s optional.