It was just past midnight when the streets of Grit City trembled under the distant thunder of hooves—or so it sounded. Blue Boxer narrowed his eyes from the rooftop, crouched like a panther in his sleek, black-and-blue strike suit. The low rumble wasn’t horses, though. It was something else, something that didn’t belong in the grimy, neon-lit streets of this concrete jungle.
Then he saw it.
A plump, broad figure swaggered down the cracked asphalt of the rail yard, lit only by the flickering sodium lights. He was decked out like a carnival cowboy—huge belt buckle glinting like gold, an absurdly wide-brimmed Stetson hat tipped low over his eyes, and shiny boots stomping like he owned the dirt. Two oversized pearl-handled revolvers dangled from his hips, practically jiggling with each step.
Blue Boxer narrowed his eyes behind his domino mask. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
The figure stopped and spun on a bootheel.
“WELL HOWDY THERE, CITY SLICKER!” he bellowed with the voice of a rodeo announcer on a sugar rush. “Name’s Sheriff Yee Haw, and I reckon you’re trespassin’ on my new claim!”
Blue Boxer dropped from the rooftop with a clean roll, landing in a crouch before standing tall. “Yee Haw? Really? What, were ‘Sheriff Rootin’ Tootin’’ and ‘Deputy Doofus’ taken?”
The cowboy gave a jiggling belly-laugh and tipped his hat. “Mighty bold for a man ‘bout to be knee-high to a cornstalk.”
Boxer snorted and cracked his knuckles inside his blue boxing gloves. “You think that getup scares me? I’ve fought cursed ninjas, necromantic gangsters, and that one mime with the disintegration umbrella. You? You look like a waffle house bouncer.”
Without warning, Sheriff Yee Haw drew his revolver—faster than lightning, faster than logic—and fired.
Z-Z-ZAP!!
The bolt of shimmering energy slammed into Blue Boxer’s chest with the force of a sledgehammer made of warm taffy. His body locked up, then shuddered. And then—the change began.