He darted this way and that - narrowly avoiding bullets as they screeched past him and buried themselves in the town around him. On the turn of a coin he shot down an alley way, deftly leaping over crates of chickens and barrels of unknown somethings as he went. More shots whizzed past him but it didn't matter - quick as a hare he turned a corner and was out of sight again. He was code name: Black Panther.


He was shaken from the memory of his evening by his wife's usually gentle, but currently exasperated tone. On the end of his muscly, lightly scarred forearm was a weathered fist - currently buried up to the wrist - and indeed stuck in - a pickle jar.

Oh yes, he was code name: Black Panther.

Sam Littler