TWO PAIN STORIES

TWO PAIN STORIES

FATHER WAS A HARD MAN

Father,was a very exacting man, and got on me about doing work around the house and the yard, when I wasn’t involved in my studies, which he also supervised quite intensely. I can remember Father being upset because he thought I did a shoddy job scrubbing the kitchen “Come here, Lawson” Father shouted. What a big, handsome man he was, with thick black hair and bulging muscles.

 

Father grabbed me that day by the shoulder—I was twenty then, and just about his size, but not nearly as muscular—and Father shook me. “Is this what you call a clean kitchen?” Father let go of my shoulder and back handed me so hard my mouth bled.

“Look at the spots around the sink, and you certainly didn’t scour the burners.”

 

Getting up off the floor, I protested, my knees knocking but I could tell Father was already reaching for his belt. “I’m so sorry, sir, I’ll—“

 

But Father was removing his belt. “No no, you’re going to pay for this, mister, drop your britches!” Father’s brows were thunderous, and my brothers and sisters, all high school and college age, came to watch the show.

 

“Right now, in front of my little sisters?” I was trying to negotiate, to get Father to see the sense of propriety, but my sisters of course were not going to help, as they loved my ritual humiliations. I had never seen any of them disciplined, or undressed, beyond a gentle word of reproach…but I of course, as the Great Hope of the family, the one who was to be so successful, I had to be kept in line…strictly in line!

 

“Daddy, don’t let Lawson get away with this!” Lissie, my 18 year old, golden haired brat of a sister said. “Beat his ass…I need something to tell the girls at the mall tonight, and my boyfriend will think it’s hilarious, like the time he came over and Lawson was in the corner with his pants down!”

 

I could tell that Father was attempting to hide a smile at my sister’s comments, and my other sisters, Celeste and Colette were giggling as well. They all had a night life with boyfriends and other interests, but I was always kept in, doing housework and academic efforts, as I was the one who would support the family one day.

 

“Down with those pants, now, sir!” Father shouted at me, and I struggled to quickly take down my trousers, and then my underwear. Father then threw me across the kitchen table and began whacking my bare buttocks, first with the heel of his wing-tip leather shoes, and then with his feared belt, which had the ability to reduce me to acute misery and hysteria. I tried hard not to sob; as my brothers were laughing now, but there was no use…I didn’t take pain well!

 

 

Sometimes Father would give me a more severe punishment—he’d sentence me to “restriction” which meant sixty days of not leaving the house or watching TV or computer time, but also I would be forced to wear a pair of frilly panties, and that was all.

 

This could be especially embarrassing, as my sisters were friends with some of the hotties at the college I went to, and they would come visit, and it was terribly humiliating!

 

Having these clothed girls around, laughing behind their pretty, manicured hands as I skulked around the house, nearly naked except for the panties was almost too much to bear, and my athletic, gang-boy brothers weren’t much help either. They loved to try and toss me a football as I danced in the panties, and their hoodlum friends were quite involved in the fun.

 

Of course Father and Mother would see any excuse to make me bare my buttocks for another thrashing…my upbringing was such that my parents expected only the best from me, as I had the highest IQ in Kimball County.

 

Sometimes when I didn’t do particularly well on a test, Father would first thrash me  until I cried with a thick leather belt, or a big wooden paddle that he’d had made by a craftsman friend of his…he enjoyed ordering me to get it from it’s hanging place on the wall, and coming, teary-eyed to get my licking.

 

Then Father would, after my whipping make me stand in the corner with my frilly panties down to my knees, sometimes for hours. When he was especially displeased with me, Father would make me stand in my sister’s high heels, which almost crushed my feet.

 

When Marjorie Winslow, the most beautiful sophomore at Kimball College came over to study with my sister and saw me this way, I am afraid she took a picture with her Iphone which was displayed all over the neighborhood—my reddened bottom, the lowered panties and of course the ridiculous high heels.

 

I remember Marjorie laughed lightly and when I turned to look at her, from my position in the corner, she gasped in pretend horror at my erect penis, and Father came over and turned me over his knee for having the effrontery of leaving the corner without his permission.

 

I endured forty whacks that time with the strap before he threw me back sobbing and miserable, quite humiliated in the corner to stand again. Later that night, I was masturbating; thinking of lovely Marjorie and her sexy violet sweater, and Father came in and caught me, and ordered me to lie spread eagled on the bed, where he secured my wrists to the bedposts.

 

Father then whipped my cock for the disobedience and sin of masturbation for nearly an hour, this time using cut rosebush branches, thorny as all get out. Father had told met hat onanism was the greatest of sins, and that I had to keep my reproductive juices for the woman I was to marry, even if I was a randy adolescent boy.

 

By the time Father had broken five thorny branches, my penis was wilted and bleeding and my thighs were filled with scratch marks from the thorny branches, and my eyes were wet from crying, my voice hoarse from screams.

But it never stopped me from touching my nasty member, as soon as Father left the room, I am ashamed to say that I just couldn’t control myself, and began stroking again, quite illegally.

 

Yes, Father treated me with such contempt. After he caught me masturbating he called me his spittoon, and for weeks afterwards, while I was still on restriction, Father would order me to bend and catch his tobacco spit in my mouth…I realize now that Father was just trying to show me what a nasty little pervert I was being…and that I could grow up to be respectable and manly. After all, jerking off is such an unmanly way to behave!

 

Sometimes, when Mother and Father were exasperated with me, such as when I missed two questions on the Foreign Service exam, they’d arrange for a nice drive with my siblings and take them to an amusement park or the beach, but they’d lock me in the closet naked, and I’d have to while away the long hot sweaty hours in the confined space.

 

Or, if the family was going to leave for several days, they’d lock me in the trunk of Dad’s Subaru and let my 19 year old sister Colette feed me bits of bread during the brief time that the family was taking umbrellas and sunscreen out of the trunk on the way to the beach. Colette and Celeste would sometimes play with my dick just a little, before the trunk slammed!

 

I would be given a pee bottle and have to pee in it during the time I was locked in the dark trunk and then I’d have to hand that out to Colette, and she would pour it into the parking lot and hand it back to me, before she went to surf and play in the water with my brothers and sisters. If she saw or sniffed that I’d even dropped a tiny droplet of pee in the trunk, I’d be required to drink the contents of the urine bottle!

 

It was a little better at night, being locked in the trunk and a tiny bit cooler, but I was sad because of course the family would be inside the motel room, enjoying cable television and snacks, and I would be eating a stale crust of  bread…

 

My father and brothers would jerk off on the bread and sop it up with their semen and I’d have to lick it clean for the sins of my masturbation…because of course it didn’t matter that Bubba and Sonny jerked off, they weren’t the ones that were the Great Hope for the Family…they got to fuck girls and raise hell…and I had a very disciplined life…alas!

 

One night when I was in the trunk of my parent’s car, at a Super 8 motel, just outside Atlantic City, Father and my brother Bubba opened the trunk around midnight and put a blindfold on me, binding my hands and feet.

 

They took me (I assume) to an apartment somewhere and I was ordered to suck numerous men’s cocks as Father and Bubba had incurred some serious gambling debts while going to casinos while Mother and my siblings had been enjoying the beach, and of course I had been locked in the trunk.

 

Father told me that I had to service many penises to keep our house from being taken away by Salvatore “Salami” Mazzotti, who was apparently some gay Mafioso. By the end of the night, my jaws were aching and tired, and my anus was ravaged and engorged, and I was glad to be locked back in the trunk. It was a shame that Dad and Bubba neglected to untie me when they laid me in the trunk again so I could at least stretch a bit, after all I’d done to keep from losing our homestead.

 

I lived at home the entire time I went to college and got my MBA. Father wouldn’t have it any other way, though of course I was on full scholarship. Father was good at keeping me up to the academic mark. Sometimes he would quiz me from the trigonometry text, or check my term paper on the art of Cezanne for spelling or other errors. If Father found one error that particularly irked him, he would exercise his thick blackthorn walking stick on my bare buttocks as I crouched in the punishment position he’d trained me for since childhood—naked, head down, butt up where Dad could have a good and inviting target!

 

And sometimes he would even shove the cane up my rectum a little to remind me that a slovenly student would never be a successful or reputable businessman. When Father thought I was focusing too much on the girls at university (though I wasn’t allowed to date, or even leave the house at night) he gave me a unique punishment—Father and my two blue collar brothers hosted a poker game some nights.

 

As I said before, Father had a gambling problem—and Dad would make me be the waitress on the game, serving beer while wearing full makeup and eye shadow, blusher and lipstick and a little purple gown…and serve the men, some of them guys I’d gone to school with…and when Dad lost big, he’d replace his IOUs by having me service some of the boys as currency with my mouth…and then assured me that a man who sucked cock as I did really would be of no use to a woman, which made me cry bitterly!

 

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SLAVE LEA’S DIARY

July 28

 

So today I was coming back from my business trip in ______ and on the highway home, I drove past a group of motorcycle guys, obvious patched bikers. I waved at one of them, and he waved back, and I pulled over, and he and the other bikers pulled up, probably quite pleased to note an attractive, curvy blonde waving them over.

 

I stepped out of the car, and made my pitch to the guy who I guess was the um, leader. His name was Phil. I think I might have shocked him. I told him what I needed, and told him that I would be willing to pay for it, as well as pay for the motel room, and to service he and his friends in any way they liked, after it was finished.

 

Phil, who was a nicer guy than he looked, which was tattooed, bald and scary, insisted I didn’t have to pay them—indeed, they’d love the opportunity! “I’ve had some rough sex.” But I told him, that it was important that I paid for my needs, that I needed it quite intensely.

 

We pulled up to a real shitbag—Motel 8, or 6, or some number, and I paid for the room and invited Phil and his six friends in. They stood and looked at me for a moment, while I disrobed, taking off my Chanel skirt and jacket, unbuttoning my silk blouse  and then removing my French demi bra and panties…and then I took off my wig.

 

This might have staggered lesser men, a cleanly shaven head on an otherwise attractive and normal looking woman. But other than a gasp or two, they continued to just stand, dumbly.

 

I went into my briefcase and took out the cuffs, both for my wrists and ankles. “Now cuff me and put me straight on the bed, because I’m a squirmer” I said to Phil, and his (sidekick?) Freckles. “Take out the two foot paddle from my knapsack, that’s next to the briefcase, and the razor strop, and give me what I need.”

 

Freckles mumbled something about a safe word and I snickered at him. “I don’t need a safe word.” I said, smiling. “If you want, you can gag me, but it’s probably not necessary. I’m just going to kneel on the bed here and have you boys cuff me up, and I trust you’ll give me a nice hard time. And if I’m impressed, we’ll go to the ATM and you’ll be handsomely rewarded!”

 

I knelt on the bed. I’m about thirty-two, so I’m not THAT young, but I look pretty good, and Phil let one of the barely-twentysomethings put the cuffs on me. I could tell that he had not been near a whole lot of women, as he was panting a little and being careful with the cuffs—I was kneeling on the bed with my face away from him as he locked on the cuffs on my wrists and then the others on my ankles.

 

“I hope these ain’t too tight, Miss” the boy said, and I turned to look at him with a rueful smile.

“Sweetie, the tighter the better. Have you ever spanked a girl before?” But of course he just blushed. My God, he was probably nineteen, and Phil and the other guys laughed.

 

“Leland is a little wet behin’ the ears, Lea, but he’s damned willing!” Phil laughed.

 

“Oh go to hell, Phil” Leland mumbled, but he touched my back hesitantly.

 

I turned my bald head to Leland and smiled. “Leland, I’ve been a bad girl, and I need a spanking on my round little butt…can you accommodate me? Put a couple pillows under my stomach so you have a good target.”

 

The guys all laughed, but Phil and Freckles did the pillow work, and then they handed Leland the paddle. He was such a sweet kid, with a Mohawk and he was wearing one of those ridiculous jean jackets with the cut-off sleeves…

 

Leland gave my ass a half-hearted slap with the paddle. I knew he was afraid of hurting me. I turned my head to him, shaking the cue-ball at him. “C’mon, Leland, you can do better than that—you’re not a wimp, are you?”

 

Leland muttered something about hitting a defenseless bound woman, but then he swung the paddle harder—it was a short, thick fraternity paddle, and the second time he swung it, it connected pretty hard, and I could feel the redness gathering in my buttocks cheeks.

 

“Boys, if Leland isn’t up to it, it’ll have to be someone else.” I was trying to piss Leland off, I guess, and finally I think I got him. Leland began energetically swatting my buttocks, about thirty times. I didn’t make a sound, and finally, I guess his arm was tired…

 

Leland had a pretty good swing, but he didn’t know how to arch his back and put effort into it, scientifically, like Mother does. Mother knows where the tender spot is just below my buttocks and my upper thighs, and is smart enough to slash the paddle on secret sensitive spots that always bring me to sure tears…but Mother is an old adversary.

 

Phil took up the paddle next, and thrashed me a bit, and then I suggested they take out the razor strop, and use it on my breasts…For a time Phil and Freckles double-teamed me, one whipping my boobs with the strop while the other attended to my rear—and then Leland looked a little resentful, so I told him that I’d suck him off …and if I didn’t make him cum in three minutes he could put a cigarette out on my tender breasts.

 

Mother would have been so proud…

 

 

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CRUEL WIFE

CRUEL WIFE

It had been a shame the way that Oleander had discovered Crombie’s perversities. Crombie’s son from his first marriage, Crombie Junior, called “Crumbs” was a bad seed. Crumbs was a junkie and had been to prison several times for burglary and prescription fraud…but his father had not cut him off financially because Crumbs knew of Crombie’s secret visits to dominatrixes, and threatened to tell his stepmother.

 

Finally, Crombie had had enough, and although he feared losing his marriage, he just told Oleander the truth…that he was a masochist, and paid for being whipped and tortured…and that he spent a lot of time on bondage and sadism and chastity belt sites…and then his son had no power over him, and Crombie was able to shut him out…

 

After all, Crombie’s kids by Oleander were winners. Hiram was in the Air Force Academy, and Hermione was a graduate student in Physics, engaged to a nice banker. He really wanted to help them…but now he was so worried that Oleander would never speak to him again!

 

But Oleander miraculously told Crombie she understood. It turned out that she had a first cousin who was a professional dominatrix in New Orleans. Ylana, a voluptuous woman who Crombie had always thought was an antiques appraiser had another life…though who keeps their credit card machine by the bed in the antique world, really??

 

 

“Crombie, if you want, you can continue seeing these women, these dommes, and viewing the chastity belts sites…but I’d like to be involved in your proclivities myself, or are you not attracted to me that way?” Oleander had asked, smiling.

 

Crombie had of course told Oleander she was the most beautiful woman in the world. (And Oleander knew this) Half an hour later, as Crombie was kneeling in the corner with his pants down, his buttocks welted from his wife’s hairbrush, he wondered how much his wife had learned from her dominatrix cousin and if they should reconsider this idea, but he didn’t…because he was so excited!

 

It was a big thrill for Crombie when Oleander helped him purchase his first chastity device. He’d read about them for 20 years, and wondered what it would be like to have his genitals locked up, although of course he’d always masturbated after thinking about such a thing.

 

They’d gone to the PainCafe, a local BDSM hangout where there was a gift shop and gotten the best chastity belt there.

 

Trust us, the salesgirl had said to Oleander, as she looked at the blushing Crombie contemptuously…our device is unbreakable…unless he uses pliers, and then you’ll know he took a shot at opening it up!

 

Crombie’s first sentence of chastity was seventy-two hours. Three days, and he took it well. Oleander had said she was surprised Crombie didn’t whine more about this, being locked up. But he was gallant, walking about naked with the little metal thing between his thighs. And of course after it came off, he and Oleander fucked like bunnies…so exciting!

The next time, Oleander suggested a week sentence. Just seven days without an orgasm. Crombie was aroused but a little frightened. A week was alarming. “A week is a long time to go without sex, honey” Crombie had said, doubtfully. “We have a very active romantic life, you know.”

 

But Oleander perhaps had considered that she was sick of sucking her husband’s cock as he watched football, and it would give her more time to spend with several of the young men she had occasional affairs with…but she didn’t say anything, really.

 

Crombie was distressed. He considered himself a very active lover, he loved screwing his wife, and getting oral sex from her. He’d never been much into giving cunnilingus, but no one is perfect.

 

Oleander had smiled gently. “Well dear, you were so active in seeing these dominatrixes, unfaithful to your devoted spouse of many years, and from what I see on your browser history, this chastity tease and denial stuff is so important to you, Crombie. So let’s see if we can make things interesting for you.”

 

A little while later, Crombie was naked, kneeling in front of Oleander as she locked on the feared chastity device. Crombie realized what a beautiful woman his wife was, she was wearing a short silk negligee that emphasized her considerable breasts…what a cleavage! And of course her long legs and her delectable size six feet were in high heels as well.

 

God, a whole week! Crombie was thinking. That was a long time but he’d read these stories of men who went through it, and it might not be so bad.

 

But Oleander had a winsome and yet mysterious smile on her face, sort of a Cheshire cat thing, and Crombie felt a little uneasy.

 

That evening, Oleander had forced Crombie’s head between her legs for the first time in many years and as her husband began licking…Oleander became somewhat temperamental. He wasn’t much of a carpet muncher. He was having trouble finding her “Sensitive spot”

 

“I just can’t find it, honey.” Crombie said apologetically. For a time Oleander was patient, and then finally she pushed Crombie’s face away from her delectable thighs.

 

Oleander swung her legs over the bed, silently, and picked up a slipper, and told Crombie to climb over her legs.

 

Alarmed, Crombie said “I’m not being disobedient or obtuse, darling. I just can’t find your clitoris.”

But, as Oleander’s look was smoldering and adamant, Crombie had sighed and lay across her legs, and Oleander had whipped Crombie for nearly twenty minutes with the innocent seeming slipper, and Crombie had burst into tears.

 

 

Silently, Oleander had lay back on the bed again and pointed to her vagina, and Crombie had tried once more, and found her G spot, and became quite good at performing down there, licking Oleander to several orgasms.

 

The next morning, Oleander had nudged Crombie. “Go get me some breakfast. I want a Belgian waffle and some eggs Florentine. If you have to go shopping for the groceries, do it quickly as I want my breakfast in half an hour.”

 

Crombie had looked at his wife in sleepy amazement. “Oleander this is my only day off, as tomorrow we have the church committee, you know I’m junior warden now. IW ant to sleep and then get in a few holes with Stu and Trey at the course today.”

 

Crombie had fallen back asleep, and then suddenly awakened, finding his hands being tied behind his back with uncomfortable clothesline. Then Crombie was rolled on his stomach, a pillow shoved under his crotch and then there was a searing pain on his buttocks, a thin line of fire.

 

Crombie looked up and son of a bitch if Oleander wasn’t swinging a cane and hitting his butt. “No, Oleander, no. that’s not a rattan cane made for spanking that’s my grandfather’s thick shillelagh blackthorn walking stick…it was used sometimes as a weapon…you can’t hit me with that heavy thing, it’s not for SM games or discipline…OW!”

 

The thick shillelagh came down on Crombie’s tender buttocks twelve times, mercilessly. Crombie vaguely remembered that Oleander had a great backhand in tennis.

 

How Crombie screamed and cried! Heavy welts showed up on his skin. The cane was made of Scottish pine, and Crombie began trying to wriggle off the bed…but he couldn’t because of course his hands and his ankles were tied.

 

Finally, Oleander put the cane down and regarded her husband, who was sobbing quietly. His entire body was covered in black and blue marks.

 

“Now Crombie, darling, you are going to get my breakfast, right?”  Oleander was smiling. “I called and cancelled your golf nonsense.”

 

“But I worked overtime all week at the firm, I’m looking forward—OW!”

 

Five more times, the implacable walking stick fell and finally Crombie was subdued.

 

“Now, as I said earlier, the golf is cancelled and I want my breakfast and after this you will be re-tiling the downstairs bathroom as you said you would, or do we need to do a bit more caning? Tell me, darling before I untie you.”

 

Actually, Crombie did a pretty good job with the breakfast, but he did spill a bit of orange juice on the sheets when he’d given the tray to Oleander…breakfast in bed was a skill. So Oleander had surprised Crombie with another purchase she’d made at the PainCafe, a twelve foot bullwhip with “kangaroo plait overlay”…and Crombie had nearly jumped out of the window after a taste of this!

 

“No pouting, darling or I’ll have to order you to grab your ankles and give you a bit more.”

 

Oleander had found some errors in Crombie’s work in the washroom, and she’d gone after him with the cane and the whip, and the results worked out…Crombie finally, with some tears, did a great job on the bathroom.

 

Finally, at the end of the day, after Crombie had made Oleander’s dinner and gotten a few more licks because of lumpy mashed potatoes (no instant for Oleander) he began to sob, it was just too much, he couldn’t take it any more.

 

And Crombie was so horny. Oleander had been wearing a tiny light blue halter all day that emphasized her full breasts, and cut-offs and spike heels during the supervision of his work in the bathroom…bent on his knees doing tile while those long gorgeous legs towered above him had driven him nearly crazy…and a few times she’d let him kiss her bubble-butt in the tight denim shorts…oh God.

 

Crombie normally would have sneaked off and masturbated, he was a compulsive masturbator when his wife wasn’t in the mood, but he was having a difficult time with this damn chastity belt, and his dick had been surging and going limp because frankly, the belt was too small for him.

 

Oleander had apologized for this. “Honey, I’m so sorry, I barely feel it when you fuck me, it’s like being rogered with a pencil, so I thought you were a lot smaller down there.”

 

 

Finally Oleander had kissed poor Crombie’s tears away, after dinner and taken him to the bedroom, where she’d lay him on his stomach on the bed and rubbed ointment on his buttocks, thighs, shoulders and legs.

 

Now she was so tender…”My baby boy, did Mommy go over you a little too hard, Mommy loves you, let me give you a few kisses on your little neck, does that excited you…let me rub that nasty welt some more.”

 

The welts had been a bit excessive perhaps but the rubbing had made Crombie feel better, and then she’d spun Crombie on his back, tying his wrists to the bedposts with a bit of twine, and she’d finally removed his chastity device.

 

Crombie was excited. “You said it would be a week in the belt, but this is just a day or so later, great!”

 

Oleander had shaken her head at her bound husband, smiling. “No, dear, I said you wouldn’t be cumming for a week, but I might give you a little stimulus now, as the President says.”

 

Oleander had gone to Colonial Beach Christian Institute, a small college about twenty miles away from Buttermilk Falls. The Institute girls had been very conservative about giving up their virginity before marriage, but Oleander had been able to calm dates down with her famous hand jobs.

 

Oleander had never let the boys cum when she’d jerked them in their cars, usually running into the dorm in time for the eleven o’clock curfew as the date sat in his Nissan with his dick sticking out…but cocktease or not, Oleander was quite popular!

 

Oleander also had a cute way of necking with a boy and pressing herself up against him right in front of the dorm, pushing her boobs and rubbing her crotch against his until he came in his pants. But then she’d run in, and he walked home, soggy-crotched.

 

Oleander even had boyfriends who would take her to hotel rooms, get Oleander naked and lick between her legs until she screamed…but that was all they got, although sometimes they were allowed to jerk off while she watched and laughed…occasionally taking pictures to amuse her girlfriends.

 

One of Oleander’s steadies, Farrell McNair, had been so desperate to fuck Oleander after months of this teasing nonsense, that he’d told her he’d do anything…he’d already taken out student loans and sold his car to buy her a tennis bracelet…what else.

 

Oleander had told Farrell that she’d let him fuck her if he’d walk across campus at midnight in a corset, stockings and high heels. As Farrell was a ministry student and also a fullback on the football team, this had been a terrible risk.

 

“Farrell, just do it at midnight. No one will know. I want you to prove that you love me.”

 

Anything for his beautiful girl…except of course Oleander had immediately called the police, the fire department and campus security, and Farrell was arrested in drag, and dismissed from the college…and his parents had put him into a mental hospital!

 

Now Oleander took some lubricant and began rubbing Crombie’s cock and balls, which looked quite chafed from the snug chastity device. Humming, Oleander ran her thumb under Crombie’s penis and up and down the underside of his cock, quite zealously.

 

Then Oleander grasped his cock and pulled it as if it were a joystick on an 80’s Galaga video game. Pulling her fingers away, Oleander tickled Crombie’s balls and then rubbed the glans of his cock, the very head with her pink nails, and scratched lightly, and even put her long nail into his little urethra until he squealed.

 

Oleander pumped Crombie’s penis until he was moving his hips with her rubs, and then she pulled her hand away suddenly, and he burst into tears.

 

Crombie was babbling and begging. “This is so hot, darling, please let me cum, or let me fuck you…it is really driving me crazy…”

 

Oleander suggested Crombie shut up and enjoy the massage, and she reached out one stockinged foot and put it over Crombie’s mouth. But as he tried to talk again, she punched her little fist hard into Crombie’s balls, and then he finally got the message.

 

Within an hour and a half, Crombie was terribly horny, and then of course Oleander pulled off her panties and sat on his face backwards…he should’ve expected this. She ordered Crombie to service her, and leaning onto his stomach continued to play with his cock until about two a.m., stopping again and again just short of giving him an orgasm.

 

Then, sated by four orgasms of her own, Oleander punched Crombie in the nuts again (It was too late to go get ice to calm his pee-pee down) and locked him in the chastity device once more.

 

Then Oleander had had to tell Crombie to go sleep on the couch, because his frustrated sobbing was keeping her awake, and she wanted to be up for him to give her breakfast in bed before they went to church.

 

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Pencils: A Story of the Disabled Young

One

“Why…it’s gone.” Colonel Lunchmeat looked at Demetrius. “You don’t know nothin’ about Madeira Rum, do you, kid.”

Every day for a week. The Colonel had been coming into the North Lounge and talking about his damn rum. Where was his liquor. He couldn’t complain to Administration, because he wasn’t supposed to have liquor.

And he thought it was Staff that had taken the liquor, or maybe one of Demetrius’s visitors, colored people, right?  Demetrius knew though, that it was Mr. Hawkins.

Mr. Hawkins was the only resident of the Marvin Home, other than Demetrius and Gail, who was under seventy years old.

Mr. Hawkins had been drunk on the boulevard downtown, and some young boys had set fire to Mr. Hawkins’s passed out body, and it was a miracle that Mr. Hawkins was still alive, but he was recuperating at the home, and he missed his wine.

Demetrius had been awakened last Sunday morning at around two a.m., in the room he shared with Lullaby Mike.

Mr. Hawkins, wearing the weird hooded outfit that was supposed to soothe the somewhat recuperating first degree burns that covered his body, had been dancing “the Sailor’s Hornpipe” in Demetrius’s room, or something, and then he’d dropped an object in Demetrius’s diaper pail in the corner.

Demetrius had peeked in the pail the next morning, and damned if it wasn’t an empty Madeira rum bottle, with maybe a corner of rum in it.

Colonel Lunchmeat leaned on his walker, continuing his diatribe. “Just a little rum, and it’s gone. I hardly had two drinks out of it, Demetrius. You’ll understand when you’re older, about rum.” But then the Colonel gave Demetrius a once over.

And the Colonel fell silent, and reached over, rubbing Demetrius’s little Afro with his ugly age spotted hand, and then pushed his walker out of the North Lounge.

Demetrius pushed the pencil stub into the little box that made his motorized wheelchair move a little closer to the television. Did Colonel Lunchmeat just figure it out? Demetrius was not going to be drinking rum or driving, or doing with girls. Not much.

Four, maybe five years in the North Lounge. That was it. But Demetrius had been in a car two weeks ago, for a little while. A nice car.

Nesbitt Willis, Wanda’s boyfriend came by with Wanda and they had snuck Demetrius out of the Marvin Home, and took him to the Dairy Queen in Nesbitt’s new Pinto. They didn’t bring Demetrius into the Dairy Queen “We don’t want no one to lose their appetite in there, D.” but they brought him out a peanut shake, and Demetrius had really had some fun.

Nesbitt was doing it all—drinking Night Train, he had the car. Wanda’s baby’s father was pissed, Grandma told Demetrius on the phone, because Nesbitt has a fast car, and Wanda didn’t have time for Dwight no more.

Nesbitt had even asked Demetrius if he wanted to sit up front and steer the wheel with his hands before Nesbitt realized that Demetrius’s left arm just barely moved.

Wish they’d come by today. Demetrius hated noon, or eleven thirty-five in the morning. Wexler got him up at six, emptied his pee bag, changed him, put Demetrius in the chair, and took him to Breakfast.

Then to the North Lounge where Demetrius started watching Secret Squirrel at seven a.m., Flintstones at seven-thirty (Fred Flinstone was one yelling white man) and more cartoons until ten and then “I Love Lucy” and “Green Acres” before “Panorama” came on. Demetrius couldn’t take “Panorama”.

After Luncheon came the stories—“One Life to Live” “A Guiding Light” Gail watched them with Demetrius, and cracked him up with her observations.

“Stay out of his bed, Jessica…oh, watch, Demetrius, she’s going to do it again!” Mr. Standish and sometimes Colonel Lunchmeat would watch too, and it was fun. And then they might all play “Old Maid” or Scrabble, though Demetrius couldn’t really spell good.

And then Dinner, and more TV time, or if a Social Worker came by, Idell would take them all outside for a bit, but not too often. On the weekend a preacher came and talked about Jesus.  It was all okay, except for that period between eleven-thirty and twelve noon.

Bad, bad television. And old, because in the past three years, Demetrius had seen all these shows go through full churns---Brady Bunch when they’re all young, Cindy like four years old…through to when the boys have the processed hair and Cindy is nice with long hair, fourteen, fifteen, hanging out with Cousin Oliver.

Demetrius could say the scripts along at this point, but Green Acres at noon, it was tough.

With the talking pig, and the French lady, was bad. Not funny like Fred Flintstone. And then  Panorama was a bunch of old people sitting in chairs, talking, and Demetrius didn’t have to watch the television to see that. Just look around.

If it was earlier in the week, Demetrius could push his pencil in the little box that sent his chair around, propelling it to the elevator, visiting people in South Lounge, or downstairs where the little store was. And the chair went fast with the pencil grinding in it.

Yes, Demetrius had thought the pencil sharpening propelled chair was interesting, like Star Trek a year ago, when his arms got too sick to push the wheels any more. He’d envied Gail a little bit, when she’d had the pencil chair and he’d just been pushing his wheels.

Gail couldn’t move much at all. “Shame, that nice Jewish girl has a shape on her, and nice. Little makeup would make her even prettier. But it’s a shame.” Grandma had said.

But Gail had told Demetrius makeup was stupid. “Let’s see. Eugene got married again, and doesn’t bring our kids anymore because it’s too depressing to be here, not even for Rosh Hashanah. And then Marcus left. Really, Demetrius. Thirty-six years old. I don’t need lipstick and eye shadow any more.”

What Gail did have and need, was pencils, and so did Demetrius. But he didn’t realize how important it was.

On Demetrius’s birthday, when Gail gave him a big bag of unsharpened No. 2’s from Icarus Office Supply, Demetrius was mad. “I’m eleven years old. You and Mr. Standish promised me  G.I. Joe, with the Kung Fu Grip.”

But Gail had said to him with her sad Jewish lady smile. “You’re going to need these pencils more. And watch that I don’t borrow them back from you, Demetrius.”

And Gail was right. Mrs. Selwyn had allocated twenty unsharpened No. 2 yellow pencils a week to the motorized wheelchair residents on Medicaid, which meant, you really had to decide where you were going to go, and stay there. Or run out and hope an orderly or someone’s visiting grandson would push you.

It was getting boring in here. Demetrius had a couple of Camel Lights in his little satchel, but if he smoked in here Idell wouldn’t care—they traded cigarettes, but if Gail came in, she would raise hell. If Demetrius had a couple more pencils, he could drive his chair to the South Lounge and smoke to his heart’s content, and even borrow more from the Trunk.

The Trunk had no arms and legs and was blind from the diabetes, and he was grateful enough when Demetrius lit a cigarette and put it in his mouth (and that man could smoke it to the filter without having to take it out) and would give Demetrius a couple of cigarettes for himself.

“Nice behavior for a former cardiologist” the Trunk always said. “And I was on the board of the American Lung, and I give child cigarettes.”

And there was no one to talk to here in the North Lounge. Mr. Standish had just died, they use to have a good time, watching what Gail called “the boob tube.” Mr. Standish always said “Not enough boobs for me on there Gailie!” Gail cried the day of Mr. Standish’s funeral, and was mad that they didn’t get to go.

“You start going to funerals, we’ll spoil y’all.” Idell said once. “Next thing you’ll want to eat in a restaurant once a week, go fishin’…”

Yes, it was boring. Demetrius had to sit here and watch Mrs. Phillips drool, nice company she was, and Idell the orderly, sitting in the corner, reading his magazine.

Demetrius looked at the wheels. He reached down to push the big wheels on each side of the chair—the physical therapist had encouraged him to do that, but he couldn’t get the strength. He thought about using his stub, and then remembered what Gail and Mr. Standish had called Immediate Gratification.

And ten days ago, Demetrius had been pencil-less, and there weren’t any in the office, the quads were always borrowing…and he hadn’t been able to get around much.

Demetrius tried to push the wheels. Idell looked over his magazine at Demetrius and laughed lightly. “I was your age, I was pitching ball, the Police Athletics, and you can’t even push those wheels. Lazyarms.”

In a way, Demetrius liked it when Idell and Keith called him Lazyarms, because it made him feel like he wasn’t sick or weak, just jiving.

 Jiving to get people to push him around. And Demetrius could move his arms, some, read a comic book, use the remote. Gail’s arms barely could move at all.

The illness, when it came on Demetrius first hit him in stickball. He couldn’t hit the ball, but if the ball hit him accidentally, he could still run around the bases…and he could play some catch with a football, because it was so big.

But then he got clumsier, he was always It when they played tag, he got real slow, and now he couldn’t do much of anything. He looked at his stub and a half of No. 2’s. It just wasn’t worth going back to his room to call Grandma, who was at work anyways.

Nothing to do in the room. He’d traded his baseball card collection for pencils, his comic books were gone, and he had a Gloria Gaynor cassette, but his tape recorder was out of batteries, and someone had taken his cord, probably Keith or Weatherby.

Etta Mae strutted by, looking into the North Lounge. Etta was able bodied, sort of, but out of her mind.“My daddy beat my butt!” she screamed. Etta Mae was colored, so Demetrius had no idea what her last name was, but he was sure that since Etta was about a hundred, her daddy must’ve beat her a long time ago.

Etta Mae came a little closer to the North Lounge which had no walls or door, and was just an open  enclosure off the hall.

“Daddy beat my butt. You better watch your mouth!” Etta’s eyes pierced Demetrius’s soul, and Idell hid behind his magazine.

Etta turned and staggered down the hall, in a trance over long ago childhood issues.

Demetrius almost wished Etta would come back. He was stuck with the Green Acres crackers and their damn pig.

But Demetrius, when looking at the television, discovered “Green Acres” was not on.

It was tired news from yesterday. Being  repeated  again, boring, and Demetrius was stuck here with his stub and a half of pencil until Monday’s allocation. And it’s only Thursday.

So Demetrius had to sit here, enduring a Special Broadcast. “In these United States for the first time in history, a sitting president is resigning. Last night, President Nixon’s News Secretary, Mr. Ziegler announced that Mr. Nixon would go before the nation…”

Demetrius looked over at Idell, the morning orderly again. Demetrius cocked his head. Idell was reading a magazine. He met Demetrius’s eyes. “You got a pencil there. Two pencils. Go your own self.”

“Come on, Idell, you ain’t doing nothing.” Demetrius looked at Idell with a pleading look, and Idell gave him the Finger. Payback for when Sean spilled his orange Fanta on Saturday, probably. Demetrius didn’t buy Sean the soda. Grandma bought Sean the soda. Grandma brought Sean to visit. Who pays for it? Demetrius.

Idell smiled, relenting. “I take you back in five minutes. Let me finish this story. Listen to the thing about the President, Demetrius. He quit his job so he don’t have to go to jail. Shee-it.” And Idell returned to his Life magazine.

Idell probably still was mad at how Demetrius was when he first came to this floor…Demetrius at the time could no longer walk, but he’d wheel real fast up and down the hall, and wheel into the ladies toilet, and whip open stall doors and get yelled at by Mrs. Anvers, who was sitting with her pants down.

The Marvin Sunshine Facilities Assistant Director, Mrs. Earlham had recently commended Demetrius on having matured. “You realize the seriousness and gravitas of nursing home life now.” She’d given Demetrius a six pack of Pepsi for being so good.

No, what it really was, Demetrius couldn’t move much anymore. Just thinking about how he used to write on the South Lounge walls and outrace the orderlies made him tired.

Demetrius looked at Mrs. Phillips. She was leaning over, her old white head on her shoulder, and she was drooling like a motherfucker, but no one had put a towel on her shoulder to catch it, and now her dress was NASTY.

Demetrius wondered if he should tell Idell, but since Idell had probably wheeled Mrs. Phillips in here, he knew and didn’t care, and Demetrius didn’t want to sabotage his being pushed back to his room. Idell could be nice, sometimes.

Gail rolled into the Lounge. Demetrius looked longingly at her box of ten, long, yellow pencils. Gail’s mother must have visited. Gail hated her damn mother, but at least Mrs. Lefkowitz remembered pencils.

 Unlike Grandma or Aunt Shems “You don’t need no damn pencils, boy. You can barely write.” And he just couldn’t explain, and besides, he forgot, what with Sean and Wanda screaming, and comic books.

Yeah, Demetrius loved his Superman, and he needed the pencils, but if he had to have one or the other, huh.

He’d traded some of the comics to Sean, but he was sure, Demetrius was, that Sean had taken some more, stolen them, while Wexler was changing Demetrius’s diaper behind the curtain. Little brothers.

“Oh God, is it on again?” Gail looked over at the TV. “No impeachment now. But he still may go to jail, maybe he’ll share a cell with Haldeman. Gail smiled. “What an asshole.”

Haldeman was not like Superman or Batman. Maybe Haldeman hung around the hall, like Demetrius. The Hall-Man Hero!

Gail saw Demetrius’s woebegone face. “What’s wrong, Demetrius? Is this pre-empting Green Acres?” Gail shook her head. “I have a book for you. Remember? Reading is like television that you can turn on all the time.”

Demetrius was unimpressed. Yesterday Mrs. Gustafson tried to give him her granddaughter’s copy of “The Partridge Family No.#4: The Haunted House” No pictures, except for David Cassidy with all his hair on the front. Uh uh.

Demetrius looked around Gail’s chair. “Here come Keith, Gail” he said, but not too loudly. Gail seemed to blanch, and she dropped part of her tie dye silk stole, the one her sister brought from Bombay, over the box of pencils in her lap.

All the orderlies wore the same white long T-shirts and white pants, but Keith liked to dress it up a little, and had a shirt on with a cartoon of an  old dude leaning back as he walked “Keep on Truckin” on it.

Demetrius didn’t like Keith, he was a little too free with his hands when he got mad, (though Demetrius shouldn’t wet the bed, it was true) but it was a cool T-shirt.

Keith had a bandanna pulling back his long dirty blond hair. He grinned at Idell, still deep into “Life” magazine. “Come on outside, man. Jess has got a doobie.” Keith grinned. “Downstairs balcony.”

Gail rolled her eyes. Demetrius tried to catch her glance. Don’t start, Gail. Just don’t start. Uncle Phineas use to tell Demetrius, before he moved to the Home “Women don’t get it when they don’t run their mouths, but they always runnin’ their mouths.”

“I don’t suppose you mopped  yet today, Keith?” Gail asked acidly. “Before you plan your leisure time, reefer-wise.” Gail absently stroked her raven ponytail. “I don’t want to get in the way of fun, but you know—“

Why you start? Damn.

 If Gail did with Keith the way she used to with Marcus, Keith would be nice to Gail, and all her friends. Marcus hadn’t been Gail’s boyfriend, whatever she thought.

 And before he was fired, he gave Demetrius Snickers bars, Wacky Pack stickers for the side of Demetrius’s chair,  and Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers comic books, two of them, although they were no competition with “Superman”.

Marcus was a nice guy. He would sit in Mrs. Kipple’s room so she could smoke (since she couldn’t get out of bed, she couldn’t smoke unless someone able bodied was in there) and listen to Mrs. Kipple talk about being a Works Project Administrator, the first woman in Ohio in 1939, or some boring shit. Marcus had been a nice guy.

But then Marcus got fired, after it came out about him and Gail.

Now Keith was turning to Gail with a mean ass smile. If Demetrius could’ve lifted both his arms, he would have put his face in his hands. Dumb, Dumb Gail.

“Oh, did I tell you, Idell?” Keith said a little loudly, as he lit a Marlboro, gritting his teeth, but not turning away from Gail. “I got written up. Last night. Someone complained that I didn’t clean Mrs. Finney’s diaper pail, and it couldn’t have been Mrs. Finney who complained, ‘cause  all she says is “Day by day” all the time, or she sings a little.”

Mrs. Finney did sing, Demetrius meditated. At midnight, too! Who the fuck wants to hear “Old Rugged Cross” at twelve o’clock when you have to be hauled out of bed at six a.m.?

“You got written up because you lazy.” Idell said, his charcoal face not moving from “Life” magazine. Demetrius leaned, craning his neck.

On the front cover of “Life” which Idell had now put directly in front of his face, probably to avoid the nonsense, it showed a white woman with boy-short hair and “Mia: The Wide Eyed Sprite That Is Mrs. Sinatra.”

That was an old magazine. Demetrius remembered it  on the coffee table in the lounge downstairs when he lived down there, before he was eight. They didn’t change the magazines, just moved them from floor to floor here.

“No” Keith said, stepping a few over to where Gail sat, increasingly nervous, “I got written up because a tight assed bitch who used to whore for every doctor and orderly on this floor decided to make trouble.”

 Keith leaned over, he was directly standing in front of Gail’s chair now. “You could barely move your hips, but you moved them anyway, and now you just want to run your mouth.”

Keith reached his hand out and as Demetrius and Gail winced in tandem, Keith lightly patted Gail’s cheek. Then he took her chin and brought Gail’s face up to his. “This isn’t Smith College, bitch. You know that? I saw your ugly yearbook. No more bossy bitch.”

Without looking up from “Life” magazine, Idell said “She a whore if she fuck everybody, but she’s a bitch if she fucks everybody but you. Hah!”

“Why look, what’s this?” Keith said as he reached over and pulled Gail’s silk shawl off her box of pencils. “Why where did you get all these pencils, Gail?” Keith looked innocently at Gail.

“You know my mother came and gave them to me.” Gail said, her brows furrowing. Grandma had told Demetrius that if Gail trimmed her eyebrows like Mrs. Wallach, the lady Grandma cleaned for, Gail would not look like a gorilla.

Now Keith was pondering. Demetrius remembered that Keith had told Gail that he would bring her LOTS of pencils, or even recommend her for one of those chairs, the new ones, with the remote control (but this was bullshit, who would listen to Keith) if Gail was more friendly-like, and Gail had kicked him to the curb, fast.

And then, Gail kept finding her pencils disappeared when she woke up. Keith didn’t work nights, but Demetrius knew he did come in and smoke reefer with Cantrell Dobbs sometimes, nights. They stole Percs from the nurse’s station and got crazy!

Demetrius had an idea of how Gail was probably hiding pencils  behind her bookcase in her room, where she kept the pills she was saving up, as she said, for when the sclerosis meant she couldn’t move at all.

Gail had told Demetrius where they were, and if he could still move his arms and she couldn’t, would he feed them to her?

“It’s how Socrates went, it’s quite peaceful.” Gail had said with a smile. But it was a big secret between her and Demetrius. And Socrates, but he might have died before Demetrius moved to this floor. So why didn’t she hide the pencils this time behind the bookcase?

Keith slowly reached down and picked up Gail’s pencils. Just grabbed them, leaving the box on her lap. “I think there are some Number Twos missing from the office, Idell.”  Keith pointed to President Nixon on the TV. “The big thief inspires little thieves, right?”

Gail looked up at Keith, first angry, and then pleading. “Keith, I didn’t steal those pencils. They’re for my transportation. They only use Bic pens in the office—please give me back my pencils.”

“Idell!” screamed Demetrius. But Idell was staying out of it. Mrs. Sinatra was in front of his face. Demetrius tried to look threatening at Keith which was ridiculous, since he was eleven in a six year old body with shrunken limbs. “I’ll tell, Keith. Give her back her pencils.”

Keith grinned as he flicked the butt of his cigarette to the floor and stepped on it. “You didn’t learn when I put your chair on the stairwell landing last week, did you, Demetrius?”

Keith and Idell both laughed at this. Putting down his magazine, Idell said “Little brother was STANKIN’ of piss when Mr. Forbes found him. Nasty.”

Keith scratched his hairy chin. “But you know, Demetrius didn’t go complaining about me, did you Demetrius? My little joke, right?”

Demetrius leaned a little, though his back was sick and tired, even this early in the morning. Doctor Potter had told Grandma that Demetrius might live to fifteen, but he was awful tired for age eleven.

“Keith, Gail didn’t get you writ up. I did. I told on you about the diapers. Take my pencils.” Course all he had was a stub and a half.

Keith laughed, a ringing, hearty chuckle. “You don’t know from diapers. You’re not some meddling kike. C’mon now. That’s hilarious.”

Keith looked at the pencils in his hand. He looked at Gail.

“P-please, Keith.” Gail looked up at him beseechingly. “I-told Mrs. Washburn that she could give my allotment this week to someone downstairs, someone who needed pencils, and my mom can’t drive in from Sterling to give me more. I need them to get around.”

“But Gail.” Keith said sweetly, “I ask you for favors, and you’re so…I don’t know so…”

“Bitchy?” Idell said from behind his Life magazine, and both men laughed.

Idell got up and came to Keith. “You did say there’s a doobie session on Balcony Four?”

Keith took the sixteen pencils, and snapped them in half, dropping them in his pocket. “Ill gotten gains, Gail. Yeah, Idell, let’s go.”

“But you was going to push me back, Idell—“ Demetrius then shook his head, looking at Gail. “Never mind. It’s okay.”

The two orderlies left, sauntering up the filthy hall.

Gail was tearing up, and Demetrius didn’t like that. “Gail, I got a pencil and a stub. Take my pencil.”

Demetrius pushed his stub into the sharpener that moved his chair closer to Gail’s. Gail took the unsharpened No. 2, and gave Demetrius a nasty, sloppy kiss on his cheek. Uncalled for.

“Demetrius, come back to my room, I want to show you this book I have for you.” Gail said, reaching over and holding Demetrius’s little arm. “You have enough of your stub to probably get back to watch Tricky Dick’s shame later.”

“Monday , I will split my allotment with you Gail, if you not dumb enough to carry it around in your lap. You are stupid.” Demetrius said quite sincerely, and he was puzzled when Gail laughed again, crying at the same time.

“Come look at my book. Have you ever heard of Maya Angelou?” Gail said, pressing her gift pencil into the sharpener. “Come look at it, Demetrius, it won’t kill you.”

Demetrius bit his lip, and pushed his stub into the sharpener, following Gail in his chair. A book without pictures again. But she’d had a bad day. She was a sweet, dumb woman.

As the two wheelchairs left the Lounge, the new President, Gerald Ford’s face was on the television, looking quite hopeful.

FOR THE REST OF THIS STORY—

http://www.lulu.com/shop/justin-jones/pencils-a-parable-of-the-disabled-young/ebook/product-20312219.html

Robin and Nightwing--and the Joker!

ROBIN AT BRENTWOOD

Chapter One

Harley looked at Mister J suspiciously while slowly guiding the van with the darkened windows through the little village of Brentwood, just outside Gotham City. It was odd, he really didn’t want to use the Jokermobile, or any of the various fleet of grin-painted vehicles that he kept in a hidden garage…for once he wanted anonymity.

“So you just wanna find the kid ‘n off him, Mister J?” The Joker, of course was in a reverie, considering who knows what, as was the habit of the mentally ill. Thinking about how great he was, probably. And Harley loved him…why didn’t he notice her more? Why?

The Joker smiled at Harley, his cherry red lips gleaming vividly. Harley wondered how, with almost no maintenance and constant violence, the Joker’s teeth were gleaming white and fully intact…he was a gorgeous man in some ways, though in others he looked like Lucille Ball on meth.

“Harley, I have a job that needs doing.” The Joker ran a gloved hand through his green locks. “I killed Robin, and now he’s back…a new Robin. I want to kill him too…when there’s a new cockroach in the kitchen, I must get out the Raid, you know.” The Joker laughed loud and long, before continuing.

“Because, of course when the current Robin is with Bats, he’s a bit difficult to get to, I’ve had to hold back, but he’s been seen sans old Gloomyguts here in the village of Brentwood, stopping small burglaries and other felony detritus and I have the oddest idea that he may be attending the youth conservatory up on the hill.”

“Robin, in boarding school?” Harley was puzzled. She hadn’t really thought of what the kid did in his off hours. Harley had gone to P.S. 38 in Park Slope, Brooklyn, and it had never occurred to her that Robin might be a preppie

. During her previous life, as Harleen Quinzel, psychology student, she’d met a few graduates of Choate and St. Paul’s in college, and didn’t think of them as being terribly muscular, or for that matter, very bright, and young Robin was both.

But the Joker was canny and quite observant for someone who spent much of his time um, clowning around…and he had agents everywhere feeding him information, even when he was straitjacketed at Arkham.

“You see, Harley—Robin has quashed about twelve crimes in the past three months—just when the semester started at the school. Before that, this sleepy little town had never had anything but an incompetent constabulary.”

The Joker had instructed Harley to just drive slowly through the streets, looking around and keeping a low profile, which of course Harley Quinn wasn’t really into. She’d been quiet and demure for the first twenty-six years of her life, except for a little stickball with her brothers, and since finding her reason for living as the Joker’s sidekick and sometime lover—she liked to make noise.

“On September 12^th, Robin put down a robbery of Brentwood Savings & Trust…on the nineteenth the police showed up at Brockman’s Diamond Exchange in the morning to find bound and gagged men in the main trading floor with long burglary records, in mid-October drug lord Sausalito Sanchez, who had a monopoly in this area for crack and heroin, was dropped off with his evidence at the police station, and so on…”

The Joker grinned at Harley, and she was glad she wasn’t Robin.

Chapter Two

SIZING UP THE MATTER

Crouching on the rafters, overlooking the sordid transaction in the warehouse below, the two youths were transfixed by the appearance of the  Medico-Maggot.

“His head looks like Jell-O Vanilla pudding” commented Robin to Nightwing, who nodded assent. Salvatore Dali would agree too. From the shoulders down (as he had no neck) Medico-Maggot resembled a doctor on rounds—long white hospital coat with “Maggot” neatly inscribed in red embroidery, normal hands, sober black pants, etc.

But Medico-Maggot’s head was bald and lumpy, a bit like the Thing of the Fantastic Four--- his face was two tiny black eyes (like raisins in the pudding? Mused Tim) and a wavering orifice below the twin raisins that had to be a mouth.

“What Love Canal was he born next to,” breathed Nightwing.

“Medico-Maggot makes Clayface look like Ricky Martin” responded Robin.

“I have nineteen kidneys here, Wesker” Medico-Maggot croaked lustily, “Twelve thousand dollars apiece, if you will.”

Medico-Maggot was reclining on a lumbar-support office chair, with his feet propped on a large oblong  freezer. Across the freezer sat a balding, mild-mannered chap with thick glasses, holding a hideous ventriloquist’s dummy, sort of a cross between Charlie McCarthy, Junior Soprano and Joe Pesci, clad in a gray flannel suit and fedora, holding a small “Tommy” gun. Doll as it was, it didn’t’ t look as if this wooden crate would take any bullshit from Medico-Maggot.

“Don’t talk to Wesker, Pudding-face!”  shrieked the little doll, and above, Robin was gratified that the little mannequin had concurred with his observation.

The little doll’s head rolled briefly to look at his lap’s host and then back to Medico-Maggot. “Wesker’s just a goddam stooge, see, I’m Scarface and I say three grand a kidney, how come you don’t have twenty even, Medico? They come two to a vic, right?”

Medico-Maggot grunted. “I fear one of the kidneys perished when it was insufficiently frozen.” Medico Maggot paused for a moment, rubbing the lump on his chin.

 “But my incompetent staffer will repay me with two of his own kidneys should the error be repeated. But most of your customers will only purchase one kidney, and I cannot part with them for less then ten thousand dollars each, Scarface.”

Upon the rafters, Tim Drake blinked behind his mask. The past three of his sixteen brief years had been quite instructive in the ways of evil, both assisting Batman and Nightwing, and in his work with the Titans. Murdered children, intergalactic holocausts, dissected eyelids. The third Robin had observed a lot.

But stealing kidneys? It had been a joke “Is Gotham being de-geeked?” asked WGOT disc jockey Mouth Mullins. It seemed as if a variety of nerdy, obese or just plain people were being picked off in various nightclubs and singles joints in the Gotham tri-city area, though the Iceberg Lounge, owned by the Penguin, seemed to be severely left alone.

“Mortie Herndon, about forty-two, a zit face, he never got lucky here” commented a curvy bartender from the Neon Mist to an inquiring from the Bludhaven Bugle. “Then one night, a honey blond, looked like January Jones is necking with Mortie at the bar, shit, I’d get a tetanus shot if I was her, but they left, and Mortie’s not been seen in three weeks.”

Neither had Mortie’s employer at Gotham Rent-A-Car or Mortie’s not-so- heartbroken mother “Finally I can get a tenant for the bum’s room.”

A sobbing Post Office employee told a similar tale about her sister, a sometime member of Overeaters Anonymous, and president of the Gotham Quilting Bees.

“Gretchen and I were at the Rainbow Room, and a gorgeous guy, looked like Brad Pitt, came over to compliment Gretchen on her sundress, which she’d gotten at Lane Bryant on sale…I wasn’t surprised when they left together, Gretch never got that lucky in her life—but I’ve not seen her in a month now!”

So Dick Grayson had put some fake buck teeth in, attached a cleft lip to his mouth and a bald pate…and just a pillow or two in his belt, and went to try his luck!

Three nights later, at the Nut Hut, a cute little brunette started a conversation with Dick, who stuttered and did some aw-shucks… they’d danced, Dick stepping on her toes to make SURE she knew what a loser he was…but she’d invited him home, offered him a beer…

Dick’s nose, trained by the World’s Greatest Detective from childhood, had caught the scent of Rohypnol, and feigned near unconsciousness, until the girl and a young man from the back room of her apartment had come to load him in a box…

Certainly they were surprised when, upon lifting the coffin-like box, Nightwing had emerged, tying them both up, and calling in Robin to assist…and they’d gotten an address of this musty warehouse before dropping the two felons off at Bludhuven P.D.

“I’m so glad you called me in on this” Robin whispered to Nightwing. “Boarding school is so boring, and I really miss Stephanie. This skirmish should ease the tension.”

“I was tense until I saw the bodies out back…they just took the kidneys and threw the people away.” Nightwing said glumly. “Criminals have amazing imagination, don’t you think?”

Below, Medico-Maggot and Scarface were beginning to argue. “Who the fuck are you going to get to buy these goddamn things if not me, you shriveled prune?” screamed Wesker’s doll.

Medico-Maggot laughed. “Are you joking? Killer Croc said he might buy them to eat if you don’t want them, Scarface. I suggest you meet my price.”

“Jesus, I’m going to hurl” Robin said, and Nightwing patted his shoulder.

DRIVING A HARD BARGAIN

Medico-Maggot had once been  relatively ordinary looking doctor, although he was an albino, and had hated the fact that people ignored his brilliance at surgery and other things in favor of pity at his pinkish blond state.

Medico-Maggot had developed a formula that he had believed would make him beautiful…curing his albino-ness, and bringing him the charm and beauty Nature had made available to lesser mortals.

But he’d forgotten to add salt, or something, and the formula had caused Medico-Maggot’s head to rupture, it seemed…and had perhaps affected his sanity, for his behavior after the unfortunate experiment had caused Medico-Maggot to be dismissed from Bludhaven Hospital, and be briefly committed to Arkham Asylum.

Recalling his early days, attempting fruitlessly to get dates at singles bars as a homely young albino, Medico-Maggot had recruited a series of attractive young men and women, usually nurses, doctors and physician’s assistants who had lost their careers because of morphine addiction or embezzlement.

Yes—nerds were desperate for dates, and those who were in dialysis would pay well for kidneys…more applicants than donors…and so--

Medico-Maggot’s people could both seduce and reduce…bringing in the lonely, drugging them, removing their kidneys surgically, and disposing of the bodies. When Medico-Maggot had enough money from this enterprise, he would be able to conduct ANOTHER experiment that would in fact succeed in making him handsome and charming!

But first the puppet had to pay what Medico-Maggot wanted, and unfortunately, Scarface was now pointing the little machine gun a little too close to Medico-Maggot for his comfort.

Medico-Maggot nodded to his own men, who pointed their guns at Wesker and the dummy…”This can only end in tears, Scarface. If you value your—“

But then there was a shout from above. “Guess that’s our cue, Robin!”

And dropping from the rafters were Nightwing and Robin—familiar to Medico-Maggot from the TV news, and of course old foes to Wesker. All on the floor, save the unarmed Medico-Maggot, began shooting at the costumed two, who, amazingly dropped through the hail of bullets like ghosts.

The last thing Medico-Maggot heard before he fled the warehouse was Robin chortling “Don’t you know handguns are notoriously poor at aiming, except at close range?” as he kicked a Glock out of an employee’s grasp.

Outside the warehouse, Medico-Maggot looked around in the dark, terrified. He did not want to return to Arkham, and the murder of many de-kidneyed geeks might put him on death row…

Suddenly he was confronted with a van pulling up, and the side opening. Was that…a clown? The JOKER!

“Need assistance, dear boy? I understand you were once a plastic surgeon, though sadly, not one who was adept at self-help.” A maniacal laugh. “If you could turn a humble harlequin into a high school teacher, albeit temporarily…I could effect your escape from this unfortunate situation, and perhaps give you a bit of the financial ready as well…”

Medico-Maggot knew in his heart that the Joker was a psychotic murderer…but hearing the pandemonium in the warehouse cease, also knew there was a pretty good chance that the capes had won…and would be coming out to look for him. He climbed into the van, and it pulled away, the Joker and Harley howling with merriment over their peculiar acquisition.

A SOPHOMORE WONDERS

Paul Ellis grinned and tapped Tim Drake’s foot in the seat ahead of him. “You’re falling asleep again, dude. Langstyn will flay you.” Drake looked alive, sort of, and smiled vaguely behind him at Ellis.

Chirpy Bellows, Ellis’s best friend since they’d started at Brentwood back in the Second Form, also known as seventh grade, roomed with Drake, and had told Ellis on a number of occasions that Drake  must be out getting laid, as he left his room around ten-thirty every other night…by the window, and it was a wonder he could negotiate the fragile ivy to the ground.

Now Mr. Langstyn, chairman of the classics department at Brentwood, and teacher of this class on Beowulf, was going on and on…fortunately the bell was about to ring—but would Drake pass out  before?

But, blessedly, the bell rang. As the boys left the classroom, cruelly disregarding Langstyn’s shout to read pages 133-152 for class tomorrow, Ellis and Drake emerged into the hall, where they saw the Assistant Headmaster with a peculiar bearded fellow, whose eyes and upper forehead seemed to be covered with dark glasses.

“God, the new teachers get weirder and weirder here, Drake.” Ellis muttered.

“Maybe dude’s a parent” Drake replied, but he cocked his head.

“No, I’ve been here a while…the weirder they are, the more responsibility they have—“

And indeed, they overheard the Assistant Head say to the bearded chap. “Mr. Shaw, your classroom will be over on this side. I hope you enjoy teaching World History.”

THE JOKER’S NEW JOB

The Joker found the beard and the glasses to be not quite as irritating as the artificial pigment that the Medico-Maggot had ingested into his formerly beautiful, glorious alabaster skin.

As soon as Harley had figured out how to continue the treatments to keep the Joker as Mr. Shaw, World History prof, they’d dropped into a funeral parlor  and cremated the Medico-Maggot alive, dancing to the Maggot’s agitated screams outside the chamber.

The Joker listened to the Assistant Headmaster droning on about schedules and health insurance, and wondered how people could do this sort of thing every day. Go to work, remember timetables—and this was what the doctors at Arkham wanted of him…to be sane.

But normalcy was so repulsive. Even as a child, the Joker had preferred pulling wings off flies and dropping a cherry bomb into the neighbor’s toilet to the drudgery of multiplication tables and Little League.

He’d burgled the Gotham Zoo at thirteen, bringing a dozen cobras into his parent’s bed, and watched Mama die in agony…and then he’d gone into the room with a machete to assist the snakes, who apparently saw him as a friend, in dispatching Papa as well.

A decade or so later, as the disguised thief the Red Hood, the Joker had had his dousing in the infected acid at the playing card company…he’d fled Batman…but he owed Batman so much! He had not become insane as a result of  his skin whitening, his hair turning green or his lips red…he’d realized his true potential…and what potential!

“I hope you can achieve your goals here, Mr. Shaw.” The Assistant Head patted the Joker’s betweeded arm as they walked back to his office.

“Oh yes, I have several.” Harley was a genius at falsifying records…and the Joker knew—he just KNEW that Robin had to be a student here at the Brentwood Academy. And if not, if he knocked off a few not-Robins, it didn’t seem like a serious error.

It was just a good thing to get some attention—think of Jim Gordon, the idiot Police Commissioner of Gotham—The Joker had paralyzed his daughter, and then shot Gordon’s second wife to death, Lieutenant Sarah Essen, during the Gotham earthquake—

And Gordon might hate the Joker, but essentially, he respected the Joker as well. He had to! And, if the liberal, namby-pambies did not want to execute the Clown Prince of Crime, then that was just a pass for more fun, right?

“Mr. Shaw” watched the fat, complacent administrator waddling beside him with contempt. What a life…compare this to ridding Gotham of its irritations…plaguing the Batman, resting up at Arkham before beginning the whole thing again…and the Joker was famous—television psychiatrists tried to analyze him, and he just terrified the world.

Who could have a better life, really?

VICTOR’S VISITOR

Victor Zsasz rode in silence in the van, looking at Harley Quinn suspiciously. “You broke me out of Arkham…why?” Zsasz’s skin itched for a fresh slash. He hadn’t had a killing since strangling a dishwasher employed in Arkham’s cafeteria last April.

 Zsasz was seriously considering killing Harley Quinn, after all, she’d once been on the hospital staff…but he didn’t want to annoy the Joker. Zsasz was not afraid of much, but the Joker freaked him out!

Also, Harley had helped Zsasz get out of his annoying Arkham coverall and into a nice tank top, a wife-beater which handsomely displayed his many, many hash marks covering his chest and shoulders, each from a murdered—a murderee, there was a new word.

Usually young women, but Zsasz wasn’t particular. He was a living guillotine, and couldn’t wait to get his hands on a nice big butcher knife.

But now Harley was speaking, as she negotiated the van out of Gotham, heading for Brentwood Village.

“Mister J is doin’ something interesting at Brentwood Academy, like I told you.” Harley said, rattling the jingle bells on her jester’s hat. “He don’t think he needs help, but if he’s gonna find Robin and kill him, p’raps you can thin the herd a little too—of boys, you know? Schoolboys.”

“I hate Robin. I hate Batman. I hate everybody.” For Zsasz, this was almost a daily insight. “It sounds like a plan…wait, stop here, Harley.”

Harley halted the van, and Zsasz, taking a discarded letter opener, a pretty silver thing, from the van’s dashboard, hopped out, encountering a young woman on a skateboard.

Harley rubbed her nose and looked out the other window as the shriek came, and then Victor Zsasz climbed back into the van, putting on his seatbelt and then carving a small hash mark into his shoulder. “Yes, I’m more relaxed now. So much better than Prozac.”

IN A NIGHT’S WORK

It was a great secret of  Ian Chastek’s that he was secretly Jewish. As leader of the Brentwood Village Neo-nazis, it could have caused him serious grief that he’d been born Isadore Kilovitz…but his followers weren’t bright, and what a time they were going to have raping the bound, and nearly naked librarian of the Gotham Holocaust Museum.

They’d brought her back to Ian’s basement apartment, and there, lying  under a huge poster of a purple swastika, Kylie Levenson wriggled miserably.

 Ian grinned at his followers. Chauncey DeMars snapped his fingers. “Let’s go to it, give the bitch her due, right?” Ian knew that Chauncey, and Lyle Maher and Porky Lofft  were quite happy with the find, not only because it would strike a blow against the Hebes but…none of the guys got laid much. Even by women who didn’t know they were great Neo-Nazis…

But, as Ian stepped forward and began to unzip his pants, there was a sound of breaking glass…and oops, Ian’s door had just been kicked in by—a kid in a mask.

“Well now—so you cowards are about to ruin yet another young woman’s life.” The masked kid walked over to Kylie, and, detatching his yellow cape, draped it over her nudity…and then turned to the Brentwood Village Neo-Nazis with a grim look.

“Oh, look, is this Robin?” Earl Novello, Ian’s warlord grinned.

 Jesus, he’s just a kid, Ian thought. Here we are, bodybuilders in our twenties, and this little chump can’t be more’n fifteen! Shrimpy little bastard—but, as he watched Chauncey DeMars lunge at Robin, Ian wondered if the stories were true.

“Hold still, you little bastard! Ian, help me—Ooof!”

Chauncey had been a Golden Gloves runner-up, and also a Tae Kwon Do expert, but none of this was serving him well in dealing with the uh, Masked Avenger in the faggy red suit. As Chauncey went down, spitting teeth, Earl and Maher ran, Maher swinging a long thick chain with sixty keys on rings at the end—it was quite a weapon!

“Motherfu-“ WHAP BANG, POW!

Unless you were kicked in the nuts and the chain was slammed back in your face—this boy wasn’t playing around. Not five seven, and now he was throwing Earl Novello, who was easily six four and built like a chimney, into Ian’s mantelpiece. Mom would be pissed, if she heard all this from upstairs.

Finally Porky seemed to have Robin in a chubby death grip, and was attempting to squeeze the air out of him, and Ian ran to do a little stomach punching…

But before he’d landed one, Robin’s right foot slammed up into his jaw, and  then, before Ian actually fell to the ground Robin seemed to climb up Ian’s body, disengaging from Porky before slamming a backhand and shattering Porky’s upper plate.

Ian was a vicious bully, but he was no coward, and he wasn’t going to let some adolescent  bury his dream of  giving Kylie the old sausage (Kylie had several times rejected Ian’s advances as Isidore, back in the Youth Group days of Temple Beth-Israel on the corner of 8^th and T)

Taking up a fireplace poker, Ian swung it at Robin’s head, but the nimble little monkey ducked, and Ian ended up whacking Earl Novello in a swinging steel arc, as Earl had been attempting once again to grab Robin…

Two little fists, encased in green gloves battered Ian’s jaw and stomach and then another roundhouse came—a haymaker like Ian had never suffered, and he went down again, spitting out teeth and blood with vigor.

As Robin helped Kylie Levenson dress, and the police invaded Ian’s apartment, Ian lay dazed on the basement floor, and  wondered if he might go back to Youth Group as Isidore, and just keep his head down…

Chapter Three

VICTOR CONSIDERS IT

What a drag, cutting roses, shaping hedges…but the lovely clippers! Szazs had been locked up in that horrible glass cage in Arkham for so long. He thirsted for a little flesh, female flesh if he had his druthers.

But he’d gotten the landscaping job, and was trying to do his best to spot Robin. Harley had promised Victor Szasz $500,000 if he could knock Robin off, as it was causing “Mr. J” such stress.

And then Szazs could leave the country, with that kind of bounty, and maybe do a bit of carving in Europe…all those pretty girls! Here it was just damn boys, BOYS, BOYS everywhere, a revolting idea, single sex education.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have good coordination, Victor certainly did, but he’d not really worked in some time—he was either out killing, or locked up at Arkham. It was a wonder he could keep himself in shape, really.

In the hospital, Victor did lift a lot of weights, but he was so closely supervised—everyone was afraid he’d brain someone with them…but the hospital was so—so confining. And for the crime of putting people out of their misery!

And look at the lives ordinary people led. The other men on the landscaping crew just seemed like robots, and Victor felt sorry for them. Today he was working alone, as he volunteered for overtime…he had little else to do…

Victor admired his muscled body as he worked on the hedges…all the hash marks seemed to gleam in the sun, and those glorious crevices. He had a brand new cut, yes he did, right under his left nipple. He couldn’t do it with the murder weapon, so Victor had used a nail file.

But what a glorious weapon he’d used!

Victor put his clippers down and went to see if he’d sufficiently cleaned off the chain-saw. It was back in the shed, and what a festival Szazs had had with it the night before.

Some young mother, coming to see her sullen thirteen year old…she’d  wandered by Victor’s shed for a smoke, and that was all she wrote, so to speak.  And her spoiled kid didn’t even ask where she’d gone, after all, she’d given him some money, so the fact that her car sat in the Visitor’s parking lot all day, just didn’t matter!

She’d screamed, but Victor had put his fist in her mouth as he’d run the buzz-saw, and then carefully put the pieces of Mom into a nice bag. To keep for later, you know…

After the Joker had nagged him, Victor had thrown the body in  the Brentwood Village canal, but he’d never had such fun as playing with that chain-saw…what a marvelous, MARVELOUS invention.

But when would his next opportunity be? It was such a barren environment, this boy’s school, Jack the Ripper would have wept!

“Victor, could I ask a favor?”

Oh, precious Melissa Fotherington, she was smiling at him. Ms. Fotherington was a piano teacher, and wouldn’t Victor like to go over her with the chainsaw—cutting off those pretty little fingers…

“Yes, Ms. Fotherington? Do you want some roses, ma’am?” Shuffle and jive…

“Victor, would you consider helping us chaperone the mixer tomorrow night? Mr. Burbridge has bowed out, and if we don’t have five or six adults the girls from St. Alyce’s really can’t come. Would you mind?”

And maybe there is a God…

MIXERS ARE SCARY EVENTS

Ellis and Tim Drake watched as the girls from St.Alyce’s trooped into the gymnasium. “Sucks that we have to use the gym, Drake.” Ellis grumbled. “When we went to the mixer at Miss Cranston’s Academy, the girls had a real dance room.”

Tim Drake grinned. “Why do you call them mixers? They’re parties, right?” Drake considered. “Well, not really, since everyone is invited. But the phrase mixer sounds so queer.”

Ellis shook his head. “Whatever you call them, I’ve been standing on this stag line for three years now. No luck…I could be in a damn palace, and I’d be standing here, watching Anson Kimball over there, he gets some girl dragging him back to the dorm for a little uh…you know, Drake.”

Tim smiled. “Well, everybody has a first time, and I saw you dancing with Sapperstein’s cousin at the Cooper Hall Spring Formal. She was nibbling your neck, dude, like you were a banana.”

Ellis mumbled something about wishing he was a banana. Things had been a little sad at Brentwood—two weeks ago, Murrell of the Fourth Form had been found dead in the woods behind the tennis courts. Probably he’d been accosted by a tramp while he was jogging, but did the guy have to cut his throat?

Ellis had noticed Drake getting really quiet, and he’d apparently taken Murrell’s death hard, although as far as Ellis knew, Drake and Murrell didn’t know each other well. They looked a little alike, but that was about it. Who knew what a guy like Drake was thinking…he played it close to the vest, as Granddad used to say.

It was interesting. Mr. Shaw was chaperoning the event, look at him there with his strange beard…but so was Victor, the new dude on the landscaping crew, who looked as if he were one of those guys who shaved his body hair, but unfortunately didn’t change his razor much. Was he DROOLING?

ADULT SUPERVISION

Mr. Shaw stroked his beard carefully. He wasn’t sure about Harley’s latest addition to the Brentwood Academy staff. Szazs was too unstable, too—well, of course the Joker was one to talk! But goodness gracious, he was here just to take care of the Robin thing.

It wasn’t easy to behave all the time—sanity, even pretended, was such a dull bore. The Joker did enjoy teaching a bit—since he had little formal education, he’d just sort of made up history as he went, but the boys didn’t mind.

The Joker explained Washington and Jefferson as eager sodomites; Napoleon as being a male anorexic---and Frederick the Great of Prussia as being a second cousin of Superman. Mr. Shaw demanded no homework, and the boys loved him—yes.

And, when a parent had pestered him about some nonsense, the Joker had planted a car bomb under her Prius, and after the accident, both her brats had left the school, and neither had returned, and of course that made for a better classroom-teacher ratio, right?

The Joker had planted kiddie porn in the chaplain’s office, leading to a distressing arrest, and put methamphetamine in the Purina Horse chow, causing one hopeful amateur jockey of seventeen to be paralyzed from the neck down.

A bit of phencyclidine in the Gatorade dispenser for the Brentwood football team had made for three glorious, if bloody wins for the school, but then of course the team was permanently barred from interschool league games after the Digby boy from Choate was stomped to death by a Brentwood fullback.

The chairman of the Drama department, who, in the Faculty Lounge had made a humorous allusion to Mr. Shaw’s curious beard awakened one morning without a tongue, but it had happened at the chairman’s home, and was put down to a grisly second-story man…

Some cyanide in the heating vents had caused what appeared to be four fatal heart attacks of several emeritus professors in the Master’s Studies…which had caused little fuss as the Brentwood pension fund had been under funded for a time…Dr.Shaw, amateur economist!

Harley had cautioned that filling the pool with battery acid might cause undue attention to his original mission, but the Joker had put just a bit in the birdbath…it had been an interesting spectacle…

But always, the Joker remembered why he was really here, as the months wore on.

After Mr. Shaw had disposed of the Murrell brat, there had been another Robin sighting that night, turning in some pot dealers from Brentwood Village Park…so it hadn’t been Murrell—perhaps that would be obvious, since it had been so easy to jump him.

Look at Victor Szazs…he was salivating, as the young ladies took off their wraps, and made hesitant overtures to the boys. Certainly they were fetching in their gowns, but it was BOYS that were possible Robin…unless Robin were a transsexual.

Oh dear. Was Szazs asking a girl to dance? Or…no she was asking him about the restrooms, and there he was, guiding her. The Joker was just a bit worried. Harley, you are so stupid.

A moment later, Mr. Landry, the bursar, asked Mr. Shaw a question about the punch. Was it spiked? There had been a problem last year with that. The Joker wished he could spike it with kerosene…how annoying.

A few minutes later, Szasz came back into the gymnasium, alone, and smiling, as if he’d just had a nice Valium. There was a fresh cut on his shoulder. No, not…Victor winked at Mr. Shaw, and of course took a sixteen year old redhead out on the floor, to bump and grind to “Ice, Ice Baby.”

SLOW DANCE…BUT NO HICKEYS!

Fanchon Starling smiled up at Tim Drake as they glided along. “Stairway to Heaven’  is such an old song. I remember my nanny listening to it, and she was like, fifty years old when I was five.”

Fanchon’s handsome partner grinned. “Well, it is an old song, but my step mom Dana says that it was a big make-out tune when she was in high school. Dana’s great, it’s like having a cute big sister…my dad’s in paradise with her. You say you had a nanny?”

Oh, Jesus. Was this boy a sensitive scholarship kid? Fanchon was used to being rich, and didn’t feel badly about it. After all, at night, back in Newark, New Jersey, she patrolled as the Osprey—and had done quite a great job of cleaning up the filth. Why not be rich in the off hours?

“Yeah, Trinity raised me…she wasn’t an English governess type, just a nice girl from Jersey City who had been my mom’s counselor at summer camp…she was great, though. Taught me hopscotch, how to dance the Hustle—that’s from the seventies, like ‘Stairway to Heaven’.”

Tim smiled. “Yeah, sounds like Trinity and Dana would really get along, except Dana’s not in her fifties, she’s about twenty-nine.”

Fanchon giggled. “Yeah, your dad must be having a good time!” Fanchon shook her long dark hair, and it spilled on her shoulders. She hoped no one would cut in…Tim seemed like a great guy. She was glad she’d asked him to dance.

But, as she leaned in for an experimental kiss, there was a scream from the girl’s restroom.

ALL THE FUSS

“Now I know Robin, but who’s the cape with the boobs?” Szasz leaned against the wall of the gym, watching police questioning groups of hysterical, weeping girls, and astonished young men…and the two costumed adolescents who had just shown up.

A news reporter from WGOT was asking the same question. “Robin is here at the Preppie Mixer Slaughter, as we’re calling it, as well as a young female superhero, apparently the Osprey.”

Szazs turned to his academic colleague. “What’s an Osprey?”

“The Osprey (Pandion haliaetus), sometimes known as the sea hawk, fish eagle or fish hawk, is a diurnal, fish-eating, bird of prey.” Shaw said, reading from Wikipedia on his Iphone. “Funny Cobblepot never told me about them in our long nights of incarceration. Think I saw something about her on the news in a Jersey motel once.”

Szasz grinned. “Well I did good, right? Here’s Robin for you…we can ambush him outside, or something.” But Szasz was looking as if he would rather show another girl to the lavatory, though presently the ladies room was filled with cops and coroners.

“No, Victor, you didn’t do ‘good’, not at all.” Mr. Shaw said disgustedly. “I want to trap Robin in his other identity, when he’s not on guard, and dispatch him as quickly as possible.” The Joker hated being the heavy, but really, Szazs was out of line.

“Now there will be much too much attention on new staff members, and although you could just disappear, I am afraid Harley’s trumped up records won’t hold up under the FBI’s examination.”

The Osprey was indeed quite enchanting. A sexy white outfit, much like Power Girl’s, but trimmed with brown plumage…The Joker wondered whether she’d been a classmate at the girl’s school, but that would be too fantastic, really.

A depressed young man wandered over to the Joker, plopping himself on a bleacher. “Mr. Shaw, I was going out with Karenna—since last year. And now she’s gone, I don’t know if I can  survive this, dude. Her whole body splattered all over the girl’s john.”

Mr. Shaw stroked his ever-present beard. “Yes, Rupert, but the Almighty has a bigger plan for us. Your courage in this time is what Karenna’s family will need.”

Rupert looked at Mr. Shaw admiringly. “God, you have so much character, sir.”

WHO’S THE OSPREY?

Robin stepped away from the sobbing young woman he’d been interviewing, and looked at the peculiarly dressed uh, heroine. She seemed to be interrogating in a professional way, but Jesus, there really wasn’t much need for two capes here, was there?

Also, since the female breasts are so sensitive, why does she show so much cleavage that could be damaged in a—oh here she comes.

“Hi Robin, I’m the Osprey. Looks like one girl, Colette Eakins was in a stall when she heard Karenna enter the bathroom. Karenna said something like “You don’t have to follow me into the girls, dude” and then there was a male voice, deep, ‘I’ve no need of your opinion, honey.’ then there was a gasp and a muffled shriek.” The Osprey paused. “and then a body fell to the floor of the john.”

“Apparently, Colette pulled her feet up in the shitter, “ The Osprey continued “She was hoping she wouldn’t be seen, but she did peek through the door jamb of the stall and saw a tall male in sleeveless men’s underwear pushing a razor blade into his shoulder. And of course the floor was covered in blood.”

Robin, trying to use tact smiled. “I think it’s great, miss that you are interested in helping out, but this really is work for professionals.”

The Osprey gazed at him. “You mean fifteen year olds shouldn’t prance around in masks?”

“Now wait a minute.” Tim Drake was getting pissed.

“They’re so focused on the blood in the restroom, these cops and M.E.’s, that they don’t notice that it’s dripped back into the dance floor—or gymnasium, this school is cheap.”

Robin rolled his eyes.

“But I brought in the Leprechaun, the WeaponMaster, and the Black Widower—Jersey villains—just on the trail of their blood.”

Robin got huffy. “I don’t see any blood in this gym, and I think you’ve really got to see a psychiatrist, all this about the Leprechaun—“ But the Osprey rudeley interrupted.

“But that man behind you…in an undershirt, is dripping, little specks of blood.” Osprey pointed. “Standing next to the teacher with the beard…I’m surprised the cops didn’t notice, but as you can see—“

“But that blood is from his shoulder, he cut himself—oh shit, on purpose, how could I be so dumb, that’s Victor Szazs, the Brentwood gardener is SZASZ.” Robin stepped forward, and Szazs, seeing that he’d caught unwelcome attention, grabbed the ponytail of a little strawberry blonde dancer, and dragged her to him, holding a scalpel under her neck. A surgeon’s scalpel…

Suddenly the police were frozen. “We gotta be careful, that’s Senator Dimden’s kid he’s got…” an obese sergeant shouted “you know our pay is up for review—“

“Got a penlight flash in that cute utility belt of yours?” Osprey said, smiling at Robin. She hadn’t even turned around, it seemed.

Dumbly, he handed it to her, and then, amazingly she pulled out her compact, opening the mirror. This was no time to check your eyeliner—

But the Osprey flashed the penlight into the compact, and neatly shot the ray right behind her, into Victor Szazs’s left eye.

 As Szazs screamed, and relinquished his hold on the girl’s neck, the Osprey began doing a back-flipping cartwheel, landing her last kick into Szazs’s jaw, as Senator Dimden’s kid ran screaming into the arms of her hyperactive girlfriends.

Well okay then. Szazs gathered his forces, and began wrestling with the Osprey, collecting his scalpel from the floor, and Robin threw his Batarang, and nicked it out of the killer’s hand, and the Osprey, who had been struggling under Szazs, flipped him over her head and he landed with a crash, and the Brentwood Village police were upon him.

As Szazs was being dragged away, he became acutely psychotic, and began pointing at the wimpiest, weirdest teacher on the Brentwood staff. “He’s the Joker! Don’t arrest me, bring him in, he wants to kill Robin—“

Tim Drake ducked out of an unused locker in his sport jacket and chinos, and walked back into the gym, now almost empty of dancers. He saw Fanchon, the girl he’d been dancing with, picking up a makeup compact from the floor.

“Guess there was some excitement here. Hope I see you at the next dance.” Fanchon smiled. She really was pretty. “Can you use a penlight, it was lying here on the floor…” Fanchon tossed it to Tim, and followed her sobbing friends out of the Brentwood Academy gym. The mixer was over.

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