Superhero Chronicles: The Arch Nemesis

It's always when I have things to do. It’s always when the fate of the world hangs in the balance. It's only then that HE decides to rear his diabolical head.

The path to world renowned writer is laden with the carcasses of hours killed. For a guy that is part superhero, I kill too often. Slitting time at the jugular and watching the minutes bleed out. All because of his influence. Batman has The Joker, Superman has Lex Luther; and I have him. He that for so long has made my efforts to save the world painstakingly difficult. HE is not a person or an actual living being per say. HE is Procrastination. An evil that takes on numerous forms! A shape shifter if you may! From slug-fests for time to internal conflict for my own mind!-I have battled this evil fiend many a time.

I sit on the couch in my pyjamas for hours on end, watching reruns of shows I do not even like anymore. Mind numbing microwaves from the idiot box render me incapacitated. Before I realise it, I have inadvertently traveled through time! Sent to an era that is not my own! Thrust through to the future, like Samurai Jack! Well, I have only lost about four hours watching television, but they are four precious hours into the future nonetheless! I know this could only be the work of that vile villain! By my calculations, four hours into the future mean that I am in the lunch Time period. The ligaments in my hands crackle as I clench them into fists and raise them to the ceiling. I bellow out a cry of protest because I realise, as much as I love it; lunch is just another way to kill time. Curse you procrastination.

After I devour a hefty meal, I decide to accept the fact that I cannot not return to my own time; I decide to embrace this hereafter and defeat Procrastination FROM this future. I make my way to the lair. There is work to be done. I sit down at the desk to get to work on the computer, trying to think about which writing needs to be tended to first. I read an ancient scroll long ago (It was more of a self-help book than an ancient scroll) that to defeat the malignant illness that is Procrastination, I must learn to Prioritise, Organise, and Focus! But God knows those books only motivate us for so long. I know people that would melt whole polar ice caps if they set their self-help book collection on fire. And yet with a plethora of books like that, their lives seem to be no better than the average Joe's. Regardless-'Organise, Prioritise; FOCUS!'. Some mood music would be nice though. A double click later, I am in the ‘Music’ folder. As I scroll through this mostly illegal music collection, I make the observation that it is not properly organised. Too many ‘loose songs’ or music that should be in a different artist’s folder. This must be sorted quickly! A few right clicks,cuts copies and pastes later; I realise that I have once again fallen to the whims of that dastardly villain! I am wasting my efforts on yet another trivial task. Curse you Procrastination.

A few sentences into my new document and my eyelids feel like weights. Have I been poisoned? YES! I must have been poisoned! A deadly sleeping potion, doused in my gravy! An attempt on my life! Though deep down inside I know there is no poison; there is no potion, it’s just that heavy Nsima I had for lunch- Always puts me to sleep. There is no one out to get me. But I have to blame someone. I have to blame something. Procrastination, I curse thy name. A power nap is in order. As I yawn, I wonder if Batman takes power naps too...

I’m having another one of those weird dreams, but as weird as my dreams get, the soundtrack to this one is definitely out of context. It’s Timbaland and Magoo’s ‘We At It Again’- my ringtone. The sound from my phone pierces through my slumber and thrusts me back to reality. With my body still limp, I stretch a heavy arm out and feel for my phone. It's Jarell. Police Commissioner Gordon throws up the Bat Signal- Jarell dials my number. He tells me there are some Damsels in distress that need to be saved, and some toxic alcohol that needs to be disposed of before the some poor unsuspecting Joes without the livers for it consume it. I tell him I have work to be done, and that he could probably take on the alcohol and Damsels himself. But Jarell has ways of convincing me to diverge from my plans. He persuades me into coming over and soon we are saving the world from the threat of mutant zombies via Playstation 3. Who says you have to leave the comfort of your living room to save the world? Benny Blow-Not your average superhero.

As blackness emulsifies the blue sky, evening sets in and the sun retires westward.
“Dude, I’m going home. You need to get out of the house more often. I’ll see you soon” says Jarell.

After Jarell leaves, I wonder if he may have been sent to stop me. I wonder if he was under the control of my arch enemy like some puppet with a penchant for halting progress. No, Jarell would not be susceptible to mind control. Perhaps that was not him at all. Perhaps that was actually my foe, taken on the form of my friend! YES! A rabid time wasting wolf, here in sheep’s clothing! Perhaps that’s it! Perhaps it is just my imagination. I wonder. As I stroke my beard in deep thought, the TV remote stares at me. I wonder... I wonder what’s on television tonight...

I drew this myself. My rendition of Procrastination. What do you think?

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Plankton's Good Eye

So I was watching an episode of SpongeBob SquarePants a couple of weeks ago, and it got me thinking (the way I randomly do!).
As always Plankton was trying to steal the Krabby Patty formula and he was failing miserably. His wife Karen (who is a computer by the way) puts it to him that he fails because he only has one eye. She said he needed a new perspective on things in order to succeed. So Plankton dubiously acquires a tear sample from SpongeBob and grafts himself a new eye. Of course the usual Bikini bottom chaos then ensues and I'm laughing until my abs hurt (and that Ladies, is why I have abs of steel!)....
The fact that I can only see with one of my eyes has nothing to do with how introspective I got. I'm more of SpongeBob than plankton in this story (and not in an absorbent and porous kind of way!). So plankton has his new eye and he goes off on his mission. Before he knows it, everything is in such vivid colour! The grass is so much greener, people are smiling (and so is the sun!) and there are flowers and rainbows everywhere! It's kind of a psychedelic hippie dream. But, I digress! My point is, I have a really positive outlook on things. I'm always thinking to myself, if people only saw things from my point of view, the world would be a much better place. Of course the Justin Biebers and Pitbulls of this world would be sent to the gallows if I had things my way!
I have no deep well of strength or inspiration. I'm not the most spiritual of people, and I have not been through the harshest conditions to merit this opinion. But I do believe I have a better outlook on things than most people. I've noticed a number of people like to dwell on little faults, failings and lacks when they could be focusing more on the good in their lives. People are so quick to diagnose themselves as depressed or pick out one of the many disorders these doctors and shrinks churn out on the daily. Of course a number of people do have valid reasons and mental health issues, but others could easily climb out of that hole. Check your pulse and start from there. You are ALIVE dammit! Go get drunk! Smoke a doobie for all I care, just go on living! One of my favorite quotes comes from a Beanie Sigel song (he probably heard it from someone else too). He said, "A poor man cried that he had no shoes, 'till he met a man with no feet..". No matter how bad we may think we have it, there is usually someone who has it far worse.

I come from a country where art is not as appreciated as it should be. So many talented people live such a frugal and hermit-like life because not enough attention is paid to the arts. When you say you're an artist where I come from, people automatically assume you create paintings of village setups and 'Africa'. If you dare think outside the box and draw or paint something different; even less attention will be paid to your creations. Your art will not be considered 'African'. But what is 'African'? I live in Africa and I am African. Shouldn't then anything I create be African? I'm not a visual artist, but I like to believe I create literary art (or at least that I aspire to reach those heights). I've met so many amazing people this past year. They are all on their own quests and adventures and I've been trying to find ways to work with a number of them. To share my vision with them and graft their own SpongeBob eyes onto mine so that we can steal the metaphorical Krabby Patty formula. Things would be so much better here if more people saw how the arts could help the people. If people looked at things from a different perspective.

2012 was a good year for me. The blog did well and things could only get better for the brand and person that is Benny Blow. A made a lot of new 'friends', some of whom I have not met yet but still appreciate nonetheless. Shout out time! I don't know some people's real names, so I'll use twitter handles (I kill a lot of my time there!). Shout outs to my good buddies Dabz, Lo, Jarell, Yosa aka G-man, Chipulu, Munana, Mwamba aka @The7thSyn, Genteel, B.K, Suwi, Mwewa...uuumm my brothers Bale, Womba, Pampa, Reggie.... my sisters Mukuni, Kuni, Muwe, Mwape, Wazi, Fwe-Fwe..... Shout outs to Nosiku, Besa and Hannah... Shouts to Hama, can't wait till you come home! Shout out @IAmLukeyJerome, @Kannabanana, @LShameless, @applechews aka Alice, @seven thirty_, @dodiayazmin, @C_Hillz, @Talk_2_The_Star, @Koko_Mera aka Koko Beans, @probitygem, @fadedfollies, @SuggestibleDave, @Dope_G (he got me like 5 billion followers with one retweet!), @Iam_Thugga,@Talented_Mr_Lee......... Realised I bit off more than I could chew with this shout out thing lol! But I'll do my best! Shout outs to Neema (your twitter handle is difficult to type! :p), Taleka, Chembo and Munshya (My two Chiropractors! ALWAYS have my back!).... Shout outs to Janet (Munshya shut up! :p), Karen, Gabby...Chikondi... (I'm still coming to Malawi one day!) .Uuum, shout outs to the EZM team, Lillian, Ongani, Musonda, Chomba and my favourite Night Owl Tukiya. Shouts to her sister Sekayi...... Uuuum, shout outs to Amanda Panda,.... Shout out to my Safintra crew Leroy, Nyuma, and Tehila (I'm sorry I had to leave and try take over the world)....and Shingi! But that other guy can E.A.D with syphilis on the tip! Shouts to Milan Sichinga, Luka Mwango and Aunt Ellen Banda Aaku (you were such an inspiration)....Can't forget Sampa and Bwalya......... Shout out to my hommies Ricky (thanks for sharing my posts), Khayalami, Bechani, Chuma....Shout outs to Frank Balara and Mister Martin Powell... shouts to Chola (Stay in touch chikamba!), Chipo, Erik and Madalitso.....If I left out anybody, PLEASE forgive me! That's the problem with these things! Thanks for visiting my blog and hope you hit the share buttons below each post!

I had to delete a whole paragraph because I think I may have opened up to you strangers a little to much! I still love you though!  But in summary, I am moving on. I held on to a memory that may remain just that now...You can't hold on to something when it clearly slipped away from you...I have a world to conquer. Someone has to make it O.K for us pyjama wearing semi evil geniuses to just sit at home and warm couches! I am going to see things from a different angle. I am going to use my good eye. I hope you do too...
#GetWitItOrBlow

IV:1,2,3,IV

I SUGGEST YOU READ IV AND IV:In The Red BEFORE YOU READ THIS

WONLAY

The fact that Wonlay was quarter past tipsy did not help his situation at all. A very dangerous man was making an attempt on his life and he had been ill prepared. Perhaps he should have taken that caller with the voice distortion seriously. ‘Regardless,’ he thought, ‘people that choose to mask their voices are spineless and cowardly’.

The bullets from the unidentified man's vicious attacks echoed through the church hall, chanting their unholy hymn of death. Wonlay had to think fast. ‘What could stop or at least slow down this relentless attacker?’ He looked around for some clue or inspiration. The candles-the ones not desecrated at least-gave him an idea. He felt his jaIVcket for his old liquor canister and his lighter. Wonlay knew nothing about being a bartender, but he could make one hell of a Molotov cocktail. The contents of the old canister he kept in his breast pocket at all times were quite flammable. It was a something he cooked up himself in the makeshift lab/mini distillery he had in a backroom at home. Whenever he felt his spirits dip to low levels or needed something with ‘kick’; Wonlay sought his pocket-size metallic friend. He hurriedly pulled out the canister, his lighter and a handkerchief. He then let out a little lighter fluid onto the white piece of cloth and then poured more into the canister. He shook the canister a little to blend the alcohol with the lighter fluid. Wonlay left just enough fluid to light the handkerchief, and then stuffed it into the canister.

Wonlay waited a little for the flame to reach the opening of the metal bottle and thrust it hard across the middle of the church floor. It slid almost perfectly to where his assailant stood. The man with the barking weapon did exactly as Wonlay had predicted and dove behind a pew. Wonlay quickly moved to the front of the column of pews the assassin was behind, and pushed them with admirable might. His manoeuvre caught the man off guard and allowed him to run outside the church. But he was not fleeing, no.

Wonlay never thought they would ever be of use, but on that day, the two Match pistols he had hidden behind the tank of the unused toilet in the gents; would probably save his life. He was reminded of Michael Corleone from The Godfather as he felt for his guns behind the cistern of the toilet.

The assassin kicked the door in and fired a number of rounds into the men’s room, shattering the old tiles on the walls and plywood doors. Though the gent’s was small, the man did not immediately see Wonlay standing just beside the entrance. But he did see him using his peripherals just in time to hit Wonlay’s arm and make him miss his shot. The pistol in the hand that the attacker struck dropped to the floor and Wonlay quickly fired a shot with his other gun. He missed again but only by mere inches, and because the man had moved out of his range of fire. Wonlay counted himself lucky because the man could not properly swing his rifle around and fire owing to the close quarters. This allowed Wonlay to elbow his assailant in the face and follow it up with a knee to his diaphragm.

The man staggered back, giving Wonlay a clear shot. Just as he was about to fire, his mind began to scream and he was paralysed.

JUGBEH

The blood poured profusely from Jugbeh’s pinky and ring fingers. If the amphetamines had not kicked in by then, Jugbeh would have been in great pain. He hurriedly tore a large portion of the lower part of his t-shirt and improvised a bandage. He had locked eyes with the small Asian man, building up even more animosity toward the man that had just severed his fingers. Jugbeh was going to kill him.

Each punch hurled seemed more powerful than the last, and if he had caught his target with any of them; Jugbeh would have caved the man's face in. It had become evident that the little man had underestimated Jugbeh and his strength, and was now toying with him. Jugbeh observed that he had almost cornered the little man and counted on him to move in closer to cut him-and he did. As soon as the blade struck him, Jugbeh grabbed a hold of his Asian foe and flung him backwards, falling with him and raising up dust and the old prescription papers that lay on the floor. Jugbeh quickly got up, grabbed an old wooden chair that and broke it over his enemy's head before he could recover from the suplex, splitting the chair into pieces. Jugbeh's fighting moves had always been largely influenced by professional wrestling and he was getting excited by this 'hardcore match'. The amphetamines induced images of a ring and a packed arena chanting Jugbeh's name. He raised his arms in celebration to the imaginary crowd and then bowed his head.

His bleeding had not slowed down and so Jugbeh's improvised bandage was now drenched in crimson blood. Even with the drugs, his stubs began to send shots of excruciating pain through his arm. He decided it would be better to use his legs to stomp the life out of the little guy. He did deserve to die like the little bug that he was after all. The little man could not fight much after the heavy blows he had received and took his beating like bitter medicine.

"Cut my fingers, will you!?" shouted Jugbeh as he attempted to leave shoe prints of his boot on the little man's face and body.

Shots of blood spattered from the man's face and stained Jugbeh's boot in his efforts to payback the small man for cutting his fingers. Had it not been for the deafening sound that suddenly pierced the room, Jugbeh would have continued his drug fueled onslaught. The sound was so powerful that it dropped Jugbeh to the ground causing him to try and protect his ears even with his bloody hand. He curled up next to his Asian enemy, whose pain had now multiplied twofold.

GOMA

Goma moved with haste and caught a glimpse of the prayerful assassin just as he turned a corner and disappeared to the side of the church. He was trying to maintain his cool and still move fast enough to catch his prey. He moved like one of the speed walkers that flooded the streets and parks in the early mornings; frantically shuffling his feet and thrusting his legs forward without exactly running.

When he kicked the door to the men's room in and fired his weapon, Goma quickly realised that he should have not been so careless and should have expected a surprise from his mark. As soon as this thought crossed his mind, the man in the suit stretched his arm out just in time for Goma to disturb his shot. The report of the gunshot left a ringing in Goma’s ear, like a mischievous child had just popped a giant fire cracker beside it. Goma soon confirmed that his foe was indeed formidable when he quickly retaliated with another shot. Thank goodness he missed, Goma thought. He tried to bring his gun around so he could fire, but the weapon was too large to easily maneuver in the small space.

Goma had resolved long ago to never feel inadequate or stupid, but this tussle with a man he thought was ill prepared brought those feelings rushing up from within the depths of his belly. But they were quickly stopped by a knee to his stomach area.

Goma stumbled back and shook his head to regain his focus. What he saw almost made him wish he had not. The barrel of the gun held by his foe stared him down like a towering bully. But the pain that shot through his head was not one of a bullet wound, no, it was something else. Something that caused even his enemy pain. They both fell to the ground and howled in anguish.

Goma was now grappling with consciousness and when he managed to open his eyes in all the pain he was experiencing, Goma saw a man in a suit come into the gents and stand over them.

BADUK

Pain. Excruciating pain. Pain was all Baduk had ever known. He had received so much in his agonising existence that he had decided to embrace the pain. He made it a part of him, let it mold him, and then he spread its agonising gospel indiscriminately. Pain cleanses the soul. Without pain, how can one know joy? Baduk dispensed pain for survival, he dispensed pain for money and Baduk dispensed pain for pleasure. Pain was all Baduk had ever known.

Taming the pain though, sometimes proved to be a difficult task. The sonic frequency that had invaded the room like a screaming bat from hell had Baduk and his foe incapacitated. He was trying his best to concentrate and make out where exactly the paralysing noise was coming from. Though he probably would not be able to drink it under the circumstances, Baduk was wishing he had a can of Amp. Energy drinks had their own way of soothing his pain. The big man he was meant to kill was barking out obscenities in between his cries of pain. A can of Amp would have done him some good too.

The banshee-like noise left the room as suddenly as it had come, but there was still a steady ringing in Baduk’s ears. He mustered the little strength he had in him and got on one shaky knee. The ringing in his ear faded out and a distant clacking of shoes on the floor gradually replaced it. When he looked up, Baduk saw a figure standing by the big man that had tried to stomp the life out of him. He was wearing a fine black suit and shades. The man in black pulled out a cloth and what looked like chloroform before he covered his mouth and drowned the mumbles of the big one. Baduk did not need to be told he was next and so he crawled across the floor in an effort to reach the exit. His world soon went black.

Baduk came to for what seemed like a fraction of a second, maybe more. He had no sense of time, everything felt so surreal and dream-like. Next to him was the big man he was sent to kill. He was out cold. There were two other men with them, one in a suit and the other in plain clothes. Both out cold. There was a slit of blinding light coming from the corner of Baduk’s eye. When he looked to see what it was, he saw the chloroform man in the suit and shades closing a door. Baduk gave way to the weight of his eyelids and let the unconsciousness consume him. He could hear a distant hum of a car engine, and for a moment, it drove away the pain.

****


IV

“Ah, I see you are all awake,” said the deep voice, “I really must apologise for my crude methods of bringing you all here, but you must understand, you lot are the four most dangerous men on the planet.”

The cloaked voice coming from the intercom on the table was the very same one that had called each of the men sitting at the table and rousing to consciousness. There really was no way of determining this for sure, but it really was doubtful whether the quota for deep disguised voice phone calls goes above one in a day.

“Wha--wha--Who the hell are you?” blurted Jugbeh. His hand had been stitched and wrapped neatly in fresh bandages.

“All you need to know for now is that I represent a large and wealthy organisation that is interested in maintaining an order and balance in the world,” replied the voice.

“You the Illuminati, aren’t you?” said Jugbeh.

“Ha ha, hardly Mister Jugbeh. But I wouldn't rule that out completely heh heh.”

“How dare you kidnap me!” Goma shouted into the intercom, “I will have your head for this!!”

“Mister Goma, you would have to know where I am or what I look like for you to have my head. Idle threats are not necessary here. However, I feel it is necessary that I apologise for what I put you all through. You should receive a small peace offering from me in shortly.”

The phones of the four men at the table vibrated and/or rang at intervals. They each pulled them out from their pockets and found they had received text messages from their respective banks telling them their accounts had been credited.

“$500,000 should be sufficient for now. Oh, and Mister Jugbeh, terribly sorry about your hand. Surgery will be fully paid for and you will receive the best medical attention money can buy,” the deep voice went on, “Of course, that is just a small fraction of what you could be receiving should you choose to stay on and work with our organisation.”

“I don't need your tainted money. What do you want with us?” asked Wonlay.

“Oh please Mister Wonlay, do not be so self righteous! EVERYBODY needs money! You now have enough to pay your debts and fund your binges! All I ask is that you listen to what I have to say. If it does not whet your appetite, you may leave. You are all free men after all, even you Mister Baduk.” Baduk only grunted his approval.

A large automated metal door opened in the corner.

“The door is open.”

The four men looked at each other undecidedly. Each one was waiting on another to make the first move. A pinch of greed and a dash of curiosity; they had all tasted the broth of the deep voiced man, and they yearned for more.


Illustrations by Lo. Follow him on twitter @inkerblood
You can follow me on twitter @Benny_blow