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now. It was up to him to protect this great city he called home.
    He took out his journal, chronicling another night on patrol:
    My city is infested. A boil. A festering sore. It stinks with evil. Pure evil that only Casey Jones can face.
    Casey smiled. That sounded good. Unfortunately, it was far from the truth. Over the past few nights, nothing had happened. No monsters. No mutants. No old ladies who needed help crossing the street. The city was quieter than the school library.
    â€œActually … crime fighting’s pretty boring,” he admitted.
    Then Casey sensed something moving in the shadows behind him. It scurried toward him with amazing speed!
“Yaaaaahhhh!!!”
he shrieked, scurrying to get away from it.
    A rat. Nothing but a rat.
    Casey saw the pest and shuddered. He could deal with villains of any size, but rats?
Ewwwww!
They carried diseases and smelled like a toilet. They were his only weakness.
    â€œI hate those furry little freaks!” he said.
    That was it. Casey had had enough for tonight. He sheathed his hockey sticks and was about to pack it in, when he heard a commotion coming from the alleyway below.
    Is someone in trouble?
    Casey ducked, watching a street gang rough up a harmless old man.
    The Purple Dragons—the meanest gang on the East Side. Those guys were the worst. They took the old man’s money.
    Casey saw a glint of steel—one of the gang members had a knife.
    Casey pulled his mask over his face. It seemed his hockey sticks would see some action after all.

Sid, the most muscle-bound member of the Purple Dragons, laughed at the old man. “Get his watch, too!” he told the other gang members with a chuckle. He thought mugging people was hilarious.
    What he did not find funny, however, was being knocked to the ground unexpectedly. Sid found himself lying on the concrete, shooting pains throbbing through his skull. He picked up the strange circular object that had nailed him.
    A hockey puck?
“What the—”
    Sid stopped short. He couldn’t believe what he saw standing before him—a deranged hockey player!
    â€œYou slimeballs picked the wrong night,” the demonic skull-face growled from the darkness.
    â€œNice outfit,” another Purple Dragon sneered. “Who’s this clown?”
    Casey Jones stepped out of the shadows. “I’m the last guy you see before you wake up in the hospital.”
    With that, Casey gave the Purple Dragons a fight they’d never forget. Wielding his hockey stick, he swatted, jabbed, and struck the gang members down until they were crumpled on the ground and begging for mercy.
    If this had been on the ice, he’d have about two dozen penalties, but on the street, this was a just comeuppance for a gang that had terrorized the city for too long. And it was being watched from afar by a mysterious figure perched high on the rooftops—Raphael.
    Part of him enjoyed seeing the Purple Dragons get creamed in a fight, but he knew this masked vigilante was going too far. “That guy’s out of control,” Raph said, spinning his
sais.
“Time for a little intervention.”

Casey teed up another puck, aiming squarely at the Purple Dragons. He called his own play-by-play once again: “Casey Jones shoots—”
    One of the thugs took off toward traffic. Casey whacked the puck with all his strength, nailing the moving target in the back of the head.
    â€œAnd he scores!” Casey celebrated.
    â€œHey, man … enough!” Sid pleaded, wincing from the pain. “We give up!”
    But Casey ignored him. These thugs needed to be taught a lesson, and going easy on them was not an option. Besides, did they go easy on the innocent people they mugged and beat up daily? No.
    â€œI ain’t finished with you lowlifes yet,” Casey told him, prepping his hockey stick for another hit.
    Raph dropped into their midst, undetected by Casey Jones. He snuck up and swiped