He was out. It didn't matter HOW he got out, it was that he was out. His head had been damaged from the music. Fingering the sleek, coldness of his .50 desert eagle, and the warmness of the rubber motorcycle handle grips, he drove away from the city. Away from Slayo. The person who was determined to have him dead. Why was he being chased? He didn't remember. What he did remember is one of them needed to die. It didn't really matter who, as long as one of them killed each other.