jamaican runner

Idris Elba wants a bigger role in the Marvel Cinematic Universe

During a recent interview in London, where Elba’s finishing up the editing on Yardie, a gangster flick about Jamaican drug runners set in the ‘70s that marks his debut as a director, the actor says, “I like that I have a little part in Thor. I’m neither movie star or day player. It allows me to do other things I love.” But he continues: “The last one [Ragnarok] was fun. The others weren’t fun. They’re work. But on this one, Taika [Waititi, the director] was great.”

Elba pauses for a beat, weighing whether he should say what he wants to say next. Then he says it. “I wish I was more present in the Marvel family. I like what I have, but I also wish that I had a bigger character in the Marvel universe.” Elba says that he’s never been approached to play anyone but Heimdall, including a role in the upcoming Black Panther film – or any of the studio’s other superhero properties. But he also says he doesn’t want to sound like he’s moaning about it, either. “It’s been great, but I kinda think I need a bit more. I want to be a superhero. I like the idea of that.”

Art reposted from this @artbylexie post with permission. The first of a two-parter inspired by her wonderful merlolly art.

Captain Sherlock Holmes valued cold, hard, rational thought above all else. He scoffed at sailor’s tales of the kraken, of sea monsters, ghost ships and most of all mermaids. What manner of creature could exist with the head and torso of a woman and the tail of fish? How could such a creature come into existence? Did she lay eggs for some male version of her species to fertilize, or did she have some form of mammallian uterus and give birth to a live half-fish child?

Such were the mocking questions he’d laid at the feet of Anderson, the cockswain when the idiot had been expounding on the dangers of such creatures. Questions he’d uttered rapid-fire wihtout waiting for answers, confident that none were forthcoming.

Ah, how the fates - if such existed, which he doubted somewhat less now than he had only days ago - must be laughing at him now. A fierce battle with Jamaican rum runners, a freak storm, and here he was, thrashing about the ocean, grimly resigned to his death, when she appeared.

He was positive she was nothing but a waterlogged hallucination, the last gasp of his dying brain to offer up some ridiculous form of hope, but that belief vanished when he felt her strong arms around him, tugging him back up to the storm-topped surface of the water. As he coughed up the seawater he’d swallowed she brought him to a drifting bit of wood - no, it was a rowboat, no doubt torn from its moorings against the side of the ship and fortuitously near enough to serve as his savior. Still semi-conscious, eyes bleary from being beneath the tumultuous ocean’s surface for so long, he managed nonetheless to capture the details of her face as she literally shoved him into the rowboat: long, flowing chestnut hair, enormous brown eyes, brow knitted with either concern or concentration as she pushed his legs over the edge to join the rest of his body. Her skin was pale, nearly luminous in the flashes of lightning, but as he tried to croak out a thank you, she pulled away, smiled, then dove beneath the waves.

The last he saw of her, this mythical woman who couldn’t possibly exist, was her tail, iridescent reds and yellows striped with darker blue or possibly black, like some impossible, water-dwelling tropical bird.

As darkness overtook him, his last thought was one of determination, a silent, private vow to himself.

I will find you.