 What seems to be the Scorpion's motivation?
CALL HIM NEMESIS By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and, for that matter, so do the cops! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] There was Mr. Featherhall at his desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollars dimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his father in the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels, withdrawing money from her savings account again. From the ground up, they all wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers, brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefs over the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulled low over their eyes. The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-two calibre pistol from his jacket pocket. One of the others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, and said to him in a low voice, "Think about retirement, my friend." The third one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walked quickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it with money. The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall and the customers all over against the back wall, while the second man stayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The man with the satchel came running around from behind the counter, and the man by the door tried to keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. She fell unconscious to the floor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front, in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine. Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenly started jouncing around. "What I can't figure out," said Stevenson, "is exactly what made those tires do that. "Still and all, it's nutty. "And that doesn't make sense, either," said Stevenson. Except that in the trunk lid the owner had burned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half a block away." "If I'm making just a quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any one customer—I always leave the keys in the car.
 They hate criminals and work as a vigilante, punishing people as they see fit.
 They want people to know their name and fear them, hence leaving their mark at every crime.  They are indiscriminately attacking people in various situations.  They hate criminals and work as a vigilante, punishing people as they see fit.  They want to cause trouble because they are actually The Scorpions, a group of juvenile delinquents.