Post by Deleted on Jun 22, 2019 2:05:04 GMT
Nighttime. An abandoned warehouse in Harlem. The LED ceiling lamps hang low, casting only a small amount of light on a group of six men standing around a table. The five men on one end all wield guns while the man on the other end has a metal briefcase. He places it on the table and flips it open, revealing stacks of cocaine.
“Straight from Columbia, as promised,” he tells them. “The finest stuff you’ll get in New York. Went through hell to get it, so the compensation better be—”
A thug snaps, “Shut up.”
“Okay.”
Another thug flips his switchblade and cuts into one of the bricks. He dips the knife in, taking some of the white powder onto the blade before laying it on the table. “Just checkin’ the quality. Don’t wanna be buying flour now.” He takes a straw and prepares to snort it when…
The skylight above them shatters. The silhouette of a man drops down several feet, hitting the concrete hard enough to crack it under his shoes. The men spin around, asking no questions as they open fire with their 9MMs. Sparks fly as the bullets hit, but he does not fall. Instead he rushes forward. One gunman panics and fires wildly, the light from the burst of gunfire exposing the face of their assailant with each shot. It is the face of a large, African American male in his late twenties—bald with a goatee.
Luke Cage.
With each shot, he gets nearer and nearer until the thug is hurled back across the room. Luke backhands another gunman—not even looking at him—and sends him into the brick wall behind them. The dealer scrambles to put his drugs back in his briefcase; no purpose in sticking around. Meanwhile, two thugs brandish their pocket knives and charge at the trespasser. They don’t get far before Luke grabs them by their necks. He lifts the two men off the floor and slams them together before dropping them.
He spots the dealer dashing to the exit and simply punts the table, sending it flying through the spacious room. The flat surface hits the dealer in the back and pins him to the floor. Luke walks toward him but another thug steps in his way, then pulls out a pistol and swings it across the vigilante’s face. A clean blow like that would’ve rendered a normal person unconscious. Exhaling an annoyed sigh through his nostrils, Luke forcefully yanks the firearm out of the thug’s hand and squashes it like a water bottle. The thug looks at his destroyed weapon with astonishment just before Luke casually swats him out of his way.
He strides over to the dealer and hefts him against a wall. The dealer clenches his eyes shut in expectance of a severe beating. Instead, Cage pulls out his phone and brings up a picture of the dealer's wanted poster.
“This you?” he asks.
“Y-yes," the dealer replies as he slowly opens his eyes. Like floodgates, a stream of fearful tears pours down his cheeks.
“Good. I’m gonna make a lotta money bringin’ you in.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just thought you’d like to know. Gotta do somethin’, so don’t move.”
“Y-y-yes sir. I’ll do anything you s— Oof!”
Luke drops the crook with a thud and strolls to the table he kicked earlier. Like snapping celery, he breaks off one of its legs. A small whimper escapes the dealer’s lips.
“Now lie on your fat belly and put your hands behind your back.”
“Okay!” He does exactly that.
Luke bends down beside the man and twists the leg over his wrists—makeshift handcuffs. Satisfied, Luke pulls out his phone and prepares to dial 911 to report a drug deal. The city just got a little bit safer. All in a day’s work.
By S2D2
#1: Trouble
9 Years Ago.
An elderly African American woman stares out her apartment window at nothing in particular. The TV is on but she's not watching it.
“We’re in for another scorcher this week, folks!” the weatherman announces from the television. “And I tell ya, we’ll all be praying for rain. On Saturday, our prayers should be answered: high of 58, low of 39, with an 80 percent chance of precipitation. Hang in there, everyone.”
Soon, her grandson enters the living room with a gym bag. This is 20-year-old Carl Lucas—tall, handsome, and muscular with short black hair. He kisses his grandmother, Mama Lucas, on the cheek. “Gonna go play some ball, Granny. Then I have to check in at the mill. I'll be home late.”
“Okay, baby,” she replies, her voice distant.
“Did you remember to take your medicine?” he asks.
“I sure did.”
“Okay, Granny. . . . I love you.”
She sighs, “Love you back.”
As Carl turns to leave, he hits his knee on a drawer in the short hallway leading to the door. “Aw, shit…” he mutters.
Mama Lucas looks up, life suddenly returning to her. “Is that you cussing over there, boy?” she inquires loudly.
The sudden sass took Carl by surprise. “N-no, Granny. I said…Christmas.”
“Mmm-hm. That's what I thought. Don't make me whoop your ass!”
Smiling, Carl leaves the apartment building and goes out into the street. The neighborhood is poor and rundown, a view of the country rarely seen but all too real. And yet…it’s home, and Carl wouldn’t trade it for the world. He continues to the subway station where he takes a train to another part of New York as the sun goes down. He gets out in a much nicer area in Midtown and makes his way to a street corner where he…waits. And waits. And waits.
Before she died, my moms had a saying. She’d always tell me, “Carl, lucky breaks are for chumps. Real heroes make their own luck.” Heaven knows I’m trying, but… It’s time for a more direct approach.
Soon comes nighttime, and the vibrant colors of the lit-up cityscape are brought to life. It isn’t long before someone else approaches. This is Willis Stryker, a little older than Carl and roughly his build. The two of them clasp hands. Always friends till the end.
“What's up, Carl?” Willis greets his old buddy. “Damn, two years… Heh, you’ve really stacked up since then.”
“Hi, Willis,” Carl says plainly.
“. . . Still not much of a talker, huh?” Willis shrugs. “All right, all right… You ready for this?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Nice. Then, welcome to the Rivals.” Willis unveils a dagger tattoo on the back of his right hand, between the thumb and forefinger. “This here’s our symbol. It stands for—”
“Willis, I’m not in your gang, man,” Carl warns, putting his hands up. He takes a step back as he continues, “This is only gonna happen a few times. I ain’t no thug.”
“Relaaax. I got this, and I got you. Just like when were kids. Remember that at all?”
Carl scoffs. “I sure remember gettin’ up to real stupid shit. But I’ve grown up since then. You got worse ever since you met the Hammer and the Maggia.”
“Whatever.” Willis crosses his arms and looks away, hurt. “Act like your shit don’t stink.”
“Just tell me how this is gonna go down.”
“All right—the people in these apartments got money but not so much they’re gonna afford security systems.” He gestures to the apartment complex across the street. “We pick the lock and we’re in. Easy. We stay in the living room. We get computers, TVs, phones—whatever we can carry and we get out.”
Carl’s not swayed just yet. “And if anyone spots us…?”
Willis pulls a switchblade from his jacket pocket. “We show ’em this.”
“Man, you’re as crazy as you are dense! I’m not killing nobody, so put that thing away.”
“Aw, who says we’re killin’ anybody? It’s just to scare ’em off. It ain’t like I got a gun. And trust me, if I wanted, I coulda brought one.”
“At least you got some sense…” Carl mutters.
“Nobody’s gonna see us anyway. They never do, not when it’s me.”
“Then you’re leavin’ that thing behind.”
Willis takes a second to collect himself. A vein on his left temple reveals itself. Finally he says, with calm bitterness, “You always act like you’re above it all. But I know you, Carl Lucas—you ain’t. Why you doin’ this anyway?”
Anger boils within Carl as well, but he forces it down. “I… I just need the money for my grams. She’s sick and needs medicine. I ain’t some thug and I sure as hell ain’t in your gang.”
“Yeah, I know. Heh, we wouldn't take your punk-ass anyway.”
Carl takes a couple steps closer. “So…we doin’ this thing or not?”
“Yeah. Come on. I know a guy—he left our way in unlocked.”
They start crossing the street. “Just…be sure we ain’t usin’ that knife on anybody,” Carl warns him again.
Willis just rolls his eyes. Using the side entrance, they sneak into the complex and head straight to the apartment closest to the exit. Carl stands watch while Willis picks the lock. It’s a fairly nice place. The hallway is reminiscent to hotel halls. Back home, it’s just a light and featureless pathway to a rickety old door. But this place is where it’s at. A few moments later and they're in.
No time to admire the apartment. They quietly slip inside while leaving the lights off, and Willis immediately points out a laptop on the table in the kitchen area. Carl deftly swipes the computer into his bag while Willis makes his way to the surround sound system nearby. Suddenly, the lights turn on. Both freeze as a large, robe-clad man enters the living room with a baseball bat.
“I see you dirty punks!” he shouts, wielding the bat like he’s Babe Ruth. “This is the third time this year my place has been robbed! It's not happening again!”
Carl tries to make a break for the door but the man swings his bat around, blocking off the exit.
“Oh, not so fast, you little—!”
Willis pulls the switchblade from his pocket and waves it around menacingly. The man glares at Willis and raises the bat.
“Bring it on!” he shrieks. “I’m not afraid of you! You think you’re man enough? Then try your luck!”
Carl drops his bag and shouts, “Man, let’s get out of here!”
Willis ignores him and charges at the man. Just when the distance between them closes, Carl tackles Willis to the floor. With surprising strength, he maneuvers on top of Carl and tries to sink the blade into the center of his chest. Their faces are only inches apart. Carl sees pure evil in his friend’s eyes. He slams his forehead into Willis’ and rolls free, grabbing the knife while he still can. But then he notices something…
It’s bloody.
Ice-cold fear fills his gut. The owner of the apartment lay just a few feet away, a deep, bloody gash in the dead center of his torso. And he isn’t breathing. Carl stumbles over to him and bends down, pressing his thumb against the side of the man’s neck. Only a slight pulse. He realizes he’s still holding the weapon and immediately drops it to the floor.
Recovered from that nasty headbutt, Willis rises up and saunters in front of Carl. “Look what you’ve done,” he growls through clenched teeth.
“I— What? I didn’t—”
“This is all your fault…you spineless—”
“We… We gotta get this guy an ambulance, before he bleeds out!”
“Cops’ll be here any second no doubt. If you wouldn’t have— Gaaahhh!” Willis suddenly falls forward onto the floor, the knife sticking in his heel. It’s not that deep…but it’s all the dying old man could do. The knife rolls out of his hand.
Carl only makes a break for it, leaving a wounded Willis behind. He races down the stairs and gets to the lobby where he bolts out of the main entrance and into the city night. To freedom.
Meanwhile, Willis limps to the bathroom, blood trailing behind him as he sits himself on the toilet, snatching a towel from the rack to place on his leg wound. Two police officers burst into the apartment—one checks on the dead owner, while the other makes his way to the bathroom. He points his gun at the wounded gangster.
Willis looks up at the cop with pleading eyes and musters, “I’ll tell you…everything…you need to know.”
Later…
Carl pokes his head out of an alley, searching for any police officers. With the coast clear, he sprints down the sidewalk. As luck would have it, the moment he turns the corner, a squad car cuts him off as it mounts the curb. Cursing, he retreats in the opposite direction, only to see a beat cop racing toward him. He darts out in the middle of the street, tires screeching as cars come to a halt. His momentum carries him over the hood of one car, casuing him to awkwardly fall on the pavement. By the time he gets back up, the police officers have already descended upon him. One of them—a woman—cuffs him and leads him to her squad car, reading his rights. He doesn’t resist.
“I thought I raised you better than this, boy.”
“You did, Granny. I’m sorry.”
“Then why’d you do it?”
Carl and Mama Lucas sit in an interrogation room. Carl keeps his hands folded and his eyes on his handcuffs. He… He wants to cry. How could’ve this all gone so wrong? Murder… This isn’t right. None of this is right. And now he has to talk to his frail grandmother. And yet, she’s kept her tenacity thus far.
“Well?” she prompts.
“I… I wanted to get money for your medicine. I know things are tight right now.”
“Carl Lucas, no matter how ‘tight’ things get, you should never let that keep you from doin’ the right thing. These big scary white folks’re sayin’ you killed somebody?”
He finally looks up, into her teary eyes. “Do you believe ’em?”
“. . . No. No, of course not. But they gotta have a reason for sayin’ that. And…it’s gonna be a long battle ahead, baby. I love you, Carl, just like I loved your mom and pop. I’ll always be there for you. The medicine will wait till—”
“But you’re dying!” Carl exclaims. Mama Lucas puts her hand over heart, shaken. “You’ll have to stay in bed all day tomorrow for comin’ here! I don’t wanna lose you too.”
The door harshly buzzes, and a cop steps in. “It’s time to go, Mrs. Lucas,” he says.
Mama Lucas stands up—her chin up high, her posture tall. As the officer escorts her out, she says one last thing: “You stay outta trouble. Y’hear?”
“Yes, ma’am…” Carl hangs his head, low enough that his face is completely shadowed away from the light.
“Straight from Columbia, as promised,” he tells them. “The finest stuff you’ll get in New York. Went through hell to get it, so the compensation better be—”
A thug snaps, “Shut up.”
“Okay.”
Another thug flips his switchblade and cuts into one of the bricks. He dips the knife in, taking some of the white powder onto the blade before laying it on the table. “Just checkin’ the quality. Don’t wanna be buying flour now.” He takes a straw and prepares to snort it when…
The skylight above them shatters. The silhouette of a man drops down several feet, hitting the concrete hard enough to crack it under his shoes. The men spin around, asking no questions as they open fire with their 9MMs. Sparks fly as the bullets hit, but he does not fall. Instead he rushes forward. One gunman panics and fires wildly, the light from the burst of gunfire exposing the face of their assailant with each shot. It is the face of a large, African American male in his late twenties—bald with a goatee.
Luke Cage.
With each shot, he gets nearer and nearer until the thug is hurled back across the room. Luke backhands another gunman—not even looking at him—and sends him into the brick wall behind them. The dealer scrambles to put his drugs back in his briefcase; no purpose in sticking around. Meanwhile, two thugs brandish their pocket knives and charge at the trespasser. They don’t get far before Luke grabs them by their necks. He lifts the two men off the floor and slams them together before dropping them.
He spots the dealer dashing to the exit and simply punts the table, sending it flying through the spacious room. The flat surface hits the dealer in the back and pins him to the floor. Luke walks toward him but another thug steps in his way, then pulls out a pistol and swings it across the vigilante’s face. A clean blow like that would’ve rendered a normal person unconscious. Exhaling an annoyed sigh through his nostrils, Luke forcefully yanks the firearm out of the thug’s hand and squashes it like a water bottle. The thug looks at his destroyed weapon with astonishment just before Luke casually swats him out of his way.
He strides over to the dealer and hefts him against a wall. The dealer clenches his eyes shut in expectance of a severe beating. Instead, Cage pulls out his phone and brings up a picture of the dealer's wanted poster.
“This you?” he asks.
“Y-yes," the dealer replies as he slowly opens his eyes. Like floodgates, a stream of fearful tears pours down his cheeks.
“Good. I’m gonna make a lotta money bringin’ you in.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just thought you’d like to know. Gotta do somethin’, so don’t move.”
“Y-y-yes sir. I’ll do anything you s— Oof!”
Luke drops the crook with a thud and strolls to the table he kicked earlier. Like snapping celery, he breaks off one of its legs. A small whimper escapes the dealer’s lips.
“Now lie on your fat belly and put your hands behind your back.”
“Okay!” He does exactly that.
Luke bends down beside the man and twists the leg over his wrists—makeshift handcuffs. Satisfied, Luke pulls out his phone and prepares to dial 911 to report a drug deal. The city just got a little bit safer. All in a day’s work.
By S2D2
#1: Trouble
9 Years Ago.
An elderly African American woman stares out her apartment window at nothing in particular. The TV is on but she's not watching it.
“We’re in for another scorcher this week, folks!” the weatherman announces from the television. “And I tell ya, we’ll all be praying for rain. On Saturday, our prayers should be answered: high of 58, low of 39, with an 80 percent chance of precipitation. Hang in there, everyone.”
Soon, her grandson enters the living room with a gym bag. This is 20-year-old Carl Lucas—tall, handsome, and muscular with short black hair. He kisses his grandmother, Mama Lucas, on the cheek. “Gonna go play some ball, Granny. Then I have to check in at the mill. I'll be home late.”
“Okay, baby,” she replies, her voice distant.
“Did you remember to take your medicine?” he asks.
“I sure did.”
“Okay, Granny. . . . I love you.”
She sighs, “Love you back.”
As Carl turns to leave, he hits his knee on a drawer in the short hallway leading to the door. “Aw, shit…” he mutters.
Mama Lucas looks up, life suddenly returning to her. “Is that you cussing over there, boy?” she inquires loudly.
The sudden sass took Carl by surprise. “N-no, Granny. I said…Christmas.”
“Mmm-hm. That's what I thought. Don't make me whoop your ass!”
Smiling, Carl leaves the apartment building and goes out into the street. The neighborhood is poor and rundown, a view of the country rarely seen but all too real. And yet…it’s home, and Carl wouldn’t trade it for the world. He continues to the subway station where he takes a train to another part of New York as the sun goes down. He gets out in a much nicer area in Midtown and makes his way to a street corner where he…waits. And waits. And waits.
Before she died, my moms had a saying. She’d always tell me, “Carl, lucky breaks are for chumps. Real heroes make their own luck.” Heaven knows I’m trying, but… It’s time for a more direct approach.
Soon comes nighttime, and the vibrant colors of the lit-up cityscape are brought to life. It isn’t long before someone else approaches. This is Willis Stryker, a little older than Carl and roughly his build. The two of them clasp hands. Always friends till the end.
“What's up, Carl?” Willis greets his old buddy. “Damn, two years… Heh, you’ve really stacked up since then.”
“Hi, Willis,” Carl says plainly.
“. . . Still not much of a talker, huh?” Willis shrugs. “All right, all right… You ready for this?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Nice. Then, welcome to the Rivals.” Willis unveils a dagger tattoo on the back of his right hand, between the thumb and forefinger. “This here’s our symbol. It stands for—”
“Willis, I’m not in your gang, man,” Carl warns, putting his hands up. He takes a step back as he continues, “This is only gonna happen a few times. I ain’t no thug.”
“Relaaax. I got this, and I got you. Just like when were kids. Remember that at all?”
Carl scoffs. “I sure remember gettin’ up to real stupid shit. But I’ve grown up since then. You got worse ever since you met the Hammer and the Maggia.”
“Whatever.” Willis crosses his arms and looks away, hurt. “Act like your shit don’t stink.”
“Just tell me how this is gonna go down.”
“All right—the people in these apartments got money but not so much they’re gonna afford security systems.” He gestures to the apartment complex across the street. “We pick the lock and we’re in. Easy. We stay in the living room. We get computers, TVs, phones—whatever we can carry and we get out.”
Carl’s not swayed just yet. “And if anyone spots us…?”
Willis pulls a switchblade from his jacket pocket. “We show ’em this.”
“Man, you’re as crazy as you are dense! I’m not killing nobody, so put that thing away.”
“Aw, who says we’re killin’ anybody? It’s just to scare ’em off. It ain’t like I got a gun. And trust me, if I wanted, I coulda brought one.”
“At least you got some sense…” Carl mutters.
“Nobody’s gonna see us anyway. They never do, not when it’s me.”
“Then you’re leavin’ that thing behind.”
Willis takes a second to collect himself. A vein on his left temple reveals itself. Finally he says, with calm bitterness, “You always act like you’re above it all. But I know you, Carl Lucas—you ain’t. Why you doin’ this anyway?”
Anger boils within Carl as well, but he forces it down. “I… I just need the money for my grams. She’s sick and needs medicine. I ain’t some thug and I sure as hell ain’t in your gang.”
“Yeah, I know. Heh, we wouldn't take your punk-ass anyway.”
Carl takes a couple steps closer. “So…we doin’ this thing or not?”
“Yeah. Come on. I know a guy—he left our way in unlocked.”
They start crossing the street. “Just…be sure we ain’t usin’ that knife on anybody,” Carl warns him again.
Willis just rolls his eyes. Using the side entrance, they sneak into the complex and head straight to the apartment closest to the exit. Carl stands watch while Willis picks the lock. It’s a fairly nice place. The hallway is reminiscent to hotel halls. Back home, it’s just a light and featureless pathway to a rickety old door. But this place is where it’s at. A few moments later and they're in.
No time to admire the apartment. They quietly slip inside while leaving the lights off, and Willis immediately points out a laptop on the table in the kitchen area. Carl deftly swipes the computer into his bag while Willis makes his way to the surround sound system nearby. Suddenly, the lights turn on. Both freeze as a large, robe-clad man enters the living room with a baseball bat.
“I see you dirty punks!” he shouts, wielding the bat like he’s Babe Ruth. “This is the third time this year my place has been robbed! It's not happening again!”
Carl tries to make a break for the door but the man swings his bat around, blocking off the exit.
“Oh, not so fast, you little—!”
Willis pulls the switchblade from his pocket and waves it around menacingly. The man glares at Willis and raises the bat.
“Bring it on!” he shrieks. “I’m not afraid of you! You think you’re man enough? Then try your luck!”
Carl drops his bag and shouts, “Man, let’s get out of here!”
Willis ignores him and charges at the man. Just when the distance between them closes, Carl tackles Willis to the floor. With surprising strength, he maneuvers on top of Carl and tries to sink the blade into the center of his chest. Their faces are only inches apart. Carl sees pure evil in his friend’s eyes. He slams his forehead into Willis’ and rolls free, grabbing the knife while he still can. But then he notices something…
It’s bloody.
Ice-cold fear fills his gut. The owner of the apartment lay just a few feet away, a deep, bloody gash in the dead center of his torso. And he isn’t breathing. Carl stumbles over to him and bends down, pressing his thumb against the side of the man’s neck. Only a slight pulse. He realizes he’s still holding the weapon and immediately drops it to the floor.
Recovered from that nasty headbutt, Willis rises up and saunters in front of Carl. “Look what you’ve done,” he growls through clenched teeth.
“I— What? I didn’t—”
“This is all your fault…you spineless—”
“We… We gotta get this guy an ambulance, before he bleeds out!”
“Cops’ll be here any second no doubt. If you wouldn’t have— Gaaahhh!” Willis suddenly falls forward onto the floor, the knife sticking in his heel. It’s not that deep…but it’s all the dying old man could do. The knife rolls out of his hand.
Carl only makes a break for it, leaving a wounded Willis behind. He races down the stairs and gets to the lobby where he bolts out of the main entrance and into the city night. To freedom.
Meanwhile, Willis limps to the bathroom, blood trailing behind him as he sits himself on the toilet, snatching a towel from the rack to place on his leg wound. Two police officers burst into the apartment—one checks on the dead owner, while the other makes his way to the bathroom. He points his gun at the wounded gangster.
Willis looks up at the cop with pleading eyes and musters, “I’ll tell you…everything…you need to know.”
Later…
Carl pokes his head out of an alley, searching for any police officers. With the coast clear, he sprints down the sidewalk. As luck would have it, the moment he turns the corner, a squad car cuts him off as it mounts the curb. Cursing, he retreats in the opposite direction, only to see a beat cop racing toward him. He darts out in the middle of the street, tires screeching as cars come to a halt. His momentum carries him over the hood of one car, casuing him to awkwardly fall on the pavement. By the time he gets back up, the police officers have already descended upon him. One of them—a woman—cuffs him and leads him to her squad car, reading his rights. He doesn’t resist.
“I thought I raised you better than this, boy.”
“You did, Granny. I’m sorry.”
“Then why’d you do it?”
Carl and Mama Lucas sit in an interrogation room. Carl keeps his hands folded and his eyes on his handcuffs. He… He wants to cry. How could’ve this all gone so wrong? Murder… This isn’t right. None of this is right. And now he has to talk to his frail grandmother. And yet, she’s kept her tenacity thus far.
“Well?” she prompts.
“I… I wanted to get money for your medicine. I know things are tight right now.”
“Carl Lucas, no matter how ‘tight’ things get, you should never let that keep you from doin’ the right thing. These big scary white folks’re sayin’ you killed somebody?”
He finally looks up, into her teary eyes. “Do you believe ’em?”
“. . . No. No, of course not. But they gotta have a reason for sayin’ that. And…it’s gonna be a long battle ahead, baby. I love you, Carl, just like I loved your mom and pop. I’ll always be there for you. The medicine will wait till—”
“But you’re dying!” Carl exclaims. Mama Lucas puts her hand over heart, shaken. “You’ll have to stay in bed all day tomorrow for comin’ here! I don’t wanna lose you too.”
The door harshly buzzes, and a cop steps in. “It’s time to go, Mrs. Lucas,” he says.
Mama Lucas stands up—her chin up high, her posture tall. As the officer escorts her out, she says one last thing: “You stay outta trouble. Y’hear?”
“Yes, ma’am…” Carl hangs his head, low enough that his face is completely shadowed away from the light.