A/N: Someone as rich as Pierce could easily cover his tracks. Cops are not paid enough money, not even back then, for the amount of risk involved in their job; thus, it would be extremely easy for a massive corporation to send people to bribe and/or intimidate them into submission, same with high-ranking members of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, and as a last result, a jury in a court case. All it takes is one juror having doubts to get someone off of the hook for murder. Think of it as Hydra taking over a third of the US Government in the Marvel Universe secretively.
She should have known Arthur Luther Pierce had powers, from the very beginning when he became a multi-billionaire virtually overnight, when he held Israel for a ransom of over one hundred billion dollars' worth of gold bullion, and then shockingly enough several corporations so large they made Vought seem like an ant in comparison sprang up out of thin air, owned primarily by Pierce, having the combined finances of a small first-world nation in Europe. That was not the only red flag to her that he was a secretive, cagey, fascist thug, there was numerous others, to the KGB agents winding up dead in the New England region, almost making it feel like a Lovecraft country of doom, a massive sundown town where Jewish KGB agents and Mossad Nazi hunters died by the dozen trying to bring him to justice, inexplicably dying in ways so brutal, so gruesome that she almost thought a chimpanzee or a gorilla ripped them apart. Some were just skinned alive and displayed for the whole country to see atop the skyscrapers of Providence, Rhode Island. Given that most of the cops and the FBI field offices' high-ranking members were bought out by Pierce or simply had that terrified look at the mere mention of his name, no charges were ever pursued, even when there was fibers and the patterns of leather gloves left in the writings—written in blood-on the walls above the corpses, rambling threats similar to what happened in San Franscisco, often ending with an Algiz rune at the bottom of the text, Pierce's own version of the Zodiac symbol. Those signs were there, the inexplicable wealthy elitist British accent in spite of the fact that his fake family had been in America since John F Kennedy's brains were still in his dome, and the fact that he seemed legally invincible thanks to mafia-style intimidation tactics. In addition to the fact that his corporation was violating anti-trust laws left and right without being dissolved ever since it stole the microprocessor was more than enough reason to any rational, sane, intelligent person to realize that this corporation was controlled by superpowered remnants of the British Aristocracy.
However, what caused her to suspect he was a supe was 1964, when he was dating a sexually attractive, blonde, blue eyed Russian woman. She was so sexually attractive that Stormfront in her Liberty days questioned her sexuality just with a simple glance, and as far as she could tell, she was as straight as they fucking came. That woman's name was Natasha Ivanova.
Around fifty-six years ago, in the summer of 1964, Liberty was sent in to answer a police call about a kidnapped woman at a local circus in Jupiter, Florida, delivered to the circus by some sketchy communist-sounding fellow according to the police call. The United States Government wanted it dealt with before one of their campaign contributors, Pierce, pulled their funding, hence why she was sent there to handle it, and boy, she was not comfortable handling a case that could potentially destroy her career, not around the types of people she seen as nature's failures. She had this very uneasy feeling as she flew there, as if she was being followed in mid-flight by something moving around a hundred or so feet above her by the immense turbulence the figure generated, traveling around Mach one by the looks of things. She could feel the air drag he generated as he flew above her, the telekinetically warped air molecules around him, propelling him at around the same speed as she was. From the looks of it, it seemed to be a struggle, an immense struggle for such an immensely strong, superpowered being trying to slow down his speed, to be slower than her top speed, just a little, so he could potentially deal with that Russian fellow.
What was stranger was that she noticed the man had a British flag billowing off of his back, his superhero cape and outfit very similar in design to Blitzmensch, a mythical supervillain in WWII who became the basis for her comic book and cartoon arch-nemesis, Captain Albion, and his costume resembled that to a T as he flew above her a hundred or so meters/feet. She could tell just by the Union Jack flag-like cape when most American supes had this all-American image on their costume, but not him, as it was supposed to represent British Colonialism and now fascism with the Swastika at the very center of the Union Jack. That was his whole schtick, though, a British aristocrat who suffered catastrophic injuries in WWI, then injected with a super serum called Serum Lot Twenty-Two, a chemical formula that alters the DNA in the subject, granting them a telekinetic ability that allowed them to fly, and increase their durability and strength one-to-ten thousand-fold, in addition to enhanced hearing and the ability to see perfectly in pitch black thanks to the ability to toggle on infrared vision.
Captain Albion was supposed to be fiction, but seeing that superpowered vigilante in an actual costume, made of the cheap, budget silk, leather, and linen, in addition to the red, blue, black, and white costume that fit the comic book and cartoons. What was next? Was he also a British accented, billionaire playboy tycoon who operated his businesses all the way out in New England, otherwise known as Lovecraft Country, with all of the strange, inexplicable deaths of KGB and Mossad Nazi hunters chocked up to runaway chimps by the comically corrupt Rhode Island Police Department, when independent investigations always implied it was a telekinetically-enhanced Supe who did the deed? That whole region of the United States smelled off to her, and there it was, something flying just above her that confirmed her suspicions of supes killing off Nazi Hunters. Hell, why were they even in Rhode Island looking into Pierce Enterprise' secrets to begin with, when Vought American, at the time, seemed to be a far more fertile ground for hunting Nazis, seeing as how it was founded by a Nazi scientist? Mossad was staffed by a bunch of morons if they think an elitist antisemitic, Argentinian immigrant with a high-born English accent was a Nazi-sympathizer.
Anyway, when she got there, it was mostly grasslands surrounded by an Everglade's swamp-like area, with hissing alligators off of the banks of the lake, not that they terrified her as she could snap their jaws off with but a finger or send them flying if they ever tried to hurt her, if they could even bite through her nigh-impregnable skin to begin with. She landed down, making a distinct electrical buzzing sound as bolts of lightning struck the ground, not burning it, since said bolts of lightning were not electricity exactly but a type of cold, harmless plasma that appeared as lightning to the outside observer. When one of those gators decided to fuck around and find out, she blasted it with a plasma bolt, sending it flying against a poplar tree to her side with a loud squelch, the sound of every single bone in its body shattering like glass. Then its fellow alligators went in for the kill, gruesomely tearing apart and eating the corpse of one of their own creatures for food.
In front of her was a trailer, pulled by an old 1940s-era truck that a shifty Russian bought with some American money his spy agency handed for his mission here, under the assumption that the person he was avoiding had no fear of going outside of the New England zone. The trailer was made of wood, plywood to be exact, and it reeked of a combination of urine, feces, and the type of dry straw they kept animals in, particularly horses in stables. The words scrawled on the poorly made horse trailer read "The Horrendous Harpy", the new freak this man was proffering to the circus owner, which prompted the owner of the circus to call the Miami Metropolitan Police Department on him, to which they have sent Liberty, one of the only supes who fought crime out in the South and the American Gulf Coast.
What she saw in that trailer would haunt even her for the rest of her life. It was Natasha Ivanova, only horrifically mutilated in an even worse way than Cleopatra was in the 1932 movie 'Freaks', her god-like and beautiful features gone forever. Her nose was sliced off as well as her lips, revealing a few horribly crooked teeth, her skin burned and melted with acid in addition. Her lower jaw was hanging off its hinges, rotting away, turning that sickly green color that occurs when bones were either infected or disconnected from their blood supply, its teeth completely pulled, shrinking down to nothing as a result of a lack of teeth. Liberty was trying not to puke at what she just saw, the atrocity that a KGB agent had made of the epitome of White European beauty in her opinion, so callously, so horribly that even though she did not know her, she actually felt empathy, a strange trait for a psychopath.
That was not all that had been mutilated, her hands and feet suffering the very same fate, too, the former slashed at the palm bones to resemble bird talons, the latter simply mutilated in a pretty standard way, chopped right off with bolt cutters. They left most of her torso intact physically, the large, perky bust line that had been the envy of women remained perfectly undamaged, what would make this atrocity against nature the perfect attraction to one of the last freak shows in the entire country, still operating in spite of the advent of the television age, a potential saving grace for one of the last freakshows in America when faced with Hollywood.
Liberty wanted to say something to the man who delivered the atrocity to the freakshow, which she could tell, based on close observations of his features when she looked at him, he was not a real Russian person in her opinion, but a Middle Eastern Jew living in Russia. His dark complexion, sloped forehead, large, drooping nose were clear indicators that he was not in fact of Slavic descent, at least predominantly, but of Leventine descent, and was so inbred looking he made the Habsburg Family of Spain look like Greek Gods in comparison. His hair was black and so oily that she could use its contents to fuel the lamps at her houses, if this was the 18th and 19th centuries. Because of his disgusting appearance, Liberty knew it was he who disfigured the poor girl beyond recognition, likely as a result of jealousy, owing to the fact that something so pure, so beautiful in her eyes would never settle for a man as disgusting as he.
Gathering her composure, she tried to formulate words.
"W-why did you do this to Natasha Ivanova? She's some rich kid's trophy bimbo, not some evil nazi who needed to be made an example of by the Soviet Government!" yelled Liberty in confusion, shocked as to how such a meek people could do that to their betters.
"Natasha Ivanova was a KGB asset assigned to kill Arthur Luther Pierce for his actions against Mother Russia in 1944-45, when one of our people took vengeance upon his family for bribing Churchill, FDR, and Prime Minister Macdonald to send Jewish refugees back to Germany in WWII. Unfortunately for my people, seeing his dead superpowered, infant children sent him into a rage, causing him to kill the family of the man, Moishe, then Moishe himself. Once you and your husband have fled Nazi Germany, he was Adolph Hitler's superpowered, mercenary enforcer, Blitzmensch, a walking hydrogen bomb capable of reducing cities to rubble just by flying around them at mind-shattering velocities, creating superheated airbursts as a result of the immense drag. He's the hydrogen bomb to Frederick Vought's sticks of dynamite, the ubermensch he failed miserably to replicate with Soldier Boy, constantly tweaking his compound V formula to match the potency of Serum Lot Twenty-Two made by Bill Luther Pierce in the 1920s. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that mediocrity can pay to greatness," he explained.
"Now enough rambling, let me explain why I targeted her; she hates Jews, but once hated Arthur Luther Pierce for orphaning her when he attacked Russia's industrial districts, almost handing WWII to the axis powers in one swoop of an attack. She was sent in to honeypot him: seduce him, then once his guard was down, poison him to death with irradiated polonium tablets; however, she fell for his charms. He was James Bond with blonde hair, emerald eyes, and a nigh-limitless bank account, and he actually regretted killing her mother and father, comparing the process to treating cancer, sometimes killing healthy cells. That is what my people are to Pierce and his wife over there, cancer cells killing the body that is Western Civilization. I lost my father in his attacks on Eastern Europe, at Seelow Heights, in '45. Hell, he did not even notice she was poisoning him, they were simply very strong drinks that gave him a buzz, since most liquor failed to get him intoxicated after that Serum. The bitch betrayed her country. She got what she deserved, Liberty, and killing her would be too good for her, so I put my amateurish surgical skills to use that I practiced on small animals at a smelly orphanage I spent MY CHILDHOOD in after my father died. She was seduced by his schmeckle, so she got what was coming to her. That fucking Shiksa bitch!" he proclaimed, proud of his handy work, smiling as he heard the groans that came from the straw filled trailer.
Then after that anti-Pierce, anti-European rant, Liberty heard a loud thud, then a squelch inside of the horse trailer. She had turned to find that Natasha had just used one of the poorly pounded, protruding nails next to her to slit her own throat, pounding against it until it was in her jugular vein, and then dragging it across, leaving a large, jagged wound up to the mangled hole where her left ear once was. Already, she was sprawled out in the wagon, blood trickling onto the grassy ground below, spurting out of the wound with each consecutive heartbeat. Then it stopped. She was dead, her suffering ultimately ended by her own hand instead of wasting away on suicide watch at some nightmarish hell of an insane asylum that the Christians set up to appease their creepy, hippie desert god. There was not enough antidepressants or psychiatric therapy in the whole entirety of the universe to fix this. In fact, Liberty was thinking about ending Natasha's suffering herself, if she had a firearm with which to do it in a humane and painless way. Soldier Boy would have granted her the Reaper's sweet release behind the barrel of a loaded .45 caliber M1911 handgun if he saw the suffering of this poor woman,
"Not to worry. I am not going to kill you, I am a superhero now. However, that does not mean I am going to save you from the inevitable comeuppance that befalls the Jewish people whenever they piss the native members of their host nations off," she yelled, ending the final sentence of her statement with a rageful smile, right before flying off anxiously, fearful of a confrontation with potentially the most powerful supe in existence.
"He's all yours!" she declared as loudly as she could, pointing her right index finger at the terrified KGB agent in a rage.
Right when she did fly off with an electrical buzz, Captain Albion had landed right in front of the KGB agent who had just orchestrated the mutilation of his wife, ultimately leading his wife to slit her throat on an exposed nail before Liberty's eyes. He stood at roughly the same height as Pierce, muscles bulging tightly out of his modest, loose-fitting costume, giving him the appearance of a Greek demigod like Hercules in both size and strength, the normally loose-fitting costume leaving very little to be imagined, even showing off his perfectly large and sculpted abdominal muscles. Then there was his face, completely concealed by both a weirdly constructed, brass gas mask with metal tubes going down to the back behind his cape, its glass or plastic eye holes glowing a menacing, light-emitting diode red in color straight out of a comic book about a fascist dystopia in Britain. To top off the whole British aesthetic, he wore the typical Brodie helm that both the Americans, Canadians, and finally the British wore for its ease of manufacturing and its ability to minimize the risk of white-hot shrapnel potentially blinding their troops for life, landing in their eyes. That was the only flaw in his costume design. If she had designed the costume, she would of changed the Brodie helm to a Stahlhelm instead.
His pecs, abs, biceps and triceps the size of her head, and every other muscle were not the only things bulging out of his costume that was designed by Hugo Boss, his fine, tight, well-toned buttocks was the part that gave Liberty her confused feelings, so muscular it was that it bulged out of a fairly modest costume that was in no way homo-erotic at all. Sure, she had to get Soldier Boy as back up, if he even believed such an absurd story that was fabricated by a bunch of communistic Russians to begin with, but she was still conflicted with the fact that she had to subdue a very powerful superhuman, who, with his immense power level, caused a world superpower to shit a brick at the mere mention of his name. Besides, she found his motive to be quite justifiable in the grand scheme of things, especially where he avenges the person that may or may not be his wife.
Oh, that KGB agent knew she was a Nazi, right at the part where he mentioned the time Vought and his wife leaving Germany for America under the guise of operation paper clip, which led her to believe the people who hunt Nazi war criminals, Mossad, had much bigger fish to fry in the form of Pierce and his multiple corporate fronts that magically sprung out of thin air, with billions of dollars pouring out of his fingertips. Just the nigh-endless wealth that he seemingly got after Israel was held ransom with a stolen nuke seemed off to her, as if the US would give its entire treasury off to a couple of Swiss Bank accounts in the form of untaxable gold bullion. If she was President, she would have told the Palestinian Terrorist to nuke Israel and see if she cared, and she wouldn't have shed a tear for them, as the Jewish nation went up into a titanic, bright, mushroom cloud that went all the way up into outer space. If anything, she would have grabbed a bottle of Champaign, took a sip, and admired the fireworks on television.
The whole chain of events that just transpired read like something out of a Bond film, with the villain hijacking nuclear weapons from either the UK, United States, or the Soviet Union, only for it to be reality where the super spy did not come in to save the day and prevent the economies of entire nations from collapsing as a result of the immense strain of having to enrich a single man. For starters, how did a bunch of rinky-dink, semitic terrorist move a twenty-seven metric ton nuclear device from Russia all the way out in Israel, undetected, without sounding the alarm from the international community? Secondly, how in the blue fuck did Pierce hide out in the United States as a wanted war criminal, with a gargantuan reward of over a hundred million US dollars from both the KGB, MI6, and Israel? It was quite obvious. He was the leader of the Anglo-Saxon Mafia, a loosely organized criminal organization that was really hard to take down, because it was led by what was estimated to be over a hundred leaders, each one ruling a small gang of six to eight people, hard to take down for even the best detectives at Vought. Each time a leader was caught by either Liberty or Soldier Boy, all they got were foamy gurgles after the boss swallowed a cyanide capsule. They were not one's garden variety criminals, extorting Jewish business owners into poverty, forcing said business owners to light their establishments on fire, collect the insurance, then leave for greener pastures out in New York or a state like California or even Texas, places more defended courtesy of Vought American's supes.
Instead of using his immeasurable superstrength to tear apart the KGB agent who mutilated his wife, Liberty noticed that Captain Albion or Pierce, whoever he was, dragged the KGB agent one-handed by the neck, kicking and screaming for help from people too afraid of the dark costumed figure to do anything. He did not say a single word to him, hearing only silence as he pounded on his indestructible arms hysterically like a victim in a slasher film. Captain Albion was dragging the man into the crocodile-infested swamps of the Everglades. To Klara, this was so sadistic, so evil, it reminded her of when she read about the Romans feeding Jews and Christians to lions; however, maybe he wasn't too evil and sadistic by the Nazis standards. He was a little too Medieval for her tastes, using wild animals to horrifically execute people was something even the Nazis deemed too cruel, but Pierce being an Anglo-Saxon, an Aryan sub-race the Fuhrer deemed cruel and aggressive, did not surprise Liberty one bit. Anglos were the type of White people, with their longer history of genocide, colonialism than any other group of Europeans, to which the controlled media would use for their endless guilting of European Americans to accept their gentle genocide. He cared not of optics, she did.
When she saw Captain Albion snap both of the KGB agents' legs like thin, little twigs, shaping the KGB operative's limbs into a pretzel, then threw him into the water to be gator food with his free hand, she knew this would make her people look like a bunch of sociopathic, cruel thugs to the public that need a gentle genocide. The waters off of that small coast of the Everglades Lake turned crimson, with small, crimson chunks of what remained of the KGB agent's suit and bits of bone that were ground up when the gators grabbed his limbs, spinning around until the sinews tore, the bones shattered, and then there was nothing on each side but ragged stumps. For a normal, non-powered Human, he sure had a lot of fortitude, still screaming for Liberty to help him in that state, but she was not in the mood to save a man who had the monumental stupidity of pissing off one of the strongest, most powerful men in the world, thinking that, in his hubris, he would not take notice. The KGB Agent got what he deserved as far as she was concerned, and she was going to chock his death up to suicide, jumping into a lake full of gators instead of serving a monstrously long prison sentence for mayhem.
Knowing she was not going to have Pierce prosecuted, assuming what the KGB had just said about him was nothing but some slanderous vitriol, she was simply going to follow the plan that immediately popped up into her mind when she saw that KGB agent get torn apart by gators, and that was fly back to Vought and report it as a suicide. They would of course believe it, seeing as how kidnapping and mayhem would have ended up with the judge throwing the book at him. He would have spent the rest of his life in prison for mutilating Pierce's favorite fuckdoll. Scratch that, knowing how much of a vindictive sociopath Pierce was in the corporate world, she would have half expected him to simply bribe the judges and prosecutors to give the Russian National the death penalty, despite the fact that it would violate the United States Constitution, the amendment that forbids cruel and unusual punishment. She flew off, knowing nothing of value was lost.
Over eight years later and Pierce was still the richest, most powerful man on the planet, rivaled only by John Paul Getty and Howard Hughes, with an immense net worth for the time of around thirty-seven billion United States Dollars, mostly in cash not assets like the other ones who were actually cash broke. He went through women the same way a person would go through a weekly magazine issue, switching them out for the next story of the week once he got bored of banging the same broad. Sometimes the starlet would speak to the news media about the fascist memorabilia, or finding some editions of Hitler's Mein Kampf translated to English; however, given that Henry Ford and arguably Walt Disney were both extremely antisemitic to the point of actively funding and supporting the Nazis during WWII, it hardly affected his reputation at all. The American people would still buy his products, in particular, the electronics because they were not getting their television sets nor their VCRs without the PCBs and microchips manufactured at his factories in Boston, Massachusetts. A boycott of those goods would mean spending time without the electronics needed. It would mean Grandma and Grandpa would no longer have the means to keep their pacemakers working to stay alive. Making the American people wholly dependent upon the technologies he built was all part of his plan, his plan to keep the American economy solely reliant on him to even function effectively. Because of this reliance, it mattered little to him if the American people saw him as a fascist, racist, or even a nazi, as taking him out of business would mean a drastic reduction in the quality of life for the average American. Of course, Joe Sixpack and Sally Soccermom was not going to do anything on account of being solely reliant upon those luxuries his corporation's innovations granted them, in the form of the colored television set, which would not be possible without the microprocessor Pierce Enterprise' subsidiary, Pierce Industries, invented.
Inside of a modest office building Pierce had purchased in 1962 shortly after making off with over a hundred billion dollars he ransomed off from the states, the board of Pierce Enterprise was conducting a meeting about the recent controversy regarding all of Pierce's recent antisemitic remarks he made in interviews. The members of Pierce's terrorist organization were speaking of ways to maximize profits without even pretending to follow the pro-Civil rights, pro liberal route that Vought American was taking ever since Martin Luther King Junior had his skull inexplicably smashed to chunky salsa by their boss, Arthur Luther Pierce II, unofficially the one responsible for the deaths of many more civil rights figures. Pierce Enterprise bribed several cops to rule the death a shooting, to which they framed one of Martin's Jewish friends for being a secret racist, infiltrating the civil rights movement to crush the movement inside of its metaphorical womb. However, his racism was spilling out into the management of his corporation, refusing to hire minorities, keeping the corporations private because the immense profits they generated was—by most other industries—completely uncontestable, especially the pharmaceutical branch. Charging diabetics hundreds of their hard-earned dollars for an insulin shot generated billions in revenue for Pierce Enterprises alone.
"Why haven't any of you voted to take the conglomerate public?" asked Chloe Vought, Chief Executive Officer of Vought American. "Pierce Enterprises could greatly benefit by trading its stock to other people, increasing it from a multi-billion-dollar enterprise to a multi-trillion-dollar empire, owing to the fact that the clowns over in Washington have not seem to have found the balls to dissolve this corporation for violating anti-trust laws yet. It's kind of weird how your corporation is the only company on the planet that owns the fabs to create microchips, or how any major competition to any of your corporation's big money industries dies in some strange shooting, such as electronics, electric vehicles, pharmaceuticals, and in addition to all of that, Pierce owns all of the super markets inside of the New England area, aptly named P-Mart. A very impressive portfolio, if I might say so myself."
Chloe Vought was a somewhat attractive woman, looking like a young Rene Zellweger fresh off the set of Chicago, with her shoulder length, wavy blonde hair and blue eyes, a complete anomaly given the fact she came from two parents who had none of those traits to begin with. She wore a blue 1970s pantsuit, loose fitting, but with her hourglass figure, it left very little to the imagination, even though she was a pretty skinny woman. The fact that she was a somewhat sexually attractive, youngish woman in a very high position of power in the 1970s was something of a miracle. The sausage fest that was the Pierce Enterprise board room was almost speechless looking at her, despite the fact that they normally banged supermodels, starlets like Marilyn Monroe, and in some cases, pornstars. It kind of confused and aroused them at the same, being men, who in actuality, were around twenty or, in some cases, thirty years older than her mother. They just looked to be around her age because of the fact that they aged in a sort of reverse dog years, a decade aging them no more than six months to a year, granting them a millennia-long lifespan.
"Well lass, we do not wish to take the corporation public, because its' esteemed foundah, Arthur Luther Pierce II, does not wish for his company to fall into the hands of a pack of o'iental parasites who 'ave some five-thousand-year ol' grudge against the White race and Western Civilization. Thus, in fulfillin' our duties to the British Union of Fascists, this corporation is little more than a mere front for the salvation of White Western Civilization, and a revitalized British Empire that will, with a member of Pierce's bloodline, lead that Empire to its final victory, reclaimin' all of its formah territory, then exterminatin' all of the mongrels that reside within them. Once that is done, it is Pax Europa for the next several hundred or so million years until the sun finally gets too hot to sustain any Earthly life whatsoevah and, by then, Whites would have long departed Earth, seekin' worlds out beyond the Solah System, untainted by the wrath and folly of the Jews, their brown slave races, and their chabbaz goy slaves," explained Stephen Yockey, CEO and minority shareholder of Pierce Pharma coldly, and eloquently for a man with an extremely stereotypical, blue collar Cockney accent.
"And I thought the Germans, my mother and father, were the only people who had deranged fantasies of wiping out races of people with armies of supermen, millions strong, but the remnants of the British Aristocracy want to do the same thing as well," she replied, perplexed with what she had just heard from the billionaire pharmaceutical robber baron.
"Sweety, Germans aren't the only White people on planet Earth who wish to wipe out all of the subhuman slime that infest it. In fact, the British were the first to commit actual genocide in the form of the complete eradication of the Native Americans in the New England area, and their near total extinction on the North American continent's western half. The only thing that's left of them, in a lot of cases even there, are some bleeding-heart white liberals claiming to be one-sixty-fourth Cherokee. In fact, British colonialism is what inspired the Nazis. The British make the Nazis look like bloody amateurs," explained James Joseph Watson.
Chloe Vought was basically a child asking for the scraps of one of the largest corporate empires since the Standard Oil Trust, only for her attempt at buying even a small sliver of the shares of this immense corporation to be shot down by the board of directors, who, to no one's surprise whatsoever, shared the same extreme racist, antisemitic views of her parents. The only difference this board, this Long Table of mob bosses had was that they shared the same intolerant beliefs of their company President, thus allowing him to captain the ship in contrast to her father who got kicked off the board when she was still in the fourth grade of school.
"Where's Pierce if I may be so inclined to discuss this deal? "asked Chloe confidently. "I very much wish to discuss the deal with him."
"Sorry to be the bearah of bad news, lass, but Pierce 'as fallen into a rut aftah his girlfriend was mutilated by that KGB agent who, according to Liberty, jumped into the Everglades before she could even arrest him for his crimes of kidnappin' and may'em. Pierce became dep'essed, secluding himself to his castle for the past eight years, out in Salem Massachusetts, his vacation home he bought from its previous owner, Winston Smith, in 1962, for the price of five hundred thousand US dollars," replied Stephen Yockey on the right-hand side at the end of the board room, right next to the absent seat that was Pierce's, at the center back end.
"As ya may have noticed by the vacant seat at the back, Pierce 'ad pretty much left this corporation on automatic pilot for the past eight years. He's probably at his 'ouse, avin' his butlah get hookahs and cocaine for 'im, I'm afraid. Loosin' that Russian bird really got to 'im. Howevah, we respect his wishes that the company remain private and that it only be traded to membahs of our families, an aristocracy of sorts, for only White Anglo Saxons to run. We will not give our stock to a company whose shareholdahs are largely sheenies, at least thirty-three-point-three-three percent by my calculations. Pretty soon, probably even soonah than ya think, Vought will be featurin' non-White 'eroes, seein' as 'ow they 'ave been all 'bout that racial diversity ballocks. The only compromise we do to keep the civil rights lawyers 'appy is 'ire non-Whites and Jews as custodial staff at the company. Pierce prefahs we keep it that way. He owns ninety-five percent of this corporation and he would rathah it be bankrupt than fall into Jewish 'ands, so ta ta, Chloe," Yockey finished, concluding the board meeting in the politest, tactful way possible.
At that very same moment, Pierce was in his castle, getting his brains fucked out by a two-thousand-dollar call girl while high on enough cocaine to floor an elephant seal, constantly snorting it off of her large, perky, natural tits. Because of his superpowers, insane regeneration, he was practically immune to the effects of drug toxicity, giving him what essentially amounts to all of the benefits—none of the adverse effects associated with such massive cocaine use. Why, the fact that he could even keep it up alone, after fucking dozens of women in a day, his Johnson still hard as a rod of steel as long as he was even thinking about what got him off, even while not high. A man would need testicles the size of baseballs to keep up with this pace of shagging, and boy, Arthur Luther Pierce did, as well as the sperm count to impregnate a small country. He was not a believer of condoms, preferring to either ejaculate inside or edge it out for as long as possible, right before shooting a massive load into the woman's face with the pressure of a narrow fire hose.
The lovemaking session ended when the woman's hour was up, about to arrange transportation back to her pimp before he beaten her so bad she was no longer marketable to men of Pierce's caliber and inexhaustible level of wealth. That was just the risk she run if she was late and could not make the payment on time. Pierce knew that, and because he wanted to keep his occasional favorite sexual encounters attractive enough to be worth a damn to him, he just relaxed on the Victorian era couch, his massive cock still erect after edging it for over an hour straight. Pierce just wanted his butler to arrange the next hooker to come over and meet him, that very one his butler picked out for him, too, based on his personal experience with her a few years back. His butler, Mr. Woodbury, was also a real poon hound, knowing where and when to procure some of the finest prostitutes for his master to pork without protection, shocked at the fact Pierce never caught a venereal disease in his life
"I have to go. I don't want my pimp to beat me black and blue. He's a niggeh. They do that kinda shit to us pretty White women when we do not put out for them, let alone refuse to pay into their extortion racket that's the hooker/pimp relationship," she spelled it out worriedly, explaining why her time was up. "I have to meet a specific quota of twenty thousand per day."
"Well that is… pretty tragic, Daisy," Pierce replied with an empathetic look.
He looked under his coffee table covered in what looked to be several bricks of cocaine, one of them opened, already half way done from Pierce pouring it onto Daisy's impressive breasts that almost defied the laws of gravity. He found a .357 Python revolver, much bigger and longer than the magnum found in the Dirty Hairy movies at the time, but thanks to the ported barrel, the bullet hit way harder than anything a reference .44 magnum could ever do in spite of its heavier round, firing a much faster round. It also had a laser sight attachment underneath, allowing the shooter to fire with pin-point accuracy without even using the iron sight at the top, which was replaced by a small sniper scope, used for hunting rifles. It was a very powerful pistol, all in all, able to blow a man's arm or leg clean off if one aimed to the precision of the bones or the joints, the .357 magnum one of the most powerful handgun rounds on the market, second only to the .44, which was used for large game.
Pierce stood up, his thick, long impressive, horse-like Johnson poking out of his silk, novelty Union Jack house coat, still erect.
"Here you go, Daisy. The next time a wog or a pimp decided to lay a finger on you, take this out of your purse and blow his bloody cock off. The rounds in this magnum are explosive-tipped, armor piercing, manufactured in England, then shipped over to America for use specifically by the Pierce Enterprise security force. That is how such fine wenches such as yourself defended themselves in Europe when the Niggers the French Foreign Legion brought into Germany after WWI tried to defile them, keeping the number of mongrel sprogs to an absolute minimum, making the job of sterilizing the genetic trash that came out a whole lot easier," he went on, still able to form a coherent thought even while high on a massive amount of cocaine.
She walked off, confident that any would-be Pimp or potentially nasty customer would be dealt with the moment she pulled a firearm, running way, pissing and shitting themselves out of a massive, ragged hole in their crotch the moment they tried to grab without paying or beat her up for not coming up with the money in time. She could almost visualize it, her pimp dead on the pavement, in a pool of his own blood, his cock and balls reduced to a red mist of crimson after a small bomb flying at them faster than the speed of sound reduced his junk to hamburger meat. The visual almost made her wet, not the brutality, but the sheer God-like power she wielded in her hands, the power to make a large, physically powerful man quake in fear in front of a normal, straight woman of five feet, eight inches tall, weighing only a hundred and fifteen pounds. Cocaine killed the appetite but kept her sexy to her clients, and Pierce tipped her with a brick of cocaine and a firearm, which she put in her pink, furry purse.
When she left, she saw the superheroine, Liberty, walking onto the grand, outdoor limestone stair case of Pierce's immense castle, marble sculptures dotting the driveway to the large gate outside with Pierce's initials made of solid, polished gold in a circle of the iron gate at the front end. How she got in without breaking the gate she would never know? However, what was certain was that Pierce was in some serious trouble with a law man, or in this case, law woman if a Vought American supe had shown up to his house to question him, or in the more likely case, arrest him for patronizing a prostitute and possession of a controlled substance. With the vast amount of cocaine he had in his house, he would have been looking at eighty years or more in prison for each brick of cocaine found on his coffee table, even though he had no intent on distributing the cocaine, just snorting it up his perfectly-sculpted nose in typical rich American fashion. She struggled to fathom how her patron could even afford to snort half a brick of cocaine in a day, given the fact that most really rich men have little to no actual liquid assets in their accounts, or how he even bought such an expensive property for under ten million. This house had marble sculptures worth about ten thousand a piece at ten-foot intervals along the driveways. In addition, the house was just too… intricately constructed to be worth that amount of money, seeing as how limestone, the construction material used in the castle, was worth more than twenty dollars per square foot. Understandably, Daisy was nervous about Liberty's presence on this expansive property.
"Don't mind me. Just an escort leaving after her time was up," she muttered to Liberty, afraid of being arrested for the thirtieth time in a row for being a prostitute.
Liberty gave her a passing glance, then left for the door, inviting herself in despite the valets complaints that she needed a warrant to show up at Pierce's castle for the third bloody time in the last few years, ever since Martin Luther King Junior was brutally killed with a shotgun blast to the brainpan. Conspiracy theorists, particularly of the semitic persuasion, had a strong belief that Pierce brutally killed Martin Luther King Jr in some last-ditch-effort to keep American segregation alive for just long enough so he could enact some sort of depopulation plan to ensure that Whites were the only race on Earth. To some degree, they might be right, but she didn't care, seeing as how the problem never affected her, being a White European woman with not a single trace of Jewish or African ancestry, based on her hair, her eye color, as well as her traditional Nordic features. The only superpower she may have noticed was his uncanny ability to snort a hundred grams or more of cocaine without any short or long-term side-effects, still able to form coherent thoughts while insanely high on the substance as well.
"Not that I care you are blowing some billionaire's skin-flute, you anorexic, silicone-filled fucking crackwhore degenerate!" Liberty remarked far away.
Right as Pierce was in the middle of his cocaine binge in his well decorated parlor, a woman in a colonial-themed superhero costume invited herself inside of the room, with his butler desperately following her and telling her that she needed a warrant to even set foot on the property, let alone barge into Pierce's house, his place of residence. She just invited herself. Sure, he could force her out, kill her, or just do a demonstration of his vast strength and durability as a sign not to mess with him; however, he wanted to keep his powers a secret, keeping up his façade as a weak mortal, falsely victimized by the Jewish people for being a wealthy, rich White man with unlimited money and inexplicable political power. She noticed Pierce in his silk, red, white, blue, Union Jack robes, sitting on his couch with his erect cock sticking out, in addition to about several kilos of cocaine on his coffee table, which was covered in the powder of it.
"You know, I was this close to arresting you for the murder of Martin Luther King Jr. until one of your spin doctors came up with a fall guy that completely exonerated you of the crime. I saw an individual fly into the hill this house is built on, flying a Nazified version of the Union Jack flag for a cape. The reason why I could not confirm it was you was because, when you came out to talk with me, your clothes were put on quite messily. Your pants were about to fall off. You told me that it was a figment of my fetile imagination, like weather balloons, created by the jews to distract Americans from the fact that they were using the negro to create an army of fodder to wipe out the White race. Then again, what house has a large military bunker built right underneath its foundation; I'm half expecting to find a secret switch. Maybe if I pull one of the books in one of your bookcases it will open a door to your little secret entrance. There's a whole mountain of amazing, awesome evidence in here. By the way, you're a shit liar," she said, recounting the events of the last four years.
"There's no secret lair underneath my castle. What are you talking about, Liberty? I am but a normal man who uses his wealth to buy drugs and prostitutes because the fucking rat-bastard kikes abducted my beloved and mutilated her into some circus animal. It's like those oriental parasitic, cancer cells in human form decided to watch Freaks from 1932, then copy it out, and I thank whoever threw him into the alligator infested murk of the Everglades, because Jews are not self-aware enough to even contemplate their worthless existence," he replied, then bent over onto his coffee table, snorting a literal tiny mountain of booger sugar, punctuating the end of his final sentence.
"I can also take you down to the station for all of that cocaine you have been snorting. Since you have just snorted enough cocaine to cause an overdose and your heart is obviously still beating, it is clear to me that you have superhuman abilities," she said, noting the massive cocaine he was, and still is at that point, snorting into his nose.
"God, why do the handsome ones have to be fucking crazy like Howard Hughes?" Liberty muttered to herself.
Pierce stood up straight, his muscular body barely hidden by his loose-fitting silk robe, standing nearly a foot and a half taller than Liberty's height. She barely even reached his biceps, towering not only over her but most other men on the planet, and had an amazing package to match his overall immense stature, proportionally perfect to his immense height. She reckoned he was at least seven feet tall from what she could tell about his overall height, abs perfect, not even an ounce of visible body fat or sagging skin, the fibers of his muscles almost visible through his taut dermis, individual muscles protruding out. His skin was covered in large veins, all across his arms and legs, even on his neck muscles, likely the result of the massive amount of testosterone produced by his literal baseball-sized testicles. Just from that alone, she was not surprised he was constantly plugging hookers with his amazingly large, circumcised member the size of two and a half cucumbers, its length and width giving women indescribable pleasure. Liberty could not help but bite her lips at the sight of it, a literal specimen of a man virtually extinct thanks to all of the birth control being pissed into the water, feminizing all of the men into women with cocks at this point, his testosterone levels equal to a man one would find in the Iron Age.
"Liberty, if I really had those abilities, like flight, invulnerability, superhuman strength, superhuman speed, and regeneration, infrared vision, and telescopic vision, I would have brought this pathetic excuse of a civilization down to its knees, first starting with the communications and power grid, then handing White supremacist groups M16 assault rifles, tanks, and all that. And then, I might just wipe Jew York off the map for fucking fun. As fun as slowly filling every industry with WASP-yes men is, slow subterfuge is a gamble that could lead to my people ending up extinct long before we have the control in key areas. Playing politics with a Jews is like chess with someone who always changes the rules, always moves the goalposts, ultimately ensuring that he would win when the demographic clock of White western civilization hits midnight. No, Rockwell failed, Hitler was too merciful, with the holocaust never having happened in the bloody first place, seeing as the bloody fucking jews still have the balls to tell us we're nothing but cattle to be slaughtered while they defile our history, shit on our legacy, and open our borders to the subhumanity of the third-world. If they thought Hitler was bad, wait until they get a load of me. Because unlike that pussified herbivore, I understand the only way to deal with the Jew, and that's not to play his game, but to flip over the board and gut the kike like a fish," shot back Pierce in a cocaine-fueled rant, countering her argument to the fact that she knows he has powers. "Of course, this is purely hypothetical, Liberty."
"Besides, were you not transferred for killing a nigger who you assumed to have robbed a local convenience because he had a car that matched the same make and model that the thieves had which, may I remind you, were a trio of burr-heads who hijacked a '46 Ford, not some teenaged spook and his sister? If I were you, I would have killed that little shadowskin by smashing through the back window with my massive fist, grabbing her by the legs, and bashing her brains out against the bloody pavement. Still, they might have blamed me, but once the costume was covered in lye, they would have no evidence to link me to a crime besides a couple of dead niggers killed by an electrokinetically augmented human's hands. Since the area you are now policing is a homogenous, crime free area, it was quite obvious to me you were sent here so that your career may die once you grow too bored of policing White, Norman Rockwell-esque neighborhoods, as your corporation, Vought, is run by a ratnest of greedy kikes, hellbent on seeing my race extinct once the mud people outnumber us. That is the future, an Orwellian hell where the last pockets of White people are hunted down like they were in Haiti, back when the French let the niggers off of their leash, grabbing the swords, spears, and just about any sharp object they could find to dismember, rape, and kill every single White person they please, in repayment for their freedom. They are not children to me, just a bunch of vermin to be wiped off the face of the Earth before they grow up and can become a threat to actual White children. Either whites wind up like the neanderthal or the Jews and their slave races, and to end of the latter, there's going to be billions upon billions of bodies, a vast majority of this so-called Human race the PC newspeak the Liberal kikes want us to say," he explained, pointing out the fact why Liberty was transferred to New England, one of the most homogenous areas in America.
"How the fuck have you not been arrested for all of your antics lately, from having monopolistic control over several industries to hiding most of your liquid assets offshore, to Swiss accounts where they would not be taxed?" inquired Liberty. "This is all barring of course the fact you are a supervillain who wishes to destroy the races of people you deem inferior, and to that I say, get off your fucking ass and do it, you lazy, coke-addled, skirt chasing man-slut. Because news flash: I do not want anything you're describing to be the future, but unfortunately for me, I am but one woman who could easily be killed by the heavy hitter of Vought, Soldier Boy, whose just like you in the fucking skirt-chasing and drugs department. He's not a racist, though, and often has a nasty habit of lumping White Supremacists in with fucking communists. As if communist hippies don't hate racists to the point where they beat them to death or torch their homes with their children in them. The only other supe who even remotely matches your strength and durability is a fucking moron."
She took one look at the multiple bricks of cocaine on Pierce's coffee table, grabbed them all, and put them into a large duffel bag. She even looked under the coffee table, only to find more bricks of cocaine, around a hundred or so million dollars' worth of the stuff under his coffee table where he normally stashed illegal weapons he stole from people he killed, like high-ranking Soviet Party members in his spare time when he wasn't running the company. She found those name tags and service numbers underneath, of various high-ranking Russian Party members, one of them named Ana Pouker, a Romanian politician who was Jewish, killed in 1952, her body reduced to charred mincemeat after being dropped from space, in high earth orbit. Pierce would have been ten or twelve, same age as her daughter, so how did a fucking twelve-year old kill someone by literally flying them into space and dropping them from high orbit? Next, she found a pair of round spectacles with Cyrillic lettering on them belonging to a Lev Davodvich Bronstein, better known as Leon Trotsky, killed in the Rio Grande when someone in a cloak crushed his skull in one of their hands. Her husband told her how Trotsky was killed, too, either by a mythical creature or a superpowered individual created by the forerunner of Compound V. Pierce knew he was nicked if she presented this to Fox or CNN news.
She made no mention of the cocaine or the mountains of evidence she found in his coffee table, giving her a gauge of how arrogant and overconfident he became over time, never getting caught nor exposed in the years when he inexplicably showed up as one of the richest men in America without so much as a buildup to how he got there. She turned to face him, evidence in a duffel bag in one hand, shaking her head at how effortless it was to gather evidence of Pierce's criminal activity. She handed him a card from one of her pockets, an invitation to a party called Herogasm, an event where America's superhero community went out to have orgies away from the prying eyes of the judgmental right-wing and the puritanical, guilt-ridden left-wing media.
"I am not a supe," he responded in confusion to Liberty's invitation.
"I am ninety-ninety percent certain in over countless decimal places that you are a superpowered being. If you wanted to keep this charade up, then you shouldn't have left your trophies underneath your coffee table like an utter fucking moron. Because Pierce, if I were Soldier Boy, you would be going to some secretive facility where you would just disappear, your reputation ruined as a genocidal maniac, in contrast to Soldier Boy's rating going through the roof for cracking one of the greatest mysteries in millenia," she concluded before she started to walk out the front door, still looking at him as he stood there in shock, worried.
"Oh, and before I leave, I gotta tell you, you have shit taste in women. If you are going to grief bang across New England so much that the gene pool is going to be irreversibly changed, please confine your grief banging to Herogasm 75'. That is part of the terms of our agreement that don't see you in handcuffs because you squeezed the life out of a prostitute mid-orgasm. I mean, if I had a digging crew come here, I bet your sweet ass, I'll find the corpses of over a dozen prostitutes you've accidently killed, so I recommend a place that has the types of women that won't break from your immense strength."
Pierce muttered to himself, shrugging his shoulders at the conclusion of his statement, "Can't argue with that!"
A/N Before you ask, yes, Natasha Ivanova was a parody of Black Widow from Marvel's Avengers. Yes, I also got inspired reading the 1992 comic Freaks as a possible fate worse than death for betraying the Soviet government to a superpowered, genocidal version of the Illusive Man from Mass Effect. Plus, when you have a character who has romances with multiple women, you have to keep him available for other potential sexual partners, and killing her off, either in a gruesome, over-the-top fashion or a simple drive-by shooting works best. In addition, that is the only way to hurt someone whose virtually immune to all Earthly weapons on Earth, barring of course being blown up in the center of a nuclear blast, targeting the weaker, squishier people they care about.