III

At half past seven, a full four hours after the Magyar had concluded that MA was dead and had consigned her body to rape and experimentation, Spencer and Toynbee stood at the door to the lab, while Toynbee fumbled with the key. They had found the belt in a storeroom next to the torture chamber and had taken it without asking anyone’s permission. They planned to disassemble it and find out its secrets.

“The Magyar won’t like this,” Toynbee whispered, as Spencer slipped the belt from under his lab coat.

“The Magyar need never know,” Spencer replied. “Besides, if we find something useful, he’ll probably give us a bonus.”

They entered the lab like schoolboys up to a bit of mischief. MA’s body lay peacefully in the middle of the floor.

“Well, which should we take apart first — the belt or her?” Spencer asked jauntily. This adventure had boosted his spirits.

“I’m not sure,” said Toynbee. “I guess the belt can wait. She can’t — unless we freeze her.”

Spencer looked down at MA. “Here’s another idea,” he said. “This belt protected Ms. Americana when she was alive. What would it do now that she’s dead?”

“Dangerous, Spencer. Very dangerous.”

“Why? You’re a scientist. You know the dead do not rise.”

Toynbee remained doubtful. “If you’re convinced the belt cannot revive her, why put it on her? What’s the point?”

“The point, Dr. Toynbee, is to see if the belt protects her body even in death. To see whether or not it will allow us to — in the words of the incomparable Corgi — ‘rip her open.’”

“Yes. Yes, I see. A very different matter,” said Toynbee. “So you don’t think she’ll . . . .”

“Be restored to life and come after us like the unkillable villain in a slasher movie? Of course not.”

“Well, then, perhaps we should give it a try. If the belt blocks us from doing our work, we can always take it off.”

“And disassemble it — and her,” added Spencer triumphantly. It was the first time he had ever taken control of an experiment in the four years he had worked for Toynbee. He felt elated and powerful.

They lifted MA back onto the examining table and laid her face down. Then Spencer raised her midsection while Toynbee slipped the belt under her. “There doesn’t seem to be a conventional buckle,” the older man muttered. He held the two ends of the belt a few inches apart, just above the small of her back.

“You’re right,” said Spencer. “Well, it probably works by magnetism. When the two ends get close enough, they lock into place . . . . like this.” He reached over and pulled Toynbee’s hands together.

There was a sudden snap, and the belt was all in one piece, as if it had never left its owner’s body.

“Well,” said Spencer, “that takes care of that.” He sounded nonchalant, but inside he was nervous.

Toynbee was nervous, too. “So, what do we do now, my young Dr. Frankenstein?”

“We test its protective powers.” Spencer opened a drawer and took out a surgical knife with a gleaming, five-and-a-half-inch blade. He held it just above her left buttock, then pushed. The blade indented her flesh but didn’t enter it. He pushed harder. Still no incision. He raised the knife and brought it down with all his strength.

Still, no broken skin. Not a drop of blood.

“Mein Gott,” said Toynbee.

MA’s body jerked. It was a small movement, but both men saw it.

“Mein Gott,” Toynbee repeated.

Now MA began shaking violently.

“Get the belt off of her,” Spencer yelled. Toynbee reached for the belt, but his hands ran into a jolt of electricity that sent him reeling backwards.

Spencer slashed desperately at MA with the knife. The blade broke off, and he found himself holding only the stainless steel handle.

MA’s tremors had pushed her to the edge of the table. Suddenly she fell off and landed with a thud on the floor.

They looked down at her. Her eyes were open, and she looked up.

Without a word of consultation, the scientists bolted for the door. Spencer was quicker and got through first. Toynbee was only a half second behind, but when he stepped through the doorway, he staggered and clutched his chest. His last coherent thought consisted of a single word: thrombosis.

He fell dead even as MA was rising unsteadily to her feet. She had no idea where she was. She remembered nothing since the Magyar had showed her a silvery wand in the torture chamber.

She stepped over Toynbee’s body and looked around the hallway. There was an elevator door few feet from her. Further down the hall was an illuminated exit sign.

Must be a stairway, she thought. Safer than the elevator. They’ll probably come by elevator.

She ran to the exit, opened the door carefully and looked into the stairwell. There was a single flight of stairs going up, probably to the roof. She looked down. It appeared she was on the top floor of a three or four-story building. A door opened below and she heard excited voices.

Going down was out of the question. She raced up the stairs and came to a metal trap door. She tried the handle. It was locked. She closed her eyes, mustered all her strength and pushed up as hard as she could. Her feet slipped and she bounced back down the stairs to the landing where she had started.

“I hear her,” someone yelled below. “She’s trying to get out on the roof.”

There was a loud bang, and a bullet ricocheted off a railing just inches from her.

The lab. Maybe there was a window or a fire escape. Two more shots rang out. A bullet grazed her belt and veered off into the darkness.

She rolled into the hallway, jumped up and headed for the lab. Another shot rang out, and the slug hit her in the middle of the back. It knocked the breath out of her, and she fell to her hands and knees.

When she tried to get back up, Mastiff clubbed her with the butt of an AR-15. She sank back to the floor.

“Looks like Toynbee bought the farm,” said Wolfhound, breathing heavily after rushing up the stairs.

“Just as well,” said Mastiff. “Boss would’ve killed him. I can’t wait to see what he does to this slut.” She slipped her boot under MA’s belly and flipped her over.

“She ain’t that good-looking,” said Wolfhound. “You think she’s good-looking?”

“I think she’s the most beautiful woman I ever saw,” answered Mastiff. “And I hate her fucking guts.”

IV

“The question Spencer raises is an interesting one,” the Magyar said. He was standing on the back steps of his manor house, and he spoke loudly to his security staff, who had gathered in the cobbled courtyard between the house and his seven-car garage.

“Ms. Americana’s magic belt restored her to life, but it did not save her from being recaptured. Why? And why was Mastiff able to knock her unconscious? It is true she was shot in the back and suffered no major injury, but in days gone by the belt would have protected her even from the force of impact. A bullet would never have touched her.”

He paused and looked over at Spencer, who sat tied in a chair, with Corgi guarding him. Spencer wore the resigned expression of a condemned man.

“What do you think, Dr. Spencer? You raised these questions — no doubt to keep yourself alive a little longer. But they are good questions. You are a scientist. What’s your guess?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer said glumly.

“Speak up, we can’t hear you,” the Magyar shouted.

“I don’t know,” Spencer said, loudly this time. “I don’t think it was because of any defect in the belt. This is only conjecture, but I think something happened inside Ms. Americana.”

“Inside her? Indeed it did,” roared the Magyar, with an insanely wide smile. “Deep, deep inside her. What happened is that Miss American Pie got thoroughly fucked by my swizzle stick and nearly died with happiness. In fact, she did die. Am I not correct, Spencer?”

“Yes. She appeared to be clinically dead when she was delivered to the lab.”

“And she was dead when you and Toynbee fucked her, was she not?” yelled the Magyar. There was scattered laughter in the crowd.

“Yes, sir, she was dead when we . . . .” His voice trailed off.

“When you what?” demanded the Magyar.

“When we fucked her,” Spencer screamed. Then he burst into tears.

“Have no fear, Spencer. No will fuck you when you’re dead. You have my word on that.” More laughter from the crowd.

“But now, let’s get a fresh look at the young lady who has caused us so much trouble.” He gestured, and Mastiff and Wolfhound led MA out the back door and onto the steps. MA again wore the choke collar — but the belt was gone. So was her cockiness. Her head was bowed, and her dark hair covered her eyes.

The Magyar grabbed a handful of that hair and yanked it so that the crowd could see her tear-stained face.

“Still beautiful, isn’t she?” he yelled. “And look at these boobs.” He grabbed her breasts with both hands, digging his polished fingernails into her flesh. She flinched but uttered not a sound.

“Yes, she is still quite a woman,” he said. “What she is not, however, is a superheroine. Even with her belt, she could not escape us. She has been broken. I broke her. My magic wand proved more powerful than her magic belt.”

He stood in front of her. She looked down, evading his eyes.

“Look at me,” he said in a low voice. “Look into my eyes, slut.”

She raised her eyes. There was a flash of defiance, but it died in an instant. She was a defeated woman.

“What must I do with you?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. He nodded to Mastiff, who jabbed a wooden dowel into her rectum. MA jumped and gasped.

“He asked you a question, slut,” hissed Mastiff.

“I’m sorry,” MA sobbed. “I didn’t hear it.”

The Magyar repeated slowly, “What must I do with you?”

Mastiff slid the dowel back and forth across MA’s behind, ready to goose her again.

“Let me go — please,” MA said in a small, desperate voice. “You’ve already destroyed me. Please, spare my life.”

The Magyar smiled, turned to his “associates” and spread his arms, as if offering a blessing.

“She says she wants to live,” he cried out. “She says I shouldn’t snuff her. What do you say, sisters and brothers?”

“Kill her,” they roared in unison.

The Magyar stepped aside, giving the crowd a full view of MA. At that instant, Mastiff again jammed the dowel deep into her ass. MA rose on her toes, her face twisted in pain.

Whatever else it might be, this death would not be dignified.

V

They did not feed her for four days. She grew weaker and weaker. To make matters worse, they put a diuretic in her drinking water. She constantly had to pee and her weight plunged from her usual 140 pounds to under 125.

The Magyar had decided that he would kill her barehanded, and he wanted to make sure she had no fight left in her when the time came. Mastiff and Wolfhound contributed to the effort by roughing her up every few hours, under Corgi’s supervision.

“She’s a lot weaker than she was, boss,” Corgi said after the third day. “She could barely stand up when they went at her today.”

“Good,” said the Magyar. “I want to be able to disable her quickly. But as for the killing, I think that should be done slowly, don’t you?”

Corgi squirmed uncomfortably. “Not really, boss,” he said. “I mean, my rule is that you get it over fast, so there’s less time for surprises.”

“Hmmm, I see your point,” said the Magyar. “But I do want to give my fans a bit of a show.”

# # #

Showtime came on a Friday. MA had been allowed to sleep no more than ten or fifteen minutes at a stretch the night before. The three bitches — Mastiff, Wolfhound and Bulldog — took turns keeping her awake. Once, when the clanging of a big cowbell next to her ear didn’t work, Bulldog dumped a pitcher of ice water on her. Mastiff used an electric cattle prod. Applied to MA’s butt hole just as she was falling asleep, it produced splendid results.

At noon, Corgi and Mastiff dragged the exhausted former superheroine into the courtyard. “You gotta stand,” Corgi whispered. “If you don’t stand, he’ll be pissed and stomp you to death.” He was beginning to feel sorry for her.

With enormous effort, MA stood on her own. She teetered in one direction, then another, but she stood.

The Magyar came out in a dark blue silk dressing gown and blew kisses to his “fans” — the 45 or so people who worked on his estate and provided muscle for his businesses.

He removed the dressing gown with a flourish and tossed it to his valet. He wore white satin boxing trunks and fawn colored boxing gloves. He bounced up and down in his sneakers. He had boxed at the lyceum in Budapest as a youth, and he prided himself on his skills.

Corgi pushed MA forward. She and the Magyar met in the middle of a square bordered by yellow ribbon. Ripon, the head gardener, was the referee.

“No rules,” he said. “Just a simple fight to the death. Shake hands and may the best man win.” He winked at the Magyar.

Corgi grabbed MA’s elbow and tried to get her to extend her hand, but the Magyar had decided to dispense with this formality. He hit her in the face with a left.

As MA stumbled backwards and Corgi scurried out of the ring, the Magyar signaled to a young man on a platform full of sound equipment. Suddenly, “Dancing Queen” blasted from two huge speakers, and the criminal mastermind began prancing to the disco beat. He threw jabs in time with the music. They weren’t very forceful, but they kept MA confused and off-balance. Desperate, she tried to take the offensive, swinging wildly and missing. This left her open to a savage punch to her side, just below her rib cage. She groaned and sank to her knees.

“Get up, darling,” Magyar taunted. “Get up. It takes two kitties to have a catfight.”

MA got back on her feet just in time to take a hard punch to her right breast. She wrapped her arms around her chest, bent over and sobbed.

“Oh, the poor wittle tittie’s hurt,” said Magyar. He kicked her in the behind to make her stand up, then danced around her and threw three quick jabs at her head. She raised her arms to protect her face, but that just left her belly defenseless. The Magyar took full advantage, slamming his fist into her gut. She doubled up and again fell to her knees.

“Praying, darling?” asked the Magyar. Then he hit her with a karate chop to the back of her neck. Her head snapped back, and she fell face forward onto the cobblestones.

Ripon didn’t bother to start counting. It was clear she wouldn’t be getting up.

Spaniel, who had been taping the proceedings from a step ladder at the back of the crowd, now came forward, pushing through the crowd with his camera. Magyar saw him and started dancing lasciviously. He removed his gloves and tossed them into the crowd. Then he reached into the waist band of his trunks and slowly pulled out a black silk stocking.

“Frivolous luxury or implement of death?” he purred to the camera. “You decide.”

He caressed his body with the stocking, stuffed it back into his trunks to rub his crotch, then pulled it out again. He was having a glorious time, and the crowd was clapping to the music.

Finally, the song came to an end. The Magyar glanced at the sound stage and drew a finger across his throat. It was the signal for a change of music. What came next was a heavy metal cacophony appropriate for a concert in Hell — or a public execution.

The Magyar stood over MA’s prone body, bumping and grinding obscenely. Then he slowly knelt, straddling her. Spaniel knelt, too. The camera lens was only inches from her face. Blood flowed from her nose and mouth.

“Goodnight, sweet princess,” the Magyar said, leaning down and slipping the stocking around her neck. Slowly, dramatically, he tightened the noose.

“This is awesome,” said Spaniel.

“How does she look?” asked the Magyar.

“Like a dying whore. Pull tighter.”

The Magyar jerked her head back and pulled with all his strength.

The music grew louder, and MA’s body began shaking violently.

“The death tremor,” the Magyar cried. “I love this part!”

Suddenly, above the jangle emitted by the speakers came a resounding “No!”

The voice had boomed out just behind the Magyar. When he turned to see who it was, a big fist smashed into his face.

It was Corgi who had thrown the punch, and he followed up by kicking the Magyar in the balls. When Spaniel tried to intervene, Corgi grabbed the camera and slammed it down on his head. Spaniel and camcorder fell together on top of the Magyar.

Corgi pulled a pistol out of his belt and turned slowly, facing the crowd.

“Okay, who’s with me?” he yelled. A murmur ran through the group, but no one volunteered.

“You’ll pay for this,” Bulldog hissed.

“You all saw what happened,” Corgi shouted. “You saw how this poor broad never had a chance. The Magyar gave himself every advantage. Look, I like seeing beautiful women roughed up as much as the next thug, but there’s a limit.”

Two members of the security team stepped forward and joined Corgi.

“We’re with you,” one said.

“Me, too,” said a third, drawing his pistol and scanning the crowd as he backed toward them.

He needn’t have worried. No one was going to fight for the Magyar. Even the bitches knew the game was up. Mastiff wept quietly, profoundly disappointed at the outcome. Wolfie tried to give the fallen MA one last kick, but Corgi shoved her away.

He knelt and turned MA onto her back. Her face was purple, and her eyes had rolled back. But when he loosened the stocking from her neck, he felt a pulse.

She had made it — against all odds.

VI

At Delta-City Clinic, MA went through a battery of physical and psychological tests. She passed them all — except one.

Dr. Rita Markham, the clinic’s leading psychologist, was worried about possible personality changes due to MA’s brush with death. So she had given the superheroine a standard 110-question examination. When she went over the results, she was profoundly shaken.

“The Magyar and his goons did terrible things to her,” she explained to a roomful of physicians at the clinic. “Of course, this wasn’t the first time Ms. Americana has been subjected to incredibly brutal treatment. In the past, she has recovered fully in every way — physically, emotionally and, if I may be permitted to use a word some of you may frown on, spiritually.”

There was scattered muttering and clearing of throats.

“But this time, something went very wrong. Ms. Americana is not what she was before. The Baleful-McGregor test clearly shows that her level of confidence, once almost off the charts, has fallen sharply. Her self-image has suffered far more than her body. And it appears that her psycho-sexual profile has undergone a dramatic change.”

“In what way?” asked Dr. Bohner, the clinic director.

“In a very dangerous way for a superheroine,” said Dr. Markham. “She has tasted sexual submission and found it intensely pleasurable. From now on, any time she is under stress, she will be in danger of a relapse.”

“How fascinating,” said Bohner.

“I recommend she be given no assignments outside of headquarters for at least six months,” said Markham. “At that time, she should come in for more tests.”

After the conference ended, Bohner went into his office. He had left the TV on, with the sound muted, and when he looked at the screen he was surprised to see Ms. Americana. She was with the district attorney and a beefy looking young man in a T-shirt, at a press conference at police headquarters. MA’s belt and mask had been restored, but not her confidence. One look told him that.

He turned up the volume. The young man in the T-shirt, who had the improbable name of Corgi, was stealing the show. He told how he had been a henchman of the Magyar but had seen the error of his ways. Torturing the defenseless superheroine “just wasn’t right,” he said, then he explained how he rescued her from certain death. While he spoke, MA looked down at her hands and said nothing.

A buzzer rang. Bohner muted the TV as his secretary told him he had a call from Police Commissioner Stepford.

“Put him through,” he said. “Donald, I was expecting you to call. Yes, I was just watching the press conference. Our little heroine doesn’t look so cocky anymore, does she?”

He was silent for a while, then said, “Listen, Donald, we’ve had an interesting session here today. It seems the mighty Ms. A has become some kind of sexual pervert.”

He paused. “No, she’s not going to run around molesting children in the park. In fact, she’s not likely to be the sexual aggressor at all. More likely, she could end up the victim — a very willing victim, I might add.”

As he listened to Stepford’s speculation on what this might mean for crime-fighting in Delta-City, Bohner opened the drawer of his desk and took out the hand-carved wooden case a police detective had given him after the raid on the Magyar’s compound.

“No, I have no idea how this happened, and I don’t think Markham does, either,” he said. He lifted the lid of the box and removed the silver wand. “So I’d like an opportunity to talk with the Magyar. I wouldn’t interfere with your investigation or the DA’s. This is purely in the interest of science. The bastard is in such deep shit, there’s a chance he might talk freely to me in the hope of getting a break.”

He paused again, then said, “Yes, I’ll let you know if there are any new developments at our end.”

He hung up and turned his full attention to the device. Ingenious, he thought. He flipped a switch at the base of the handle, then lightly touched the knob at the other end. There was a slight spark, and he quickly withdrew his finger.

He had lied when he told Stepford he had no idea what had caused the psychological change in Ms. Americana. In fact, he had a very good hunch what had given her such a soul-damaging thrill.

“And the time will come when I can test it on the lovely Ms. Arrogance,” he said to himself. “Yes, the time will come soon enough — and when it does, I’m not sure which of us will enjoy it most.”

THE END