Marvel Monkey King: CH 7 (Patreon)

The heavy deadbolt clicked open, and Luke pushed the reinforced rear door out into the courtyard.

The night air was sharp and freezing, biting against their faces as they stepped into the narrow space between the tavern's brick back wall and a row of rusted chain-link fences. Snow lay undisturbed on the asphalt, glowing pale blue under the faint amber spill of a distant security lamp.

Jack stepped out into the frost in his socks and sneakers, exhaling a long plume of white steam.

"Watch close, big guy," Jack said, his voice laced with casual amusement.

He raised his right hand, his thumb brushing the tiny needle of black and gold dangling from his ear.

With a low, chime-like hum, the iron detached.

It dropped into Jack's open palm, lengthening in an instant with a sharp metallic snap. Within the blink of an eye, Jack stood resting his weight against a dark iron staff two meters long, its golden caps gleaming dull and heavy in the winter air.

Luke's breath caught in his throat. His dark eyes widened, tracking the weapon from base to tip.

Jack twirled the staff across his knuckles, letting the momentum hum through the cold. With a lazy flick of his wrist, the rod shrank down to one meter, balanced light as a cane. He squeezed his fingers, and the iron condensed further, narrowing down to the exact size of a thin, wooden wand.

Jack pointed the tip directly at Luke's chest, squinting one eye.

"Avada Kedavra, kekeke."

Luke stared at the tip of the rod, his face deadpan. "How big can you grow it?"

Jack scoffed, clutching his chest with an exaggerated gasp of offense. "Eww. Pervert. Take me out to dinner first."

Luke pinched the bridge of his nose, his deep voice rumbling with exhaustion. "You really do have a few screws loose, don't you?"

"Technically, you did just buy me Dominican food," Jack replied, his grin widening into something feral. "So... Ask and you shall receive."

Jack planted his boots firmly into the snowbanks, centering his balance. He closed his eyes and pushed his will into the iron.

Grow.

The staff detonated upward.

The iron swelled in diameter and surged skyward. The dark metal groaned as it climbed past three meters, past five, past eight, widening from the thickness of a broom handle into a dense, black pillar as wide as a telephone pole. Snow was blasted away from the base in a circular shockwave, the sheer gravitational weight of the weapon making the frozen asphalt creak beneath Jack's sneakers.

Luke stepped back, his neck craning as he watched the massive pillar punch into the night sky, towering over the third-story brick fire escapes.

A heavy, quiet awe settled over the alley. Luke could see it now: the terrifying origin of the boy's swagger. In a city where men bled over cheap revolvers and lead pipes, a weapon of myth changed the entire board.

"Alright," Luke called out, his voice tense. "That is enough! Pull it back!"

Luke looked down at Jack.

The boy's face had drained of color. Dark, heavy blood was pouring in a steady stream from his right nostril, splashing across his collar. Jack's knees were shaking like dry reeds, his pupils dilated with blinding pressure.

With a sudden, violent jerk, the massive pillar snapped back downward in a blur of collapsing metal. The iron hissed as it condensed, vanishing in a tiny spark of light to seat itself once more as a quiet needle in Jack's ear.

Without the weapon's support, Jack's knees folded.

He pitched forward, crashing face-first into the cold snowbank with a muffled grunt. His skull felt like a brass bell that had been struck by a sledgehammer.

'Hard limits,' Jack thought, staring at the frozen gravel inches from his nose. 'Too much weight for a hollow engine.'

Luke walked over, his heavy work boots crunching in the snow. He looked down at the battered teenager with a mixture of disbelief and quiet caution.

"What is your name, kid?" Luke asked.

Jack wiped the blood from his lip with the back of a snow-dusted sleeve, coughing weakly. "Se... Jack. Jack Hou."

Luke raised a thick brow, taking in the kid's sun-kissed skin and pale blond crop. "You half Chinese?"

Jack let out a faint, wheezing rattle. "Just honoring someone who made me who I am today."

Luke looked at him for a long moment, then extended a massive hand toward the ground. "Can you get up?"

Jack grabbed the thick fingers, letting Luke haul him upright with the ease of lifting a coat hanger.

"Don't ask to see my growth again, Luke," Jack groaned, swaying slightly before finding his footing. "I am a grower, not a shower."

Luke shook his head, slinging an arm over Jack's shoulder to steer him back inside the warm tavern. "Do you ever think for a single second before things come out of your mouth?"

Jack just laughed into the cold, the sound rattling through the quiet courtyard.

"Kekekeke."

…

The weeks that followed settled into a rhythm of bone-deep exhaustion and steady reconstruction.

Jack treated the gutting of the tavern as his private training ground. Every morning began before the winter sun cleared the tenement rooftops, fueled by monstrous portions of bodega bacon egg and cheese sandwiches, greasy pork platters, and thick black coffee.

Whenever his starved muscles tore under the weight of oak beams and concrete rubble, Jack pushed his consciousness inward, guiding the golden warmth beneath his skin to weave the torn fibers back together.

Break, heal, thicken. Day by day, the hollow grooves along his ribs filled out with lean, wiry muscle. His center of gravity, once ruined by the clumsy weight of his golden tail, became second nature.

He learned to wrap the tail snugly around his waist like a thick fur belt beneath his oversized denim, keeping the secret hidden from the avenue.

Between hauling timber, Jack devoured every scrap of newsprint he could find. He sat on milk crates by the front window, reading through weeks of The Daily Bugle and local Harlem community gazettes.

He mapped out the board.

Wilson Fisk was an invisible ghost downtown, pulling strings through front companies while the public praised his philanthropic donations. The police were spread thin, corrupt at the edges, and terrified of the shadows. There were no public heroes flying over the skyline. No costumed vigilantes swinging between the spires. It was early, brutal, and wide open.

As the tavern's structural work progressed, the job grew beyond two sets of hands.

Luke brought in a slim Black man with darting, nervous eyes and a ratty wool jacket to handle the wiring and plumbing, introduced as Turk Barrett.

Turk looked like a chronic victim of circumstance, the kind of small-time hustler who permanently owed money to three different loan sharks and jumped whenever a car backfired on the corner.

He complained incessantly about the cold, the copper pipes, and the lack of payment up front, but his hands moved fast enough when running conduit and fixing floor drains.

Then came Roy Healy.

Roy was an old veteran bartender hired to run the bar itself, balding on top with wisps of white hair and a permanent, cynical scowl. Roy spent his days chewing on a dead cigar, cataloging dusty crates of rye and bourbon, testing the soda taps, and grumbling about the quality of modern distributors.

He inspected every case of liquor like a customs agent, setting up the kitchen order and mapping out the drinks with the practiced ease of a man who had poured whiskey for half a century.

For days on end, the tavern was filled with the deafening hum of tools, the clatter of glass bottles, and the scent of sawdust and stale malt.

Jack found his own place in the chaos. He taunted Turk until the nervous hustler nearly dropped his pliers, helped Roy hoist heavy wooden liquor crates onto the top shelves without breaking a sweat, and traded quiet nods with Luke across the sawdust.

Slowly, beneath the grime and the cold, a foundation was being poured.

…

Construction, by its very nature, never moved in a straight line. There was always a pipe ready to burst, a joist hiding dry rot, or a mystery waiting behind cracked plaster.

On a gray Tuesday afternoon, Turk stood perched near the top of a six-foot aluminum stepladder, a dull scraper in his hand. He was aggressively picking at a dark, crusty brown stain bleeding through the lath near the ceiling, muttering curses under his breath.

The stuff wouldn't budge. It clung to the wood like dried asphalt.

Turk wiped sweat from his brow, looked down, and called across the hall. "Jack! Hey, kid!"

Jack was near the back exit, stacking two-by-fours with easy rhythm. He didn't look up. "What?"

"What the hell is this brown shit?" Turk pointed the scraper at the ceiling.

Jack tossed the final timber onto the pile, brushed the sawdust from his sleeves, and walked over. He stood at the base of the ladder, craning his neck upward.

"Step down," Jack said. "Switch places so I can get a close look."

Turk glared down from his perch, setting his jaw. "You. Can. See. Just. Fine. From. Where. You. Are."

Jack stared at him for a second, then shrugged. "Fine."

He turned and strolled away toward the storage alcove.

Turk smugly returned to picking at the wall with his scraper. "Yeah, that's what I thought. It's my goddamn ladder."

Thirty seconds later, the metallic scrape of aluminum rattled across the subfloor.

Jack dragged an eight-foot heavy-duty stepladder over, planting it directly beside Turk's with an intentional, mocking clang.

Turk looked sideways, his face twisting in disgust. "Oh, you are such a fucking jackoff."

Jack scrambled up the rungs two at a time, perching himself on the top step so he stood a full head higher than the electrician.

"Mine is bigger too," Jack grinned.

"You think you're so fucking cool, don't you?" Turk sneered.

"I am fucking cool," Jack shot back, leaning in toward the ceiling. "And by the way, why are you even scraping plaster? The breaker box you're supposed to be wiring is ten feet behind you on the floor."

Turk puffed his chest out defensively. "I'm the site supervisor."

Roy Healy shuffled past beneath them, carrying a wooden crate of fresh glassware with an unlit cigar rolling in his teeth.

"Supervisor of what, exactly?" Roy grunted, not even bothering to look up.

Jack ignored them, reaching out with a thumb to scrape a flake of the brown crust. He brought it to his nose, his expression tightening.

"Shit," Jack muttered. "That's mold. Black mold. We need to call Luke."

Turk rolled his eyes with an exaggerated groan. "Oh, look at little Jack. You wanna call your daddy now?"

"This is serious, you idiot," Jack retorted, swatting at Turk's shoulder. "Internet say mold eats through the studs. You want the whole roof coming down on your ratty beanie?"

The two of them continued bickering back and forth like squabbling brothers, their voices echoing off the bare brick walls.

Roy chuckled from behind the bar, shaking his head at the circus.

Chime.

The small brass bell above the front entrance rang.

Roy turned toward the front with an easy smirk. "Boss, you gotta come handle these two morons before they..."

The words died on Roy's tongue.

It wasn't Luke.

Four broad-shouldered men in heavy black wool coats stepped through the door, fanning out with practiced discipline to flank the entrance. The street noise of Harlem was cut off as the door swung shut behind them.

Roy's posture shifted in an instant. His hands rested flat against the mahogany bar, the old bartender's eyes turning guarded and cold.

"Gentlemen," Roy said, his voice level. "Apologies, but we have yet to open for business."

A fifth man stepped inside, moving with the slow, effortless grace of an apex predator.

He was tall and impeccably groomed, wearing an open, floor-length brown mink coat over a crisp black shirt. A heavy gold Rolex glinted beneath his French cuffs as he smoothed his lapels with manicured fingers.

Cornell Stokes.

Cottonmouth.

"Oh, we know," Cottonmouth said, his voice smooth as aged scotch. "We aren't looking for a drink, old-timer. We are just here to handle our own."

Up near the ceiling, the bickering stopped instantly.

Jack leaned over the ladder rail, looking down toward the front. Beside him, Turk peeked around the exposed drywall pillar.

The moment Turk's eyes landed on the mink coat, the color drained completely from his face. His jaw went slack, his hands trembling so violently on the ladder that the aluminum frame rattled against the floor. He instinctively recoiled, trying to shrink into the shadows of the joists.

Cottonmouth's gaze drifted upward. His dark eyes caught Turk's silhouette in half a heartbeat.

"Barrett..." Cottonmouth purred, taking a slow step forward. "Is it proper to leave a guest standing around like this?"

Jack glanced sideways at Turk. "He's looking for you?"

Turk didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat had locked up, cold sweat beading on his forehead as he stared down at the floor like a condemned man waiting for the trapdoor to drop.

Seeing Turk paralyzed like that, Jack climbed down his ladder with fluid, silent agility.

He stepped into the center of the tavern floor, wiping drywall dust from his jeans, and walked straight toward the front entrance.

"Alright," Jack called out, his voice sharp and unhurried. "What is going on here? Surely there are other handymen in Harlem."

Cottonmouth tilted his head slightly, leaning to peer past Jack's shoulder, keeping his focus locked on the trembling figure up on the ladder.

"Is that what you are now, Barrett?" Cottonmouth asked, a thin, cruel smile touching his lips. "A handyman?"

Jack took a deliberate step to the left, cutting off Cottonmouth's line of sight entirely.

He looked up, meeting Cottonmouth's gaze dead-on.

"I'm talking to you, fur coat."

Behind Cottonmouth, two of the heavy bodyguards stiffened, their hands dipping beneath the lapels of their overcoats.

Cottonmouth raised a single hand, his fingers flicking in a silent command that froze his men in place.

His smile deepened, amused by the suicidal boldness of the scrawny teenager standing in his way. With two fingers, Cottonmouth slowly lowered his dark sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, revealing cold, reptilian eyes that locked onto Jack's golden-amber gaze.

"And who might you be, little man?" Cottonmouth asked softly.

Jack didn't blink. "Not some asshole who thinks wearing sunglasses indoors is a good look."

A sharp bark of laughter escaped Cottonmouth's chest. He shook his head, thoroughly entertained, and took a slow step closer until he towered over the boy.

He reached out, brushing a smudge of gray plaster from Jack's shoulder with exaggerated gentleness.

"Seems today isn't a good day for business," Cottonmouth whispered, his tone dropping into something icy and dangerous. "Let me tell you this, kid. Harlem is mine. Tell your boss to read the street map a little better next time."

Jack's mind churned behind his impassive face.

The threat wasn't for him. Cottonmouth had delivered the words to his face, but his arrival had been aimed square at Turk. Why? Did Turk owe Stokes money? Was Turk running back-alley games for Kingpin's syndicate?

Cottonmouth turned on his heel, his mink coat swirling around his calves as he strolled back toward the double doors.

A bodyguard pulled the door open, letting the freezing winter wind rush into the tavern once more.

At the threshold, Cottonmouth paused. He turned his head slightly over his fur collar, looking back into the dim hall.

"Oh," Cottonmouth added casually. "Tell Cage to hand over the guy who killed those three parasites in the alley. I have a little thank-you gift for him."

He pushed his sunglasses back up his nose and stepped out into the avenue, his crew trailing behind him like wolves.

The glass door swung shut with a quiet rattle.

Jack stood alone in the center of the floor, the cold draft washing over his ankles.

A slow, feral grin spread across his face as the final piece clicked into place.

'Well, shit,' Jack thought, his golden tail twitching beneath his waistband. 'That one was for me.'