Enter Little Richie
Skull Island, the only place in the world where tigers hunt in packs and great black sharks swim in the waters year round. That's just the tip of the heinous ecological iceberg. They say that no less than three US Presidents had their finger on the button to nuclear strike Skull Island, but pulled back out of fear that the increased local adversity would just cause the animals to grow stronger.
A letter of invitation - no, a letter of challenge - rested in the massive honey toned hands of Richard 'Little Richie' Hanma, calling the young man to Skull Island to fight in a battle royal against the world's strongest martial artists hosted by the world's richest man, Maximillion Pegasus. The giant youth looked around the room, his droopy eyes noting the nearing ragged wallpaper over nearly failing walls rising up out of near squalid floors as he sat on the couch watching TV with his mom and her crew while upstairs whores turned tricks and orphans tried and failed to sleep.
At that moment, Richie knew in his heart of hearts, it didn't matter that this letter was an obvious trap or scam by a rich honky. He had a valid excuse to leave the whorephanage behind and take an all expenses paid vacation to an island in the Pacific. The young man stood, standing six and a half feet tall from the bottom of his black Air Forces to the top of his Jheri curl fade, bulging muscles from his toes to his ears with a commanding mustache the likes of which few in this world could ever conceive, let alone achieve.
"Mama." Richie called out, addressing the definition of temptation residing in human skin seated nearby, "Call the N double A CP, I've got a letter hear saying Maximillion Pegasus is soon to owe me 10 billion dollars, and need a team of hard pipe-hitting lawyers primed and ready for when he tries to pull a fast one."
"What?" Honey Bee shouted as Richie started walking to the door, "Where do you think you're going?"
"Mama." he called out again, "I am leaving to go win a lot of money in a battle royale martial arts tournament sponsored by the richest man in the world. Due to the various hijinks I witnessed and have been involved in growing up in this whorephanage, I am aware that this tournament is likely a death trap so rich honkys can get their jollies watching gruesome violence and death. Despite this, I find the prospect more attractive than staying here. Please call the N double A CP and tell them that I need a team of their most bloodthirsty lawyers to take Maximillion Pegasus to court when he tries to not pay me the 10 billion dollar prize."
"Oh I saw the advertisements for that tournament on the TV! Ouu Maximillion Pegasus is fine as hell!" Honey Bee squealed and made happy fists as her bouncy afro shook from her joyous twitching, "Baby, you gotta get me a meeting with him!"
It's hard to say if the delightfully proportioned woman meant fine as a compliment to his looks or in regards to his money, something the long time Madame had a sense of smell for. Though Richard never quite learned the scent of rich honky, one didn't need it to identify the wealth of Maximillion Pegasus, who had his fingers in many pies from children's card games to paramilitary forces.
"Did he just say 10 billion? Billion with a B?" Cream Corn, a slick and lanky man with luxurious and laboriously maintained long softly curling hair asked only to be aggressively ignored.
Some say Cream Corn died in a helicopter explosion while assaulting the White House. Richard doubted the man could ever achieve something that hardcore, as the effeminate man often catches hands from the whores working for his mama. Little in life with divest a man of the concept of never hitting a woman like watching Cream Corn take an ass whooping from some pissed off ho.
"No one in this whorephanage is going to associate with the white devil, Maximillion Pegasus!" shouted the incarnate African god of war, Black Dynamite, who sat in his leather lazy boy more confident and assured and more to the point more furious than any deity to be found in the heavens, "And especially, no one in this whorephanage will participate in his dog and pony show tournament."
The man in charge of the whorephanage, his mother's pimp, Black Dynamite. A human specimen levels above the common man, Black Dynamite served his country in the CIA after a very successful career of college football. Though he doesn't talk much about his time in the agency, Richard knew it came to an end in the Chinese jungles of Vietnam, where the CIA left Black Dynamite for dead, but he survived and got back to America on his own and began his new career in pimping and the many misadventures that ensued.
"Now hold on -" what ever objection Honey Bee thought to make ended with the wild look in Black Dynamite's eye.
Something Cream Corn could not see from his angle in the living room.
"Stop hating, Black Dynamite." Cream Corn jeered, not realizing he was entering SUWEE territory, "You're just jealous because you didn't get an invite for the tournament."
"What did you just say to Black Dynamite?" Black Dynamite questioned in a tone that fully conveyed to Cream Corn the danger of the situation who promptly began making choking noises.
"How can a tournament possibly claim on the TV that is has the greatest martial artists in the world participating, and not have Black Dynamite already RSVP'd?" Black Dynamite's eye twitched, begging someone to counter his claim, "It's a scam, that's how!" he declared triumphantly, "They know where Little Richie lives, so they know where Black Dynamite lives, yet somehow Little Richie has an invitation and Black Dynamite does not. It's false advertisement, and obviously a provocation to draw Black Dynamite in so he wins the battle royale tournament, then not pay him because he was not registered. Why else would they send an invite to Little Richie, but not Black Dynamite?"
"Because of that ass whooping I put on Bushido Brown." Richard answered the rhetorical question like he was talking about the weather and not beating the ass of the publicly acknowledged greatest black karate man to ever live.
"How the hell did you end up fighting Bushido Brown?" Honey Bee demanded with a scowl on her face.
"He bumped into me and didn't say he was sorry." Richard answered promptly, but with an even tone and cadence.
"What does it matter how he fought the man? Who the hell is Bushido Brown?" Black Dynamite questioned as if tasting the name and finding it to taste like bullshit.
Honey Bee and Cream Corn both looked incredibly uncomfortable, sweating profusely and looking away from Black Dynamite while considering the fastest escape vectors.
"People Magazine's, 'Greatest Black Karate Man to Ever Live'." the young man answered, seemingly without fear.
Much to the relief of Honey Bee and Cream Corn, Black Dynamite threw his head back and laughed uproariously. He laughed long and hard, filling the room with a new sense of mirth, but then he laughed too long and too hard, and certain people became uncomfortable again.
With one last rough 'HA' Black Dynamite finished and said, "That was a funny joke."
Feeling no need to stay, Richard once again made for the door, once again hearing "Where do you think you're going?" this time from Black Dynamite.
"I've already said it twice." Richard shook his head, "I don't like repeating myself more than once."
"Funny you should say that." Black Dynamite clenched his jaw, "Black Dynamite already made the call on that."
"I'm still going." Richard announced as he reached for his jean jacket hanging by the door.
Reacting to the call of 'SUWEE!' would have already been too late, but Richard Hanma had more awareness than the average Joe. In fact Richard Hanma had more in common with flies than men in terms of alertness and reaction speed.
"Thanks for getting the door for me." Richard deadpanned as Black Dynamite's flying kick turned the wood to splinters as the man passed through it.
Forgoing his jacket, Richard stepped outside and into his easy ready stance. When the dust settled from Black Dynamite's landing, the man looked at Richard with a cold fury. Rather than words, Black Dynamite communicated with fists, his hands flashing out like lightning, ready to bring the thunder. Despite this, the young man parried the blows without even a change in his relaxed expression. In counter, his own hands flickered out like bullets and carried all that lethal power and intent as he struck at his mentor.
"Hoooaaa!" Black Dynamite shouted as he parried the incoming attacks and moved to clap his hands on the younger man's ears.
Rickard leaned his head back and launched a kick that struck Black Dynamite in the ribs, launching the older man into a nearby car that jumped up onto the sidewalk from the impact.
"GoD DAYm!" a nearby Basehead shouted as he scrambled to get away from the danger zone.
"That was a good kick." Black Dynamite said as he pulled himself out of the man shaped crater in the side of the car, "I did well when I taught you everything you know." Black Dynamite entered a serious stance and took a deep breath, "But you're about to learn that I did not teach you everything I know."
Richard's stance strengthened and his hooded droopy eyes opened wider as he responded, "I appreciate everything you taught me, Black Dynamite, and I appreciate even more the things you didn't. You gave me enough room…" Richard's white shirt stretched to the limit as his muscles flexed, and through the skin tight fabric appeared a demon-like face sculpted of bulging contractile tissue on his back, "to grow into my own man."
A lunging strike from the huge youth powered through a chop from Black Dynamite that would have cleaved a lesser man from clavicle to crotch, but instead carved a bloody line in the young man's enormous trapezius muscle. The impact of that lunging punch rang out like the Liberty Bell, the rallying cry of youthful rebellion.
The pair exchanged strikes so fast the wary but enraptured crowd forming needed instant replay to keep up, and often needed to run anytime one of the combatants was knocked across the street by a strike, or thrown through the walls of a building. Though it filled them with a natural terror, they ran after the fight still as it tore apart the neighborhood.
Though his shirt and jeans tattered and bloodied, Richard smiled through split lips at the sight of an equally bereaved Black Dynamite. Despite the unbroken nature of the man's spirit, Richard saw the barely holding out condition of his mentor's body. Black Dynamite may have not taught Richard Hanma all he knew, still the man's teachings passed on a strength to his young protégé beyond the might of normal men, something taken further beyond by his forged thousand fold steel Japanese genetics. A perfect fusion of Blaxploitation and Great Japan resulting in the super man.
From this reality arose the problem. Richard did not want to publicly defeat his mentor, let alone by coasting on his supreme stats. He did not want to submit Black Dynamite to that humiliation. Such a problem might leave a lesser being perplexed, but the perfect combat lifeform came to the conclusion in an instant.
In a moment of clarity, Richard pointed over Black Dynamite's shoulder and shouted, "Honkey gotta gun!"
Whether he realized the deception or not, Black Dynamite looked behind him and ate the following sucker punch cold, sending the anti-hero vigilante to the ground.
Though there was much screaming and oos and cries of, 'Black Dynamite got knocked the fuck out!', Richard merely returned to pick up his jean jacket and slipped it over his lacerated shirt, seemingly unbothered by the blood still leaking from his wounds. From his pocket he fished out his keys, and stepped up to a fine piece of transportation for the discerning motorist, a Puch Sport MK II. The massive young man sat his tremendous cheeks upon the obviously modified moped, and the custom suspension didn't drop an inch.
Then the thirteen year old scooted on a route down to Boston, and the Pegasus International Headquarters.
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