Matt saw a dot along the road, several miles down what was once an unassuming highway in Arizona.

Thinking it was a semi truck (or at the very least an RV), he kept Dreadnought barreling towards it. When he eventually did slow down, he found out that it was not quite what he had been expecting. It was a B-class RV, fifty-three feet in length, and was three-quarters-buried in the sand. A man, shabbily dressed and with a beard (seemingly) as long as the highway was, crawled out the window. “Hello, my fellow traveler,” he croaked.

Matt grabbed him by the throat and drew the man closer to his face. “I want your RV.”

“Nothing doing,” the man protested.

Matt knocked him out with an uppercut to the chin, hog-tied him, then deposited him in the back of Dreadnought. He then set about figuring out how he was going to get the immense vehicle out of the ground. A piece as massive as this one would surely fetch a high price, even in the Tuscon market.

He got to work.