Imagine for a moment that you had the power to bring into existence any coherent thought in your mind… on second thought, don’t imagine that.  The imagination is from where much of the strife in this story stems and we’d best not indulge such forces ourselves.  Instead, only think about what One is saying; dull it may be, but it is ultimately safer in the long run.  Now then, without any imagery, consider my earlier statement.  What if you had such power?  Consider all the good you could bring into the world, all the happiness that you and your friends and family could acquire from such gifts.  Surely such power would be grand, wouldn’t you agree?
Now consider the dark side of such power.  What are you like when you are sad?  When you are afraid?  When you are angry?  What springs into your head then?  Personally, One would imagine (though One is not doing so right now) something awful happening to the focus of my dismay.  One would visualize such a terrible vengeance upon them, all to let them know the pain that One had felt.  What would happen when such feelings were combined with the aforementioned abilities?  Considering mankind’s demeanor these days, One can imagine that the results of such power in the hands of mortal man (unwilling as he may be to have it) would be unnerving, to say the least.

***

Just southeast of San Francisco, there is a turn-off onto road that seemingly goes to nowhere at all.  It is marked by a slightly lopsided yellow sign that reads: NOT DEAD END.  The sign is made irrelevant by a digital sub-world called the “Internet”, the Internet being able to tell the user everything about what is at the end of this road if they were to find the right portion of the network, but that is neither here nor there.  Getting back on topic, this road seems to go nowhere because it passes through a set of hills that some people would describe as “rolling”.  If one is truly perseverant, they will discover that on the other side of these hills is a mid-sized, beach-side town called San Ricardo.  Who “Ricardo” was nobody remembers, but it is theorized that he had to be a man of special importance to have an entire town named after him.
The town is divided into the North and South halves.  This isn’t because of occupying gangs or some other ridiculous segregation, but just practicality; the north end is where all the centers of commerce are located while all of the living domiciles are situated in the south end.  Any and all legitimate centers of pleasure are located in the thing gray area between the halves.
Just north of the pseudo border, there is a convenience store entitled “Murry’s”.  Again, nobody is quite sure who “Murry” is, though they do know that his store lives up to its name, and is very convenient.  In any case, note the convenient automated door.  Note how it conveniently slides open so very smoothly, releasing the conveniently chilled air from the inside of the store.  Now note the man that has just crossed the threshold that this door occupies.  This is our protagonist.  His name is Patrick Marquis, nineteen years old, and that is all you need to know for the moment, as all things come in moderation.
Patrick turned left and began to walk down to Southtown in silence.  At one point he sullenly glanced at the bag containing the cinnamon pretzel and seltzer water that he had just purchased.  The seltzer water was for Mrs. O’fink, who lived on the floor below him, but the pretzel was for Patrick himself.  It had cost him his last bit of pocket money, and thus it would be very inconvenient if he were to be mugged right now (as muggers have a tendency to become irritable when their beatings yield no fruit), but in his mind, it was well worth the risk.  When he’d seen the pretzel, his mouth had begun to water, and mouth-watering is just sort of craving, craving being synonymous with imagining, and nothing good could come of that.  Patrick then realized that he was musing far beyond safe thinking, and quickly banished all thoughts regarding him being mugged.  His mind was veritably blank then entire walk home, as it usually was.
While he is walking, let us take a moment to discuss Patrick’s mental activity.  Do not for a moment think that just because few bright thoughts cross his mental space, that he is an idiot.  Patrick is in fact a very bright and sharp-witted young man.  He is simply… cautious.  Of what, you shall learn of in time
Patrick lived in an eight-story boarding house on 1001 Penny Road, it being the last structure on a block comprised almost entirely of apartment buildings.  What set apart this building, though, was that it was not an angular eyesore (as most modern architecture is these days), but rather an ancient mansion of the Victorian era.  The origin of this building is, like many things in San Ricardo, a mystery.  A Mr. Roderick Johansen Bilkington, “Bilk” or “RJ” to his friends and associates, was the landlord of this decrepit artifact and had been a thorn in Patrick’s side since he had moved in.  Mr. Bilkington was somewhat of a petty man, embittered by the state of disrepair that his property had fallen into, and mistakenly took such frustration out on his tenants by constantly raising their rent.  But having in actuality a soft heart, he made up for his transgression by spending that money on nothing save the renovation of the home.  Such measures were only temporary, though, as his sympathetic nature had led him to forgo taxing the elderly occupants of his property (a decision that the pettier side of him loathed the softer side for).  One of these tenants included Mrs. O’fink, Patrick’s vertical neighbor, and speaking of which…
Patrick rapped on room 703, very briefly considering whether or not Mrs. O’fink would have preferred a different brand of seltzer water.  He pushed the thought from his head almost as soon as he had thought of it and just in time to see the door open.  A tiny, wrinkled old woman squinted up at Patrick from behind a pair of glasses that magnified her eyes to a size nearly proportional to her head.  A crinkly smile crossed her face when she recognized her visitor.
“Oh, Patrick, my dear,” she said very sweetly, “It’s nice to see you.
Patrick nodded politely and withdrew the carbonated liquid from his bag.  “As you requested, madam,” he said slowly, “one bottle of seltzer water.”
“Oh you are just an angel, m’dear.  Won’t you come in for a spot of tea?”
Patrick let the thought occupy his thinking space for all of half a second.
“No thank you, Mrs. O’fink.  I have to get back to my studies.”
The old woman looked slightly crestfallen.  “Oh, that’s a shame.  They work you to death at that school, you know.  One of these days somebody’s going to have a stroke or whatnot.”
At these words, Patrick tensed up slightly.  “I should hope not, madam.”
“Ah well, you might as well get on then.  I’m just standing here blathering away.  I hope you have a pleasant evening.”
“And you, madam.  Tell Mr. O’fink I said ‘hello’.”
"I will, m’dear.”
Then the door was closed.  Patrick remained where he stood, still rigid, doing his best to keep the thought of strokes from his mind.  It did little good; thought it was far from the front of his mind, the thought was still there.   Swallowing, he shut his eyes and began to think of the pretzel in his bag; the delicious pretzel; the delicious, cinnamon-covered, baked- Patrick’s eyes snapped open as he too late realized his mistake, and very hurriedly made for the stairs, hoping that the extra weight he felt on the bag was just his imagination.
Patrick was the sole occupant of the eighth floor of the building, keeping residence in room 801 at the end of the hall.  The reason for this was that the entire floor was in such disrepair that it wasn’t humanly acceptable to live in them, Mr. Bilkington having learned that renting out any of the rooms qualified as a violation of the Geneva Convention.  It was fortunate for our protagonist and his surrounding neighbors that Mr. Bilkington had attempted to repair the entire floor back in 1994 (only managing to renovate room 801 to the point of it being legal to rent it out before straying dangerously close to bankruptcy) or else Patrick may have been forced to find living conditions that didn’t fulfill the standards he’d set for himself.
Patrick shut the door behind him, setting the lock into place before tossing his bag onto the coffee table.  He sat at the couch in front of the table, staring at the bag, tracing the bulge with his eyes, thinking (but not imagining) about the size and shape that a single pretzel would make in a bag like that, wondering if the shape he had hypothesized matched the shape he was looking at.  For ten minutes, he did nothing but this, turning the dilemma over and over and over again in his mind, before finally leaning forward.  Tentatively his fingers wriggled their way under the plastic, probing the edges of his twisted biscuit.  After a moment Patrick relaxed, and began to pull his pretzel from its bag… and froze as his fingers brushed against a second shape in the bag.  It was semi-hard, curved, and sprinkled lightly with what he assumed was cinnamon.  Patrick stood up very suddenly, picked up the bag without taking out the pretzels, and threw the whole thing in the trash.  Following that, Patrick went back to his sofa and stared at the black television, his mind as devoid of thought as a desert is devoid of water.  He did this until it was his self-imposed curfew, at which point he went to bed.  Unlike that of its waking counterpart, Mr. Marquis’s subconscious mind was a very active and chaotic place.  Patrick always dreamed when he slept.  He enjoyed dreaming.  Unlike his thoughts, his dreams were constrained.

***

Such was the life of Patrick Marquis.  Since he was twelve years old, he had done absolutely nothing with his life.  He had made no friends (outside of Mrs. O’fink), he had had as little interaction with another human being as he could possibly manage, he attended school as infrequently as he could manage and still maintain a passing GPA, all without ever thinking, wanting, without living.  In his defense, such cautions were dnecessary, given his peculiar situation, as he did not want to invoke such negative thought.  However, good and evil are two sides of a single coin; to deny one is to deny them both, and such an existence is a depressing one at best.  Needless to say, One can’t help but wonder if perhaps Patrick Marquis was not forced into his readily approaching journey, but if on some level, he wished for it himself.

***

In a place that is neither here nor there nor anywhere else (yet not quite nowhere) there walked a girl with violet eyes and a great volume of midnight blue hair that stretched to the small of her back.  She wore an odd coat that looked like it might have been a straight jacket at one point.  One uses the past tense here, because the girl had ripped and sewn the garment back together more times than she could remember, along with sewing in and pinning on any little knick, knack, oddity, nut, bolt, odd, end, or any other curiosity she found whilst walking.  Tonight she had found a bleached bird skull in the sand, which she had stuck on her left forearm, between a shiny rock and a miniature airplane.  Adding to her overall weirdness was the contrast between her coat and her shoes.  What made them strange was their lack of oddity, as they were something that Patrick Marquis would recognize were he and she to meet: dark blue converse high tops, with a design of the galaxy stitched into the side.  Upon looking at them, One cannot help but feel a sense of inexplicable happiness.  Note that despite her eccentric dress habits, the girl herself doesn’t seem to fit the shoes (One hopes you’ll pardon the pun).  See how her expression is blanked, sullen, saddened even.  It is the face of a girl who has been discontent for a very long time.  One cannot blame her, either.
Look at her surroundings: a sickly, yellow desert, with blackened cacti dotting the landscape.  The sand stretches out infinitely in all directions, meeting a horizon that divides into a wretched purple sky that writhes silently with violet clouds.  Despite the darkness above, the desert is lit as brightly as if it were high noon.  The girl walked through this desert because she had been dumped here very unceremoniously.  Though her face did not betray it, she was especially peeved when considering all the other places that she had visited before; by far, this one is the worst.
The girl continued to walk for some time, never tiring nor showing signs of thirst or hunger.  She did this for nearly three hours, until a red dot marred the horizon.  At the sight of this, the girl raised a curious eyebrow, but did not hurry towards the abnormality.  If anything, her mouth deepened into a slight frown at the sight of it.  After another few minutes of walking, she found it to be a red telephone booth.  At the head of the door, the sign read: FOR EXECUTIVE USE ONLY.  The girl sniffed at the sight of this notice, and stepped inside.  When she put the receiver to her ear she heard a recurring beep! which was meant to signify the phone was out of order.  In response, the girl flicked the side of dial box, hard.  At this point, the beeping stopped, and the voice of a woman came on.
“We’re sorry,” said the voice curtly, “But, as we’ve told you several times already, all lines are currently disconnected in accordance to the Master’s wishes.  Please hang up and do not call again.”
After a few moments of silence, the message repeated, now with an air of irritation.
“We’re sorry, but all lines are disconnected.  Please, hang up the phone.”
Another few moments of silence.  The woman then returned, now fuming.
“Look, I’ve not told you once, or twice, but eighty-three damned times: the lines are disconnected!  Now hang up that phone or I’ll come down there and-”
At this point, the girl hung up the phone, having tired of the Responder’s ire.  At this point, her face, for the first time in a long while, curled into an irate sneer.  She stepped outside of the booth, and stared up at the sky silently.  Enough was enough.  After seven years of wandering, after eighty-three disconnected phone booths, after being tossed from dream to dream, the girl had finally reached the end of her patience.  It appeared that the “Master” was too deep into his own self-pity to remedy the situation; if hope was not enough then the hand of fate would have to be forced.

***

When Patrick awoke, a slight tremor coursed throughout Southtown, it falling just short of the border.  It was a curious thing as it was not what awoke our protagonist, but it appeared to be a product of his wakening.  Patrick himself had woken violently, covered in a cold sweat and panic licking at the edges of his mind.  He had seen… well… perhaps it’s best we do not speak of what he’d seen in his dreams.  It would give you nightmares yourself.  In any case, Patrick realized what danger was present within moments and banished all negative thoughts from his mind; just to be safe, he banished all positive thoughts as well.  A moment later, his mind was blank.  Satisfied, Patrick glanced at the clock.  It was 6:52 AM.  School would begin in just little over an hour.  He gave a small grunt and made for the bathroom.
As he stepped onto the tile, Patrick became aware that he had a slight headache.  It struck him as somewhat odd: he’d not had any sort of pain in his head for as long as he could remember.  Patrick quickly shook the thought from his mind and turned on the shower.  It just pain.  Walk it off.

***

The girl with the coat stood back to evaluate her handiwork.  The phone booth had been thoroughly demolished, it being nothing but a pile of twisted red metal now.  The girl noticed that the receiver had somehow escaped destruction.  From it, she could hear the Responder yowling like a wet cat.
“Oh, you’re hee-haw-larious!  That’s it, you little tramp!  You’re getting a visit from Customer Service, and he’ll be serving you a big heaping plate of pain!”
On “tramp” the girl raised an eyebrow, but was otherwise unfazed by the Responder’s threats.  She had a similar reaction when the wreckage began to rustle and shift.  A giant pushed his way out from the metal, and towered over the girl in the jacket.  He wore no clothing save for a leather loincloth and a metal cage that encased his head, and had the words “Customer Service” tattooed across his pectorals.  In his left hand, he held a cudgel that was twice and long as the girl was high.
“Sweetheart,” said Customer Service, raising his club, “You’re in a world of trouble.”
The girl raised a single arm, the sleeve sliding back to reveal her delicate hand.  She extended a finger towards the giant.  There was a flash of light and a huge BOOM!  The giant was gone, though the immediate area was now covered in a dark scarlet liquid.  One would’ve thought it to be blood, save for the fact that it was squirming and making piteous cries.  The girl ignored the remains of the giant, and stepped over a few iron bars to see where Customer Service had emerged.  In the center of the pile of red metal there was a hole in the ground that cannot be described as anything other than out of place.  The sides were not laced with the yellow sand, but instead the sides were laced with blue flame that twisted downward with an oceanic roaring sound.
The girl gave a satisfied hm and stepped off of the edge.  Gravity took hold and then she was gone.  Behind her, Customer Service squealed in horror.

***

As Patrick stepped over into Northtown, the dull ache at the back of his mind lashed out in all directions like a cobra.  He hissed in pain and clamped a hand to his head.  Near equal to his suffering however, was his befuddlement.  In all his nineteen years of life, Patrick had never once been subject to headaches, let alone migraines.  Why it would randomly strike him now was a question that he would have very much liked to ponder.  Unfortunately, exploration of the matter would have to wait, for in the throes of his agony, Patrick did not notice a trio of degenerates that were coming down an alleyway and were headed for a direct collision with himself.  When the impact occurred, both parties were virtually unharmed (or at least as much as Patrick could be in his state), but the three miscreants were violent creatures, and often took whatever chance they could find to spread some misery.
“ ‘ey boy,” said the first nastily, “Watchu’ think you’re doin’ eh?”
“I’m sorry,” replied our protagonist vaguely.
“Oh I should ‘ope so,” continued the second, “You jes’ cost us valuable time we oughta be killin’.”
“An’ man,” said the third, “We love to waste time.”
“Again,” reinforced Patrick, “I’m sorry to have bumped into you.”
“Wha’sat?” mocked the second, “You’re sorry ‘to have bumped into us’?  Now dat’s jes’ rude!  Wishin’ you’d ne’er met us!”
“I said I was sorry,” Patrick said finally, attempting to go on his way; he was denied.
“An’ now you’s tryin’ ta leave?” asked the first, “Says he’s ‘sorry’.”
“Oh he’s gonna be,” growled the third before striking our protagonist in the face.  Patrick recoiled, now suffering pain on two fronts.
“Please,” he panted, “Don’t…”
“Oh, lookee here boys,” laughed the first, “We got ourselves a begger!”
The thugs proceeded to beat Patrick viciously, his pleas for mercy only serving to feed their bloodlust.  After five minutes, they dropped Patrick, bloodied and bruised to the ground.  Aching all over, Patrick’s focus was entirely mental.  Control yourself, he thought, do not let the pain get the better of you.  These words were lost to the void when the leader of the trio next spoke.  “Get his wallet,” he commanded, “Le’see were ‘e lives.  Mebee pay ‘is ma a vist, eh?”  Patrick’s eyes widened and every muscle in his body went tense.
Pity the trio of miscreants.  Pity them for their ignorance.  Pity them as a man pities a child that is ignorant of the world’s true machinations.  You must understand: those three boys had, without a doubt, unwittingly opened Pandora’s Box.  One can say this, because upon hearing the leader’s most disrespectful and lecherous comment, Patrick Marquis felt, for the first time in nearly seven years, the unbridled fires of wounded rage.
“Buddy,” Patrick said very slowly and deliberately, “You’re making me angry.  And trust me: you will not like what happens when I’m angry.”
The trio sneered at him.  “What’re you?” asked the leader, “The Hulk?”

***

The girl had been floating down the tunnel at a reasonable pace thus far.  It had given her time to properly rework the ultimate destination that it was linked to, as she knew that haste could lead to… inaccurate results.  It was then not surprising to imagine was shock she felt when a savage roar echoed throughout the pathway.  The girl stopped, looking all around her for the source of the enraged cry.  She found it, several meters below herself, when it tore its way through the wall.  It was big, scaly, bristling with teeth, spikes, and claws, and very, very irate.  It took no notice of the girl, but bounded down towards the exit with another snarl.  The girl saw this, and uttered an archaic swear before accelerating into pursuit.
At the end of the tunnel, the leader of the trio asked, “What’re you?  The Hulk?”
“No,” said Patrick coldly.
They continued to laugh, but froze when they heard a resounding CRACK!  It was not the mere auditory experience that alarmed them, but the fact that the noise was an onomatopoeia; a crack had literally appeared in the air.  It hung there for a second, silent as the rest of them, before making the awful noise again and widening.  After a third time, a spiky, scaly, clawed hand forced its way through the gap.  At this point, one of the thugs began to scream.  It was quite effeminate.  The annoying sound only served to fuel the beast’s rage, and with another vicious roar, it tore itself free of the fracture and stepped into the world of men.  The less said about the creature, the better; it would be best to stick with “scaly, spiky, and sharp” for now.
“No,” said Patrick, from the ground, his wounds now miraculously vanished, “I’m not the Hulk.  Neither is he, as you can see, but he’ll play the part well enough.”
Patrick picked himself up off of the pavement and looked to his former tormentors.  The beast loomed over them menacingly, its jaws slavering and its claws glittering.
“Do what you do best,” he commanded the beast, smiling evilly.  In response, it began to advance with a fourth roar.  That roar had the dual effect of terrifying the thugs and snapping Patrick out of his frenzy.
“What?” he asked, horror dawning on his face, “No, no, NO!  STOP!  DON’T HURT THEM!”
The creature hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment.  The squealing thing behind it was in control no longer.  Soon it would be just another meal.  Soon.  “Soon” suddenly became “sooner” as the three degenerates finally panicked and tore off in different directions.  The beast growled and took off after the leader.
Behind them, Patrick began to give chase, but faltered when he felt something new in his head.  It was similar to when the beast emerged, yet not painful.  He felt warmth run up his spine and to the crown of his head, and it left him weak kneed.  As he fell to his knees, a ripple formed in the air in front of him, spreading slowly, before parting to let a very odd girl step through to the ground.  She was about his age, with midnight blue hair and violet eyes.  She wore a very strange straightjacket that was covered it refrigerator knick-knacks and wore a pair of blue converse high-tops with a galaxy sewed onto the sides.  Patrick, needless to say, was quite taken aback.
“You…” he spluttered, “You…”
The girl’s face remained dispassionate, but she raised an eyebrow.  “You are the one?” she asked, “I’d expected something a bit more… regal.”
At the sound of her soft voice, Patrick lost all sense of normality.  Praise him, though, as he acted very maturely: he just hung his head and began muttering to himself.
“Not again…” he whispered, “Seven years… not again.”
At this display, the girl momentarily lost interest in our protagonist, and turned to take in her surroundings.  She saw that the beast had caught on of the thugs, and was now pondering how best to fit him into its mouth.
“It seems you have a problem,” she observed.
Patrick looked up, trying to keep a detached look, though his irritation pushed through.  “Really?” he said snidely, “I hadn’t noticed.”
“If you’re going to be snippy, then I won’t offer my help.”
At this warning, Patrick saw a glimmer of hope.  “You can get rid of… that… thing?”
“Easily.”
“Do it!  Please!”
The girl turned to him with a curious look.  “What do you have to offer me?”
“Anything!  Anything you want, I can get it for you!”
The girl hmed thoughtfully.  “In exchange for my services,” she told Patrick, “You will grant me any desire I may have.”
Patrick barely heard her terms, he was so focused of being rid of the beast.  “Fine!  Whatever you want!  Just save them!”
On his agreement, a ghost of a smile appeared on the girl’s face.  She looked back towards the creature, which had finally maneuvered the thug’s leg into its mouth.  As it’s jaw began to close, the girl pointed at the beast.  “Disappear,” she said simply.
For a half-second, a radiant light lighted up the creature from the inside out, and the beginnings of a scream emerged from its mouth.  This was overshadowed by a greater light and a huge BANG!  The degenerate leader fell to the ground, now coated in a black liquid that had spread over a wide radius.  Unlike the remains of Customer service, this liquid was still and silent.  The leader of the trio was, at this point, far too traumatized to continue screaming.
The girl hmed contendedly and turned back to Patrick.  He was thoroughly astonished, so much so to the point where he didn’t notice the girl’s hand on his forehead until it was too late.  There was another flash, a ringing in his ears, and the skin under Patrick’s bangs suddenly felt sunburned.
“What the hell?” he hissed.
“A countermeasure against further incidents,” said the girl, “And an insurance policy.  Oh yes; I think that you and I are going to be in business together for a long time, boy.”