Black Power- The Superhero Anthology

by Balogun Ojetade

  Omar brought his gun up to eye level, the barrel squarely in Curtis’ face.

  “Omar…man, don’t do this,” Curtis uttered, “We’re boys, man.”

  “Omar’s not a boy anymore,” Big G whispered just loud enough for Curtis to catch.

  “I didn’t want it to end up like this, Curt. But this is how it’s gotta be.”

  Omar tensed and got ready to pull the trigger. What happened next was something no one on the roof would have predicted.

  Before Omar could pull the trigger, his gun was snatched from his hand in the blink of an eye.

  Omar and Curtis turned as one to regard the dark form of the Shadowboxer, radiating menace in their midst.

  The vigilante nonchalantly tossed the gun over his shoulder and out of sight.

  He then reached down and took Curtis’ gun. He tossed it like Omar’s.

  “Boys,” his voice was heavy with threat and anger, “Walk away. Now.”

  Stunned into silence, the boys slowly stepped back from the scene, making their way toward the door that led down into the apartment building. They broke out into a run, not unlike the five idiots harassing the woman earlier that night.

  Big G and the other Gods of War looked on in disbelief at the man standing in front of them. Not a single one moved a muscle, too wary to utter a word.

  All of the men on the roof, Shadowboxer and Big G included, stood in silence and waited for the door to close behind the boys.

  “You,” Shadowboxer started, “You have a lot to answer for, friend.”

  Big G found his voice, “Friend? Man, I don’t know you. I don’t kick it with freaks in pajamas.”

  A couple of his men chuckled nervously.

  “Now, this is how it’s going to go,” Shadowboxer started, “You and your boys here are going to head over to the 114th and turn yourselves in. You won’t stop for drinks. You won’t call your mother. You won’t even put gas in your tank. What you’ve done here is unforgivable and you’re going to pay.”

  A tense moment passed after Shadowboxer completed his instructions.

  Then all of the Gods of War, including Big G, burst into raucous laughter. Some even clutched their sides, slapped their knees, and stomped their feet.

  “You, you,” Big G could barely stifle his laughter long enough to form words, “You’ve got to be the craziest son of a bitch I met in this town, man. You walk up here, dressed like it’s damn Halloween, and then you tell me, you tell the damn God of War, that he’s going to do what, now? What did he say, Vinny?”

  Vinny, a large, heavyset man that looked to be in his late twenties, stepped forward to stand between Big G and Shadowboxer and forced himself to stop laughing long enough to answer his boss. “He said, he said, he wanted us to snitch on ourselves.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Big G said in a sober tone, his voice even and measured.

  Shadowboxer was far from amused.

  “I’ll be honest with you,” Shadowboxer started, “I was really hoping that you’d answer the way you did. See, I haven’t had a chance to blow off any steam tonight and you boys, you pushed me over the edge. I’m going to enjoy this.”

  Vinny reached for his gun. Well, to be fair, he made the decision to reach for his gun. His brain sent the impulse to the nerves in his right arm to reach for the gun. But, sadly for the gang member, the message took too long. Shadowboxer, moving faster than any of the men’s eyes could follow, punched Vinny squarely in the face with enough force to send the overweight man sailing past Big G and landing at the feet of his comrades. He was out cold.

  “So, I gathered from your conversation with those boys,” Shadowboxer started, adjusting his glove for added effect, “That you’re new in town. I guess I get to be the welcoming committee.”

  The Gods of War looked down at Vinny, unable to believe that any man could move that fast or hit that hard.

  “Now, you boys can either step up one at a time or all at once. Honestly, I don’t care.”

  The men didn’t look like they were in a hurry, so Shadowboxer obliged.

  He dashed past Big G, having decided to save him for last, and waded into the eight remaining Gods of War. The men were all in reasonably good shape but “reasonably good” doesn’t mean a thing against a seasoned combatant with peak human strength, endurance, speed, and reflexes.

  The only advantage they had was in their numbers and that wasn’t going to last very long. Shadowboxer learned early on that he had to hit hard, hit fast, and aim to make every punch he threw what his old coach Bernard “Smiley” Cokely called a “one hitta quitta.”

  What started out as eight full-grown men was reduced to a pile of moaning, groaning, and bleeding heaps in less than twenty seconds.

  He stood over the unconscious Gods of War. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  Bang!

  He immediately regretted his arrogance, but he regretted the searing pain in his left shoulder even more.

  Shadowboxer had gotten cocky. He was so used to dictating the terms of combat, of dominating his enemies, that he allowed himself to get taken by surprise.

  Of course, Big G had a gun!

  Hell, all of them probably had guns on them. He had just been too fast, too intimidating, for any of them to remember. Big G had nearly twenty seconds to remember he had a gun and a target too busy beating the hell out of his men to look over his shoulder.

  “It’s a good thing you’re wearing black, man. You’re already dressed for your funeral.”

  Shadowboxer ignored the pain. He’d been shot before, by bigger guns than that. Besides, his suit took the brunt of the hit. He’d be feeling it tomorrow but, for tonight, right at this moment, he had more than enough adrenaline to get him through.

  “You should’ve just gone down to the precinct,” Shadowboxer stated flatly.

  “And you should’ve just minded your own damn business!”

  Big G emptied the clip at Shadowboxer.

  Shadowboxer proved to be a very difficult target in the dead of night, garbed in black, and moving faster than any man Big G had ever seen outside of a kung fu flick. He was out of bullets faster than he thought he’d be and standing face to face with the man that just knocked eight of his best men down like dominoes.

  “Now,” Shadowboxer intoned grimly, “Where were we?”

  If Big G had any hope of answering, it was dashed with the lightning fast uppercut that sent him reeling.

  But that punch wasn’t nearly as surprising as the fact that Big G was still standing after the blow.

  “Man, you got nice hands, alright,” Big G complimented, spitting blood and checking his jaw, “You hit like a truck.”

  Shadowboxer took a step back and realized that, for the second time in two minutes, he had underestimated this man, this Big G.

  “Wanna know what the G stands for?” the crook offered.

  Shadowboxer didn’t bother to reply.

  “Ah, come on, man. You had all that mouth earlier. Now you want to be the strong, silent type?”

  Big G started to unzip his jacket.

  “See, I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of exercise out here in these streets. You hit folks like that, they don’t stay up very long. But, all of those hard punches made you soft, man.”

  Big G dropped his coat to the ground at his feet, leaving him in just a tank top in the chill autumn air.

  “But I can guarantee you that you’ve never faced a brother like Goliath.”

  There were two things that Shadowboxer never questioned: his fists and his eyes. But tonight, facing off against this two-bit gangbanger had him doubting both. He squinted his preternaturally sharp eyes, unable to really process what he was seeing. The crime fighter couldn’t possibly be watching as this man’s muscles not only gained definition but also mass. He was growing before his very eyes.

  In short order his mass and density had increased so much that the roof beneath his boots was starting to crack under the pressure.

  “Wha
t are you,” Shadowboxer asked, sure to keep his guard up in the face of this dangerous unknown.

  Big G, Goliath, just chuckled, “I’m a, watcha call it, a ‘Variant.’ I can turn up my muscles, getting stronger and tougher. I was born like this.”

  Shadowboxer knew what a Variant was, a person born with superhuman power and potential. Some claimed they were the next stage in human evolution, others an offshoot of the human race altogether. But the common consensus was that they were dangerous.

  And this “Goliath” didn’t seem very different from popular opinion.

  “So, wanna finish this, hero?”

  Shadowboxer had to rethink his stance. He had tangled with a few super powered opponents in the past. Nothing too dangerous, mostly folks that tossed around lighting or controlled minds. Pretty basic stuff. For all of their powers they still had glass jaws. But he hadn’t had the “good fortune” of taking on an opponent in a different weight class altogether.

  But he wasn’t the type to back down from any fight.

  Shadowboxer lunged forward, leading with his right. His fist slammed solidly into Goliath’s face. The Variant smiled.

  “Really?” the strong man taunted.

  Shadowboxer barely moved in time to duck a swipe of the Variant’s left arm. He could feel the violent ripples in the air in the wake of the swing. One hit, he knew, would end this fight and more than likely his life.

  He threw himself back into the melee. He threw lefts, rights, and uppercuts. All to no avail. He was sure to keep an eye on the bigger man’s hands, avoiding his punches, swipes, lunges, grabs, and the like.

  Dancing back, he had to not only catch his breath but also flex his fingers. His heaviest blows had only served to numb his own hands, even through the reinforced gloves.

  “I could do this all day, man. What about you?” Goliath goaded.

  “So could I,” Shadowboxer replied.

  Goliath looked visibly annoyed.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You’ve got me in strength,” Shadowboxer explained, “And you can definitely take a hit.”

  Goliath cocked an eyebrow.

  “But you’re too slow, Goliath. You couldn’t hit me if we kept this up all week. You’re not even worth the fight.”

  Shadowboxer turned his back on the muscle-bound Variant and started strolling toward the edge of the roof.

  “I took your men out,” he continued without bothering to pay Goliath the respect of looking him in the eyes, “I put them on their backs. I might not be able to do that to you but I can promise you one thing: you won’t be able to do a damn thing in this city without looking over your shoulder, waiting for me to sucker punch you back into the gutter.”

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me,” Shadowboxer replied without breaking his stride.

  Shadowboxer couldn’t help but smile when the telltale thundering of a charging Goliath rang out behind him. The fool had taken the bait.

  Shadowboxer proved to be much too fast and too cunning for the enraged Variant. In one fluid motion he sidestepped the giant’s outstretched arms, drew his grapple gun, fired it at the roof to anchor it, and slipped past Goliath to entangle him in the high-tensile line.

  What resulted was an overly muscled piñata dangling off the side of the building, stressing the grapple gun’s two-ton test line.

  “Let me up,” Goliath bellowed, fear in his voice, “Let me up!”

  “I don’t know,” Shadowboxer taunted, “That shot to the shoulder really weakened my grip, Goliath. I don’t know how long I can hold you here.”

  The truth was that the grapple gun was doing most of the work. But Shadowboxer wasn’t going to tell Goliath that.

  “You need to power down, I have a better chance of pulling you up when you don’t weigh as much.”

  “Alright, alright.”

  Shadowboxer felt the line slacken up gradually over the course of about ten seconds.

  Good to know, Shadowboxer thought, gaining a better understanding of who and what he was up against.

  He slowly reeled Goliath back up onto the roof.“Man,” Goliath started, “Thank…”

  The gang leader was interrupted by a flurry of blows. Shadowboxer hit him harder and faster than he ever dared to hit another human being.

  Without his extra mass and muscle, Goliath went down like a ton of bricks.

  “Bastard,” Shadowboxer muttered, dragging the heavy man over to the center of the roof where the rest of the still unconscious Gods of War were.

  He double tapped his mask’s communicator.

  “Nine-one-one; what’s your emergency?” came a woman’s voice on the other end of the line.

  “Hi, I’d like to report some shots fired on the roof of the Yellowbrook Apartments. I think I saw the Shadowboxer up there fighting with some gangbangers and a super strong Variant. I think you need to send somebody to check it out.”

  “Okay, sir, can you stay…”

  Shadowboxer cut the call short. He considered himself the city’s protector but he wasn’t too fond of getting involved with the cops. His Guild membership got him a few privileges and the cops looked the other way every now and then but, if he was being honest, he didn’t quite trust Bay City’s police department. There were more than a few issues to work out there.

  Besides, as he stretched his wounded shoulder, he wasn’t in any condition to hang around and give a police report. He needed to get home, get in an ice bath, and hit the sheets.

  He had a busy day ahead and an even busier night.

  “And someone’s going to have to talk to Curtis about the company he keeps…”

  Shadowboxer took a running leap from the building and swung off into the night.

  BLACK LICORICE

  Keith Gaston

  Chapter One

  Fallen Hero

  James Baldwin once said, “To act is to be committed, and to be committed is to be in danger.”

  Those words couldn’t ring truer; especially in my case. I was once committed to being a superhero. Using my abilities, I’d saved countless lives, and I believed I was making a difference in the world. It was all a terrible lie.

  Once upon a time, I was a husband and a father. I couldn’t save my family. Those who witnessed their murders did nothing but watch. I had been committed to protecting the city, but they’d turned their backs on me.

  Now I’d turned my back on them.

  ***

  Despite the warm weather, I threw on an olive drab coat I’d purchased at a military clothing outlet before heading out. I followed my ritual of hiding my face. Draped, cowl-like under the thick hoodie, it gave off a Grim Reaper vibe. The ensemble completed my appearance of looking like a war-ravaged veteran who hadn’t quite adjusted to civilian life. People tended to provide a wide berth for someone who might snap at the harmless blast of a car backfiring.

  Walking with my head lowered, it was an extra precaution I took to have people avoid identifying me. That was the problem these days, absolutely everyone recognized me. All thanks to an obstinate investigative reporter who discovered my true identity and aired it nationally. Not one day passed by that I didn’t dream of paying a visit to the reporter’s home and doing to her what my enemies had done to my family.

  It would be easy too. I had the power. No one could stop me – no one but myself. Murdering her would profane my son’s memory of who he wanted me to be. It was because of him I became a hero in the first place. He’d collect news clippings of violent crimes throughout the city and present them to me, insisting I could’ve done something to prevent those offenses. Finally I gave in to his wishes.

  I fought on the side of light for years and saved many lives. Simultaneously, I’d made plenty of powerful enemies too. Being a superhero wasn’t like the movies. Battles led to trace evidence being left at locations. The police and the media appreciated my help and regularly ignored any fibers, hair, or blood that could have lead straight to me. As
long as I didn’t cross the line they were content knowing I was out there when they needed me to beat back whatever evil threatened the city.

  Faith Copeland, an ambitious reporter, had changed that implicit agreement. She had aspirations of becoming world renown and, blinded by her greed for fame, she sought the truth of who I was. It took time and resources that most people didn’t have, but finally she found what she sought. When her employers rejected her story to protect me, she released everything on the web, including the school my son attended.

  Some of my minor enemies, who’d never had the power to hurt me physically, heard the news. What Copeland told the world gave them a way of hurting me and they’d jumped at the opportunity, descending on the school like a plague. My wife, Catherine, was walking our child, Xavier, to the car like she had done every weekday when my enemies surrounded them. Those bastards could have made my family’s death quick, but they didn’t, because they wanted me to suffer.

  I’d found their battered, blood-soaked bodies lying in the street. The crowd had caught footage of every second of the attack on their cell phones and posted it online commenting on how tragic it all was. Not one of them had even shouted for my wife and son’s attackers to stop, let alone lifted a finger to help. My persona as the Night Siege died that day with my family. Copeland got her fame at the cost of my wife and son’s lives. One day I may not be able to hold back the tide that raged inside of me – one day I may not want to.

  Someone bumped me. I didn’t even register the collision. It is his shout of pain that snapped me out of my thoughts. He rubbed the shoulder that collided with mine, his face a mask of pain and anger.

  “Dude, watch where you’re going,” he spat. “What are you wearing under that coat, an armor suit?”

  “I’m sorry,” I replied before striding away from him.

  The last thing I wanted was to attract any undue attention. I jaywalked, ignored the speeding cars going both directions, and made a beeline toward the only party store within walking distance of the place where I was living. I’d dodged oncoming traffic with practiced skill honed over years of fighting bad people. It was second nature to me and I scarcely gave my actions any thought.