I was nearly three years old when my father dragged me down the steps into a basement workshop lighted only slightly better than the alleyway above. He couldn't do it himself, not today, not with the firestorm I was ready to unleash. I was only three, but I had teeth and I had a grip that could make a cat roll its eyes into the back of its head and scream.

I looked at my father, my good ol' Dad, the man I trusted with my life and he was smiling. Smiling! "Well the hell with this scene, baby!" I jerked free and bolted for the door but a powerful, wiry arm whipped around my throat and choked off my cries for help.

I was snatched off the floor and body-slammed into an ancient leather and steel chair by a thug with tow chains for arms. He pinned my hands behind me and locked my chin against my chest. I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't see the growling power tool pressing against my ear, cold and sharp!

Suddenly I understood that only a singularity of pure evil would give birth to the abomination poised scant millimeters above my spine. Revulsion washed over me in waves. Death whispered deafeningly into my ear. I bit my lip and swallowed my own panic, bitter and laced with bile. I would die before begging for mercy.

They rubbed it on the back of my neck, torturing me with gentle caresses from its gear-driven teeth. But then, why would they rub it on my hair? Why was my HEAD getting cold? OH! Oh, NOOooooo! I twisted and pulled myself into a fetal ball but they only tightened their hold and cut faster. I didn't have much time left but I had a plan. I called it 'Plan X'.

So dangerous it could only be practiced behind closed doors, Plan X was my last-ditch emergency defense. Like a hand grenade in a phone booth, my next move was likely to take me out of the game along with everybody else. But close quarters is where Plan X worked best. My enemy had miscalculated, you see. They thought that a hammer lock made me helpless. They thought I hadn't brought any weapons with me. Well, I had a surprise for THEM!