The name’s Joe Morris, the Ivory Ghost--and I could be a very rich man right now.
It all started right about the time of my “resurrection” in Wakanda. The son of my old, dear departed friend T’Chaka had been gracious enough to call in mystical help to revive me after an ill fate years earlier had transformed me into a headless, ivory statue.*
Meanwhile, an ocean away, and unbeknownst to me, my brother Randall had been mysteriously killed--I won’t disrespect his memory or your reading tastes by describing the gruesome circumstances surrounding his death.*
Jump ahead on your calendar a few months: this ivory-fleshed adventurer aided T’Chaka’s kid, T’Challa--the Black Panther--and his kingdom of Wakanda in a brief but bitter war against neighboring Rudyarda, and our side took home the trophy. I tagged along with T’Challa and his pals back to his Royal Court shortly after our victory. (After a few weeks in the African jungle, Lordy knows I needed the break--not to mention the bath!)
A warm tub and a cold brew later, T’Challa’s young assistant, M’swa, caught up with me in the dining hall. “Lord T’Challa would like to see you in his chambers, Mr. Morris.” T’Challa was lucky to have found M’swa. She was smart, well-spoken, and pretty as a Wakandan sunset. But you couldn’t let the girl’s eloquence and beauty fool you--you rubbed her the wrong way, she’d kick your rear six ways to Sunday.
M’swa led me to T’Challa’s chambers, where he solemnly presented me with a typed letter. It was from the United States--New York City. My old stomping grounds, when the ladies looked at me and thought of anything but Liberace; before T’Challa was even a royal twinkle in his parents’ eyes. M’swa was as cheery as a blind dog on a bicycle, as was her nature; but T’Challa, he normally wasn’t as somber as when he gave me this letter. That, and the address on the envelope, tipped me off that this was bad news.
The letter told me that my brother was dead. It was post-marked months earlier. Randall had been dead and buried all that time, and I hadn’t even suspected it.
“I’m sorry we didn’t inform you earlier, Joe,” T’Challa said. “We didn’t know where to reach you.”
I nodded. It was still sinking in.
“And things have been hectic for the kingdom.” Loyal M’swa, always trying to defend her king.
“There’s no need to apologize,” I told them. It was true. There really had been no way to reach me--after I’d been brought back to life, I’d run off aimlessly back into the bush. If it hadn’t have been for the clash with Rudyarda, I might have never seen T’Challa again. God forbid, I might have never known my brother’s fate.
“Truth is, me and Randall were never very close,” I admitted to them later, around dinner. “He got the brains, I got the dashing good looks,” I laughed. Then I felt the rocky beard that blanketed my ivory face, the crow’s feet that more resembled an intricately carved pattern in a statue--the living, ivory statue that was Joe Morris--and I realized that my good looks were a thing of the past. Not that I was crying in my deep-fried wild boar that night, or any other time. “Randall dedicated his life to technology, creation. I was happy savin’ the things that were already walkin’ God’s green earth. So Randall stayed in the big city and made millions off his inventions, and I came here to the jungle. And we never talked after that. Too bad we didn’t have the wisdom of the Wakandans, or we might have been able to combine our interests. It’s sort of a shame, seein’ as how we were the only two left from our family.”
“So...you’re the last Morris?” Jeffrey Hoffman asked. There was a bright kid, and an American like myself, to boot! I’d spent many years in Wakanda, and I’d adjusted to the customs fairly well, despite the occasional cuss word or overeager flatulence. But Jeff wasn’t but a few months removed from the States, and it was obvious. He still said things without thinking, still wore his cap indoors, still courted the ladies as clumsily as a two-legged bull at the rodeo. And poor M’swa was at the receiving end of his ignorance most of the time, it seemed like.
“No, I’m not the last. Randall bagged himself a wife and a kid, or so I heard. I suppose if Mrs. Morris didn’t inherit his name--nevermind his millions--his boy did.”
Just then, Jeff set his fork down--quite a feat for the pudgy young man, to be sure. Then a funny expression crept across his face, like pity.
“Hey, don’t worry about old Joe,” I told them. “If I’d wanted riches, I’d have gone into business with my brother. No complaints here--I’m doin’ what I love, and dining with the King of Wakanda at the same time!” I chuckled.
“No, it’s not that,” Jeff said. “I just thought that the letter T’Challa gave you told you everything.”
M’swa sensed the sudden anxiety in everyone at the table. “Go on with it Jeffrey. Don’t be cruel.”
“Randall’s kid--Grey Jurgens--he died a few days after his father. I’m not sure how, but it was all over the news back in America.”
“What about my brother’s wife?”
“If I remember what I heard correctly, she was out of the picture by then. Dead, I’m pretty sure.”
One surprise after another. I had to wonder if T’Challa had any other mail he hadn’t told me about.
“I promise you, Joe, I knew nothing of this,” he assured me. “But if what Jeffrey says is true, then...are you not the rightful heir to the Morris fortune...?”
The Wakandans Take Manhattan
APRIL, YEAR FOUR
by Sam Everett
The next morning, T’Challa saw us to the hangar near the Royal Court, where he kept his black, NightStar quinjet.
“Really, kid, I appreciate this,” I told him. “I’m not going for the money, even if it is rightfully mine. Even though we weren’t close, it’s more important to me to know what’s become of Randall’s life’s work--to know that his legacy is in good hands.”
“You’re a noble man, Joe. It’s no wonder my father thought so much of you,” T’Challa replied. Just then, I was relieved that my ivory exterior didn’t allow me to blush!
“Your Highness, are you certain you won’t accompany us to America?” M’swa asked.
“I’m afraid not, M’swa. I’ve decided that my place is here, in Wakanda--permanently. I owe that to my people.”
“Perhaps your fellow Avengers would be pleased by your visit?” she tried.
“I spent more than enough time with my old friends during the recent cosmic crisis.*” T’Challa replied.
“Reed Richards may appreciate the company of a lab partner?”
“Reed Richards is quite capable of managing without me, I’m sure.”
“America is a fetid, uncivilized land in need of another champion,” she said, more stubbornly this time. “Would you refuse such a call to duty?”
“If America is truly as a dire a place as your untouched eyes say, then it need look no further for a champion than yourself, right M’swa?”
“What of Jeffrey? He’s supposed to be documenting you. He’s a documentarian. Isn’t it his job, Your Highness?”
“You’ve got enough footage for a while, don’t you Jeffrey?” T’Challa asked.
“Oh, certainly, Your Highness,” Jeff replied with a smirk, as he and T’Challa were in on the same joke. “In fact, I think I’m about ready to send a rough cut to SCN.”
M’swa gave an uncharacteristic sigh, and T’Challa tried not to laugh at his assistant’s desperate attempt to escape a few days practically alone with Jeff...in the United States of all places. And M’swa thought discovering she had been born with psychic abilities had been rough!*
Me, M’swa, and Jeff started into the bay doors of the NightStar. “We’ll bring your bird back in one piece, kid,” I said.
“Try to enjoy your trip,” T’Challa replied.
As the door slid closed behind us, Jeff asked M’swa, “What do you foresee for this trip, Missy?”
“I don’t need precognitive abilities to know that this journey will be a disaster.”
Sure, I’d lost a brother who I’d never really known. But M’swa, she was leaving her homeland for the first time in long time, if only for a few days. Something told me this trip would be more painful for her than for me.
“Shotgun!” Jeff declared. M’swa shuddered.
The Avengers had been kind enough to let us park our rig at their mansion once we’d arrived in New York. “It’s the least we can do for a fellow Avenger,” their butler had said. T’Challa...an Avenger? Man, T’Chaka’d be proud of his boy, I thought.
The three of us had decided to grab some food before visiting the Morris Enterprises building.
M’swa didn’t like the looks of Marvel Burger at all. Seeing the proper young woman in a fast food restaurant was like seeing stripes on a leopard--it just didn’t look right. Jeff fished around for a newspaper to check the sports scores that he’d so dearly missed while in Wakanda, and me and M’swa waited in line to order our food.
“Welcome to Marvel Burger, can I take your order?” the young man behind the counter asked.
Once M’swa was plenty confounded by the kid’s absurd uniform, she began to order. “My companions would like two Bam-burgers--” she muttered awkwardly.
“Two BAM!-burgers,” the cashier announced into the microphone at the counter, to M’swa’s surprise.
“Yes, and two orders of large French fries.”
“Two Fantastic Fries.”
“And a--” she couldn’t get past the microphone, and I could hardly contain my laughter. American culture against Wakandan orthodoxy--the battle of two indomitable wills. “Why can’t I simply convey my order through the microphone to the servants in the kitchen, and eliminate your task?”
“That’s-er-well-er...would you like to speak with the manager?”
“If your overseer can better answer my query, then yes, by all means.”
“Well, he-um-well, he’s out to lunch right now, ma’am. But I can go--”
The customers behind us began to get impatient. “Hurry up, yuh dumb brawd! Some of us got a friggin’ site t’get back to, y’know!!!”
She shot the heckler a look he’d probably seen fifteen times already that day, but none so glaring as hers. “We will proceed as before,” she continued. “My companion would also like a small soft drink.”
“Er-we’ve only got two sizes: medium and large.”
“You make no sense. This place makes no sense!” she cried out, flailing her arms and her long, dreadlocked mane, before she composed herself. T’Challa would regret the day he sent M’swa to America, for sure. “Sir, if you’ve only medium and large, and no small, then, by default, would not the medium size become the small size?”
“I supp-well...would you like to speak with the manager?”
“No! I’ll take the medium!”
“Would you like anything else, ma’am?”
“A cup of coffee...”
“Small/medium or la--?”
“A large cup! A very large cup!”
“Would you like me to repeat your order to you?”
“We’ve gone over it sufficiently, I believe.”
We took our order from the pick-up counter and met Jeff at a table.
“Missy, you got me a medium drink. I wanted--”
I gave the kid a soft elbow in the ribs, and he got the picture. Just then, I noticed a set of bedazzled eyes at the table across the aisle, and found a family of five staring at my ivory hide. I told them the same little white lie (no pun intended) that I’d told who knew how many people on the way to the restaurant: “I’m a superhero.” And I saw in their faces the same look of understanding that said, “Oh, then that makes perfect sense!”
I don’t care what M’swa says--there’s no place more charming than the good ol’ U-S-of-A.
Well-fed and determined, our motley crew walked up to the towering Morris Enterprises building in Manhattan.
“I really wish you’d eaten, Missy,” Jeff said. “We could be up at Morris Enterprises for a while, and I don’t know if they’ll have a snack machine.”
“I’ll be fine, Jeffrey, if I never eat a bite of food in this country. Besides, food from a machine sounds anything but appealing.”
The girl had a good point.
“You two kids don’t have to come up there with me if you don’t want to. I’m not sure what I’m lookin’ for, but I’ve got a feeling it’s nothing you could help me find any better. I think I just want to see that my brother’s affairs are in order, that his money’s being taken care of--I want to know that his legacy is being well-kept. You kids have fun.”
I knew I was dooming M’swa to further torment, but I suppose I was rooting for Jeff to win the girl’s heart. Call me a sap, but I prefer to think of it as patriotism--heh.
“If...that’s your wish--” M’swa reluctantly agreed.
“We won’t wander too far,” Jeff said.
I gave them last smile, then walked through the revolving doors of the Morris Enterprises building. As I did, I realized I was touching Randall’s creation--touching him, in a way. Everything in the lobby was made out of metals and special alloys, designed to look futuristic and far-out--the place was charming in its way, but lifeless, cold to the touch. Yep, I was touching my brother.
The cute young receptionist asked me what my business was.
“I’m here from Wakanda, you see. Randall Morris was my brother, and I was hoping to speak with the person in charge here, to try to find some answers about my brother’s affairs.”
“Wakanda, you say?” she confirmed.
And just like that, she directed me to the boss’s office. It was too easy--I should have known it was a trap...
Back outside, while I was about to meet my destiny, Jeff was busy trying to make M’swa part of his.
“What do you think of the place so far?” he asked.
“Words can’t describe my disdain for your country, Jeffrey. At last, I think I’ve found something more pitiful than you--but then, this is your home, so at least that makes sense.”
“So...you don’t like it?”
She sat down at the large fountain outside of the building, and Jeff followed her. “What I don’t like is that Lord T’Challa saw the need to send me with you and Mr. Morris in the first place. You’re both Americans--you can find your way around this damnable city far better than I. Pray that Mr. Morris finds the answers he’s looking for soon, so I can return home to Wakanda.”
“You know what I think?” Jeff offered. “I think T’Challa wanted an excuse to send us on a trip together. You and me.”
“And why would he do that?”
“Because he wants us to hook up, der.”
“That’s absurd. Even if that were so, he respects my wishes, and he knows that I have no intention of forming a meaningful relationship with you.”
“But he’s wise, too! And maybe he sees something between us that even you can’t see.”
She stood from the fountain, taking a few steps from Jeff. “I have visions. I can see into the near-future, Jeffrey. I’m sure anything between us wouldn’t escape my sight.”
“Who says your visions are a hundred percent accurate? I bet you don’t see me kissing you in the near future.”
“You’re right. I don’t.”
Jeffrey took the jab lightly, and licked his lips, preparing for the uninvited kiss he’d waited so many months for. “Maybe you should look closer then...?”
“NO!” M’swa exclaimed, attracting the attention of the bystanders outside the building.
“It won’t be that bad, Missy! At least I’ve had practice!”
Suddenly anxious, she started toward the building’s entrance. “It isn’t that--nevermind your childish games, Jeffrey! I did have a vision just now! Mr. Morris is in danger!”
“What kind of danger? What did you see?”
She could hardly utter the words. But while Jeff would be kept in the dark a while longer, I was about to find out the trouble that awaited me.
I followed the receptionist’s directions all the way to the top floor of the building, and to the room number she had given me. The placard on the large, wooden double-doors read: THE BIG CHIEF. At least Randall’s successor had a sense of humor. The receptionist had told me the boss was expecting me, but I played it safe and knocked anyway.
“Step into my parlor,” came the raspy voice on the other side of the door.
I opened the door, and was greeted with a sickening, crimson grin. Oh, why’d I ever show up?
“I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to trap my most hated foe! But for the bait--a helpless Wakandan--to simply walk into my office? Why, I must be living right!”
Before I could react, he shot me with a glowing, ruby blast from his right hand.
“At last,” he proclaimed, “the Black Panther will fall to the might of...Ullysses Klaw!!!”
And my last thought before I passed out was that T’Challa had the right idea; I should have stayed in Wakanda, too...
To Be Continued!!!
Contact Sam Everett at RooMil@aol.com
Sam Everett (1/24/2001)--Silkee Productions