Who are you when you don’t know who you are?

What do you do when you wake up in the middle of the New Mexico desert, staring through the windshield of a Cherokee jeep, and you have no idea why you are there or how you got there? What do you do when you wake up in the desert with no past and no identity, when the only thing driving you is the question, who am I?

That and a compulsion; a compulsion you can’t understand: the compulsion to kill.

When that happens you begin to walk the night, on the dark side. You stalk your prey, and you discover it is one special prey you are after, one special prey you want to track down and execute. It’s the guy with the black shades and the beemer, the guy at the club with the two gorillas and the six girls, the guy with soulless eyes they all come to see for their fix. It’s the dealer. The dealers have to die.

And when the executions start, they finally give you a name, an identity. They call you, The Verdugo.

The Executioner.