Slugger had NEVER been hit so hard in his life. Doubled over, bat on the concrete and forgotten, he struggled to suck in a breath. Why didn't the surfer dude finish him? Hell, he would have clubbed him a dozen times by now but no attack came. Raising his head he saw the two, the beach boy and his hot-assed bitch strolling away from him as if he were a pile of dog shit to be ignored.
The dude had cost him a piece of ass and he was gonna get him for it. Maybe take it out of his bitch's ass. Yeah, that would be a better idea. See how that white dude felt about her after he'd had her a few times.
At last able to draw breath he took a second to recover his bat and tuck it into the loop inside his long leather coat. He straightened. The alley was empty, the only people in sight those on the boardwalk or back on the main street behind him. He'd lost the girl. Muttering an oath, he gathered his dignity and headed for his car.
"Dude," Slugger hissed. "This cat one-punched my ass! Nobody one-punches me!"
Mask looked up at his enforcer slowly.
"What were you doing at Mission Beach," he asked in his deceptively calm tone.
Slugger lifted one shoulder. "Ya know, cruzin' bitches."
One of Mask's eye-brow went up.
"A huge black man, dressed in black leather pants, combat boots, black tee shirt and a full length black leather duster doesn't exactly blend in with the white tourist bikini crowd during the middle of a hot summer morning. Have you considered doing your hunting at a darker hour?"
A sly look crossed Slugger's face.
"Yeah," he said. "I think I'll do just that and I'm gonna start with that bitch girl-friend of surfer boy."
Mask sighed and tossed the pen atop his sheaf of papers he'd been reading over.
"You will not be going back to Mission Beach," he said. "They will be on the look-out for you and as I said, you do stand out. Give it a few weeks, let then forget they ever saw you, then pay your little visit."
Slugger was wrong about the 'nobody one-punches me' thing. Well, not wrong, it was just that he preferred to forget the other time. Sixteen years old, already 6'4" and 240 pounds, he had thought himself invincible and the fact that he was a mutant only reinforced the assumption. Already stronger than ten men, the youthful Slugger, then known as Marlon Higgs, made the mistake of trying to tackle an older man, a smaller man, a wiser man, in his early forties. Like they say, old age and treachery will win out over youth and strength every time. Higgs never saw the baseball bat that splintered on top of his head and left him with a bloody gash. To remind himself, he kept his head shaved rather than trying to hide the scar but it was his only acknowledgement of that time.
He grew up in Compton, California, in the 1970's, a time when young black men had to prove themselves quickly or be ploughed under by someone tougher. Diggs had the advantage, size and superhuman strength. He was smart about it though and didn't advertise exactly what he was capable of but still he caught the eye of the urbane Lawrence Lincoln, the future Mask. Lincoln recognized Higgs' potential and recruited him as an enforcer in his growing street gang.
Slugger made more than two dozen forays to the beach, carefully remaining invisible behind the smoked glass of his black Chrysler 300. Cruising Mission Blvd. he kept a look-out for the huge surfer and his bitch. On the fourth trip, he spotted them but lost them when the cars behind him began to lean on their horns when he paused too long. On the ninth trip he spotted them again and this time was able to parallel them as they sauntered down the sidewalk. The girl was even hotter than he remembered but something in the way the big kid moved gave him pause. Was it the way he moved or the total confidence the surfer displayed that made him stand out? Slugger needed more information and he knew just where to get it.
