Full Name: Doug Behr
A twist of the throttle and the big old bike roared even faster along a deserted back road. Its powerful, muscular rider ignored the wind that whipped against his exposed russet fur, his focus fixed on only one thing – going home. To his left darkness was coming, and another kind of darkness lay ahead. He felt his jaw clench tighter as he sped on.
His mind wandered as he rode. He had carved out a life where others looked past his freakish appearance, a quiet life where he worked hard and contributed to his community. He lived among people who accepted him just as mom and dad had when they adopted him, rest their souls. Even the nickname he had acquired when he settled across the northern border was one he took pride in. His friends in the small Canadian town where he had lived for the past two decades had called him Bigfoot, and he embraced it because it fit. Now though, the past was catching up with Pulp City, and that meant he too was within its grasp.
So much of Bigfoot’s life, his own history that he knew, he simply regarded as ‘weird’, but he had moved past all that and learned to embrace who he was and to leave those mysteries alone. It had caught up with him in recent weeks, and that is why he now rode his way back.
It had started with an itch at the back of his mind. A mild irritation he could not ignore. Over days it became worse, like some kind of mental buzzing, almost as if an insect was in his brain. Within a couple of weeks the buzz seemed to make some kind of sense to him, almost as if words were being spoken to him: “They have found it”. An image formed with those words, which were spoken over and over, of a creepy-looking masked face with six jeweled eyes. Bigfoot was not yet sure who it was that was somehow communicating with his mind, he left all that prospect of Supreme stuff behind when he left Pulp City, but he could not ignore the message. Someone was digging into something that was best left buried. He was comfortable with who he was, he did not want anyone unearthing how an infant creature was found at the old paper mill, and nor did he care to learn more. The hidden monsters of the woods were better left alone. He was done with the past, but the past did not seem done with him. Whoever they were, they surely wanted those secrets for their own gain, their own power.
He saw a sign exclaiming twenty six miles to Pulp City. He was getting closer now. He gunned the engine harder.
Suddenly he saw twin shapes ahead. Bigfoot skidded the bike to a sideways halt, and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the twilight. The figures were monstrous amalgamations of mechanical exo-skeleton and armor with a moist, fleshy-looking substance visible at their joints and on their misshapen faces. Each of them clutched an ancient looking spear – they were ready for a fight. Bigfoot kicked down the bike’s stand and let it rest. He stepped off, never taking his eyes off the strange figures. With an easy motion he reached over his back and grabbed his trusty axe from its sleeve. He had no doubt the peculiar things in front of him were connected to the message he had received, connected with those seeking to uncover those old mysteries. Bigfoot rolled the axe handle in his grip before bounding forward. These things did not know who they were messing with.