Witwicky Ranch, Colorado
Evening

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The sun's sleepy form was beginning to lay down upon the horizon, preparing to hand its watch over to the moon in little more than an hour. Stevie Witwicky lounged on the hood of a beat-up Volkswagen, his head resting against the windshield and his laptop perched on his knees. Hundreds of lines of data raced down the computer's screen, letting the teenager know in real-time the exact condition of his livestock. Over four hundred cattle were beginning rapidly scanned, their individual heart-rates, body fat and other important health information all being fed into his single computer from over two dozen drones that were combing the pastures faster than any human field hand could ever hope to match.

A few months ago Stevie would've had to wake up before the sun did and he'd still be out working his ass off to get this much work done. It was mindnumbing, backbreaking work, and he couldn't be more happy that his drones had proved such a massive success; he could finally lounge around and do nothing at all for as long as he wanted, his dad saving money was just a nice side effect.

The final robot checked off, announcing that it had finished scanning its designated cattle and was flying back to the recharge station for the evening. Witwicky let out a self-satisfied sigh, slapping his laptop shut and setting it down beside him. "Looks like the Mini-Cons went off without a hitch. You a proud dad, Bee?"

Static sounded from the radio for a second, followed immediately by a series of high-pitched beeps and whistles.

"I completely agree." Stevie nodded. "And I definitely, one-hundo percent understand you."

Another series of lower-pitched beeps blared from the radio, intermixed with static and interference. It was the only form of communication the Autobot had used since Stevie was introduced to him- it?- and he still had little idea what it was supposed to mean. Not that he cared much; it wasn't all that hard to tell what Bee was thinking based on the tone of his beeping and whistling.

"Love you too, guy."

The sound of a rumbling engine and shouting voices drew a knowing groan from Witwicky. He sat up, sliding off the front of his car to look down the ranch's driveway. A line of dirty pickup trucks was trudging across the gravel, making a beeline up toward the ranch house itself. Stevie brought a hand up in front of his eyes to block out the dwindling sun, giving himself a better view of the men packed into the beds of each truck. He couldn't get a proper count of them, but he guessed there were at least thirty of them spread across the four incoming vehicles.

"Well, shit on a stick." He mumbled, spinning around to jog up toward the house. "Yo, dad!" He shouted, hoping his father was near enough to hear him as he bounded up the porch and through the front door. "We got trouble!"

The first truck in the column came to a grinding halt, and the rest following behind it stopped soon after. Angry mumbles left the lips of men clad in dusty jeans, flannel shirts, and wide-brimmed hats. A few carried weapons with them: bats, pipes and car irons clutched in worked and calloused palms. A handful among the crowd had shotguns tossed over their shoulders or pistols on their hips.

That grumbling crowd parted to let a single figure through their ranks. He was a tall man, with strong arms and a crooked, hawkish nose. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to the elbows, and his blond hair was cropped short around his ears. There was an energy to his movements, a jumpy, unfocused energy, like that of a child, that betrayed the laugh lines on his face. "Don't ya'll do nothin' til I tell ya to, ya hear?!" He yelled to the mob, his voice bellowing like thunder and his accent thick and strong. Murmurs of agreement rolled through the gang gathered to his back, though they were significantly less enthused afterward.

Daniel Witwicky shoved his way out the front door, his shoulders so broad that he had to shift sideways to keep from getting stuck in the frame. His arms were thick and lined with dark hair, ending in hands peppered with old, ugly scars. Danny's gut would've been more noticeable on a shorter man, but his over six-foot tall frame held the weight well, making out the old man to be far larger than he had any right to be. "If you boys are here to work, I apologize, we just finished for the day." He spoke loudly, projecting his voice so that the distant gang could hear him, but there wasn't an ounce of anger in his tone; he was cordial, in fact, his broad smile only barely hidden by the bushy, gray beard that covered his face.

"I don't believe we have enough plates to invite you all in for supper, either, so I'll kindly have to ask you to leave." Though Witwicky worded it as a request, it was hard for the disgruntled mob to miss the old service rifle Witwicky had clutched in his meaty hands. It looked to be the same tool he had once carried in the jungles of Vietnam, and there wasn't a man standing opposite him that didn't know he could use it.

Stevie wasn't nearly as polite, however, as he shoved an accusatory finger down at Reverend Silas. "He's sayin' you need to take your thugs and-"

Daniel placed a hand on his son's shoulder, silencing him. Stevie looked like a twig standing side by side with his old man. He was a few inches shorter and built more lithely than his pa, though his work on the ranch had refined young Witwicky's muscle well enough. Still, it didn't all mean too much in the face of thirty men with bats and guns in hand.

The Reverend was quiet for a few moments, seeming to be...elsewhere, like he was listening to someone else talk. It wasn't until a couple of awkward seconds had passed that Silas actually responded. "You can't hide it from us anymore, Mr. Witwicky. We know your little secret!" He yelled. Daniel and Stevie shared a brief, worried look as the local pastor started forward, emboldened. His wolf pack moved just behind. "We know you do the devil's work here. We know why you n' your boy are the only people you let on your ranch anymore."

Old Man Witwicky just shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about, Reverend. My son and I are born again, same as the rest of you." He nodded at the men in the back, recognizing all of them from the nearby town's single church.

Silas gave a hardy, malicious laugh. "Really?" He asked between chuckles, incredulously. "Seems to me you haven't been to service since Cathy died. She was one of the Lord's own, yes, but it seems to me you didn't quite like that-"

"The hell you tryin' to say about my mom?!" Stevie roared, leaping down from the porch before his father could take a hold of him. Immediately several of the townspeople rushed forward to stand between the angry rancher and the shepherd of their flock. Stevie must not have noticed they were there, for he just kept moving forward, going so far as to try to walk through them to scream at Silas. "What do you mean, huh? What the hell do you mean?!"

"You know just what I mean, boy." Silas snapped. "Cathy done knew the devilry you and your father were doin' out here, knew about the powers you're meddlin' in, and you two just couldn't stomach it-"

Stevie threw two of the pastor's vanguard to the ground in a quick, well-executed motion, before immediately ramming his fist up into Silas's teeth. The reverend hadn't expected such ferocity from the boy, nor that he'd be able to get past his men, so he took the full force of the punch and ended up with blood splattering from his lips and a tooth flying from his mouth. The thugs didn't take too kindly to that, setting upon Stevie and dragging him to the ground through sheer numbers. They started flailing into each other, throwing punches, knees, and kicks that could've easily killed the smaller Stevie if no one intervened.

"THAT'S ENOUGH." Daniel bellowed, lifting his gun to fire into the sky to accentuate his point. The gangle of people atop his son scrambled off, allowing Stevie to half-crawl, half-run back up the porch to where his dad was now standing with his weapon aimed at the crowd. "Nobody touches my boy." He stared, steely-eyed, into every barrel pointed right back at him.

Silas had recovered by now, though the sleeve he'd held to his mouth was now stained crimson. "You can't lie to the sons of God, Daniel. He doesn't just speak to us through his word anymore. I've seen the truth after he made the moon bleed-"

"Oh, please." Stevie sneared.

"-God showed me what's comin'. He's showed me the Black Epoch that lies on the horizon if we don't rise up n' stop all you devil worshippin' sons'a'bitches from bringin' on Judgment Day." Silas continued without skipping a beat, his every word annunciated with clear and precise emphasis, filled with an emphatic and powerful passion that roused the righteous fury of his followers. "He's told us the only way to save our town from damnation is 'ta cast out the sorcerer and the demon worshippers n' the sinners. You're on the list, Daniel. God showed me yer true face."

There were shouts of affirmation and praises to God given in response to his words. It was all the energy Silas needed to redirect toward their true purpose. "Search this property, my brothers in Christ. Find the source of their witchcraft and set it to the pyre! N' Find the body of the woman, too; God would want her to get a proper, Christian burial." The Reverend commanded, and his flock followed. They split off into smaller groups, headed up to the house, around to the garage and toward the stables. Others turned about and went for the fields, likely in search of Cathy Witwicky's grave. "And make sure these two don't move a muscle, ya hear?! They move, they die!"

Stevie was bouncing on his heels, his muscles rippling with anger despite the blood dripping freely from his nose. Daniel had a death grip on his son's arm, holding so tight that there was little Stevie could do as he watched on in horror at the sight of the townsfolk he had once called his neighbors ripping through his belongings in search of proof of devil worship. It was absolute, utter insanity, and there wasn't anything he could do but stand there and watch.

A handful of the dusty, rural thugs went up to the Volkswagen sitting in the driveway. They shattered the windows to get the doors open, throwing the contents to the ground and tearing through every compartment and pulling up the carpet in search of whatever it was they wanted to find. "HEY!" Stevie screamed to no avail. "Don't you touch that- fucking stop!"

One of the men pulled out a knife and took it to the interior leather seats, and that was enough to set Witwicky off. He ripped his arm away from his father and took only two steps forward before the sound of a shotgun firing echoed across the ranch. Stevie hit the ground, crying out in pain, and Daniel rushed down to his side. "No...No, damn it, no-"

"Stay right there!" One of the gunmen ordered, though he didn't fire when Danny knelt down at his wounded son's side.

"You stupid, stupid boy." Daniel snarled, putting pressure on the entrance wound. Most of the pellets had found their way into Stevie's shoulder and arm, avoiding major organs, yet...they were only inches away from tearing into his face and killing him in an instant. Even still, without a doctor nearby, it was possible his boy might not make it.

The Volkswagen's radio flared to life without a single person touching it. Nothing came through but blaring, blank static, blasting so loud that it gave everyone nearby a piercing headache.

Daniel stood up, holding a hand out toward the car. "No!" He shouted. "Bee, don't- Don't you do it-"

But Bumblebee didn't listen.

Bumblebee was tired of seeing his family being bullied and hurt by a bunch of tiny, useless sacks of flesh.

The car began to move. The hood flew up on its own, and the interior folded in on itself, crushing the single man that was still inside. It transformed in a matter of seconds, arms and legs of a black, unknown metal slamming into the dirt with a rumbling crash. Bumblebee slowly rose to his feet, his armored face contorted in anger and his body slicked with wet, sticky fluid from the cultist it had just compacted. A dozen different panicked screams pierced the air as eyes turned to see the impossible looming above them like a titan from a time long forgotten. He towered over the humans at a monstrous fifteen feet, like a modern Goliath, and wielded strange, alien weapons that hummed with energy. A low, unnatural gargle of static and fury left the giant's voicebox as it pointed the barrel of its guns on the people threatening the Witwickys.

"BUMBLEBEE, STOP!" Daniel tried to scream, but he found his voice lost in the commotion and panic of the moment.

"The horns!" Silas yelled at his men, pointing up at the yellow behemoth's head with a shaking, terrified finger. "Look at the horns! Its the devil we sought- The Lord has brought us-"

Anything else the Reverend meant to say was drowned out by the sound of pistols and shotguns tearing through the air, most of them bouncing harmlessly off the alien's chassis like pebbles thrown at a battleship. A few flew wide, blowing chunks out of the ranch house or kicking up bits of gravel or dirt. Daniel slung his weapon over his shoulder and slipped his arms underneath Stevie's body, lifting his son up between them as he started toward the house as quick as his old bones could carry him.

One of the cultists took notice and attempted to pursue.

The mistake cost him his life as Bumblebee turned one of his Stingers on the man, turning his entire form into a splatter of gore and ash in just a single blast. The sound of the cannon firing echoed through the wilderness like the shot heard 'round the world. It was the first sound of many, many like it before the ordeal came to a close.

Origin And Backstory (In A Maximum Of Four Paragraphs): Bushido Brown a.k.a. First Name Nobody Know, was born and raised in Harlem under the prestidiginatious tenure of the great Shogun of Lennox Avenue, Mamba Black, who ruled with iron fist across its four quarters: North, South, East, and West. For centuries, the title of Shogun was passed to any who could defeat the Lord of Lennox and could separate himself from the rest of the jive turkeys.

Prostitutin’, pimpin’, and simpin’ pervaded far and wide, with no place for the good and honest man to hide. Wont to feel, five rose from Amsterdam Avenue to Pleasant Hill and one starry night the Shogun was killed. And just when he thought things couldn’t get hot, turns out Bushido’s mama was part of the plot! Now ain’t no debt that goes unpaid, not even for the most righteous of maids--them cats from East Harlem sent the Hateocracy to settle the bargain!

Bushido’s mother was a bad mama jam, Master of the White Lotus school of ‘fu! But the Hateocracy proved too much for her to chew! Stinkmeaner, Crabmiser, Gripenasty, Pistofferson too, came into town and lo’, oh no! They burned the house down! Bushido’s mama, mean and brave, fought the Hateocracy and her son did escape! With his father, our young hero trained: karateka, judo, muay thai, many styles he used before he could take on the Lords of Lennox Avenue!

Now pick those lopsided afros, and sucka don’t frown, come follow the tale of Grandmaster Bushido Brown!

Powers and Abilities:

What amounts to a ‘peak human’ in traditional comicverses: he is faster than the average human, stronger, more agile, and has better stamina but he is not enhanced by anything mystical and breaks and bruises just the same when acted on by greater forces than what the human body can resist. Otherwise, he runs the gamut of martial arts mastery in some areas: Judo, Western Boxing, Muay Thai, Jiu Jitsu, Shotokan, and competency in several others.

Supporting Characters:

The Shogun of Harlem

• Elvira “Coffee” Mack (one bad bitty)

The White Lotus Clan

• Rattlesnake Joe Brown (Bushido’s father)
• Tai Pei
• Rashida Brown (deceased)

The Hateocracy

• Lord Rufus Crabmiser
• George Pistofferson
• Esmerelda Gripenasty
• Colonel H. Stinkmeaner

The Five Hands of Harlem

• Luna ‘Crazy Killer Kung Fu Wolf Chick’ Jones
• Antoine, Just Antoine
• Mr. Dolemite
• Mrs. Dolemite
• Little Thang

Playas Circle

• Sugarfoot Robinson
• Baby Bitty
• Doodoo Darrell
• Mr. ?

The Kumite

• Not a character but a far-out place where an annual karate tournament is held for the trippiest bitties and karate men to flex muscle and tussle.

Sample Post:

“Woooaah wooaahh, hol’ it there na’!” ordered Doodoo Darrell to the rest of the Playas Circle,
“you trynna tell Doodoo Darrell he gots ta give up half his earnin’s from his sweet babies? Who say?”

“I don’t make no rules, triple D, but we gotta foll’ em! You want Coffee to send Luna ass back here again? You memba what I told you she said?” chimed Sugarfoot,

“You say she said,”

A Week Ago
A black pump heel whipped the side of Sugarfoot Robinson’s face as far as his neck could swivel and sent him flying into the soft leather couch which, along with a few other dollar store quality items, served as the warehouse’s decor. A child like scream came from behind Luna--a child like scream she was all too familiar with.

Baby Bitty caught a freshly prepared backhand across his pudgy, round face and fell lump on his behind, shades of dust defaming his pink overalls,
“Gotdamn you, crazy ass kung fu--YEEEEEEE!” that same black pump heel made a good churning of Baby Bitty’s unsavory parts,

“Now you know I don’t like that name, Bitty,” she bent down “I-”

click, click! Sugarfoot had pulled his six shooter from his gold boot where it was always kept. A hampered mess on the ground, blood leaking from his mouth. Luna turned, her black leather trenchcoat wisping behind. From a hip holster she pulled a silver magnum, long barrel,

“Go ‘head, sucka, pull that trigga one mo’ time, see if I don’t blow yo jive ass back to Timbuktu.”

Away the weapon went. Mouse-like footsteps from Baby Bitty could be heard hitting the warehouse floor as Bitty tried to escape. Luna pulled her other silver magnum from the opposing holster as she turned to point both guns at her victims: the right gun pointed at Sugarfoot, the left and Baby Bitty’s back,

“Getcho li’l ass back here before I blow it off! Now,” she exchanged a look with them both, “you know why I’m here. Coffee ain’t havin’ no more of this holdin’ out shit. The deal was 25% of what y’all bring in. Last few kick ups been a li’l sho’t.”

Bitty emitted quiet as possible,

“well according to my recoll--”

“SPEAK UP, BITTY.” Bitty flinched, gasped, and then did as she commanded,

“W-well a-ccording to my recollection, the deal was not, as you say, fifty percent of our income. The deal was we take out Bushido Brown an--”

“Terms done changed, Bitty, baby.” she holstered the gun pointed at Bitty’s back and continued,

“Bushido Brown ain’t dead, and Coffee come to collect somehow. Maybe, just maybe, she said she might consider givin’ you back what is rightfully yours if you do this shit like it’s supposed to be done. You cats broke bad, now you eitha fix it or I’mma be ‘round here again--and it ain’t gonna be for just wreckin’ you fools, dig?”

“Yeah, Luna, gahtdamnit! Nah get gone, can’t do much thinkin’ wit’ a piece in my face!” Sugarfoot cried out, the crimson blood running down his lips blended with the similarly tinted red fur coat he had on and the ruby diamond ring on his left ring finger.

“That’s what I like to hear. Tell Doo’ his ass need to call me before I have to pay his ass a visit, too.” both guns holstered, she turned and made her exit. The door closed behind her,

“damn, Damn, DAMN! DAMN YOU BUSHIDO BROOOWWNN!” both men shouted in unison.