Dar’s muscles flex and ripple as he sprints down the narrow island path to Moro’s jungle abode. Tao did not return, and the sun will soon set. His rugged brow and square jaw is set with effort as he quickly yet cautiously makes his way toward the domain of Moro, a strange old island witchdoctor.
It is midnight in Manhattan. A tower clock in the distance begins chiming the hour above the din of the sprawling city far below. Peter Parker, aka Spider-man, hides in the shadows unnoticed. The moon is full and the illumination gives the superhero an unobstructed view of the vacant rooftop of One New York Plaza.
The Hunter and company have departed for NYC to capture Spider-man, who is destined to become the 6th unwilling member of Bill’s Martin’s twisted, pervertedly abused menagerie of captive heroes, which he keeps on his private island of San Miguel. Bill ends a call and tosses his cell onto the wrought-iron table under the shade of the large, white cotton tarp which provides shade from the blazing tropical sun. His chair creaks under his prodigious weight as the old man leans back and gazes out into his brig’s sun-drenched punishment yard.
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.
The hunter sighs in relief that the Dark Knight is down, completely helpless—ready to be unmasked and restrained! He wipes his brow with the sleeve of his jacket and then tosses the whip’s handle casually to the floor. He approaches Batman stepping on Superman’s crimson cape and stands over him. Batman is face down on the metal deck with his black scalloped gloved hands clenching his throat.
It’s half past 11 PM by the clock on the nightstand. Ryan is clothed back in his jeans and t-shirt, and has just finished his whopper and rubbery fries… “birthday dinner,” courtesy of his friend Dick. He wipes his mouth with a paper napkin and looks over at Dick sleeping peacefully in his restraints.
It’s Ryan’s birthday. It is almost 9PM, and Ryan is in Room 10 at the Shooting Star Motel waiting for Dick. On the table is a package that arrived yesterday at Ryan’s PO Box.
Naturally the smug prick keeps me waiting again, thinks Ryan, as he scans the evening paper with Robin’s picture on the front page. Robin! Now there’s a guy I’d like to get in the sack with! I’ll wager he’s not near as big a dick as that swaggering prick, Dick Smith. Smith! And I was not even worth the effort to come up with a better alias! Well, Smith is my cash cow, now!
It is about 8AM. “Vince… wake him… Dick Grayson is leaving,” alerts Shawn with a nudge. Vince and Shawn are parked in a white Escalade backed into a parking space across the parking lot from Room 10 at the Shooting Star Motel. Vince wakes and rubs his eyes as Shawn sips his coffee and watches a tall young man exit the motel room and swagger towards a yellow Honda CBR600 backed up to the room’s door.
It is nearly midnight; Police Commissioner Gordon is anxiously pacing the roof of Gotham City’s Police Headquarters with a narrow FedEx box under his arm. The din rising from the large city below seems to add to the commissioner’s anxiety. He checks his watch again; it has been nearly an hour since he illuminated the large rooftop lantern that is projecting the Bat Signal high against the cloudy night sky of Gotham City.
“I heard enough of your sick, twisted, perverted fantasies, Martin! Have it your way, “replies Superman as he angrily steps away from Martin and faces Bomba’s cell; he grabs the black iron bars and prepares to rip the barred door off its iron frame.
“Wait, Superman… please, no more damage. It’s hard to get a repairman out here, and it’ll take ages to get the brig’s entrance replaced,” begs the old fat man with feigned sincerity.
“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 near sunset and Bomba has arrived in the vicinity of the jungle airstrip. He moves stealthily towards the edge of the airstrip and pushes the dense jungle brush aside. He quickly spots a solitary C-130 aircraft parked on the old abandoned jungle airstrip.
The C-130 passes very low and slowly over the old jungle air field piloted by the ship’s copilot Jake, as the hunter and the pilot stand on either side of the large open rear cargo bay door assessing the condition of the old airstrip. Each of the men is wearing headsets plugged into a communications’ panel allowing conversation between the hunter, the pilot, and copilot.
At the edge of the tarmac, Bill takes a last hungry leer at young Jake, squatting under the C-130, his buttocks clearly defined in the snug jumpsuit, inspecting the interior of a wheel well. “So, forget about Red… Red is off limits to me… Red is not for sale. Such audacity, to set boundaries for me…we’ll just see about Red,” thinks Bill.
Mr. Martin waits alone at the end of the new landing strip he has had constructed on his island of San Miguel. He watches with interest as a C-130 transport appears first as a speck on the horizon and then grows larger as it draws closer losing altitude.
The hunter sips his coffee as the door to the cockpit opens and the copilot enters. “Everything checks out on the checklist, skipper – it should be smooth fast ride to San Miguel running with the bay empty,” announces Jake.
Tarzan is transported to his new home. The hunter watches from the co-pilot’s seat of the multi engine turbo prop transport as the coast of Africa disappears and the gray waters of the Atlantic appear. “So…what’s so special about the air cargo that that you need to lease my entire plane—just to move one mysterious cubical covered tightly with a tarp?” ask the pilot.
The Hunter and Tarzan take a walk. It’s been an hour since the hunter left the river clearing, leading the captive jungle man towards the trail which will take them to the drop-point many miles away… where a companion will meet him with transportation. The hunter looks behind occasionally to watch the Tarzan’s restrained rippling muscles as he leads his “catch of the day,” by the chain attached to Tarzan’s collar and ball shackle.
A half hour later Tarzan is fully awake and thrashing around blindly in the sand, grunting and snarling through the ball gag pulling at the leather restraints that bind his arms tightly behind his back. The hunter watches in amusement as the jungle man thrashes his head wildly, trying to free himself of the tight leather gorilla hood over his head, as he begins to panic and freak out at the darkness and his captivity. Rather expected, snorts the hunter to himself, with little compassion.
The story continues with The Hunter preparing for the taming of the Jungle Lord. Several minutes later, the hunter approaches Tarzan as he lays face down with his face buried in the sandy soil. The hunter stares down at the young jungle man clad only in a loin cloth as he circles his downed prey several times. The hunter drops the sack and nudges the big jungle man in the ribs hard with his foot, trying to arouse him. “The jungle boy is out cold,” says the hunter out loud.
