Taken from the original, child-like mind of a very young Kim Kaze J
Written to be enjoyed, for fun
All Street Fighter names and characters are copyright Capcom and I didn’t ask permission to use them, because I wrote this stuff to help me remember my childhood universe as it were, and I don’t intend to make a penny out of it.
This page and it’s author are in no way endorsed or supported by Capcom or any other company

The same goes for any other borrowed or likenesses of characters or items from other copyrighted materials (games, books, films etc.)
Please don’t sue me, I’m poor & not making a bean out of this site, it's just for reading pleasure :)

 

NB: I suggest reading the ‘Why is this universe here?’ page before reading any other page.
Otherwise it will sound silly & probably make no sense at all.

 

The Birth of Rage

[ An explanation of M.Bison. Mentioned: Handis, O.P, Scrabby, Electronic etc.]

 

Sitting in the grime of a prison floor, the mad General reflected on how things had gone so pear shaped. It had seemed like the perfect plan; a mass teleportation into the heart of Redland city central (Gosham), rushing the defences; the guards on the wall clearly no object. Victory in the streets and then, the slaughter would begin. Ah yes, the fun part. The killing. Almost without thought, M.Bison tipped his head upward slightly and took a deep, long breath of air. The taste of victory was so sweet…

 

Then it hit him. There had been no victory; thanks to the trickery of a bunch of Redland young hopefuls, who had foiled his plans somehow, breaking into his own secret headquarters and defeating his best. Eventually he himself had fallen, and to a girl none the less! Oh – the shame of it! Bison simply couldn’t believe he’d allowed Handis, that b*tch, to pull a gun on him like that. There may have been hundreds of fights leading up to that instant in time during the battle, but for Bison, the shame of it burned in the forefront of his mind.

 

Curse her! Bison leant back awkwardly onto the wall in his cell, his death cell. Of course, he’d been bound down initially, but since his first audience with the King of these parts (Olivius Potar), he’d been judged sufficiently docile enough to be granted the full use of his limbs.  What a mistake, Bison thought, when they discovered his dreaded psycho ability. The King knew of it, but did he know just how powerful it was? Surely not.

 

“Bison!”

The sudden rough drawl cut through his thinking, ruining the dreams that were meshing there.  Angrily, Bison swung around on his command deck ‘throne’ and focused his currently white eyes upon the offender.

 

The offender frankly didn’t give a flying duck for Bison’s little staring games. It was Captain Scrabby, one of Redland’s finest ruffian soldiers. There really wasn’t a known way to scare the man, and Bison, who knew this, grumbled out a rather bored:

 

“Can I help you with anything, Captain? I’m rather busy, military affairs require my attention at once.”

 

The Red Axe army Captain nodded, as usual sporting his sword on his belt. A stupidly large one in fact, Bison thought with some mirth; and Scrabby caught his wandering gaze.

 

“What you staring at? My sword’s everything it should be and then some!” Scrabby bit the remark out sharply – he’d never liked Bison since the day he’d been part of the arresting squad who captured him, and he silently cursed the day this monstrosity ever managed to get King O.P to tolerate his presence.

 

With a coy smile, M.Bison, indicated to the doorway.

 

“You were just leaving, Captain. Have a nice day.”

 

Scrabby wasn’t having any of that; he had come here with an important summons.

 

“I intend to, General. However, I didn’t come here to verbally spar with you, though I’m sure you’d enjoy it as much as I.” His eyes narrowed in a thorough dislike for the man in front of him for a brief moment, before his expression melted into a more docile, smug one. “His Highness King O.P wishes to see you in his Throne Room, at the double. You are to put your military movements on standby until your return.”

 

Bison blinked suddenly, the memories rushing back…

 

*******************************************************************************************************

 

“And…what else do you have for me?” Bison asked quietly, assuming there would be more mocking to follow, now.

 

Scrabby disappointed him further; “There is nothing else, General. That’s that. I’ll be going now.” Snapping off the briefest of salutes followed by a small smirk, the Red Axe Captain departed, leaving Bison to his further thoughts.

 

Odd. Nothing else? ‘Never mind then’, thought Bison, as he shut his computers down and strode purposefully down several corridors lined with soldiers, who all stamped to attention as he passed each one, before he finally got to the huge, golden doors protecting the Throne Room beyond, where His royal highness King O.P would be waiting for him.

 

M.Bison peered at the two guards on the door with pale emerald eyes that emanated confidence and power. He raised his hand and drew it back to one side of himself in an exemplified gesture.

 

“Away; and open the doors. His majesty wishes to speak with me, now.” The command was simple, and obeyed at once without question.

 

As M.Bison entered the room, he realised that the King was waiting for him, standing at the foot of his own Throne, which was a little unusual. King O.P wasn’t a small man himself, although shorter and less built than Bison, of course. He wore blue headgear like all the royal family, a red jacket and on this occasion, blue trousers and black boots. His eyes were the same as always, a piercing blue.

 

O.P turned and faced Bison, who strode to within a meter of the ruler of Redland, before bowing to one knee gracefully and with the full respect, head lowered for a second. “You summoned me, your Majesty?”

 

The King responded quickly. “Indeed I did, Bison; and with urgent reason. Do you recall our little chat a few years ago when I asked you what became of Shadaloo and you assured me they were…to quote you ‘out of the picture’?”

 

All of M.Bison’s peace left him instantly, the old fear for his life flooding back again. He looked up nervously for a second or two, before responding with:

 

“Yes, I…I do recall that discussion, Sir. I have had no contact with Shadaloo since then.”

 

“I see.” The statement was laced with the King’s special brand of ice that he reserved for interrogating his death row captives, which also told the warlord that he saw a lot more than he was letting on.

 

After a long pause, King O.P pulled out a few pieces of paper from behind him. Records of telegrams sent to M.Bison; he recognised them immediately and his heart sank right into his metal boots. Those were delivery stubs taken at the palace gates, recording the details of any man delivering there. They obviously showed the fact that whilst none of them came from the same ‘person’ or were delivered by ‘the same person’ either; they were all from ‘the same company’.

 

Bison knew what they said. ‘The Company’ in question was one of the cover-names for Shadaloo operations within Redland. Organised crime hadn’t risen since the capture of the Higalan drug lord, but it hadn’t fallen by much either.

 

“I promise you, I haven’t been in contact with Shadaloo. Not a single telegram have I sent. You may check all my personal affairs, Sir.” There was still a chance that the King was stupid, and Bison wasn’t going to sell himself out to anyone. He was telling the truth after all; he’d not contacted Shadaloo – they’d contacted him!

 

King O.P wasn’t in the slightest bit stupid, however. His mental powers were quite on par with Bison’s own, and he could read what was going on here.

 

“So they’ve written to you, and in order to keep your clean sheet Bison, you’ve neglected to respond. How thoughtful.” The last word was said with utter distain.

 

Bison decided to shut up. He’d been rumbled that was for sure. There were no flies on King O.P; the man was a demi-god in his own right, a spirit with incredible powers already reborn from the grave once.

 

The now fully fit street fighter champion looked at the red carpet in front of him and said nothing. There was nothing to be said.

 

King O.P narrowed his eyes slightly, reading M.Bison’s body language loud and clear.

 

“What if I told you that part of the deal in your getting off of your sentence was that Shadaloo also did not contact you.”

 

M.Bison spoke again, quietly this time, “I didn’t know this. No one told me I wasn’t permitted to receive information from the outside. I got rid of all the letters straight away, burned them. It’s no longer an issue; a prince of Redland has no need of Shadaloo.”

 

King O.P raised his eyebrows decidedly at this comment.

 

“Prince, eh? Interesting that you invoke your rightful prince-hood whenever it suits you, Bison. Just because I married the woman who gave birth to you doesn’t mean you can confront my rules, or run Shadaloo from a prison cell, the palace or anywhere else you’ve been receiving mail whilst at. I am actively considering a yearlong ban on you receiving any form of written or oral messages from the outside. Do I make my feelings well clear on this subject? To say you’ve disappointed my trust would be an understatement.”

 

Damn him! The King was doing it to him again; manipulating his thoughts it seemed, somehow always managing to put him in his place. Making him feel like he was the bad guy.

 

M.Bison nodded, glumly. “You are clear, Sir. I am sorry for breaking your trust; I should have brought the messages to you long ago. I ask that you reconsider placing this ban, it would mean no contact with my son, and that would be too much to bear.”

 

*******************************************************************************************************

 

Shadow Bison, he thought. Yes, the kid meant the world to him now. Never thought he’d be the ‘fathering sort’ but it had happened by accident almost and now, Bison wasn’t complaining. His son was a strong fighter and swiftly following in his father’s footsteps. Aside from his business affairs through his new role as co-heir to the Throne in this land, and his illustrious street fighting career, his only son Max E. Bison was his whole life. Known as ‘Shadow’, for like his father before him, he practised the dark art known as ‘the shadow’.

 

Dark, simply because it involved channelling hate & rage into pure fighting energy. Ler Drit was one thing, the shadow was entirely another. With Ler Drit, M.Bison had knocked people around the fighting stages; but using the shadow he had burned them with his dreaded psycho energy.

 

For his son Shadow, it was little different. As far as he was concerned, he was to perfect his father’s dark technique and then prove he was the greatest fighter in the world. Being a Dan in Taekwondo only served to better his cause.

 

*******************************************************************************************************

 

 

“All right, Bison. You may receive transmissions of any kind from your son Shadow, but that is it. All transmissions will be checked for content beforehand until I am satisfied that you have learned to comply with my decision. Is that clear?”

 

Waking from his thoughts with a sudden jerk the stocky figure nodded, deeply bowing his head.

 

“As you command, Sir. There are several military matters that I must attend to, with your permission.” M.Bison thought a ‘thanks’ was probably in order, however he hated to say those words and he knew the King was aware of that, and normally didn’t push him in this area of ‘ps and qs’.

 

“Very well then, you are dismissed, Major Bison. Be sure I see the full report on those militia under your command before the week is out though.” King O.P relished the thought of how the attacks were going; M.Bison had proven to be a hidden talent on the battlefield and thus far his battlefield command has led sections of the Redland forces to quite strategic victories. Hence, his making him a ‘special Major’. A few steps down though from Bison’s Higalan Militia status of General.

 

With a final bow of his head, the giant man stood to his feet. King O.P couldn’t help but smile slightly, Bison was a good 7 feet tall or there abouts, comparing well to the average soldier who was typically between six foot and six ten.

 

However, it wasn’t his size that made him dangerous; it was his mastery of Ler Drit, the shadow and indeed his own psycho powers. Plus his build had improved since his prince-hood had been bestowed upon him, now he had full use of just about any gym he wanted, or any training equipment.

 

 

“Matthew, you’re in a world of trouble, boy! Haven’t I told you that the rules can’t be broken?! In this ‘ere country, knights rule. You wanted to be a feckin’ smart ass and make your money wheelin’ and dealin’, and now you’re complainin’ that the soldier boys get better stuff than you do at the school? Moron!”

 

His father’s fist caught Matthew Bison square in the jaw, and the boy’s lithe form flew back into the stone wall of their house. No one could punch faster than Bison could. No one would even dare; the man was a master of some form of energy which made his blows three times as effective. It also made his eyes glow certain colours depending on his mood – and right now they were a dull white, signifying rage.

 

Emmett just stood there, waiting for his turn which he knew would come as it always came. It seemed that Matthew would always be the first in everything, even in punishment. Silently, Emmett promised himself something as his own dark thoughts of hatred towards his father started to build up again: he’d noticed these of late since turning 17 and was starting to enjoy the feeling of darkness creeping upon him.

 

He swore to himself that Matthew would be the first of them both to face death, as well. Second though, to one other man.

 

Second to Bison himself. His father. The reason he was a ‘jock’, a Martial trainee and not a Knight-to-be, the reason he had failed the army’s physical tests; thanks to a beating the day before he was due to take them. And for what?! For sassing his brother over some minor thing. The injustice of it all!

 

At least Matt has chosen to be Martial; there was some honour in that. But no honour in failing the tests and being forced to train as a martial instead of taking his rightful place as part of the trainee Fortress Guard.

 

Emmett hated his father. Even now, as he looked at him, the man was wild, probably drunk too, judging by the foul stench of cheap ale coming from his dishevelled clothing. It wasn’t that Bison wasn’t rich; he had money and power to an extent. He just didn’t care, at least not anymore. His wife had been killed in an incident after a battle over money; he’d killed the other man in the makeshift ring easily with his ‘mystical fist’ attacks. The blue white fire engulfing his opponent’s head in the end and killed him.

 

However, the man’s brother in the crowd had suddenly burst into life, wielding a katana blade pulled from his cloak. Snarling on his way to get Bison, he’d slashed wildly, taking off an arm of one man who got in his way … and laying a deep gash right down the back of Bison’s wife.

 

She’d died minutes later; Higala wasn’t known for it’s paramedical response times.

 

Emmett could still remember being bundled away by his father’s friends, money and drugs being grabbed and voices shouting orders. Screams and cries came from behind as the man with the katana was shot dead by one of Bison’s henchmen, and the illegal fighting crowd dispersed in a hail of gunfire and screaming.

 

He could still picture his Mother’s face as she felt the warmish steel of the katana tear through her cloak and flesh. The surprise, the fear, the shock, the pain. There had been no honourable last words, no great death for her. She fell to the dirt with a strangled cry, and there she had died.

 

No honour in that. Knighthood, a life of service to the ruling Goth family? Emmett Bison decided it was better than any of this honourable fighting sh*t. He’d seen his father at work, it was all about the money and the power. The arts of fighting were simply a way to make a dollar whilst kicking the *ss of your worst enemy, as far as he could see.

 

“Emmett! Cummere, boy. You may be the youngest and the most impressionable, but you’re not thick. You didn’t have to copy Matt and get into more trouble again! You chose to! Well now son, I choose to punish your failure, pale white *ss!”

 

Emmett blinked in fear as he’d always done seconds before the blows began to rain down upon his body. He was well used to beatings from his father for failing, although he resented that remark. His father had failed HIM!

 

Yes! The hate brewed further and further, deeper and deeper. Yes! It was his FATHER who’d failed to protect his own wife from attack, and thus she’d died; his own Mother had died because of this fool! It was his father who had caused him to fail the tests for a career in the Army, his FATHER’s beating had cost him everything he held dear! It was his father every single damn time!

 

Emmett narrowed his eyes, which by now were pulsing with white light, although he could not tell nor see them, of course.

 

His father stepped back a pace for a moment, noticing the sudden change in his son’s face and wondering what was happening here. He knew the ability to control psycho power most likely was genetic to some extent; but he’d never really trained Emmett or Matthew in mastery of its use. There was no way Emmett could use it now…no way.

 

“YOU … failed … ME! ALLLLLL of us!!!” The boy’s scream erupted from deep within his soul, the darkness and hate, rage and anger all boiling over until at last his eyes flashed a brilliant white …

 

… and he dove headlong into his father’s midsection. He didn’t know why, he was moving without meaning, without intention, without logic. His rage was guiding his body forward, not so much in a punch which he’d seen his father do many times now

…but more so in a tackle, a headlong drive forward into the man’s guts.

 

A psycho crusher.

 

Not that Emmett knew what it was, and not that he pulled it off very well at all. His feet never fully left the ground and the white light only enveloped his body up to his shoulders; but that was quite enough to burn his father badly and send the larger man flying across their living room, crashing into the far wall, only to slump down to the ground below. Out cold, skin sore and burned, clothes singed and smoking in places.

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************

 

M.Bison strode meaningfully down the hallways of the royal palace once more, his feet making their usual, deep ‘clunk-chink-clunk’ of metal catches and armour sections atop of hard leather and steel. His military boots were just one more reason why you didn’t mess with M.Bison unless you wanted to loose half your face.

 

“Emmett?”

 

He stopped. No one called him that. No one except her.

 

“Mother, I…” He was cut short as she got to him, having rounded the nearby corner from another wing of the palace, and instantly she was in his arms, holding her once ‘baby boy’ close. For all his power and authority, the street fighter held his Mother gently. They were being watched by many a guard right now, but Bison didn’t give a duck. This was his Mother and they could all go to *ell.

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Aged 20 at this time, Matt was already settling with his girlfriend into a steady relationship, continually boasting of his sexual exploits with her to Emmett. His younger brother snorted, wanting no part in any of it. Women, cheap booze and sex, lies, drug dealing and dirty money. He’d seen where all this had got his father, and the boy wasn’t interested.

 

It was that fateful day, a Tuesday, that he’d never forget as long as he lived. His father slept in and just this once, Emmett decided to collect the mail. There was an important looking envelope marked with a bloodstain – Emmett knew what this meant. Drug trouble again!

 

Rushing to his father’s private quarters inside their home, he pulled down the catch on the giant doorframe, and slide the wooden door across.

 

A pale white shaft of light fell onto the bed before him, illuminating two figures, laid in each other’s arms.  One was his father, undressed save for a pair of purple shorts and still sporting bruises from Emmett’s assault, and the other was a woman who couldn’t have been much older than 35, with attractive, brown hair and a beautiful, calm face.

 

Emmett froze, then he screamed.

 

“Father! What?! WHY???” He saw before him the ultimate betrayal of his Mother.

 

His Father yelled at first, then fell silent as the woman squeezed his arm.

 

“You may as well tell him the truth about me, Bison. Tell him.”

 

With a growl, his father spoke roughly. “Ok kid, I guess you deserve to know the facts. This is the sister of the woman you saw killed in the arena, the woman who brought you up and raised you as her son.  But in truth, boy….she did that to keep honour in both our families.  The truth is…I knocked up Shirley here as well. This is your mother, the woman you saw die was your brother’s mother. It’s true boy…this is the woman who gave birth to you. I…I knocked both sisters up, you see. We hid this because the penalty for adultery in this town is death.”

 

Emmett just stared in horror, blinking again and again. Tears welled up in his eyes and the young man cried without moving or sound.

 

“But father…you own half this town! What with your filthy money, and your drugs and your fighting…you b*stard!”

 

The man in the bed sat upright with a sharp scowl.

 

“You watch your mouth, lad, or I’ll come over there and fill it with my fist.”  His eyes, glowing a dull whitish blue, showed that he meant business, and Emmett looked desperately at this woman now, for answers.

 

“Is it ...is it true?” He asked, softly, another tear rolling down his cheek.

 

She nodded, simply, and extended her arms despite her nakedness.

 

“Yes, it’s true Emmett. I am your real Mother, but I couldn’t let you know. You had to believe you were Cini, your aunt’s baby. It had to be Emmett, I’m sorry. If my Father had known Bison had given children to two of his daughters, he’d have sent word to The Master himself, Lord Goth, and Goth never tolerates such disgusting things, as he says they are. He’d have had your whole family butchered just for it, nothing else. Even your father’s budding little drug empire couldn’t have stopped The Master.”

 

This being true and he knew it, Emmett slowly slid towards the bed and into the arms of his ‘Mother’. Biologically so, at least.

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Despite his father’s renewed training of him in Ler Drit (his style), and teaching him to control his psycho powers, Emmett was unable to repeat his vile spear motion. His father was angry; never had he seen anything like that before, and never in his lifetime had he managed to contort the power enough to get it above his elbows.  Yet Emmett had!

 

Repeatedly he tried to coax Emmett into a rage, certain that would do it. But apparently the very best he could do was to master the ‘mystical fist’ attacks that his father sported so often.  In the end Bison put the ‘spear’ down to a one off fluke of the energies, and got Emmett as heavily involved as he could in helping him to traffic his shady deals, money, drugs and other criminal activities.

 

At first Emmett resisted. But the lure of women, power, money and endless highs soon overcame the young Higalan’s will power. The first time he used the stuff, it blew his mind and he had to go be sick for hours.

 

However, once was not enough. Determined to master all he touched now, Emmett began to get dependant on the thing. Opium became his source of rage for his fights and sure enough, his father began to push him into the dreaded betting games, where men fought sometimes to the death (or very close to!) for money, honour and the rights to land, houses and women.  It was a sick sport.

 

Matt couldn’t keep up. He simply couldn’t master the psycho powers at all, it seemed. Emmett and he began to fight regularly and soon, it was clear they could no longer co exist. Matt, being that he had a woman by this time, moved out and went to live with her.

 

Emmett never saw him again, during his reign.

 

For years, the young man grew into more of a mind and a machine. His military genius helped him up as one of the gang’s most successful traffic-ers. No one could push things forward the way he could, and since his father wasn’t getting any younger, the day finally came when he respectfully bowed out of the business, on the end of his son’s katana.

 

No one ever saw him again, either. Allegedly. Eventually, rumour had it that the man known simply as John Bison was killed in a drugs-related incident, a fight of some sort. Further rumours speculated that one of his sons had been involved in engineering the death and making sure it happened. However, no one knew where Matty Bison was anymore by this stage and as for Emmet - no one in their right mind would cross him! One way or the other, one thing was fairy certain. John Bison, the man with the feared punches, was assumed dead. His then-wife Shirley (John had taken her as his wife shortly after the death of Cini) was officially widowed.

 

Emmett was a ‘boy’s name’, so the strong, shady dealer had thought. His men swiftly learnt to refer to him only as ‘Bison’ or ‘Sir’. Those who knew him would call him simply ‘Em’.

Fairly swiftly, he began to sign himself 'M.Bison', since that was how it sounded phonetically anyhow, and also to disguise the fact that he was actually the younger of the two Bison brothers. No one had to know, did they? Elders always got more respect in Higala.

 

Bison grew slowly and steadily into a monster of a man. His twice daily workouts made him a pure machine of destruction; a living nightmare to contend with in the ring, should he bother to enter one.  His mystical psycho powers were legend enough that after some time, having become the most powerful drug lord in all of Higala and the neighbouring lands, the ruling Goth ‘The Master’ (Altensho Goth Jnr) summoned him to join his forces and become a military General for Higala in it’s bitter, never-ending war with rival, Redland.

 

By this time, M.Bison had been successfully running several cities out of his back pocket. The sheer power opium and his various other cargos allowed him over people was amazing.  He was feared wherever he went and at whatever he did. Street fighting was obvious; a man with punches that could burn through a solid wall was going to blitz the tournament!  And the money – well! The green eyed drug lord had no reason to turn it down.

 

His organisation had got to the size of a small army, and ran several businesses as cover, constantly on the move so that not even the Redland Police force could keep up with their movements. Shadaloo as he called it, named after his own lust of total rule over those he had power, and ‘the shadow’ was his personal name for the dark arts he was slowly but surely honing to perfection, the art of psycho power control.

 

The first year he entered the Street Fighter tournament, it was beyond easy. Only the White Dragon stood in his path, three times the champion. Before the man even got to the finals, Bison had him ‘taken care of’. This meant drugged, gagged, tied up and left somewhere he wouldn’t be found until long after the contest. Bison didn’t frankly care how he won, why waste valuable psycho powers when one could simply be smart?  That was his way.

 

So the title was his. Dressed in his full Shadaloo uniform (he’d forced his organisation to become militant ever since he’d gained the title General M.Bison from the Goth family who ruled Higala) the Dictator of several cities, drug lord and now street fighter champion’s face smiled, evilly. His emerald eyes sparkled with a taste of victory.

 

He’d enjoyed destroying the Karate-ka who’d dared to oppose him in the final. The child of 24 hadn’t stood a chance against the 30-year-old Bison. His devastating spear finally perfected in private training, thanks to the drugs and the facilities he could easily afford now – he’d decided to call it the ‘flaming torpedo’, until he learnt more about ‘the shadow’, as he called it. Already he was learning to distinguish the difference between his natural Ler Drit skills, and his supernatural ‘shadow’ powers.

 

*******************************************************************************************************

 

“How’s Max getting along, have you seen him? I heard he’s getting out of that awful school and joining a decent one after the King’s pardon.” His Mother’s voice cut through his dreams, but there was no anger in the man, now. Never for her was there rage.

 

“Max is just fine, I assure you. The boy is a star waiting to happen. He’s going to make me very proud some day.”

 

“Just like you have made me proud, you mean?”

 

At first, Bison thought she was being sarcastic and mean. One look at her eyes told him better; she meant every word she’d said. Certainly he’d not had the best start in life but it had all come good, hadn’t it? He was alive, healthy, single, raising a healthy young man to be a fine son and what’s more, he had been awarded a prince-hood by the Throne.  M.Bison, the son of the King’s new wife.

 

With a chuckle, the street fighter drew his Mother close with a huge arm, and led her away down the hall.

 

“Come and see my new quarters, Mother. I have a lot to show you and much to discuss.”

 

She nodded with a smile, and the pair left. The woman, narrowly into her 50s, didn’t look her age, since the Higalan & Redland races in general aged very slowly. Bison was more street weathered than she, and the drugs had made him look more his age.

 

However, the sight of this slight female being led off to Bison’s quarters by the huge seven footer was quite a spectacle to say the least!

 

The End

(so now you know about Bison…and now the rest!)