by Cosca, Paul
“Gentlemen!” I said, and I bet I know every word of what I said that night, “Gentlemen of New York! People of the world! What you see in the ring with me is something entirely new. This is more than a man. This is a hero. A super hero. He is bigger. Stronger. Nobler. He fights the crime of the city and he fights for all of us. He fights for truth and honor. He fights for all of those values that make up the American spirit. I will tell you, folks, the red, white, and blue flows through his veins. He’s a hero. A symbol. And in him we can see all the hope and promise of what makes this the greatest nation on the whole damn planet. Gentlemen of New York and people of the world, I present to you...American Justice!”
March 13th, 1999
Jeremy is an incredibly cheerful young man. When I first meet him, I probably have the same thought that a lot of people do in meeting him: “Could I be that happy if I were him?” But whether or not I could, Jeremy brings with him an energy and attitude that is contagious. As I enter his apartment, he is quick to make sure I have everything I need. He’d asked while I was setting up the interview what I like to drink, and a pitcher of iced tea is already sitting on the table. He is a gracious, attending host, but I can also see that he’s a little worn out. Getting set up must have been a bit of an ordeal for him, as I can see that the apartment is not ideally suited for him. I let him know I’ve got everything I need, and I’m more interested in just being able to talk to him. He looks relieved. He rolls his chair to a spot across from me and puts on the brakes. His wheelchair has seen better days. So has Jeremy.
JEREMY: One of these days, I’m going to get a place with ramps. This place isn’t too bad, but that little lip between the living room and the kitchen can really take it out of me. But I know, I’m lucky. There’s only so many places that will take my section 8 payments. You have to take what you can get. Besides, the windows aren’t too drafty, and I’ve got a decent view. But you’re good? You don’t need anything?
I let him know I am just fine.
Okay. Good. I know you don’t need me to fuss. I know that. I just...well honestly...I’m really honored that you wanted to come talk to me. I wasn’t some...big time hero or anything. I don’t kid myself. I just like helping people. I guess helping people is what got me into this. But I wanted to make a difference. I bet you’ve heard a lot of that, interviewing guys like me. I felt like I was given a gift, so I wanted to turn around and do something with it. It would be...ungrateful if you were given something by God and then just wasted it being an accountant or something.
His fingers drum on the arms of his chair. He has a nervous energy flowing
through him. I get the feeling that if he were able, he’d get up and dance.
For me, it wasn’t all...what do you call that...innate. I wasn’t born with it. It’s not like I popped out of the womb and threw on a cape, you know? But I think my childhood had a lot to do with it. My mom wasn’t around much. She was...troubled. Spent a lot of time in and out of rehabs and hospitals. I didn’t see her too often. So it was just my dad and me. My dad was a really great man, but he was tired. He worked a couple part time jobs when he had to. Sometimes he had a full time job. He’d barely graduated high school when I was born, so there weren’t a lot of options. But he did what he had to. Worked his fingers to the bone so we could get what we needed. Of course, when you’re a kid, you don’t see that. You see that you don’t have the same kinds of things as the other kids. They have cool clothes and you don’t. They have those light up sneakers and you don’t. Stupid stuff. Kids...they can be real stupid.
But the sad thing about my dad is that he had this really great gift. He was an artist. And not just like...drawing doodles on napkins or whatever. I mean he was really an artist. When I was a kid, my birthday present one year was him completely painting my room. He painted it like outer space. He had all these amazing freehand drawings of the stars and planets. He should have been able to do that full time, but he had to bury that gift for us.
Dad wasn’t the only inspiration though. There was American Justice. Man, I think every little kid wants to be American Justice at some point. We didn’t have a lot of money for comic books, but I had a few that I read over and over. All the other heroes were okay, but American Justice was really the one I looked up to. He was about all the things that I wanted to be about. In the AJ comics, the good guys won. The bad guys got what they deserved. Everyone got to be treated fairly. Talented people were allowed to do what they love. And love always won out. It was perfect.
We had a military recruiter at my high school who was looking for
people that were positive for the RGR virus. Those kids would get an extra signing bonus for joining up, and they’d pay for you to have the test if you didn’t get one at birth. So I took the test and found out I had it, but they also did a physical and found out I have a heart murmur, so they didn’t take me. That’s okay though. I really didn’t want to join the army. I wanted to be a hero, like American Justice. Never mind that I didn’t have any real Enhancements. And never mind there haven’t been a whole lot of heroes since all that stuff in the 70’s. I had the virus, and I figured that meant I was ready to hand out some justice. I was...mistaken.
I really didn’t give a whole lot of thought to how the whole process goes. The preparation, you know? My first costume was a tracksuit and a ski mask. I went downtown at about 10pm on a Tuesday to go fight crime. Do you know how much crime there was to fight at 10pm on a Tuesday in Spokane, Washington? Not a lot. I just walked around downtown ‘till a cop asked me what I was doing and told me to go home. Rule number one: not a lot going on on Tuesdays.
Jeremy laughs and pours himself another glass of tea.
It was a couple of weeks before I saw any action. I rode my bike down to one of the rougher neighborhoods. It was right around midnight, and there was a group of teenagers harassing this homeless guy. Just punk stuff, you know? Calling him names and jostling him. I’m sure he’d seen a lot worse, but I’d got it in my head I was going to help, so I hopped off my bike and strutted over there. I don’t remember what I said. Something super cheesy, I’m sure. “Stop, evildoers!” or something like that. They laughed. Really, I should have just walked away, but I stood my ground. You remember what they always used to say in the AJ comics about costumes? Have to have protection and anonymity? Well, they didn’t know who I was, but that didn’t keep them from kicking the daylights out of me. They took my bike and laughed as they got out of there. I wasn’t hurt too bad. Pride was
bruised more than anything. But it was definitely back to the drawing board.
His fingers drum along the arms of the chair.
I got better. Better costume, better gear. Picked up a police baton and a taser. I actually made a little bit of a name for myself. After high school I moved out to Seattle and joined the Emerald City Heroes. That...they were a really great group of folks. They were so supportive. I mean...we had guys who could knock over walls. Hand to hand combat experts. And I wasn’t anything like that. I was a guy with a homemade costume and some stuff from the Army surplus. Yeah, I had the virus but...you know that over half of the people who have the RGR virus are pretty much just carriers? I wasn’t anything special. But even so, the folks at Emerald City were really awesome to me.
I was out on patrol with Steel Vengeance, and we stopped a carjacking. We had some seriously great timing that night. Managed to break it up before anyone got hurt, but the guy took off before we could catch him. He went into an alley and up a fire escape. I was a lot faster than Steel Vengeance, so I was there first. Got up to the roof and cornered him. There was really nowhere for him to go. The building he’d picked was two or three stories higher than the ones on either side of it, so he would have had a heck of a drop trying to clear the gap. I thought I was real clever. Man...I thought I was something right then.
The bullet didn’t actually do a lot of damage. I was hit before I even realized he’d pulled the gun, but it only nicked my spleen. I definitely could
have been just fine without a spleen. But I was in shock. I’d never been shot before, and all of a sudden I’ve got blood everywhere. I was trying to crawl back on my feet when I felt hands on my costume. He was dragging me. I tried to fight; tried to call out for help but I was in a complete daze. Then I was flying. I remember this moment of weightlessness...some part of my brain imagined that’s what real superheroes feel like. Flying. I woke up a
couple weeks later in the hospital.
There were a lot of cards. Balloons. The Emerald City folks really threw a lot of support my way. They called my parents for me and everything. Steel Vengeance was gone, though. He’d found the carjacker and sent him off the roof right after me. That other guy didn’t turn out nearly so well, so Steel Vengeance skipped town.
And...that was it. I’d landed on the hood of a car and crushed a couple of lumbar vertebrae and my spinal cord along with it. Broke my leg too, but that didn’t matter too much. Haven’t felt anything below the waist since then. Do I have any regrets? Yeah...everyone’s got regrets. So, yeah. Do I regret being shot and thrown off a building? I don’t know if you can regret something someone else did to you. I don’t know if it works that way...I definitely wish it hadn’t happened. I wish I could be out there doing what I really loved.
I’m a little surprised. I ask him “After all that, you’d still want to be a hero?”
Are you kidding? Absolutely. I am a no name nobody from nowhere. All on my own, I’ve got no reason to be remembered by anybody. But you’re here. You’re talking to me. It means something. It means that, for at least a little while, I went out there and mattered. For a little while, I got to stand up with my heroes. I was one of them. And if I had to make that choice again...I’d make that choice every single time.
September 24th, 1999
Autumn has begun to touch the trees, and my drive up to Detroit is beautiful. I’ve seen Antoinette twice since that night in the hospital, and things have been getting better and better for her all the time. Through a lot of hard work by all of us, we’ve managed to secure her a sponsor (hopefully the first of many), and that has taken a lot of the pressure off. She’s been able to spend more time in training, she’s been able to take better care of herself, and in the best news of all, a family in upstate Michigan is getting ready to move Eli into their home. Without a compelling reason to stay in Detroit, I’m here to help her move. I’m also here to watch her fight, which makes me a little nervous.
The event is being held at a local MMA gym that works with Enhanced fighters. A caged ring sits in the middle of the room, with chairs all around. I take a seat and feel my nerves start to spike. I’ve known Antoinette for almost a year now, and the thought of her getting pummeled inside that cage isn’t a pleasant one.
There are four matches tonight, but only one that features female fighters. The first match is between two slight looking men who go all three rounds, trading punches and grappling around the ring. The second match is a one-sided affair between two heavyweights. One is 230 pounds of muscle. The other is not. The match ends abruptly and quickly. Finally, it’s Antoinette’s turn.
When I first met her, she was fit, but not overly muscular. She looked normal, whatever that means. But now, in shorts and a sports bra, wearing gloves and a look of gritty determination, she looks…intimidating. She tells me she’s lost fifteen pounds and gained most of it back in muscle. Well on her way to six-pack abs and sporting cut biceps, I don’t think I’d want to be in the ring with her tonight.
Her opponent comes out, a tall, willowy girl with long arms and sharp features. She doesn’t look as strong as Antoinette, but her reach is obviously better. They meet in the middle and touch gloves, then the first punch is thrown.
I’ve been around and interviewed a lot of people who’ve done a lot of fighting over the years, but I haven’t been witness to too many fights myself. I’m sure a fight on the street
looks different, but this almost looks like a ballet. The tall girl sends her fist out into open space and Antoinette ducks it deftly, driving her foot into the tall girl’s stomach. She grimaces. Two more missed punches and the third connects with Antoinette’s jaw, staggering her for a moment. They punch. Grapple. They circle each other in the cage like animals.
The tall girl strikes out with her knee and finds Antoinette’s stomach. I cringe as she drops to the mat. I feel my arms tense as the tall girl descends, raining punches down on her head. I bite my lip to keep from calling out. The tall girl delivers blow after blow and I’m sure the fight is done. There is blood on the mat. Suddenly, Antoinette kicks out and shifts her weight, and the tall girl starts to lose her balance. Before she can get it back, Antoinette is driving, pushing with both feet and sending both of their bodies upward.
For one glorious moment, Antoinette stands up fully with the girl on her back. She is bruised, and blood is trailing from her lips, but in this moment the whole match has completely shifted. The scene lasts for less than a second, but it is amazing. She drops backwards onto the tall girl, then contorts herself quickly, perching on top, and sends three devastating punches onto the girl’s face. That’s all it takes for the referee to call the match. The fight is done.
I don’t need to stick around for the next fight. As they clean the ring, I poke around in the back and find Antoinette’s trainer Nick tending to her outside the locker room.
She’s sitting back on a metal chair, covered in sweat and blood and grinning ear to ear. Nick covers a cotton ball in alcohol, and she flinches when he puts it to her split lip. She flinches, but still smiles. I ask her, “Are you sure you still want to do this superhero thing? You might have to go through this stuff every night.”
She looks over at me and beams. Her nose might be broken, and there’s a cut over her eye that is still weeping blood, but it’s the happiest I’ve ever seen her.
April 3rd, 1995
I meet Black Hand in a small dive bar called The Little Cactus, on the south side of Nogales, Arizona. The small city of Nogales is charming, and has a great deal of interesting history, but it’s not really the kind of place that I’d want to take a vacation. The border town has troubles that ebb and flow; it is a significant port of entry into the sometimes dangerous country that lies right below us. Hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of drugs pass through here every year, and from what I’m told, the danger can be palpable. Not the kind of thing they put on the travel brochures.
There’s no question of who I’m looking for. Black Hand is Caucasian, and his skin carries a deep tan. Though he’s sitting, I’d have to guess he’s at least 6’2, with broad shoulders, and he’s in full uniform tonight. For him, full uniform means a black, bullet-proof vest emblazoned on the back with a large white circle and a black hand print. He wears black cargo pants, military style boots, and aviator sunglasses. He has pockets everywhere, and they all seem to be full. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d bet most of it was ammo. And perhaps cigarettes. He smokes one now in between drinks, which tonight is dark whiskey and cheap beer. If I had any doubt at all who to look for, the large hand print tattoo on his bicep would give it away. I can tell right away that Black Hand is not one for subtlety.
BLACK HAND: You’re lucky you caught me tonight. I’m headed back over tomorrow. Got some shit to deal with. Always some shit to deal with, ya know? That’s the thing about shit. You take care of some shit, and someone else comes around and adds their own. Makes me wonder why any of these assholes would do it for free.
I ask him what he means by “it”.
The superhero thing. Especially back in the old days. What the fuck were they gettin’ out of it? You have all these powers…you can do all this cool shit and you just give it away out of the goodness of your heart? Man, that’s just bogus. Seriously. Why give away a thing you can make money on?
That’s a lesson I learned real damn quick.
I tried the Army first. When I got out of high school, there wasn’t fuck all in the way of jobs. Still isn’t. Man, you
gotta have that shit printed on your birth certificate. Right there for everyone to see. Most places, they don’t even want to have you walk in the door if you’re Enhanced. Not a whole lot of business opportunities, ya know? So if you’re a guy like me, you join up. Besides, I kinda liked the idea of the army. You go over, beat some people up. Blow their fuckin’ faces off. That’s the kind of shit I want printed on my business cards.
But man, that’s not really what it’s about. Not during peace time, anyway. I saw a little action, but nothing serious. And yeah, I was young. Stupid. I was itchin’ for a fight real bad, ya know? And the fun thing about a fight is…if you’re looking for one, you’ll find one. Every time. So, since I couldn’t go out and fight some Arabs or whatever, I just fought with the guys around me. Eventually, they kicked my ass out for that shit. But I didn’t care. I was twenty. I was ready to go.
I probably could have made some better choices. But shit, man. The bad choices I made got me to where I am, so I gotta call that a win. It was about a year after getting out of the service, and I was getting’ real drunk in some shit town in New Mexico. Three guys came in…townies you know? Real drunk and I guess they was lookin’ for a fight. They must have said to themselves “Hey, there’s some new guy. Never seen him before. Let’s go give him some shit.” Well amigo, that was a fuckin’ serious mistake.
The first guy gave me a shove and I almost didn’t do anything. Almost. I mean, I was just passing through. I was kinda tired. I wasn’t really in the mood. But then he shoved me again and called me a pussy. And you know…I just really don’t like name calling. So I picked up the bar stool I’d been sittin’ on and broke his legs with it. Guy number two ran to the end of
the bar to grab a pool cue, so I flipped the pool table on top of him. And when guy number three pulled out a knife, I just took his head and put it right into the bar top. The bar top held up pretty well. His head on the other hand, that shit just fell right to pieces.