[b]CHICAGO SIDEWALK
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 14TH, 2016
6:19 PM[/b]

"And make sure you put plenty of relish on that thing! I need my relish bad, man." A gruff sounding individual barked at a nervous, simple hot dog vendor, couldn't have been older than 20 with his bowl cut hair, stained apron and nervous demeanour, standing on the sidewalk of some street in Chicago. Neither of them knew the name, it wasn't exactly important to either of them. What WAS important, was this large man was purchasing a hot dog, plenty of ketchup, plenty of mustard and plenty of relish. The meat was buried under a rich encompassing sea of toppings, that to your average man, would seem excessive. But to this stout customer, this was the PERFECT way to make a hot dog and he would have it no other way.

"That'll be $4, sir." the vendor replied as the large man dug into a pocket on his jeans and dropped some change into his hands, a dollar over for that as he took his hot dog in the itty bitty napkin that could barely hold the over sized snack and quickly turned to go on his way with a satisfied grin on his face. As he left, the vendor called to him from down the street. "Hey, excuse me! You gave me extra!" He insisted, waving a hand with the $5 bill in it.

"Bah, keep it! I don't need it anyhow!" The large man insisted, not breaking stride for a second and simply waving a hand behind him as he went on his merry way, shoveling his well earned treat into his jaws and munching away noisily. To anyone who passed him, the man was somewhat slovenly, eating with no form of manners or etiquette, walking casually by as if he were doing nothing wrong. But considering the guy looked like a strange cross between a lumberjack and a construction worker, no-one was exactly going to call him out on it. That would just be plain rude.

[b]SOME ALLEYWAY
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 14TH, 2016
6:30 PM[/b]

Big Rig was sitting back in his comfy truck cabin, settling in for the long haul of the night on the comfy leather seats. He'd had a lot of time to grow into these things and boy had it been worth it, now they practically felt like a second skin to him. He tossed the dirtied napkin he'd been using to carry his hotdog earlier out the window, carelessly polluting. It WAS just one little napkin after all, he figured, who would notice? More to the point, who the hell would try to call him out on it? He'd beat the crap out of someone if they went on at him for that stupid little detail. 

He'd been in need of something to eat all day and the hot dog had been perfect. Since he'd returned to his vehicle, he'd put back on his usual attire for when he was doing his secondary job, his welder's jacket and gloves, plus his helmet over his face. It wasn't a massively comfortable article of clothing to wear, but he needed to keep his identity a secret after all. Couldn't have no policing types showing up on his doorstep one day and hauling his precious machine away to be scrapped. It'd be a cold day in hell before that ever happened...

He'd parked his machine in an alleyway, dark and quiet, two large buildings rising overhead, casting an effective shadow over him, with only the light of the cabin even indicating someone was there. Just one of the many advantages of working the streets in a vehicle, he thought to himself with a smile. You learned the roads, you learned the back alleys, you learned the parks, you learned every little shortcut and path you needed to out drive anybody. So now, here he sat, awaiting any possibly calls or situations he could make himself useful in. He had no main targets as of tonight, no big gang he needed to blow away. Plus, it was too early to be patrolling properly. His truck stuck out like a chocolate bar in a swimming pool and even if he COULD lose the cops, he didn't want to be doing it constantly... no, better to bide his time and strike when he needed to. 

Of course, he had other tools to use for such situations. A stolen police radio sat in the front of his truck, tuned into the right frequency thanks to a fellow gear head down at the junkyard he'd gotten friendly with when he was looking for spare parts for his rigorous motor. So now, it was usually a matter of finding some situation the cops couldn't handle for shit, charging in there like the hero he was and wrecking whatever needed wrecking. It didn't matter who was doing what, nothing could stop this veritable tank he was driving around.

In the back of his head, something was tickling at him though. He thought it was just some hair caught in his welding mask at first, but he knew this tickle was coming from within. That name he'd heard over the radio... Iconoclasts. He'd seen the reports occasionally on TV, bunch of thugs who went from city to city, taking out vigilantes. Not even comitting other crimes or doing any other shit, literally just gunning for people trying to make a difference. To Big Rig, they were a bunch of show off pissants who just wanted some time in the limelight. If they were regular old crooks, they'd be doing other shit than gunning for his type. Nah they just wanted the glory of it, to say they did it and gloat about it like the bunch of fatheaded pigs he suspected they were. Rank amateurs, the lot of them. He gripped the wheel a little tighter just thinking about the bunch of pansies... what he'd give to run them off the road and give them a little taste of Chicagoan motor based fury. He'd shove a tire iron so far up their asses they'd need to-

His train of thought derailed into a screeching halt when he heard something going on nearby. Sounded big, like an explosion... that and, the flower of flame erupting into the air tipped him off just a little bit. This wasn't usually his style... but, he decided he'd get out to investigate first. When explosions were happening, you looked before you drove. So, he dropped out of the cabin and headed out of the alley to take a peek at what was going on. And what he saw was one of his kind lobbing bombs everywhere like some kind of maniac... yyyyep, this had all the hallmarks of a 'Not my problem' situation, as Big Rig would refer to them. As much as he would've loved to run down this moron like roadkill, bombs and vehicles did not mix. He didn't want to have to spend another month or so looking for parts in the junkyard because of this jackass flinging explosives everywhere, and at his truck if he tried to go after him. So, scratching his neck slightly, he promptly turned around and headed back to his truck, climbing back into the driver's seat and just waiting for it to blow over.

Hell, this city was crawling with vigilantes, one of them would get to it eventually...

Now, would he listen to rock or country western for the next hour or so? Decisions decisions...