Lance Hardcheese stared at the portrait of his father on his desk, taking a swig from a bottle of Smirnoff before standing, his pecs rippling underneath his form fitting shirt.
Outside that window of his apartment, the soft glow of the red light district's neon signs reminded him of all the scum and evil in this world. The enemy was still running free to rampage and cause death and chaos and lies, clogging the lifeblood of this world with their scum until they died. The people had grown callous to the cancer eating the society, but Lance, no, [i]Game Warden[/i] was the cure. He would cut away the tumor until his blade rusted and dulled and failed him, his gun grew too heavy for his hand, and he knew that one day, he would fall and die and rot into the ground like any other bag of shit.

And the war would go on.

Thick, callused fingers opened a closet, revealing a row of various firearms. Lance pulled out a Mossberg 500 with no stock. This sort of weapon would do well in crowded alleys, and his car had a shotgun rack mounted in the trunk, for concealment. Placing it aside, he pulled out a pair of m1911 handguns. Thanks to the wealth of aftermarket parts, these were modified to have a higher magazine capacity and combat sights, as well as bottom mounted rails; these two sported flashlights for dark areas. Placing the pair in his shoulder holsters, he grabbed a large combat knife, placing it horizontally on the back of his belt. A smaller bootknife was hidden in his boot. Next was a ballistic knife, placed in his other boot. Next, he slipped on his wrist watch, which had two secret compartments- one contained a length of piano wire, and the other had a handcuff key. To conceal his getup, he put on a sizable brown coat, checking to make sure it would hang past his belt. The coat itself had a snub-nosed .38 sewn inside the chest.

Walking to the garage, he placed the Mossberg onto the shotgun rack of the trunk door of his 1986 Dodge Challenger. Inside the trunk was a shovel, baseball and bat, box of garbage bags, and several jumper cables. Sitting inside the driver's seat, he did a brief check to confirm he still kept a Tec-9 and a frag grenade under the seat. As the engine roared to life, his face grew even more solemn, and Lance Hardcheese was the Game Warden.

There would be a battle this morning. He felt it in his gut.

The war went on.