Description
Coleman stood over the battle field, victorious. A seven nation army sent their very best soldiers, martial artists, and snipers. It was over before it even started. One by one, Coleman defeated his foes. One by one, he delighted at the sound of broken bone, the peal of wounded sentience as life drained from bodies which were so strong and able only moments before.
A radio cracked to life. Coleman ran to pick it up. (He would have walked, but he was short, after all, and it may have taken too long to get there…)
“Big pappa to alpha team, big papa to alpha team. Come in alpha team. Over.”
Coleman laughed his tiny laugh. It was the president of the United States. This was the greatest nation’s final attempt to stop Coleman. Now his power was too great, and his wrath could never be satiated.
“What you talkin’ bout mister president,” Coleman taunted into the radio.
“Coleman, you black bastard. You’ve killed them all haven’t you?”
“Guilty,” Coleman said as he dropped the radio on the bloodied mud. Through sheer force of will, he made his Keds become white again and unsoiled. His power was finally complete. He could even control matter now. A sound pierced the sky. Coleman looked up to see a missile. So this was the end game. The president couldn’t take him out tactically, so he ordered a nuclear strike.
Coleman whispered his secret whisper, and time rent open like a zipper in the fabric of reality. He side stepped to another era. He decided to go to Castle Times and rest. He was victorious and none could best him.
Or so he thought.
As Coleman zipped the hole in time shut, and as centuries later a nuclear bomb destroyed the battle filed on which he stood moments ago, a single mustache snuck through time with him, hidden in his afro. It was the mustache once on Geraldo Rivera’s face, the mustache that hid for decades in Fidel Castro’s beard. It was hungry, and Coleman was the only meal on its mind.
