Resurrection

By Torrent

The truck driver was almost in tears.

“I told you, I don’t know where she came from,” he said to the two police officers. “The sky was just getting light, but I still had my headlights on. And suddenly there’s a woman in the middle of the road.”

“A naked woman,” said the older cop, big, red-faced man. “Yeah, she was naked, and she had some kind of collar around her neck and, like, big metal bracelets on her wrists and ankles. Except for that, she was stark naked.”

“So you hit the brakes, but you can’t stop in time,” said the other cop, reading his notes in the early morning light.

“Yeah, I hit the brakes hard, which I hated to do because I’m carrying a load of hogs to Lackanooka. I didn’t want them to get all busted up. You know, hogs got feelings, too. But it’s an emergency, so I hit the brakes hard, but I can’t stop in time, and . . . and ….” At this point, he burst into tears.

“Okay, okay,” said the first cop, patting the driver’s shoulder reassuringly. “We understand. You couldn’t prevent it. But I’m still confused. You hit her — the truck hit her — and then she just disappears.”

“Yeah,” said the truck driver. “I heard the noise from the impact — it was horrible, a big thud — then she flies into the air and she’s gone. I figure she’s landed beyond where my headlights reach, or off to the side of the road. But when I get out and look around, nothing. Not even any blood.”

“Okay,” said the older cop. “Let’s go back to the spot where you hit her.”

They walked from the back of the truck about 150 feet, to a jagged hole in the blacktop. On the far side of the hole was a car from the sheriff’s department, and the deputy had set up a flare, to warn approaching motorists. But it was still very early, and there wasn’t a car or truck in sight.

“Jesus Christ,” said the truck driver, “what the hell is that?”

“That’s what we’d all like to know,” said the sheriff‘s deputy. He had long sideburns and a mustache, neatly trimmed.

“What it looks like,” said the red-faced cop, “is something, or someone, came out from under the road. You can see all the asphalt pushed up.”

“Sort of like an exit wound,” said the deputy, with an ironic grin.

“You said she had on shackles,” said the younger cop. “Well, look down there.” He pointed to a thick steel rod protruding from the exposed rock under the road bed. Attached to it was a chain about a foot and a half long.

“Here, help me,” said the older cop, as he began clearing broken asphalt and caked gravel from the hole in the road.

In a few seconds, the officers had discovered three more rods in the rock. They formed a rectangle about eight feet by three-and-a-half feet. Chains were attached to three of the four rods.

“This is really strange shit,” said the deputy.

“Ain’t it, though,” said the older cop. “I know this sounds crazy, but it seems our naked lady emerged right here, right from under the road — just in time to get creamed by this gentleman’s truck.”

“Sure,” said the deputy. “She’s chained under God knows how much asphalt and gravel, for God knows how long, then she gets hit by a truck and walks away. Or flies away. Give me a break.”

“Well,” said the older cop, “I’m going to write it up that way. And you can write it up any way you want. I’m not even sure who has jurisdiction here. We’re probably outside city limits, but I’m not sure.”

“Me neither,” said the deputy.

“I know where we are,” said the younger cop. The others looked at him, waiting for an explanation.

“We’re in the Twilight Zone,” he said mysteriously. Then they all burst out laughing — even the truck driver, whose tears of anguish and guilt had barely dried.

# # #

SG was flying high enough to avoid being noticed by anyone on the ground but not so high that she couldn’t make out the features below.

It was great to be airborne again — just to be exposed to the air at all, for that matter. But she was disoriented and confused. She vaguely remembered being put into that hole in the road. They had shackled her arms and legs. And someone had stuck something — something big — into her . . . . She shuddered and pushed the memory out of her mind.

What happened that day didn’t matter, at least not for the moment. There would be time to reconstruct — and to get even. For now, she needed to find a safe place to land, somewhere she could finding clothing and get rid of these steel shackles, and the chain attached to the one around her left wrist.

A flash of light caught her eye. It was the Lackanooka River, reflecting the morning sun. At the sight of it, she realized she was terribly thirsty.

She spiraled down slowly, scanning the ground below to make sure no one was looking. A car passed under her, on a road that ran next to the river, but it was quickly gone. The scene seemed quiet. This was a sparsely populated area.

She landed softly at the top of an embankment that ran down to the river. An abandoned railroad bridge was just a few yards away. She could go under it to drink, safe from any observers on the road.

The bank was slippery, and she skidded down it, ending up knee-deep in the river. She laughed at her own clumsiness, then waded under the bridge and leaned over to drink.

“You’re awfully brave, drinking out of the Lackanooka,” said a voice from behind her. She turned to see a dark form approaching in the shadow of the bridge. “It’s polluted, you know,” said the voice. Then the speaker was close enough for her to make out a man of 40 or so, in ragged clothes and badly in need of a shave. And a bath and mouthwash. He was still several feet away, but she could smell his stench.

“The Lord has been good to us, sending us a beautiful naked lady,” he said, smiling broadly.

“He shore has,” said another voice. A second man, younger but just as disheveled, came out of the gloom to join the first.

“Here, let me help you up,” said the first man, reaching out to her. She cautiously took his hand. He pulled her onto the bank, then stepped back to examine her.

“Yes, a very beautiful naked lady,” he said softly, “and she comes with a collar and handcuffs, like some kind of sex slave.”

“And just in time,” said his partner, “since we ain’t had no pussy in a month of Sundays.”

SG sighed. So, it was going to be another of those encounters.

“Well, it’s going to be a millennium of Sundays before you get close to this pussy,” she said coldly.

“Goodness, I’ve offended her, Jake,” said the older man. “What can we do to make amends?”

Jake, who was behind SG, said, “This!” and slammed a rock into the back of her head.

SG’s knees buckled, and she would have fallen had the older man not grabbed her and pressed her against his body.

“Oh, yes, the Lord hath looked with favor upon us,” he cried. “He showers us with blessings.”

“I’m going to shower this cunt with my blessings,” said his partner, untying the rope he used as a belt.

“Age before beauty,” said the older one. He dragged SG up the embankment until they were on a level spot just a few feet below the underside of the bridge. He had already pulled out his prick and was stroking it to get it hard.

“Too bad you’re asleep,” he whispered to SG. “I think you would enjoy this.”

“Not as much as this,” she hissed, swinging her arms together, so the steel shackles smashed into either side of the hobo’s head.

He gasped, wide-eyed, then fell on top of her, blood gushing from both ears. SG rolled him off of her, then sprang at his partner.

They tumbled together down the embankment and into the river. She sat on his chest in the shallow water, her hands around his throat. He tried desperately to break her grip or unseat her. But his struggle was in vain. After a few seconds, bubbles began pouring from his mouth and nose, and he lost consciousness. SG held him down until she was sure he was dead.

Then she stood and began trembling. She had killed. Many times she had beaten up the bad guys, broken their bones, sent them to the hospital for long stays. Now she was sending two men to the morgue — assuming anyone discovered their bodies in this godforsaken spot. She buried her face in her hands and wept.

II

She passed the electrical transformer factory and the slaughterhouse, and workers whistled and jeered. Then she was on the highway bridge into town. A car headed her way slowed, and the driver said, “Get in. You can’t just walk around like that. People will think you’re crazy. The cops will arrest you.”

SG came out of her daze and looked at him. He was a plump middle-aged man in a suit and tie. He had a kind face.

“Come on, get in,” he said. His voice sounded reassuring. She opened the passenger side door and climbed in.

“Where are you headed,” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said SG. “Maybe Marston College. Yes, Marston College.”

“Are you a student there,” the man asked, watching the road but stealing occasional glances at her.

“Yes. No. Well, I was.”

“What happened to you? Who took your clothes?”

SG didn’t answer. Who did take her clothes? She couldn’t remember. It all seemed so long ago. She watched the cars coming and going. They looked so different from what she remembered. They were bigger. And the one she was in had so many knobs and dials on the dashboard.

She looked outside and saw O’Malley’s Malt Shop, only it wasn’t a malt shop anymore. It was called Revolutionary Records, and the window was full of record albums with colorful covers and faces she didn’t recognize. Most of the people on the street seemed to be women, in funny looking blue jeans with wide bottoms. Then she realized that many of them weren’t women at all, they were men with long hair.

“You can let me off here,” she said. “I can walk over to the campus.”

“With no clothes?” said the man. “No way. I’ll take you to my place. Some of my ex’s outfits are still in the closet.”

“Okay,” said SG wearily. She was too tired to think of an alternative plan.

They pulled into an apartment complex, and the man said, “We’ll go in in a minute. I just wanted to do this first.” He leaned toward her and slipped his left hand between her legs. With his right, he grabbed her collar and pulled her head toward him.

Her first impulse was to punch him in the face. Then she thought of the hobo whose skull she had crushed.

“Please. Let me go,” she said hoarsely.

But he didn’t let her go. He kissed her on the lips, forcing his tongue into her mouth. Meanwhile, three fingers were deep into her vagina. She felt herself getting wet. The old lust was still there, the hunger for rough stuff and humiliation. She had to overcome it.

She pushed him away. “No. I’m getting out,” she said.

He held onto her collar but he removed his left hand from her pussy and opened the glove compartment. She saw the gun just as his hand closed on it.

“You’re not going anywhere, bitch,” he hissed, “except up to my apartment. I’m going to fuck you over and over, and you’re going to like it. Then you’re going to lick me clean.”

She grabbed the gun, and it went off with a noise that was deafening in the closed car. The bullet hit her in the belly, and she bent over from the pain.

The man recoiled in horror. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “I didn’t mean to do it. Oh, my God.”

SG straightened up and looked down. She had the gun in one hand and the spent and flattened bullet in the other. And she had a smear of black on her belly, from the burnt powder. But there was no hole. She had lost many of her powers, but it still would take a lot more than a slug from a .38 — or a truck — to kill her.

She stuffed the gun back in the glove compartment.

“You should be more careful with this thing,” she said. “Someone could get hurt.”

Then she got out of the car and began walking toward where she thought the campus should be.

# # #

She left the street and ducked into an alley. She hoped that by sticking to alleys she’d find someone’s wash hanging on a backyard clothesline, something she could steal to cover her nakedness. But there was nothing hanging out to dry, even though it was a lovely late summer day. Maybe people didn’t hang their clothes out anymore, she thought.

Her sense of direction proved accurate. Soon she recognized the campus neighborhood. From the alley, she could see a sorority house across the street. An American flag hung from a pole that projected diagonally from a column on the front porch.

Could she steal a flag? Heck, she had killed two men today. Stealing a flag didn’t seem like much a crime compared to that.

She dashed across the street and pulled down the stars and stripes. A young woman opened the front door and cried, “Hey, what’re you doing?” But SG was gone in a flash.

She hid in some bushes next to the performing arts building and wrapped the flag around her like a towel. It was barely big enough to cover both her nipples and her crotch. Oh, well, it would have to do.

Now what, she thought. She had wanted to come to Marston because it was where she was living before she was buried under that road. But she didn’t know how much time had passed since then. Would she recognize anyone? She wanted revenge, but were Dean Tooperman and her lesbo sister still around? And that bastard Louie? And those mobsters who raped and humiliated her the last night before her premature burial?

Some students passed a few feet from where she was hiding. They wore the same kind of clothes she had seen on Druid Avenue. Funny looking blue jeans, and what looked like buckskin vests. Necklaces with strange symbols. And headbands. Everyone seemed to wear a headband.

They didn’t look anything like the Marston girls of ‘56.

She wanted to stop them and ask them a thousand questions, but she realized she probably looked as strange wearing the flag as she had when she was completely naked.

Then a side door of the arts building opened a few yards away, and two girls rushed out laughing. SG decided to make her move. The theater was in that building, and there would surely be costumes somewhere behind stage. She’d surely find something more suitable, and less noticeable, than the American flag.

She ran to the door and pulled it open, just as someone inside was coming out. It was a sweet-faced blonde in a flowery dress.

“Oh, groovy,” she said when she saw SG. “I’d have never thought of that.” She turned to a group of young women busy making placards in a big room. “Tina, get a load of this.”

The room fell quiet, except for music from a radio on the far side.

A tall, auburn-haired woman with an attractive but hard face came forward.

“Ain’t she a trip, Tina,” said the blonde girl.

Tina said nothing. She looked long and hard at SG, then reached for her hand and pulled her into the room.

Now the others approached. SG had never felt more the center of attention, or more embarrassed by it.

“Genius,” Tina said at last. “Sheer fucking genius. The flag. The shackles. The chain and the collar. Absolutely perfect.”

SG smiled hesitantly. Tina seemed to be the leader here, and Tina approved. It was a good start.

“Who sent you?” Tina asked.

“Sent me?” said SG. “No one sent me. I just . . . well, I just came in.”

“Naw,” said Tina, “you didn’t dream this up by yourself. Come on, who sent you?” She began naming what SG took to be people or organizations. The words and acronyms meant nothing — snick, mobe, SDS, Yippies.

“I just came here,” SG said quietly, looking down.

Tina slipped her hand under SG’s chin and lifted her face. “And you’re beautiful. That makes it even better.”

She turned to the others. “Okay, a change of plans. Our new friend will be at the head of the protest tomorrow. We climb the steps of the administration building, and our little heroine — what’s your name, honey?”

“Sallie. Sallie Gale.”

“Fine. Sallie raises her arms, so everyone can see her shackles, the shackles of oppression and ignorance. The TV cameras will love that. Then she’ll whip off this flag, symbol of the unenlightened patriotism she has now outgrown, and she’ll throw it to the ground and stomp on it. Then we soak it with lighter fluid and toss a match. What a great piece of political theater!”

“Light a match,” said SG. “You mean, burn the flag?”

“Of course,” said Tina. “Unless you’ve got a better idea. We could smear it with shit, or shred it, or we could all squat and piss on it. But I don’t think anything makes as powerful a statement as burning it.”

SG was about to object, but Tina embraced her tightly and said, “You’re going to be wonderful.” The she whispered into SG’s ear, “And we’re going to be wonderful together. You’re staying in my room from now on.”

“Come on, Miss Liberty,” said another woman, taking SG’s hand. “You can lead the parade, but everyone here works. Start stapling these placards.”

SG spent the afternoon working with the group. She didn’t understand what they were talking about. She didn’t understand the politics and the music. She didn’t understand why Tina snapped, “Turn off that crap,” when someone on the radio began singing about love and peace. “We’re running a revolution, not a fucking ashram.”

One of the girls whispered to SG, “Tina’s such an asshole sometimes. She hates George Harrison because she says his music leads to apathy. All she really likes is Cuban stuff.”

“And theme songs from those blaxploitation movies,” added another girl who had been listening in.

“Yeah,” said a third, “it’s all Superfly and Super Fidel.”

This triggered a bout of giggling, and SG pretended to join in, but she was completely mystified.

“What about Superman?” she asked shyly.

“That fascist bastard,” snorted one of the girls. “The defender of the oppressors. What about him?”

“Nothing,” SG said softly. Superman a fascist? She had never thought of her cousin that way. Sure, he was stuffy and sanctimonious, but did that make someone a fascist?

She became even more confused when someone began talking about Watergate and Vietnam, and how one grew out of the other, and both were manifestations of “Nixon’s paranoia.” She screwed up her courage and asked, “You mean Vice President Nixon?”

The other girls looked at her blankly.

“Vice President?” said one. “He isn’t Vice President. He’s President.”

“But he used to be Vice President,” said another.

Tina, who had been directing others on the wording of slogans, overheard the conversation and came to SG’s defense.

“Okay, Sallie hasn’t been paying much attention to politics,” she said. “But the Trickster used to be Vice President.”

“Yeah, but that was back when we were all still in diapers,” said a girl, and everyone started laughing.

Tina knelt next to SG and said softly, “Where have you been, girl? I really don’t understand you at all. But I hope I will soon.”

III

After all the slogan painting and placard assembly were done, the group had beer and pizza at a nearby pub. SG, wearing a borrowed trench coat over her flag, had barely tasted her first bite of pizza when Tina told the others she had a manifesto to write.

“We’ll see you in the morning,” she said. She reached for SG’s hand but grabbed her chain by accident. One of the other girls blurted out, “Ooooh, a new sex slave,” then instantly regretted it.

“Keep your dirty mouth shut,” Tina hissed. “You’ve been the slut of just about everyone in the movement, so don’t get smart with me.”

Outside, Tina slipped her arm around SG’s waist. SG tentatively slipped hers around Tina. She felt in awe of this intense woman — and grateful that Tina seemed to like her.

In Tina’s dorm room, the walls were covered with revolutionary posters, and the bed was covered with papers — loose leaf paper with handwritten notes, typing paper with slogans in capital letters, pages torn from books and magazines.

Tina grabbed a corner of the bed cloths and swept everything to the floor. Then she turned to SG and yanked away the flag.

“God, what a body,” she said softly. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

SG blushed.

“Beautiful but dirty,” Tina added. “You look like you’ve been playing in a mud hole. You need a shower.”

She stripped quickly, and SG discovered that Tina’s body was outstanding, too. She was tall and muscular, and though her breasts weren’t as large as SG’s, her figure was just about flawless.

Tina moved close to SG and stroked her hair. Then she kissed her softly on the lips. “Follow me,” she said seductively.

The bathroom was shared by two dorm rooms, but it was empty. Tina opened the tiny shower stall and started the hot water. After a few seconds, she tested it and declared it just right.

She stepped in. SG held back.

“Come on in,” said Tina. “We’re going to get clean together.”

SG had never showered with another woman. She stepped in hesitantly, and Tina shut the door.

The warm water felt wonderful. And so did Tina’s lips, as she kissed the back of SG’s neck, then ran her tongue down her back and up again. Tina pulled SG close to her and reached around and fondled her breasts. SG was breathing heavily. Tina slid one hand down SG’s belly until it reached her crotch. Then, softly, with more tenderness than SG had ever encountered, Tina massaged her labia and began stroking her clitoris.

“Oh God, I love it,” SG moaned.

“Yes, you love it,” said Tina . “And I love it. And you’re going to be my whore. You’re going to be my slut, and we’re going to do things to each other that will drive us wild.”

SG turned to face Tina, and they kissed as the water flowed over their faces. Tina bent her knees until her mouth was level with SG’s breasts, and she began sucking her nipples. Then she knelt all the way down in the narrow stall, and her tongue was in SG’s slit, and SG was keening and swaying, and everything went black.

She awoke to see Tina leaning over her.

“What happened,” SG asked.

“You fainted. You had a big day, and I guess the stimulation was just more than you could take. I was worried about you.”

SG was lying in bed. Tina had pulled the covers over her.

“Are we finished making love?” SG asked.

“That’s up to you. Are you finished?”

“No,” SG whispered. “No, I want more.”

“Then more you shall have.”

Tina opened a drawer and pulled out a big, black strap-on dildo.

“Can you handle this?” she asked.

“You mean, can I wear it?”

“No,” said Tina. “I’ll wear it. Can you handle it inside you? Is it too much for you?”

SG tossed the covers aside, got out of bed and lay on her back on the floor. “Let’s find out,” she said, spreading her legs.

Tina fucked her hard, almost as hard as any man had fucked her. Twice she had to stop because the strap came loose. Finally, she tossed the dildo aside and rummaged in the drawer. She pulled out an even bigger one, made of stainless steel and with a plastic handle, and went to work on SG.

Then it was SG’s turn to be the penetrating partner. Tina wanted it in the ass, and SG gave it to her, hesitantly at first, but then with growing verve.

They spent the night dreaming up new ways to fuck one another and squealing and moaning with delight. The girls in the next room were furious at the commotion, but no one was willing to stand up to Tina the Terrible.

IV

Leslie Gettlayd, reporter for WURM-TV, Lackanooka’s only local station, was fluffing her hair and adjusting the collar of her aquamarine silk blouse while a mousy looking assistant held up a mirror.

“Tilt it up, tilt it up,” she said in exasperation.

Nick, the cameraman, a bored young man with a large Adam’s apple and a bad complexion, said, “If you’re going have something to bring to the boss, you better speed it up. They’re getting started.”

Leslie and her crew were a few feet from a throng of about 50 young women who had gathered at the foot of the steps to the Marston College administration building. The women were carrying placards that said things like “Drop Nixon, not Bombs,” “Impeach the Bastard,” “Peace Now,” “Fuck the Oppressors” and “No Term Papers Without Representation.”

Leslie, satisfied with her appearance, stood in front of the camera, holding a microphone. The protestors were behind her.

“A group of Marston students are here protesting the war and what they claim is a lack of democracy at the college. This protest is fairly small compared with the anti-war rallies of ‘68 and ‘69, but . . . .”

“Tina,” yelled a fat student who had overheard Leslie’s introductory remarks. “Tina, she’s calling our crowd small.”

Leslie lowered the mike. Her body stiffened and she turned on the interloper.

“Listen, lard-ass, you’re lucky to be getting any coverage at all today. I’m only here because your little fuehrer promised a good show.”

At that point, the “fuehrer,” Tina herself, arrived out of breath and furious.

“What the fuck’s the matter?” she barked.

The fat girl started to speak, but Leslie cut in. “Nothing’s the matter, Tina. I was just exercising my First Amendment rights and commenting on the size of the crowd here today — which, I must say, is pretty goddam puny. I mean, there are almost as many cops and counter-protestors as there are protestors.”

“Okay, okay,” said Tina. “You’re right. I’m disappointed in the size of the crowd, too. But just keep your camera on the cluster of girls as the go up the steps. When they spread out, I promise you’ll be glad you came.”

She hurried back to the closely packed group at the foot of the steps.

“Okay,” she said. “We almost lost the media, but they’re going to stick around. Sallie, it’s up to you to make this work.”

SG, surrounded by Marston students, was wearing her flag, and Tina had done her makeup to emphasize her big blue eyes and lovely mouth.

“Let’s go, gang,” said Tina, and the group surged up the steps.

Nick the cameraman stayed put, using his zoom lens to follow the action. So far, he hadn’t seen anything to justify this excursion to the college, but it was better than chasing fires or doing pollution stories. The last time they did an environmental story, he had ruined a good pair of boots.

“They’re breaking up,” Leslie said. “Who’s that in the middle? Holy shit, it’s a bimbo in a flag suit. Jesus, you can see almost all of her ass.”

“It’s getting better,” the cameraman said excitedly. “See the shackles?”

“Is that what those are? And what’s hanging from her left wrist?”

“A chain, a fucking chain. God, is she a babe! I’d give 50 bucks to see her take off that flag.”

The striptease he hoped for didn’t cost him a cent. SG unwrapped the flag and waved it above her head. She was naked, and her fellow protestors were yelling and clapping.

“We can’t use this,” Leslie cried. “They’d never let us. She’s completely nude.”

At the top of the steps, SG continued to twirl and dance, using the flag as a prop, like a professional stripper.

Tina said, “Great, now hurl it down and stomp on it.’

But SG kept dancing. It wasn’t because she wanted the attention. It was because she was afraid of what came next. She had repressed her objections when Tina first outlined the plan, but now she couldn’t go through with it.

“Drop the fucking flag,” Tina hissed. Several other girls joined in: “Sallie, come on, it’s time.”

Finally, Tina ripped the flag from SG’s hands and threw it onto the stone porch. Another student squirted it with lighter fluid, and Tina lit a match and held it up dramatically. But before she could drop it, SG slapped it from her hand.

Tina looked at her, dumbfounded. Then rage took over.

“You miserable cunt,” she screamed. “You’re fucking up our protest.”

She punched SG in the face. SG stumbled backward, into several other girls, who grabbed her.

“Hold the bitch,” Tina yelled. Then she lit another match and dropped it on the flag. Flames quickly engulfed the banner. They grew higher after several additional squirts of lighter fluid.

The WURM crew had pushed their way up the steps and were now only a few feet from the fire. Nick was doing a closeup when he heard several screams and suddenly saw naked feet stamping on the flag.

It was SG. She had broken free and was trying to put out the fire. She even knelt and tried to beat back the flames with her bare hands.

“This is great,” Leslie said breathlessly. “Who is this woman?”

But the protestors closed in and pulled SG away. Several began beating her with their peace placards. She tumbled down the stone steps, and while she was lying facedown on the paving, Tina grabbed a placard and shoved the wooden holder deep into her ass.

“Holy shit!” cried the cameraman. “This’ll never get on the air, but what a fucking show.”

Now the cops and a handful of counter-protestors fought their way to SG and helped shield her from the angry anti-war sisterhood.

A dark-haired young man took off his athletic jacket and put it around SG’s shoulders.

“Come with me,” he said. “It’s time to close down this farce.”

# # #

WURM-TV’s 6 o’clock newscast included carefully edited film of the protest. There were no shots of SG’s bare breasts or pubic region, but viewers saw close-ups of her waving the flag above her — and of the shackles on her wrists.

And that’s what Police Chief Paul Patterson was most interested in, as he sat in his living room, eating a TV dinner. He had read yesterday’s report on a strange accident on Dedkaff Road east of town, and he had talked to the officers who had been on the scene. The truck driver had told them about a naked woman with shackles, and his men had seen steel rods and chains where the paving had been pushed out. But the woman had vanished.

The whole thing was getting weirder and weirder.

He called headquarters and asked for the captain in charge. What had happened to the naked woman at the Marston protest? The captain told him to hold the line and came back a few seconds later with news that she had been whisked away by one of the counter-protestors. No, they didn’t know his name, but the leader of the protest said the woman’s name was Sallie. She wasn’t sure of the last name — maybe Gaines or Gale.

Patterson put down the phone. He wondered if he could persuade the news director at WURM to let him see all the footage that had been shot at the protest. In some towns, TV and newspaper reporters got all hot and bothered by such requests and started screaming about the First Amendment. But Ted over at WURM was an occasional drinking buddy. Besides, Patterson had fixed at least half a dozen tickets collected by Ted’s asshole kid. Ted owed him.

He was lost in thought when his wife came in and reminded him that it was bowling night.

“Okay,” he said, “in a minute.”

He called headquarters again. For some reason, the name Sallie Gale had rung a bell. Had they checked the files?

“Yeah,” said the captain. “I’m looking at something right now. And it looks very, very sensitive. You better come down. It seems to involve the old man, Silvio Mozzarella.”

“I’ll be right over,” Patterson said. He put down the phone and rubbed his chin. “No bowling tonight, honey,” he called to his wife.

This was going to be a lot more interesting that just another evening at Ralph’s Super Lanes.

# # #

The dark-haired young man who had rushed SG away from the protest had been accompanied by a group of Lackanooka Junior College boys who had little interest in politics but who decided to protest the protest just for a chance to raise hell. They were tagging along now because — what the fuck! — here was a naked woman in trouble. Maybe they could compound her troubles under the guise of helping her, and get some free pussy.

But SG’s rescuer was older than the others, and no one in the Lackanooka group recognized him.

When they reached a visitors parking lot on the edge of the campus, he opened the door of a red Jaguar convertible and helped SG in. Then he went around to the driver’s side. Before he could open the door, however, one of the Lackanooka students, the biggest in the bunch, grabbed his shoulder.

“Hey, where the fuck are you taking her?” he demanded. “We got plans, too.”

“Yeah, share and share alike,” said another.

The young man leaned against the car and folded his arms. He didn’t seem at all intimidated.

“I’m taking her to my home,” he said quietly. “She’s been through a lot.”

“Well, we want to put her through lot more,” said the student who had grabbed his shoulder.

“You boys need to cool it,” the young man said. “I’m a businessman here in town. I run S&M Paving.”

The big student shrugged. “What the fuck do I care about what business you run?”

But another student pulled him back and whispered in his ear.

The group had gotten very quiet.

The big student shook his head in disgust and turned away. The one who had whispered in his ear said, “Hey, we were just having some fun. No offense.”

“Sure,” said the young man.

Then he got in the car and said to SG, “I’m taking you someplace safe. And I promise I won’t lay a hand on you without your permission.”

# # #

The young man, who told SG his name was Michael Collins, was true to his word. He brought SG to a sprawling, modern-looking house on a big tract of rolling land north of town. There was a two-car garage and a huge white ‘59 Cadillac in one of the driveways. He parked in the other driveway and took SG in through the front door. He wanted to make an impression.

It worked. The entrance hall was all white marble and bronze. Off to the left was the living room, which seemed to go on forever. Michael led her back to a bedroom suite.

“There are lots of clothes in the closet, women’s clothes — my sister’s. Find something you like. I’ll fix you a drink. What do like?”

“Just a Coke,” SG said. “Wow, this is really something.”

“Go ahead. Explore. I’ll be back in a minute.”

There were two big closets with sliding doors in the bedroom and a walk-in closet off a short hallway, across from the bathroom.

Michael’s sister had quite an extensive wardrobe. And she must have gone through a pretty dramatic growth spurt. SG found two pair of bellbottom jeans, one of which was a full three inches longer than the other. Some dresses were clearly selected by someone with a very full figure, others by someone slender.

Her shackles and that damned chain limited what she could try on. Finally, she settled for a baggy blue and gold sweater and a pleated white skirt.

She was admiring herself in the mirror when there was a knock at the bedroom door.

“Are you decent?” Michael asked.

“Sure, come on in. Anyway, you’ve already seen me naked.”

“You look quite lovely in clothes, too,” he said, handing her a crystal cocktail glass filled with Coke.

“Vita lunga,” Michael said, raising his glass. He was drinking red wine.

He gave her a tour of the house. Paintings and photographs of Italy were everywhere, along with bronzes modeled after the work of famous Italian sculptors.

SG stopped in front of a copy of Michelangelo’s David. “He’s beautiful,” she said softly. “Very sexy.”

Michael smiled. “You think so? I’ve always thought he seemed deep in thought.”

“Ah, but to some women, nothing is so sexy as a man deep in thought.”

“I’ll have to try to look more contemplative, then, next time I’m at a singles bar.”

SG laughed. “Don’t kid me. You don’t look like a man who has trouble picking up women.”

“No,” he admitted, with a sheepish grin. “No, I don’t. I’ve always been very lucky when it comes to picking up women. It’s keeping them that I’m lousy at.”

They went to the kitchen and he offered her leftovers from last evening’s dinner: veal scallopini, green beans, a little linguini. She ate greedily, standing at the kitchen counter.

“You live alone?” she asked. Then she added, hurriedly, “That’s none of my business. I was just wondering who cooked this. It’s delicious.”

“I have a wonderful woman — a 65-year-old woman — who comes in three times a week to cook. Another woman comes in twice a week to clean. And, yes, I live alone.”

“Except when your sister visits.”

“My sister?” Michael looked puzzled. “Oh, yes, my sister. Yes, of course, she comes in occasionally.”

“So why all the Italian art?” SG asked.

“Because I love Italy. It’s like a second home to me. My first home, spiritually.”

“How’d you get so Italian with a name like Collins?”

“Well, my father is Irish and Dutch, Irish on his father’s side. But my mother’s father, he’s Italian. He was actually born there. Came to America when he was just a kid, with his parents. Learned English, worked hard, made a lot of money. Now I run one of his businesses.”

“Does he live here in Lackanooka?” SG asked, strolling into the dining room and studying a small gallery of old family photos on the wall.

“No, he lives in a suburb of Metropolis. In a nursing home. He had a stroke about six months ago.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” said SG. “Is this him?” she asked, pointing to a black-and-white photo of a young man standing very straight and unsmiling next to what SG guessed was a 1920s Flivver.

“Yeah,” said Michael. “He was a wonderful guy. Is a wonderful guy. He and my mother never got along, and he didn’t like my father, either. But he’s always been good to me.”

They went through the gallery, with Michael identifying and telling stories about each member of the family.

Then he said, “Okay, you’ve been asking all the questions. Now it’s my turn. How did you end up naked in front of the administration building at Marston College wearing a flag and all that metal?”

SG smiled and lowered her head.

“It’s a long story.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got lots of time.”

“Well, it’s also an incredible story.”

“That’s okay, too,” said Michael. “I’m very gullible.”

SG looked up at him, and suddenly the banter was over and she buried her face in her hands and began sobbing.

“Hey, that’s okay,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pressure you.”

He put his arm around her — tentatively, then more firmly when she nestled against him and her lips brushed his neck.

They made love in the living room, on an impossibly thick sheepskin rug. As SG expected, Michael was an expert — confident and considerate. He played her like a virtuoso plays a musical instrument.

Afterward, he carried her into the bedroom with the big closets and tucked her under the covers. She fell asleep before he had even shut the door.

# # #

She was still sound asleep several hours later, when the doorbell rang. Michael, who had been reading in a study just off the living room, answered it.

It was Patterson, the police chief. He was carrying a briefcase.

“What can I do for you, Paul?” said Michael.

“We need to talk.”

They went into the study, and Michael closed the door.

“Are you alone?” Patterson asked.

“No, but I don’t think we’ll be disturbed.”

“Good, because we’ve got a problem, and the fewer who know about it the better.”

V

SG awakened to a gentle knock on the bedroom door.

“Time to rise and shine,” said Michael’s voice. “Breakfast is almost ready, and we’ve got a busy day ahead.”

She put on the sweater she had worn the night before but decided on jeans instead of the pleated skirt. It didn’t take her long to find a pair that fit, though getting them past the shackles on her ankles proved difficult.

In a breakfast nook adjacent to the kitchen, Michael had laid out a plateful of French toast, topped by slivered almonds and powdered sugar, and small bowl of raspberries and blueberries.

“Orange juice?”

“No thanks but I’d love a cup of coffee. This is wonderful. Did you cook it yourself?”

“Yes,” said Michael. “I’m actually a very good cook, at least when it comes to breakfast. I only have Margaret come in to prepare dinner because I don’t like to have to figure out a meal after a long day at the office.”

“What do you do?” SG asked. “What’s your business?”

Michael hesitated. “I’m a contractor. We build things.”

“What kind of things?

“Well, roads and parking lots. That’s why I was at Marston yesterday. We made a bid on resurfacing all of their parking areas and interior streets.”

“Oh,” said SG, who looked out the window and changed the subject. “What a lovely view. Looks like it’s going to be a nice day.”

Michael was relieved. She hadn’t connected her long hibernation with the company he now headed. Maybe she had been so out of it during the few hours before she was buried that she didn’t remember who did what to her — or how she ended up on Dedkaff Road. He had read the report Chief Patterson brought him with great interest and thoroughness. He was especially interested in this warning: “Subject may revive and try to escape at some point in 1973. If so, she may seek revenge. All parties who were witness to or involved in the interment of subject should be notified promptly of any changes to the surface of this stretch of Dedkaff Road.”

Michael decided to test her memory. It was risky, but he needed to have some idea of what she knew, and what she wanted.

“First thing after breakfast, we’re going to get those shackles off of you. I have a friend who has a machine shop. He can do the job safely.”

“I don’t know,” said SG playfully. “I was sort of getting used to them. And the chain could come in handy was a weapon.”

“No. We’re taking it all off, even your collar, which I find very alluring. All that stuff draws attention to you — the wrong kind of attention. I’m worried there are people out there who mean you harm.”

SG looked at him thoughtfully. “I guess you’re right. But the truth is, I intend to do some harm myself.”

“To whom?” he asked.

“To Dean Toopermann and her sister. To a student at Lackanooka Junior College named Louie Ungtjur. To some other people whose names I can’t remember. I don’t even remember their faces. I just remember the day I was . . . .” She hesitated.

“The day you were buried under a road east of town,” he said.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“It was in the newspaper yesterday. About how a naked woman popped up from a hole in Dedkaff Road and got hit by a truck. And disappeared.”

“It was in the papers? What else was in there?” SG’s face was filled with panic. Did they know about the hobos she had murdered?

“Nothing else,” said Michael. “Except that the truck driver said the woman’s wrists and ankles were shackled.”

“Can I see the paper?” she asked.

“Sure.” He rummaged through a stack of papers on a counter and pulled out the previous day’s Lackanooka Ledger. The story about the strange accident on Dedkaff Road was on the front page.

So was a smaller story about two homeless men found dead by the Lackanooka River. One’s skull had been crushed. The other had drowned. His body had been found a few hundred yards downstream from the first one’s. Police speculated that the second man had killed the first during a fight, then had fallen exhausted into the river and drowned. But they admitted it was just a theory, and they hadn’t found the murder weapon.

Michael’s voice interrupted her reading. “Okay, we’ll get the shackles off, then we’ll find out about this Dean Toopermann and Louie what’s-his-name. And while we’re driving to my friend’s house, you’re going to tell me who you really are and how you managed to survive being buried for 17 years.”

SG looked at him sharply. “How do you know I was buried for 17 years?”

Michael tried to keep his composure. He wasn’t prone to blushing, so he assumed his face betrayed nothing.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I thought you mentioned it.”

“I didn’t,” she said firmly.

They looked at each other in silence.

Finally, Michael said, “Okay, I’ve got a confession to make. I know who you are. I know how you ended up buried under asphalt. The crew that buried you worked for my grandfather. The company I now run did the job.”

“Is that why you were at Marston College yesterday? To find me? To figure out how to put me back underground?”

“No,” Michael said, almost shouting. “Absolutely not. I was on campus yesterday for exactly the reason I told you, to bid on a job. And I didn’t know anything about your background until last night. While you were sleeping, the police chief came over. He had a file on you, a very thick file. You can read it if you want to. It’s in the study.”

“No. I don’t want to read. I just want to know what you know.”

“I’ve told you what I know. As far as those people you want updates on, I don’t know anything about them. But 17 years have passed. They might not live in Lackanooka anymore. They may not even be alive.”

SG thought this over. “Did you tell the police chief I was here, in this house?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wasn’t sure where he stands in all this. One of his predecessors was involved in having you put away. Some of the most powerful people in this town were involved. I thought the safest course was to keep quiet about you.”

“When were you going to tell me about all this?”

“I don’t know. Maybe never. I found it all so hard to believe. I still do.”

“That I’m . . . Supergirl?”

“Yes. That you’re Supergirl — and that being Supergirl didn’t protect you from being ....” He fell silent.

“Being what?” SG asked.

“Being raped and beaten. And not just the day you were buried underground. It appears a lot of people had fun at your expense. Rape. Sexual torture. General mayhem. It’s all in the file.”

“The file is true,” SG said quietly. “All those things happened to me.”

“But if you’re Supergirl, how could they do it? Why couldn’t you stop them? Was everybody in town running around with kryptonite dildos?”

SG thought carefully about how to answer him. She wanted to be truthful, but she wasn’t even sure she knew the truth.

“There’s something wrong with me,” she said at last. “Something I don’t understand. At first I submitted to the abuse because I didn’t want to blow my cover. Then I discovered I liked it. It’s very difficult for me to talk about this.”

“I understand,” Michael said. “I mean, I understand that it must be difficult.”

“But you don’t understand my . . . what shall we call it? My perversion?”

“Hey, I’m not being judgmental. It’s the ‘70s. Anything goes.”

“Why do I not find that reassuring?” SG asked, with an edge to her voice. “Oh, well, whether you understand it or not, I like rough stuff. I get turned on when men manhandle me — and not just men. Dean Toopermann and her dyke sister did terrible things to me. I hated what they did to me. And I craved it. How can I possibly explain?”

She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

Michael, not knowing what to say, said nothing. He wanted to embrace her, but something held him back.

“Is that why you didn’t have an orgasm yesterday afternoon?” he finally asked. He was surprised at his own question.

“I guess so,” SG said quietly. “You were so good, so considerate, so competent and confident. And yet . . . .”

“And yet what you wanted was someone to beat the shit out of you or hook you up to some electrical torture device.” He spat out the words with a vehemence that he instantly regretted.

“That’s right,” she said, with a hint of defiance. “I wanted someone who was less interested in pleasing me — in doing what pleases nine women out of ten — than in someone who would treat me like an object, a whore. Not even a whore — a cunt.”

Michael sighed. “What rotten luck! That’s something I just can’t do. I’ve always prided myself in knowing how to make women happy in bed, then along comes the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and I leave her cold.”

SG laughed through her tears. “And I’ve always thought I wanted a man just like you — good-looking and smart and kind and with a healthy attitude toward sex. And instead, all I really crave is to be treated like shit.”

She went to him and they embraced tenderly. She felt tremendous affection toward him. She loved him . . . like a brother.

# # #

Michael’s friend at the machine shop looked at SG’s manacles and scratched his head.

“Never seen anything like this before,” he said. “No locks. It seems they fitted the half-circles together and welded them in place. If you don’t mind my asking, m’am, how’d they do that without burning the hell out of you?”

“Tony,” Michael said, “remember. No questions.”

“Okay, okay. No questions. But this is going to be difficult. I’m going to have use a vise to hold each shackle steady, then saw through it.”

He looked SG in the eye. “You’ve gotta stay real, real still, cuz if this goes wrong, you could end up with a nasty cut.”

SG stayed very, very still. Nevertheless, while he was cutting the shackle off her left ankle, the saw did its job more efficiently than he expected, and the blade sliced into her skin.

At least, it seemed to slice into her. She flinched in pain, and Tony instantly pulled the power saw back. He expected to see blood gushing from her leg, but there wasn’t a drop — just a white line where the blade had struck, and it quickly disappeared.

“Fucking amazing,” Tony said, in awe.

“Yeah,” said Michael. “There’s a lot about her that’s fucking amazing. And you’re not going to mention any of it to anyone, right?”

“Absolutely, Michael. I never seen the broad — pardon my slang.”

SG smiled. “That’s okay. I’ve been called a lot worse.”

VI

They had lunch at a sandwich shop on the edge of town. The assistant director of the public library, an attractive woman named Maria, met them. She had graduated from Marston and knew just about everything there was to know about town and gown gossip.

“Toop is in a retirement community down in the Florida panhandle, senile and dying of cancer,” she told them. “Her sister, the wretched Regina, choked to death on a piece of cucumber. I know it’s terrible to speak ill of the deceased, but she really was an awful person.”

“I agree,” said SG.

“Now, as to Louie Ungtjur, he went to prison. He had a habit of roughing up women, and he finally went too far. She was a Marston student and the daughter of a big-time journalist in Cleveland. He killed her while they were having sex. It wasn’t clear whether what was going on was rape or consensual, but he killed her, and that was enough to send him to the pen for 25 years. He came up for parole last May, but he got turned down.”

“His uncle at the bank couldn’t help him?” SG asked.

“Nope. The bank folded in ‘69, and ole Uncle Oscar went to the pen even before Louie did. Cooking the books and embezzlement.”

SG’s look of disappointment prompted Michael to say, “Well, it sounds like everyone got pretty much what they deserved. Good riddance to them all.”

“Sure,” SG said with a tight smile. “A happy ending.”

After Maria left and they were walking to the car, SG said, “And what about your uncle? He’s the last piece in the puzzle, isn’t he?

Michael felt as if he had been punched in the stomach.

“He was just doing what he was hired to do,” he said. “It was just another road contract.”

They got into the Jag, and Michael headed back to his house. The most direct route would have been through town, but he was worried about being seen with SG. So he took a couple of county roads that got little traffic.

After a few turns, he realized that he was being tailed. It was a big white Ford. All three of the police department’s unmarked cars were big white Fords. Everyone in Lackanooka recognized them.

When he was within a few hundred yards of his house, Michael saw that three cars were parked in front of it. Two were regular patrol cars. The third was the chief’s. He could have tried to make a run for it, but eventually he would have to come back home. If the young woman beside him really was Supergirl, she should be able to handle half a dozen or so Lackanooka cops.

He pulled into the driveway, and the car that had been following him pulled right behind him. No escape now, Michael thought.

He expected a civil greeting. After all, he and the chief were social acquaintances, if not friends, and there was no reason for any rough stuff. It wasn’t as if SG was wanted for some crime.

He stepped out of the car as Patterson approached, but instead of a handshake he got a punch in the gut. “That’s for not telling me you were hiding Super Slut,” Patterson said. Then, as Michael sank to the pavement, Patterson kneed him in the jaw and added, “And this is just a reminder that your grandpa is a sick old man who no longer counts for shit in this town.“

SG had opened the door on her side and found herself facing three officers with drawn pistols and a fourth armed with a shotgun. She considered what to do next. The bullets and shotgun pellets wouldn’t do her any permanent harm, but Michael was just a few feet away, on the other side of the car, and a stray round could kill him.

“Turn around and get your hands behind your back,” a beefy sergeant told her.

She did as she was ordered, and he quickly handcuffed her. No problem, she thought. She could break these easily enough.

But the sergeant’s next move was a problem. He yanked her head back, and she found herself pressed against him. Her hands, cuffed behind her, were against his manhood. She squeezed it and considered tightening her grip and disabling him. But suddenly his right hand, which held a sponge, was covering her nose and mouth.

Chloroform? No, she thought, there was no smell. Then all thought disintegrated, and she lost consciousness.

“It worked,” said the sergeant. He held her by one arm, and another cop grabbed the other. Her body had gone limp, and her head rolled back and forth as they jostled her. “But I’m kinda sorry it did. She gave my prick a nice little squeeze before she blacked out.”

“You’re lucky she didn’t turn it into hamburger meat,” said Patterson.

“Now what?” asked a lieutenant.

“Now you and Parker bring the big cheese’s grandson down to headquarters and book him for resisting arrest. That’ll get him out of the way for 24 hours. Meanwhile, we’re going to take this flying cunt out to the quarry and have some fun until her cousin arrives.”

“Who’s her cousin?” the lieutenant asked.

“Now, who in the fuck do you think her cousin would be?” Patterson said in exasperation. “She survived 17 years underground, survived getting hit by a truck, evidently flew from the accident scene all the way to town, and now she crumples up like a wet Kleenex when she gets a whiff of ground kryptonite.”

The lieutenant looked at him blankly. “You mean her uncle is Batman?” he finally asked.

“No, asshole, she’s Supergirl. Her uncle is . . . . Oh, forget about it. Just get lover boy here down to headquarters.”

# # #

Patterson and his driver and two other cars with two officers each headed northeast. SG was unconscious in the back seat of the chief’s car. They were well beyond their department’s jurisdiction, but the city owned 22 acres of land in the country that officers were supposed to use for training. An abandoned limestone quarry had been turned into a lake, and there was a firing range, a lodge and three cabins.

Superman and the Defense Department officials weren’t due to arrive at the county airstrip until 8 o’clock that evening. It was now only 3:30. Plenty of time to have some fun with Miss “Sallie Gale.”

They parked in front of the lodge, and Patterson slipped a noose made of nylon cord around SG’s neck. He yanked the cord, and she tumbled out of the car. He dragged her up the wooden steps of the lodge and into a big high-ceilinged room with wooden rafters. There was exercise equipment on the far side of the room, a ping-pong table to the left, and a fireplace and big sofa to the right.

Patterson looked around, then sniffed. “It’s musty in here. Let’s get those windows open.”

“What if she starts screaming?” an officer asked.

“So?” Patterson asked. “We’re 20 miles from town. Nobody lives anywhere near. Anyway, I don’t think she’ll be making much noise. In fact, let’s give it a test.”

SG was lying on her side, near his feet. He kicked her savagely in the stomach. Her breath rushed out, and she curled into a tight ball.

“See, no screams. Now, let’s strip her.”

They pulled off her jeans and ripped her sweater to shreds. Then Patterson pulled her upright with the noose, and the others looked at her with mouths agape.

“Shit. What a body!” one whispered.

They bent her face down over the ping-pong table and raped her repeatedly. When she moaned and seemed to be regaining consciousness, Patterson slammed her on the back of the head with a billy club.

After they had finished, Patterson dragged her to the middle of the big room. “Watch this,” he said.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out what looked like a small bottle of smelling salts. He had found it in the same safe where he had found the file on her, and the powdered kryptonite.

He opened the bottle, then grabbed her hair and lifted her head. Barely had he put the bottle under her nose than she began coughing and her eyes fluttered open.

“Do you know who I am, bitch?” he whispered.

She looked at him without comprehension.

“Do you where you are? Of course not. Well, let’s just say you’re in purgatory. You’ll be out eventually, but while you’re here, you’re going to suffer.”

He leaned down until his face was inches from hers. “And you’re going to enjoy it.” He had read her file very carefully, especially the comments of young Louie Ungtjur about how much she seemed to enjoy being gang raped at Lackanooka Junior College, and Dean Toopermann’s on what she perceived as SG’s sexual perversion.

He pulled SG up to a kneeling position, opened his fly and put his prick inches from her mouth.

“What are you going to do with this?” he asked.

She said nothing.

He yanked the cord hard, and the noose tightened around her neck.

“What are you going to do, bitch?”

“Suck it,” she croaked.

“That’s right. You’re going to suck it til I cum and swallow every drop. Then you’re going to do the same for my men. Every one of them. And why are you going to suck them?”

“I don’t know,” SG whispered.

Patterson kicked her in the groin, but before she could fall to the floor he yanked the cord and pulled her back onto her knees.

“Why are you going to suck us all off?” he demanded.

“Because I’m slut,” she said, almost inaudibly.

“Because you’re what?” he shouted. “Speak up, bitch, so the rest can hear you.”

“Because I’m a slut.” She spoke loudly this time, in the tone of someone completely defeated.

She sucked all six of them, starting with the chief. And when she was finished, they took turns testing her ability to take a punch. One would hold her from behind while another hit her as hard as he could in the stomach.

The blows were painful, and she begged for mercy. But she didn’t collapse or lose consciousness.

“She’s tough,” the sergeant finally said. “Is that why the Defense Department is interested in her?”

“I guess so,” Patterson said. “All I know is that someone must have brought it to Washington’s attention that she had come out from under Dedkaff Road. I get a call from the Pentagon saying they’re coming to pick her up. Some important project. And Superman’s going to be with them.”

“Won’t he be pissed that we’ve raped and beat up his little cousin?”

“Guy from the Pentagon said we could do whatever we wanted with her. They plan to do a lot worse. And it’s all okay with the guy in the blue tights. It seems he thinks it’s his patriotic duty to sacrifice Super Slut if it’ll enhance national security.”

SG lay on her belly, conscious but limp. Patterson slipped his shoe under her and flipped her onto her back.

“She really is a honey,” he said softly. “All the punishment we put her through, and she still looks like Sleeping Beauty.”

“Only there ain’t no prince gonna kiss her pussy and make a happy ending,” said the sergeant, to everyone’s amusement.

VII

The helicopter didn’t need an airstrip for landing, of course, but Patterson had recommended it because it was an open space that was easy to get to but wouldn’t have anyone hanging around after sunset. The three police cars were parked next to the tarmac, on a concrete pad in front of the Jeff’s Air Service hangar.

The cops themselves were standing, waiting. Two of them held SG upright. She still seemed shaky.

They had dressed her in some of the finery left by hookers who joined the cops for occasional weekend festivities: hot pink shorts cut so low that the top barely covered her pubes and a white bikini top that did a similarly inadequate job of covering her nipples. They had used some makeup left by the hookers to tart her up. Her lips were brilliant red and they had turned her eyes into something out of a vampire movie.

“Wait’ll Superman gets a load of this,” Patterson had chuckled.

Now they smoked and talked and waited.

Finally, the sergeant said, “I think I see them.”

A light was approaching from the north, moving just above the horizon. A few seconds later they heard the motors.

When it was about 100 yards away, Patterson recognized it as a CH-47. It bore no markings.

They had left their car lights on for guidance, and the chopper set down barely 50 feet away. They prop wash blew off the chief’s cap.

He retrieved it, and when he looked up six men and a woman had exited the chopper: two MPs with sidearms, two soldiers with M-16s, an older soldier with two stars on his fatigues, a big guy in a suit, and a black woman captain with a medical bag.

Patterson rushed up and introduced himself.

“I’m the police chief here. These are some of my men. And this, of course, is the young lady you’re interested in.”

The general snapped an order, and a member of the chopper crew turned on an adjustable searchlight and aimed it at SG.

The general looked at her and snorted. Clearly, she wasn’t what he expected. “Is this her?” he asked the big man in the suit.

The big man stepped close to SG and lifted her chin.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s Kara.”

SG opened her eyes and her body stiffened. “Kal-El,” she whispered. “Is it you?”

The man in the suit turned away. “Let’s get her in the chopper and get the hell out of here.”

The woman captain and one of the MPs helped SG up the steps into the helicopter. The general, the man in the suit and the other MP followed.

As the big civilian ducked to enter, the captain whispered something to him. He turned and looked at the cops, then quickly descended the steps.

“Climb aboard,” he told the soldiers with the M-16s.

He had to speak loudly. The engines were revving for take-off.

“Captain Stevens says my cousin has been raped,” he yelled into Patterson’s face. “There’s cum dripping down her thighs.”

“Hey, I don’t know nothing . . . .” Patterson started his denial but never finished. The punch almost knocked his head off. The man in the suit dispatched the other officers with equal efficiency. Within seconds, six bodies lay sprawled on the tarmac.

The general, looking down from the helicopter, muttered, “He never used to be like this.”

The captain said softly, “That’s because he’s never had a cousin raped before.”

The general sighed. If Superman got this upset because some small-town cops had a little fun with his blonde bimbo of a cousin, how was he going to handle the really rough stuff that was in store for her?

# # #

The Chinook landed at an army base during the night and refueled. SG slept through it. She didn’t awaken until the sky was lightening in the east. They were flying north; she could tell that much. But she didn’t really care where they were headed. All that mattered was that she was safe. Kal-El was a stuffy pain in the ass, but he would protect her.

At the moment, though, he was up front, talking with the general. She was sitting next to the woman captain, who had been kind and solicitous through the night. Twice she had taken SG’s blood pressure, and one she had given her a couple of small white tablets that she said would help her sleep.

“Okay, folks, buckle up,” said the pilot. “We’re almost there.”

SG looked out of a small window. Below was a collection of low white buildings scattered on nicely landscaped grounds. An illuminated sign said “DRI.”

They landed on the roof of one of the buildings.

“Okay, listen,” Capt. Stevens told her. “You’re still pretty shaky, so I want you to lean on me and Harry here. We’re going to get you down nice and slow.”

Stevens was right. SG’s knees buckled twice as she tried to make it down the steps. They held her tight.

At the foot of the steps were two men with a stretcher. “I don’t need that,” SG protested, but she let them help her get into it. It was strange, looking up at the early morning sky, then at the soft overhead lighting inside the building. The men carrying her, Capt. Stevens at her side, the others walking briskly in the corridor — everyone seemed busy but quiet.

“What a nice place to work,” she thought, then she dozed off again.

# # #

When she awakened again, she was in a sunny room with big, open windows and a pleasant breeze filling the gauzy white curtains.

A nurse and a doctor stood at the foot of her bed. The nurse was watching her intently, while the doctor read a chart.

“Our girl is awake, doctor,” said the nurse.

He looked up. He had a kind, intelligent face.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

SG thought about it. “I think I feel fine,” she said. “In fact, I feel wonderful.”

“Amazing what two days of sleep will do for you,” the nurse said with a grin.

“Two days?” SG was stunned.

“Fifty-two hours and twenty minutes, to be exact,” said the doctor. “Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

“Good, we’ll bring you breakfast.”

The food was plentiful and delicious. She had never been in a hospital before, but she had heard all the usual complaints about hospital food. Maybe this isn’t a hospital, she thought.

It wasn’t. After breakfast, she was brought into a small meeting room where the general she had seen on the helicopter introduced himself and several other high-ranking officers and three scientists. Their names meant nothing to her, and she instantly forgot them — except the general’s. His was Piric Zafer. She wondered if his friends called him Prick.

“You’re at the December Research Institute. Important work is done here, work that is essential to preserving America’s survival.”

“You mean national security stuff?” SG asked.

“Yes,” the general said, with a tight little smile. “National security stuff. Your uncle — excuse me, your cousin — is a valued member of the board of directors of this institute. His ideas and suggestions have opened exciting new areas of research.”

“And he’s pretty good at watching over our expenses,” added one of the scientists. There was quiet laughter. SG noticed that the general didn’t join in. He seemed to resent the interruption.

“Where is Kal . . . . my cousin?” asked SG.

“He will be here shortly,” said Gen. Zafer. “He said he wanted to meet alone with you after this briefing. I’m sure you two have a lot of catching up to do.”

The general began talking about something called the Close-In Assault Option and how important it was for the Army to have a way to fight an enemy at close quarters, such as in the Viet Cong tunnels, without suffering heavy casualties. CIAO could dramatically reduce the need for our young soldiers to fight, and die, in such situations.

He droned on and even brought out charts. What did all this have to do with her, she wondered. Then he turned the briefing over to the scientist who had interrupted him, Dr. Melton Hand. He certainly looked the part of a scientist, SG thought — frizzy hair that was thinning on top, thick glasses, a bow tie, even a pen holder in his shirt pocket. But his intensity more than compensated for his nerdy appearance.

“This is the most exciting project I’ve ever worked on,” he said. “CIAO started out as just a concept. No one had any idea how to proceed. Robots were considered and rejected. We just don’t have the kind of miniaturization yet to create the brains for a fighting robot. Then Dr. Erbaccia here” — he nodded toward another scientist, who smiled shyly — “made an amazing discovery. Melinda, let’s have the slides.”

Oh God, thought SG, when will this ever end?

The first slide showed a man standing next to what looked like a patch of tall weeds.

“Dr. Erbaccia was doing agricultural research at Iowa State at the time, and he’s shown here next to a patch of normal hemp plants. As you can see, they are taller than he is, but not by much. Then he found a way, through genetic manipulation, to create this.”

At this point the slide changed, and Erbaccia is shown standing next to a tree, or at least what SG assumed was a tree.

“This is a genetically modified hemp plant that at maturity reached 47 feet in height. It’s fibers were so tough, the plant couldn’t be cut down even with chain saws. It took a small explosive charge . . . .”

“Not so small,” Erbaccia interrupted, to general laughter.

“Okay, a not-so-small explosive charge to bring it down,” said Dr. Hand.

One of the officers noticed that SG was nodding off and caught Dr. Hand’s attention.
“Miss Gale,” he said. Then more loudly, “Miss Gale, if I could have your attention just a few minutes longer.”

SG awoke, blinked and said, “Okay. I’m back. Sorry.”

“Dr. Erbaccia’s work was brought to our attention at DRI, and he kindly agreed to join our efforts to develop . . . .” Here he looked to Gen. Zafer for guidance.

“To develop a bioweapon that won’t conflict with the administration’s commitment to end germ warfare research,” said the general. “We’re not talking about microbes here. We’re talking mega fauna — living creatures big enough to fight hand-to-hand with any man in the world, and win. And at an affordable price — less than a million bucks a unit.”

With that, a new image appeared on the screen. At first, it reminded SG of a big, hairless ground sloth, minus the tail. Its head was round and too small for its body. Its skin was pinkish grey.

“It looks like it’s made of Silly Putty,” SG said.

“Well, in a sense it is,” said Dr. Hand. “The wonderful thing about Silly Putty is that you can made almost any shape with it. And we’ve been able, thanks to Dr. Erbaccia, to shape a number of new plants and animals, creatures that never before existed.”

At this point, the door to the briefing room opened and Kal-El looked in. When SG saw him, she said, “Excuse me, I’ve got to go,” and rushed to the door. She hugged Kal-El, and he clumsily patted her back.

“That’s okay, sir,” Dr. Hand said. “We all need a break. Why don’t you bring her back around two o’clock?”

Kal-El nodded, and he and SG walked down a long corridor.

“You want to go out and get some fresh air?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said. “That’d be great.”

They walked outside for a while, then found a quiet spot with benches and a fountain.

“Are you doing okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I guess do. I’ve missed you terribly. I hated being at Marston, and then . . . .”

“Then you disappeared,” he said.

“Yeah, then I disappeared.”

They were silent for a while.

“Why didn’t you look for me?” she asked at last. “Why didn’t you rescue me?”

“I didn’t know where you were,” he said. She could tell he was lying. He never had been a very good liar.

“Why am I here?”

“To help with our research,” he said. When she started to protest, he added quickly, “Oh, I know you’re not a scientist. You never did well in chemistry and math. I know, I know.”

He looked at her. She was so beautiful. And so vulnerable.

“We’ve created something that could save thousands of American lives in wartime. A picture of it was on the screen when I walked in.”

“Oh,” she said distractedly, “you mean the big toy.”

“Koko isn’t a toy,” he said.

“Koko! You’ve got to be kidding. You all named it Koko? Then it has to be a toy!”

“Okay,” he said, with a hint of irritation in his voice. “He’s a toy. But he’s an eight-foot-tall, 450-pound toy that could flip over an M-60 tank or tear down a reinforced concrete building. He’s unbelievably strong. And tough. He’s nearly indestructible.”

SG had been watching his face carefully. Now she understood. She had been brought here to fight this thing, this . . . Koko. Or to be sacrificed to him, like some virgin in a pagan ceremony.

Right, she thought. Some virgin.

“Why are you grimacing?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “So when do Koko and I meet?”

“In about a week. They want to do a lot tests on you. To make sure you’re fit and at full strength.”

“Why don’t you fight Koko?” she asked.

“You know why,” he said wearily. “I’d destroy him. It would be a total mismatch. I’ve already destroyed several earlier prototypes.”

“But I’m fair game,” she said. “With me it would be no mismatch. In fact, cute little Koko might even be the betting favorite.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t think you would prevail — or at least survive.”

“Right,” she said grimly. “Just like I survived my college years.”

“You got into trouble at Marston because of your own weakness and poor judgment,” he said angrily. “You were in a bad crowd. You seemed to want to be degraded. I read the report. You were a little tramp.”

The words stung, and her eyes filled with tears. But she wasn’t going to let him off easily. “I seem to remember when you wanted me to be a little tramp,” she said. “I remember you pulling me onto your lap and . . . .”

“You misunderstood,” he yelled, jumping to his feet. “You’ve twisted and distorted what was just . . . .”

“Just some avuncular affection?” she cried. “Just Kal-El looking for a little love? Poor, pitiful, uptight Kal-El.”

He slapped her so hard she fell to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he said, kneeling to help her up.

“Keep your dirty hands off me,” she hissed.

From a second-story window looking down on this scene, Gen. Zafer smiled a tight little smile. Maybe this was going to all work out, after all. Maybe the test would be allowed to go to its full conclusion. Maybe Koko would be able to do what he was created to do — to kill, ruthlessly and efficiently, whether the foe was a battalion of mortal men or a lone, lovely blonde superheroine.

# # #

SG was assigned a trainer, a large, easy-going woman named Maggie.

“I’m here to get you in shape,” she said at their first meeting. “After looking at you, I don’t know how you could be in much better shape, but we’re gonna try.”

Maggie insisted in being kept in the dark about what SG was training for. “They pay me to train, not to pry into their deep dark secrets. I don’t want know. You just keep working those triceps and those abs and those lovely glutes of yours.”

Maggie didn’t seem especially surprised when SG bench-pressed 385 pounds. This was a strange place, and strange things went on. If this gal could bench-press 385 without too much strain, then let’s just try 420.

The physical training sessions were in the morning. In the afternoons, she was instructed in combat techniques. The aim was to make her as effective a foe as possible when she went against Koko.

The instructor, a lithe lieutenant colonel named Mason, explained to her that Koko didn’t have much in the way of vulnerabilities.

“He’s over eight feet tall, he’s incredibly strong, and you can’t kick him in the balls because they’re inside his body. He’s designed that way for protection.”

“I thought testicles had to be outside so the sperm could avoid overheating,” SG said.

“Correct. That’s why every man worth calling a man has a scrotum. But there’s no Miss Monster for Koko to mate with and make little Kokos, so we don’t give a damn about his sperm.”

SG thought this over. “Then why does he have balls at all?”

“Because it’s the most efficient way for him to produce testosterone. And we need him to be high on testosterone so he will be as mean and ornery and aggressive as possible.”

SG smiled wryly. “So he won’t necessarily be glad to see me?”

“No, he won’t,” said Mason. “He’s got a terrible disposition — sort of permanent PMS, if you don’t mind the allusion. And even if he found you attractive, he doesn’t have the equipment to do anything about it.”

“Oh, no scrotum and no prick.”

“Well, he has a prick, but it’s only about an inch long. It’s basically there so he can pee without squatting.”

Sounds like the date from hell, SG thought.

# # #

It was not, however, to be a completely blind date. Before she would see Koko in the flesh, SG was shown videotapes of him dispatching a variety of opponents: three different kinds of combat robots, a pack of hyenas, and a creature that looked a lot like him, only smaller and covered with reddish hair.

Mason had told SG that Koko’s biggest weakness was that he was slow, and it showed in the videos. But in close quarters, that wasn’t much of a disadvantage. There was no place for his opponents to run to, and he eventually caught up with all of them. She also got the impression that he got better as the bouts went on.

She knew she couldn’t defeat him. He would do what so many others had tried and failed to do: Koko would kill her.

She wasn’t afraid, just disappointed that Kal-El had set her up like this. He really had turned out to be a bastard.

VIII

The test chamber was a circular room 42 feet in diameter, with 15-foot-high walls and a Plexiglas ceiling that formed a shallow dome. The walls and floor were made of steel, covered by a synthetic material with the consistency of cork but much more durable. This padding was intended to keep Koko from hurting himself. Only the ceiling was unpadded.

The observers stood in a circle, looking down through this ceiling. Koko had just entered, through a movable section of wall. He was full of enthusiasm, running around, sniffing the air, waiting for whatever games his keepers had in mind for him today.

SG stood at the apex of the ceiling. At this point, there was a device that opened and closed like the aperture of a camera. It was closed at the moment.

She wore shiny black shorts and no top. A knife was in a sheath strapped to her right leg. In one hand she held an electric stun gun. It was attached by a cable to a compact battery pack on her back. In her other hand, she had a nine-millimeter automatic pistol.

At a nod from Gen. Zafer, Dr. Hand pressed a button on a console and the aperture opened.

SG dropped almost soundlessly to the floor below.

It took Koko several seconds to realize he had company. He had been sitting near the wall, inspecting the bottom of his left foot.

He looked up, blinked and slowly rose to his feet.

SG took a deep breath. He was huge.

He suddenly lurched forward. SG sidestepped him deftly and jabbed his left leg with the stun gun. Koko gave a howl of pain, grabbed his leg and turned to see what had hit him.

In an instant, SG was behind him. The second jolt was in his left buttock. Another cry of pain. Another attempt to wheel and confront his tormentor. Another failure, followed by another jab, this time in his right side.

So far, so good, SG thought.

Above the contest, Zafer was grumbling. “Too slow. Too damn slow. He’s too easy to outmaneuver.”

“Just be patient,” said Dr. Hand. “We’ve seen all this before. He learns. His reactions get quicker. He’ll finally nail her.”

Dr. Hand was right. After seven or eight successful jabs with the stun gun, SG moved in for another attack. But instead of trying to turn to meet her, Koko kicked out and swept his leg in an arc, from front to back. It knocked SG off her feet, and she landed on her back. In an instant, a fist the size and density of a cinder block came down hard in the middle of her belly.

The semiautomatic went flying as she curled up from the blow. What was worse, she had dropped the stun gun. Where was it?

She found out the hard way: by rolling onto it. The pain was searing. She arched her back to escape it, but that just exposed her breasts and belly to Koko’s relentless fists.

Each punch pushed her back against the floor, and against the stun gun. Each spasm of pain left her open to new punches.

“You’ve got to stop it,” Superman said at last. “You’ve proved your point. Koko’s won. Now get her out of there.”

“We can’t,” Dr. Hand said.

“And we won’t,” added Gen. Zafer. “Koko is a killing machine. We won’t know how effective he really is until he’s killed her.”

“Go to hell,” Superman said, climbing out on the Plexiglas dome and heading for the aperture.

The general gave a signal to someone in a booth above the dome. A second later, a stream of greenish gas hit Superman square in the face. He went limp and slid back down the dome. Two MPs carried him out of the observation room.

In the test chamber, Koko was growing bored. He had beaten this intruder senseless, perhaps even lifeless. Yet still her body kept popping up each time he punched it down. Finally, he gave SG a kick and she rolled over onto her belly.

Her shiny black backpack looked interesting, so Koko tried pulling it off her. But it was strapped on, so he put a giant foot on the small of her back and yanked. The back pack came off, and SG gave a cry of pain as her arms were twisted backward.

The cry reminded Koko that he hadn’t finished his most important business. So he began pounding SG again. Then, for a change of pace, he grabbed her ankles and swung her around his head, faster and faster. Finally, he let her go. She crashed into the wall and landed in a heap on the floor.

“He’s getting overexcited,” Dr. Hand said. A dozen tiny monitors and transmitters were imbedded under Koko’s grey skin, to keep track of his vital functions. Two of those functions — pulse rate and blood pressure — had climbed to unsafe levels.

And now beast grew even more excited as SG twitched and uttered a soft moan.

Programmed to kill, Koko couldn’t rest until any being that came near him was dead. And this soft creature refused to die.

He rushed at her, then stopped and studied her carefully. She was no longer fighting or trying to escape. Even the rising and falling of her chest had slowed. She was helpless, and experience told him that anything helpless and motionless was either dead or well on the way to death.

He decided to wait.

“His pressure’s going down,” Dr. Hand said, with a sigh of relief. “Pulse rate’s still too high, but I think he’s going to be okay.”

“What about the girl?” asked Dr. Erbaccia.

“Fuck the girl,” said Zafer.

It was almost as though Koko had overheard his suggestion. The beast poked a big index finger into her belly, just below her ribs and drew it down until it reached the top of her shorts. He gave a little tug at the shorts and the zipper broke. Then he used both hands to tear the shorts off her.

He lifted them to his nose and sniffed. He seemed to be considering the meaning of what he had smelled. Finally, he bent over and sniffed her crotch.

“His pulse rate is going up again,” Dr. Hand reported.

Koko pulled her legs wide apart and licked her pussy with his long black tongue.

“Blood pressure’s back up, too,” said Dr. Hand. “I think this has gone far enough.”

Koko seemed driven but confused. There was something he desperately wanted to do, but he didn’t know what it was.

He made a noise they had never heard before, a long cry that was neither a howl nor a sob but something of both. And he was thrusting his pelvis, as though fucking an imaginary partner.

At last, he stretched out on top of SG, and the thrusting became more rapid and forceful. Her body was almost completely hidden beneath him. Only her lower legs and one forearm protruded.

“Get a team in there and tranquilize him,” Dr. Hand shouted. “He’s going to stroke out.”

“Wait,” said Zafer. “We’ve never seen this behavior before. Let’s find out what’s going on.”

“You know what’s going on,” Dr. Hand shot back. “He’s trying to fuck her, and he doesn’t have the equipment to do the job. It’s putting an enormous strain on his circulatory system.”

A section of the wall below retracted, and four men with tranquilizer guns entered the chamber.

They were too late. Koko had collapsed on top of SG. Up in the observation room, Dr. Hand’s monitors showed nothing but flat lines.

# # #

Zafer had wanted an autopsy on SG, as well as Koko. “We need to know precisely what damage he did to her before he died.”

But Dr. Hand pointed out that, while they were free to do whatever they wanted with Koko, a contract signed by Zafer and the chairman of the institute made it clear that Superman alone would decide on the disposition of his cousin’s body, in the event of her death in the experiment.

“I signed that?” Zafer said angrily.

“You signed it.”

“Then I was a goddam fool.”

Dr. Hand decided not to second the motion, at least not out loud.

SG was placed in a black vinyl body bag. Dr. Hand himself zippered it closed. His last glimpse of her upset him. Her lips were parted, and her eyes were not quite shut. It was as though she had something yet to say and was thinking over how best to say it.

# # #

Superman put the body bag in the trunk of the long blue Lincoln Continental that was one of his perks for serving on DRI’s board of directors. Gen. Zafer tried to ask him a question, but Superman brushed past him and climbed into the driver’s seat.

He drove down the service road to the highway. Then he turned northeast. He knew where he wanted to go, and he knew he couldn’t get there by car. But for the moment he just wanted to drive, to put some distance between himself and the institute he had served so long.

Four hours later, he pulled into the parking lot of a motel on the edge of a city he had never visited before. He didn’t know anyone here, and no one knew him. He was just a big man in a dark blue suit, with a face that was starting to show middle age.

He took out a small case filled with toilet articles and swung the body bag over his shoulder. His room was on the second floor.

That evening, he ate in a noisy family restaurant on the other side of the highway, then wandered over to a nightclub nearby. It was called the Pussycat Lounge. How original, he thought. Was there a town over 20,000 anywhere in America that didn’t have a Pussycat Lounge.

He ordered a double Bourbon and a pack of cigarettes. He had started smoking a few years ago, and he was surprised how hard it was to quit.

There was a stage and a short runway, and a blonde with big tits was grinding away to the notes of “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.”

A young woman approached him and asked if the seat next to him was taken. He shook his head.

“You a salesman?” she asked.

He turned and looked at her for the first time. She was pretty. Big brown eyes, curly brown hair, a trim, athletic figure. She wore a sequined cocktail dress that seemed a bit too classy for the surroundings.

“No,” he said quietly. “Not a salesman. Just a guy who’s tired of working and looking for a little fun.”

She smiled shyly. “Maybe I can help.”

“Sure,” he said. “I’m sure you can. What are you drinking?”

“Scotch,” she said.

Superman called out to the bartender, who was at the far end of the bar, “A Scotch for the lady. Your best brand. And make it a double.”

# # #

He had pulled off his shoes and his ties even before she opened the door with the key he had given her. They rushed inside, and he slammed the door behind him.

She smiled a tipsy smile and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. Then she kissed his chest.

“Big muscles,” she said, sliding her hands across his pectorals.

“Yeah,” he said, as he finished unbuttoning his shirt. “I guess I’m pretty big all over.”

She reached behind her and unzipped her dress. Then she wiggled deliciously, and it fell to the floor. She was wearing a low-cut bra, bikini panties and a heart-shaped pendant on a silver chain.

“You’ve got some nice muscles yourself,” he said softly. “Especially these,” he added, reaching out and stroking her breasts.

She giggled and removed her bra.

He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants and pushed them down to his ankles. Then he dropped his jockey shorts.

She whistled softly. “You are big all over.”

“And getting bigger,” he said. It was no idle boast. His prick was rising majestically, like some great warrior preparing for combat and glory.

She knelt and kissed it.

“Get in bed, on your belly,” he said.

He pulled down her panties and mounted her from behind. Her eyes widened, and she gasped, “Jesus Christ.”

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Am I hurting you?”

“God, no,” she moaned. “I should be paying you.”

They made love for half an hour, in a variety of positions, and ended up with her lying on top of him, dangling her pendant against his lips.

“So what’s your name?” she asked.

“Superman. What’s yours?”

“Superman, huh? Well, I guess I’m Wonder Woman.” She kissed his neck lovingly.

“No,” she said, pulling back to look at him. “I’m Tiffany. I’m at the club every night except Mondays and Tuesdays. And I really, really hope you come by again. I’ve never had lovin’ like tonight.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys,” Superman said, sitting up and lighting a cigarette.

“Yeah, I do,” she admitted. “But this time I really mean it. Now I gotta freshen up.”

She gathered her clothes and tiptoed into the bathroom. When she emerged a few minutes later, Superman was watching television. She hesitated, wondering how long he’d be in town and whether she should ask him to pick her up tomorrow night.

He traveled light. Just a bag of toilet articles. Well, maybe not so light. That garment bag hanging in the closet was so heavy that the pole was sagging.

Men were so mysterious, she thought. What could be so heavy?

She slid down the zipper. The impressions came in a flood: blonde hair, a pallid face, vacant eyes.

Her shriek startled Superman, and he dropped his cigarette into the bed.

“What the hell . . . .”

She rushed past him, opened the door and diappeared. He could hear her high-heel shoes clicking on the steps down to the ground floor.

“Shit!” he cried. He ran to the closet, saw the partially open bag and tried to think. He could run after her — fly after her, if necessary — and try to explain.

Yeah, right, explain.

Option two: He could kill her before she went to the police.

Or he could wait, and hope that he’d have better luck with the police than he was likely to have with her.

Three options. Killing her looked like the easiest course.

He pulled on his pants, went out on the balcony and looked around the parking lot. There was no sign of her, no sign of anyone. He rose slowly, on a curving trajectory that took him about 100 feet above the roofs of the motel and other buildings. He flew across the highway and spotted her approaching the Pussycat Lounge. Two customers had just come out, and she yelled at them. They rushed up to her, then they began yelling, too, and more customers emerged.

Silencing her was out. What was the fallback plan?

He glided back to the motel balcony. Below, a man was opening the trunk of his car, but he didn’t notice Superman until he had landed. The man looked up, scowled, then pulled a briefcase out of his trunk and disappeared under the balcony.

Superman went into the room and closed the door. It smelled smoky. He put on his shirt and suit jacket. He couldn’t find his shoes. The hell with them.

The only thing he really needed was Kara’s body. He wouldn’t be able to drive anymore. He’d fly — all the way to his secret hideout. And he’d find a way to revive her. He had saved himself from near-death several times. He could save her. He had to save her.

He heard voices outside — loud voices, getting closer.

He started toward the closet, then he saw the body bag had fallen to the floor. It was unzipped. Empty.

His first instinct was to look under the bed, as though he were dealing with a recalcitrant child.

“She says he’s up there,” someone yelled outside.

“Wait for the police,” yelled another.

Superman sat on the bed. Had she somehow revived and fled? Or had Zafer’s agents entered the room during the few minutes he was gone and stolen her body?

Either way, he had lost her.

Footsteps approached, then there was a crash at the door. Someone was trying to kick it in, the way the cops did in the movies. Whoever it was was going to hurt himself. It took an awfully big, strong man to kick in a door.

Superman rolled up the body bag and tucked it under his arm. He decided to leave vertically, so no one on the balcony would get hurt.

He smashed through the ceiling and burst through the cheap roof just as the motel clerk opened the door, with a key. The bed was smoldering.

# # #

The police didn’t buy Tiffany’s story. Superman’s image had slipped in recent years, but the cops weren’t ready to believe he had stuffed a dead girl in a body bag. Or that he was consorting with hookers, for that matter.

Still, the holes in the ceiling and roof were hard to explain.

Over drinks at the lounge the next night, Tiffany told two of the dancers about what had preceded her discovery of the blonde in the bag.

“He was fabulous,” she said. “I mean, at first I wasn’t all that attracted. He smelled like an ashtray, and he needed a bath. But you should have seen the schlong on him. And it just kept working and working.”

She sipped her ginger ale thoughtfully and said, “It shows you just can’t tell about men. You get one who’s great in bed, and he turns out to be some kind of sex murderer.”

# # #

At DRI, Zafer was rereading the final report on Koko’s fateful and fatal encounter with Superman’s alleged cousin.

“So we’ve lost him,” he said to Dr. Hand.

“Yes, but we can recreate him.”

“No, not Koko. I’m talking about Superman.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Dr. Hand. “I’m not sure it’s a great loss. His best work was behind him. He didn’t seem to have the crusading spirit anymore. And his science was lousy.”

“What about the girl?”

“What about her?”

“We never found her body. It wasn’t at the motel.”

Dr. Hand shrugged. “I guess he took it with him. Maybe he’s into necrophilia.”

“Maybe so,” said Zafer. “I just have a feeling we’re missing something.”

“We don’t need her. We know what Koko was capable of. And we’ll make a bigger and better Koko that kills even more efficiently. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“I thought it was what we all wanted.”

“Yes and no,” said Dr. Hand. “I’m in it for the science. I mean it. Sure, the money is great, better than I could get anywhere else. And I guess there’s a chance we’ll stumble on something that makes the country a little more secure, though it could just make the macho pols more reckless.”

“Ah, you researchers. You don’t believe in anything.”

“I believe in the scientific method. I believe in the human mind.”

“Let me tell you about the human mind,” snapped the general. “It evolved in struggle — against the elements, against predators, against other hominids. And when homo sapiens ended up at the top of the food chain, we began using that wonderful mind to fight each other. My job is to see to it that homo sapiens americanus survives and prevails.”

Dr. Hand laughed. “Oh quit shitting me, Piric. You just love mayhem. I wish I had had time during Koko’s last bout to watch your face. I bet you were never happier in your life. Your creation, your killing machine — beating the shit out of a beautiful blonde, then trying to hump her corpse. What the hell did that have to do with ‘national security’?”

Zafer’s eyes flashed, then he suddenly broke into a smile.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I did enjoy watching her struggle and die. But how about you, Dr. Strangelove? Was ‘science’ your only concern? Was it just Koko’s heartbeat you were worrying about? How about your own? Was a hard-on perhaps forming amid the pandemonium?”

“Touché ,” said the scientist.

Zafer closed the file, stood and stretched.

“Man does not live by carnage and committee reports alone,” he said. “Come on. It’s almost five. I’ll buy you a drink.”

THE END