It was the year 1979—at least a few months or so before the dawn of the new decade, the eighties—and Arthur was looking to get hitched at the Herogasm event of that year, as with many other wealthy businessmen who had happened to have a large stake in the corporation, from him to many other people who so much as owned enough stocks to get a measly grand a month in dividends. At the very entrance of the house, the modest-sized middle class bachelor's bungalow that hosted such events since the 1950s, had a man at the entrance, a short Mediterranean man who made everyone sign a form, a waiver, if he had to guess, to protect the supes from men suing a woman who had his member sucked up into her cooch due to the vast strength she had, sucking it up with the vast force of an industrial strength vacuum cleaner. He did not mind the idea, actually, as he had the durability of an entire city condensed into a man, a god playing the role of a mere mortal to throw off the morons that made up the entirety of John Q Public.

"Herogasm is not responsible for any sexual injuries that happen while engaging in sex with its superpowered cliental. These injuries range from impalement on a superheroes ultra durable penis, traumatic amputation of male reproductive organs from the immense force of a woman who could lift a tank by clenching down on it with her vagina. Yadda. Yadda. I am invulnerable anyway. Several Mossad agents found that out the hard way. And signed, " He rambled under his breath in his thick, aristocratic English accent that gave him a voice very reminiscent of one of the Beatles, when they were doing their interviews.

Mossad agents as well as several mortal woman whom he happened to have sex with found out the hard way that a man who was as strong as an entity from Greek or Norse mythology had the durability to tank megatons of explosive force would have the ability to no sell mere 9mm tungsten/DU core rounds fired from Uzis at supersonic speed, same with the women who had the misfortune to find out that his pubic hair, as well as all body hair, was basically turned into razer wire as a direct result of the bioelectric aura surrounding his body, holding him together at the molecular level. Women ended up having the skin ripped from their hands and their pubic areas due to the sheer strength of the fibers that made up his hair, basically steel wool, each one of his hairs strong enough to hold untold thousands of pounds of force before even tearing. Hard metal armor piercing rounds which had the capability of defeating lightly armored vehicles in the lower caliber to high caliber ranges which could pierce light tanks did nothing but tickle him, like pokes from a supe of a fraction of his vast strength. The Israelis were trying to make rounds that could pierce his skin and enter his vital organs, which proved to be folly as his durability was linked to energy as apposed to density; thus, they would have to come up with enough energy to find a way to so much as hurt him, as thermonuclear weapons were able to give him a tan like being bathed inside the inner layers of a star, or create a being who had the strength and durability of Soldier Boy. But the Israelis would never do that out of piety, as they saw supes as beings created to wipe the Jewish people from the face of the Earth in the form of a White Supremacist Pagan cult in the UK as well as the Nazis who reverse-engineered Serum 22 into their knockoff, Compound V, designed to be cheaper and more affordable than the expensive Serum 22, which costed as much as a German Tiger tank for a mere dose. As for why he was even at Herogasm was because his powers were just a murder investigation waiting to happen as he accidently maimed multiple women and even killed a celebrity, Marylin Monroe being one of them, skinned alive by all the blonde, nearly invisible hair on his pubic area while giving him fellatio. They covered her death up as an overdose on PCP, where she hallucinated herself as a monster and mutilated herself with a razer inside his house, or castle, rather, as Pierce was an obscenely wealthy White man with a flair for the dramatic.

The main female supe he was eyeing was Crimson Countess who met the ideal description of what Arthur Luther Pierce wanted in a woman, the type of whom he deemed fit to be with a man like, for some traditions, like his whole family's eugenics policy, stuck with him forever, completely ignorant of the fact that his genes were so dominate he could—in theory—have sex with an African and the proteins in his DNA would make sure that whatever came out was phenotypically of the Nordic persuasion, editing the DNA so that it recombines into an entity with his looks, intellect, and powerset. He also was a man who preferred blonds and redheads, all of the woman whom he accidently killed in coitus were mostly of that description, often times from places such as Northern Europe or Iceland, one of the locations for him to find the type of woman he wanted to even bang. Indeed, he had a rather exclusive taste for a man, even rejecting women of his own race whose hair was just a shade too brown in some cases. He seen his traits as rare and exotic and he wanted a woman with similar traits in order to preserve them. Mate selection, as they say, was always exclusive. It was just one of the many laws of our natural world. She also just turned eighteen and having a lengthened lifespan in excess of a thousand years had meant he wanted a woman who was young, because he wanted to enjoy at least a good fifteen to twenty years with her before her bosom sags ever downward to the earth as the collagen depletes from her body as a result of age related DNA damage, a most unpleasant curse of being an immortal being who would not show signs of actual ageing until civilizations fell due to the natural entropy of time, which would be two to five centuries from then.

When one was immortal, one did not bother with monogamy, especially if they were men, for men did not want to be chained to a mere mortal for a good—two to three years in their time, at most—before she became an infertile sagging bag of fat, hence why he was looking for female supes who were just in their prime, at the ideal age to get pregnant. Knowing the mindset of a young woman with a career ahead of her, she will drop the baby off at his castle and ring the doorbell, thus giving him a son who will gain superpowers within the next fifteen to seventeen or so years from when he/she was dropped off. He hoped he did not get a daughter, not because he was a sexist—he was, more so because he did not want all of the other Serum 22 test subjects who were gifted with powers over fifty-seven years prior pawing at her, not until he could pair her with someone who met the genetic requirements, at the very least. Sadly for Pierce, the Crimson Countess was taken by another suiter, one who was also rather old, Soldier boy.

With his goal having gone bust, he walked over to the couch, grabbed a large bag of cocaine from his suit side pocket, and snorted a big fat line of it off the coffee table, feeling so euphoric he simply did not give two ounces of deep-fried shit at the fact he got upstaged by an old geezer who put on over a pound of makeup to look thirty while he was over eighty and looked around twenty-seven. The coke was not pure, having mixed it with some rather interesting drugs for an even stronger high after doing it so many times—up his nose—since the 1920s when it was sold over the counter in England. He mixed it with meth, a drug he snorted to improve both his combat and sexual prowess when fighting large hordes of enemies, namely in Soviet Russia, right before going in, flying at the Russian soldiers, bullets and shells pinging off his indestructible skin like spit balls against a car windshield. The drug cocktail, while making him feel euphoric, practically increased his strength and durability three-fold, its effects tripling the energy output of his bioelectric aura to that of a large nuclear fusion reactor able to power the entirety of New York city for at least a day, free of all of the fossil fuel trash that was doomed to be depleted within the next few decades. He called it Panzer Shockolade Ultra, a far more potent version of the performance enhancing drug used by German soldiers to fight—outnumbered and outgunned—the endless hordes of the Russian military, taking bullet after bullet, tricking the body into thinking it was still alive until blood loss finally set in. It also had some rather positive effects, making sex so pleasurable, he often came down from the high, crying his eyes out, realizing he just killed a woman because he fucked her way too hard. He has been doing that drug cocktail almost every week, for almost forty years, without any long-term side effects due to the fact that almost every cell could be replaced from the undifferentiated cells that replaced damaged tissues in his bloodstream, even his teeth remaining free from any such effects one would associate with meth abuse such as decay due to the degenerating enamel of mere mortals.

Even while on those drugs, he was still very lucid, just too wired to even get an hour of sleep without burning through all of the energy he had while he was on it, through sex or fighting through seas of people whom he deemed to be subhuman, dismantling entire armies the same way a farmer dismantles entire crops with the right equipment. He figured he could fight the entirety of Vought's roster, while high on coke, and come out on top, the pain suppressed due to the massive high he was on, having just snorted half a pound of coke right up his nose, enough to send a mortal man to the hospital as a result of a vaso-constriction induced heart attack. However, he was about keeping his powers secret, for fear Vought would reduce him to a dancing monkey, a cheap market slave whose only job was to entertain the people who, in his mind, were the non-White masses fit only to make fertilizer of.

When he was there, sitting in his euphoric high, a woman approached from behind, tapping him right on the shoulder, alerting him to her presence, his superhuman hearing muffled out by the seas of orgasm and Crimson Countess losing her virginity to Pierce's sexual rival, Soldier Boy. Her name, at least her real one she had shared to the public, was Cynthia Washington, the supposed immortal daughter of the first United States President, George Washington, one of Soldier Boy's scraps he was often left with when he was done with them, or rather, she was sick of. She had shoulder length, wavy, thick gold hair roughly the same shade as his. To top it all off, she had eyes that were basically diamonds, so gray in color they were. Best of all, she was lusting after him instead of looking to join in a threesome with the Countess and Soldier Boy.

"I guess we're both the people no one wants to fuck on account of our reputation the fucking media has been saying about us. The only reason why they stopped talking about me was because your book, The Turner Diaries, was so racist that it was called the "holy bible of the racist right. Hi, I am Cynthia, a girl whose superhero name is that of a ship that the Israeli Government bombed last decade," introduced the woman, taking a seat on the couch cushion right next to Pierce.

"My reputation is perfect, even with that book I wrote, which will, coincidently, be in the non fiction section as the Jews grow ever more emboldened with their genocidal agenda against their genetic superiors, just when they begin the process of turning America into a surveillance state after they replace all of the military and law enforcement with jungle savages. The Mossad and KGB both seem to have some delusions of me having some rare superpowers like flight, invulnerability and superspeed and strength. In fact, some Jews even believe that I am the hidden most powerful supe capable of nuking cities just by flying really fast and letting the laws of physics takeover. If I was that powerful, New York would be fucking glassed. It should be called the Big Bagel. Every time I try to date a blond or redheaded woman from there, she often mentions she had a Bat Mitzvah at fifteen and a nose job to discard that large nose that they have in order to try to pass as European in the 'tell me about yourself step'. Please keep those features so I know who you are precisely to keep my genes unpolluted with Asiatic taint," Pierce replied.

"I know right. I have seen plenty of them try that with me, often ending with me getting up and walking away politely when I hear then mention their Bar Mitzvah or if I find that their surname has suffixes such as Bloom, Berg, Stein, ect. About anything that can be perfectly pronounced with a Yiddish accent. Getting off topic, they used depleted uranium slugs in some failed assassination attempt on you, only for those fucking bastards to go and kill Frederick Vought and his daughter, Chloe. Fucking bastards! I would kill them all, too, but I am but one woman against an entire army of supes Vaught is now producing with its new CEO, Hyman Goni. You will probably have supes contracted to kill you in your corporate HQ out in Salem, all because Frederick Vought wanted to buy a measly ten percent share of privately-held corporation. It's a fuckin' joke," complained Cynthia completely drained from all of the weird events that had occurred over the last several decades or so, like something out of a strange movie.

"Worst yet, the schizophrenic kikes believe I carried a bloody T34 tank into bloody fucking orbit and dropped it atop Moscow at almost around a tiny fraction, rather a thousandth of a percent the speed of light, reducing the Kremlin into a ball of ash. They also say they were testing the Tsar Bomba, a massive nuclear warhead that they designed to kill Captain Albion, their supervillain name for me, based on a fictional character from a Vought cartoon starring Liberty. Seriously. All I can fucking do is watch. Watch as they destroy my civilization through their puppets Mandela, Mugabe, and Martin Luther King Jr., all communists used to mix my civilization into a mongrelized slop pale. My only power is money, which is sadly useless because they can do what they did with the Russian Aristocracy: seize it all and donate it so that negroes can blow it on shiny bling, crack, and outrageous clothing. My dad discovered both Nuclear Fission and Fusion at the age of 16 in Oxford University. Whites and Jews are the two smartest races on the planet; however, there are two key differences," complained Pierce, high on a cocktail of meth and cocaine.

"What are those differences?" asked Cynthia.

"Whites invent; Jews take the credit. It is in their nature to steal from their betters just as it in the nature of the scorpion to sting the frog. It is the result of millions of years of separate evolution in differing climates. Europeans have evolved in the frozen ice sheets of Europe, thus having light features and a large brain as well as empathy, on account of having to survive in the frozen hell that was prehistoric Europe. The yellow and brown races evolved in a tropical Garden of Eden so, as a result, never required the intellect to survive. Harsher environs like ice age Europe also weed out other dysgenic elements, such as sociopaths and psychopaths. It is not bloody rocket science. Darwin spelled it out for us," explained Pierce.

"Sounds more like the Jews are little more than a bunch of worthless plagiarists, who do not have the intellect nor creativity to invent anything more than the fucking Talmud," uttered Cynthia under her breath.

"Now enough about me whinging about the yellow peril and the Jews. What did you come here to do other than watch a genius, billionaire playboy binge on uppers?" Pierce concluded.

"Well, since you are done mansplaining, you, you chiselled Aryan god," she said lustfully as she started to unbuckle his belt and unbutton his pants.

"Wow, your cock is really long and girthy, the perfect combination for any woman looking to bang a man. It really explains why you can contend with those almost constant assassination attempts by both the Israelis and the Russians because you, Arthur Pierce, have that big dick and ball energy that never allows you to falter. As an added bonus, it was not mutilated, the nice smooth foreskin perfectly unharmed for extra pleasure inside my tiny vag which is about to be stretched out by that godlike peen you have been endowed with. How you are still single I'll never know," Cynthia complimented, lustfully eyeing the massive eight by two-inch member the billionaire playboy Arthur Luther Pierce was blessed with by the luck of genetic recombination, just one of the many benefits of being a selectively bred God amongst men that he was.

She tore off her colonial-era inspired costume.

Upon ripping off that conservatively dressed female superhero costume, she mounted his large, uncircumcised unaffected by its durability, her superhumanly tight vagina having the same effect of crushing it under thousands and thousands of pounds upon his solid steel member felt divine, an almost perfect mix of sexual pleasure and pain. He did not even need lube. The woman was so wet that merely hearing his voice could cause such a gush that it would lead to a biblical flood, wiping out all of Humanity, metaphorically speaking, the wetness of that vagina already acting as lube, leaving his dick crushed under immense force while still remaining intact due to the immense durability he had. There wasn't a woman alive on this planet that could pleasure him to this degree without him accidently eviscerating her while high as fuck on his cocktail of cocaine and methamphetamines. What made it better was she was orgasming out of control, grabbing his sides with her immense superhuman strength almost on par with his own, gripping hard enough in her muscle clenching orgasm he could feel it, probably in the morning when he woke up, for even the cocktail of illegal stimulants he was hopped up on could not push him through this immense, night-long marathon fuckfest.

"Oh, getting tired? Snort some of this off from betwixt my tits, my English crumpet. I want this to last all fucking night, or at least until I collapse from exhaustion," she muttered, grabbing the baggy of the cocaine/meth mix he left on the coffee table, and then proceeding to sprinkle it between her perky C cup bosom.

Just as she thrusted her pelvis against his one more time, he caked her womb with nearly half a liter of spooge, emptying out the immense baseball sized testicles barely contained within his costume nor his expensive suit pants that were worth more than her costume, being of a three-thousand-dollar pinstriped variety. There was a look of concern when she just realized how pleasurable that was, yet at the same time, very concerned with the fact that he literally shot a load inside her that could—quite literally—impregnant a small island nation of females, one of the many benefits of not wasting one's seed on pornography or masturbation. She was actually impressed. She never met a man with the amount of discipline it would take to avoid masturbation, only ever getting what was basically just a thicker water, with very little to no actual semen in it. With Pierce, however, he only ever fucked women instead of wasting his times with degenerate pleasures of pornography, ultimately avoiding the curse of hypogonadism that came with it. That is to say, he had natural serum testosterone levels measured in fucking grams, with not an ounce of body fat on him to aromatize the hormone into estrogen, making Pierce one hundred percent man, unbound by the emotions of other, more feminized men that made up the supes at these conventions. Some of them, like Noir, were whacking off in their littler private booths, their little cucksheds of shame to where stronger men like Pierce and Soldier Boy reserved their loads for actual women, not wasting it like a bunch of weakened cuckolds on mere images of them. Even when he was a once mortal man, he understood that masturbation was for the weak, something for pathetic men to do while real men did not just fuck their girlfriend, they fucked their girlfriends, spreading their superior DNA as far and wide across the gene pool as they could humanly possible, the highest form of eugenics in the form of natural selection.

"My eyes rolled so far back into my skull, I thought I saw a flash of light from that monstrous load you spunked inside of me, you God of a man. You're going to blow even more loads inside of me until you are so fucking tired you cannot even think or move, falling a asleep on the couch," she said seductively.

"Oh yes, I really want the spics to suffer the indignity of having to clean this couch once we are done with it," smiled Pierce in that British monotone, ending his sentence with a shit-eating grin.

"You are diabolical. I love it," she said coyly, continuing to thrust on top of Arthur's still erect cock, still inserted inside her vagina tightly encircling better than even the best flesh lights that could be made decades onward from then.

He awoke the next day later, lying in an awkward, upright position on the couch, his groin covered in a mixture of cum and cunny juice from the immensely long sexual escapade his brain could no longer describe, most of the events far too fuzzy even for his superhumanly intelligent brain to even remember. He did not even remember the name of the woman whom he had sex with. All he knew was that it was some of the best sex he ever had, second only to the wife his father had selected for him when his military career almost went bust due to the fact he was the Heinrich Himmler to Oswald Mosley's Adolph Hitler in the British Union of Fascists. He considered himself the only hope for Western civilization and he had no time for petty mortal affairs like sexual relationships, for that was little more than a smokescreen to hide from the American public his true nature, a racist, straight, white demigod bent on the destruction of what he called the Zionist Occupation Government, a task no mortal man could do. And while that sexual experience will be with him until old age finally takes hold of him in five hundred or so years, he had one focus from the information he had rambled while high off of coke: Robert Mugabe and Nelson Mendela, two people he had just added to his shit list, the former for separating a British territory from its rightful owners, the Anglo-Saxon people who took it by the sword.

As soon as one of his servants handed him a pair of trousers that were not stained in a mixture of semen and cunny, he walked over to his limousine, sat down in the back, and was driven to his private, supersonic jet where he flown to his Scottish Castle, located all the way out in Salem, Oregon, where the original corporate headquarters of Pierce Enterprises was also located. During that time, it was secure, far from the usual prying eyes of the superheroes Vought hired to supplement the inadequacies of the American police force, ranging from slow response time to criminals all the way to the fact that they sometimes smuggled military grade hardware that could annihilate tanks, leaving the force outgunned. However, with how gentrified the place was through developments via Pierce's subsidiary corporation, White Flight Real Estate, the whole area was completely priced out for most people of color in that region, populated mainly by wealthy White people originating from either England or Scotland, or in most cases, the cities. Combined with its homogenous nature and low crime rate on account of being a homogenous county, virtually owned and operated by him, it was the perfect place for a man to hide in plain sight, putting on his costume and flying into space in the dead of night on the Western seaboard.

At the very moment his limo made its way to his Castle in Salem, one of his valet's opened the door for him as he got out, no luggage in hand but some drugs he brought with him, which was a whole brief case full of the cocaine/methamphetamine cocktail he snorted up his nose while getting his brains fucked out by that ravishing female superheroine back in New York. The interiors of the castle were dark, its pseudo candle lights generated from the electricity, a common practice among wealthy WASPs in America looking to maintain that look of a traditional house from the age without having to downgrade down to zero infrastructure. It was not the books of one of the shelves that had piqued his interest nor the colossal swimming pool outside, though it was kind of too cold for that anyway, being that it was late fall, fast approaching winter. His interest was a candlestick, which when he approached it, he carefully pulled it down, revealing a secret elevator that took him down to an underground location, built right underneath the home when its construction had begun in 1961, when he was known as Winston Smith, Casino owner on some strange, private, tropical island he called Kaine Key.

Inside the bunker that ran roughly the length of his house was several copies of his costume, designed with the same visual design he adopted since the 1940s, the colonial era officer style with golden fleeced epaulettes, giving him the aesthetic of an 1800s general with a cape, though colored gray with ebon-colored, leather gloves. The cape of the costume was the British Union of Fascists symbol, a Union Jack flag with a circle in the center, and in that circle, it sported a thunderbolt, the very same trademarked symbol used by the group until its dissolution in 1939 when Great Britain entered WWII in order to protect the freedom and independence of Poland. Between each display mannequin of his costume, there was a fluorescent light, spaced at perfect intervals between the facility with utterly perfect mathematical precision.

On other parts of the walls, facing costume display mannequins, was a cork board with various pictures of prominent Jewish and Black figureheads, many of whom crossed out with red marker to represent the ones he killed. There was Trotsky, Anna Pauker Vladimir Lenin, Martin Luther King Junior whose skull was crushed in the vice-like hydraulic grip of Arthur Luther Pierce's hands, his death blamed on a redneck hick whose wife ratted him out for saying racial slurs about the anti-segregation figure. Next on the agenda was Robert Mugabe and Nelson Mandela, who needed to pay for taking one of the colonies of his empire from—what Pierce saw—as their genetic superiors, the whole entire world being his and his people's birth-right, with him ruling over them as some type of immortal godking. And thus, with a look of determination, he put on his costume, dropping some of his underwear, which still reeked of cunny juice, a problem for his mortal butler to clean up when he was off, flying through a secret, underground tunnel that led straight to the exit, a thick, steel motion activated door that was large enough for a helicopter to descend through. From there, he was a fire in the sky, a meteor heading in one direction, accelerating to thousands of miles per hour in mere seconds, his eta to South Africa and where Nelson Mandela was located mere minutes, traveling at a speed fast enough to break free from the clutches of Earth's gravity in mere seconds.

Whilst in flight, his perception was completely different than what any Human could perceive, going at speeds so fast that it could reduce them to a gas, really hot steam that would dissipate back into the Earth's atmosphere. Everything he saw around him was a blur, his brain's visual cortex still processing everything a continuum of blue, green, and yellow blurs, for which represented the desert, the grasslands and forests, and last but not least, the ocean, represented by a distorted blue. The Human mind and computers never had the processing capability to comprehend images passing by in excess of twenty or thirty times the speed of sound, let alone mach thirty-two hundred, the speed at which Captain Albion was traveling to Africa. When traveling it high speed, there was no sight seeing, only a continuum of colors, ending with the white-hot glow of superheated atmospheric gasses heated to tens of thousand of degrees Celsius, enough to melt through even the most heat resistant metal, tungsten, in a matter of mere seconds. Captain Albion was traveling at speeds supes with the ability to fly were heavily advised against, their maximum speeds, for fear that it might cause them to simply burn into a pile of ash in the air, killing them, but not to Pierce; Pierce was confident that, based on the calculations he and his father came up with, he could survive the immense heat and pressure of the accretion disk of a supermassive blackhole without any issues whatsoever.

When he was in Africa, it was already daytime—morning, in fact—from the other half of the world being covered in the shadow of the moon, blocking out most if not all of the sunlight during the uneven day night cycles and relative passage of time that occurred depending upon the location of where someone was. He flew from the West Coast of the United States of America at night all the way to Southern Africa in around no less than five or so minutes, to the coordinates where Mandela's Complex was located, out in a farflung region right outside of Johannesburg, South Africa, already facing resistance by soldiers armed with AKs, the cutdown 7.62 rounds bouncing off his costume and skin like rocks thrown at a Main Battle Tank. However, those people were easy targets, getting speed blitzed, torn apart in a supernatural, imperceptible grayish blur, the immense shockwaves generated shattering the glass of windows, shards of glass maiming and killing civilians.

One soldier was lifted up by his neck with one hand, slammed to the floor, and stomped so hard underneath Captain Albion's black, shiny boot with such kinetic energy the cobble stone shattered as well, spattered with crimson and alabaster, the colors of blood and bone. Another one he ran into and grabbed taking half a clip of AK rounds without flinching one bit, by the neck, only this time using his other hand to punch Mandela's bodyguard so hard in the skull it was reduced to a chunky salsa like substance, spattering the worn-out car he used as cover in his blood and brains. Arthur relished every kill as the blood and viscera washed over his face, their bodies going limp, sprawled across the yard after he chucked them aside, to be food for the buzzards who would come in to have a feast on all of the mutilated corpses. The South African Police, when they finally respond, would have a massacre on their hands, of course blamed on the White Nationalist militias who were galvanized at the idea of having to share a country with those whom they deemed lesser to them. Oh yes, the police would sweep it under the rug, not because they were racist, but because it was, as it always had been, to blame the logical suspect first when something strange happens in order to keep John Q Public from asking too many difficult questions and moving on to the next event. This would be swept under the rug with all of Captain Albions uncountable crimes, the mutilation on the bodies found applicable to blast injuries suffered from explosives such as bombs, grenades, or shrapnel, all producing similar wounds to being torn apart or crushed by a superhuman.

Once inside, Captain Albion found the members of Mandela's family bleeding to death, in the foyer, as a result of several shards of glass, accelerated to around half the speed of sound as a result of him hovering in the air at supersonic speeds, slicing up their faces, severing arteries. He laughed at one of them, still alive, gurgling blood after his throat had just been slit by a shard of glass traveling at him at around the speed it would go had it been shot out of a blunderbuss. His eyes were also gone, replaced by bloody holes filled with shards of glass, or rather a bloody gel-like substance flowing out where they once were. The adolescent's ears were also filled with crimson, what remained of what was once his inner ears and ear drum reduced to a thick fluid of blood and tissue on account of the pressure wave completely disintegrating those very sensitive organs.

"What… happ… ," the adolescent boy said, blood spilling from his mouth, practically shooting out like a fountain due to the immense internal damage those hundreds of other shards of glass did while striking his body, his internal organs reduced to a crimson slop.

"Die, White devil," a scream Captain Albion heard before hearing a large clatter, right against his head followed by a crunching noise as well as a shriek of agony.

He turned behind him to see that it was Mandela, holding in his hands a brass candle stick, both his arms broken, the bones sticking out from the wrist due to hitting what was essentially a solid block of cobham tank armor in the form of a man. When two materials, the candlestick and Captain Albion, were swung by a material made from the bones and sinews of a mortal man, Mandela, the latter's hands broke, in this case so badly that even he if were to survive this encounter, he would be a double amputee lunatic in the mental ward missing both of his hands, screaming incoherently of some superpowered, cis, straight white male who had just wiped out his entire family as well as his loyal guard. Captain Albion came to the conclusion that it would have been better to simply let him bleed out or wind up committed to an asylum—his anti-apartheid cause ruined—discredited by his folly of believing in the conspiracy theory that billionaire industrialist who, in his free time, went out to kill major minority forces like some racist Bruce Wayne. Yeah, no would ever believe that story once the police find him, dead or alive, surrounded by the mutilated remains of his family and body guards. Hell, they might even think he blew up the house to get attention, which Pierce was more than happy to make it appear as though Mandela did it all himself.

"You will burn in hell for all eternity, White devil," screamed Nelson Mandela, enraged after just watching a demigod completely massacre his family like a child torturing a group of insects with a magnifying glass, or rather, his bare hands.

"Really? Hell? I am already their, wog, doomed to watch as you and your Jewish masters replace my civilization with some multi-racial bazaar. You will be slaves when this comes, kept in line through the barrel of a loaded gun. The stupidity of blacks never ceases to amaze me, too stupid to even have a hope in hell to realize that the Jews are merely switching the management from colonial governor to slave master. Of course, you will be rotting in the ground by then, one of the only things your bloody kind is even good for. If I win, the Jews, their pets, which includes you, will end up like the Neanderthal when the first Europeans evolved in Eurasia, an extinct, outmoded organism," He retorted, right before crushing and mangling Mandela's hands in order to make it look like a bomb did everything and that Mandela set it off himself to make him a martyr, and then just flying off, rusty jeep in hand, into space, intent on dropping it onto Zimbabwe's capital.

A day after the fiery depopulation of Zimbabwe and the horrific maiming of Nelson Mandela, Arthur Luther Pierce II was chilling on his sofa, a large pile of cocaine on his ornate coffee table and a bottle of whiskey right next to it, watching the news of what became of the leader of the anti-apartheid movement, and could not help but feel a sense of dread as some people were actually taking him seriously, including Vought. Vought was sending the female superheroine, Liberty, to take the statement of Nelson Mandela so that the criminal code of the Hague Convention could file criminal charges against Pierce, genocide of the black population in Zimbabwe being one of them, when he dropped a rusty jeep at many thousands of miles per second at the capital city of Harar, the ejecta of that impact wiping out ninety percent of the small country like the fallout of a nuclear bomb. His plan completely backfired, sending a large portion of those survivors to Great Britain, his home country, where they would, at least according to him, multiply like rabbits, burn the country down, and declare as the territory of Bongistan. And he might have to go to jail for his crimes, not that there was any prison that existed on this rock that could hold him. They could probably kill him or cripple him for a few months, but that would literally take billions upon billions of dollars in Western tax dollars for just a single man who was far, far too small for any weapon system to even lock on and target. All he had to do to prevent any personal consequences to himself or his whole operation was to simply make a phone call, to Denmar Psychiatric Hospital, where Nelson Mandela himself was being held.

"Ponsenby, pass me the phone," he said, grabbing a finger of coke from the massive mountain of cocaine on top of his coffee table, snorting it up his nose to remain calm and collected in the face of potentially having Soldier Boy and Liberty bust down his door to arrest him for genocide.

His butler, Ponsenby, handed him a phone, a Motorola DynaTAC 8000X, the bulky forerunner to the modern cellphone which, in turn, would evolve into the modern-day smart phone used by virtually everyone in first world countries in the 2010s and 2020s.

"Call the Denmar Psychiatric Hospital," barked Pierce "I want you to also call Yockey. Tell him I want him to pay one of the doctors a whole briefcase of full of gold bullion I was given by Hitler for stopping the Soviet advance into German territory at Seelow Heights in 44' in exchange for silencing that nigger, permanently. "

"Your welcome, Master Pierce. Anything else?" acquiesced Ponsenby

"I would like two more bricks of nose candy. You know my dealer, the shifty white meth head from Spokane who gets it 100 percent pure straight from Columbia. Yeah, I want that coke, not this fucking baking powder-cut horseshite you bought—with my fucking money, no less—from some yard ape who probably cut it for a few extra bucks to supplement his welfare check. That is bloody unprofessional," yelled Pierce as he turned his head to face Ponsenby, high off of enough cocaine to floor a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

Meanwhile, in the stinky hellish nightmare that was the Denmar Psychiatric Hospital, Nelson Mandela sat there, his head bandaged and his two arms cut off at the wrists on account of the damage caused by an explosive, supposedly set off by him in order to get more attention to the issue of South Africa's racial segregation. Apparently, his version of the story was much different and Liberty was sent in, along with several Vought investigators, to investigate what had actually happened and see if his claims—of a billionaire industrialist putting on a costume and brutalizing minorities with godlike powers—were true. Unfortunately for Liberty, Mandela was completely incoherent, drool dripping out from his mouth and onto his knees, completely oblivious of even her presence, a famous female superhero from the United States of America. His eyes and expression were vacant, too, evident by the fact his eyes did not respond to visual stimulus in the form of Liberty moving her index finger across, side to side, as most doctors do when a patient suffered a head injury.

"Who attacked you?" asked Liberty, trying her damnedest not to say anything racial.

"Watermelon, grape soda, fried chicken, bling," Mandela replied, his eyes vacant, merely focused on what was in front of him, like some mental patient who was on so much lithium he was never even able to form a coherent thought, for hours upon hours, until he was off of it, assuming the drug did not turn his brain into Swiss cheese on account of constant use.

There was a handsome, Boer doctor with blonde hair and crystal blue eyes holding a large briefcase and cordless drill, its tip soaked in blood and brains based on what Liberty could see from where she stood. The briefcase he was holding was so heavy, he was dragging it along the sterile floor, almost comically, along with the cordless drill he held in one hand, obviously hoping to dispose of it once he left the hospital. Noir had a suspicious look about him, looking at that man coldly, adding up a whole bunch of questions as to why a doctor was leaving with a brief case that weighed more than one of Soldier Boy's fucking shields and was dragging away a cordless drill with a red cross on it, the very same type of cordless drill a hospital would use to perform lobotomies upon violent patients in mental hospitals in order to make them more calm and controlled, or in laymen's terms, stupid and docile. The briefcase was dragging, scratching the fine, white tiled floor, the doctor holding his arms buckling under the immense weight of just that one briefcase held in his hand.

The doctor threw the blood covered, cordless drill bit into the medical waste bin, where it will go to a specialized facility for proper disposal. He placed the drill into his coat, dragging with all his might the immensely heavy brief case someone must have handed him to do such a procedure, in order to silence Mandela to protect a very powerful businessman thousands of miles away, on the other side of even the United States, where the both of them worked. Liberty went up to the man, not wanting him to tear his rotator cuff on account of having to lift what seems to be hundreds upon hundreds of pounds of either medical supplies he was stealing from the fucking hospital or, what Black Noir presumed, a case of gold bars, paid by Arthur to silence Mandela in the form of a lobotomy, a tale as old as time itself; thus Mandela would be silent, trapped in his own mind, unable to communicate with the outside world the truest extant to what actually happened in his house on the outskirts of Johannesburg. The only words they were able to get out of him were of a collection of foods, beverages, and shiny jewelry, completely unrelated to what he accused Pierce just a day ago, a day or so after Pierce allegedly flew in with in a British flagged costume and killed all of his guards in a hilariously over the top fashion that would make even Bruce Li blush, except the latter did not have the strength to literally bench press a cruise liner and the ability to leave Earth's atmosphere in mere seconds. Then there was something straight out of a James Bond novella, a henchman lobotomizing the witness in order to keep him silent, forever trapped in a fate worse than death until the slow wasting of old age finally claimed him.

"Can I help you with that?" she asked as she grabbed it, surprised to find out that it weighed almost as much as two men put together, therefore around three hundred and sixty pounds or so of something very heavy, her guess being stolen medical supplies.

The moment she lifted it up in her hands, the contents of the bag seemed weightless to her; however, the structural integrity of the bag gave away, revealing many gold bars, each weighing around ten kilograms, a Reichsadler and Swastika etched into each of them as she could see as they poured out of the briefcase, the wooden material that comprised its frame far too weak to support more than three hundred and sixty pounds of gold, sometimes stacked on top of each other three layers thick from what Liberty could guess of it. Physics was a cruel bitch to any supe whose strength was not from some form of tactile telekinesis like Soldier Boy, as large heavy objects tended to fall apart when there was something small—be it a Human hand—holding them up. That was also why she had to limit her speed to around two times the speed of sound, for fear she could wind up in outer space, her internal organs destroyed due to the lack of atmospheric pressure keeping them together, which was why she could not reduce cities to slag like Arthur supposedly could, according to conspiracy theories that were the result of whistleblowers from both the KGB and Mossad. Most people thought they were mad, even those countries, and they were promptly locked away in a lunatic asylum, never to see the light of day, just like Nelson Mandela. He, however, was just conveniently lobotomized when she was trying to uncover the truth, not that Pierce had anything to fear from her. She was more worried that Soldier Boy and Black Noir would try to kill him for their approval rating, for Pierce was already one of the most hated men in America just for writing the Turner Diaries, a book that depicts an armed uprising and race war in the United States ending with the Day of the Rope.

"Who paid you to lobotomize Nelson Mandela?" demanded Liberty, annoyed at the fact that what may have been the only proof of a superman retaking the West, not a supergolem enforcing the will of the subverted Western Governments

"Y-yockey," the doctor said, nervous at the possibility he might be torn limb from limb by either Liberty or Black Noir, knowing all of the horror stories of supes like Soldier Boy killing people at random and Vought only coughing up maybe two thousand or so in compensation for the average poor or middle-class victim harmed by their maleficence.

"Diabolical muhfuckin' snow chimp," yelled Black Noir at the revelation. "That's Pierce's fuckin' underboss, you know, the bastard that runs the construction company like some mafia scumbag, building Synagogues out of bricks made of trash so that they collapse, killing dozens of people in a lot of cases, blaming the shitty construction materials on shortages to avoid lawsuits and prison time. Living proof that WASPs are greedy, not the Jews those politically powerful Anglo Mobsters think," ranted Noir about what he thought of Pierce and his cronies who run the massive corporate octopus known as Pierce Enterprises.

"Here's the deal: you hand me that gold, you get off scot-free. Why, I'll even let you keep your job to sweeten the deal," proposed Liberty, wanting to get her hands on even bigger fish than some doctor who committed an act of egregious medical malpractice for a hefty supplement to his already large salary in the form of Nazi gold from a shady multibillionaire.

"Ponsenby, did you get me the two bricks of pure cocaine I need to get high. It has been three fucking days, I am getting jitters over here that are making it bloody difficult for me to hid my telekinetic abili—," he said before being interrupted by his Butler, who had an anxious look on his face as if someone from the FBI had came to arrest him for his crimes all the way out in South Africa, even though the events that had occurred there happened so fast there was absolutely no way in hell they would even have a slim chance of tying him, not without Mandela's testimony at the very least.

"No, I am afraid your favorite dealer has been busted, sent off to jail by that female supe you were shagging out in Herogasm in her words "high on enough coke to floor a fucking elephant seal," explained his Butler grimly, fearful of getting torn limb from limb for simply not doing what his master did when he was going through a brutal cocaine withdrawal that would kill any other man, who was not gifted with the ability to slowly regenerate his cells through the use of his own adult stem cells.

He got up and turned from the couch and his butler moved to the side, remembering the woman whom he allowed to fuck his brains out at Herogasm 79', high off of enough cocaine to kill any other man who did not have superhuman durability or regeneration, two of the powers that allowed him to not only survive the process of snorting two bricks of cocaine in one night but remain lucid and coherent enough to even form something as basic as a sentence. Sadly for him, she was not as attractive as he remembered, her gray eyes hallucinations caused by the cocaine disrupting the audiovisual centers of his mind, the reason why people even take the drug, its euphoria causing people to see things or people as more attractive than they actually were due the disruption, sort of like alcohol making fat chicks appear in a man's eyes as if they were a perfect ten. She was a seven, maybe an eight if he was being generous, with blonde hair that looked as though it were bleached on with dye, a fairly common practice among Western women to add a few extra points on to their sexual market place value, just as men injected steroids into their glutes to do the very same thing. Not that he was disappointed. The sex was great considering the fact the woman was not exactly up to the preference he developed on account of growing up in an aristocratic family that required the women to have matching phenotypic traits to breed with, in order for the clan to remain genetically distinct from all of the other peasants and commoners, the very type of people he was going to rule over like one of the kings of yore when he won his crusade against the Jewish people, or rather, Godking for the next ten or so centuries until one of his phenotypical copies replaced him when old age finally claimed him.

"I have just come to have a little chat with you about some discrepancies. As you already know by now, Nelson Mandela has accused you of flying over to his house, from the sky like something out of a comic book, and murdering everyone but him, tearing them all limb from limb like some chimp. He also said you were wearing a costume with the Union Jack on it, which apparently, in his primitive brain, is some sort of symbol of colonialism, almost like the crown sent you from England in order to attack, thus bringing back the old order of the British Empire ruling over blacks as slaves to enrich the UK. Now, if this is true, I want to negotiate contracts with you. If not, then I might have to arrest you. Of course, you will be out of jail in a few minutes because all of the powerful friends you have in Washington, either bought or scared into line by your vast fortune, would not allow it lest their heads roll. Your reputation, however, will be completely destroyed, forever known to the American people as the man who almost killed Nelson Mandela, maiming him for life. Unlike in Britland, we have a little thing called the 1st Amendment and those conspiracy theories you spread about Jews, which fortunately for you, I believe they are conspiracy facts. However, as you as you say in your book, most Whites are mere herd animals, fit only to deliver the pizzas or farm the land for the aristocrats in exchange for comfort and security as you say in your book, The Turner Diaries, and with that, I can tell you care little of their approval," Cynthia said as she made herself comfortable on his expensive Victorian couch, one of the few things he was able to grab from his estate back at Wiltshire before he went into hiding in Argentina.

"Look, if I did have those powers, I definitely would have done the exact same thing, Cynthia. Let's be honest here. We are both guilty of similar crimes in the eyes of the Jewish media, namely that time you allegedly killed a wog while his kid-sister watched in horror, her family sueing you and managing to get what I like to call measly pocket change they will blow on golden chains and fast cars like the dumb apes they are. I did not kill him, but I did pay one of my associates to pay a doctor in order to have him lobotomized, only to see that genocidal piece of fucking shit rot in his own filth, trapped in his own mind regretting the day he ever planned to harm the greatness that is White, Western civilization. He might one day lament his decision to destroy White South Africa, as he slowly wastes away and dies as soon as those savages let the science and invention of their better's waste away. As you seem to recall, the only words he could say after the procedure were "watermelon, grape soda, fried chicken, bling," the most basic components of a nigger's needs," Pierce laughed, gasping for air at what he just found out about what was done to silence Nelson Mandela in order to protect him from prosecution.

"You sound like a cartoonish colonial governor with your choice of words and accent," she laughed.

"Now colonize my pussy, daddy!"

Around a year or so later.

Dear Arthur Luther Pierce, I am afraid I should have used a diaphragm at the Herogasm festival of 1979, though you were on enough coke to floor an elephant seal, so I cannot really blame you for making that mistake of not wearing a condom as you should have. Hey, you are a rich fogie; thus, it is not really your fault for snorting enough cocaine to kill a large animal, simply because your one of those genetic anomalies among normal, unpowered humans who can do such things without long-term consequences. I would do the same if it was not for my morality clause. What we ended up doing later on also violated my morality clause, having a child with an anonymous man out of wedlock, completely blacklisting me from any Vought projects for the foreseeable future because most of America—understandably—still wants that wholesome family image the Jews are trying so desperately to destroy, through their promotion of homosexuality and the feminization of western males via chemical castration as a direct result of microplastics in the water. Because of that, I cannot afford to look after this child because, even when I was employed, I was living beyond my means as any celebrity does, living paycheck to paycheck, or rather, contract to contract.

I have become a member of the Church of the Collective, similar to that religious organization you are from called the Church of the Creator, but it is more involved in 'rehabilitating' supes who have had the misfortune of stepping one toe out of line from what Vought wants. Obviously, you do not want anything to do with such a group on account of how tolerant it is to different races and sexualities, you being of course one of the most hated, racist men in America, whereas I am silent about it. I do not blame you. You have your own organizations you fund through your nearly endless wealth on account of the fact you are someone who can buy and snort cocaine by the brick. I would be homeless in a day with your habits, as well as fund a bunch of White separatist organization as if you are Daddy Warbucks from Orphan Anny. Unlike you, I have to try to change my beliefs. Not everyone can have a monopoly on several key industries that makes the Standard Oil Trust look like a complete joke in comparison because politicians are too afraid to take action against you for violating those laws due to the fact they might magically get dropped from space like several others. I have to try and keep my reputation clean, and that baby you put in me was the final nail for my superhero persona.

Speaking of this baby, it had displayed some very unusual abilities, one of them being the ability to read and write at just twelve months, when most infants are too busy finding stuff on the ground to chew to alleviate teething. I took him to Vogelbaum who ran some blood work and he found out that there were several genetic curiosities, possibly inherited from the father, in this case you. For one thing, his telomeres are longer than most people, resulting in an individual who ages at roughly a tenth the normal rate of the average human, giving him a lifespan of around a thousand or so years. He will still develop at the same rate of a normal Human: go through puberty, reach maturity by 21, et cetera, but he will still look like he is in his twenties even when he is three hundred years old. Additionally, he seems to have the ability to regenerate, as he produces a lot of stem cells that renew any damaged or destroyed parts of him, effectively giving him the ability to regenerate like Prometheus. He also has an energy field surrounding him that gives him enhanced durability and strength, roughly five times that of an infant of the same size, which Vogelbaum expects to develop into flight as well as invulnerability by the time he reaches puberty. Of course, this could all be Jewish schizophrenia. Problem is, he doesn't believe those abilities came from me, based on the remnants of some gene editing protein he found in the baby's blood.

I also don't want a city-busting super-abled child living in my house, because I am worried about what he will be like during puberty. Teenagers can be such fucking psychopaths when the hormones kick in.

Yours truly,

K.R.