"Ya snitched, ya dirty punk--SHUT UP!--ya snitched, sent my dog to the pen--life, no doubt. An' since you stole his life, I'm stealin' yours right now."
After the hammer on the pistol clicked back, the only sound that came from this desolate, nighttime Brooklyn alley was that of Tyrell "Marsh" Marshall's sobs as he pleaded desperately for his life.
Poor fool had broken the code of these streets--he knew it, and his angry executioner knew it--
--Black Marvel knew it, too, but he wasn't about to let this kid die tonight. If it was true--if he HAD snitched on one of Brooklyn's dealers--then it was probably the only thing he had ever done right in his miserable ghetto existence. And Black Marvel rewarded good deeds, even those performed by knuckle-draggers like this "Marsh".
He knew he would have his hands full with this situation, too, though--and he welcomed that fact. The gun-toting, jewel-laden, block-running, tall, black gangster known Brooklyn-wide as Darren "Top Cat" Carter was a sure-shot, and not just when he was about to pump a round into the back of some helpless kid's head from two feet away, either.
In his brief time as a costumed street-patriot, Black Marvel hadn't yet had the pleasure of facing Top Cat. But tonight, not only would the two meet, but Top Cat would end up in prison, and Black Marvel would perhaps live a little easier having cleaned yet another piece of garbage from these death-littered streets.
"Drop the piece, Carter," he warned in his firm, gruff voice as he stepped out from behind the corner and into the alley.
Carter looked up from his sniveling prey and measured Black Marvel's pitch-black outfit and boots, brightened only by the dark gold overshorts he wore and the caucasian tone around his mouth and squared jaw not surrounded by his dark cowl. And then, Carter noticed his metal asp glistening under the moonlight, and he chuckled.
"Who're you?"
"I'm the shadow in the dark, my friend. I'm a bad, bad man. But you're worse, and that's why I'm taking you down."
"Fool...please...!"
Carter carelessly raised his pistol up and took two shots at Black Marvel--
--both of them impeded with two CLANG!s as they ricocheted off of Black Marvel's asp.
And as swiftly as Black Marvel had blocked the bullets, he chucked his asp at the vulnerable "Marsh", clocking him in the head and dropping him to the ground. The kid was safe now in Dreamland--no doubt the blow had hurt him, but it wasn't anything he hadn't experienced before, Black Marvel wagered--and if he HADN'T been exposed to that kind of pain before, no doubt he probably SHOULD have been.
Frustrated, Carter stepped briskly toward Black Marvel, firing rounds all the while, though Black Marvel sidestepped his aim quickly enough to escape death. And then, Black Marvel took the bulletless Carter by the arm and flung him into the brick wall of the alley, forcing a pathetic grunt from the once-proud gangster.
As soon as Carter escaped Black Marvel's grasp, that honorless ghetto pride made him stay for a few moments as he resisted the temptation to run in fear. But when he gazed into Black Marvel's deep blue eyes, and saw the determination that had been planted in them months ago, and had just now sprouted, his gut got the better of him and, finally, he scurried down the street--
--and Black Marvel followed.
Through the lifeless projects they ran, and while Carter knew these streets better, Black Marvel had gotten a feel for them these past few months, AND he was faster on foot.
After only a block, he had gained enough ground behind Carter to reach him. But, just before his black-gloved hand could take hold of Carter's dark jacket, he heard the moan of helicopter propellers overhead, followed by the grating sound of a hail of bullets pouring down. And then, he felt the streak of one of those bullets tear through the back of his right leg, hobbling him until he finally fell to the ground.
Somehow, Carter had not been hit--some guys get all the luck. Now he wasn't running from Black Marvel, but from whoever was in the chopper, showering him in its searchlight.
Once the speeding helicopter lowered itself no more than ten feet from the empty, inner-city street and continued to chase Carter, Black Marvel rose to his feet and attempted to trail them both, despite his disabled leg and wounded pride. As he got a closer look at the chopper, he realized that these weren't the cops, or even the Feds. Looked private--decked out in black with the words, "HOPE CITY, RUD." painted in white across the side. One pilot. The sides were open, and two rifle-carrying, ski-masked men poked their heads over the side, keeping Carter in their sights. It was obvious they didn't want to kill him, though, or else the street tough's guts would have been scattered along the block by now.
Desperate to get to the bottom of this, Black Marvel took hold of one of the low-flying 'copter's landing rods and let it carry him to the target they shared: Carter.
Finally, Carter turned a corner, and the helicopter reacted as fast. However, this ride was meant for a jungle environment, Black Marvel determined-not the concrete jungle, either; it's tail end sliced into the side of one already-run-down apartment complex, spilling red bricks three stories down onto the street.
Another turn, and the helicopter--still trying to recover from the last obstacle-slid uneasily through the air, clearing out an entire section of another three-story dwelling and erupting active gas pipes in the building into flames with a KRAKA-SHOOMBA!, as well as running Black Marvel through the debris and further injuring him. He was lucky to keep his grip on the landing bar--
--or was he?
In a reckless effort to dash Carter's attempt to run, the pilot shot the creaky chopper down toward the street at an awkward angle as one of the two masked goons on the side stretched dangerously over the edge of the 'copter's interior. The pilot leveled the helicopter out a few feet over the street as the thug struggled to grab Carter and secure him inside--meanwhile, Black Marvel was drug twenty feet along the ground before the jarring force of the asphalt against his back caused him to let loose of his hold on the helicopter.
It's prey captured, the helicopter swiftly rose into the air and flew off through the night sky as quickly as it had come.
Just as the neighborhood's residents stepped into the night in their robes and underwear, trying to find the source of the recent commotion, from his prone, embarrassing position on the empty urban street, Black Marvel groaned, but not at his pain--no, he shouldn't have let Carter get away with whoever it was that took him.
Still, as hard as it was these days, he had to look on the bright side--at least another of Carter's kind was off the streets--though it was anyone's guess just where he was off to.
And then, as he rose to his feet and felt the torn, bloody remnants of his outfit, Black Marvel asked himself, "How long is Jeannie gonna try to nag at me this time?... Not long...."
(*check out upcoming issues of TRIATHLON for Black Marvel's next appearance--Sam)
"Liaisons"
by Sam Everett
Central Wakanda:
"Okay, so what's going on right now?" Jeff Hoffman asked as he peered through the viewfinder of his video camera at the hazy picture of a bustling capitol street, his female guide, M'swa, in the center of the scene.
"The citizenry is preparing decorations and activities for the Central Wakandan Gala that TChalla let me coordinate following our visit to Rudyarda almost a week ago," M'swa said, a slight tinge of irritation present in her soft, ripened, twenty-five year old voice. She was not fond of Jeffrey's constant presence-he cited the pretense of his SCN assignment to document the Black Panther, but she was becoming more and more aware that he had taken a liking to her (perhaps the only thing he liked in this country, judging by his often cynical attitude--that, too, aggravated her).
"And the point of this is...?"
"It is a celebration of Wakanda's prosperity," M'swa replied. "T'Challa has made it his goal not only to spread affluence to our African neighbors, but to raise his kingdom's own morale."
"And you are...?" Jeff asked with a mischievous grin.
"I may just be the woman who will break your precious camera-must you ask that question every day?"
"It's introduction, Missy. Gotta have it in every scene!" the chubby, twenty-five year old, caucasian replied.
"Perhaps you should introduce someone else?" she suggested sternly as she forcefully pointed the lens of his camera in the opposite direction.
"I'd blame the time of the month," Jeff quipped, camera at his eye as he walked away from M'swa and into a crowd setting up various colorful banners at a storefront, "but you've been like this for over a week now...."
Shaking her head at the American's crass behavior, M'swa felt a grasp at her bare shoulder, and turned to see white-haired Wakandan explorer and scholar Doctor Nicholas B'mebe at her side.
"M'swa, is T'Challa present?" he asked.
"No, Doctor, he won't arrive at the gala until later this evening. Why? What is it?"
"On my recent exploration into Wakanda's outlying jungles, I discovered an alarming decrease in the numbers of indigenous black panthers in the area."
"Oh?"
"But more than that," B'mebe continued, "when I approached the bordering Domain of the White Gorillas, I discovered that the white gorillas' numbers too have inexplicably fallen."
M'swa tried to ease the doctor's concerns. "If there are poachers in the jungles, I'll certainly alert the king."
The doctor seemed unconvinced. "Dear M'swa, what kind of poacher could hunt either the black panther OR the white gorilla with any result other than death?"
But before M'swa could think on M'bebe's words, Jeff returned.
"I almost forgot-weren't you going to finish showing me the Royal Chambers, Missy?"
With completely opposite feelings, the two young people left the startled, disappointed doctor's presence.
"You've outdone yourself, M'swa. It's truly lovely."
As the two slowly rocked back and forth in dance beneath the moonlight and amidst the hundreds of Wakandans that joyfully walked the merrily-decorated, festivally-lit, bustling streets of the music-filled Wakandan Gala, M'swa smiled at T'Challa's approval.
"Don't make up your mind just yet, sire," she replied. "There is still all sorts of fun to be had tonight! Your address to the people here, the sixty-yard dash-my wager is that you will finish before Taku is barely halfway through the race-'Pin the Tail on the Panther', the charity-"
"-'Pin the Tail on the Panther'?" T'Challa laughed.
"Yes," M'swa replied somewhat somberly, "it was Jeffrey's idea."
"He's a clever young man," T'Challa replied. "I'm surprised you haven't yet taken an interest in him."
M'swa's head shot from its position against T'Challa's rigid chest. "Sire!"
He replied with a grin. "I mean nothing by that, M'swa. I simply noticed that you share similar traits-you are both young and ambitious; intelligent...stubborn-and sometimes that leads to-"
"-no! Don't even say it. We're nothing alike. He's a spoiled, immature American brat, and I'm-"
"-a spoiled, often-too-mature, Wakandan brat," T'Challa finished teasingly.
If it were anyone but T'Challa, M'swa would have responded to this insolence with physical fury like only she could-but T'Challa was the closest thing she had to a father, and his observations had to be respected-
--even if they were completely wrong.
"You'll see, Sire."
"Oh? If you'd care to prove your differences, here is your chance," T'Challa said.
M'swa's brow furrowed. "What do you--?"
"Hey there, Missy! T'Challa, you mind if I---?"
Despite M'swa's desperate clutch, T'Challa let lose of his hold invitingly. "For once you're without your camera, Jeffrey! By all means! She's yours!"
And as she reluctantly turned away from the mischievously departing king, she shot him an angered gaze that amused him even more, and frustrated her as much.
Even in these first few moments of clumsy dance, M'swa noted that Jeff's skills were lacking, as his dragging footfalls rustled the dirt beneath them, kicking dust into the air.
"Have you ever danced with a woman before, Jeffrey?" she asked in irritation.
"Sure. It may not look like it, but I know how to impress the ladies."
"Yes, and I'm sure they succumb to a dust-inhaled fever before they can ever break your heart with ultimate rejection, correct?"
Jeff looked at her in bafflement-not surprisingly, he had not caught her hint.
"I think we should stop dancing, now," she dictated more directly. Searching anxiously for an escape, she said, "I need to see T'Challa about...an important matter. I'll see you-"
Jeff gave a sudden, devilish grin. "--You like him, don't you?"
"Excuse me?"
"You...uh...you wanna get naughty with T'Challa's body, right?"
M'swa wanted to blow up, but it was not worth it-she tried to calm herself, told herself that Jeffrey was just an annoyance that would soon be gone.
And so, she simply replied, "I think you are getting a bit too familiar, Jeffrey. You had better go."
He chuckled. "So it's true then, huh? That's so...wicked! We've got another Lewinsky scandal on our hands!"
She had tried to contain herself once, and that was all the reprieve Jeff would be granted. "That is absurd! T'Challa is like my father! When my parents died when I was ten, he took me in. His nursemaids raised me, but he always kept an eye on me. He had a way with me, as he did with the other Wakandan children he rescued from lives of solitude and grief. And when we all came of age, he gave us the same opportunities that he had been given: an education abroad, funds to meet our needs, and the promise that we would always be okay. And while most of the others continued on to various parts of the world, or to the nation's defense, I came back to Wakanda to return to T'Challa my gratitude for his guidance. I will always respect him, but I could never love him in the way that you imply!"
Slowly, Jeffrey made his way through the stream of partygoers and toward one of the many benches positioned on the sidewalk near a storefront, and sat.
"That's an intriguing story, Missy. Really! Do you think...do you think I could ever be like T'Challa?"
Something in his voice warned M'swa that he was up to something, but as he wiped away the dust resting on the seat beside him, as not to ruin M'swa's elegantly traditional gown, she sat and continued.
"Absolutely not. You and he are polar opposites-more than any other two people I've known."
"Yeah, you're right," Jeff interjected, that mysterious, seemingly-rehearsed, almost-poking catch in his voice still present. "After all, he's a king, and I'm just some punk American kid. His parents died before he really got a chance to know them, and my parents have always been around-still are, living in California. He's got this real formal, respectful attitude, and I'm just kinda here. He's too busy to make close friends, but I manage to make friends wherever I go. He's got enough responsibilities for two men, and I've just got my job to worry about. He likes kids. I...don't. I could go on and on."
M'swa nodded-for once, Jeffrey was right about something. This intrigued her so much that she failed to notice his arm working its way along the bench and around her.
"So check this out," he continued. "You're into the sciences, right? Well here's my math skills at work: if you can't love him, and he's the 'polar opposite' of me, then doesn't it make sense that you would naturally fall for me?"
It took M'swa a moment to realize that this entire conversation had been a roguish scheme of his that lead to that one, final, logical-yet-completely inaccurate statement. But when she DID realize it, her eyes widened, and her opened fist shot up to his face.
SLAP!
"You...you...!" Increasingly disgusted, she threw his arm from her side while he recovered from her initial attack. "You...!"
But Jeffrey shook the slap off quickly, as if he was used to that sort of assault-and he laughed. "Come on, Missy? You're not mad at me-you're mad because I'm right."
"I won't even dignify that with a response. T'Challa was right about one thing," M'swa replied with scorn. "You are a clever man-clever...but foolish at the same time."
But when Jeff opened his mouth to reply, the wail of ammunition was the only sound heard-and not just between these two, but throughout the entire gala, as confusion turned to shock and fear upon the sight of dozens of camouflaged, African storm troopers rushing into the cluttered, frantic, decorated streets, spraying bullets like confetti.
"Rudyardans!" M'swa gasped as she noted the black and white arm bands characteristic of Rudyarda's new government army. She took Jeff by the arm and ran for cover, joining the swarm of frenzied Wakandans in the streets. "Why would King Nobolo initiate an attack just now?"
Still scurrying down the blood-tattered street, they were caught off guard and stopped in helplessness by an approaching green jeep, and the four rifle-bearing soldiers within it. Two of the men climbed over the side of the vehicle and took aim at M'swa and Jeff.
Desperate and fearful, Jeff recalled a remark SCN producer Ed Wasneek had made a few weeks ago, and he applied it to this situation as best he could.
"Inuk si mullaki...er...M'swa!" he exclaimed over the din of the gunfire around them.
Baffled by these unfamiliar words, the two men lowered their guns for the briefest instant and looked to each other for any kind of answer-
--but only received a swift and infuriated attack from M'swa, who took advantage of their moment's pause.
As the two men fell to the ground in unconsciousness, and the remaining two in the jeep leapt out for retribution, M'swa took Jeff by the hand once again and found shelter in a ravaged and abandoned pizza restaurant-the only one of its kind in Wakanda.
They ducked under the view of the large window facing the street and tried to catch their breath.
"What was that back there?" M'swa asked.
"What do you mean?" Jeff replied, wheezing from the hardest workout he had received in months.
"'Inuk sie mullaki M'swa'?"
"Yeah, it means 'M'swa can kill with her thumb'...right? I was...trying to intimidate them."
M'swa found Jeff's ignorance amusing-almost charming. "It doesn't mean ANYthing in Wakandan-or in any other language-but it worked."
Jeff's tone was just the opposite. "Sure, THAT time. I've been through some stuff, but nothing like THIS. I've never been shot at before!"
From outside they could hear a deep, sinister voice come through a speaker, but dared not peer out the window to see whose it was for fear that they would again be detected by the Rudyardans and shot.
But then, they didn't have to...
"I am M'baku, the Man-Ape, and as of now, Wakanda is under Rudyardan control. Give up if you'd like, but it makes it so much more fun if you run!"
Even more distressed by the message, Jeff pulled his cellular phone from his back pocket and pressed the digits in an angered frenzy.
"Who are you calling?" M'swa asked.
"Wasneek!" Jeff spit into the phone at the SCN producer who had sent Jeff to Wakanda in the first place. "I quit! The crap just hit the fan down here, and I did NOT sign on for this!"
"..."
"Yeah, I said I wanted action-from the Panther! Not from me! But while I'm getting shot at, I haven't even seen a glimpse of this so-called fabled warrior! This is-!"
Before he could finish, M'swa tugged at his arm, directing him to look out the window. And when Jeff turned and rose to see the portion of the road in front of the pizzeria emptied of any violence, and all the Rudyardan soldiers in the vicinity lying without guns or honor in the street-
--and the Black Panther-the darkness that would bring hope to these gunfire-lit streets-dashing from one soldier to the next with a speed that rivaled that of the soldiers' bullets, and grace and power that had no match, he lamented, "-and me without my camera...."
And the Panther appeared to extinguish every threat with one, distant, taunting, imposing target in mind-the Man-Ape!
Panther Tales:
A letter this time, plus we have a special feature for you guys! But first, we're gonna say an official howdy to Francisco Araujo da Costa, who always manages to get his name in the pages of BP-this time as editor of MV1-International! Congrats, Francisco! And congrats to me-I met my deadline! : ) On to the letter!
I recently started reading Black Panther in the real MU and it quickly became
my favorite title. Christopher Priest managed to capture the true essence of
the Black Panther and there's something about the stories that I can't put my
finger on, that I really love. I think you've somehow managed to recreate that
feeling in your depiction of the Black Panther.
Issue 12 was great. There were no fights, there wasn't even any Black Panther.
It was just a good bit of story. I enjoy issues like that. They show that the
main character actually has a life.
I would however like to reiterate a point that another reader made (Kell?).
Please don't turn Jeffrey into an Everett K. Ross. You're doing a good job of
making them different (the whole Jeff/M'swa thing) but I know that it's tempting
to make them similar.
Waiting for next issue,
Adam Di Stefano
Thanks for the support, Adam! We hope you stick around! As far the continuing Jeff/Everett K. Ross debate, thanks for helping us keep Jeff and Ross different. We've got no idea who Ross is (we haven't been reading the regular MU's BP), but we promise that the only Everett you're going to see around here is Sam : )
And now, all but stolen from the pages of WIZARD...the Casting Call!
Wouldn't it be fun to make a big-budget movie starring the Black Panther? I hear talk that Hollywood has come to its senses and is doing just that-preparing BP for the big screen! And here's who we want to pay our $3.50 for (yeah, we're cheap, so we go to the matinees)!
Black Panther: We hear Wesley Snipes is behind the whole movie, but we think Laurence Fishburne ("The Matrix", "Othello") would make a great Wakandan ruler. He has that mature, regal look to him-heck, we'd gladly live in any country he ruled!
M'swa: She's young, she's hot, and she can kick the crap outta anyone in Wakanda. Lela Rochon ("Waiting to Exhale") has two of those traits, and with a few Tai-bo sessions, the third should come pretty easily!
Jeff Hoffman: It's hard to find a pudgy, twenty-something actor with a bleached buzz-cut hair-do these days, but we think that after a few Ding-Dongs and a trip to Supercuts, Jason Lee ("Mallrats" "Chasing Amy") would be perfect!
Cecil Nobolo: With thin glasses and a rough demeanor, Samuel L. Jackson showed his tough side in "187". We think he could do the same with King Nobolo!
Hope Nobolo: Lovely but worn, Hope Nobolo has led a hard life. Halle Berry ("Losing Isiah" "Boomerang") got slapped around by Dave Justice...the parallels are stunning, so give her the role of the mistreated queen of Rudyarda!
Man-Ape: M'baku is a big, strong, crazy man who actually ate the flesh and drank the blood of a white gorilla to gain strength. Give Tiny Lister ("Friday") a chicken wing and some Kool-Aid instead and, BP's stunt man better look out!
Darren "Top Cat" Carter: The best way to find someone to play a drug-pushing, block-running, gangster villain is to hire a drug-pushing, block-running, gangster rapper! And Jay-Z (no movie credits, but he's got three hip-hop albums out!) fits that mold perfectly-just wait 'til you see his mug-shot next issue!
To reveal any more of the movie cast would spoil some of the surprises coming up in BLACK PANTHER-and believe us when we say you'll be surprised! But in the meantime, we want read-throughs, people-and quiet on the set!
Next issue: Black Panther vs. Man-Ape-'nuff said!