The sun set. A siren sounded in the distance. To George Jefferson this meant only one thing: crime. Some messed up human being had decided he was not bound by the common laws of society and had decided to something foolish and hurtful. This city was rife with crime, and George Jefferson had had enough. Today was the day he did something about it.
George Jefferson drew his blinds in his small one-room apartment. He slipped on his combat boots and put on his bullet-proof vest, a relic from his police days. He put on his leather trenchcoat, and filled its pockets with more relics from his time on the force - handcuffs. He picked up the large sword lying on his TV. That sword was the answer. A year ago a crazy man had tried to rob a convenience store with the weapon, claiming he was King Arthur reincarnated or something. That man had given Jefferson the scar over his left eye. That was a month before Jefferson gave up his job. He had stolen the sword out of the evidence locker on his way out. It certainly looked like it was from Medieval times. He remembered the strange feeling he got when he saw that sword, like he knew he would need it for something. Now he knew what that something was.
He latched the old sword on to he belt, then reached for his black mask, which covered his whole head. He had picked it up earlier this morning from a costume shop. He wasn't sure if he really needed it -- there was no one who he really needed to protect his identity from. He figured it just came from reading too many comic books as a kid. Plus, it made him look twice as intimidating, which was saying a lot. Jefferson was already a large, well-built black man, and being intimidating was rarely a problem.
Jefferson climbed out of his window and down the fire escape. He jumped on to the roof of the adjacent building. He stood there for a moment thinking. Too long he had fought the long war without seeing any change. Too long. Now he was going to do something about it, something different. His coat blew quietly in the wind. He drew his sword. The moon was full behind him. The sword glistened. Jefferson smiled a little bit. He felt like a motherf---ing superhero.
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Holger woke and from within his straw mattress, he found the only item he inherited from his parents. Wrapped in a white cloth, the ancient heirloom was passed down generations.
Holger Vollsunger is the descendant of Sirgurd the Dragon-Slayer son of Sigmund from the house of Odin. The only item inherited from his parents was the great sword Sigmund pulled out of the hard wood of the apple tree. The heavy double-bladed iron sword measured almost six feet in length. The hilt was almost a foot across curling upwards into branched points that would kill anyone who would have lived through the initial thrust of the blade. The blood that stained the sword's iron antlers continued along the entire blade of the sword. The cold iron grip of the sword fit comfortably in Holger's warm calloused hand. The broad blade imbued by Thor never broke or lost its sharpness. It could hack through the strongest armour, yet it could still slice a tomato. The sheath was made of the same material as the sword with the owners' names etched into the metal. On the side of each name were notches, a tally of those killed by the sword. Over eight hundred years of the sword's existence resulted in almost a thousand dying at the sword. The past few owners had no notches next to their name, but Holger knew that two more would be added, soon. If not, Holger would meet his death.
Holger knew in the entire area there were only two people that might be able to rival his size, George Jefferson and Oscar the Butcher. He knew that soon the time would come for them to fight for control of the town since the mayor sat in his office embezzling money and the true police officers were corrupt or weak. Holger had no love for Jefferson or the Butcher. He needed to take control if the neighborhood would thrive. The Butcher would make money but only for the corrupt. Jefferson would clean the neighborhood, but then would lose control as his idealistic views for a clean neighborhood would die with him. The door knocked. He wrapped the sword and hid it in the mattress again. He answered the door where a Latin American women was standing. He sensed some German in her though.
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