Hi. I’m Superman. I must be. I have more money than the government. That will change next week when I pay my taxes. I own a few companies, which keeps me in spending money. Actually, a couple of them rival Microsoft in size—and if you can trace any of them back to me, you’re good, damn good. I can out-work, out-fight, and out-fuck any man I’ve ever met. The scars that adorn my body come from miscalculation a couple times, overwhelming odds more often, and just being in the wrong place at the wrong time once in a while. They were caused by bullet, knife, bomb, assorted violent impacts, and the surgeon’s scalpel. I am on friendly terms with the leaders of most of the countries on Earth. The rest I deal with from a position of overwhelming strength. I have many names; some are even acceptable in mixed company. The one I usually go by is John. It’s a nice, common name. Every language has its own version of it: Juan, Johan, Jean, etc.
I own a mountain in the Kananaskis country west of Calgary. It’s in a green area, and if you can trace ownership past the government, I want you working for me—or dead. It’s my home away from home, away from home, away from … oh, to hell with it. You get the picture. You could lean against my front door and not realize it. A lot of bad people have spent a lot of money and lives trying to find it.
To be quite honest, I own two mountains. One is my home; the other is the headquarters of Terran Planetary Police—better known as TerraCop. A lot of real talented people haven’t been able to find that one either, in spite of the billions of dollars worth of high-tech equipment in constant use within.
Don’t feel bad if you’ve never heard of TerraCop. If you’re an honest, law-abiding soul, average cop, or even a low-rung criminal, odds are you haven’t. We go after the big guys, the international criminals that national laws can’t get. We’re sort of like Interpol, but more widely spread, more powerful, and a hell of a lot more successful. We don’t quit. Once your file is referred to us by your nation, it is open and active until you’re dead.
I’ve spent billions getting TerraCop set up and functioning. Not all of it was my own money, of course, but a fair chunk of it was. That’s why my net worth of 900-odd million is low right now. I don’t mind. I’ll leave the big figures to those who care. What happens to the tax rate once you cross that billion-dollar line is downright unfriendly. It strains the hell out of the imaginations of really sharp tax accountants.
I have a harem. Eight eyeball-poppin’ lovely and lusty ladies. They’re all ages, from my own down to nineteen. (It’s hard to believe she’s been with me three years already.) They are why I claim to be a superman. I manage to keep them all sexually satisfied.
That sounds strange, considering I had a wife at one time. I was totally monogamous for forty-plus years, until she and the kids were killed by a drunk driver. Diana was always in my life. Right from my earliest memories she was there, and we loved each other. They tried to separate us once, put us in separate foster homes. We both cut up such a fuss that they scrapped that notion fair quick. It would seem no one wanted to adopt a pair, so we stayed at the orphanage until we reached the grand old age of fourteen.
There was a lot of shit going on with one of the other inmates—an older boy who wanted Diana and wouldn’t accept that Di didn’t want him. If you’re involved with criminality, either committing or apprehending, you probably know of him. He calls himself Lucifer. The name fits.
Anyway, the situation came to a head. The choice was get out or kill him before he killed me. I didn’t want to kill him—then. I couldn’t come up with a way to do it that wouldn’t land me in deep shit. I looked older than I was. I could pass for eighteen easily, and had done so quite regularly in my business dealings. (Sneaking out of that place was no great trick at all.) So one day Di and I walked out of the orphanage and never returned.
Harem Master contains sexually explicit material.