I put monsters and super powers in America

He was still wearing the black clothes that had been torn to shreds in the chaos in Charlottesville, but he had put on a worn gray hooded sweatshirt that he had found in a second-hand clothing donation box, which concealed his arms that were like deadly weapons and the violent aura that was incompatible with the surrounding environment.

His eyes were tired, yet burning with a brighter fire than ever before.

This is the destination of his trip.

The coordinates that were set as the destination with the driver's "friendly cooperation".

This was the place his grandfather had longed for, yet he would never set foot on it again until his death. This was the starting point of both the glory and suffering of his grandfather and his entire family.

Greenwood, a legendary place that was once known throughout the United States as "Black Wall Street" a hundred years ago.

However, when Jamal actually stood on this land and looked at it with his own eyes, his heart, which was slightly excited because he had found his "roots", was like being poured with a basin of ice water and sank instantly.

dilapidated.

Everywhere you look, there is ruin.

The road was bumpy and uneven, and the houses on either side were mostly simple, low-rise prefabricated buildings built with cheap wooden boards. The paint on the walls had long since peeled, revealing the blackened wood underneath. Some houses even had cardboard windows covered, shivering in the cold morning wind. Walking along the street in groups of three or four, a few black residents, their clothes equally worn, their faces showing the numb weariness of life's pressures, which had smoothed out all the edges.

Gang members gathered in twos and threes, acting like hooligans and laughing. There were also many guys on the street who were bending themselves into strange postures, as if they were touching their heels with their hands, but they fell asleep in that posture.

Jamal knew that this posture was called Fentanyl fold.

The air was filled with a mixture of poverty, despair and a lingering smell of dampness and mold.

This is one of the poorest black communities in the United States.

The average life expectancy of residents here is eleven years less than the national average.

"Is this the 'Black Wall Street' my grandfather talked about, where gold was everywhere, shops were everywhere, and it had its own banks, hospitals, and movie theaters?"

Jamal frowned tightly, and a strong anger filled with absurdity and unwillingness once again burned from the bottom of his heart.

Just as he was standing at the street corner, looking around blankly, not knowing where to go, an old but gentle voice sounded behind him.

"Kid, you're back."

Jamal turned around suddenly and saw an old man with white hair and beard, a thin figure, wearing a black priest robe that was old but clean. He was leaning on a shiny wooden cane and looking at him with a smile.

Behind the old man were a dozen or so community residents who also had black faces. Their faces showed a mixture of curiosity, awe and heartfelt welcome.

"Are they waiting for me?"

"You are..." Jamal said hesitantly.

"My name is Elijah, and I'm the pastor of the Vernon African Methodist Episcopal Church up ahead." The old pastor's smile was gentle and kind. His eyes, slightly clouded by age, shone with the wisdom of someone who had seen through the vicissitudes of life. "We saw the news, son. We saw everything you did in Virginia. We know that the strength flowing through you is a grace bestowed upon us by the Lord, a hundred years late."

The old pastor stretched out his hand, which was covered with age spots but still strong, and gently placed it on Jamal's shoulder.

"Welcome home, Washington child. We...we have been waiting for you for a long time."

His voice was not loud, but it carried a warm power that was enough to soothe people's hearts.

Vernon African Methodist Episcopal Church is the only building in the entire Greenwood community that survived the fire of the massacre a hundred years ago.

Its basement was once the last refuge for countless black people to escape mob massacres.

At this moment, Jamal is sitting in this basement full of historical dust and heaviness. Under the dim light, he is quietly listening to old Pastor Elijah, who is telling the history that has been deliberately forgotten in his hoarse but clear voice.

"A hundred years ago, this place was our paradise."

The old pastor carefully took out several old photos that had turned yellow and had curled edges from a locked wooden box and placed them one by one on the table in front of Jamal.

The photo shows a bustling commercial district. The streets are wide and clean, lined with brick and stone buildings. Shop windows are brightly lit, displaying a variety of signs: "Williams Candy Store," "Goodwin's Grocery," "Stratford Hotel." The streets are bustling with traffic, and the pedestrians are well-dressed, their faces brimming with confidence and prosperity.

At that time, Greenwood had more than 200 black-owned stores, two movie theaters, several churches, a well-equipped hospital, and even its own bank and bus system.

"But our prosperity stung the eyes of those white people." The old pastor's voice became low and sad. "They envied our wealth and feared our unity. So, they used a despicable and unfounded excuse - a black youth 'attacked' a white girl in the elevator - to launch that brutal massacre."

"In fact, both the police and the white girl later clarified that the so-called 'attack' was completely false. But racists don't care about that."

He pointed to another photo. The background showed a devastated area after a fire, thick smoke billowing, and several charred bodies lying in the street.

"They used planes to drop incendiary bombs from the air. They fired machine guns, shooting at unarmed civilians. They broke into our homes, stole everything we had, and then set them on fire, reducing them to ashes. For two whole days and one night, this place turned into a living hell."

"My father," the old pastor's voice trembled slightly as he pointed to a photo of a little boy in overalls who looked only seven or eight years old. "He was about this age at the time. He witnessed with his own eyes his parents being lynched and hanged from a tree on the street by a white mob... He hid in this basement for two whole days, listening to the gunshots and screams outside, and only then did he survive."

"What happened next?" Jamal's voice was a little dry. "What about the federal government? Didn't they hold those murderers accountable?"

"Hold them accountable?" The old pastor gave a bitter, ironic laugh. "Son, you're too naive. The first thing they did was block all news about the massacre, labeling it a 'black riot.' They even rejected the Red Cross's request for assistance. As for the murderers? Not a single one was brought to justice. Not a single one."

"Greenwood has never recovered since then. Repeated 'urban planning' and highways that cut through our community have shattered our once intact land. Banks refused to lend us money, and businesses refused to invest here... They spent a hundred years, using a more 'civilized' and more covert method, completely and bit by bit, strangling all our hopes."

Jamal was silent. He looked at the photos, at the once vibrant lives and bustling street scenes, and he felt that the anger in his chest that had just subsided was ignited again.

Many people have asked Jamal why black people are always lazy and greedy, and why the black community in the United States is always associated with various crimes and poverty rather than decency and wealth?

Jamal was once speechless.

But now, he has found the answer - the black people who crossed the ocean once tried to build such a decent community and completed it; then, what awaited them was not the recognition and praise of the mainstream society, but the fire and massacre of the white people.

It is ironic that the first time the United States used aircraft to carry out an attack mission was not in any foreign war, but in the massacre of the "black elite"!

At this moment, the old pastor took out another older photo from the bottom of the box and handed it to Jamal.

The photo shows a dozen black youths wearing black leather jackets and berets, with resolute expressions and sharp eyes, holding rifles in their hands, standing under a flag with the Roaring Black Panther pattern printed on it.

At the front of the team, a tall man with a face that was 70% similar to Jamal was looking directly at the camera with his eyes burning with fire.

"This is……"

"Your grandfather, Isaiah Washington." The old pastor's voice was filled with deep respect and nostalgia. "He was one of the earliest members of the Black Panther Party in Tulsa and the entire state of Oklahoma, and also its bravest leader. He brought us the theory of teaching (anti-harmony) across the sea, and led us to use guns to resist the unreasonable oppression of the police, to protect our own community, and to build our own schools and free clinics..."

"Black Panther..."

Jamal looked at the figure in the photo, whom he had never met but was connected to by blood, and felt the unyielding power and fighting spirit conveyed in the photo. The burning flame in his eyes became more and more vigorous.

He finally understood.

The Lord gave him this power not so that he could engage in meaningless, personal revenge, but so that he could complete the unfinished work of his grandfather and countless predecessors like his grandfather!

"I want to rebuild Greenwood."

Jamal stood up slowly. He looked at the old pastor in front of him and the dilapidated community outside the window. His voice was not loud, but every word was sonorous, as if he was reciting a sacred oath.

"I want the glory of 'Black Wall Street' to shine again on this land. I want the roar of the Black Panther to resound through the sky once again!"

He closed his eyes and, in his heart, prayed the most devout prayer of his life to the mysterious "Lord" who gave him power.

"Great Lord, please grant me and my compatriots more grace. We will use this power to cleanse this land of all injustice and evil, and build a home of our own, one filled with hope and dignity."

75 (Medium). Manifest Destiny

On the other side, thousands of kilometers away, in Van Buren County, Texas.

This is a typical "deep red" area, where the white population is absolutely dominant, reaching an astonishing 96.79%, while Asians and African Americans combined account for less than one percent.

A battered, dusty Ford pickup truck was driving down a country road. On either side of the road were rolling hills and endless farmland. White-painted wooden farmhouses dotted the green fields, and most of them had brightly colored American flags fluttering on their front lawns.

James Alex Lincoln's body had returned to normal. He was wearing borrowed clothes and sitting in the passenger seat of a pickup truck, greedily breathing in the air that smelled of earth and grass that blew in through the window.

He felt like he was home.

There are no bustling streets like those in Charlottesville, no strangely dressed and noisy Antifa members, and no "politically correct" slogans that make him feel disgusted and irritated.

Everything here made him feel extremely safe and at ease.

"Hey, James, how are you feeling?" A redneck uncle named Cletus asked in his thick Southern accent while chewing tobacco in the driver's seat.

Cletus wore a washed-out flannel plaid shirt and a red baseball cap with the words "Make America Great Again" printed on it. His sun-tanned face was filled with a kind and simple smile.

He saw the video of James' "powerful performance" in Charlottesville on the Internet, and found the fugitive James through some special "white brotherhood" channels. He personally drove his beloved pickup truck and traveled hundreds of kilometers back and forth overnight to "pick" him up home.

"It feels...good, Uncle Cletus. Thank you." James' voice was a little hoarse.

The pickup truck finally stopped in front of a beautiful two-story white frame house with a wrap-around porch.

When James got out of the car, dozens of neighbors who had heard the news were already waiting on the lawn of Cletus's house. They were holding sizzling barbecue and ice-cold beer just taken from the grill, and their faces were filled with heartfelt and enthusiastic smiles.

"Welcome home, kid!"

"Well done, James! You've given us old guys a good vent!"

"Come, try my grilled ribs! This is our family's secret recipe!"

They surrounded James, patted him on the back enthusiastically, and pressed a large glass of cold beer into his hands.

Although this isn't the notorious Zinke community for its extreme racism, and the people here aren't members of the Ku Klux Klan, they are all typical "rednecks" and the most steadfast defenders of traditional American values.

They believe in God, firmly believe in the sanctity of the family, and advocate hard work and personal struggle.

They love country music, their grandmother's apple pie, barbecues and beer.

They are also full of worries and disappointments about this country that is being eroded by "white left" ideology.

"Look at what it's become now!" A farmer with gray hair and fingers roughened by years of farming said indignantly, holding a glass of whiskey. "Gays can get married, men can use the women's restroom, and schools are even teaching our children that there are 72 different genders! This is simply the fall of Sodom!"

"And then there are those illegal immigrants! They swarm in like locusts, stealing our jobs and bringing in addiction and crime! And our government, instead of doing anything, gives them welfare! We, the law-abiding taxpayers, have become second-class citizens!"

"Those black people in big cities are rioting all day, buying things for free, looting, and burning things, and the police don't even dare to intervene! For us white people, if we say the wrong thing, we're labeled 'racist,' lose our jobs, and get scorned by the whole society! Is this fucking fair?!"

"Childless cat lovers, what a shameful type of people! Yet such people are treated as idols; they are even big stars, corrupting our children all day long!"

"I think this great America is a pill!"

"God should send down fire from heaven to burn away all these foul things!"

These long-suppressed grievances, under the catalysis of alcohol, seemed to have found an outlet for venting and became uncontrollable.

In their view, this country is already sick.

Very ill.

Traditional values ​​are gone, and people of all skin colors are pouring into this country that their ancestors worked so hard to develop at a rate of tens of millions every year!

In ten years, white people, the real masters of this country, will become a minority!

And James, the young man who transformed into a white giant on live TV, displayed miraculous power. In his opinion, he was the medicine sent by God to heal this terminally ill country!

A grand welcome party was held in the backyard of Cletus's house.

People sat around the campfire, eating barbecue and drinking beer in a warm and harmonious atmosphere.

James became the undisputed protagonist. He was surrounded by a group of young people of about his age, whose eyes were full of admiration and yearning, listening to him talk about his "heroic deeds" in Charlottesville.

The residents of the community protected him in their most simple and determined way.

The town's sheriff, a burly middle-aged man with a beard, personally destroyed all surveillance videos that might expose James's whereabouts; the fat proprietress who ran the only motel in town swore that if anyone asked, she would say she had never seen James Lincoln; even the mayor and state legislator, a fat man with a beard, declared that he would use all his connections to protect James Lincoln!

It was also on this day that James' distant uncle Ben, who was also the town's pastor, found him.

Uncle Cletus, his face lined with the brunt of the weather, but his blue eyes still clear and sharp, led James to the attic of the old log cabin where his family had lived for generations.

The attic was filled with all kinds of dusty junk, and the air smelled of mothballs and old paper.

Ben took out an equally old Kentucky long rifle, the stock of which had been polished to a shine, and a diary from an old locked cedar box.

"Look at this, kid." Cletus' voice was hoarse, but it was filled with undeniable pride. "This is the gun used by your great-great-grandfather, Daniel Lincoln."

"Your great-great-grandfather was one of the greatest explorers and pioneers of the Westward Movement! He led our Lincoln family and hundreds of brave families across the Appalachian Mountains, establishing one prosperous settlement after another in that wild land filled with wild beasts and Indians!"

He opened the diary and pointed to a passage on the title page written in strong, faded ink.

"'Our cause is great, our journey stretches across the continent to the ends of the Pacific. This is our Manifest Destiny, given to us by God!' Do you see? Child! This is the blood of our Lincoln family! We are born pioneers! We are the executors of God's will! We are the most steadfast representatives of this country's Manifest Destiny!"

Ben's eyes lit up with a fanatical fire. He grabbed James' shoulders and shook him hard.

"Go, children! Go and clear out all those new 'barbarians' and 'pagans' who have taken up residence in our homeland!"

“Go! Go and raise the flag of Manifest Destiny again, and let it fly over this sick land! Go and heal it! Go and save it! Go and defend the last homeland of our white Christians!”

"Go! My child! Now is the time for you to respond to your destiny! The entire community, all your brothers and sisters, will be your strongest backing! We will follow you until the Kingdom of Heaven comes!"

75 (Part 2) The Real Titan: War Hotbed No. 1

"Waste! A bunch of hopeless losers who only waste taxpayers' money!!"

The slightly hoarse roar was like a small stun bomb exploding in the office, making the gorgeous crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling since the Roosevelt era buzz.

He slammed an emergency report with the words "Homeland Security" printed on it on the table.

On the cover of the report, a few words circled in red marker - "Charlottesville", "Superhuman Shooting", and "Target Escaped" - were like the most vicious taunts, stinging the nerves of the American people, who had already become fragile due to the series of bad news.

"Two! Two completely new extraordinary people! Right under our noses, in our most proud Virginia! They fought a bad fight as if they were strolling in their own backyard, and then patted their butts and ran away! And what about us? Our highly paid police officers flying helicopters were like a group of stupid dogs chasing their own tails, and they didn't even catch their shadows!"

The tone suddenly changed, directed at the Minister of Defense who was standing in front of his desk, head lowered, silent as a mouse.

"You! Tell me! What the hell is going on with our 'Super Combat Readiness Duty'?! Huh?! Hundreds of billions of dollars in annual defense budgets have produced a bunch of losers who can't even look after their own families?! Supernatural events are happening right here at home, so where are our 'Super Maruns'?! Where are our super soldiers who can fly into the sky and into the earth, and can fight a hundred men at once?! Where are they?! Are they posing on a beach in Mexico, sunbathing?!"