the wisdom of everett k. ross THE BLACK PANTHER The Story Thus Far: BUSTER, a rat so
big you could put a SADDLE on him, continued to elude me. The CLIENT and his personal entourage had, moments before, collectively leaped out of an open window, leaving me, EVERETT K. ROSS, Emperor of Useless White Boys, to fend for himself among the indigenous tribes of The Leslie N. Hill Housing Project. ZURI was into
his THIRD re-telling of how the great god T’Chaka ran the evil white
devils from their ancient homeland. The bathroom had
no door. I still had no
pants. And, yes, while struggling through finals at Oxford, this was JUST what I had in mind. Shooting housing project rats while wearing no pants. Oddly enough,
nobody was singing, which really disturbed me. I mean, on TV, there was
all this SINGING in the ghetto. I was made to believe people sang here,
and that singing would often spin out into these big production numbers. I’d been lied to. First contact with the client [ref: BP02] T’Challa was
king of the most advanced nation on the African continent, and possibly
the world. The client had been king since his late teens— no small
accomplishment in a world of
revolving-door despots. He was sitting
alone, somewhere near the HOLE that USED to be a TV set,
staring at a credit card. For about ten seconds he looked like the
loneliest guy in the world. And then I realized he wasn’t so much LONELY
as he was ANGRY. From childhood,
he’d been taught to keep a lid on his emotions, and he got so good at it
that you might misread restraint for indifference. The discipline was to
always be one step ahead of the next guy. Being caught unawares was an
indignity the client couldn’t afford.
And that’s what that face was— —the quiet
indignity of getting some really bad news. U.S. law often
annoyed the client, who came from a land where wrong was wrong and justice
was chasing a shoe salesman 80 miles
across a desert. This was the land of O.J. and JonBenet. A universe of plea bargains and talking points. And the client had had his fill of us.
The White House State Reception in New York [ref: BP06] With the client
at least momentarily deposed by coup d’etat, and the White House
suffering a severe case of Head-In-Butt-Crack disease, the decade-overdue
White House reception for King T’Challa of Wakanda became an elegant
evening at the New York Hilton which the president had to miss due to
pressing matters of state. With an election
a little more than a year away, it was good politics to do something nice
for the African American community. And,
had I been in charge of the guest list and not the White House , I might
have actually INVITED some of them. Outside of the king and his entourage,
there wasn’t another black person at the ball who wasn’t carrying a
TRAY. Nothing a quick
call to Spike Lee’s casting director couldn’t fix, though.
Half hour later, we were a Benneton ad. Everett K. Ross: LORD of “Plan B.”
Briefing the president [ref: BP06] “All due
respect, sir, I’m not sure what you want. “Now, I remind
you, that was a White House party. OCP parties RARELY have knife fights.
Well, other than that thing with Moynihan… “Look-- if
your numbers are in free fall it’s not OCP’s fault. It’s a country
the size of New Jersey sitting on a lump of magic metal whose king you
never even invited for dinner until you found the CBC looking to
better-deal Al in two thousand! “Now you’ve got your ear to the men’s room stall waiting for Trent Lott’s flush to show you which direction the salmon are swimming!”
Altercation at the Waldorf Astoria [ref: BP06] I was trying to
calculate DUCK TIME. The length of
time I should wait before coming out of hiding. Wait too long, you’re a
wuss. Come out too SOON, and
you’re LUNCH. I clocked in at about 6.5 seconds. On The Avengers [ref: BP08] They called themselves the AVENGERS, which I had always assumed was Greek for [Ital. Quote] “Gaudily Dressed Borderline Fascists.” I always wondered who appointed THESE guys to “avenge” me: a group of people, unelected, unregulated, and powerful enough to level entire cities. The Village People with repulsor rays. If I could’ve figured out what made THESE people any different from any other radical militia group, black militant organization, rogue X-Mutants, or the moral right wing, I’d have probably had less problem with the obscenity of New York’s mayor grinningly supporting THEM while aiming GUNS at his own citizens.
Notes on the client's change of appearance [ref: BP13] A few hours
before, a banana-grinned screwball named ACHEBE reduced the client’s
PALACE to RUINS, and almost took the whole COUNTRY with it. When I saw the
client there, hanging out among the rubble, my first thought was that he
was MOURNING the loss of his ancient patriarchal HOME. My second
thought was along the lines of, “What’s the deal with the big cape?”
I mean, okay, the little skippy half-cape WAS a tad Burt Ward, but now,
OVERNIGHT, he’d gone totally Big Cape Guy. I probably shoulda CALLED
somebody. Instead, I brought him some TEA. Seemed like the thing to do. It’s in, like, EVERY movie. “Act 2 Scene 4: Diminutive servant brings brooding Big Cape Guy a lovely beverage...” Personal [ref: BP21] His name was REX
and he was the best friend I ever had. Actually, his name wasn’t Rex
and, truthfully, he didn’t like me very much.
Mom named him SPUNKY. But I called him Rex. Rex was an
integral part of the imaginary life I retreated into nearly every day. A
life where I was thin and popular, and Rex was an 80-pound Rotweiler. I was both the DIRECTOR and STAR of the MOVIE playing in my head—my retreat from a truth too stunningly awful for any human mind to truly comprehend. Mom called it
“the car,” but it was really an old pickup. In MY world, of course, it
was a Mustang convertible, a blonde riding shotgun, Rex the Rotweiler in
back with a rhinestone studded collar. Actually, it was the Starship Enterprise. The Mustang fantasy was the LIE I’d tell my other geek friends. See, there were MULTIPLE LEVELS of self-delusion within the geek underworld: the lies you told your FRIENDS, and the ones you told YOURSELF. The many ways little fat boys keep from sticking their heads into ovens...
More observations on The Avengers [ref: BP23] Now, as I mentioned before, I never really got into THE AVENGERS. Something about grown men, with the power to level CITIES, wearing their underwear on the OUTSIDE, that makes me a little NERVOUS.
On the client's state of mind [ref: BP25] In the hours
that followed, Malice vanished once again into the royal compound. Even at
high alert, she was unlikely to be found. She knew every access code,
every secret passage. Things the king taught her as a gawky pre-teen. Fun
and games, then, special times and secrets shared between them— —now become item #37 on a very long list of things to go tragically wrong in the life of a man who’s been holding up the dominoes too long.
Notes on Deviant Lemuria [ref: BP26] I imagine I
should pause, parenthetically, to provide some background details about
Lord Ghaur, the CELESTIALS, the ETERNALS, and the DEVIANT race. Remember that
cartoon, “The Groovy Ghoulies?” There ya go. Notes on The X-Men [ref: BP26] Having been
threatened with WAR by Bugs Bunny’s evil Uncle Fester, the
client and his aide rushed back to Resurrection Altar, looking for his
FRIEND. His strange, lovely friend, the mere mention of whose name slammed
doors all across the shadow world of the diplomatic underground.
Usually I can count on a little off-the-record shop talk from my
mirrors, but, at the mention of her name, everyone ran for cover. What
little info I COULD find came from RUMORS overheard by an intern for HCMA. This elegant,
regal woman was, apparently, part of
a subversive group of MUTANTS bent on world domination. Sort of like
N-Sync. The client’s
contact with these people has been extremely limited. They move within
their own secret world of international intrigue. They are the evolution
of mankind. The savior of it, and, I guess, possibly the DESTRUCTION of
mankind as well. I think I’d have been more comfortable around her if I
hadn’t listened to the rumors, but rumors are all we HAVE on these
people, and that’s probably why the larger mutant population remains in
hiding. THINK about it: She’s one of
the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, but she makes me nervous. She
smiles warmly, but I FEAR her. THAT level of paranoia can NEVER be a GOOD thing...
re: client's New York summit [ref: BP28] At first, I
thought she was kidding. A decrepit, ancient high school in Harlem. But,
the moment I got there, I KNEW he was there. Something...
indefinable. Dozens of pairs
of eyes on me, although there wasn’t a SOUL on the street. Overlapping
voices that all sounded just like RAIN spattering. The hair on my NECK
standing up. A sudden need to go potty. The taillights
of the taxi VANISHED into the rain, and this warm electric numbness set
into my limbs. Each labored, tortured step I took towards a door I
instinctively KNEW was unlocked told me... ...he was THERE. re: U.S. air strikes on Wakanda [ref: BP29] The U.S., Doom, Namor, and Magneto lined up against the client, and he stifled a YAWN. The stealth fighters used in the U.S. air strike were NEUTRALIZED before any missiles could be fired. The pilots all ejected safely, and, my guess, the client wrote the U.S. a CHECK to cover the expense of the lost planes.
On "super villains" [ref: BP29] And, maybe
that’s just IT with me and so-called “villains.” I just don’t GET
them. They come back from
the DEAD, and the first thing on their mind is going after the guy who got
‘em KILLED in the first place. It’s totally psychotic... although it
DOES explain Pat Buchanan’s presidential campaigns... I should open a SCHOOL for “super-villains.” Lesson One: “If You Are Brought Back From The Grave, Do Not Immediately Seek Vengeance On The Man Who Killed You. Instead, Change Your Name And Move To Spokane.” |
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