”Do you know what i Hate Mr Pigg?” Spat the man pacing back forth on the concrete floor of the downtrodded, abandoned factory in the declining industrial outskirts of New Arcadia. The place was a proletarian nightmare, a testiment to the brutal reality of capitalism. The building was once the workplace of a solid 500 boots of man power, 500 people let go in ons swift motion of a pen and a company changing hands. Years of decline in the local clothing production was due to cheaper labor overseas, That had been the culprit behind all those crushed dreams, along with old fasioned western greed of course. And now it housed around 60 boots, all leather and metal like the old days. The difference was that these were not factory workboots but the soles of the ultra violent Giants gang. Another self contained unit in the ever larger crew of madmen who followed the Fox. 

The Fox was of course, the one pacing back and forth infront of Mr Pigg. Mr Pigg himself was a obese, middle management kind of person. You know the kind, the underachiever who somehowe got the job above you and who spend every waking moment yelling at you and others for incompetence. There was a great amount of bile that his position came with and usually he could at the most expect to get fired. The problem, and the reality of the current situation, is that Mr Pig was one of three brothers and his family buisness was in fencing goods. And now, he had run afaul of the men you didn't survive crossing. The Fox, Mr Fox, Kitsune, Räven, Fusch. A dear child have many names, but a feared monster have plenty more so. He was the menace of the streets, a serial killer made head of the most volitile group of people to ever breathe. A mastercriminal with the glee and enthusiasm of a 8 yearold with firecrackers. The reasons as to why people feared him where many and they were all very real. He was just that bad of a person. And now, Mr Pigg was sweating profusel as he sat, tied to a chair. At his feet was a pool of petrolium and between his lips were lit cigarr.

”I hate underachievers. I hate lazy, compliant, status que worshipping slugs like yourself. Why? Becouse you are all predicatable dullards.” Fox said as he stopped in his frantic pacing. He himself wasn't overly tall, 6'0 was a decent height from someone who so often claimed asian descent, sure. But his henchmen were all taller, all bigger then him. Yet none were close to being as menacing, more imposing, more dangerous. He was TNT in human form, liable to kill everyone in there the moment his fuse met the blackpowder that was his trigger. It was why they followed him, he was a destructive genius, a ruthless crimelord who consolidated his power by any means.

”I hate people like you Mr Pigg. Ronny the Middleman. Tommy the Brain. Connie the Corner. Ronny, Tommy and Connie Pigg., collectively known as the Three Piggies.” Fox said, to nobody in particular as he waved a ornate switch blade around in the air like the dirigents stick. In his head he was conducting a symphony. He stopped suddenly and tossed the knife at Pigg. It hit him square in the knee. To his credit, Mr Pigg didn't let the cigarr fall from his mouth.

”You see. You are so fucking predicatable. You saw the war and quietly retreated into your little apartment complex. You fortified yourselves, ran a tight crew and kicked out the local wolves as they were weakened by fighting my battles. You waited for the war to end and then prostated yourselves to the new Queen. But here is the kicker, yeah, you kept safe from the huffing, puffing big bad wolf. Becouse he was busy fighting on the streets at my orders. But I didn't forget about any of the ones who didn't come to our side when we called.” Fox eyes were large, like saucer plates, stretching his face in abominable ways, fis smile underneath mask was a grotesque display of teeth. He was so close to pig the poor man could smell him, a strange mix of gunpowder, blood and the plastic of his mask.

”You forgot that Foxes are smart, cunning animals. We don't care about your little pens. We dig under the fence, we make you see us in the shadows. We eat the hens, the kids, the whole fucking farm if you let us. And it was so fucking easy to just take over the neigbourhoods around you. You had nobody loyal left and you knew it. Now your use is gone. So I think it is time we have us grilled pork for dinner.” He grabbed the blade and yanked back and forth before pulling it out, causing Ronnie Pigg to bite trough the cigarr in pain. He looked as if in slowmotion as the lit cigarr fell towards the puddle at his feet. He screamed after Fox as the puddle lit up into a localized inferno at his feet. 

”FUCK YOU PSYCHO: TOMMY IS GONNA KILL YOU!” Fox was allready on his way out as the words echoed along with screams of pain troughout the building. As he exited the old factory, men in red suits, some kids wearing fox hoodies and all kinds of other people joined at either side of him. He smiled beneath the mask. They all wore things like fox masks, hoodies or tattoes.

”Report.” Fox sounded incredibly bored. He motioned to one of kids to bring him a chair. They obliged with a big directors chair, complete with FOX graffited onto its back. He grabbed a cellphone from his jacket and 

”The bomb is in place. The remaining Pigg brothers are currently sitting ontop of a box of c4 and gunpowder, none the wiser.” One of the men in red suits said, they all wore fox masks, but none as ornate or big as his. Theirs were cheap plastic things. Allegience, not identity.

”Let's see then.” He dialed a number on his phone. A voice crackled up on the otherside of the line. A helpfull female voice enquitred. ”This is 911, what is your emergency?”

”I believe you guys shoud send someone to the Ol'Boy pub.”

-Downtown Arcadia. Residential district.-

The Ol'Boy was the irish pub of choice for Tomas Pigg. He and his brother were having a war meeting in the back with some of their closest. They were all very angry. Their brother had gone missing. Nobody was taking the blame, nobody was talking. That generally meant one thing, the Fox had him. But why? They could not understand it. They had never lifted a finger against him. Sure, they had chased off some wolves off at the first days of the conflict between Fox and the rest of the city. But they had preyed on his enemies more then anything. But now, now they were feeling hunted. Tommy was about go over the plan with his closest when a knock was heard on the door. They all stopped. Eyes nailed to the door as it slowly opened. A kid wearing a plastic fox mask could be seen head outside the door running. At the opening of the door was really old tvset, heavy and obstructing. It flickered on and showed Fox. They all stood there as if glued to the floor, unable to move. 

”I huffed. And I puffed.” The recording began. ”But then I remembered I was a fox, not a wolf. So I just rigged your place to explode. Neat.” and then the tape flickered off into a recording of Ronny being captured and beaten. And then, everything exploded. The Ol'Boys Pub went out in agush of flames. A giant heatwave exploded outwards as billowing flames and sotclouds pushed outwards with the shockwave. The windows became a massive wall of shrapnel that shout outwards. People close to the blast were perforated, clothing torn along with skin and flesh. Every carmalarm nearby began to shreek and complain as the Irish Quarters of downtown Arcadia was turned into a blazing inferno.