Okay, first off, I just want people to know straight out that I have ABSOLUTELY no ownership of Biker Mice from Mars. If I did, we would have had better episodes then those skunk-tacular remakes. Secondly, I don't own Mythbusters, but I wish that I was a part of the show.

Secondly, I am making this story for an amazing author and fellow Biker Mice fan, Inuficcrzy. Hopefully, this chapter will be featured in her amazing story, "The First".

Lastly, please, do not try any of the science experiments you read about in this story at home. Most of them are either highly dangerous, or extremely messy, and I'm fairly sure your parents, grandparents, aunts/uncles, brothers/sisters, boyfriend/girlfriend, fiancée, husband/wife, or neighbors would like any of the repercussions.

There was only one word that properly explained the condition Vinnie was in: stir-crazy. He's been locked up practically forever in the scoreboard, and he felt ready to just burn off the two broken limbs. But, how would he be able to ride his bike with just one arm and one leg?

Beating Limburger in his oil heist was fun and all, but afterwards, when he broke his leg falling off his bike with his bros, he was beginning to wonder if beating that over-sized guppy was really worth it. Casts really cramp one's style, and Charley owes him a new bandana.

So, while his bros go out on patrol to make sure Limburger's not up to something, the white mouse has to stay behind. "It's not fair" he groaned. "Why do I have to sit out all the fun? Hell, Modo's got a broken leg, and he still rides." With a sigh, Vinnie looked around the board he and his bros were calling home at the moment. And, again, he counted all the cross beams holding the thing together.

After an hour of counting (reaching a grand total of 478), Vinnie tried something else. He reached out for man's true best friend: T.V.

After another hour of just channel surfing and seeing nothing good on, Vinnie was about ready to lose his mind. Then, suddenly, he heard it. "I reject your reality, and substitute my own." He froze. There, on the screen, was a man with thin blonde hair, a blonde mustache and short beard. Soon after came up an older man with a black beret over his apparently bald head and a thick mustache under his nose. "I kind of like it in here" he said in what looks like a flame resilient suit, "It's private." Vinnie had no idea what he was watching, but he knew it was going to like it.

One week later, Charley, along with the other two Martian mice, were rubbing their temples, trying to ease away their developing headaches. Having to move into the Last Chance Garage wasn't always bad for any of them, but having to move in because somebody detonated about 100 cockroach bombs with one of his flares would definitely give somebody one hell of a headache. Add to it: a giant cannon that shoots frozen chickens, tying a pair of JATO rockets to the back of Throttle's bike to see if it will fly, scaring Charley half to death by heating up a tube of biscuit dough behind her, making her and the bros believe that somebody shot her in the back of her head (Vinnie's still recovering from the beating Modo gave him), dropping a penny from the top of the Sears tower on a sandbag dummy to see if the penny will shoot straight through it, trying to cook hotdogs on a tanning bed, used root beer to clean their bikes (which surprisingly worked), tried making a cannon from a tree, tried pulling the rear axle out of Limburger's limo (only to have the cable snap and hit Throttle between his legs), adding mothballs into the fuel tanks (actually giving them better mileage, before the engines started sputtering), the list seemed endless.

Now, the three were covered in a brown, sticky fluid. Vincent smiled sheepishly, whipping off some of the soda from his mask, trying to hide the half dozen empty soda bottles and half empty pack of Mentos. "You see guys," Charley said, shaking off some of the soda from her hair (or at least trying to), "this, is the reason I didn't want you guys to watch Mythbusters."