It is early afternoon on the Caribbean Island of San Miguel; the contractor who can acquire rare merchandise, be it a precious stone or gem—even famous crime fighters—known simply as the “Hunter” has arrived on the secluded island. The Hunter has delivered his latest two acquisitions to Bill Martin the eccentric billionaire with a perverted and twisted taste for young and/or mature men of some notability. Once on his island, he keeps these once proud and powerful men subdued, keeping them captive within a turn-of-the-last-century’s sugar plantation brig. There in the brig’s “exercise yard,” Bill torments the broken men—occasionally with humbling and humiliating sexual tortures, mixed with hard labor. The more powerful and well-known the men, either young or more mature—the greater Bill’s desire to break/control, own and dominate them.
Bill is elated as he slams the heavy iron barred cell door of one the cells, turns the key and pockets it. He sneers at the well-thonged, mature early forties man in collar and chains lying unconscious on the cell’s stone floor. (Much like his previous acquisition, Superman, who is astonishingly more honed, better built, and far greatly more hung; but has now as a male, become practically useless. His virility squelched, his potency nil.) Bill uses his dirty handkerchief to polish the brass plaque on the bar door with the inscription: “BATMAN.” “Sleep tight, Dark Knight,” smirks Bill as he turns and toddles away.
“Pedro! Miguel!” shouts Bill as he snaps his fingers. “Hurry up with the other one. Make it pronto!” Two local native peasants dressed in work-splotched white pants, white short-sleeved shirts and sandals half drag, half carry another mostly naked young man in collar and chains down the brig’s stone hallway toward the open door of an adjacent cell. The handsome young man with short brown hair and clean cut features is unconscious. The young man’s chains rattle noisily as the two smaller peasants struggle to haul the big strapping boy to his cell. Finally, they succeed and dump Robin unceremoniously down onto the cell’s stone floor, face down with a thud and rattle of chains. They wipe their brows with stained handkerchiefs as they swear in Spanish at the weight of the two muscular men they’ve carried to cells within the old brig. Bill slams the second iron-barred door closed and turns the key to lock the cell. Bill pockets the key into his proverbial, mused white Dockers.
The hunter, who has accompanied him in the proceedings, sighs loudly and turns away in disgust as the fat pervert adjusts his knobby hard-on within his pants... leering with lustful eyes at the backside of Robin’s sturdy body that now belongs exclusively to him. “No clever hoods for Batman and Robin?” ask the hunter cynically.
“No, not for these two. I want them to have full sensory perception. I’ll threaten one of the Dynamic Duo to get the other to comply with every demand I make. When I threaten Batman’s precious Boy Wonder with a sound bullwhipping, Batman will willingly do whatever… and I mean whatever I ask of him. No doubt the proud Dark Knight will kneel before me, beg, jerk off, crawl, lick my shoes and whatever else I can think of, and more... to spare his “boy” a severe whipping or sexual advances,” cackles the old pervert. “I intent to completely humiliate that ego-proud, mighty Batman... while Robin bears witness to his role model’s submission to me as his new master! And after I thoroughly humiliate Batman, I’ll use Batman against Robin. I’ll make the equally proud Boy Wonder beg and grovel on his knees to spare Batman, before I persuade him to “perform” for me! Ah, what a morsel young Robin is!” Bill leers down at Robin’s notable, youthful-firm body and whispers, “Those awesome calves, buttocks, biceps.…”
Bill’s perverted train of thought is interrupted, “Excuse me sir… where do you want their costumes,” asks a young man with red hair dressed in a blue jumpsuit. “Just toss them on the floor inside the brig’s entrance Jake,” interjects the hunter. Jake complies and tosses the items he’s carried from a Jeep parked outside the brig. He pauses a moment to gaze into the cells, but the hunter sternly orders him back to his post at the Jeep, to wait for him. Jake obeys; Bill frowns.
Then, cordially Bill directs the hunter’s attention towards another cell towards the rear of the brig. Normally the hunter does not accept the billionaire’s perverted hospitality, but today he has made an exception. He wants to see for himself Bill’s greatest trophy—the mightiest and most powerful superhero known to Earth, who Bill managed against all odds to utterly defeat and capture—the incredible, naked and cuffed Superman! Having already heard much of the account.
“Come hunter, I’ll show you the big enchilada!” boasts the old man. He follows the fat man as he waddles breathing hard down the brig’s hall between the rows of empty cells and stops before a small cell with a brass plaque mounted on its cell door with the inscription: “SUPERMAN.”
“Behold, Superman—the once proud and mighty Man of Steel—Earth’s undisputed champion—stripped of his mighty powers, and his bright, pretentious “pretty boy” costume. Observe the fallen hero as he is now—humbly naked—utterly defeated, my slave !” brags the old potbellied pervert as he gestures grandly towards the interior of the small cell.
“His unearthly superpowers made Superman virtually a god! Now look at the mighty wuss – his wings clipped, his great strength departed from him!” cackles the old man triumphantly. “Well, not all of it; he’s still more than robust and strong—the cuffs a precaution. Though a Delilah couldn’t have done it better. (Except from what we’ve observed, just looking at him—she really would have been of no interest to him.) Only my way was more permanent! Although he’s still pretty powerful—his days in the sun seem to have renewed him a bit. Though fruitlessly, for any escape or reprisal—his mind, we gather… too feeble to function.”
As the hunter gazes through the strong iron bars and into the cell a shiver runs down his back and the hair on his neck stands on end. The hot afternoon tropical sun beats down through the barred windows on a tall, strapping, still phenomenally built man lying motionless on the dirty stone floor save for the rise and fall of his torso as he breathes air in and out of the hood; he is completely naked! The well-muscled man has a magnificent build and lies face down with his wondrous muscular arms extended listlessly on either side of his head. Strong leather cuffs on his wrists, yet not duly fastened at the moment. His big chest almost not seen in this position, obscenely nipple-ringed, though yet of staggering proportions. His hugely slack penis, still more than thick and impressive, cast-resting from underneath his side (weighted with a Prince Albert)... and his once, overly fruitful, precious balls that would have complementarily matched (also ring-weighted), though now on a lessening, impotent decline, still more than of an enviable size for any man’s (even if mostly useless, or ever to be)... resting heavily between his columned-spread thighs, mounded onto the ground. His once known incredibly handsome face and head also unseen, now evilly confined within the Klown’s hood he is doomed to wear, sealing his fate. (And whose skin may soon begin to rot away like a leper’s.)
“Superman,” whispers the hunter in awe as he grabs the iron bars of the cell door with both hands and he peers down at the defeated champion! “You don’t look so tough now, big guy,” muses the hunter in a raspy voice. Superman’s powerful body is crisscrossed with dull red welts covered with a fine sheen of filthy sweat. Still with garish green stains and streaks... continually, regularly applied to ensure his never to be “resurrection...” as Bill relates.
Yet surely, if in his right mind, his remaining/renewed sun-strength alone could have ripped him out of his silly confinement. Not a puny Hercules at all…. But as Bill said, he obviously doesn’t even have his wherewithal mind to even THINK of it anymore. His hidden head is encased in a freakish, white phony-eyed, almost non-seeing rubber hood, and is craned slackly towards the iron barred cell door. The hood’s face has the grotesque distorted features of a wild clown’s face crowned with a mop of bright orange curly hair. Scattered about in the otherwise empty cell are the remnants of Superman’s signature costume where it was discarded after the old man had the man himself strip it off him. (The original had been sent to Batman marred with the green goop; but Bill had had a spandex facsimile made to dress the hero in—when it pleased him—to parade him around the yard on rare occasions. Mostly for the benefit of the cowed Dynamic Duo, to keep them ever shocked that even the invincible Superman had been defeated, completely broken.... Until he tired of that, and just had it ripped off again.) What was left of that, now in disarrayed pieces... and in a pair of dirty scuffed-up red boots, a dulled yellow leather belt with the old original “S” insignia on the buckle adorning his still tiny waist, above his humongously weighted, effectively neutered genitalia.
“The loss of his superpowers, curtailment of his self-recycling abilities, took all the fight out of SuperKlown,” brags the fat man as he again recounts the night he defeated Superman. “I imagine he still wonders as he languishes down there on that stone floor how I dissolved away his mighty powers without using Kryptonite! Probably thinks it was in Moro’s green magic powder I used. Maybe true? Who knows what’s in it—the old man would never say.”
Martin continues speculatively, “But he’s still strong as two bulls. Keeping him in the sun seems to re-enhance his inherent strength. Though dumb as an ox—pliable as a caterpillar.”
The hunter kneels down to get a closer look at Superman as he continues to peer through the iron bars of the cell door mesmerized by the sight of the fallen hero displayed before him. “Tell me about it, Bill. What was it like, the night you brought him down?” asks the hunter. “I admit it was a rush when I brought Batman down… but… Superman!”
Bill glares down at Superman as he begins, “Superman was so very confident the night I lured him here to San Miguel. Like an avenging angel complete with fiery sword. Superman flew here to this island at incredible speed; he descended from the tropical sun-setting sky as a god would descend from the heavens—a benevolent savior intent on righting a wrong by capturing me and freeing his dear friends! Superman found me right here in this old brig as I’d planned him to. Predictably, Superman was reckless. In his haste to free his friends, he tore the heavy iron bar doors off my brig’s entrance and tossed them like toys into the jungle. Such arrogance and pride! I remember the details of that momentous night vividly. Yes, I remember… Superman’s colorful red and blue costume that clearly defined every overly developed muscle on his body (not to mention his prodigious manhood)! His overconfident yet graceful stride—Superman’s strong muscular legs, huge arms, great shoulders, gasping pectorals over that boyish waist… all encased in “showy” skintight spandex. He almost swaggered as he walked—beaming with self-pride and ego-narcissistic, self-assuredness—headed boldly towards me, to confront me for my crimes !
“Ah… the swing of his powerful arms within the royal blue of his costume—the resounding tread-echo of his polished red boots on the stone floor of this very brig... as he unwittingly walked towards his doom. The famous bright red and yellow “S” emblazoned across his strapping chest, ego-centric largely-nippled, overloaded muscle-breasts thrust forwards—touted symbol known worldwide (his badge of office so to speak, that represents his great powers, “goodness,” and benevolence towards mankind). All “displayed” above his so conscientiously tucked waist; heavily proud package prominently below. And above all, I remember the crowning touch of his pretentiousness—his richly crimson cape, draped over his monumental shoulders, that billowed grandly behind him when he moved—its bottom edge dancing above his powerful calf muscles and the tops of his fine red boots as he came to stand before me, to exact justice for what I had done to Tarzan and Bomba! (Never knowing his fate—in but mere moments more—to be far worse… about to unfold upon him.) Superman stood proudly before me, his arms firm across his chest... on this very spot!” recounts Bill, as he points his fat finger towards the brig’s stone floor.
The old man continues his tale of Superman’s demise. “All of Superman’s well-developed and proportionate muscles were clearly defined in his form-blue, elastic bodysuit. He stood so fearless before me—confident in the immeasurable superpower contained within his alien, muscular body—as if he thought himself divine, and I should tremble at his very presence! It’s still all so clear… the near, male-angelic features of his handsome face… his deep, azure blue eyes, and perfectly straight bright white teeth… the dark wavy hair with that loose distinctive curl draping the center of his forehead. I admit I became aroused at the mere thought of possessing—nay, mastering —this, this…wondrous being, living amongst mortal men!”
Bill chuckles as he continues. “Superman became very angry when he saw first-hand what I had done to Tarzan and Bomba; his puzzled look was priceless, even miffed, when I told him I intended to inflict the same severe punishment, and worse, on him, too! As if I were making some sort of outlandish joke!”
Bill is clearly on a roll. “But I knew Superman was doomed. Thus, I drank in the very last pungency of Superman’s free spirit: his strength—righteousness—virtue—unassailable morality—sense of fair play and justice—which permeated the very air about me. I reveled at the sight of his perplexed expression, when Superman dared to ponder the possibility of his misplaced over-confidence in his great superpowers, after I suddenly showed him the strange magic pouch, Moro, the island’s witch doctor had provided me, with which to destroy him. (Reminding him of that same magic’s power, assaulting him but days ago on a deserted jungle airstrip. He was instantly taken aback!) And when I perceived the first lances of self-doubt piercing within the Man of Steel’s mind, that maybe he should prepare some strategy—before he had a chance to consider maybe he was vulnerable after all—I struck swiftly. I used the island’s magic to defeat Superman. Taken so unawares and unexpectedly, the spray of that powder into his face, onto his chest... his own gasp , undid him in a flash!! Caught!! Going into him. No possible escape! It had been done. Quick as the surprised intake of his very breath! Tendrils of my web ensnaring him.
“Lightning-struck— that night I pulled a god down from Mount Olympus, and made him a slave!
Simple and fast as a finger-snap.
“Superman dared to challenge me that night. Now look at him—stripped of his famed, pretentious costume, bright red boots and grand cape—not to mention his other-worldly powers and Herculean strength—mindless, and impotent—caged like an invertebrate puss! He perceived a fat old man as no threat to him whatsoever. I accepted Superman’s challenge. The Titanic fool actually thought he was invincible, that the only thing he had to fear in this world was Kryptonite. He paid a terrible price for his ignorance! The stupefied look on his faltering, proud face was priceless when his powers and strength seemed to be evaporating into the very sultry tropical night air around him. And in practically seconds! His great pride quickly drained like a flushing toilet, as Moro’s magic made him weak and feeble… barely able to stand.
“Then, the famed mighty Superman, so impossibly well-built, actually tried to run away from me… me, an out-of-shape, older, fat man! ... like the coward he actually was!! Once reduced to earthly terms. No, Superman did not get far… mind dazed, too weak to even run!—could only stumble, stagger… wobble on failing legs… helpless! And weakly toppled forwards. I actually made Superman crawl on all fours, on his belly, his face in the dirt... on a makeshift leash, and into that cell. Then, strangled him unconscious with my whip.... Then I ball-gagged and hooded the so-called Man of Steel as he lay before me, inert… in a state of severe shock; his blanked out mind unable to comprehend what had happened. Probably never will.
“And imagine, still conscious, just before I got him completely downed and masked, how the so invincible Superman, aware I had sapped his great strength from him, actually pleaded with me—admitting defeat. “Oh, please… no, Bill. My, my master. Have mercy. Don’t, please. I-I’m Superman! Spare, save…!” terrified. Practically weeping. Begging me not to hood him.
“Then once deprived of most of his normal sensory perceptions—his alien strength—sound, speech, diminished sight—Superman’s spirit broke completely. Within three days. Mainly he sleeps a lot... between his turns behind the punishment wheel. Superman is proud no more. Meekly, he obeys the whip, knowing he has been mastered by me! But what he thinks is impossible to determine. He makes quite an impression struggling to push that giant stone wheel for my amusement, wearing only his tattered red boots! Bunched cape waggling behind him. Huge muscles straining; overly large breasts and genitals flopping painfully, extra-weighted, sagging and loose. Getting a little round-shouldered now.”
The hunter relishes the old pervert’s recounting and admits, “That’s quite a story, Bill. I must admit I cannot believe what I see before me, lying naked on the floor completely conquered. Superman, stripped of his powers—his will broken—even his brain, apparently! It’s amazing! I never thought Superman could be brought down! The newspapers think he left Earth—everyone believes he just gave up being Superman. If they could see their champion now!” says the hunter, still trying to accept the total defeat and humiliation of the world’s most glorified hero, by this puny, perverted, overly obese, non-remarkable man in his sixties. A miracle in itself.
They are interrupted once more by the fetching Jake, who has returned with more treasures.
“Here’s Superman’s cape and suit,” offers Jake; he hands Superman’s original soiled blue costume and red cape to the hunter, to be given back to Martin. But with great misgivings.
Himself more than stunned at the going’s on, and Hunter’s involvement. But stays silent.
“We found Superman’s uniform that was used to bait Batman, in the Batcave,” confirmed the hunter. The disgusting fat man smiles, and swivels his head in the young man’s direction. He leers with undisguised lust at the tall, sturdy athletic, young red-haired man in the flight suit wearing a Buffalo Bills’ ball cap.
Jake—my Red! I’ll have you yet! The hunter has thus far denied you to me. But we’ll see. I’ll have you soon; I am a patient old man… very patient, Red. An opportunity to own you will knock one day , and I’ll be ready , thinks Bill as he gazes at his desire.
The hunter notices the old pervert’s renewed interest for the young red-headed copilot in Martin’s eyes, and says quickly as he takes the costume, “Thanks Jake. Wait outside, please.”
Jake’s eyes are wide as he views the interior of Superman’s cell. “Wow—is that really him! Superman, the mighty Man of Steel—a prisoner here?! Who would have thought it possible to take the great Superman down, keep him behind mere iron bars?!” With both awe and great trepidation, not at all liking what he’s seeing. And in great alarm. This should not be!! Nor what has been done to the heroic Batman.
“It’s Superman, yes! Wait outside, Jake,” orders the hunter. Then vaguely aloud: “‘Ours is but to do or die’ — fail, or prevail!” he misquotes, with an off-handed shrug. Dismissing any lingering vestiges of guilt in his mind. Hard eyes into eyes with Jake, knowing the young man has clouded misgivings about all this. (And settling the matter of his own conscience regarding the demise/defeat of any of these deposed heroes thus far captured—. Not his fault they were so easily caught, but theirs! Certainly destroying the myth of their supposed and famed superiorities. Look at their “wonderfulnesses” now!)
“Sure, boss…sorry,” offers Jake as he turns and exits the brig. Bill, continuing to gaze at the young man’s backside as he walks away. “Here!” says the hunter with disgust, and surrenders the marred red and blue garments to Bill. Martin takes the crimson cape and royal blue costume emblazoned with a red and yellow “S” symbol and casually stuffs the items between the iron bars of Superman’s cell door. As the once colorful costume and crimson cape falls to the dingy stone floor of Superman’s cell, Island Bill turns away, gestures, and ambles forward towards the brig’s entrance. The hunter turns and follows his host.
“Pedro! Miguel!” shouts Bill as he snaps his fingers at the peasants waiting for further instructions.
“Si Senor,” replies one of the peasants, hastily.
“Pick up Batman and Robin’s costumes and utility belts, lock them away in the storage room.”
One man scurries for a container as the other begins folding Robin’s dark green bodysuit. The peasant returns with a large cardboard box and tosses two pairs of black boots into the box. Then the two begin picking up the other remnants of the two costumes Jake had dumped in the passageway. They quickly pick up a black cape with a yellow underside and a black cowl with pointed ears attached to a long black scalloped edged cape. The peasants quickly stuff the items into the container followed by two utility belts, two sets of scalloped gloves, one green, and one black. One peasant quickly folds up a dark red tunic with a gold and silver letter “R” attached, and stuffs it in the box while the other folds up a black molded bodysuit with the silhouette of a winged bat emblazoned across the chest area.
As the peasants collect the final items of the famous crime fighter’s costumes, Bill gestures the hunter with his fat hand towards the brig’s entrance. The pair proceeds down the hallway dividing the two rows of small cells towards Jake, who is outside watching workmen make repairs to the brig’s entrance, which Superman had destroyed the night he was enslaved. They exit the brig as a worn red tractor pulls one of the brig’s tall heavy iron-barred doors from out of the dense jungle where Superman tossed it effortlessly weeks ago. Other peasants work nearby mixing white mortar, while other workers lay dark red brick as they reconstruct the brig’s entryway. Still others workers heat the iron bars of the second crumpled door using torches, while another hammers away loudly straightening the twisted iron grillwork Superman smashed. (And with such incredible strength… now removed from him; leaving him only as strong as just the overly-built man he is. No longer functionally able to harness and use it, except for his assigned tasks, unable to save or rescue himself, or think much about trying to do so.)
“Superman destroyed my brig’s entrance; but I got restitution… and then some,” boasts Bill. “Wearing his repayments, now….” The hunter frowns at the comment, remembering the punishment rings he’d seen, as he noncommittally watches the ongoing repairs. “I have your early delivery bonus for Batman and Robin in the Jeep, hunter,” reminds Bill.
“Thanks. Let’s see… by my count, that makes five heroes imprisoned here: Tarzan, Bomba, Superman, Batman and Robin. Quite a collection, especially Superman,” concedes the hunter.
“Past glory for them! I want more superheroes to entertain me! What did you find out about Spiderman?” asks Bill with keen interest.
“Thanks to Batman’s paranoia – quite a bit. He has extensive files on his foes as well as his crime fighting competitors. We used their utility belts... as I suspected the belts were wireless keys that granted us unfettered access to the Batcave and its secrets. I’m afraid I have to report their snooty butler, Alfred, perished in the fire that destroyed the Batcave and Wayne Manor the day after we departed Gotham City,” explains the hunter to Bill who listens eagerly. “Did you know Batman even had the last known piece of green Kryptonite hidden in the Batcave? Well… he had the last piece,” reveals the hunter with a knowing look.
“You have the Kryptonite? I must have it! My R&D department tried to make synthetic Kryptonite for years but failed because we never had a model—that idiot Luthor squandered what little Kryptonite there was, trying to catch our Big Woo-Hoo years ago… lured him in, but failed to nail him down. Was working on an idiotic land scheme out west,” relates Bill.
“The Kryptonite is yours – for the right price,” offers the hunter.
“I’m sure we can negotiate a settlement for it,” replies Bill. “Who knows how many more of those dundering, narcissistic Kryptonians are out there—or if Moro’s spell might wear out someday. Kryptonite will be my ace in the hole, if Superman’s powers ever return. But with Kryptonite, I can re-harness that bastard again, maybe even finish him for good—Moro’s spell ever fails.”
“The Kryptonite is in a small lead box aboard the transport, size of a small peach. I thought you might be interested in the element,” replies the hunter. “I’ll give it to you before we depart.”
“Come on, let’s get out of the sun and have an ice-cold drink… should we invite Red to join us?” asks the old man.
“His name is Jake…. and no ,” replies the hunter curtly. “But I think another mil is on the table for the K . Fair price, I think. Definitely need to keep Super-Dud without any chance of resurrection. Could be dangerous if he gets loose.”
“… if he has any brain left, maybe? Deal! I accept. I’ll have the funds wired to you shortly.”
Satisfied with the transaction, yet Bill shrugs disappointedly, and steals one more glance at Jake’s backside, who is still watching the reconstruction work on the brig’s entrance. Both men move under a large suspended blue cotton tarp out of the sun that overlooks the brig’s exercise yard. Bill waddles to a chair and squeezes his fat frame into one of the chairs within the shade. The chair groans under his weight... while the hunter pulls a small notebook from his khaki pants pocket. He tosses his canvas safari hat onto the table, and takes a seat as he opens the small notebook’s flap.
Bill watches the activity in the exercise yard as the hunter thumbs through the pages of his notebook. The brig’s modest exercise yard is comprised only of several wooden medieval stocks and two large “punishment wheels.” The punishment wheels are simply immense roughly hewn gray-white stone wheels, much taller than a man and about three feet thick. The large heavy wheels are each set in a stone tray and have thick rough-hewn logs running horizontally through their centers. They were set up so that two men could move one together, or one exceedingly stronger man be forced to do one alone. And they could observe each other doing so, if it pleased the owner... tasked with their work at the same time.
Presently, Raul, Bill’s designated trainer, swears in Spanish as he occasionally whips at two well-built men of similar physiques… the younger one smooth-skinned, a shade lighter in weight but quite developed, the other more mature, also smooth, heavier, five to seven years his senior: both more than impressively lithely muscled and strong. The men work in unison under the tropical sun pushing one of the punishment wheels set within its stone tray in small circles. Both men’s stressed bodies are completely naked. The pair deeply tanned from hours under the tropical sun, though their limits are confined to two hours a day for this particular task. A fresh welt appears on each man whenever Raul casts and withdraws his black bullwhip. Though he has been instructed not to be overly zealous with his chiding encouragements. Only if they appear getting slack or lazy. The pair’s heads are each encased in eye-slit, heavy leather hoods – the older has the distorted features of a grotesque ape with long, black kinky hair – the younger other hood has the features of a canine. That hood has pointed leather ears which stick straight up attentively on the top of the ether side of the hood, and is accented with an uncomfortable black dog collar with silver spikes.
The whip cracks and Bomba grunts loudly and bites down hard on the ball gag inserted snugly in his mouth, and retained there by a leather strap buckled tight behind his strong neck. Both of the men struggle and strain at the exertion required to roll the massive stone wheel around its tray-track. Their near-equally powerful chests contract and then relax, as they draw and exhale breath through the small nostril holes of their garish headgears. Hooded, they are relatively deaf to sound, unable to but moan and groan, or stumble in a filtered darkness and silence to push at the ponderous wheel’s rough-hewn wooden log that runs through the stone’s center in order to roll the heavy stone. Encouraged by Raul’s attentive lash, the men dig their calloused bare feet into the dry dirt as they put their broad backs into the task at hand. Their bodies glisten with dirty sweat as their thighs, calves, shoulders and biceps flex, contracting and relaxing, as they tediously push within the limits of their strengths to roll the great wheel. And later, when finished, they will be hosed down before being remanded to their quarters.
“Tarzan and Bomba make quite a pair,” comments Bill, while another peasant in a clean, short-sleeved white shirt serves iced drinks from a sterling silver tray. “Surprisingly, Tarzan is completely tamed—while the boy Bomba still has some fight left in him. Tomorrow, Bomba pushes the wheel alone, without Tarzan’s help... until he is completely exhausted. That should help break the young dog’s free will!”
The hunter ignores the naked pair struggling in the sun-drenched exercise yard and begins reading from his notebook. “Let’s see… Spiderman… according to Batman’s extensive data- files: Spiderman, aka Peter Parker – photo journalist for the Bugle up in NYC. Batman had files on other well-known superheroes: Barry Allen, aka the Scarlet Speedster, more commonly known as “the Flash” from Central City. And there is Green Lantern in Capitol City, who turns out to be Hal Jordan, the famous test pilot,” explains the hunter, as he finishes checking his list and then closes the flap on his notebook.
“I must have them all for my collection,” demands Bill excitedly. “I’ll pay anything!”
“Hold the phone, Bill. I dislike these men, too. They are all bad for the criminal business. Good riddance to Superman, Batman, and Robin… a bunch of meddling do-gooder assholes, prancing around like nearly nude, stuffed comic book characters. They deserve what they got—fuck—they might as well have begged for it every time they suited up in those ego, muscle-show costumes! Not at all coy or modest, letting you know they had some remarkable equipment, though Superman did strive to compress his a bit more. Tarzan and Bomba… I had no quarrel with either of them; that was business – nothing personal. These men on the list are not like Batman, Robin, Tarzan and Bomba – who were mere men. These others, like Superman, have special abilities – great strength, extraordinary other powers. If you had to have “jungle magic” to take down the undefeatable Superman, we may need more similar stuff to corral the others. I’ll need some extra time to evaluate and analyze the data on the hard drives I stole from the Batcave, to find each guy’s weakness – each one’s Kryptonite, so to speak.”
“But I already have these three superheroes’ Kryptonite , so to speak… a powerful “talisman” you can take with you to NY,” offers Bill slyly as he sips his cool drink. “With this talisman, you can round up all three of these unsuspecting superheroes for my collection, one by one... falling like goofed-out dominos. Spiderman first – bring him to me here when you capture him; I have the hood already fashioned for that young man! The Flash and the Green Lantern, in whichever order you prefer. But I too, need some time to develop themes for those two. Do you want to know Spiderman’s theme, hunter?”
“No… I’ll find out soon enough. Talisman – more black magic from Moro the witch doctor?” asks the hunter with great interest. “Seems like his island has a veritable a trove of wonders to catch heroes with.”
“Of course, a case of whiskey and more cigars got the witch doctor’s help. You’ll just need someone who looks very disarming, to play the part of an innocent bystander until the talisman has a chance to work its black magic,” replies Bill. “Send someone Spiderman and the other heroes will not perceive as a threat to them.” Bill takes a sip of his iced drink. Then he suddenly shouts, “Raul! Don’t let them slack off… keep them hustling! Make them earn their supper!”
A flurry of cracks from Raul’s bullwhip comes in rapid succession. Light flicks and muffled cries elicited through gagged mouths are heard as both naked jungle-men gain new incentive and immediately re-double their efforts to push the great stone at a speed satisfactory to suit their warped owner.
“Where was I? Oh, yes, all you need do is get the web-slinger alone in a secluded location,” continues the old pervert. “Merely let Spiderman catch sight of the talisman and he will eventually become… very cooperative. Moro will instruct whoever you chose… as I said whoever you choose must not be perceived as a threat. But he must be attractive, clever and quick-thinking… able to improvise.”
“Let’s see. It should be easy to lure Spiderman, knowing his secret identity… lots of friends… and an Aunt May, if I remember correctly,” thinks the hunter out loud. “Yes, I think I know just who to send to meet Spiderman… Ryan Blake. He was instrumental in bringing down Robin and Batman. Charmed Robin out of his briefs fast enough… not sure if any of the others are quite as sexually inclined.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Bill noisily sips at his drink. Gazes towards his watch. Soon time for the Dynamic Duo’s turn at the wheel.
“I love dark magic,” chirps the old man. “Don’t you? Pussies the mightiest of the mighty down
—and quick! Ask “Super Big-Tits…” my Klown . Clipped his fairy-wings before he knew they were gone!! And his nuts!”