In early 1979, Captain Albion set his sights on Rhodesia as the next nation to conquer. He was watching the planet from the dark void of space, feeling neither the freezing temperatures of Antarctica nor the scorching heat of a desert. A vacuum had no temperature to transfer heat. There was nothing to feel. He could only hold his breath for so long in the void of space.
Observing regions of the world he had no claimed for his European empire, he decided on carving up territories inside of a continent directly south of his, Africa. The Africans of Rhodesia were fighting for their independence. Rhodesia was going to be independent, but not quit the kind of independence the media would expect.
Using his boundless psionic power, he descended down to Rhodesia, a small little African nation just above South Africa, sandwiched between Mozambique and Botswana. There, he was going to throw a large monkey wrench in the attempts to decolonize Africa. To the soldiers fighting on the battlefield, Captain Albion appeared as just harmless meteorological activity in the night sky. Nothing really to be alarmed of, until he slowed down.
Outnumbered and outgunned, the Rhodesian forces were quickly being overrun by the ZANLA forces. That is, until Arthur came into the equation. Hovering just forty meters above them, the small army watched in amazement as ZANLA forces were lit up with two high energy, crimson beams hissing through the humid air. Soldiers in the ZANLA army exploded into crimson mist, their bodily fluids flash vaporized, killed instantly. The less fortunate in that ZANLA army were conflagrated, set on fire, running in opposite directions, shrieking in pain as their flesh sizzled from their bones.
Captain Albion dived down into the battlefield, the sheer force of his flight speed reducing entire squads of ZANLAs into chunky salsa on the fiery battlefield. Captain Albion swiftly picked up one ZANLA soldier by the throat, flew up, tore him in half with both his right and left hand and dropped the ragged, shredded halves that were once the soldier on the ground.
Armored divisions were taken down just as easily. Captain Albion landed on the ground, picked up a main battle tank as if it were a Styrofoam a toy, and casually tossed it at another. The two tanks clattered together then exploded once the kinetic energy of the highspeed collision was transferred into the ammunition racks. Arthur took out another tank with a blast of plasma-based heat vision, targeting and scorching the fuel tanks inside of the T-62. Its turrets flew into the air, then clattered against the rest of the wreck on its way down.
With ZANLA's armored support down, the African communist militias were easy prey for the Rhodesian soldiers. Supported with artillery, the ZANLA's superior numbers did not count for much when machine gunners were cutting down massed infantry and large artillery shells were blowing them to shreds. They were scattering, hoping to avoid the howitzer fire, only to be cut down by cacophonies of machine gun fire.
Faced with their crushing defeat, ZANLA forces retreated for the dense jungles from afar. While the Rhodesian Army used that opportunity to save ammunition, Captain Albion seized the moment. Using his plasma-based heat vision, he cut down the surviving half of the ZANLA Army with a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc of superheated plasma. The plasma traveled for miles until it was stopped by the oceans
The remainder of the ZANLA forces fell to the ground, burned mutilated heaps screaming in agony into the sky while Arthur sneered on in contempt for their race.
"I really love the smell of burning savages in the morning," said Captain Albion with a smug sense of satisfaction.
The Rhodesian Military stood before Arthur with terror and fear in their eyes. They had never seen a supe before, and not one powerful enough to literally turn the tide of a war single-handedly. It was just so shocking. Five thousand soldiers winning against one hundred thousand soldiers in a matter of seconds. Fifty thousand killed in one minute and another fifty thousand killed or maimed the next.
When the shock finally wore off, the terrified soldiers raised their outstretched palms in the air. Arthur was confused at first himself. Were they relieved that he had quickly demoralized the ZANLA side of the Rhodesian Bush War. Now all he had to do was take out their leaders and the fight was forever lost. Rhodesia would remain under European rule forever.
Arthur turned to face them with a confident smile. He knew that the soldiers were either too thankful to be saved or more terrified of him than the ZANLA. Either way, Captain Albion was going to leverage that in his favor to take over Rhodesia and install a White Nationalist dictatorship, like the CIA in communist countries.
"With their armies crushed, it is now time to cut off the head of the snake. I will head to Salisbury and take out the leadership of these worthless monkeys. This nation was founded as a White country and will remain a white country. Never shall a White man bow down to these worthless savages. We will kill each and every one of them if we have to. Numbers may not be on our side but these slovenly creatures will run once they know—in their primitive brains—they are doomed. When the country is brought to heel, we will put them into internment camps, where doctors will perform… procedures… to make them docile," announced Captain Albion with a fiery passion.
"How?" cried out one of the soldiers in despair.
"The blacks outnumber us white people ten to one. We are all doomed. Our race is doomed," whined another soldier in womanish despair.
"I will target their food supply. I will target their power sources. And finally, I will target them if they enter Rhodesia again. Savages tend to run in fear when there's great risk of being cut down by high-energy beams. We might be the brave men at the Alamo who fended off hordes of slovenly half-breeds across the Rio Grande. But damn, we will make our last breaths count. We will fight them to the last man. If our people should go extinct, then it will be in a blaze of glory, not the whimper the Jews want. If the White Races of Europe have no future, then the brown and yellow garbage will not have one either. They will be swept into the dust bin of history as well. I will make sure of it!" proclaimed Captain Albion with a Roman solute.
With the Rhodesian soldiers roused and ready to defend the point, Captain Albion would immediately make a move on the leadership of the ZANLA forces, with the idea being to take them out in one swift demoralizing blow. He flew straight to Salisbury, the district where his intel mentioned the location of Robert Mugabe.
Swiftly, he flew there. Once there, he accelerated to several hundred times the speed of sound in the black districts of the city, slicing through the slums like a kinetic kill vehicle. Several fireballs, a dozen or so meters in diameter, shattered the slums to bits, releasing soot and dust into the air. The outer blast leveled the poorly made shacks the blacks were living in from the sheer air pressure.
Few if any survived the attack. Most of them were horrifically injured in the blast wave alone. Some were wondering the streets of Salisbury missing limbs. Others were horribly broiled in the blast wave, their burned flesh hanging from their arms and legs in charred clumps. Some of them wondered blindly, their eyes ragged, shredded holes with blood trickling out of them.
Satisfied with the results, Captain Albion flew back to Santa Carla, California. He estimated that there was a one-hundred percent chance of Mugabe giving up and going into hiding in South Africa. Ninety-five percent chance of Mugabe putting a firearm to his temple and squeezing the trigger. If he did not, it was fine. If Mugabe killed himself, great. If he gave up on his little rebellion and went into exile, also fine. Independent European rule of Rhodesia was secured, with plans of implementing a military junta with the general of Rhodesian Army in charge underway.
A few days later, Captain Albion was in his civilian attire. He was at the dry cleaners inside of an impoverished San Francisco district. Arthur glanced at his super suit to see that it was still soiled with the blood of a man he killed out in Rhodesia, from one of the people he brutally tortured for information. His handsome face contorted into an enraged expression.
"Uhm, you didn't wipe this off of my Captain Albion costume, you dumb slant," he yelled indignantly with a piercing look of hatred in his green eyes.
"We tried our best. Blood very difficult to wash off," answered the small, old Asian woman at the counter softly.
"I can only get the canvas to make this costume in Berlin, okay. This is very expensive canvas," he demanded, pointing at them.
"Can I have a refund at least, for your Earth-shattering incompetence?" asked Arthur brazenly.
Arthur sighed. These dry cleaners were hyped up as the best yet they could not remove a simple blood stain from his black costume. Why, he even recalled paying them, a lot, for their services which was around a thousand dollars, primarily for their silence because human brains were on the costume. He leveraged their poverty to gain their silence.
"No refunds. We found brain tissue on the gloves of your costume. You lucky we don't tell cops on your sorry White ass. A lot of people asking since Rhodesia's ZANLA Army surrendered when ten thousand people killed on the tv over to left," yelled her elderly husband
Arthur leaned down on the counter with a menacing look on his face. He smiled with his teeth bared to amplify that factor. While impossibly intelligent for a humanoid, he was also incredibly aggressive, even more so than the average low-IQ thug because of the neurochemistry alterations that increased his intellect while also amplifying the negative aspects of the human brain like aggression.
"If you slants do not refund me now, I will have a hit squad pay you, your family, and your whole extended family a fucking visit," threatened Arthur.
Then a bell rang. Arthur turned his head to see who it was. He didn't want someone being the witness to the grisly murder of a local dry cleaner shop owner. Especially not one that could easily be discredited or killed. And low and behold, it was. Murphy's fucking Law in action.
Then a woman walked in whom Arthur had recognized from two encounters, one in Vought's Florida offices and another at a circus in Florida. From her Mediterranean facial features to her large dark eyes, she was very distinctive. Her hair, without the dyes in it, was auburn in color. She was in her civilian clothes, a women's long coat and a cloche on her head. It was Liberty in her everyday attire. To the common peasant, she was attractive. To an aristocrat like Pierce, she was not noteworthy. Few western women were. She needed world class breasts, a large tight ass, and that was just the fucking icing on the cake. In fact, a woman had to be that and be a blue eyed, blond Nordic on top of that just to get him to half fucking mast.
"Arthur, speak of the devil," she said with a nervous inflection in her voice
"What seems to be the problem, Arthur?" asked Liberty with a tart tone to her voice.
"Yes, I need you to resolve a problem with these slanty-eyed retards. They cannot wash a simple cranberry stain out of my fucking costume," complained Arthur with fury in his voice.
Arthur passed his costume, cape included, into Liberty's hands like she was one of his servants at his mansion. He then walked out, opened the door to his white Aston Martin parked along the roadside and angrily shut it, grabbed the keys from his suit pocket, stuck them in the ignition, turned them, then drove off in a fury back to his mansion in Santa Carla.
Once he got to his lavish mansion on the hill, a sensor activated gate opened up once it intelligently scanned his signature as European. Once he parked his car around across a round, cobblestone roadway, he got out, gently closing the door so as not to break it. Not that it mattered, since he needed psychic focus to actually utilize his supernatural strength.
He got into his house, where he was greeted by his butler Harold Codswood. Arthur was sure to select his home's staff carefully so as not to become a victim of snitching. Codswood was psychologically profiled by Pierce personally through a process of elimination. The first thing Pierce had always eliminated when hiring trusted staff was liberal or extreme left-wing views. Next, he analyzed their conversations for any loyalty to the Jewish-controlled western governments. For better analysis, Arthur utilized his psionically enhanced hearing to detect subtle changes, like elevated heartbeat, to determine whether the candidate was lying. He would always be able to spot a snitch from the elevated heartbeat alone.
So far, Codswood was loyal to Arthur despite his constant illegal extra-curricular activities, like domestic terrorism or international terrorism. He knew he was a supe and took it to the grave. Also, a two million dollar a year salary in 1979 would buy anyone's silence. So there was that.
He strode into the living room, which was quite large, having one of those Victorian-era Chaise Lounges, upholstered with the skin of a perfidious Mossad agent he had killed personally. On his right was a bust of himself with a lamp and on top of that lamp, a lampshade made from the hide of another Mossad Agent who had failed to destroy his organization.
Arthur took a seat on his Chaise Lounge, grabbed the remote from the coffee table, and flicked the channel to number three, the local news network. They were discussing the mysterious explosion that rocked Salisbury Rhodesia, killing eighty-percent of the city's black population. The news anchormen, despite being a member of Arthur's race, had a grim, almost saddened expression on his face. It was the expression someone had when they had to tactfully tell their kid that they needed to euthanize their dog. Not that Arthur cared of the opinion of one worthless, subversive liberal moonbat.
His butler walked in to the living room from the kitchen and placed a large meal loaded with five thousand calories. The butler removed the silver dome over it to reveal that it was a large serving of bangers and mash fit for a circus fatso. Skinny people with this virus need ten thousand calories a day. Arthur was a brick shit house of a man who needed fifteen thousand just to maintain his levels of strength. Baseline strength was multiplied based on his muscle mass.
"Your bangers and mash, sir," said the Butler, Codswood, as he presented the dish. "Russet potatoes, onions to enhance the flavor, and sausages made of the entrails and flesh of the Mossad agent."
"Well, that is one way to dispose of a Jew corpse. They are so genetically different from us, I would not even call this cannibalism," justified Arthur.
He took a bite of that sausage and felt an explosion of taste. Not only did it taste good, he felt something, a high, like he was snorting cocaine. He felt like an Orca whale in the ocean chasing down a seal and sinking its teeth into it, an apex predator of nature. No, an Aryan apex predator. That was one of the best gourmet meals he had in a long time.
After polishing off that plate with gusto, he stood up as he heard an electrical buzzing sound all the way outside, followed by that same feminine voice. This time, apparently, it sounded serious.
"Yes, I have a warrant to search the premises," demanded a voice he recognized to one of his servants.
Arthur was not worried. All he had to do was call the right people and he would be out of prison in time for breakfast. These were not things that had concerned a man of his station nor capability. He knew everything, every little detail, every weakness of United States law. His enhanced brain and his penetra vision allowed him to practically download the information into his brain like a hard drive.
"I was told you had brain damage, but the behavior I heard at the dry cleaners was moronic even for an invalid. What the fuck? I would have you committed if it was not for the fact you could put your fist through my torso," stated Liberty.
"Can a mere invalid plan the defeat of the ZANLA Army? Would a mere invalid even read a book and comprehend its message? Drive a car? Write a fucking novel about overthrowing the Jewish-owned United States Government with mere mortals armed with measly rifles, bombs, and a plan of attack? The Turner Diaries is a realistic book, you know. Even while damaged, my brain is still leagues beyond the average white. More intelligent than even my father and his Austrian student. I have several ampules of that progenitor serum, the serum Vaught's precious Compound V was derived from, inside of a freezer in my basement. If I so desired, I could make that virus airborne and give every pleb powers. But I do not. Because we need powerless plebs to maintain civilization. A society of godlike beings is pure anarchy. I thought those chinks would not be able to communicate with the San Francisco Police Department, anyway. Besides, I thought I was going to be able to kill them. Until you showed up, that is," ranted Pierce in frustration with Liberty.
"Ever wonder what happens when a beam is telekinetically focused and shot out of my eyes at a rough approximation of light speed. A few nanometers thick of near-relativistic atmospheric gases has a yield of half a ton of TNT, enough to cut through an entire skyscraper. Or in the case of Rhodesia, enough to, for example, reduce an entire army of subhumans into chunky salsa now fertilizing the scorched jungle. Now, if I was really angry, like I was when Nadia died, I would reduce entire Jewish communities into scorched parking lots just with focus. I wonder what my optical blasts would do to Soldier Boy, the pride of Vought American," he threatened calmly.
"Ugh, yeah, I know you have temper tantrums when you cannot protect your wife. It does not matter how powerful you are. You cannot be on top of everything. Omnipresence is not your superpower. You are a flying brick with a few extra tricks in the bag. Of course, that comes at the cost of sanity," scoffed Liberty.
"Dead jews means that they could no longer raise their hands in strength against my race through subversion. I bet if the holocaust was real, they would be crying for mercy and willing to serve as our slaves, not undermining every facet of our society. I am amazed they are not suicidal from the sheer despair of me slaughtering them all like the animals they are. If it takes many jews to subvert western civilization and one man to kill them all, that is. Why, I am bloody amazed they are partaking in suicide missions, wasting untold millions of dollars in resources just to take me down. Folly. Madness. When time and again, I kill them. It is like they want to kill themselves and I am all to happy to give them an express ticket to hell," elaborated Arthur with a predatory grin.
"Nevermind. You are not stupid. You are just an arrogant, domineering fuck who thinks he can break their spirit with petty sadism," she responded insultingly
"You underestimate desperation. That is why they keep attacking. They hope one of their weapons hits one of your weak points and you keel over and die," stated Liberty with a grim expression on her face.
"Unfortunately for them, I have no practical weak-points that could be targeted by the best weapons Western ingenuity could make. My eyes alone, the area where the telekinetic fields are weakest, are the equivalent of one hundred and twenty centimeters of rolled steel. Good luck getting a shaped charge warhead through that, never mind a bullet," chuckled Arthur. "Even when nuclear weapons strike me, I am still able to scatter whole armies with my optical blasts that, based on my estimations can cut through a meter of hardened steel within a second, or reduce towns to burning glass."
"I had singlehandedly crushed the mighty Red Army. Hell, I took them all down with but a glance and froze a few of the Jewish commissars solid for funzies. I recall shattering each of his legs and watching him weep as his limbs were gone. Priceless! Listening to that kike beg for mercy almost soothed my pain during those dark days. After Natanael blew my house to bits with my whole family in it, I paid him a little visit. One by one, I slaughtered his family. I tore his teenage son's limbs off individually. Then I dropped his infant son from the top of Big Ben. And you want to know what I felt when I watched the mother and father cry out in anguish. His wife didn't even resist as I jammed my fist through her chest. Nataneal begged for death, and I the merciful Aryan, obliged," continued Arthur.
"Do you feel any remorse for the children you murdered?" asked Liberty with a look of confusion.
"The soviets I slain trying to win WWII for the Germans keeps me up at night. But I would not even classify what I did to that kike as murder, more like pest control. Let us not forget that the babies and children of our racial enemies will grow up one day to threaten us. And while I am at it, you know the saying among Jews that 'a million gentile lives are not worth one Jewish fingernail.' Well, one million Jewish lives are not worth a White man's drop of piss," answered Arthur smugly.
"This is a holy war. All of western history has been leading up to this moment. If nothing happens, the first century of the new millennium is our last century. I am just buying our race some time while the Jews and their special interest groups flood the West with genetic trash from the third world. So please, enlighten me, why haven't I been arrested yet?" asked Arthur with a quizzical look on his brow.
Liberty breathed a sigh of annoyance. She finally realized that the man she was dealing with was not stupid but completely insane. Terrified of Israeli reprisal affecting her, she was confused as to how she was going to reason with a man as fanatical as Arthur was. Even Frederic could see reason. Intelligent as Arthur was, he was a warrior not a scientist. No compassion, no compromise. She didn't know what to compare him to other than a Greek hero like Achillies. A Viking berserker gifted with powers far beyond what compound V could provide, maybe.
"I thought I was coming here to kill Arthur today. Oh, but Klara being here really sweetens the day. Once I am finished with the two of you, I will pay your daughter and finish her. Nice and slow," said a voice from behind.
Arthur and Liberty turned to see a man of about six feet tall with tanned skin and other tell-tale semitic features. He was muscled, but nowhere near as muscular as Pierce, who guessed the man's weight to be around one hundred and ninety-five pounds, minus other factors. He had wings, angelic, like the European depiction of biblical angels in myth and legend. Arthur already could see the symbolism. That man was Michael and he was Lucifer.
"And after I am through with you Arthur, I am going to fly into Europe and slaughter every white person I find. With them gone, I will rule over it like a giant continent sized plantation with Africans, Indians, and Palestinians as my slaves. Of course, I will leave some blonde shiksas alive as my pets," threatened this strange supe.
"Who the fuck is he," asked Arthur, turning to Liberty.
"One of Frederic Vought's failed experiments. You met the other one, Abram, yes!? He's Sampson," answered Liberty quickly.
Arthur was not in the least bit phased by Sampsons threats. He had survived Soldier Boy's five hundred pound shield smashing him in the head with about twelve megajoules of force. He calculated that. With that amount of force, he was pretty sure he could withstand whatever this Sampson individual could throw at him. Arthur survived worse.
Sampson flew up, wings fluttering, and cocked his fist back, and flew into Arthur at supersonic speed. He punched Arthur in the nose, which made a loud sickening crunch as he was thrown through the limestone walls of his house with the sheer force. Fluid trickled into his mouth. From the metallic taste, Arthur could tell it was his own blood.
With a guttural snarl, Arthur shot back, quickly analyzing Sampson's next move. Immediately, Arthur dodged a supersonic kick aimed for his head. Then grabbed Sampson's right leg mid-air and slammed him into the ground, the ground thunderously shaking, cutting a fissure several hundred feet long from the impact zone.
While Sampson was dazed, Arthur delivered several haymakers to Sampson's jaw, causing blood to gush left and right. Arthur then duck down, cocking his right fist back, and jumped into the air with a loud whoosh. Sampson went flying at orbital velocity. Arthur then flew up, clasped his hands together, and slammed down on Sampson's head, sending him flying down into the ground hard enough to create a large explosion that flattened several homes in the area, with his mansion suffering broken windows.
Arthur then flew down, directing his feet on to Sampson's pelvic area. The explosive force of the collision broke Sampson's pelvis in ten places with a sickening crunch. Though, it was more akin to a city block destroying bomb going off. The sheer force that Arthur's slam held cut through a dozen meters of granite.
Sampson, severely beaten, spitting out blood. He tried to stand up, but in his adrenaline induced haze fell down screaming as one of his femurs stuck grotesquely out of his hip, with no pelvis to support it. In the smoking crater crying in agony, which was music to Arthur's enhanced ears, Abram screamed for help from any nearby supe. If only he could record Sampson's cries of agony to add to his white noise machine.
"That was fun," said Arthur. "You had me worried there for a brief millisecond."
Bolts of purple lightning struck the ground adjacent to the crater as Liberty descended down. She looked at Arthur, biting her lip. From those facial expressions, Arthur could tell Liberty was wet. He could ring out her panties and fill a bucket with them. Arthur was rock hard, not from the act of maiming a man, but from the rush it gave him. To reduce a mighty man to a shell of his former self. It was intoxicating. Assuming healing was not one of Sampson's superpowers, that is.
"Enjoy shitting in a bag while I shag this bird's brains out," laughed Arthur.
Sampson used his angelic wings to charge a toroid of superheated plasma and send it hurtling toward Arthur, only for it to pathetically hit the edges of the crater instead. Its impact shattered some stone like a bolt of lightning, sending white hot silicate fragments careening down to Sampson's face, burning it. It caused pain but no physical damage.
Arthur ignored him and then flew off to Florida with Liberty where Herogasm was going on that year. With a loud whoosh, he took off at a speed of about fifteen hundred miles per hour, glacially slow for a being as powerful as Arthur, but he was keeping speed with Liberty's top speed. In about two hours, they would be in the Southeastern United States.
A few hours later, they came across a modest sized house that, to Arthur, would be considered a poor house. The guests inside, however, were not the kind of people he would classify as poor. Of course, they did not have tens of billions of dollars to throw around, but they were still in the multimillionaire range. And they were nude, balls deep inside of various hookers. Arthur only railed the White hookers, however, keeping the line pure and all that.
"What is so special about this place? I spend a million dollars on hookers and blow at my own mansion every month," cringed Arthur.
"Ah, but isn't sex when you are the only one with superpowers quite boring?" she asked. "You gotta hold back and you can only do one sexual position lest your orgasm tears the woman apart."
"Well not with me," she said.
She shoved Arthur onto a couch with her immense superhuman strength, causing an audible creak. She pulled down her pants, tore off Arthur's, and mounted Arthur's massive erect penis. Gliding up and down on his massive cock, she was already orgasming, not even noticing that the couch was completely shattered from the force while he was unharmed.
"How many did you kill in Rhodesia?" she asked, short of breath.
"I killed hundreds of thousands like they were ants and I was a man holding a magnifying glass," he answered, a bit winded.
That just caused Liberty to orgasm even harder, somehow getting more aroused at the thought that a man could do that. Arthur's appearance and immense power seemed to turn her on. She was easily impressed, so that was a start. Sure, her eyes were brown and she was obviously a bottled-blonde, but she was an easy lay. That counted for something, at least.
"How many did you kill?"
"More people than Chairman Mao and Pol Pot combined, cupcake," smiled Arthur.
Those words uttered, she got more aroused, her breathing faster and faster as she was approaching climax.
A second later, she climaxed and so did Arthur, who erupted enough potent semen inside of her to impregnate the entire female population of Liechtenstein. He got off of him, her pussy coated with his immensely potent semen that was probably worth as much as antimatter per gram. Arthur was shocked that he was horny enough and impulsive enough to do that without a prophylactic. Still, it was worth it, he was thinking as he got up off the couch, his member still rock hard, pointing in the crisp air.
Then Arthur awoke in a hospital bed, handcuffed. The Russian he had paid to assassinate journalists, little Nina, was looming over him with a needle full of cyanide if he was to hazard a guess, no doubt. She obviously intended on killing him as he was in a coma. Arthur looked down to notice that he was much skinnier. All of his muscle mass was gone, which would mean that his strength was halved.
"A lot of my family relatives died in the revolutions you had sponsored, Pierce," she said. "I am not a Jew by blood, but many of my fucking relatives were by marriage and they all died in the 1980s to your vicious death squads. Killing you would have been the chef's kiss, but clearly, you are conscious and now your invulnerability to conventional weapons is back," she moaned.
"Sorry to disappoint. Now if you will excuse me, I have a country to run," Arthur replied curtly.
Arthur snapped the metal handcuffs as if they were made of candy and slowly stood up right from his bed. He ran his hands through his face to notice that it was covered in course hair as a consequence of being in a coma for six months. He looked in the mirror to see that his face had returned to normal with some lingering inflammation in his cheeks but nothing concealer couldn't cure. He had a beard, a very large blonde beard almost like a Viking in Norse mythology.
He turned away from the mirror to look lustfully at Little Nina. For a middle-aged woman, she was still quite striking, like Nadia if she was not grotesquely mutilated by that hook-nosed freak from Russia. Had she made it to forty, Arthur would have kindly given her the serum so that she would not start to sag so much. He was always a rather chauvinistic man who valued looks as much as a woman's personality. It was almost miraculous how her body was still perky at forty years old. Also, that tight black skirt showing off her ass was giving Arthur a slight erection, too. Her breasts were okay but not impressive, which he could see through her silky blouse.
"How long was I out?" he asked.
"Ten months. The amount of damage the hexaflouroantimonic acid did to your flesh was so extensive that it was burning cavities in your cheekbones. It was destroying tissue as fast as your body could regenerate it, until your body won out and the acid was eventually neutralized," answered Nina with a look of disappointment.
"Well, how about one last favor for me?" requested Arthur. "Now that I am your president and all that."