The scent of gunpowder and smoke drifted heavy on the wind, and Percival C. McCleary stood with one leg hiked on the hood of an armored truck that looked like it lost a fight with a pissed-off can opener. The grizzled old veteran growled under his breath and carelessly fired a steely-eyed gaze off into the distance, and three miles away a retreating Lightning Bug fell dead out of the sky, its thick veiny wings twitching madly as it splattered against a small boulder. "That'll learn ya, you overgrown windshield stains," McCleary grumbled before pulling a loaded flask from one of the pouches on his bandolier. He gave the canister a glance and its cap unscrewed itself with a squeak of apology. He pulled a drag from from the flask and resealed the cap, then hopped down from the top of the truck and marched into the Potts Point Emergency Command Center, his boots trailing syrupy strands of bug goo and shell shards into the reinforced aluminum building.<br/><br/>"Dammit, where is that team from N'Atlanta?! We need BugBusters on site and we need 'em right gawldamn now!" McCleary boomed as the door slammed open. Everyone inside jumped at the sudden noise, and all two of them practically collapsed in their chairs in relief when they realized the bugs hadn't returned for yet another attack. "This was the third damn raid they've sent out this week; our defenses are holding for now, but we can't withstand much more of this. And besides, after every attack we end up losing --"<br/><br/>McCleary was interrupted when three figures raced by the open Command Center door, and he stuck his head out to catch the sight of two bare, shapely female asses and one saggy mancrack racing like bats out of hell toward the direction of the departing swarm. "You dick-fevered shitbirds get back in your monkey-humpin' skivvies and get back on your posts, or I swear by Martha Stewart's left tit I'll --" What exactly McCleary would do was lost on the vamoosin' trio, who were making surprisingly good speed for being naked and barefoot. With a scream of rage, McCleary drew his sidearm and fired several rounds after them, but it was too late; both the nymphets and the fat, hairy bastard were out of sight.<br/><br/>"That! See?! Every damn attack, seems there's always a few morons who decide to go join the other team! What the hell is wrong with these people?! Is there too much bleach in their cocaine or something?!" Percival seethed and gritted his dentures as he holstered his sidearm and turned back to Mayor Higgins and his assistant, Eliza Dulott. Higgins jerked a stained handkerchief from his vest pocket and wiped a sheen of sweat from his bald pate and shook his head anxiously.<br/><br/>"They're not the only problem, Mr. McCleary. Remember, the virus? It's claimed another twelve victims since last Tuesday, and the local quarantine wards are still overflowing!" "The doctors say they've developed a pharmaceutical cocktail that seems to slow the symptoms, but they're running out of supplies and they can't make enough for every patient," Eliza added, muttering  absently from across the table as she pored over expense reports and tried to crunch the village budget to replace all the ammunition they'd been using.<br/><br/>"Mr. McCleary, there's really nothing more for you to do here; why not go check on the specimen transport truck, see how Chester is coming along? He should be just about finished modifying the Metabug containment units, I think," Mayer Higgins said with a sigh. McCleary grumbled something under his breath about Petticox's dick and a cabinet door and stormed out of the Command Center, grabbing the microradio from his hip and dialing up the local garage.<br/><br/>*SHRKT!* "Hey, Chester, this is McCleary; gotcher ears on? Over."<br/>*SHRKT!* "Uh, sorry dude, there's no 'Chester' here; this is Motor Ghost, over."<br/>*SHRKT!* "What the hell? Motor Gh...goddammit, Chester, we already talked about this; you ain't gettin' a damn nickname! Over!."<br/>*SHRKT!* "Aw, c'mon, Mr. McCleary! Motor Ghost is a really cool one! It's practically like right outta the comics!"<br/>*SHRKT!* "..."<br/>*SHRKT!* "Oh, um, over."<br/>*SHRKT!* "...Alright, you sawed-off dumbass, I'll make you a deal. I'm gonna come down to that damn garage and beat on your ass a while with one a' yer damn wrenches, and if you start bleedin' ink, you can have your damn comic book nickname. How's that sound? Over."<br/>*SHRKT!* "...uh...Chester here, boss. What can I do for ya? Over."<br/>*SHRKT!* "Mayor wants to know how the bug-catchin' truck is coming along. Over."<br/>*SHRKT!* "Oh, right! Uh, yeah, boss, it's about done. I just secured the last container; these puppies'll hold damn near anything! Over."<br/>*SHRKT!* "Good work. You got those run-flats installed yet like I told you? Over."<br/>*SHRKT!* "It's up on the blocks now, boss; I'll betcha $50 they'll be on before that team gets here from N'Atlanta. Over."<br/><br/>A heavy rumbling sound echoed in the distance, and McCleary turned in every direction, scanning the horizon for the telltale plumes of dust that always accompanied an approaching bug horde. Seeing nothing, he pulled a small field glass from one pocket and scanned again, this time spotting a speck in the distance rolling toward Potts Point at high speed. A grim grin crossed his face as he punched the radio call button again.<br/><br/>*SHRKT!* "Hell, kid, make it $100. Over."