[center][h3]The Paved Wilderness[/h3]
[b]Level 4 Tora[/b] - (26/40) EXP and [b]Level 3 Poppi[/b] - (17/30) EXP[/center]

The last thing Mr. Grimm expected was for some pint-sized rat to launch its own Death Spawn back at him. The screaming souls, albeit counterfeits conjured up by the freaky thing, tore into him, but only inflicted half as much damage as they should. Still, the sepulchral torrent left him floundering long enough so that by the time he looked up, the burning eyes of the supersized Centurion loomed before him. Mr. Grimm took aim at the left, but before he could pull the trigger the Centurion's shout forced him to cover his ears. A mighty impact caved in his hood and did a number on the engine beneath, and while its extremely hardy construction no doubt left some dents in Agoston's hands, things only got worse from there. Loud blasts and matching jerks signaled the loss of one tire, then another, then one plus its axle. A fiery explosion shook its rear, and projectiles spattered against its chassis. In the span of only a few moments, Brother Grimm would never move again. 

Mr. Grimm ground his teeth. How were these chumps tearing into his machine like this? And here he thought that measly lineup of children's go-karts puttering through the wastes would be an easy target, the last couple dozen souls he needed to make Calypso happy. But sometimes that convenience store clerk packed a shotgun under that counter; sometimes one took a gamble and lost. With his proud truck dead in the water, little more than a big metal shell staving off the enemy force's onslaught, things looked bleak, but Mr. Grimm wasn't afraid of looking death in the face.

Standing up, he put a foot on his seat, then climbed through the hole made by his Death Spawn and onto his truck's roof. He'd seen the colorful little shapes wafting off the Centurion, totally at odds with his appearance. “The little rat usin' magic t'make him big,” he whispered, and he fired his revolver twice into the air. Its noise brought all eyes to him, one man with a gun, surrounded and alone. As the soulmasses peeled off to home in on Kamek, Mr. Grimm took a deep breath. 

[i]”One hundred souls,” the man had said, fingers tented as he sat behind that penthouse desk of his in that immaculate suit. Shoulder-length black hair complimented a spotless yet eerie outlook; something about him just made your skin crawl. “That'll be my price, rather than victory in Twisted Metal. Collect them, and your wish will be granted. Everything restored to the night of your father's crash, as originally promised, with this new world a distant memory. Go out and gather followers, even former competitors, perhaps. 'The devil you know', as they say.” A sinister smile graced his features, and for a moment, Grimm could swear that his eyes burned red.[/i]

[i]BANG,[/i] went his revolver. [i]BANG, BANG, BANG![/i] A Death Spawn apiece shrieked toward Agoston, Blazermate, Mario, and Geno. Then the gun issued a click, and Grimm threw it down. It clattered against Brother Grimm's hood and fell to the earth, discarded. With both fists the reaper beat his chest, and in a rock-steady bass thundered, “Bring it!”