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 men of 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—with humbling and humiliating sexual tortures, mixed with hard labor.  The more powerful and well-known the men were, 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 naked, mature mid-thirties man in collar and chains lying unconscious on the cell’s stone floor. (Much like his previous acquisition, Superman, who is astonishingly, far greatly more hung; but has now become quite relatively, uselessly so.)  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 white pants, white short-sleeved shirts and sandals half drag half carry another 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 small 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 white 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, stained 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 naked 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 naked 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, 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 Superman—the Man of Steel!      

“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 superpowers, and his bright, pretentious “pretty boy” costume. Observe the fallen hero as he is now—stripped naked—utterly defeated, my slave!” brags the old potbellied pervert as he gestures grandly towards the interior of the small cell.

“His mighty superpowers made Superman virtually a god! Now look at the mighty Superman – his wings clipped, and his great strength departed from him!” cackles the old man triumphantly. “A Delilah couldn’t have done it better. Only my way was more permanent. Except he is still pretty powerful—his days in the sun seem to have renewed him a bit. Though fruitlessly… for any escape or reprisal—his mind 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 except 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 powerful build and lies face down with his muscular arms extended lifelessly on either side of his head. His hugely slack penis, still more than thick and impressive, cast-resting from his side… and the precious balls that would have complementarily matched (now on a lessening, impotent decline), still more than of an enviable size for any man (even if mostly useless, or ever to be)… heavily between his spread thighs, mounded onto the ground.

“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,” whispers the hunter in a raspy voice. Superman’s powerful body is crisscrossed with red welts covered with a fine sheen of filthy sweat. Still with garish green stains and streaks… continually, occasionally applied to ensure his never to be “resurrection….”

Yet surely, if in his right mind, his remaining/renewed sun-strength alone could have ripped him out of his silly confinement. But as Bill said, he obviously doesn’t even have his wherewithal mind to THINK it. His hidden head is encased in a freakish, white phony-eyed, 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 magnificent costume where it was discarded after the old man stripped 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 occasion. 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 a pair of dirty scuffed-up red boots, a dulled yellow leather belt with the old original “S” insignia on the buckle, and a set of ragged crimson briefs.

“The loss of his superpowers took all the fight out of SuperKlown,” brags the fat man as he begins to recount the night he defeated Superman. “I imagine he still wonders, as he languishes down there on that stone floor, how I stripped away his mighty powers without using Kryptonite! Probably thinks it was in Moro’s green magic powder I used. Who knows what’s in it—the old man would never say.”

Martin continues ruefully, “But he’s still strong as two bulls. Keeping him in the sun seems to re-enhance his 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 god intent on righting a wrong by capturing me and freeing his dear friends! Superman found me right here in this old brig that night as I’d planned for 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 in his mighty superpowers! I remember the details of that momentous night vividly. Yes, I remember… Superman’s colorful red and blue spandex costume that clearly defined every well-developed muscle on his body (not to mention his prodigious manhood)! His overconfident yet graceful stride—Superman’s strong muscular legs encased in bright blue spandex. He almost swaggered as he walked—beaming with self-pride and ego-narcissistic, self- assuredness—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 large-nippled breasts thrust forwards—touted symbol known worldwide, (his badge of office so to speak, that represents his great superpowers, “goodness,” and benevolence towards mankind). All “displayed” above his firmly tucked waist; 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 Superman 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, unfolded 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 magnificent, muscular body—as if he thought himself a god, 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 a distinctive loose curl draping the center of his forehead. I admit I became aroused at the mere thought of possessing—nay, mastering—this, this…wondrous god, 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 on him, too!”

Bill is on clearly on a roll. “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—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… undid him in a flash!! No possible escape! It had been done. That night I pulled a god down from Mount Olympus, and made him a slave!

“Superman dared to challenge me that night. Now look at him—stripped naked 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 a slave! 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 superpowers evaporated into the sultry tropical night air. 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. The invincible, mighty Superman, so impossibly well-muscled, 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… too weak to even run!—could only stumble, stagger… powerless…helpless! I actually made Superman crawl on all fours, and 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 in…a state of severe shock; his mind unable to comprehend what had happened. Probably never will.

“Once deprived of all sensory perception—sight, sound, and speech—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—Superman knows 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! Huge muscles straining; overly large genitals useless, flopping and loose.”

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 superpowers—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 Superman, by a puny, perverted, overly obese, man in his sixties.

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. “We found Superman’s uniform that was used to bait Batman, in the Batcave.” The old disgusting fat man smiles, and snaps 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, Red! The hunter has thus far denied you to me. But we’ll see.  I’ll have you yet; I am a patient old man… very patient, Red. An opportunity to own you will knock one day, thinks the old man as he leers at his desire.

The hunter notices the old pervert’s renewed lust 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 views the interior of Superman’s cell. “Wow—is that really him, Superman—the Man of Steel—a prisoner here! Who would have thought it possible to keep the mighty Superman behind mere iron bars?”

“It’s Superman, yes! Wait outside, Jake,” orders the hunter. “Sure boss…sorry,” offers Jake as he turns and exits the brig. Bill gazes 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 dusty stone floor of Superman’s cell, Island Bill turns away, gestures, and ambles forward towards the brig’s entrance. The hunter rises 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 pair of black boots into the box. Then the two begins picking up the other items 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 collects the items of the famous crime fighter’s costumes off the dusty floor, 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 workman 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 bared 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.

“Superman destroyed my brig’s entrance; but I got restitution… and then some,” boasts Bill evilly. The hunter frowns at the comment as he 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 Spider-man?” 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 on an idiotic land scheme out west,” pleads Bill.

“The Kryptonite is yours – for the right price,” offers the hunter.

“I’m sure we can come to a price for the piece of Kryptonite,’ replies Bill. “Who knows how many more of those handsome Kryptonians are out there, or if Moro’s spell over Superman will break someday. Kryptonite will be my ace in the hole, if Superman’s powers ever return to him.  With Kryptonite, I can re-harness that bastard Superman again—if Moro’s spell ever fails.”

“The Kryptonite is in a small lead box aboard the transport – I thought you might be interested in the rare 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.

Bill shrugs disappointedly and steals one more glance at Jake’s backside, while he watches the reconstruction work on the brig’s entrance. Both men move under a large suspended white 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 note book form 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 small exercise yard is comprised only of several wooden medieval stocks and a large “punishment wheel.” The punishment wheel is a simply an immense roughly hewn white stone wheel that is much taller than a man and is about three feet thick. The large heavy wheel sets in a stone tray and has a thick rough-hewn log running horizontally through its center. Presently, Raul, Bill’s trainer, swears in Spanish as he occasionally whips two powerfully built young men. The men work in unison under the tropical sun pushing the punishment wheel set within its stone tray in small circles. Both men’s muscular bodies are completely naked. The pair are deeply tanned from hours under the tropical sun. A fresh red welt appears on each man whenever Raul casts and withdraws his black bullwhip. The pair’s heads are each encased in eyeless heavy leather hoods – one hood has the distorted features of a grotesque ape with long, black kinky hair – the 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 a thick black dog collar with silver spikes.

The whip cracks and Bomba grunts loudly and bites down hard on the ball gag inserted deep in his mouth, and retained there by a leather strap buckled tight behind his strong neck. Both of the men—one young, one older—struggle and strain in their silence and darkness at the exertion required to roll the massive stone wheel around its tray. Their near-equally powerful chests contract and then relax, as they draw and exhale breath through the small nostril holes of the heavy hoods. Hooded, they are blind and deaf, as they struggle in darkness and silence to push on the mighty wheel’s rough-hewn wooden log that runs through the stones center in order to roll the heavy stone. Encouraged by Raul’s attentive lash, the men dig their 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 calves and biceps dance, contracting and relaxing, as they push with all their strength to roll the great wheel.

“Tarzan and Bomba make quite a pair,” comments Bill, while another peasant in a 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… Spider-man… according to Batman’s extensive database files: Spider-man, aka Peter Parker – photo journalist for the Bungle 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 assholes, prancing around like comic book characters. They deserve what they got—fuck—they might as well have begged for it every time they suited up in those costumes! 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 other men, like Superman, have special abilities – great strength – superpowers.  You had “jungle magic” to take down Superman. I will need time to evaluate and analyze the data on the hard drives I stole from the Batcave, to find each superhero’s weakness – each one’s Kryptonite, so to speak.

“I 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 young superheroes for my collection, one by one. Spider-man 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. I will need time to develop themes for those two. Do you want to know Spider-man’s theme hunter?”

“No… I’ll find out soon enough.  Talisman… more black magic from Moro the witchdoctor?” asks the hunter with great interest.

“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 Spider-man 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. Muffled screams 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 the old man.

“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 Spider-man 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 clever and quick thinking… able to improvise.”

“Let’s see. It should be easy to lure Spider-man, knowing his secret identity… lots of friends… an Aunt May, if I remember correctly,” thinks the hunter out loud. “Yes, I think I know just who to send to meet Spider-man… Ryan Blake. He was instrumental in bringing down Batman and Robin.”

“I love dark magic,” chirps the old man. “Don’t you?”

To be continued…