But, it wasn’t the only pithos. Nikia had been adorned with many. Her costume, though in constant flux, was a combination of the Greek robes of her predecessors. She modernized her look by wearing black leggings and soft boots. She was covered with jewelry, bracelets, anklets, toe rings, rings on her fingers and necklaces of various lengths. Nikia’s plethora of adornments sported hidden compartments, lockets and charms – all miniature pithos. Contained within the mini-urns, were seeds of hope, faith, truth and the deadly whims of a Pandora. The Pandora stayed prepared.
Smack! Black Russian was so preoccupied with torturing Nikia that it was only a matter of time that she would find a way to defeat him. Nikia wiggled her hands and wrists, readying herself to open a locket on her bracelet with her fingertips.
Black Russian foolishly continued his diatribe, never noticing.
Nikia interrupted him “What’s the matter Black Russian? You really don’t have the balls to kill a woman, do you? You profess to hate me but I don’t believe you. I think I remind you of your mother. Maybe it’s an Oedipus thing? Do you secretly love me? Maybe that’s why you go out of your way to find women who are the opposite of her.”
Bang! Black Russian struck Nikia again. “What did you say?” he spat, with fire in his eyes.
Nikia pressed on, “Your mother, she was the bench mark, wasn’t she? The catalyst, you couldn’t please her no matter what you did? Your Russian blood overrode your Black blood, didn’t it? Maybe you love white women and hate black women ‘cuz…” Nikia paused and looked down from his eyes to his crotch and continued, “…ya’ just don’t measure up.”
Black Russian was incensed. He turned around and flipped over the table and kicked the chair. He punched a wall, cracking the concrete. Nikia was witnessing a full-blown tantrum from this man. He eventually came for Nikia. He was ready to kill her.
Touching the lock was all she needed to do. The small pithos swung open quickly, and the first demons appeared. Demons of self-hatred swirled around Black Russian, tormenting his mind. They brought to light every loathsome doubt and thought he had about himself and his people. He screamed, swinging wildly. His fists merely wisped through the demons. They swirled, dissipated and reappeared as smoky apparitions, more wretched and abominable than before.
With a subtle flick of her fingers, she tapped another charm and the sprites of pride appeared while the demons returned to their urn. Multitudes of the small creatures that bore the faces of long past freedom fighters beset upon the Black Russian, overwhelming him.
Black Russian fought at them, cursed them, but nothing he did could sway or slow their taunts and tortures. They crawled up his body, seemingly tearing at his skin. When each arrived at his head and face, they bore through his ears, eyes and mouth. His anguish was an incredible sight to behold.
Nikia, the Pandora, was not finished yet.
Nikia’s final salvo was an army of women, led by Black Russian’s mother. These women bore the faces of every woman of color he had ever known – relatives, friends, classmates, colleagues, even the women he rejected, slighted, insulted and harmed. They were armed with weapons from every era of war – spears, knives, swords, pistols, rifles, and machine guns. Wave after wave, they marched in battle formation, riddling his body with deft blade strikes and bullets of every caliber. When it was over, Black Russian was bleeding, lying on the floor in pain and dying.
Moments later, the room cleared, leaving just Nikia and Peter. She was still trussed up and vulnerable on the large X shaped cross and Peter, the Black Russian, remained on the floor, a shivering mass of a broken man. There was no more bravado or brash cockiness, just a shell. When he finally looked up at Nikia all he saw was his mother’s face.
Peter, the Black Russian, silently wept. He gazed at Nikia who bore his mother’s face.
She gave him a stern look and spoke in his mother’s voice. “Peter, why are you lying on the floor like that? Be strong; learn from your mistakes son. Get up, come over her and untie your mother. I got things to do baby!”
Peter rose, he checked his person and found no physical injuries. He calmly walked over to Nikia and released her, without speaking. He watched as she gathered her things and headed to the exit.
She turned, walked back to him. From her tiptoes she kissed him on the forehead and spoke again, “Now you behave yourself boy.”
Peter’s silent tears continued to flow as he watched his long since dead mother exit the dungeon.
The door slammed shut. Nikia stood on the other side, bruised but back to her old self. She triumphantly departed, never to be seen again.
SHADOWBOXER: NEUTRAL CORNERS
Adeatoyshe J. Heru
“Alright, Curtis…how about a three piece?”
A right jab. A left jab. A second right.
“Nice. Nice. Okay. Work the body.”
A strong right to the middle, followed by a second, a third, a fourth.
“Yeah, yeah. That’s it. Just like that.”
A left to the middle – hard enough to actually budge the bag this time.
Clayton smiled.
“What,” the fourteen year old asked the much larger man standing behind the punching bag, “Why you got that look on your face?”
“Nothing. No reason,” Clayton lied. The truth was that he was proud of the kid. Curtis Barrows didn’t have much going for him. He was small for his age, not much of a student, he got next to no attention from the girls, but he had one thing in his favor, something Clayton knew all about: the boy was a fighter.
“You sure,” Curtis fired back at his trainer and mentor quizzically.
“Yeah. Hundred percent. Tell you what. Let’s wrap it here for the day. You’ve put in some good work?”
“Thanks, Mr. Cassidy.”
“C’mon, Curt. We’ve been over this. It’s ‘Clay’ or it’s nothing. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Clayton’s face went rigid with annoyance.
“I meant ‘Clay’. Yes, Clay.”
“Good. Now get out of those gloves, get packed up, and head home. You know your folks are going to worry if you’re not home by the time that street light turns on.”
“Tell me about it,” the teen replied, offering his hands out to Clayton to pull off the gloves so that he could get to work on the tape on his hands underneath.
Clayton obliged and, with a strong pat on Curtis’ shoulder, said, “You really are getting it, man. I’ve seen a huge improvement the last couple of weeks. You keep this up and you’ll be something dangerous.”
“Thanks, that means a lot coming from the champ.”
Clayton laughed in spite of himself. He hadn’t been anyone’s “champ” for about two and a half years, not since running afoul of some gangsters put an end to all of that and set him on his current path. He couldn’t really complain, he told himself. After all, if things hadn’t shaken out the way they did he wouldn’t be here, in his own gym, working to set kids like Curtis on the right track. He wouldn’t be the man who spends his time outside of the gym making his city safer, one punch at a time.
“Go on, head on back and get your stuff. You’re losing daylight.”
Curtis took off in a hurry, a bundle of energy after spending an hour and some change wailing on a bag that weighed three times his own weight.
“Matter of fact, all of you need to be winding down,” Clay called out to no one and everyone in the Ring Leader Gym and Fitness Center, his place of business, home, and base of operations, “It’s coming up on closing time. You don’t have to go home but you need to get your butts out of here!”
A chorus of “You got it, Champ;” “Sure thing, Clay;” and other affirmations, came flooding over him. He ran a tight ship and every patron of the Ring Leader knew good and well that Clay only had to say something once… if at all.
All at once they dropped gloves and weights, started putting away equipment and gear, and went about the business of making themselves scarce so that Clayton Cassidy could put his gym – hi
s baby – to bed.
He started his walk toward his office, passing poster after poster and fight card after fight card. He was featured on a few of them – well, more than a few of them – and he’d done very well for himself. A guy his size, with his strength and range, shouldn’t have been able to slip past all of those blows but he did. And he made it look easy, like his opponent was boxing his shadow.
He smiled for what had to be the thousandth time that day.
That was a good life. But this… this was a good life too.
The only thing stopping it from being great was the endless parade of self-destructive, self-hating, and overall selfish jackasses that wanted to turn his town into a warzone day in and day out.
He hadn’t started his “retirement” taking those folks on. That hadn’t been part of the plan. It just… happened that way. But here he was, a man on a mission, with nothing to lose but his temper.
And the longer the gym’s doors stayed open, the longer it was going to be before he could get to work.
“Hey Boss Man,” a voice broke his reverie.
It was Rudy Gray, the gym’s manager and one of Clay’s first students and patrons. He was a good man with a good head on his shoulders but a right hook that left a lot to be desired.
There are some things even a champ can’t help, Clayton mused.
“What’s got you in such a good mood, man,” Rudy inquired, noticing the obvious wry grin that passed over his long time friend and employer’s face.
“Nothing, Rude. Wassup?”
“Nothing crazy. I just wanted to let you know I can stay a bit later today to lock up in case you, you know, you need to get an early start on those extracurriculars of yours.”
Clay’s smile faded.
“What have I told you about talking about that in public; even the gym?” Clay admonished through clenched teeth.
“Sorry, man. I forgot.”
Clay shot his friend an annoyed look. To his credit, Rudy didn’t shy away… much.
“But the offer still stands,” the younger man started again, undeterred by a little browbeating.
Clay softened his expression as best he could. He liked Rudy. He had to in order to spend most of the daylight hours with him and to cut him a check every two weeks. But more importantly, he trusted the young man. He trusted him to run his business when he wasn’t around, to represent him and the gym with the clientele, and most importantly, to tell him about his second life as Shadowboxer, Bay City’s Punishing Pugilist.
Clayton Cassidy, former heavyweight contender and the most talented prized fighter of his generation, moonlighted as the black-clad nocturnal vigilante feared throughout the city for his relentless pursuit of justice and a haymaker that could drop a raging bull. He helped the weak and disenfranchised, the preyed upon of the city, punch above their weight.
“I appreciate it, man, I do. But it shouldn’t take too long to get everything squared away and head upstairs for a bite to eat before hitting the town. You go on home. Get some rest. You gotta be back here early in the morning anyway.”
“Alright; you’re the boss. Hit the town a few times for me too, while you’re at it.”
“Will do, Rude,” Clayton chuckled. “Will do.”
The two friends shared a handshake and a quick hug and then Rudy made his way back toward the door where his bag waited for him. Clayton watched him and the last patrons make their exit and then turned to take a look at his gym.
The former fighter had every reason to be proud of the place. He had spent the lion’s share of his winnings to buy the property, fix it up, and outfit it with some of the most state of the art equipment on the market. It took a while to get everything he thought he’d need to have Bay City’s number one gym and fitness center but he put up the money and the gym hasn’t had a single slow day yet. In fact, business was so good that he thought about opening up a new location or two in the next year.
But the ellipticals, speed bags, weights, and such weren’t the only pieces of equipment he had brought in. Just twenty-five feet below, in the Ring Leader’s sub-basement, which just so happened to be missing from the building’s plans, Clayton had constructed a mini command center – a hub where he could not only store his costume and equipment and lick his wounds after those particularly rough nights, but also where his satellite uplink to the Crusader’s Guild of America’s supercomputer was housed. From his hideout, he was able to conduct his war on crime away from the prying eyes of friends, family, customers, and building inspectors.
He was serious about cleaning up his city. He had lived there his entire life. It had taught him how to fight and, more importantly, given him a reason to.
An hour later, the gym was locked up tight. Clayton had enjoyed a quick meal of broiled chicken, wild rice, and asparagus, and made his way down to his hideout via the secret elevator in his bedroom closet.
The room lit up when he stepped off of the elevator, acknowledging his return. A fairly large space – outfitted with computers, a first aid station, a shower, a twin bed, and just about everything a vigilante on the go might need – he didn’t really need the lights to navigate his way around it. Even if he had not memorized the room’s layout, his one superhuman ability – his power to see in absolute darkness – made light sources unnecessary for him.
It wasn’t an ability he bragged on all that much. Not that he was ashamed of it, mind you. In fact, this super power had saved his life, and the lives of others, time and again. He could see clear as day in the dead of night. A cavern a mile underground would appear as bright as Main Street at midday to him.
What he hated was how he came upon his gift.
Back in his boxing days, back when he was a young upstart with a very real shot at the title, he made a few wrong turns after meeting some even more wrong people. He was asked to throw a fight; he threw some hard punches instead. For his trouble, he was drugged, just in time to test positive for performance-enhancing drugs and to lose his shot at the belt.
What no one counted on, not Clayton or the monsters that ruined him, was Clayton having an adverse reaction to whatever they shot him up with. He lost his vision for a few days but it slowly returned and it was better than ever, especially at night. Consumed with rage and having gone too long without hitting someone that deserved it, Cassidy hit the streets in a ski mask and beat the truth out of his assailants.
A few nights of “rough housing” later and he put everything back in place. But he couldn’t deny how good it felt to make those crooks face the music. It felt better than anything, even being in the ring. That was when he decided.
He wouldn’t give up fighting but he would give up fighting for just himself. He saw, first-hand, how dark the city’s shadows could get. Someone had to be there to stand guard.
Snapping back to the present, he made the short walk across the room and stood in front of the fifty-five inch high definition monitor. A few keystrokes on a keyboard to his right and he drew up a glowing blue digital map of Bay City, his hometown and stomping grounds. Another press of a button and the map changed, some of the blue portions changing to red to indicate emergencies, crimes in progress, and the like. Ten “hot spots” overall.
“Another quiet night in the BC,” Clayton muttered to himself as he scrolled through each of the incidents. Three house fires, two fender benders, four bar brawls, and a 911 call for an elderly woman complaining of heart troubles. The local authorities were already on scene or on their way to each of the locations.
He was actually relieved.
His city could be a brutal and unforgiving place; the kind of town that hits below the belt and never waits for the bell. Good parents and boxing had spared him the brunt of it but he knew better than most that this was a land of no return more often than not.
Since there wasn’t any situation that demanded his particular skill set, he figured he’d take to the rooftops for a patrol. Usually, he ran into the most action when he wasn’t headed to any crisis in partic
ular. And, unfortunately, he never had to venture too far afield from the Ring Leader.
He tapped a couple buttons and got a read on Bay City’s weather forecast for the night. With winter right around the corner he wasn’t surprised to see that it was going to be a cool night.
“Good thing the suit’s got some insulation,” he said to no one as he made his way over to the closet. He pressed his right hand against the biometric reader and waited patiently as it scanned his fingerprints, body heat, pulse, and other unique biological rhythms to verify his identity.
He would have been just as happy to keep his suits in a footlocker but the Crusader’s Guild insisted that members keep their costumes and gear under lock and virtual key. That way, even if someone did stumble upon his hideaway they’d have to work extra hard to get at any weapons or gear he kept down there.
The automatic door slid open with a quiet hiss and its internal illumination revealed his collection of costumes, all hanging and waiting on him.
“Alright. Time to hit the town.” He chuckled at his favorite pun.
He stripped his tee shirt and shorts, taped his hands, and slipped into the all-black bulletproof body suit he wore every night. It fit like a glove and, even though it took him a while to get used to throwing uppercuts, jabs, and crosses in formfitting pajamas, he couldn’t argue with the way it stopped a nine-millimeter round, fired from ten feet away, in its tracks. The suit’s ebony coloring made it even easier to sneak around in the dark city and take down the criminals without them being any wiser.
He slipped on the full-face mask as the finishing touch. He wiggled and flexed his fingers in his gloves, reassured by the additional weight in the knuckles.
He took inventory of his utility belt and pouches, noting his standard issue Guild grapple gun, lock picks, spare keys, cash, and first aid kit were all in place. He learned early on that he needed more than his fists out there on the street… even if it wasn’t much more than his fists.
Satisfied that he was ready for the night, he turned and made his way toward the back of the room. The hideout had a secret exit to match its secret entrance. He pressed a combination of buttons on the keypad next to the reinforced steel door and made his way out to the tunnels beyond.
Black Power- The Superhero Anthology Page 23
