"Straight Lines"

"Ya gets yer money fer nothing, and yer chicks fer free!"

Guido's voice rang out in the front seat of his 1989 Ford Escort as he sang along with the radio. He was fully aware of his vocal limitations, and that is why he liked to travel alone.

He was currently heading west on Highway 40 through a rather scenic part of the country, and thinking about his future. He was just leaving a job he was very good at, and he had been offered a job he'd never thought about before. All in all, it was a nervous time for our friend Guido. The radio abruptly shifted from Dire Straits to Mariah Carey, and Guido reached forward to turn it down. Mark Knopfler he could sing along with. This was out of the question. With order restored, his thoughts drifted back to his situation.

I don't know what those government types are expecting from me, he thought. I've been a bodyguard for years. Out on the road with Lila Cheney, seeing the world. I'm not a secret agent. I can't be a government watchdog. I don't even like super-heroes.

Guido sighed and looked out the window. Once again, he was in a beautiful part of the country, and once again, he was separated from it by a car window. Lila loved to tour, and Guido went with her everywhere. Now Lila was calling it quits, and Guido was looking for a job.

And that's where the government came in. They were looking to put together a team of mutant agents to serve as a public front and harbor goodwill between humans and mutants. Their last attempt, the Freedom Force, was made up of former and current super-villains, and turned out to be as bad an idea as it sounded.

So now they needed Guido Carosella. The government had known that Guido was a mutant for some time, but only recently had they had the idea of offering him a position. For Guido, he wasn't sure if it was his cup of tea.

Sure, Val Cooper seemed nice, he thought. The deal seems like a good one, but I just don't know. Of course, I could use the money.

About half a mile away, a brand new shiny black 1995 Range Rover was traveling east on Highway 40, its driver engrossed in a particularly angry cellular phone conversation.

"Dammit, I don't care what she thinks," G. Eliot Randall roared, "you get her butt to the set tomorrow morning! She signed a contract, and my production company will sue that Oscar right off of her mantelpiece if she's not there tomorrow morning at six o'clock with bells on. No, that's just an expression."

He slammed his cellular phone down, which didn't hang it up but did make him feel better. The life of a multimillion dollar movie producer was a tough one. G. Eliot Randall turned on the radio in search of diversion.

"Particle man, particle man, doing the things that a particle can..."

"What is this? This is not music, this is garbage with a drum track!" he screamed aloud to no one. He reached into the seat beside him, and fumbled for his CDs. He dug deep and grabbed Vivaldi's Four Seasons, pulled it out, and then looked up just in time to see his unattended vehicle crossing the double yellow line.

"AAAAAHHHHH!" screamed G. Eliot Randall.

"AAAAAHHHHH!" screamed Guido Carosella.

"KKRRUUNNCCHH!" went the two vehicles. Guido had reacted in time to swerve, but the Range Rover still smashed into the side of Guido's car. Guido's mutant ability automatically kicked in, turning the kinetic energy of the car crash into raw, brute strength. Guido's body began to contort, tearing open his clothes to give room to the new mass contained within.

The Ford Escort skidded on its side, then rolled over twice before stopping on its wheels. As his body began to distort, Guido growled in anguish, "My car!"

A single punch was sufficient to throw off the door, and Guido crawled out of the wreckage. His body was larger now, and one arm was seemingly bursting at the seams with muscle. Guido growled and dropped his massive forearm across the roof of his car. Metal twisted and bent beneath his arm, and the pain subsided for Guido.

"Oh, man. Now what am I gonna do. My car is totaled," Guido lamented. He angrily turned around to find the other driver and give him a piece of his mind.

G. Eliot Randall was leaning on the dashboard of his car, head down. His prized Range Rover, complete with gold trim and custom stereo, was currently parked around a utility pole. That is to say, the utility pole was now situated about halfway up his hood, displacing a large part of his engine.

At least that song stopped playing, a stunned G. Eliot Randall thought.

-- Continued On Page 2