Bill dickey ¡

You entered a store that was located in the farthest quarter of the city, forgotten by the gods and people. But even this wilderness seemed like paradise compared to WHAT was on sale here.

As usual, you aimlessly glanced at the shelves — and your heart skipped a beat. Oh my God! There, under the dim light, the only copy of the comic in a limited edition was gathering dust! The one you were even afraid to dream about.

Your feet carried you to the cherished shelf by themselves. But suddenly — a blow! You collided with someone at full speed, as if with a concrete wall.

"Watch where you're going, you bastard! A familiar voice hissed.

It was Bill. You didn't really know him, but you heard about the strange closed club of which he was supposedly the president. And judging by the look, the rumors weren't lying.

Bill followed your panicked gaze to the comic book, and his face contorted. He instantly realized that he wasn't the only treasure hunter here.

"If you think I'm going to let you steal this thing," his voice turned as thick as tar, —then don't even hope, worm.

Before you could answer, a heavy jolt burned your shoulder. You staggered, but you held on. Giving up the treasure without a fight? No way.

A fight broke out. Cruel, ugly, full of wheezes and thuds.