When the two were through training, Turner sent David to the store at the corner of Drexter to buy ribs for dinner. As David walked down his street, he saw a pretty woman being picked on and whistled at by immature men. Across the street, he saw three young boys throwing rocks into the windows of the already half-destroyed houses. When he passed another house, he could hear a man and a woman screaming and fighting. A police car rode by with an officer eating hamburgers with a man who had robbed the local mall just the week before.
David Johnson had gotten use to all these things happening in his neighborhood, everything from the immature men to the corrupt police force. But now it was beginning to anger him and his hands began to glow slightly. He was so angry that he didn’t notice the others looking at him. When he walked by the immature men, they cowered at his sight and let the girl walk away. The young boys saw David Johnson, dropped the rocks from their hands and immediately ran in the opposite direction.
He was calm by the time he got to the store. The corner store was run by Pat Hunt, a friend of Turner’s. Pat was a short man, with short gray hair and a large pepper black mustache.
“Hey Dave,” Pat said from behind the counter. “How’s Turner?”
“He’s good,” David said. “I won’t be long. Just coming to get some ribs.”
David paid for the ribs, tipped Pat with the change, and left the store. But as David was walking out, he saw the man who was eating with the police officer trying to yank a purse away from an older woman. They both struggled before the thug pushed the woman to the ground and ran off with the purse.
David Johnson raced after him, not even realizing that he had dropped his bag of ribs. The thug was looking inside the purse with a devious smile when he heard David yelling behind him.
The thug pulled a knife from his pocket and stabbed at David. David evaded the weapon, but the thug was able to land a punch that cut David just below his eye. David fired back quickly with a right hand to the body, a cross with the left hand, then finished him with an uppercut.
David’s hands were again glimmering orange when the thug staggered to the ground. David grabbed him by his shirt and was about to punch him again as the thug started ranting.
“Go ahead, hit me!” the thug said smiling with a bruise left cheek. “C’mon, hit me again! I ain't afraid of you."
David Johnson looked into the man’s face. He wanted to punish him. Maybe even send a message to the rest of the gangs in The Box. David took a handful of the man’s hair. And then a small group from the neighborhood gathered around him. They saw David’s hands burning orange with intensity. He was going to hurt the thug very badly. The people in small crowd were too afraid to stop him, but not enough to leave.
David’s fist began to rise above the thug’s head, watching the sweat coming down his face as he began to brace himself. There were small cries coming from the crowd, calling for mercy. David wasn’t listening. His mind was made up.
But just as his fist was about to make impact, a boy with brown dreadlocks suddenly appeared and grabbed David’s arm with his hand. With his other hand, the boy pointed his palm to the sky.
“Give these people peace, Father God,” the boy called out. “Give them all peace.”
The crowd suddenly fell silent. Everyone, including the thug, stopped speaking and quietly walked away. Then David and the boy began to disappear into nothingness.
Warrior Minister
David Johnson has been one of God’s most faithful servants, a balance of kindhearted empathy, fierce courage, humorous insight, and almost unparalleled fighting strength. But it hadn’t always been that way. From his troubled childhood to conquering the sins of his past, witness the origin story of the Miracleverse’s most celebrated warrior.
The 22-part series will be updated twice a month on the 6th and the 22nd at 3:05 PM starting August 2011.
Episode 9
David Johnson and his grandfather, Turner were training in the large basement of his home in The Box, a mass of empty space that reeked with the stench of hard work. The drops of perspiration on the gray floor made it look as if there had just been a rainstorm. In the far corner was a stack of steel dumbbells, a white jump rope and a pair of black boxing gloves.
David was wearing a white t-shirt, black gym shorts and white tape wrapped around his hands. There was a large red punching bag hanging in between him and Turner. The old man was hugging the bag as David dug his fists into it. Right, Left, Right, Right, Left, Right, Left.
The music was loud and booming. The Greater Hope Community Choir had produced a CD and the two men were listening to praise songs as David Johnson continued his training.
“C'mon son,” Turner Johnson said, “you bedda hit dat bag like God love you. He's been too good! He's worthy to be praised! He is awesome in dis place. It is He who arms you with strength and makes yo way perfect. Now c’mon, son! Hit dat bag like he’s been good to ya!”
David Johnson loved to hear his grandfather’s voice, especially when he was training. Turner always knew just how to get him fired up. They had been in the basement of their house on Drexter Avenue for almost seven straight hours. David was exhausted, but Turner pushed him until he found his second wind. And his third wind. And his one-hundred and twenty-third wind.
“Time!” the old man yelled, observing the small, plastic watch on his wrist. “Dat's good for now.”
David Johnson grabbed the white towel that hung around Turner’s neck and wiped the sweat from his face. Then he sat on the floor, leaned his back against the wall and took a swig of water from the orange bottle that sat next to him.
Turner put on a slow gospel song to cool David down as he watched him unwrap the tap from his hands. Ever since his exhibition match with George Dean, something had change in David Johnson. His wasn’t getting in trouble, his grades were improving and he was talking to Turner about college. He and Turner had been talking about many things, about being man of God, about his mother before he was born, about cooking ribs.
But there was one thing that they never discussed.
David Johnson never told Turner about the burning, about what his hands could do, how they could erupt into fire.
It had started not long after he defeated George Dean. He ignored it as best he could until one day, while he was training by himself at night, his hands began to glow orange by themselves. He hadn’t been sure what to do ever since.
David was wearing a white t-shirt, black gym shorts and white tape wrapped around his hands. There was a large red punching bag hanging in between him and Turner. The old man was hugging the bag as David dug his fists into it. Right, Left, Right, Right, Left, Right, Left.
The music was loud and booming. The Greater Hope Community Choir had produced a CD and the two men were listening to praise songs as David Johnson continued his training.
“C'mon son,” Turner Johnson said, “you bedda hit dat bag like God love you. He's been too good! He's worthy to be praised! He is awesome in dis place. It is He who arms you with strength and makes yo way perfect. Now c’mon, son! Hit dat bag like he’s been good to ya!”
David Johnson loved to hear his grandfather’s voice, especially when he was training. Turner always knew just how to get him fired up. They had been in the basement of their house on Drexter Avenue for almost seven straight hours. David was exhausted, but Turner pushed him until he found his second wind. And his third wind. And his one-hundred and twenty-third wind.
“Time!” the old man yelled, observing the small, plastic watch on his wrist. “Dat's good for now.”
David Johnson grabbed the white towel that hung around Turner’s neck and wiped the sweat from his face. Then he sat on the floor, leaned his back against the wall and took a swig of water from the orange bottle that sat next to him.
Turner put on a slow gospel song to cool David down as he watched him unwrap the tap from his hands. Ever since his exhibition match with George Dean, something had change in David Johnson. His wasn’t getting in trouble, his grades were improving and he was talking to Turner about college. He and Turner had been talking about many things, about being man of God, about his mother before he was born, about cooking ribs.
But there was one thing that they never discussed.
David Johnson never told Turner about the burning, about what his hands could do, how they could erupt into fire.
It had started not long after he defeated George Dean. He ignored it as best he could until one day, while he was training by himself at night, his hands began to glow orange by themselves. He hadn’t been sure what to do ever since.
Episode 8
The door of George Dean's room creaked open and his father walked in. Jonathan Dean was like George’s clone, only with small wrinkles in his skin and a fully shaved head. He looked over at his son. Jonathan’s face was neither kind nor caring, neither considerate or compassionate. He hadn’t asked whether or not George had suffered any serious injuries during his exhibition match with David Johnson. And he wasn’t going to.
“Your life is an extension of my own.” Jonathan began his lecture. “And my life is an extension of the Dean family heirs that came before me. No more. No less. And the actions you take, be they honorable or embarrassing, reflect not only my life and yours, but also on Dean Enterprises and everything this family has built.”
George was about to respond. But just as he opened his mouth, his father shot him a look of dismissal.
“In your defensive,” Jonathan continued, “I have no idea why Principal Nelson would authorize such a ludicrous exhibition match. But I assure you he has been chastised. Having said that, George, the boy was an amateur. This David Johnson character shouldn’t have been able to touch you. And you let him beat you within an inch of defeat.”
Jonathan sighed.
“For the good of the family, I banish you from this household," Jonathan said, his voice completely void of emotion. “Everything has been arranged. In light of your failure, I expect you to comply. It's the least you can do for embarrassing this family. Tonight will be your last dinner. You'll leave in the morning. My public relations staff will release a statement saying you will attend a boarding school in Europe. Frankly, I don't care what you do. As long as you're gone in the morning.”
And his father was gone. George Dean sat at his desk ashamed and confused. David Johnson did things with trash that he couldn’t do with the finest combat training in the world. And that’s what humiliated him the most. He stared callously at the reflection in the mirror on his desk, his eyes narrow, dark and menacing. And he made a vow.
I’ll get you, David Johnson, George Dean thought. You won’t get away with making a fool of me.
“Your life is an extension of my own.” Jonathan began his lecture. “And my life is an extension of the Dean family heirs that came before me. No more. No less. And the actions you take, be they honorable or embarrassing, reflect not only my life and yours, but also on Dean Enterprises and everything this family has built.”
George was about to respond. But just as he opened his mouth, his father shot him a look of dismissal.
“In your defensive,” Jonathan continued, “I have no idea why Principal Nelson would authorize such a ludicrous exhibition match. But I assure you he has been chastised. Having said that, George, the boy was an amateur. This David Johnson character shouldn’t have been able to touch you. And you let him beat you within an inch of defeat.”
Jonathan sighed.
“For the good of the family, I banish you from this household," Jonathan said, his voice completely void of emotion. “Everything has been arranged. In light of your failure, I expect you to comply. It's the least you can do for embarrassing this family. Tonight will be your last dinner. You'll leave in the morning. My public relations staff will release a statement saying you will attend a boarding school in Europe. Frankly, I don't care what you do. As long as you're gone in the morning.”
And his father was gone. George Dean sat at his desk ashamed and confused. David Johnson did things with trash that he couldn’t do with the finest combat training in the world. And that’s what humiliated him the most. He stared callously at the reflection in the mirror on his desk, his eyes narrow, dark and menacing. And he made a vow.
I’ll get you, David Johnson, George Dean thought. You won’t get away with making a fool of me.
Episode 7
There was complete and total silence in George Dean’s bedroom at the Dean Family Mansion, located in the suburban area of Union Cross called Green County.
George Dean sat in deep contemplation with his elbow resting on the marble desk in his room, letting his cheeks sag in between his fingers. His room wasn’t like the typical room of a fourteen-year old boy, with toys and video games. He was all business. The walls and floors were made of rich brown wood. He had pictures of his many excursions around the world mounted everywhere.
At his desk was a highly-advanced computer with a holographic screen that was programmed to respond only to his voice. Across from his king-sized bed was a 79-inch flat-screen TV buried into the wall. In his dresser drawers were silk pajamas and a small compartment with imported colognes. But George wasn’t thinking about any of that. As he caressed the red scar running down the side of his face, the only thing on his mind was the exhibition match he had won against David Johnson, a victory that he could neither relish nor celebrate. Because had it not been for a strange stroke of fate, he would have been utterly defeated.
He sat there as his desk remembering the match, remembering David Johnson like a horrible dream. David’s movements were the fastest, most fluid of any combatant George had ever dealt with. The attacks came and went like scattered showers of precision and accuracy. It didn’t matter what he did or how advanced his weaponry was. It didn’t matter that he had been through the finest combat training programs money could buy. George Dean couldn’t keep up with him.
He remembered it all, remembered lying on the ground, remembered David Johnson standing over him with that arm cannon made from garbage. He remembered the absolutely horrified expressions on the faces of the ATSD board members, like they had just seen the world end three times. He remembered Principal Nelson’s insipid looking smile.
And he remembered the final seconds of the match, remembered click-click in David’s arm cannon and why it wouldn’t fire its final shot, the one that would have render his severely damaged battlesuit incapable of continuing the match. The cannon had been powered by gasoline. And it had run out just in time. Since David couldn’t continue, George had won the match.
Some victory, George thought.
George Dean sat in deep contemplation with his elbow resting on the marble desk in his room, letting his cheeks sag in between his fingers. His room wasn’t like the typical room of a fourteen-year old boy, with toys and video games. He was all business. The walls and floors were made of rich brown wood. He had pictures of his many excursions around the world mounted everywhere.
At his desk was a highly-advanced computer with a holographic screen that was programmed to respond only to his voice. Across from his king-sized bed was a 79-inch flat-screen TV buried into the wall. In his dresser drawers were silk pajamas and a small compartment with imported colognes. But George wasn’t thinking about any of that. As he caressed the red scar running down the side of his face, the only thing on his mind was the exhibition match he had won against David Johnson, a victory that he could neither relish nor celebrate. Because had it not been for a strange stroke of fate, he would have been utterly defeated.
He sat there as his desk remembering the match, remembering David Johnson like a horrible dream. David’s movements were the fastest, most fluid of any combatant George had ever dealt with. The attacks came and went like scattered showers of precision and accuracy. It didn’t matter what he did or how advanced his weaponry was. It didn’t matter that he had been through the finest combat training programs money could buy. George Dean couldn’t keep up with him.
He remembered it all, remembered lying on the ground, remembered David Johnson standing over him with that arm cannon made from garbage. He remembered the absolutely horrified expressions on the faces of the ATSD board members, like they had just seen the world end three times. He remembered Principal Nelson’s insipid looking smile.
And he remembered the final seconds of the match, remembered click-click in David’s arm cannon and why it wouldn’t fire its final shot, the one that would have render his severely damaged battlesuit incapable of continuing the match. The cannon had been powered by gasoline. And it had run out just in time. Since David couldn’t continue, George had won the match.
Some victory, George thought.
Episode 6
As the figure glided slowly into the ATSD gymnasium, the dome ceiling began to close up. The figure was a young man dressing in a black and silver battlesuit that sparkled brilliantly even after the sun’s illumination was gone.
“Several of our academy’s teachers, students, and top engineers have called George a prodigy,” Principal Nelson said. “In terms of battles, he has the highest ranking of any student here. His training records, as well as his academic transcripts, are flawless.”
“Well whoopdie freakin' doo,” David said.
“The battlesuit he is wearing today is called the DeanMachine 3.0,” Nelson continued. “It's laced with an exoskeleton that increases his speed, strength and agility to fantastic levels. The exterior has been coated with a new kind of liquid titanium.”
“Great,” David said, looking at his arm cannon and shaking his head.
“We'd like to thank you both for coming,” Nelson finished. “This should be an excellent exhibition match.”
George Dean was the son of the city’s wealthiest man, Jonathan Dean, president and CEO of Dean Enterprises, the world leader in high-tech weaponry and transportation. And it was with the help of his father’s company that George’s battlesuit was made possible. Jonathan’s only son was given everything that he desired. He enjoyed life’s finer things – the biggest house in the city; summer trips to European castles and South American vacation homes; the city’s basketball team coming to his birthday party ever year.
George, however, was also a very rude young man, a cunning strategist who would endlessly boast his brilliance as he pummeled his opponents. The helmet on his battlesuit began to retract. George Dean had fine blond hair, the kind that only the best conditioners were worthy of. He was slim, had ocean blue eyes, and sharp, shining white teeth, as if all he had to do was smile to prove that he was better than you.
“Good afternoon,” George said. His voice was pure arrogance. Then he sighed. “Another one of Nelson’s prospective students, I presume?”
“My name is David,” he replied.
George focused his eyes on David’s arm cannon.
“You don’t actually intend to compete in that ridiculous looking object, do you?” George asked frankly as he pointed at the device. “What did you do? Wrap a pile of metal together and glue it around your arm with dog intestines or something?”
With a frustrated huff, George Dean pressed a button on his suit and spoke into a small, unseen microphone wired into the observation room.
“Nelson!?” George demanded. “Nelson, what is this? You really expect me to waste my time on this…this…whatever this is.”
“I expect you to represent this school in an honorable fashion,” Nelson said with a friendly voice. “These people are guest here. Show them some respect.”
“Very well, Nelson,” George pouted. “But you'll be hearing from my father.”
George shifted his attention back to David, giving him a crass, rather insincere smile.
“Listen, Donald –”
“It's David.”
“David, of course,” George said, his every word slithering from his throat. “Listen, why don't you just run along and go home. I don't want to be forced to fight you. You'll just embarrass yourself even more than you already have. So just go back to your Box. Or the sewer. Or wherever it is that you came from and care for your grandfather. My goodness, look at the man. He's so old and tired.”
David almost spat back a vile, profanity-laced response, but his grandfather’s hands gently fell on his shoulders just before he let it loose.
“Don’t worry about him,” Turner said. “I got faith in you, son. But I got mo’ faith in He that’s in you. No weapon form against you shall prosper. Not even his.”
“Alright,” Nelson said. “The rules are simple. You will battle until you are told to stop or until the other person’s device becomes non-functional. Ready…Set….Go!”
“Several of our academy’s teachers, students, and top engineers have called George a prodigy,” Principal Nelson said. “In terms of battles, he has the highest ranking of any student here. His training records, as well as his academic transcripts, are flawless.”
“Well whoopdie freakin' doo,” David said.
“The battlesuit he is wearing today is called the DeanMachine 3.0,” Nelson continued. “It's laced with an exoskeleton that increases his speed, strength and agility to fantastic levels. The exterior has been coated with a new kind of liquid titanium.”
“Great,” David said, looking at his arm cannon and shaking his head.
“We'd like to thank you both for coming,” Nelson finished. “This should be an excellent exhibition match.”
George Dean was the son of the city’s wealthiest man, Jonathan Dean, president and CEO of Dean Enterprises, the world leader in high-tech weaponry and transportation. And it was with the help of his father’s company that George’s battlesuit was made possible. Jonathan’s only son was given everything that he desired. He enjoyed life’s finer things – the biggest house in the city; summer trips to European castles and South American vacation homes; the city’s basketball team coming to his birthday party ever year.
George, however, was also a very rude young man, a cunning strategist who would endlessly boast his brilliance as he pummeled his opponents. The helmet on his battlesuit began to retract. George Dean had fine blond hair, the kind that only the best conditioners were worthy of. He was slim, had ocean blue eyes, and sharp, shining white teeth, as if all he had to do was smile to prove that he was better than you.
“Good afternoon,” George said. His voice was pure arrogance. Then he sighed. “Another one of Nelson’s prospective students, I presume?”
“My name is David,” he replied.
George focused his eyes on David’s arm cannon.
“You don’t actually intend to compete in that ridiculous looking object, do you?” George asked frankly as he pointed at the device. “What did you do? Wrap a pile of metal together and glue it around your arm with dog intestines or something?”
With a frustrated huff, George Dean pressed a button on his suit and spoke into a small, unseen microphone wired into the observation room.
“Nelson!?” George demanded. “Nelson, what is this? You really expect me to waste my time on this…this…whatever this is.”
“I expect you to represent this school in an honorable fashion,” Nelson said with a friendly voice. “These people are guest here. Show them some respect.”
“Very well, Nelson,” George pouted. “But you'll be hearing from my father.”
George shifted his attention back to David, giving him a crass, rather insincere smile.
“Listen, Donald –”
“It's David.”
“David, of course,” George said, his every word slithering from his throat. “Listen, why don't you just run along and go home. I don't want to be forced to fight you. You'll just embarrass yourself even more than you already have. So just go back to your Box. Or the sewer. Or wherever it is that you came from and care for your grandfather. My goodness, look at the man. He's so old and tired.”
David almost spat back a vile, profanity-laced response, but his grandfather’s hands gently fell on his shoulders just before he let it loose.
“Don’t worry about him,” Turner said. “I got faith in you, son. But I got mo’ faith in He that’s in you. No weapon form against you shall prosper. Not even his.”
“Alright,” Nelson said. “The rules are simple. You will battle until you are told to stop or until the other person’s device becomes non-functional. Ready…Set….Go!”
Episode 5
Both David and Turner Johnson walked through the doors of the gym almost completely overwhelmed by its splendor and sophistication. Turner, carrying a cane and walking with a slight gimp in his leg, wore a plain white shirt with gray pants and suspenders. David wore his usual outfit, except around his right arm was a crude looking device, an ugly, dripping mass of rusting metal crawling up to his elbow with a large barrel protruding from the top of it.
“What is that…that disgusting looking thing around his arm?!” Ms. Dawes was completely horrified.
“Looks like some type of...arm cannon,” Mr. Taylor said with a curious smile.
“A very primitive arm cannon,” Mr. James said sternly.
“Well it’s horrible looking!” Ms. Dawes replied. “I hope he doesn't expect to win with that thing.”
It was, in fact, a gas-powered arm cannon that David had been working on, made from refurbished computer parts and old automobile gears. The cannon was armed with about ten million rounds of extra tiny balls of plastic using an automatic propulsion system David made with toy engines connected to tiny magnets.
Mrs. Warren turned to Nelson.
“Nelson, if this goes bad, I will personally hold you responsible,” she said slowly, letting each word grind into his ears.
Nelson smiled. “Understood, Mrs. Warren. But I've got a feeling this is going to be a more interesting match that you're expecting.”
Then he handed out files with more information about David Johnson, as well as comparison data that assessed how well his skills would match up with the current class of ATSD students. While the others looked over the files, Principal Nelson began receiving instructions from communication device in his ear.
“Yes…ok,” Nelson spoke with a hand over his ear. “Yes, his grandfather is here with him, but that shouldn’t be a problem…ok…very good. Thank you. We’re ready.”
Nelson walked over to the gymnasium microphone and clicked it on.
“Good afternoon,” Nelson began, the sound system filling the gymnasium with his voice. “My name is Principal Nelson. On behalf of myself and the executive board, I would like to welcome you both to the Academy of Technology and Self-Defense. We are all extremely delighted to host you. Now if you would be so kind as to take a few steps back, we will be opening the top of the gym to bring in your opponent.”
David and Turner moved toward the gymnasium walls. Suddenly, the dome ceiling over the gym slowly split open into two halves, like a gigantic egg being cracked above them. Sunshine began to bleed into the vast gym, the wind from the outside whooshing all around them. David and Turner covered their faces for a moment. Then out of the glare of the sun came a sleek figure slowly and silently descending into the gym.
“May I introduce to you,” Nelson said, “our most prized student, Georg Otis Dean.”
“What is that…that disgusting looking thing around his arm?!” Ms. Dawes was completely horrified.
“Looks like some type of...arm cannon,” Mr. Taylor said with a curious smile.
“A very primitive arm cannon,” Mr. James said sternly.
“Well it’s horrible looking!” Ms. Dawes replied. “I hope he doesn't expect to win with that thing.”
It was, in fact, a gas-powered arm cannon that David had been working on, made from refurbished computer parts and old automobile gears. The cannon was armed with about ten million rounds of extra tiny balls of plastic using an automatic propulsion system David made with toy engines connected to tiny magnets.
Mrs. Warren turned to Nelson.
“Nelson, if this goes bad, I will personally hold you responsible,” she said slowly, letting each word grind into his ears.
Nelson smiled. “Understood, Mrs. Warren. But I've got a feeling this is going to be a more interesting match that you're expecting.”
Then he handed out files with more information about David Johnson, as well as comparison data that assessed how well his skills would match up with the current class of ATSD students. While the others looked over the files, Principal Nelson began receiving instructions from communication device in his ear.
“Yes…ok,” Nelson spoke with a hand over his ear. “Yes, his grandfather is here with him, but that shouldn’t be a problem…ok…very good. Thank you. We’re ready.”
Nelson walked over to the gymnasium microphone and clicked it on.
“Good afternoon,” Nelson began, the sound system filling the gymnasium with his voice. “My name is Principal Nelson. On behalf of myself and the executive board, I would like to welcome you both to the Academy of Technology and Self-Defense. We are all extremely delighted to host you. Now if you would be so kind as to take a few steps back, we will be opening the top of the gym to bring in your opponent.”
David and Turner moved toward the gymnasium walls. Suddenly, the dome ceiling over the gym slowly split open into two halves, like a gigantic egg being cracked above them. Sunshine began to bleed into the vast gym, the wind from the outside whooshing all around them. David and Turner covered their faces for a moment. Then out of the glare of the sun came a sleek figure slowly and silently descending into the gym.
“May I introduce to you,” Nelson said, “our most prized student, Georg Otis Dean.”
Episode 4
The gymnasium at the Academy of Technology and Self-Defense was a massive, highly-advanced dome structure. Long florescent lights stretched across the ceiling and the hardwood floors were polished to a shine. There were speakers and large monitors surrounding everything. High above the tall bleachers was an observation room with a large, floor-to-ceiling window with a direct view into the gym.
In the observation room were four members of the ATSD executive board, all lined up in a row of plush leather chairs. Mr. James was pudgy and short with a bald head and a smoky gray mustache. Ms. Dawes was a woman of style who was brushing her brown hair and smiling at the reflection of herself in the window. Mrs. Warren had her arms folded, the most annoyed of all the members. Her black hair was wrapped into a bun so tight that you could see strands of it pulling out of the scalp. At the end of the row was Mr. Taylor, the youngest of the bunch.
“Am I the only one in this room who feels this is a complete waste of time?” Mrs. Warren asked.
“Perhaps,” Mr. Taylor replied. “But there's something a little intriguing about this match.”
Mrs. Warren sneered. “What are we doing organizing a match that puts George Dean against some cretin from the city slums?”
“George Dean?” Ms. Dawes interjected. Her voice was as soft and feminine, the complete opposite of Mrs. Warren. “No one told me this fellow was going to face George Dean.”
“As usual, Ms. Dawes, you didn't read the memo this morning,” Mr. James said, almost coughing the words. “Pry yourself away from the mirror every now and again and you might be able to focus better.”
“Quiet!” Ms. Dawes snapped back at him. “Shouldn’t you be at your nursing home resting or taking your medicine or something? I’m surprised you got here on your own without the assistance of your oxygen tank.”
“What was his name again?” Taylor asked.
Mrs. Warren read from the folder. “David Johnson. Black male. Age: 14. Height: 5’8. Weight: 167 pounds. Transcripts from East Central High School report below average grades in both science and math. Several suspensions and other behavioral issues are also noted.”
“Well that’s not good,” Ms. Dawes said. “What kind of weapon is he supposed to bring to this match if he's not smart enough to build one?”
“Exactly the question I posed to Principal Nelson when I asked why he agreed to have this match,” Mrs. Warren said.
At that very moment, the doors of the observation room opened and in walked Principal Nelson, a tall man with a full head of sharp, closely cropped black hair. Beaming with a warm smile, Principal Nelson was far younger than the members of the board.
“Sorry I'm late, ladies and gentlemen,” Nelson said. “I presume everyone is excited about the match?
Mrs. Warren’s ever present frown hardened.
“I know, I know,” Nelson said with an open smile. “But I thought it would be a good idea for the academy to branch out and find new talent. You never know what’s out there.”
“But why him, Nelson?” Mrs. Warren’s voice whined and she shook her head with displeasure. “Why David Johnson? He's from the slums. He's got no parents. No home training.”
“His file does show several suspensions, Nelson,” Mr. James said plainly. “One more and he'll be expelled from East Central.”
“All the more reason to see if he's got some talent,” Nelson said. “If he does, then we'll be able to give him a scholarship and a new opportunity to do something positive with his life. We can open his mind like no other educational institution in the world. Isn’t that the goal of this academy?”
The board was silent. Principal Nelson took a few steps passed them towards the large window and looked down to see two figures walking through the double doors of the gym.
“Ah,” Nelson said. “They’re here.”
In the observation room were four members of the ATSD executive board, all lined up in a row of plush leather chairs. Mr. James was pudgy and short with a bald head and a smoky gray mustache. Ms. Dawes was a woman of style who was brushing her brown hair and smiling at the reflection of herself in the window. Mrs. Warren had her arms folded, the most annoyed of all the members. Her black hair was wrapped into a bun so tight that you could see strands of it pulling out of the scalp. At the end of the row was Mr. Taylor, the youngest of the bunch.
“Am I the only one in this room who feels this is a complete waste of time?” Mrs. Warren asked.
“Perhaps,” Mr. Taylor replied. “But there's something a little intriguing about this match.”
Mrs. Warren sneered. “What are we doing organizing a match that puts George Dean against some cretin from the city slums?”
“George Dean?” Ms. Dawes interjected. Her voice was as soft and feminine, the complete opposite of Mrs. Warren. “No one told me this fellow was going to face George Dean.”
“As usual, Ms. Dawes, you didn't read the memo this morning,” Mr. James said, almost coughing the words. “Pry yourself away from the mirror every now and again and you might be able to focus better.”
“Quiet!” Ms. Dawes snapped back at him. “Shouldn’t you be at your nursing home resting or taking your medicine or something? I’m surprised you got here on your own without the assistance of your oxygen tank.”
“What was his name again?” Taylor asked.
Mrs. Warren read from the folder. “David Johnson. Black male. Age: 14. Height: 5’8. Weight: 167 pounds. Transcripts from East Central High School report below average grades in both science and math. Several suspensions and other behavioral issues are also noted.”
“Well that’s not good,” Ms. Dawes said. “What kind of weapon is he supposed to bring to this match if he's not smart enough to build one?”
“Exactly the question I posed to Principal Nelson when I asked why he agreed to have this match,” Mrs. Warren said.
At that very moment, the doors of the observation room opened and in walked Principal Nelson, a tall man with a full head of sharp, closely cropped black hair. Beaming with a warm smile, Principal Nelson was far younger than the members of the board.
“Sorry I'm late, ladies and gentlemen,” Nelson said. “I presume everyone is excited about the match?
Mrs. Warren’s ever present frown hardened.
“I know, I know,” Nelson said with an open smile. “But I thought it would be a good idea for the academy to branch out and find new talent. You never know what’s out there.”
“But why him, Nelson?” Mrs. Warren’s voice whined and she shook her head with displeasure. “Why David Johnson? He's from the slums. He's got no parents. No home training.”
“His file does show several suspensions, Nelson,” Mr. James said plainly. “One more and he'll be expelled from East Central.”
“All the more reason to see if he's got some talent,” Nelson said. “If he does, then we'll be able to give him a scholarship and a new opportunity to do something positive with his life. We can open his mind like no other educational institution in the world. Isn’t that the goal of this academy?”
The board was silent. Principal Nelson took a few steps passed them towards the large window and looked down to see two figures walking through the double doors of the gym.
“Ah,” Nelson said. “They’re here.”
Episode 3
For the past few hours, Turner had been looking through several letters, pamphlets, and brochures he had requested from the Academy of Technology and Self-Defense, the finest and most expensive private school in the city. ATSD specialized in combining combat skills with student-made technology. The perfect fit for David, Turner thought.
According to the information sent to him, there were three ways a student could get into the school. The first option: the parents could flat out pay the balance of tuition at the start of the academic year. But at one hundred, seventy-five thousand dollars a semester, that wasn’t going to happen. The second option: the prospective student could gain a scholarship through exceptional academic transcripts from prior learning institutions. Of course, David’s grades were too low for that. The third option was more promising, but was also the most challenging. Students could gain entrance to ATSD with a combat scholarship by taking part in an exhibition match with one of the school’s best students.
“So what happened?” David asked, knowing that Turner had scheduled a phone appointment with the principal of ATSD earlier in the day. “What’d they say?”
“I got chu an exhibition match dis Friday,” Turner replied. “But dere’s a catch.”
“There always is.”
“You gotta bring yo own devices to compete wid,” Turner continued. “See when the students at the school make their weapons, they use ATSD equipment. State of the art. Top of the line. You ain’t allowed ta use that stuff.”
“That’s fine,” David said, walking pass him toward his room. Quite honestly, David Johnson didn’t care about school. He didn’t care about ATSD or devices or scholarships or any of it. He simply saw it as an opportunity to fight, another chance to release all the anguish in his soul by blasting into someone else’s chin with his knuckles. The only difference this time is that he wouldn’t get suspended for it.
According to the information sent to him, there were three ways a student could get into the school. The first option: the parents could flat out pay the balance of tuition at the start of the academic year. But at one hundred, seventy-five thousand dollars a semester, that wasn’t going to happen. The second option: the prospective student could gain a scholarship through exceptional academic transcripts from prior learning institutions. Of course, David’s grades were too low for that. The third option was more promising, but was also the most challenging. Students could gain entrance to ATSD with a combat scholarship by taking part in an exhibition match with one of the school’s best students.
“So what happened?” David asked, knowing that Turner had scheduled a phone appointment with the principal of ATSD earlier in the day. “What’d they say?”
“I got chu an exhibition match dis Friday,” Turner replied. “But dere’s a catch.”
“There always is.”
“You gotta bring yo own devices to compete wid,” Turner continued. “See when the students at the school make their weapons, they use ATSD equipment. State of the art. Top of the line. You ain’t allowed ta use that stuff.”
“That’s fine,” David said, walking pass him toward his room. Quite honestly, David Johnson didn’t care about school. He didn’t care about ATSD or devices or scholarships or any of it. He simply saw it as an opportunity to fight, another chance to release all the anguish in his soul by blasting into someone else’s chin with his knuckles. The only difference this time is that he wouldn’t get suspended for it.
Episode 2
David Johnson walked up the creaky wooden porch of his house and reached for the black door. Even among the other old, worn down homes around him, his residence was particularly decrepit. The blue carpet on the living room floor was stained with spots of yellow. The knobs on the kitchen cabinets were rusting brown. Their dinner table, or the square card table they put in the middle of the dining room, was missing a peg on one leg, causing it to stand unevenly.
In the living room on the blue sofa sat his grandfather, a thin, lanky elder with a short, often uncombed, gray Afro.
“Hello dere, son,” Turner said with his reading glasses on, looking through the various papers on his lap. He had a heavy southern accent that strained against his elderly vocal cords. “East Central called earlier. Said ju was fightin’ again.”
For a long time, Turner had once regretted the day he made the decision to teach David how to fight. He had always tried encouraging David to pursue his education. But it wasn’t that simple. His short temper was one thing. But when it was coupled with his ability to pick up even the most advanced boxing techniques in a short amount of time, he was a very dangerous young man to mess with.
In middle school, he was teased relentlessly. By sixth grade, David had thrown his first punch. From then on, his focus in school had been fighting, not learning. And he defeated all challengers, which earned him three school transfers, eighteen suspensions, and the county record for the most detentions in a semester, nineteen of them occurring in his freshman year alone at East Central.
“There was a misunderstanding,” David said with a monotone voice.
“It always is,” Turner replied casually, with most of his attention still on the papers in front of him. In the past Turner had gotten angry, had shouting fits and the rest of it with David and put him on punishment. That didn’t happen anymore. The fact of the matter was that David was telling the truth.
Contrary to his perceived nature, David was potentially smart, very capable in fields of science and electronics. But every attempt at advancing himself was stifled by some street punk or sports jock who wanted to make a name for themselves by beating the great David Johnson; or by skeptical teachers, unable to recognize the intellect inside the warrior, accusing him of cheating off the so-called “honor students” when he turned in an A+ paper.
His grandfather had been telling him that he was a gift from God. The old man had once been angry and bitter and sad about all the things he had endured in his life. But over the years, Turner Johnson had forged a relationship with the Lord, and had found a measure of peace, the kind of peace, Turner would often say, that transcended all understanding.
But for his grandson, however, both peace and God were things that David’s hardened and downtrodden spirit weren’t ready to accept. Oh, David Johnson believed in God alright, that much was for certain. But his relationship with him had its…complications.
If God would give me more, then I would be more, David often complained.
In the living room on the blue sofa sat his grandfather, a thin, lanky elder with a short, often uncombed, gray Afro.
“Hello dere, son,” Turner said with his reading glasses on, looking through the various papers on his lap. He had a heavy southern accent that strained against his elderly vocal cords. “East Central called earlier. Said ju was fightin’ again.”
For a long time, Turner had once regretted the day he made the decision to teach David how to fight. He had always tried encouraging David to pursue his education. But it wasn’t that simple. His short temper was one thing. But when it was coupled with his ability to pick up even the most advanced boxing techniques in a short amount of time, he was a very dangerous young man to mess with.
In middle school, he was teased relentlessly. By sixth grade, David had thrown his first punch. From then on, his focus in school had been fighting, not learning. And he defeated all challengers, which earned him three school transfers, eighteen suspensions, and the county record for the most detentions in a semester, nineteen of them occurring in his freshman year alone at East Central.
“There was a misunderstanding,” David said with a monotone voice.
“It always is,” Turner replied casually, with most of his attention still on the papers in front of him. In the past Turner had gotten angry, had shouting fits and the rest of it with David and put him on punishment. That didn’t happen anymore. The fact of the matter was that David was telling the truth.
Contrary to his perceived nature, David was potentially smart, very capable in fields of science and electronics. But every attempt at advancing himself was stifled by some street punk or sports jock who wanted to make a name for themselves by beating the great David Johnson; or by skeptical teachers, unable to recognize the intellect inside the warrior, accusing him of cheating off the so-called “honor students” when he turned in an A+ paper.
His grandfather had been telling him that he was a gift from God. The old man had once been angry and bitter and sad about all the things he had endured in his life. But over the years, Turner Johnson had forged a relationship with the Lord, and had found a measure of peace, the kind of peace, Turner would often say, that transcended all understanding.
But for his grandson, however, both peace and God were things that David’s hardened and downtrodden spirit weren’t ready to accept. Oh, David Johnson believed in God alright, that much was for certain. But his relationship with him had its…complications.
If God would give me more, then I would be more, David often complained.
Episode 1
David Johnson hated everything. He hated the air that reeked with an awesome stench, the eroded and broken sidewalks, and the roads that were sprinkled with trash. The tired and half destroyed houses on his block were almost as insufferable as the dead grass and long weeds surrounding them. Many of the neighbors who inhabited these homes were utterly without kindness.
There was once a sign near the county limits of this neighborhood that read: Welcome to Craft Village. That was a long, long time ago. Now the final two words on the old, rusty, half dangling sign was covered in black spray paint. And crudely etched in below the paint, someone had used a sharp object to carve in the words “The Box,” which was what the east side of the city of Union Cross had been called for as long as David Johnson could remember.
“I can’t stand this place,” David said as he was walking home from school.
David was lighter than the other black kids at East Central High School. His skin was like a golden brown marshmallow perfectly toasted on every side. David Johnson was a brooding fourteen year old with a generic body figure – 5’8, 167 pounds with short, neatly cut black hair. He wore an orange sweater, black sneakers, and blue jean pants. There was a fresh, circular bruise on the side of his face.
David Johnson had never known his parents. His father disappeared not too long after his mother got pregnant with him. And his mother died in the hospital on the day he was born. The doctors said there had been “complications” with his birth. Complications, David always thought, seemed to be the word that had come to define much of his life.
The only person in the world that seemed to have his best interest was his grandfather and legal guardian, Turner Johnson. Decades ago, Turner was a professional boxer from the South. In the prime of his career, people called him “Turner the Fist Burner.” But like David, his life had been complicated. At the height of his career, when he was the undisputed welterweight champion, as well as the number one ranked, pound-for-pound boxer in the world, Turner’s first wife squandered away the unimaginable wealth he had garnered on an affair she was having with one of his own managers.
And by the time Turner was through with the courts, judges, lawyers, and mediators, he barely had enough money for the clothes on his back. And so he moved to Union Cross, took a factory job in “The Box,” made a new family, and had a daughter who would grow up to become David’s mother. She was gone now. And Turner’s second wife had lost her life to a bout with cancer ten years earlier. All he had left now was his grandson.
THIS EPISODE WAS MADE POSSIBLE BY THE YAHOO! CONTRIBUTOR NETWORK.
There was once a sign near the county limits of this neighborhood that read: Welcome to Craft Village. That was a long, long time ago. Now the final two words on the old, rusty, half dangling sign was covered in black spray paint. And crudely etched in below the paint, someone had used a sharp object to carve in the words “The Box,” which was what the east side of the city of Union Cross had been called for as long as David Johnson could remember.
“I can’t stand this place,” David said as he was walking home from school.
David was lighter than the other black kids at East Central High School. His skin was like a golden brown marshmallow perfectly toasted on every side. David Johnson was a brooding fourteen year old with a generic body figure – 5’8, 167 pounds with short, neatly cut black hair. He wore an orange sweater, black sneakers, and blue jean pants. There was a fresh, circular bruise on the side of his face.
David Johnson had never known his parents. His father disappeared not too long after his mother got pregnant with him. And his mother died in the hospital on the day he was born. The doctors said there had been “complications” with his birth. Complications, David always thought, seemed to be the word that had come to define much of his life.
The only person in the world that seemed to have his best interest was his grandfather and legal guardian, Turner Johnson. Decades ago, Turner was a professional boxer from the South. In the prime of his career, people called him “Turner the Fist Burner.” But like David, his life had been complicated. At the height of his career, when he was the undisputed welterweight champion, as well as the number one ranked, pound-for-pound boxer in the world, Turner’s first wife squandered away the unimaginable wealth he had garnered on an affair she was having with one of his own managers.
And by the time Turner was through with the courts, judges, lawyers, and mediators, he barely had enough money for the clothes on his back. And so he moved to Union Cross, took a factory job in “The Box,” made a new family, and had a daughter who would grow up to become David’s mother. She was gone now. And Turner’s second wife had lost her life to a bout with cancer ten years earlier. All he had left now was his grandson.
THIS EPISODE WAS MADE POSSIBLE BY THE YAHOO! CONTRIBUTOR NETWORK.
About This Series
David Johnson has been with me since the beginning of my writing career. And honestly, he might have been with me longer than that. His character was always intended to be a "window character," meaning that his view of the world (the Miracleverse) is the same view that the audience has. David started as the atypical troubled kid with a terrible past. What I've tried to do is present that atypical character is a very unique way, from the Christian perspective. David Johnson wants to have a relationship with the Lord. Sometimes he thinks he doesn't, but he really does. So then what would constitute "troubled kid" from this perspective. What would ultimately trouble someone who wants to be with God, who wants to become a strong warrior of faith?
The series presented here a new twist on the original, Union Cross version of David Johnson. Make no mistake, though. This is not a Union Cross story. This really isn't even a David Johnson story. This story is about one simple fact: Despite your sins, God will not only forgive you, He can use you.
Hope to see you in August!
Aaron
The series presented here a new twist on the original, Union Cross version of David Johnson. Make no mistake, though. This is not a Union Cross story. This really isn't even a David Johnson story. This story is about one simple fact: Despite your sins, God will not only forgive you, He can use you.
Hope to see you in August!
Aaron
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