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"It's so fucking hot out here, the goddamn asphalt is sticking to my boots!"
Native to Brooklyn, by the sound of him. The fellow is walking along with a briefcase, talking with what could only be perceived as a business partner. As they step off the crosswalk and onto cement again, the partner motions toward a taxi cab, painted yellow, parked nearby. Leaning up against the cab is a tall black man, dressed in old trousers and a white tank top. His skin is darker than is usual for most who find their ancestry in emancipated slaves; the exposed musculature clearly suggests that he takes care of himself, and a layer of sweat glistens upon his ebony exterior. A cigarette is in hand, sunglasses perched over his nose.
"Hey pal," calls the one with asphalt sticking to his boots. "Lookin' for a fare?"
Kwabena steps away from the car, his lazy expression contorting into one of, well, negativity. "No. Hell no." He speaks with an impossibly thick accent while waving the cigarette in a dismissive way toward the men. "You say have de asphalt on shoes? I do not need in my cab! No fare from you. No, no, no!"
"Aw come on, buddy!"
"Fuck no!" the black man hisses. "You not fuck up my carpet. Find anodah cab! I will not drive you. Go!"
The man grunts and rumbles off, muttering something under his breath. His partner throws up a one fingered salute, to which Kwabena answers with a sneer and a bird of his own.
Speaking of birds, Hercules has collected some! The Prince of Power had been talking to a few housewives in a small nearby park. They had questions to ask the giant, shirtless man who wandered into their neighborhood. Some of them insisted on massaging his biceps and pectorals, as a form of thanks for all he did to protect the city.
Hercules would not deny them their gratitude.
A few pigeons ended up landing on his shoulders, mistaking him for a statue and now, as he makes his way along the streets of the Village, he finds that they keep trying to perch there, "Begone, sky chickens! The Son of Zeus has no time for your cooing," he says, his voice a bit frustrated. He could just drive them off roughly, but he can't quite bring himself to be violent with the things. Harmless creatures, really, and pretty in their own way.
Acclimating to 'America' was a bit rough. The dresses were a bit gaudy. Some were a bit less than. Cloth shimmered and shined and quite obviously did not match her skin. Navy blue it is. Pencil skirt. All business like, that was until she took a dagger to the sides to cut up right towards the parts that are still considered decent. Nevermind the sandals that she wears do not match, nor the fact that she's showing off her arms to the shoulders..
..oh, at least -that- is accepted here.
Oversized briefcase in tow (which carries an all too heavy shield, sword, and armor).. the gathering gaggle of todays denizens finally draw a twinkle of her eye and.. that. The hand gestures. They were odd. Was it a greeting? And her fair half-brother with pidgeons. What to do first?
"Ho! Brother!" A wave of the large bag in his direction, she needed to speak to him, and yet her path was directed towards Kwabena, where he stands and smokes.
A bird was given towards Kwabena, along with a smile, her middle finger prominent as she waves it back and forth like a symbol of pride. "Goodday. Fine vehicle. Perhaps you can take me northward? I believe it is too hot to walk and the gods did not gift me with flight, yet only a strong arm to throw should need be." Still, with a finger upright that says 'Fuck you!' "I cannot throw myself!"
Its fairly difficult to miss a woman dressed so uncharacteristically, especially when she's waggling around a middle finger like that. Kwabena would have been happy to just finish his smoke and find a less unsavory fare than the two idiots he just shoved off, but no. Beneath the shades, he's probably squinting, but he's most certainly scowling from the nose down.
At mention of a fine vehicle, the scowl becomes a scoff. "Dis thing?" the man native to the Gold Coast chops. "Piece of shit, but I don't need honkey jerk making carpet dirty."
With a flick of his hand, the cigarette is sent into the curb. Kwabena then closes the distance and reaches out with raised eyebrows, intent upon gently lowering Diana's protruded finger. "Dat is not nice gesture," he explains earnestly. "Is like saying, 'fuck you'." A pause. "Exactly like saying, 'fuck you'. I don't think dat is that you ah here for."
Then, the edges of his mouth turn up into a quirk. "I have been mistaken befah."
Now, assuming that he hasn't been thrown halfway across the East Village, Kwabena turns his head toward Hercules. "Should tell him to be cahful. De pigeons might shit on his shouldah." Reaching out, he opens the back door and steps aside for Diana.
Hercules grows closer to the two. He can't quite hear what they're talking about, in part because he was still some distance away and in part because he's a self-centered demigod who doesn't always particularly pay attention to what all the chattering monkeys around him say. Not that Diana's a chattering monkey.
Most of the time.
When Kwabena adjusts her gesture, however, Hercules' mighty brow wrinkles into a scowl and he charges forward a bit until he can loom over the pair.
"Have a care with your manhandling, Moor! You lay your hands on royalty at your peril! Touch my sister again and I'll stuff your gizzard whence the sun has never graced!"
A pause. A slow turn. "Diana," he says a little sheepishly.
"Honkey.. jerk…"
It was clear in that moment, even as Diana searches through whatever proverbial language dabatase that she's stored within her mind, that she's obviously missing a book or a lesson on American slang and swear words. In fact, most of the foul language that she has learned through text came from metaphorical words. Such as, someones mother being a mare cow and a man being the bottom of a bulls balls..
"I did not hear him squawk. Do men squawk here? The men that I do know, they do not squawk." Though, in relative to the car, she couldn't tell what a piece of shit was, but it was a glorious piece of shit, and with a lean forward to look in the window, middle finger still upright, the carpeting was immaculate. "I understand. The soles of my sandals are not dirty, though with the occasional rock and bit of sand. I shall remove them at once to not show disrespect."
As he lowers her hand, her dark eyes take stock of the hand that pushes her own, her gaze flitting down, then up, then down again with brows raised. She did not know. A 'fuck you'? What? Searching again, she finds.. nothing. "I don't understand. How does one do a fuck you? Like this?" Fingers up again! Just when a passerby passes, one who makes a wide berth around the three especially with Hercules approach.
"Woman, fuck you!" Diana hollars towards the lady.
'Fuck you too! Cunt!'
Diana cracks a laugh through Hercules insult, her hand down yet again, then raising to clap Hercules upon his shoulder, which hopefully cause the birds themselves to fly asunder. "Peace. Brother. And get into this piece of shit. We are going for a ride. Shoes off, first. We shall not disrespect this dark mans carpetting." And with those words spoken, she nearly folds like a jackknife without grunt or strain to begin to unlace her sandals.
"There is much to talk about."
At first, Kwabena does not crane his neck, even though he is now cast in the shadow of a behemoth. He instead quietly observes the exchange between Diana and the passing cunt-slinger. The gears, they are ah-spinning.
Neither of these two are dressed as if they just busted out of the mental ward.
Finally, the African does crane his neck to look up at Hercules' face. His eyes remain shrouded behind dark sunglasses, and he opens his lips… but whatever vitriol may be lying beneath his pearly whites, it happens to be shunted by Diana's peacemaking.
"My name is not, 'Moor'," answers the Ghanaian. "And I do not have dis thing, a gizzard. Dat belongs only to de birds." He nods his head toward the pigeons, trying very hard (and failing) to keep from smirking.
Leaving the door open, Kwabena watches quizzically as Diana begins unlacing her sandles. "Dat is one paht of it," he murmurs to himself, but wisely opts not to continue explaining how, exactly, one performs a 'fuck you'.
Hercules just stares blankly at Kwabena as the mortal tries to correct him. Hercules isn't particularly fond of being corrected. Or susceptible to it.
"Your expression has a mirthful cast to it, mortal. Strange indeed for one so perilously close to the Elysian Fields, crushed beneath my hands until you pop like a sheep's bladder," he says.
Then he slaps Kwabena on the back and lets loose with a loud chortle, "I like it! You have spirit, Ethiopian charioteer! Carry my sister and I forth whilst she tells me her tales of woe."
Aha. Diana never fails to enjoy to learn a lesson. She just gave a woman a very positive fuck you and she responded in kind. The women here, most of them, were bold. While the better half of their gender were meek, mild mannered, near slaves to the world of man. She shall change their minds yet.
Once the sandals were free from her feet, them, along with her rather large briefcase, were held out towards the Ghanaian to carry. Whilst she does not consider him a servant, she has seen others hand off their belongings so that the driver themselves could store it for safety. Here is to hoping the Ghanian had the strength of the Gods.
"Hercules.." Diana warns, and yet.. as he begins to laugh, she shakes her head with a 'tiss..' that escapes from her lips, ducking to carefully crawl into the backseat of the cab. It takes a moment for her to get settled, for riding in the back of a piece of shit was only the second time she had the honor. So yes. The cab would bounce and shake as it would, all due to her fussing with a proper seating position. "Tis not tales of woe! I bring news from Themyscira! And since you delight and parlay with mortals I believe you are the best ear for thought!" Her face scrunches a little, but she does not ask the question in mind until they all were inside the piece of shit.
With a grunt, Kwabena accepts the briefcase, eyebrows shooting upwards a hair at its weight. He murmurs something in his native tongue, a remark that will go indesciphered to any but himself.
With another grunt, he swings the belongings into the front seat, causing the cab to bounce a bit more. He then waits until Hercules has settled himself in as well, though he does lend the large fellow a remark as he enters.
"I do not 'pop like sheep bladdah'," he says cryptically. Then, with that same mirthful cast, he crosses the front of the cab and enters the driver's seat.
The engine fires to life with a grumble and a lurch. "I will take you uptown," he says while putting the piece of shit into gear. "Apollo Theatre?" he hazards a guess, assuming the duo must be method actors rehearsing for some Shakespearean shit or what have you.
Hercules manages to wedge himself into the vehicle, his massive shoulders almost threatening to stretch the metal confines of the opening before he finallys stuffs himself inside. He's a musky individual, giving off the radiant odeur that one casually associates with athletics or, at the very least, supporters of athletics.
"News from Themyscira, eh? Has your sainted mother finally ended her ban on males? Amazonian maidens cry out for being denied the company of Hercules, I'm told," he says. Who tells him this? Pigeons, probably.
He props his feet up on the back of the seat, his booted soles jutting awkwardly. "Apollo has a theatre?!? By Olympus, man, aye and make haste! He's the worst actor I've ever seen!"
Once everyone, as best as they could, settle within the cab, it was then Diana decides to speak. "Your name?" Her hand reaches out to tap against the seat, not wanting to call him 'moor' or 'sir' or any other name than what was given. "Apollo theatre? Heaven's no. I am going to the Avengers Manse. Perhaps you can drop dear brother off there on the after?" There was a light tilt to her tone, one born from amusement and not annoyance. Especially given the way her mother has been described.
"She did not end her ban of men. The discussion that we've had was the latest upset with.. a Doctor Doom?" Her brows raise, just to make sure that the name in itself was correct. "The robots that were scattered across the America's and attacking innocents without cause was born of man. Facts that I did have to relay to her, which was met with.. anger." Her brows furrow. "Twas unlike her. The anger. I am unsure if she means to come to this land to assert her domination and dominion through a major act of war upon the men who reside here. In ways, I am agreeable with this notion."
She looks out towards the front of the car, to the back of Kwabena's head, then beyond. "Mayhap she is right. The mortals of this earthly coil need corralling. Subjugation. And peace enforced."
"Yes," Kwabena answers the hulking man now squeezed into the back seat. "Very populah, but alllll de way uptown. I will get you dere quickly, but it will be bumpy ride."
They are already moving out into traffic when Diana asks of his name. He seems to quiet at this, and even though the shades hide his eyes, it's quite clear that he's looking at her through the rear view mirror. "My name is Kwabena," he answers, seeing no reason to be dishonest. A thing he soon begins to regret. Talk of Avengers Mansion, the robots, and a war against men has his lip curling in disgust.
There is traffic ahead, but Kwabena yanks the wheel and dips around the stopped cars, performing a slightly illegal move that sends them down a cross street and onto a less traveled avenue uptown. "Look at dis. All of dese chum'wa try and fight each oddah to take same road. Ain'wa teek ngai'to." He shakes his head, and roughly steers around cars unsure of where to go. It's reckless driving, to be sure, but they will make decent time.
Still, the conversation he prays spy to only seems to bother him further. "What makes you think dat waging war is good idea, Diana?" he asks, not hiding the prosecution in his tone. "And what is dis 'Tymesera'?" He shakes his head. "People around here do not take kindly to dis 'subjugation'. Yes, I know what it means. I'm not some dumb negro from de projects, I read a lot."
Yeah, there's a real, harsh defensiveness to his tone.
Hercules laughs and shakes his head, "You and your mother spend too much time sheltered, in your world of order and clean linens. You and your sisters all march to the same set of pipes and think the world mad when they don't hear the same song," he says.
"Mortals are messy! They have always been, always will be! They have waged wars since time immemorial - Ares has a hand in that, but as much comes from their own hearts. Promethean fire burns in their veins, it makes them restless and irritable. Their brief lives are but a flicker and, like all newborns, they wail and shit themselves at the slightest provocation," he says.
"But that doesn't mean they needs be beaten into submission. Nay, sister, they must be taught, provided an example. The gods have always wanted the worship of men, but took no responsibility for their care. If humans run rampant, they have only themselves to blame for not showing them the way,' he says.
Then he thumps the back of Kwabena's seat with a booted foot, "No one asked your opinion, mule! Drive!"
So much for egalitarianism.
Bumpy ride my ass. This was.. a slaughter to the good name of the piece of shit that he drives! And it moves well, at once point sandwiching herself against the window, another into the big and slightly smelly arm of Hercules. Was that a feather left within his hair? No time try to pick it out now.
"You mortals wage war for less." She points out towards Kwabena, with a finger pointed into the air to make a point. "Themyscira is my home. Perhaps if the drive is worthy we shall venture there." And he just may be killed. "No one takes kindly to subjugation, my negro friend. Ask your own people." She's read a lot too, there was no choice.
Though, Hercules' word does drum up a lot of hurt, there was a point to be made. "I never said that I agreed with her openly. In fact, parts of me, the warriors side of me, does agree. Mortals need to be corralled and reminded of the ways of old, worship, to respect their fellow man, to be kind to each other to fight. Perhaps, I may find that she is not all wrong. With the massacre that this Doom has caused, I have never seen men and women fight along upon the same team. And yet, a few choice words of one made me think otherwise. That men, follow men are at fault. Their thoughts of each other.." A look is given to Kwabena. "..how they feel that there is supremacy in their bones.." She never takes her eyes off of him as she says this. And with a lean foward to hook her arm upon the back of Kwabena's seat, the conversation was getting to a point where blows may be exchanged. "..and how a foot soo small based on the very color of he, push down upon those who are different."
She doesn't lean back, but she does cast a look towards Hercules. "Be kind." And it is she who speaks of war! "I understand my mothers thoughts. Yes. I do. I understand her motivations. I think it is unlike her, however, for as saintly as you call her. She is truly that. To even think of her to form an army of the people that her own daughter chooses to protect is suspect. And I like it not."
Her jaw tenses as she clenches her teeth, through that her brow raises. "You call us sheltered women. I am the first of the Amazons to step foot upon this land that is called 'Freedom'. And yet, I've seen it not. I've experienced it not. I shall return home to present a new proposal, one that my mother and my sisters cannot refuse. Bring most with me that are agreeable. Have them see. Mortals have potential, they have the fight. Yet their eyes remain shut."
Much remains hidden of what Kwabena truly thinks of this conversation. His expression remains one of stoic distaste, one that might be considered differently if his eyes were revealed, but they remain hidden for a reason.
Neither does he want for this conversation to take a turn to fisticuffs. He has his secrets, and he likes them that way. Diana serves to keep things from escalating quite that far, though at Hercules remark and taunt, he utters another word in his native tongue.
"Dere is big diffahrence between one fighting anodah, and one dropping a nuclear bomb, or murdering millions in gas chambahs." He doesn't feel a need to mention the American history of slavery, for Diana has already made that point.
"I would caution yah friend, Hercules." Kwabena turns then as they come upon a stop light, looking back toward Diana's brother. "Not every one of us is exactly what we seem." He then flicks a hand between the two of them. "Just as two of you ah not what you seem. I wondah; were you in asylum, where dey keep ones who have lost dere minds? Or ah you speaking of things around a strangah without thought of who dat strangah might be?"
Oh, he poses no harm. Kwabena is no spy or agent, just a cab driver. But… his point is made.
Hercules doesn't take Diana's ire personally. If she grows angry with him, she might hit him or give him a workout in the streets. That could be fun!
"The main difference I see comes in the rise of these superhumans. Mutants and ro-bots and what have you, all these mortals wielding powers that make them think they're gods themselves. They fling their newfound might at one another like apes hurling dross, unconcerned for the shit that splatters upon their fellows,' he says.
"But this is their world now, not ours. The gods have sat too long 'pon their clouded heights to suddenly pretend concern now," he says. "This is the bed in which we must lie."
He shifts a bit in the cab and moves until his massive, shaggy head thrusts up between the driver's and passenger seats of the cab. "Are you calling me a liar, mortal driver? I am who I say: Hercules, Son of Zeus, Slayer of the Nimean Lion, Laborer of Labors who Bore the Weight of the World. Prince of Power and God of Strength, who has walked this world for thousands upon thousands of years. Question my tongue again and I shall rip yours from your dusky skull and shove it up your arse before you greet the shades in Hades."
"Is there, Kwabena?" Diana truly asks. Though, with hope that the conversation does not go further, his words.. his dismissal of Diana and the presumed safety draws brows up, down, and up again along with the shake of her head. "We are not from ann asylum. And if we truly cared the damage a stranger like you could do, we would have expressed caution. However, the fact that you were willing to teach me a version of 'fuck you', and expressed patience of my ignorance, led me to believe that you are truly a man who could hold his tongue, even given the chance to tell me a name unlike his own."
In other words, she could probably find him and attempt to beat him to death with his own shoe.
"Ah. Them. One would think that some of the gods from our sister pantheons have dipped into the mortal pool and allowed those beings to come out differently than the norm. Or that there is truly a sleeping giant beneath our world, passing on his essense to protect him. Or her, until it is time for her to rise." She leans back, making a touch of room for Hercules' and his head, so that he could spew his grandeur to the driver..
..and if Kwabena was really watching her? He'd see the face that she makes, one born from children who openly mocked each other (behind their backs), with nose wrinkles and head waggles galore.
Her hand reaches up to attempt to grab Hercules' face, hoping to push him back into his seat so that she could wriggle herself and smoosh herself in between the seats. It was there she would reach for her bag, tugging it close. "I have a new path for you to take, my friend Kwabena. Hercules is in need of ice cream, as am I. To cool his tongue and sate his spirits, I find him intimidated and rash. Must be the wile of the Moor that spooks him."
What a bitch.
"Yes, Diana," Kwabena answers with earnest. "Some fight with honah. Oddah's do not. Dere will always be fighting, because man does not give in easily to slavery."
Now, when Hercules spews his threats, the better side of Kwabena simply loses out. Maybe it's a trick of the eye, but something ripples upon the exposed skin of his shoulders and arms; a roughness that forms and crawls down to his fingers. It almost seems as if flesh is transformed, however briefly, into something smoother and more solid, like unpolished, black steel. The steering wheel creaks when it rushes down his fingers, but the transformation is ever brief. Perhaps it has something to do with Diana's backseat mockery. Kwabena swallows deeply, hoping the whole ordeal went unnoticed.
"Friend," he says to Hercules, "it is questions like dis dat keep powahful men-" a pause. "- and women -" a glance in the rear view mirror. "- in check."
He doesn't openly acknowledge their change of course, but he knows the island of Manhattan well. A turn to the left will lead them toward Central Park, a cab stand, and ice cream a close walk from there.
Hercules snorts at the transformation, "Our charioteer, it seems, is a changeling. A child of Hephaestus, perhaps, for metal seems to run in his veins like blood. Nothing checks Hercules but Hercules! I know no spook!" he says.
He sits back at last after Diana spends a few moments groping at his face, her finger opening one of his nostrils to blow like a bull for a second before he finally sinks back into the cushions, such as they are.
He wraps his massive arms around his chest, "I'll not be called a liar, Diana, not by him, not by any. The mortal should be grateful I do not seize him bodily and demand satisfaction. I've mounted bigger stallions than he."
In the midst of pushing Hercules' back, Diana missed the entirety of Kwabena's brief transformation. It was a good thing, for she would have poked and prodded at the man until he burst, or drive them all off a bridge while crossing into the Manhattans.
"We should do well to listen to Kwabena, Hercules." The bag was soon opened, and a wad of dollars, more than she should have pulled out, were taken. As she shimmys her way into the back seat, she licks upon her fingers and begins to thumb through the bills, audibly counting, then stopping to give a look, a sympathetic one, towards Hercules.
"Twas it not you who said that they have promethian fire in their veins? That they are like messy children, who do not know better? You cannot fault him for speaking his mind, fault me, if anything. I gave him the avenue. And before you stepped into his piece of shit, you applauded him for such."
She continues to count the bills again, then clears her throat. "Though there should be shame. Our Asgardian cousins did not show the check and balances in power when they revealed themselves to the whole of the world. I've mind to do the same for us Amazons but I quite like the anonymity. Checks and balances if you will." She smiles a bit. "Now, we shall not speak of greasing Kwabena's backside, as glorious as you may find it. This will be the day of our reunion, and our ride shall end on a positive note. Yes?"
The whole affair has Kwabena grinding his teeth. He prefers his anonymity as well; not to be goaded into triggering the thing that remains mysterious to him still. He does not think in terms of gods, superhumans and mutants. His is a much more visceral existence. However, seeing as Diana seems to have missed it, Kwabena opts not to speak of it further.
He does, however, smirk a bit as they talk of how heavily they could beat him up. There would be a few surprises there, to be sure.
The cab finally rolls into the cab stand. After putting the vehicle into park, he turns about and rests his forearm upon the headrest, looking between the two of them without removing his shades.
"Diana. Hercules." A look to each in turn. "I will tell you, de way you speak? It is odd. I must not be first pahson to tell you dis. Most of dese peopah?" He gestures toward the people walking by on the sidewalk. "Dey would call you, de both of you, nuts."
He holds up a hand, hoping to stop them. "If." A pause. "… if you are not dis, 'nuts'? Den let me tell you. Be cahful who you speak with. And." He turns toward Hercules. "Do well to remembah what it was dat has brought every 'god' down from dere place of powah." He gestures again. "Is not a threat. But, no one is truly immortal."
He then casually glances toward Diana. "One and fifteen cent."
Hercules just stares at Kwabena, "Brought down? I walked down. And I'm still powerful. Haven't you been listening? I AM HERCULES," he says, shouting the last.
He shakes his head as he wrangles his way out of the cab, "I spoke of mortals broadly, Diana, as a whole. As a mass, they deserve sympathy. Many individuals," he says, turning his head back towards the cabbie, "may deserve teo be strangled with catgut, but that is neither here nor there. Tis unfair to judge the whole by the unfettered and thoughtless tongues," he says, another glare for Kwabena, "of the few."
"I, for one, shall never be anonymous. I am no pretender. I shall not become an actor like Apollo or an ambassador or wear the skin of a swan to thrust my member into the nearest unwary milkmaid. Now and forever, I am Hercules. Let the wicked tremble and the lustful swoon, for the Prince of Power strides this world!" he declares.
The metermaid staring at his pecs seems very impressed by this statement.
Diana grows quiet as the outside world is nearly shadowed by the stand, her leg lifting hesitantly to cross as she leans back into the seat. The wise words from the mortal were carefully considered, for she had begin to take things at face value now that she's had a moment of silence to speak. Even as Hercules begins his tirade, her head shakes ever so silently, quite possibly to stifle any unkind words that would rile Hercules up further. Not that she had to pay for all of the damage her brother would cause across the entire state, but she would have to pay for -this-.
She started it, after all.
"You are wrong there, Kwabena." She says with a smile. "Death is immortal. You should meet her, she's quite the odd duck, a bit too joyful, for my tastes." But, the bills within her hand were considered, forgotten about, then considered again as she peels off at least five, five dollar bills from the bundle. She knew her math, and she knew her currency, Diana -rarely- makes mistakes.
"For your troubles." She smacks it into his hand as she begins to slide, stopping to reach into the front for her large case and sandals. "Mayhap you should look into your strange heritage when you find the time. No man has ever carried this case without breaking grunt nor sweat."
Once she's out of the car, she reaches up to give Hercules' shoulder a hearty smack. "I do not believe I shall ever take you to visit Paradise Island. Our sister Nubia, alone, will murder you in your sleep."
It will take a lot more than that for Kwabena to believe that either of them are gods. He gives Hercules a friendly smile, one that probably doesn't meet his eyes. Again, shades.
"I'll meet her some day," he promises Diana, but goes silent when she gives him the best tip he's ever had. He looks down at it, considers refusal, then has a 'fuck it' moment and pockets it with a quiet, "Tank you."
Talk of his heritage goes unspoken of. Kwabena does not possess unnatural strength. He simply holds the ability to turn his legs into solid iron. That one be can control, for the most part. Neither of them realize that his arms will be sore for days to come. "Have a good day," he tells them both, before fishing around for a fresh cigarette.
The boys up at Stan's Pub are never going to believe this one.