Cameron Coleman's apartment was quite a rundown place. There were holes in the walls from where the previous tenants had punched them in a drug-fueled fit of withdrawal that had not been fixed since he signed the lease agreement ten years ago. Even the windows were smashed. Cameron patched them up with a garbage bag he duct taped to the window frame. There was water damage from the previous tenant constantly urinating and defecating on the floor. Best of all, this apartment and many of the other units in the building were advertised on Zillow for six thousand dollars a month in rent.
On the coffee table that was already being eaten away by the termites who taken residence in the structure was a stack of files from the Israeli Government, detailing the events of what had happened in 1985 to 1993. Cameron Coleman was about to reach over to grab them on his couch, only to be bitten by a carpenter ant. It hurt like hell, but he arched forward from his sitting position to grab the files to get a good read of it.
It was the story of a lifetime. One of America's most prominent industrialists a supe, and not just any supe, a genocidal racist supe who was known by Mossad to have flown through Tel Aviv at such a high velocity that he created an immense fireball from splitting the very atoms in the air. He even saw the images, too, of a large, white hot toadstool of fire created inside of Tel Aviv's very center. Flicking through other pages of the dossier, he found that the explosion created over Tel Aviv was seventy-five megatons of TNT, more than enough to flatten New York. Millions of people perished in that explosion. Millions more had died on the street from radiation sickness and horrible flash burns as a result of burning hot thermal pulse. It was the second worst thing to happen to Jews since the holocaust itself, and worst of all, it was committed by one man.
He looked for more tidbits of information in the file folder. There was more. Tens of thousands of Israeli soldiers were killed in gruesome, horrific ways thanks to his particle beam vision. None of the weapons they had had any success in harming him. All conventional, non-nuclear attempts at hurting him were completely fruitless. Anti-tank rounds from Merkava tanks were literally bouncing off of him or shattering off of him, sometimes killing or maiming infantry who attempted to engage him.
Tens of thousands of soldiers were described as being mutilated or reduced to a chunky crimson paste on the sands of Israel. Arthur would even slice the soldiers running for their lives in half, trampling each other to get away from him. It was a desperate fight for survival for Israel. To Arthur, it seemed to be just another Tuesday.
That is, until they dropped a one megaton nuclear bomb directly on top of Arthur's position. One hundred and fifty million degrees of heat was enough to bypass his impenetrable telekinetic aura as if it were one thousand five hundred degrees Fahrenheit. He was burned so badly that the ribs of his chest were exposed and he looked like some zombie from a horror flick, still flying around, able to attack the best superhero Israel had, Sampson. Arthur mutilated him gleefully, before being incapacitated by Diamond.
Saddened by what he was seeing, Cameron turned the TV on to MSNBC news. It was not one of those fancy flatscreens, as money was rather tight for Coleman, having to pay the rent of this horrifically dilapidated shit hole that was considered affordable in New York. None of the news he ever received was happy, but the American media was finally starting to talk about Arthur's atrocities in Israel, despite not actually naming him.
Of course, the corrupt American Government was not willing to believe that one of the biggest campaign contributors was a supervillain; thus, they always concluded what happened in Israel was the result of an alien invasion perpetrated by the Plaiedians, a group of extraterrestrials who looked like Europeans from Scandinavia. They never believed that an aging, powerless man had the strength required to lift and throw tanks like toys, rip people in half, fly, shoot beams of radioactive plasma out of his eyes, and finally, the durability to withstand a nuclear bomb. His neighbors even corroborated the alibi, believing he was at home the whole time. There was no way he could have killed millions of people.
Then the victims of the explosion had shown up for interviews on TV. One of them was a woman named Daria Muchav, as her nametag showed. She was blind, wearing those dark glasses that covered her eyes. Her entire face was covered in raised scarring all across, not a single square inch spared. She wore a black, kinky hair piece. All of the follicles on her scalp were seared shut in the very instant of that immense explosion. Her nose was grotesquely upturned, the ball of it burnt off. She had no ears, only holes surrounded by the raised scarring one associated with burn victims.
"I was only seven years old on the day of December 25th, 1985 when my life had been changed forever. I was in my bedroom playing with my dolls in rural Israel, when I noticed a loud ear-piercing bang that shattered the windows. I stood up to check what it was, only to be greeted with a bright flash of light that was so bright it burned me. It was like I was standing in an oven. I could feel the skin sloughing off of my face in clumps. The pain was immense for a few seconds, then nothing. It was not until I opened my eyes when I realized my sight was gone, just nothing," she cried.
Soon after, the camera panned to another victim, much more horrifically burned than the last one. However, this one could not even form words she was so inconsolable about what happened. Cameron guessed it was because of her disability, in addition to the fact the explosion had also taken her looks as well. She was doomed to die alone, a sad old spinster in a room full of pets taking place of her children that she would never have. These videos angered Coleman to no end, especially when he was about to blow the lid on the whole story and nail Arthur Pierce to the wall for his crimes against the Jewish people.
"He's on mars living the time of his life, while I am stuck here, a prisoner in my body. The thermal pulse burned my body so badly that my muscles were cooked solid. I cannot walk, I cannot feed myself, I need people to help me go the bathroom. I want to just fucking die. I am like Johnny Bonham," cried another deformed woman hysterically, confined to a wheelchair.
Cameron felt sad hearing these victims' stories, their life essentially over before it even began. This was because of some millennia old grudge that the White race and Semitic peoples in general held against each other since the founding of their civilizations. Middle Eastern peoples would try to invade Europe, Europeans would invade them back, and give them what they gave Europeans back a thousand-fold. Westerners were blamed for a majority of the world's ills for good reason as far as Coleman was concerned.
The way Cameron Coleman saw it, he deserved everything he got. He deserved living in a bug infested, ramshackle apartment, he deserved to be poor, all for being genetically related on some racial level to the monster who had just maimed those people on the TV. Coleman did not have much, but he wanted to give it all to those victims. His car, his child's college fund, and his internal organs, sold on the black market until he was dead.
Sure, he was not a guilt-ridden liberal by any means, but to the republicans that was America's true sacred cow, their ally in the Middle East. America answered Israel's call in the same way Medieval Europe answered the call of the Byzantine Empire. In fact, the arrangement was quite similar, except the Byzantines were Europeans, while the latter were Semites. To Cameron Coleman, he was made by God to serve them in creating their one world government. He and the lives of his son were meaningless in the face of the lives of one of the Chosen People.
In a way, Arthur was like the archangel Lucifer to Cameron, a powerful being created by God and was once his favorite son. Then the new baby came in, the Jews, and he flew into a rage trying to destroy them and God had casted him into the depths of hell. The kidnapping of Arthur's son, Nolan, almost reminds Cameron of the ten plagues of Egypt, where God smites down the Pharaoh's first-born son. Arthur was the pharaoh and Abram Diamond was Moses, a repeat of history. Even for all his city-destroying might, Arthur ended up much too wounded and worn down to save his son from the rightful wrath of the chosen people of Israel. That was justice as far as Cameron was concerned.
His son came back from high school with a chip on his shoulder, his face bloody and bruised. It was obvious he was suffering some horrific bullying at school that day. Cameron Coleman, however, had a different approach when it came to bullies. It was his son's responsibility to stand up, like a man, to the bully, ideally in the form of a well-placed, hard punch to the bully's jaw. Coleman saw only a weak sniveling little coward before him, whining about how life was unfair, when it was by nature, unfair.
"Go to your room, you whiny little bitch. I want nothing to do with you. The fate of god's chosen people hangs in the balance. Boohoo when the little crybaby gets the shit beaten out of him," demanded Coleman with an assertive tone.
Strangely, his son's expression changed from sadness to laughter when he saw the victims of Arthur Luther Pierce's attack on tv, crying in despair over the things they would never be able to do in life thanks to the seventy-megaton nuclear explosion that flattened Tel Aviv.
"You know what, get out of my house, you fucking anti-semitic shit stain," yelled Coleman with a snarl. "They are God's Chosen people and our greatest ally. You do not bad mouth them in our house. Out!"
John Coleman stormed out of the house in a rage.
Arthur, meanwhile, was relaxing on his comfy Victorian era couch, awaiting his meal while watching the MSNBC broadcast with a sadistic smile on his face. Their cries of despair were so soothing to him, that he cut down a good chunk of the cream of Israel's crop before their prime just made it even better. His only regret was that he could not Tivo it and use it for his white noise machine to fall asleep. The wailing of that one women whose face was so badly burned was music to Arthur's ears. Her muscles were so badly burned she was a quadriplegic as well as being an uglier Freddy Krueger. Mere mortal problems.
He never knew a seventy-megaton explosion could severely burn people all the way out in the outskirts of Tel Aviv fifty miles away, but it did. It was funny to him. They were like insects flying in the air making contact with the windshield of a speeding car. He thought they were going to be vaporized in the explosion he created when he decided to psychically warp space time, creating a mountain sized fireball of white light that ignited everything fifty miles away. But there they were, moaning about their childhood nuclear bomb injuries like those senile old fossils moaning about the holocaust. As far as Arthur was concerned, they deserved it for their crimes against their genetic superiors,
Then a man in a tuxedo gave Arthur his food, a silver platter of McDonalds french-fries, double quarter pounders, and four supersized cokes.
"Your Mcdonald's, sir," said the man in a formal voice.
"Thank you," replied Arthur.
"Always a pleasure," said the Butler with a glassy, dead-eyed look.
Arthur grabbed a small handful of fries from one of the supersized cardboard packs and gulped it down. He never practiced what he preached at all. Arthur did drugs, ate junk food like a Mukbanger, and sat down all of the damn time. The reason why he did not age was because his DNA remained in pristine condition thanks to his body psionically holding it together at the molecular level, a sort of conscious stasis. What he ate, thanks to the constant influx of hormones, turned to muscle from basic exercises like bench-pressing ten Challenger Tanks on top of each other for a little under three hours. Nothing about him was natural, not in the least. He was supernatural in every way.
Plus, there was the fact that psionics burned so many calories that the only foods dense enough to meet his caloric needs were Western junk foods. Unhealthy food that would cause obesity in normal Human beings and most supes was health food to him. Because of the energy needs of his nervous system alone, he needed to eat in excess of ten thousand calories a day in order to not die of starvation. Twenty thousand to maintain his body weight. Thirty thousand to bulk his muscle mass. For nutritional supplementation, he drank a couple of fruit or veggie smoothies mixed with protein powder. Arthur's reality warping nervous system needed more energy to function. This was a snack to him.
The virus inside of the progenitor serum enhanced the hosts nervous system while making its metabolism horrifically inefficient. In addition to the increased appetite, the hosts intellect was multiplied ten times over. Consequently, this came at the cost of being ten times as aggressive, an expected trade off of the heightened neurological activity this serum provides. The form of reality warping this serum provides affected both sexes differently.
Arthur grew bored of laughing at the victims of his attack on Tel Aviv, and immediately switched the channel to something a little more entertaining, Showtime, when his favorite television show Dexter started to play at six. Even better for him, it was season two, Arthur's favorite season of the show. That was the height of the show as far as Arthur was concerned. After season four, the entire show just went to shit in his opinion, from the stupid amounts of plot armor Dexter was suddenly granted to the amount of moronic sub plots about him trying to change. He cannot. It was what made the titular character so interesting in Arthur's opinion, that nature made him that way.
It was the very end of the season and Dexter Morgan, the show's protagonist, had Doakes chained up in some shack out in the woods of the Everglades. Tensions were high, the FBI was about to bust him, and in came Dexter's girlfriend, Lila. Lila caused a gas leak the moment Doakes had told her that he was the Bay Harbor Butcher, setting a fire near Doakes. The moment the gas reached the flame, the whole cabin went up in a large fireball, burning Doakes to a crisp, thus saving Dexter Morgan, Miami Metro's blood spatter analyst from ever serving a single day in prison for all of the worthless degenerates he murdered.
While Arthur could see some similarities between him and the protagonist of that show, there were several drastic differences. Arthur was not a psychopath. He had empathy for people who shared his skin color, assuming they were not of the Jewish persuasion. Killing people without remorse was not the hallmark of a psychopath. Killing without rhyme or reason was. Dexter killed purely to get off. Arthur killed because he deemed it a necessary solution to the Yellow Peril, which was currently known as the Jewish Peril. He had girlfriends that were either entranced or repulsed by the real Arthur, or in the case of Nolan's mother, both.
One thing he really did have in common with the show's protagonist was that Arthur loved to collect items of the high value targets he took down in his crusade to rid the world of the Zionist Occupation Government. He even grabbed a box from underneath his desk, opened it, and had a close look at some of the souvenirs he has taken throughout the decades.
Arthur closely inspected one of these souvenirs with glee, a pair of spectacles with thin oval shaped lenses. They were Lev Davidovich Bronstein's glasses, or as the layman known him to be, Leon Trotsky. Arthur killed him dead when he was flying over to Mexico in the Summer of 1940. Contrary to popular belief, he died a slow agonizing death, and Pierce was the one to make sure of it.
Arthur could almost remember it. He cut off Trotsky's legs with his optical blasts, relishing every cry of mercy, every plea of Trotsky to be put out of his misery. Then Arthur sliced through Trotsky's arms with two searing hot beams of superheated plasma. Trotsky went into shock as soon as Arthur started tearing off facial features, such as eyes, ears, nose, lips, until his face resembled a skinned, crimson skull seen only in Cartel execution videos. Arthur did not even answer Trotsky's plea for mercy. He allowed blood loss to be the kind, sweet angel to Trotsky that Arthur could not. Leon died of blood loss three hours later, when the seals created from the heat of the plasma finally broke from the vast pressure created from the adrenaline surge.
Then he took a great look at some of the medals, with several Cyrillic letters engraved on the copper of them, and the letters CCCP in the center. There was even a red star and the tell-tale hammer and sickle on one of them. These were in fact the medals of a party member of the Communist Bloc in Eastern Europe during the 1960s, ripped straight from one of the members he had killed during that time period simply to let off some steam. This one belonged to an Ana Pauker, a Hungarian Jew who ruled the Slavic gentiles with an iron fist.
So reviled she was that when Arthur was seen by many people carrying her up into the sky that day and callously dropping her down onto the hard cobblestone below, everyone stoically went back to their day-to-day activities, perhaps secretly grateful that their abusive, tyrannical dictator had finally died. The horrified look on her face as she was falling down a dozen kilometers was poetic justice. The look of her choking as the air in the upper atmosphere got thinner and thinner was priceless, too. Her face was blue by the time Arthur let go of her throat. The scream she made as she came hurtling down to Earth was satisfying. The final crunching noise when her journey down came to a complete stop on the cobblestone courtyard of Budapest was the cherry on top of the delicious cake.
Since Jews had a very major role in the Communist revolution that started all of these horrific atrocities to begin with, Arthur's actions that day were seen as a rallying cry for some of the more anti-communist elements in the country. Her death immediately incited riots across the whole country where Jews were swiftly ripped from their Party Offices, beaten to death, quartered, and in rare cases shot to death with stolen firearms. By the time the Soviet Union restored order, they had appointed a bunch of sycophantic, Slavic gentile yes men that answered to the Kremlin, which was mainly Jewish at the top of the pecking order. Captain Albion was revered as a glorious hero to the people in Warsaw Pact controlled countries that day, a rallying cry for anti-communists. That day made the 1960s for Arthur Luther Pierce.
Frenchie was just at the slums where Cameron Coleman was said to live by the benefactor paying Little Nina for the hit. The whole place where Cameron Coleman lived was a complete rundown shithole that resembled something out of Michigan or Detroit rather than New York city. All of the buildings were missing sections, having fallen apart as a result of years of disrepair by the city prioritizing more affluent regions. No, it was not New York. It resembled Brazil, complete with the tenements that may as well have been Favelas, with the wealthier members of the city living off in the distance in the shiny penthouses.
Then there was Cameron Coleman's place before Frenchie's eyes. It looked like one of the buildings one would see out in a warzone. Its walls were covered in divots left in the brick and mortar by various bullets gangs would fire off in their little petty squabbles. Windows were smashed from the middle to top level of the building, likely as a result of the local crackheads freaking out during one of their bouts of withdrawal. New York was such an expensive, overpriced garbage dump when a person making six to seven figures had to live in squalor. Frenchie was glad he was a criminal, not slaving away to some rich sociopath for eight hours a day with nothing to show for it but surviving.
Before going inside, Frenchie knew he had to cover his tracks. To that end, he placed garbage bags over each of his shoes, so that the police could not trace his shoe prints, cut them down to size, and fastened them over his shoes with duct tape. His fingerprints were a much easier story, protected inside of some leather gloves he bought from a store earlier for this contract. Once he was done, he was going to throw his clothes in a metal barrel, douse them with lighter fluid, and toss a match. It was virtually effortless when forensic countermeasures were followed.
He waited at the entrance of the building, until someone had slid their key into the door and opened it. That was his ticket in. Otherwise, Frenchie would have had to be buzzed into the apartment complex, and he was here to murder someone outright, which involved a good old fashion breaking and entering type of action.
Inside of the entrance, the manager of the building, a morbidly obese African American man, was way too busy smoking weed to notice someone there who should not be. Frenchie had a silenced Glock 21 in his jacket, loaded with ten .45 hollow point rounds he ordered off of the dark net a few weeks prior.
He knew where Cameron was, second floor of the building, room five at the back of the hallway, which was a slow, cautious walk up some stairs to where he lived.
The whole complex reeked of feces and rotting corpses. Virtually all of the walls had holes from violent altercations with other drug addicts or just good old fashion neglect from the landlord of this building who could not even be bothered to fix a single thing wrong with his expensive investment. The owner was a slumlord of the worst sort.
Once Frenchie was at Apartment number five, he gave the door a firm knock.
Surprisingly, Frenchie received a swift response.
"If you are my racist piece of shit fifteen-year-old son, get lost!"
Frenchie had to think of something right quick, so he thought of the best American sounding voice he could think of when trying to gain access into Cameron's domicile
"Ah yes, I am here to service your Tivo box," answered Frenchie in an American accent so fake that it had sounded like a bad Elvis impression.
"Then come on in," responded Cameron jubilantly.
"Gladly," said Frenchie, yet again with his really bad Elvis Presley impression.
Frenchie opened the door to find Cameron Coleman dressed in his house coat with his tiny, flaccid dick hanging out. He was way different in person than the persona on television. Cameron was a shameless man, but Frenchie did not feel like making the news anchor aware of his seemingly lewd behavior. He wanted to shoot Cameron when his back was turned, compose his suicide note, and get out to collect his gigantic payout from Little Nina
Once Coleman's back was turned, Frenchie reached into his jacket to grab a silenced Glock 21 pistol, taking aim for the back of Coleman's head, lining the reflex sight on it for the very back of his cranium, straight to the brainstem. The round let out a loud, deafening hissing noise as it struck the back of Coleman's head. Blood was spattered across the walls through the front of his skull. He crumpled to the ground in a heap before Frenchie put in a second .45 caliber slug as per his contract with Little Nina.
Frenchie pulled a note from his jacket pocket and quickly composed Coleman's suicide note. It read: " I am sick of being a lying, conservative, sycophantic hatchet man in the employ of an evil entertainment company willing to put profits over the lives of its employees, its customers, in order to protect their mentally unstable cash cows from career ending repercussions."
Frenchie scaled the windows with suction cups he had in his backpack to get down unnoticed. He made a clean getaway to his car and drove all the way back to Little Nina without so much as arousing any suspicion from the occupants or the management of the apartment complex. According to the police scanner on the dash of his car, there were no mentions of a North African man entering an apartment complex in South Bronx and entering apartment five. Incompetent police officers were a godsend.