Black Superwoman's Planet

Makes sense, though, now that I think about it. Black or Hispanic college and professional sportsmen are drawn to blonde-haired white chicks like moths to the proverbial flame. It doesn't matter how many minority college and professional athletes go down for romancing the wrong white woman, they just keep coming back for more. Do men ever learn? Looks like I'm going to have to save these bozos from her. I observed the blonde woman as she slowly worked her way toward Keith and Jamal. Watching her working them was truly fascinating. Somehow, she got rid of all the chicks who wanted to party with our soon-to-be professional athletes and talked Keith and Jamal into going upstairs with her. Something about a threesome. And you know what? They fell for it hook, line and sinker. I followed them discreetly as they went into a private room in the club's VIP lounge. If my suspicions were right, Keith and Jamal wouldn't live long enough to enter the NBA and NFL Drafts. That blonde woman was a stone-cold killer.

I watched them enter the room together. I waited in the hall, pondering my next move. I had to act fast. If I didn't, Keith and Jamal would be dead. I was sure of it. I'm really not fond of obnoxious jocks who think they're all that but they didn't deserve to get killed by some man-hating Aryan bitch from hell. I took a deep breath, then slammed my shoulder into the door. It crashed with a shriek, followed by a thud. It took me a moment to realize what was happening. Keith and Jamal were standing with their backs against the wall. Standing before them, gun in hand, was the frosty blonde from earlier. She stared at me coldly. Damn. What's with these racist blonde bimbos and pointing guns at this sister? Looking me in the eye, she asked me who I was. Keith and Jamal stared at me, asking me for help. I almost rolled my eyes. I keep having to rescue ill-fated men from evil women. I don't mind, but still, it gets taxing, you know? Where have all the tough men gone? Maybe we should outsource a few strong men, from places where masculine men still existed, like Haiti, or South America.

I appraised the situation, and realized then that I wouldn't be able to rush, disarm and tackle this woman the way I took out Marilyn and her band of racist white brats at the park. This woman was no amateur. She'd done this before. I could tell by her cold gaze, her stance, and the silencer on her pistol. Without even blinking, she shot me. Twice. I was hurled back by the impact. I fell, and lay still. I didn't move, though I felt great pain in my chest and belly. The woman stood over me, and nudged me with her foot. I didn't move. Satisfied that I was dead, she turned her attention to the terrified jocks cowering before her.

I could feel my body working quickly to fix the damage it had sustained. I knew I healed quickly, but I hadn't known how my body would react to being shot twice at close range. Amazingly, after a few moments, I felt fine. I could hear the woman talking. She ordered Keith and Jamal to get on their knees, and beg for their lives. Damn, I knew I was right about her all along. Yet another racist, man-hating white chick on a power trip. Their favorite prey? Ordinary men for the most part, along with racial and ethnic minorities. I knew there were a lot of them out there, but in Boston they all seemed to have guns. Oh, well. I'd just have to take them on, one at a time. Gathering my strength, I lashed out with my hand and grabbed hold of the blonde woman's foot. I squeezed it as hard as I could. She froze. I squeezed even as I felt her bones cracking as I crushed them like powder with my superhuman strength. With my other hand, I yanked her down and quickly grabbed her arm as she fell. Howling in pain, she nevertheless wrestled with me furiously. We were both injured. The difference was that my genetically altered body was healing rapidly while her merely human frame was not. She seemed real surprised to see me still alive and grappling, but didn't dwell on it.

I grabbed her throat, and squeezed until she stopped moving. She was too busy passing out. Afterwards, panting, I sat next to her. Jamal and Keith stared at me, stunned. I told them to stop gawking like idiots and to help me up. They did. After a few moments, I felt fine. My injuries were healing faster than I ever thought possible. I let myself out of the club through the fire escape. Running through the night while wearing heels and being injured to boot wasn't easy, but somehow I got it done. I made it to the train station, where a nice older Black gentleman was kind enough to offer me his coat. I took it, thanking him for his generosity. And just like that, I got off at South Station and took the Middleboro-Lakeville Silver Line Train heading to Brockton. I crashed in my bed that night, tired as hell. Thankfully, my parents were fast asleep and I had my own key. I dropped my bloodied clothes in a trash bag, and went to sleep.

The next morning, I woke up feeling hungrier than ever. All my wounds were miraculously healed, though. I was thankful for that. I ate like a recently released prisoner, folks. My dad had made a large omelet with bacon and buttered bread along with iced orange juice for everybody. My mom had to teach a morning class at Boston University, so she took a sandwich to work. My brother Jerome ate a pretzel while chatting on his cell phone with whatever big-booty Black chick he was dating this week. He changes girlfriends more often than he changes underwear. I ought to know, I'm the one who does most of the laundry in this house. I sat there, wolfing down my breakfast. My father and brother watched me, puzzled. I smiled at them. What? I'm a big girl and I like food. Sue me! Laughing, dad gave me second helpings. I thanked him from the bottom of my heart. Afterwards, I went to school as if nothing had happened. I dropped my bloody clothes in a trash can about a mile from my house as I walked to the Train Station located near the Bat Center in downtown Brockton.

I sat in my Chemical Engineering 101 class, listening to Professor Matthew Seraphim, a balding Black man in his mid-fifties, as he droned on and on. I didn't really listen. I kept playing the events of the night before in my mind. I had really lucked out. That woman could have killed me. What would have happened if she'd shot me in the face? Would I have simply healed up like Wolverine recovered from a head shot in the movie X-Men II or would I have dropped dead like anybody else? I really didn't want to find out. I thought about slowing down my nocturnal patrols. Twice I'd gone up against some of the most dangerous people in the city. Twice I got lucky. How long would my luck continue to hold out? How long until I got myself killed, or arrested by the Boston Police for vigilantism? Jamal and Keith swore not to tell anyone what they saw me do. They called the cops after I left, and the blonde woman was arrested. They told me they'd keep me out of it but could I really trust them? Maybe I should keep a low profile for a while.

Sitting next to me, Hector nudged me. I was snapped out of my reverie by his warm, gentle hand. My favorite Hispanic gay stud asked me if I was alright. I told him I had a rough night. When class ended, he took me to lunch. Instead of eating at the UMass-Boston cafeteria, we took the train downtown and ate at Au Bon Pain near Copley Square. While sitting there, I felt tempted to tell Hector what had been going on in my life. He was my best friend at this point. We'd grown from academic rivals who tolerated each other's presence to respectful colleagues and best pals. Who's to say we couldn't become the first joint Hispanic/Haitian-American team to win a Nobel Prize in Chemistry?

Looking into Hector's warm and trusting eyes, I realized then why I couldn't tell him. I frigging loved the gay dude. As a friend only, folks. Get your heads out of the gutter. I couldn't burden him with my problems. He wouldn't understand why I had to be a vigilante. I had to fight crime. Take on the rapists, the misandrists ( man-haters), the homophobes, the serial killers, the skinheads and all the other freaks. Why? Simply because nobody else could. In all honesty, most cops couldn't find tits in a strip joint, let alone detect and take out the worst things that are out there. I don't really believe in fate but sometimes I think the atomic scrambler accident in the lab changed me for a purpose. As a super-strong, fast-healing and resilient Black woman, I could take on the kind of threats ordinary men and women simply couldn't handle. Maybe that's what I'm meant to do. Being a talented nerd at UMass-Boston by day and a super-strong vigilante by night. I could never tell the people I loved about this side of me. Not Hector. Not my father, mother or brother. My family could never know what I've done, or what I've become. That's the price I pay for being different. And I accept it.