(Taken from Black Mask Rising, a recently discovered sketch from the portfolio of William S. Burroughs)

History is cruel; fraught with injustice and irony. But, in spite of it all, history produces great people, courageous people, noble people; heroes. I'm not talking about those underwear-clad shitheads that mug for headlines. I'm talking about Simon.

While fighting to free the interned and oppressed in the second World War, Americans turned on their own. In an often forgotten twist of irony, many Japanese Americans were sent to concentration camps while fear and paranoia ran like a fever through the country. But, as you might expect, rumors of this injustice spread far faster than the act itself. At least, that's how it worked in the Japanese American community. And that's how it worked for Simon.

Simon Ho. Well-mannered. Handsome. The only son of Kili and Freddie Ho. Kili and Freddie ran the best damned restaurant in San Diego, bar none. Freddie cooked. Kili ran the drawer. Freddie made egg rolls so light they almost floated off the plate. Kili smiled so warmly that I almost floated off the floor. Simon ran errands for his folks, waved a little American flag on the Forth of July, and was a paragon of youthful respect and reverence. Which probably means nothing to the likes of you.

News traveled fast by way of Freddie's place. By the way, it was not called Freddie's Place. The restaurant did not have a name. It just happened to be Freddie's place. Knowing they could not do a damn thing in the face of Uncle Sam's freckle-faced fuck-ups, Freddie and Kili waited for the worst. But Simon. How could they make the same resignation for Simon. A boy like that? Such poise? Such promise? I'm tellin' ya'. No fuckin' way.

Freddie knew a guy. Ya' know. A guy. A guy who could get Simon to hell and gone for a reasonable fee. The Japanese community was a tight-knit place. Trust and a man's word still meant something and it's a damn good thing. Trust, a man's word, and another man's money meant something a little different. You usually only see that concoction in very specific circumstances and very specific company. Yakuza.

But even these thugs saw the injustice of it all. Who couldn't? So they did the honorable thing. And made a buck off it. Little Simon. The pearl among swine. Swine being preferable to short-sighted young boys with loaded pistols. Little simon discretely displaced to another coast, another culture, another life. A boy? A son? No sir. You got it wrong. Just me and the wife, sir. Yes, sir. In the truck now, sir. I get it.

You won't find Freddie's place in San Diego these days. The property got sold. If you go to where you thought the place used to be you won't see it. It's gone. No Freddie. No Kili. No Simon.

To anyone's knowledge, there's no Simon Ho in New York either. Simon is long gone as far as anyone knows. One might assume it was the Yakuza's doing, and one wouldn't be far off.

Simon was raised by an "uncle" in a Jap ghetto in NYC. It didn't take long to see the kid had something. Focus. Discipline. Grace. The signs of potential among the Yakuza. Before he was old enough to hold a job, he was holding a sword. He learned a great deal in New York. Then one day he learned too much.

Realizing his potential with a blade, but underestimating his will and intellect, those in certain positions of power sent Simon and some others on an errand. Simon was asked to bring his sword. The destination was a little shop a few blocks from his uncle's place. Damn good egg rolls. Apparently, there was a matter to be settled; a matter involving trust, a man's word, and another man's money. The restaurant's owner and his wife were in the back. They weren't open yet. Simon worked fast. He was good.

By the time the cops made the scene, it was a little confusing to piece things together. Eye witnesses saw nothing. Of course. Freddie and Kili only heard the scuffle. As far as anyone knew, a mini gang war erupted in the restaurant. Two Yakuza thugs were dead in their tracks, weapons untouched. Simon worked fast. And Simon disappeared.

But Simon had tasted justice. Finally. And Simon could only think of one way to taste it again and not be discovered by his new-found enemies. The way of the hero. Posing as a long-lost cousin, Simon sought the help of The Gecko. His story reached Gecko and won his sympathy. It was not long before Simon had a course of action: Hide your face. Hide your name. And find safety in numbers.

Armed with only his weapons and the blessings of the Gecko, Simon donned a disguise and sought the JLA. Along the way, he unwittingly took the disguise of one villain and the name of another. While this made his introduction to the JLA a bit rocky at first, he quickly proved himself through his abilities. Now, among a team of heroes, Black Mask has found his calling.