“He is a mighty and very powerful warrior called Superman,” explains Bill to the old witch doctor. “He has the ability to fly and has tremendous strength and other powers; he is invulnerable to every known weapon. And Superman is coming here to turn me over to the authorities. Supermen will destroy my home, turning it to ashes. He can burn objects with a mere look from his eyes!”

It is late afternoon and Moro, the old witch doctor, sits cross-legged before his burning fire pit listening to Bill’s plea, expressionless. The wizened black man lights one of the Cuban cigars Bill has brought as tribute and inhales deeply enjoying the fine tobacco, appearing uninterested in Bill’s story. Moro wears a headdress with dark blue feathers and has strange symbols painted on his chest and face. Moro wears only a grass skirt and has long plain wooden staff topped with a human skull lying across his lap.

“Sit, Island Boss Bill,” offers Moro as sets his cigar down and reaches into one of a dozen leather pouches spread out next to him. He retrieves a generous handful of yellow powder from the pouch as Bill grunts hard, and settles his disgustingly fat frame to sit opposite, across the fire pit from his host. “Let us look into this matter,” says Moro—and he tosses the yellow powder into the fire. Bill is startled as an intense flash of light is followed by a mist of smoke which rises ominously above the blazing fire pit. The smoke remains stationary as a crystal clear image forms within the cloud of smoke.

It is the image of a tall, but mature young man, 6’ 4”, perhaps 270 pounds, clad in a blue, tight-fitting elastic bodysuit with red briefs, yellow belt, a billowy red cape, and red leather boots; there is a red and yellow “S” symbol emblazoned across the strapping adult’s powerful chest. The man is inordinately handsome with deep blue eyes, and dark wavy hair that has a distinctive sort a shagged spit curl which lies across his broad, determined forehead. The red and blue clad man is standing on a deserted jungle airstrip and appears to be searching the area for something. Still and quiet, he is the epitome of near masculine perfection—obviously very well-built and largely well-endowed… easily seen through the fabric of his costume.

“That’s him—Superman!” blurts the fat man as he excitedly points his thick finger at the image of the Man of Steel within the smoke! “He’s found the hunter’s jungle airstrip, where he captured Bomba, the jungle boy! I told Hunter your magic was powerful!”

“A smoke portal, Island Boss Bill… very big magic! Moro has seen visions of this great White Warrior before… he is not of this world,” explains Moro as he gazes expressionlessly at the image of Superman.

“Can you stop Superman, Moro,” asks Bill hopefully, as he watches Superman pick-up a recently discarded cigarette butt from the jungle airstrip, and look around at the surrounding dense foliage.

“This warrior’s power is of the yellow sun,” explains Moro as he gestures toward the afternoon sky. “Moro’s power is from the Great Spirit. The sun belongs to the Great Spirit; the Great Spirit can take away the White Warrior’s strength and make White Warrior weak and powerless.”

“Moro, will you help me; Moro, will you stop Superman from sending me to prison?” asks Bill desperately.

“Island Boss Bill always fair with Moro? Not like last Island Boss” explains Moro with a cross expression. “I will stop Superman for plenty cigars and whiskey,” offers Moro.

“Yes… plenty cigars and plenty whiskey… anything you want, Moro. Thank you, Moro, thank you!  You were my only hope… I can’t go to prison,” says Bill appreciatively.

Moro watches with a keen interest as the image of Superman, the famed superhero, continues to search the faraway deserted jungle airstrip on the other side of the world. “This… Superman, world’s greatest warrior?” asks Moro with some distain.

“Yes, Superman is! Superman, the Man of Steel! Earth’s protector and champion!” replies Bill.

Moro has a sly expression as he reaches in another leather pouch next to him near the fire pit and withdraws a handful of green glowing crystal granules. Moro tosses the green granules into the fire pit. The granules hiss and green sparks fly from the fire pit below the visual image of Superman. Bill covers his eyes with his fat forearm to deflect the green sparks as Moro gestures casually to the image of Superman within his smoke portal. Suddenly the image within the smoke shows Superman’s knees buckle slightly and the strapping man staggers as if suddenly struck—weakened and dizzy. He brings both hands to his temples, and falls weakly forwards on his knees onto the jungle airstrip’s broken pavement; his eyes closed tight and his face contorted in pain.

“This warrior… this Superman… he mighty…but no protect White Warrior has against big magic,” sneers Moro as he watches Superman easily and quickly fall completely under the power of his big magic spell. “See how the strength leaves the big White Warrior.”

“Wow! I’ve come to the right place! Even from this distance you can bring the mighty Man of Steel down to his knees?!” cackles the old man as watches with glee, seeing tears of pain run down Superman’s cheeks as he slowly doubles over draped in his crimson cape. Bills roars with laughter as he watches Superman begin to rock back and forth on his knees, tightly clutching his stomach, the hair on the sides of his head, screaming loudly, “Ahh- ohhHH! AAYAHHHHH!!!!”

“Behold! Moro cause big White Warrior who dress in red and blue much pain,” explains old Moro in a monotone voice.

“Look at that! Superman is down… completely helpless. Kill Superman, Moro! Kill Superman now!!” screams Bill.

Moro shakes his head. “No… Moro can only make White Warrior weak—suffer! White Warrior, far too powerful to kill!” 

Bill watches in fascination as Superman continues to drift deeper into Moro’s brutal magic spell projected a continent away! Superman’s skin is perspiring, hair disheveled, and he beats his closed fists against his head, then frantically down onto the earthen airstrip as the witch doctor’s powerful black magic wracks and rakes through his senses and body in agonizing magical pain. He howls, wails and moans in utter shock, incomprehensively—shakes his head, hands, shoulders, torso wildly from side to side, erupting in sweat, as if trying to dislodge this sudden terror, this horror which has descended upon him from nowhere. Beyond in panic; failing, floundering, hardly able to breathe. Or think. Or rise.

“Can you weaken Superman permanently… take away his strength and superpowers?” asks the obese islander, a sick and twisted idea forming in his perverted mind.

“Moro can take away White Warrior’s strength—but not today,” answers Moro. He reaches into another pouch and withdraws a handful of white powder and tosses it into the fire pit; there is a bright flash of light.

Seconds later the smoke portal shows Superman suddenly stop beating his closed fists on the jungle airstrip’s ground. He slowly opens his eyes, arch-straightens, and sits back on his haunches… free of the inexplicable, unknown pain which had robbed him of his strength and senses, had driven him down to his knees. Superman wipes the tears from his eyes and face, pushes back at his sweat-drenched hair with both hands in complete wonderment. And no less… fear.  He shakes his head from side to side to clear it, as he sighs with relief at being set free from the debilitating pain. As his strength returns, the greatly muscled hero slowly rises from his knees, staggers slightly as he struggles to keep his balance, and stands unsteadily on the jungle airstrip. He turns a full 180 degrees in both directions, intently surveying the deserted jungle areas, with a bewildered expression—trying to make sense of what has just happened to him.  Clueless, yet with great trepidation. Never before! This was truly beyond normal; beyond earthly!!

A queasiness in his stomach. A deep worry, encroaching….

Moro claps his hands. The smoke portal closes and the image of Superman on the distant continent fades as the white smoke turns black and then slowly dissipates. Moro closes his eyes and after a few second speaks, “Superman will come here as the sun sets on next new day. He will come for his friends, and for you, Island Boss Bill. I sense much hate for Island Boss in the big White Warrior!”

“It is obvious you can stop Superman. But how can I stop him—he can even fly?  He will send me to prison… destroy my island paradise, everything I have worked for!” gasps Bill, breathing heavily as struggles to make his layered frame stand.

“Island Boss Bill, no worry.  Moro can give Island Boss Bill “Big Magic” that will stop Superman from taking Island Boss to prison!  Big magic strip White Warrior of his mighty powers,” explains the witch doctor. “Come back when sun is high in sky on new moon day. Moro give Island Boss what he need to stop big White Warrior!”

“A dream comes true!” chirps Bill happily as he licks his lips at the prospect of a powerless Superman tightly ensnared and within his debilitating clutches.

“Island Boss will face White Warrior at island’s brig as sun sets on new day.  Iron brig where Island Boss keep Jungle Lord and Jungle Boy,” reveals Moro. “Island Boss will defeat White Warrior…  in brig with big magic I give.”

“How will I—can…” starts Bill. But stops mystified.

Moro smiles for the first time and says cryptically, with no less than a trace of evil: “Moro has foreseen proud White Warrior’s defeat. His fail, his conquest…. Moro see big White Warrior kneel before Island Boss Bill!!” 

Chapter 2 “Shawn & Vince”

“I swear Superman,” pleads Vince, “we only cleared an old deserted jungle airstrip and delivered a briefcase to the old crooked police commissioner.”

“The police commissioner has been charged with the kidnapping of Bomba,” explains an angry Superman. “He’s been remanded to prison! The same fate awaits you two. Now… who hired you?” demands Superman as he leans into the man threateningly.

“Bill Martin,” blurts out Shawn as he picks himself up off the office floor and leans back against the broken steel door frame.

“The billionaire Bill Martin?” demands Superman as diverts his attention from Vince to Shawn.

“Yes… the fat slob, Martin…. the billionaire,” offers Vince quickly.

“Where can I find Martin and my friends? And what does he want with Tarzan and Bomba?” demands Superman irritably.

Vince’s eyes meet Shawn’s and they both turn pale as a look of fear pours over both young men.

“I want answers gentleman… or I’ll break some heads,” shouts Superman heatedly.

“Martin has them imprisoned on his private island in the Caribbean…Saint Miguel,” says Shawn excitedly.

“17 degrees 21’ 22.62 N by 75 degrees 39’ 29.61W,” blurts out Vince.

“And the rest. Why?” demands Superman.

Vince looks at Shawn again frightfully. Then he lowers his eyes and says shamefully as his face turns beet red, “Martin is a sick sadist; he pays to have good-looking young men kidnapped and brought to the island.  Once he has them there, he keeps them restrained; then he’s free to play his twisted games with them: bondage, discipline, domination, humiliation… he likes slim young boys, too!”

A look of pure undisguised disgust flashes across Superman’s handsome face. “You two criminals had better be telling the truth about Tarzan and Bomba’s whereabouts. I have no time to waste right now… I have to go free my friends. But be assured I’ll be back to settle-up with you two after I’ve taken care of Martin!” warns Superman as he steps onto the downed broken steel door that leads out to the small hangar.

“Superman… please… I want to help your friends,” fibs Shawn.

Superman stops and turns, his crimson cape billowing in the breeze from the open hangar door as he stands with one boot on the steel door he broke down moments ago; Superman looks crossly at Shawn and demands, “What is it?”

“This will save you time; Tarzan and Bomba are being held in plantation’s brig on the north side of San Miguel. You can find your friends imprisoned there,” explains Shawn. “Hurry Superman… I fear for your friend’s safety! 

“Thanks for the information, but this does not change anything. You’ll still have to settle with the authority’s when I return,” replies Superman heatedly. He turns and steps onto the hangar floor; suddenly there is a red and blue blur as Superman flies out of the open hangar door at tremendous speed and then rockets upwards into evening sky. There is a sonic boom as Superman streaks east towards the Caribbean.

“Whew!” sighs Vince with relief as he brushes himself off and straightens his shirt.

“Well, Superman is on his way to Martin.  I hope Martin is prepared,” replies Shawn as he surveys the damage to the office door. “He’ll be there in a matter of minutes!”

“‘Hurry Superman… I fear for your friend’s safety!’” mocks Vince as he slaps his buddy on the back.

Do you think it was over the top?” laughs Shawn.

“Nah… Superman went for it… hook, line and sinker. We’ve done our part, Shawn. We’ve sent Superman to Martin’s island… into the twisted pervert’s trap,” explains Vince. “Come on… let’s get a drink. We’ll drink a toast to Superman’s defeat and new life as Martin’s latest boy toy!”

“The end of Superman! A dream comes true! Wow! Do you really think Martin’s witch doctor can stop Superman?” asks Shawn.

“Yeah… I think we’ve seen the last of Superman.  I have to be optimistic; I hate prison… I don’t want to go back,” says Vince hopefully. 

“Me, either,” adds Shawn quickly.

Chapter 3 “Step into my Parlor, Superman”

The sun has just set on Caribbean island of San Miguel. A red and blue caped figure rockets across the darkening evening sky and then decelerates rapidly. Seconds later Superman lightly touches down on the stone floor of the wall-less punishment yard of a 18th century sugar plantation’s brig. The evening air is hot and humidly heavy from the dense jungle surrounding the old brig.  Superman’s bootsteps noisily resound off the smooth stone paving as he walks towards the small illuminated brig just off the “punishment yard’s” northern boundary. Superman passes several sets of wooden stocks, a circular stone well, and a punishment wheel as he makes his way towards the brig. He stops beside the punishment wheel and scans the interior of the small brig with his x-ray vision. He notes the brig has three occupants this evening and that Shawn was telling the truth. Tarzan and Bomba are imprisoned in the brig here on the north side of San Miguel… and Martin is here, too. “Good,” thinks Superman out loud. “At least I won’t have to track down the fat slob after I set Tarzan and Bomba free.” He continues to scan the brig.  No weapons to speak of, observes Superman; Martin only has a bullwhip with him. “What a strange coward,” thinks Superman to himself, aloud with distain.

I’ve heard this man is treacherous, ponders Superman, continuing his scan of the brig. Then

Superman cautiously surveys the surrounding jungle… nothing around for a mile or more…just a white Jeep with a small cage in the cargo space parked near the brig’s entrance. Superman scans the brig one last again to be sure he has not missed anything; the brig is small. It contains only about a dozen or more cells and is constructed of heavy pieces of stone mortared together. The brig’s roof is pitched and covered with dark red clay roof tiles. The structure is a low, single story building, yet has a tall brick-arched entranceway that opens into one wide stone hallway lined with iron barred cells on either side. The unguarded heavy iron bar doors to the brig are closed and locked. 

Superman looks up sullenly at the cruel punishment wheel. “Man’s cruelty to man,” remarks Superman softly. It is a huge, heavy white stone wheel that is taller than himself, and is about three feet thick. The large heavy wheel sets in a stone tray-track and has a thick rough-hewn log running horizontally through its center. A frown crosses Superman’s face as notices a black bullwhip wrapped around the log. Superman feels the course texture of the heavy stone and tries to imagine the effort it must take an ordinary man to push this stone around its small track in the hot stifling heat of the jungle. He grows angry as he imagines his friends Tarzan and Bomba chained to the log running through the center of the heavy stone wheel. Superman gnashes his teeth as he envisions both Tarzan and Bomba struggling under the sweltering tropical sun forced to turn the massive wheel, whilst Martin offers them encouragement with the cruel looking bullwhip.

Superman has seen enough and walks angrily to the barred entrance of the brig with his cape billowing behind him in the dense evening air. Superman’s heavy bootsteps resound loudly off the punishment yard’s stone, but grow silent as he comes to a stop at the brig’s barred entrance. Superman stands before the heavy ornate iron grillwork barring the entrance to the brig and puts his hands on his hips. He looks up the brig’s towering thick iron bar doors; printed high across the bars fashioned in large iron letters are the words, SLAVE’S BRIG. Superman lowers his gaze and peers down the dimly lit stone hallway. At the end of the brig’s hallway is “the Bill Martin,” holding a coiled black bullwhip. Surprisingly, he is pacing the hallway as if waiting for someone.

“You certainly don’t look like a billionaire,” shouts Superman at him, observing the corpulent old man’s stained white pants, and atrociously red-swirled Hawaiian shirt, complemented with a worn, wide-brimmed straw hat.

Superman startles Martin; but he recovers quickly. “And you don’t look like a Boy Scout! Welcome to San Miguel, Superman!” gloats Martin as he cynically tips his straw hat. Martin then turns his gaze hungrily at the tall strapping figure of Superman who is finally standing within his perverted grasp just outside the barred brig’s entrance.

Superman ignores the remark and the gaze. “I’m here for my friends, Tarzan and Bomba… and to bring you to the authorities to answer for the crimes you’ve committed here, Martin,” shouts Superman bitterly through the bars.

Martin is like a kid on Christmas morning when it’s finally come time to un-wrap the one special gift he has waited all year for! He can hardly contain his jubilance as he addresses the daunting superhero, who is about to recklessly enter his brig and become its newest occupant.  “Well, here they are, Superman—Tarzan in this cell…. Bomba in that cell,” informs Martin as he gestures with a coiled black bullwhip to the cells to his left and his right. “Please come in. The boys don’t receive many visitors. I’ll open the gate for you, Superman.”

“That won’t be necessary,” says Superman angrily. Superman quickly grabs the heavy grillwork of the towering bar doors that block the entry to the brig’s hallway. His biceps and triceps bulge within the blue elastic of his costume as the heavy iron hinges of the large iron bar doors snap and then explode as Superman effortless tears the two barred doors from their frames one by one. He tosses each big iron door far away from the brig’s entrance into the dense jungle. As the last heavy door bounces off a palm tree and smashes down loudly to the jungle floor, Superman turns and glares angrily at the old fat man at the far end of the brig’s hallway.

“You’ll be hearing from my attorney about the damages, Superman. Please, feel free to come in and see your friends,” invites Martin with joy, knowing Superman is about to step into his trap!

“I fully intend to, Martin!” promises Superman. He quickly passes through the cloud of dust created by the crumbling stone supports of the brig’s entrance and steps onto the brig’s wide stone hallway. Superman is baffled by the man’s merry attitude. Martin is exuberant as Superman walks briskly down the wide hallway towards him—deeper into his brig—that unbeknownst to Superman, he will never be allowed to leave! The old fat man quivers with excitement as he studies his stalwart quarry draw closer and closer to him! Superman has a determined look and his heavy bootsteps echo loudly through the empty cells of the slave’s brig as Superman strides boldly down the dimly lit stone hallway with his crimson cape billowing grandly behind him. In a few seconds, Superman reaches the end of the brig’s hallway and stops, standing heroically before Martin as his famous cape settles behind him. The Man of Steel then confidently folds his powerful arms across his muscular chest and looks at the pervert crossly.

Dominant, in full control. Never imagining the horror which awaits him.

“Superman, “the mighty Man of Steel”—on San Miguel—standing in my brig!” exclaims the fat man excitedly. Martin leers openly at the strapping young man, the object of his latest twisted and dark desires, who at last stands within his grasp. The fat man is ecstatic as looks Superman up and down approvingly. He chuckles at the angry expression on Superman’s face as the old fat man leers at the overly well-developed and perfectly portioned muscles of Superman’s body. Martin actually licks his lips—he knows in a few short minutes he will be free to paw and grope those magnificent muscles confined within the tight elastic costume! (And oh, the heft of that impossible package, within those strained red briefs!)  “Can I take your cape, Superman?” offers Martin cynically.

Superman ignores the lusting pervert’s gaze—having most of his life been appraised with similar looks from disreputable others; and in pure awe by others, too. He has a furious expression as he looks to the left and then right into each cell that imprisons the jungle heroes. Tarzan and Bomba lay naked face down on the stone floors of their separate cells… their heads encased tightly in grotesque leather animal hoods. Superman’s face turns to dismay as he takes stock of the cruelty and depravity the old fat man has inflicted on the young jungle heroes. “You’ll spend the rest of your days behind bars for these twisted deviant acts of perversion, Martin,” promises Superman with utter disgust.

“We’ll see about that, Superman—in a moment. But, for now, be at ease. Your friends are both alive and very healthy… just sleeping. There is not much else the poor boys can do… locked up here and deprived of all sensory perception. I’ve prepared a cell for you in my slave’s brig, too!” beams Bill with confidence, and gestures casually with the cruel bullwhip towards the empty cell next to Tarzan’s. “I took the liberty of assigning you the cell next to Tarzan. I knew that you’d want to be close to your friend, even if not able to chat much.”

 “Are you off your medications, old man?  This old brig cannot hold me, Martin,” brags Superman as he looks through the iron bars of the small cell that the fat man had indicated was for him. A fleeting look of incomprehension crosses Superman’s face as he notices a bright white rubber hood fashioned into the shape of a clown’s head, and a black rubber ball gag with buckling restraining straps, laying on the cell’s stone floor.

“I see you noticed the hood I picked out for you, Superman,” replies Martin confidently. “The hood I chose is fashioned after one of the characters in the movie, “Killer Klowns From Outer Space,” Superman… a classic. The hood’s orange hair will match your costume!” snickers Bill confidently. “It’s my theme for you, Superman—all my boys have a theme. Tarzan the Monkey Man… Bomba the Dog Boy… and last, but not least… Superman the Clown!  Since you were fool enough to come to my brig this evening!”

“You diseased maniac; you’re completely insane! I challenge you to try and put your hands, or that… twisted hood on me!  I’ll enjoy stopping you when you make the attempt, Martin. After I free my friends and take them to safety, I’ll be back to level this brig and turn you over to the authorities,” replies a livid Man of Steel. “I’ll fuse those cruel hoods onto your own prison bars, Martin!”

“I accept your challenge, Superman! Over-confidence… I like that, Superman! You’ll have plenty of time to contemplate the error of your arrogance when you wake up and discover your head encased in that very same rubber hood! You’ll stumble around your small cell deaf, dumb, and blind—bouncing off the stone, the walls and iron bars, only able to breath…. Deprived of all sensory perception, you’ll find you’ll sleep a lot too, Superman.”

To be continued…