"I'm following the woman down a dark alley. I'm always following her. She looks back at me, panic and fear in her eyes. She tries to open a door on one side of the alley, but it's locked tightly, as it always is. She keeps running, letting out occasional screams mixed with pleas for me to stop. No one hears her though but me. There's no one else here but me. This is my playground. My violent playground. And she is my helpless playmate. She thinks she has a chance of getting out of this alive, but she has no chance. She never had any chance.

"Eventually, we reach a tall brick wall that blocks off the alley. It's too high for her to climb over. There are windows nearby for the buildings connected to the alley, but they're all boarded up. Even if she tries to get in and away from me through one of them, she'll never be able to break down the boards before I can reach her. The only way out of this alley is the way we came in and I'm blocking that path. My scalpel and I. She is, for lack of a better word, fucked. At least I think she is, because what happens next is not how I plan for this to go. Not at all. How could I have been so deceived?

"I slowly approach her, scalpel gripped tightly in one hand, raised slightly, ready to strike at any moment. My chainsaw is strapped to my back. I never know when I'll need it, after all. I shouldn't need it with her though. This is almost too easy. I guess that's what happens after you stalk and murder enough people. You become too used to a certain pattern. Inches away now, I slowly trace the scalpel down the front of her chest, the extremely sharp blade running smoothly over the cloth of her shirt.

"Reaching her stomach, I try to push the blade of the scalpel in, but suddenly, the scalpel becomes hot in my hand, hotter than anything I've ever felt before, and I'm forced to drop it to the ground. Looking down at the palm of my hand, I see that my flesh has burned deep enough to expose the bone beneath, though it's already beginning to slowly heal. Beyond my hand, at my feet on the concrete, I see that the scalpel has become nothing more than a puddle of molten steel.

"Quickly looking back up, I see that the woman is no longer a woman at all, but a man in a dark trench coat and dark top hat. I know this man very well. A grin is on his face as his eyes look up at me from beneath the brim of his hat. The amount of heat coming from his body is a enough to distort the air surrounding him. Taking several steps back, I reach for my chainsaw, but when I try to to start it, it won't start. No gas? That can't be though. I'm certain that I filled it before I went out tonight.

"Taking several more steps back as he moves towards me, I check the tank. There is gas after all. I try to start it again, but this time, instead of just not starting, the gasoline suddenly ignites and the chainsaw explodes in my hands, the flames blinding my view as my flesh and clothes catch on fire. I step back more, panicking myself now, falling back, landing flat on the concrete. I try to put myself out on the ground, but it's not working, the flames seemingly burning hotter, the smell of my own burning flesh filling the air, filling my nostrils. This is it. He's finally caught up with me and there's nothing I can do about it. I am, for lack of a better word, fucked."

His eyes snapped open suddenly and he sat up from the cold, concrete floor he'd been sleeping on. He wasn't on fire, though it took him a moment to realize that. To realize that it had been nothing more than a dream, a nightmare, yet again. The same one that seemed to plague him whenever he shut his eyes and tried to sleep in this place. In this place that wasn't his own world, but he'd become accustomed to calling home anyway after being trapped there for so long. He was pretty sure it wasn't his own world anyway. Sometimes, his memory became confused. Sometimes, he wasn't so sure what was real and what wasn't. That place had a way of doing that to one's mind.

Climbing to his feet, he made his way out of the dark, dirty building that he believed had once been a factory of some kind. Stumbling outside, he looked up at the smoke-filled sky. Black smoke from the many, unending fires that burned all around. In a way, that place . . . wherever or whatever it was . . . it reminded him of the world he came from. Of the world he was used to hunting his prey in. There were similar types of buildings. In places that hadn't become completely overwhelmed by fire or other types of damage, there were even signs of what had once been been sidewalks and streets. Rusty, steel husks of vehicles, both familiar and unfamiliar to him, were all over the place.

In the distance were buildings that weren't so similar to what he was used to. There were what appeared to be tall, stone towers and expansive temple complexes, though it was hard to tell for certain from so far away. He had yet to try to make it to any of those. Between those and the area he was in was a large, open, empty wasteland. There was only dried, cracked desert. He didn't think he'd be able to make it across alive, not with his current supplies. It would take him at least a full day to cross and although it felt okay when inside, it could get quite hot when outside.

He'd managed to scavenge some very out-of-date canned goods and had even discovered a small supply of clean water, but that wasn't going to last him forever. He would only be able to carry a small amount of supplies with him too, the chains attached to his arms limiting that further. Wouldn't that be a bitch to end up in the middle of that desert, only to run out of supplies, or even worse, to reach the structures on the other side, only to discover that they were completely void of anything he could use?

So he'd decided to remain where he stood at least a small chance of surviving. Where he might be able to find more supplies to last him a little longer. Those heavy, iron chains didn't make even the shortest travel easy either. Attached with shackles to his wrists, ankles, and neck, they had greatly slowed his movement. He'd managed to rip them away from the concrete wall they'd been attached to, but he'd yet to find away to remove them from himself. He was convinced that they were attached with a magic he did not know or understand. Of course, if he had his chainsaw with him, it might be possible. Instead, he had a small knife that he'd found that could barely cut open the top of a can. At least he still had his large frame, his muscle, as he wasn't sure he'd be able to get around at all otherwise.

His accelerated regeneration had helped prevent him from withering away as most others surely would have by now in that world, but he knew that wasn't going to last him forever either. He needed to refill his power and he could only do that through killing. There was nothing there to kill though. Not a person or an animal. Maybe it was meant to be his ultimate fate. He'd killed a lot of people over the years and a lot of people had tried to kill him. Maybe someone finally succeeded and now he was there, wherever there was, no longer able to kill anything.

Slowly walking some down what was once a street, he passed a row of buildings. Looking over at them, he saw through the broken front window of one building that it was a gym of sorts. Inside was a ring, which he immediately recognized as a wrestling ring, despite its ragged state, only one of the ropes intact. That was a very familiar sight. Smirking, he continued moving, hoping to find more supplies that he could use. Hoping to find enough to survive. Survive long enough to escape.