Chapter 12
Leopard Shark was standing in front of us naked, chained girls, smiling. "Now that you're all awake," she said cheerfully, "I can commence my briefing. For the benefit of those girls who are coming to for the first time since their, heh, heh, acquisition, I will introduce myself. I'm known as Leopard Shark. This young lady...." she gestured toward a voluptuous Oriental girl who was also naked except for black leather boots, belt, gloves and choker "is known as the Dragon Maiden."
The Dragon Maiden gave us a cruel smile and bowed.
"And this girl," Leopard Shark continued, "is known as the Latin Lash."
A tall, wide-hipped, full-breasted girl with long black hair and olive skin-and almost no clothes bowed toward us.
"Not to mince words," Leopard Shark went on, "you girls are destined to provide a day and night of sport for some of the wealthiest, most socially prominent sado-masochists-in the nation."
A chorus of whispers broke out.
Leopard Shark chuckled. "Those of you who just attempted to scream, and failed, shouldn't know that you have all been expertly injected in the neck with a local anesthetic. Your vocal cords will not function for twenty-four hours. Hence you can gasp, whisper and wheeze, but not scream. Some sado-masochistic sex cults like to hear their victims scream. Not this club. Screaming distracts them."
I tried real hard to scream. No use. I just made a gasping sound.
"Quite frankly," said Leopard Shark, "nine of you are as good as dead. But one of you will live-and be given ten thousand dollars. So chins up, girls. Fight on for dear life itself, plus ten grand."
I looked left and right. The other girls, in addition to their looks of terror, now looked grimly determined. Each was going to make sure that she remained alive. I shuddered. How diabolical! Instead of trying to work together for the common good, each of the nine girls the ten, in fact, since I didn't exclude myself-was now the sworn enemy of all the others.
From now on, a fellow victim dead was a fellow victim out of competition. Or so the other nine thought. Me, I had no illusions. But I did want to stay alive as long as possible, since there might be a chance of escape.
Just then a tall, familiar-looking man strolled in front of us-and leered.
"Hi, Dag," said Leopard Shark. "Girls, this is Dagobert-who makes ten thousand a week, and earns every penny. He's the Idea Man for the club."
I gasped. The man leering at us was none other than Mr. Lynx' famous screen writer, Dagobert. Moonlighting.
"Believe me," continued the blonde sadist known as Leopard Shark, "Dagobert earns his money. Most of the members of this ultra-sophisticated, fantastically wealthy Club have already viewed the cream of the horror movies on the market-and off the market. And for several years they've been entertaining themselves by butchering ten young, naked girls a month.
"Naturally, they're a bit bored, a bit jaded by the ordinary ways of slaughtering innocent naked maidens. They demand variety, imagination. Which is where Dagobert excells. His job is dreaming up clever new ways of tormenting the club's victims. Take a bow, Dagobert."
Dagobert bowed, smiling cynically all the while.
"Greetings, victims," he said. "All-I mean nine-of you are about to die. Which naturally distresses you. But put smiles on your lovely innocent faces. All of us must die, but how many of us have the satisfaction of knowing that our deaths will provide amusement and entertainment for a group of socially prominent people? So smile! Meet your doom gamely. Let's put on a good show for the paying customers, eh?"
A chorus of horrified wheezes greeted his pep talk. But some of the girls, I noted with horror, had already fixed smiles to their faces and pulled their shoulders back gamely. How vain most girls are, I mused; eager to be thought well of, even if their last performance is for a totally bestial audience.
About then I heard the sound of airplane engines. So did Leopard Shark. "Hark," she said, lifting her head. "The first of our fabulously wealthy club members are about to arrive aboard their private plane."
An hour later, and many airplane engines later, the 'show' got under way.
But first Leopard Shark numbered us. For this purpose she had a gadget that looked like a branding iron. The tip, however, was made of felt, and when she pushed it against our cringing bellies and buttocks, the sole result was that we had numbers stenciled on our flesh. I was 03.
Then a gong sounded and, after consulting a penciled program, Leopard Shark, assisted by the Dragon Maiden, unchained girl 01 and led her toward a metal door. Naturally, the girl kicked and struggled, but she didn't kick and struggle much, on account of both Leopard Shark and the Dragon Maiden were carrying short, sharp cattle prods-souped-up cattle prods, judging by the violent way their first victim reacted each time they prodded her.
They shoved her through the metal door, slammed it. Then Leopard Shark and the Dragon Maiden sauntered back toward the rest of us.
"Victim 01," the blonde said with a laugh, "is now enclosed in a metal cubicle the size of a phone booth. When the gong strikes again, she will be propelled violently into the arena, and the fun will begin."
She pressed a button, and instantly a huge, full-color TV screen came to life before us. It showed a dim-lit, horseshoe-shaped arena, with about thirty people lounging and laughing in cushioned seats.
I stared at them with interest. Having read lots of lurid popular fiction, I knew-or thought I knew what to expect: a lot of jaded-looking old women in black evening gowns and masks. But no. The audience consisted of men and women in their twenties and thirties, wearing casual clothes and no masks. They looked like a bunch of jet setters on a holiday, which in a sense I guess they were.
The fact that they didn't have on masks confirmed my suspicions. Let one of us go? Not likely. Not since we could identify them. No, we were all doomed.
Me included, unless I thought of something clever and escaped.
Meanwhile a gong sounded, and into the arena victim 01-a busty young blonde-was violently propelled. She scrambled to her feet, looked around wildly. A moment later a bright spotlight was flashed into her eyes, obviously blinding her.
"Victim 01," said a voice over. a loudspeaker, "your first task is simple. Merely remain on your feet for two minutes. If you fall before then, you will be dispatched with a sword."
I and the eight naked girls on either side of me watched open-mouthed. Victim 01, blinking her eyes, began to walk in a circle. Whenever she walked away from the circle, however, the girl known as the Latin Lash stepped smiling in front of her and prodded her with a supercharged cattle prod. Which made Victim 01 jump back, squealing soundlessly.
Meanwhile, the audience, laughing and smiling, were fingering what looked like air pistols.
"The weapons the club members are caressing," Leopard Shark cheerfully informed us, "fire quarter-inch hard rubber balls. The muzzle velocity has been carefully calculated so that the balls will almost, but not quite, puncture the flesh of the victim."
And while we watched, horrified another gong sounded, and the members of the wealthy sado-masochistic club began firing at Victim 01's naked body.
It was awful, if sort of interesting. The rubber balls smacked into her naked flesh from all directions, and each time one struck, you could see the bare flesh of her breasts or buttocks or belly or thighs bounce from the blow. Tiny spots of pink began to appear all over Victim O1's flesh, and she started to dance and hop around as if poisoned mosquitoes were biting her.
The busty blonde victim danced and jumped wildly, clutching now her breasts, now her buttocks, now her belly. And each time she clutched one part of her, another part began to jump and quiver as the merciless rubber balls whacked into her flesh.
It must have been awful for her-but truth to tell, it was kind of interesting to watch. Amusing, too, in a bestial sort of way.
Then another gong sounded, the one-minute gong, Leopard Shark told us, and after a ten-second rest the 'sport' began again. Only this time the sadistic, laughing members of the audience were firing more slowly, and each time they fired, the big-breasted teenage girl leaped even more.
The muzzle velocity of the guns has been increased," Leopard Shark girl told us casually. "Now the balls are striking her with just enough impact to break the flesh. And each tiny rubber ball has been, soaked in a mild acid. Hence the victim's amusing reaction to each shot."
She was sure reacting, I thought, watching her jump and dance on the giant full-color TV screen. And now, each time a rubber ball whacked into her flesh, a bright red spot was left. The victim wasn't even trying to run now, she was too busy clutching each new impact spot. Only she couldn't cover more than a tiny fraction of her body, and every time she clutched her breasts protectively, the fast-moving rubber balls whacked into her unprotected buttocks and belly. And when she clutched her belly and buttocks, her breasts began to dance, as more rubber balls smacked into them at high speed.
She stayed on her feet almost fifty seconds, judging by the big clock next to the TV screen. Then she sagged to her knees, shuddered, and clopped down on her back.
Instantly the Latin Lash was standing over her, a thin, lethal-looking rapier in her hand.
"You have five seconds to rise," boomed a voice over a loudspeaker, "or get speared. One, two, three...." The blonde continued to writhe around on her back. At the count of five, the Latin Lash-clad in her black leather boots, belt, gloves, choker, and a shiny black mask-raised her rapier and then thrust it deep into the blonde's plump belly.
The blonde thrashed about more frantically, and then still more, as the rapier stabbed deep into her right breast. But a moment later the rapier sank deep into her left breast, over her heart, and she shuddered, and went limp.
A cheer went up from the socially prominent audience. Then the Dragon Maiden stalked into the arena, leading a harnessed mule. The mule's harness was attached to the dead blonde's ankles and the corpse was dragged feet first out of the arena.
"One down," chortled Leopard Shark. Nine-that is, eight-to go."
And a moment later she and Dragon Maiden dragged another chained, naked teen-age girl toward the arena. This one was Victim 07. And a few minutes later, via the closed-circuit, giant-screen television, we witnessed her fate.
And a really horrible fate it was, too. She was put into a long, plate glass-enclosed box, with a treadmill under her feet. At the front end of the box, which was about ten feet long, was a wall studded with needle-like spikes. At the back end was a row of metal bars, which began to glow red, then white-hot.
The voluptuous victim, feeling the red-hot bars searing her naked rear, naturally ran toward the front of the box. And then the treadmill began to move, pulling her back toward the heated bars.
She began to run, faster and faster as the treadmill speeded up. And then-wham!-some sadist in the audience stopped the treadmill, and, unable to stop herself in time, the girl ran smack into the needle-studded wall.
She reeled back, began running again as the treadmill started once more. Running faster and faster to keep pace with the treadmill. And once again the treadmill stopped abruptly, and she ran into the needle-studded wall in front.
That poor, stupid girl, I thought. Doesn't she realize she doesn't stand a chance-that those sadists are just getting their kicks watching her run for her life?
But then I thought, if I were to be in her position, I'd run too. I certainly wouldn't stand still and let my backside get broiled by a bunch of white-hot iron bars. I'd run like crazy. And if there was a needle-studded wall ten feet in front of me, I'd take my chances on being able to stop in time if and when the treadmill stopped.
Which was what the voluptuous victim did. Only they had her running so fast she usually couldn't stop in time, and slammed into the board full of needles to the tune of jeers and cheers from the sadists watching.
On and on the poor girl ran, racing to stay in front of the glowing metal bars which threatened to roast her from the rear. And the treadmill kept going faster and faster, until she was dashing along like a fifty-yard sprinter, her breasts bouncing as she ran.
And then, wham! The treadmill would be stopped abruptly, and she'd slam into the needle-studded boards.
It was horrible, though instructive. I mean I'd never realized that a plump teen-age girl could run so fast or so long! She kept running long after I'd have sworn she'd collapse. I guess the certain prospect of having her rear fried kept her going. But she sure ran a long time. She didn't stick out her arms to keep herself from hitting the needle-studded board, on account of her arms were still chained behind her back. All she could do was run, alternately getting her rear seared by white-hot bars and her breasts and belly punctured by the forest of needles in the front wall.
On she ran, and on and on. Pretty soon she was so exhausted she got glassy-eyed-and the sadist manipulating the treadmill began to vary the speed. One moment the thing was going fast, and her rear was near the searing bars, and the next moment it was slowing down and she had to slow herself quickly to avoid getting punctured again.
She didn't, I decided, have a chance. And I was right. Because five minutes later, with an ominous click, three foot-long metal daggers clicked out of the needleinfested boards in front of her. One dagger was aimed at her lower belly, the other two at the nipples of her bobbing breasts.
She saw the swords, all right. But she didn't stop running, because the bars behind her were still glowing white-hot. On she ran, sweat pouring down her shapely body, while the treadmill alternately slowed and speeded up, forcing her to instantly quicken and slow her pace.
By this time, I must confess, I'd lost interest in the mental and physical torment she must be feeling, and was more interested in seeing how long she'd last. It wasn't long.
The treadmill kept speeding up abruptly, bringing her rear into searing proximity with the white-hot bars, then slowing quickly, which caused her to shoot forward almost up to the menacing steel spears which reached for her naked belly and breasts. It was just a matter of time.
A long, gradual speed-up came, and she began to run more and more frantically. Then the treadmill stopped abruptly. Unable to stop her frantic forward dash, the victim slammed at full speed into the foot-long daggers. Thump! One moment she was still alive and running, the next she was flattened against the boards, daggers protruding through her lower back and at both her shoulder blades.
The screen went blank, but via the still-functioning sound system, we heard delighted laughs and applause from the depraved audience.
"Next," said Leopard Shark, stifling a yawn. And another naked teen-age girl-Victim OS this time was dragged off, screaming silently, to be slaughtered in the arena.
On the TV screen we watched her go. Rather quickly, too. She was shut into a steel-barred cage with a starved black panther. The panther knew what he wanted-ripe, raw meat-and the girl who was tossed into his cage was plenty, ripe. She fought him off for a short while with her feet and fists, but before long he was eating hearty. Not that I blamed him, if he was that hungry. Still, I couldn't help wishing he'd taken the trouble to kill her before he began munching on her. But I guess it's unfair to expect dumb animals to show such sensitivity.
The next thing I knew, I was being dragged toward the arena. Along with another girl. I fought and struggled a bit, but not too much, on account of the Dragon Maiden and the Latin Lash were leading me, and both of them were carrying supercharged cattle prods. Which they jabbed into me a couple of times, just to cool me off.
In which they succeeded, on account of those cattle prods hurt plenty, believe me!
And almost before I could whisper help more than three times, I was shut inside a metal box just big enough to stand in. In the door leading to the arena was a tiny porthole at breast level, and I naturally bent over to peer out. Instantly the door whipped open, and some kind of mechanical boot hit me in the rear, sending me flying into the arena.
How mortifying! It was bad enough to die horribly for the amusement of a bunch of sophisticated, socially prominent, ultra-rich sex nuts. But to be booted in the rear just before my possible last performance was too much!
I picked myself up from the sawdust floor of the arena and glared around. A few yards away was the other girl-Victim 04-a chubby brunette. She was also scrambling to her feet.
I blinked into the bright lights, trying to glare at the audience. No use. The lights were so bright I couldn't see their faces. But I could hear their amused, sophisticated chuckles. The monsters!
All at once the she-sadist called the Latin Lash appeared in front of me. "You girls," she said with a cynical sneer, "have two minutes in which to kill one another. If you don't want to fight-and kill-then don't. We have a red-hot barbecue pit waiting for you."
And with that she tossed a long, wicked-looking knife in front of me. Meanwhile, I noted out of the comer of my eye, the Dragon Maiden tossed a similar knife in front of the chubby brunette.
Each of us dived for her knife. Then, alone in the arena, we began to circle each other at a discreet distance.
"Don't," said a voice over a loudspeaker, "feel obliged to hurry. But if this contest isn't over inside two minutes, both of you will roast over the barbecue pit. If it is, the winner may be spared."
Well! I continued to circle the chubby brunette, knife in hand.
"Hi," I whispered to her. "My name is Sharon Chablis. I'm from Maine."
"Rhonda Tompkins," she whispered back. "San Francisco. How did you get into this awful situation?"
"Through a sex club." I whispered back, still circling her with my knife raised. "And you?"
"I accepted the invitation of a strange man to have a drink in a bar. The next thing I knew, I was here."
Tough, I thought, for you. Aloud I said, "Let's not really fight. Let's just pretend to fight."
"Right," said Rhonda. The lying witch, I could tell she wasn't to be trusted. She was scared of being roasted alive-as was I-and she was more than willing to kill me to keep alive, for a while.
Well, two could play that game. I circled her, smiling. "Don't worry," I whispered. "We're about to be rescued. An FBI man is on our trail-and there he is!" I gasped as loud as I could, looking over her shoulder.
"Think I'd fall for a trick like that?" she hissed-and lashed out at me with her knife.
Almost got me, too, I was so sure she'd look over her shoulder so I could cut her up when she was off guard. As it was, I jumped back just in time, brought up my own long knife. Sparks flashed, and we fell back, continued circling.
The rotten witch! All of a sudden I hated her. True, I'd just met her. True, I had nothing against her-except the fact that if I didn't kill her she'd kill me, or we'd both die. But that was enough. Whether or not the sophisticated audience got their kicks, the fact was I had to cut her down, or we'd both die over hot coals. So naturally I hated her. It was like war, I mean.
Meanwhile, the audience was jeering and clapping and urging us on. Urging us to cut each other up. The monsters!
I circled closer to the chubby brunette, smiled at her affectionately, and then kicked sawdust in her face. She reeled back, pawing at her eyes, and I lashed out with my knife.
Hot dog! My knife had slashed right across both her over-extended breasts, slicing them neatly. She screamed, dropped her knife and clutched her butchered bosom. I jumped in close, thrust my knife low into her belly and ripped upward.
It worked just great. I mean, I'd read lots of lurid books about people ripping each other up with knives, but I'd always assumed it was hard work. It wasn't. The knife slid right up her middle like I was cutting a bowl of vanilla pudding.
A moment later she was on her knees, gasping and trying to hold her ripped belly together. I stepped in fast again, thrust my knife all the way into her left breast. It slid in real easy until I hit her ribs, then it stopped. I remembered just in time that you're suppose to hold the knife sideways so it will go between your victim's ribs.
So I pulled the knife out, turned it, and thrust it into her breast again. This time it went all the way, and her eyes rolled wildly and she jerked a couple of times, and then flopped on her back.
Well! Notwithstanding the awful circumstances I was in, I naturally felt a bit proud. I mean, I'd killed my first opponent right off, real fast. And thereby stayed alive. The audience was cheering, too. And despite the hatred I felt for them, I couldn't help turning and bowing.
Then I was being hustled out of the arena by Leopard Shark, who kept jabbing me in the rear with her cattle prod, and the next thing I knew I was back in the barn again.
"Not bad," sneered Leopard Shark. "But, heh, heh, the worst is yet to come."
And so it was.
The next item on the agenda was a fist fight between 02 and 08, which the remaining four of us witnessed, shuddering, on the giant TV screen. The girls who fought were both kind of plump. In fact both-even though they were teen-agers-had big bellies, from over-eating, no doubt, and extra-large breasts. Notwithstanding, they began to slug each other like crazy. Naturally, since they'd been warned that the loser would be roasted over red-hot coals.
Poor girls! Most likely, under other circumstances, they'd have become good friends. Exchanged records and fan pictures and small talk and so forth. But as it was, they tried to beat each other to death. And just about succeeded. You wouldn't believe the horrible damage one girl's fists can do to the body of another ripe-breasted, plump bellied teen-age chick--and vice versa.
Finally Victim 02 dropped to the ground, gasping. And 08 started jumping up and down on her stomach until she was dragged away.
I was sure she'd killed her. But she hadn't. As we found out when they started roasting 02 over hot coals. Poor girl! It took her ages to die. Mainly because Leopard Shark kept injecting her with stimulants to keep her alive and conscious.
After that, things got real hideous. The audience kept shouting for blood. And blood was what they got.
Two ripe young blondes, 09 and 10, who'd been whispering together real friendly-like in the barn, got tossed into the arena with a pair of whips. And once they'd been informed that the loser would be sprayed with acid, they began lashing at each other with real malice. Short, vicious licks that didn't so much bruise as cut right into the flesh.
Inside of two minutes both girls looked like raw hamburger. And a half minute later the loser-Victim 10-was so badly chopped up she hardly writhed at all when the acid was sprayed on her.
And then-then came the outdoor sport. On account of dawn had come.
Some sport! Victim 06-a real shapely brunette-got dragged out, her wrists tied in front of her, her feet free to run. She was tied to a frisky stallion, and the stallion was made to run around a big circular track. The naked, hysterical girl ran behind him for four laps. Then she tripped, and got dragged around on her breasts and belly. She lasted four laps, over sharp gravel, before she stopped squirming. By that time she wasn't shapely any more.
And then the fisticuffs champ, 08 was dragged out again and told to make the stallion happy. Which she did, to avoid the penalty, which was too horrible to even mention. Unfortunately for her, she made the stallion so happy he kicked her in the belly-which finished her soon enough.
And after that-I escaped.
It wasn't easy. I'd just been unchained, and the blonde Leopard Shark was smiling and telling me that my next assignment was to outrun an airplane.
I knew what kind of airplane she had in mind. Victim 09, the whip-fight survivor, with her hands tied behind her back, had tried to outrun an airplane. Know what kind? Right! The creeps who belonged to the club had a bunch of little radio-controlled models. With little gasoline engines. And sticking out of the propeller shaft of each was a foot-long meat skewer.
The girl had run frantically into an open field, while two radio-controlled model planes buzzed her. Plans with wicked, long meat skewers sticking out in front of them.
The planes, guided by laughing club members, had made pass after pass at her, and she'd dodged them all. For a while. Then one of the models zoomed down toward her and she dodged"-and the other one, coming from the other side, plunged right into her belly, foot-long meat skewer, razor-tipped propeller and all.
Naturally, she flopped to the ground, writhing. Whereupon the other plane was zoomed right into her left breast-and she stopped kicking.
Well! None of that stuff for me! I waited, pretending to shiver, until Leopard Shark had unfastened my chains-and then I knead her good, right between her legs. She yelped in agony, and before she could straighten up, I grabbed the knife out of her sheath and used it. Right up her front, from the torrid zone to the rib cage I used it. And my what an awful sound she made as she felt her intestines spill out onto the ground-where I stomped on them.
After that I ran-and ran! At first I thought of running toward some of the private planes parked nearby, but then I realized I didn't know how to run a plane. So I ran toward the ranch house.
There should, I thought to myself, be some kind of weapon there. So I kept running, while people shouted and screamed, and a couple of guns cracked, and a few arrows whizzed by me, and a model plane buried its meat skewer in the ground a few feet away.
But a moment later I was inside the ranch house, with the angry club members only a few yards behind. I slid through the open door, slammed and bolted it, looked around, found what looked like a submachine gun on a whole rack of guns. I grabbed it, pointed it, and started pushing and pulling all the knobs it had on it.
After thirty seconds of pushing and pulling I hit the right knob, and the gun went bang. Then the door burst open. As the enraged and no longer sophisticated club members dashed in, I pointed the gun and pulled the trigger.
My but the result was heart-warming! Bullets sprayed all over them, and they started flopping around in death agonies right off. I emptied the whole gun at them, and when the gun stopped, I grabbed another gun, pushed the same knob, and emptied that gun at them.
The thing jumped lot, but I knew what to expect by then, so I was able to aim it instead of just spraying with it. And I sure finished them off!
Just to be sure, I took a third submachine gun from the rack and sprayed the bodies with bullets. There was one more submachine gun left and, just for safety's sake, I took it off the rack and walked outside with it.
Outside, everybody looked dead. Including the four remaining, naked girl captives. I'd shot them down too. Well, tough break for them. They should have ducked.
Really annoyed now, I stalked to the barn where I'd been held captive, looking for somebody more to shoot. I found the Latin Lash and the Dragon Maiden.
"Mercy!" they cried, cringing in a comer. "We were just trying to earn a few dollars!"
I sneered-and shot them to pieces.
I prowled some more, and found a terrified young man with buck teeth and no chin. He was hiding behind some packing crates. I'd seen him before-on the TV screen. He'd been one of the monsters guiding the model planes with the daggers.
I snickered at him while he groveled on the ground sobbing for mercy, and then I pulled the trigger. Nothing. The gun was empty.
"Mercy!" he sobbed. "Don't kill me! I only joined this club because my friends belonged. Even though I come from a good family and have had money all my life, I've always felt out of things. I was-well, touched and flattered when they asked me to join. Don't kill me, please?"
While he was sobbing all this I was looking around for some kind of weapon. But then I stopped. Because I'd just had an idea. Would it be that this, at last, was my Big Break?
"What's your name?" I snarled, waving the gun-which he obviously thought was still loaded.
"Al-Algernon Percy Montmorency Carstairs Denton, the Fifth."
Hmmm, I thought. Aloud I said: "Can you fly a plane? Are you married? How much money do you have?"
"Yes. No. About twenty million, I guess."
"Good," I said, and then I started telling him just what he should do, while he nodded his head frantically.
You can guess what I had him do, I'm sure. First I had him drag all the bodies inside the ranch house, and then, after I'd found some slacks and a blouse and shoes that fit me, I made him set fire to the house and barn both.
No sense in leaving fingerprints-his or mine.
Then I had him start the engine of one of the private planes-not his-taxi the plane toward the ranch house. He jumped out just in time, and the plane plowed right into the burning house, where it too started to burn.
I figured that when the cops finally came to investigate, they'd figure one of the planes had crashed into the building, accidentally burning up everybody inside. And that's exactly the story that came out in the papers later. Whether the cops suspected there was more to it than that, I'll never know. Most likely they did, but didn't want to blacken the good name of the state-and antagonize a lot of wealthy families.
Then, after Algernon had stopped shaking so much, I had him fly both of us to Reno, Nevada. I'd gotten rid of the submachine gun, and was just holding a little pistol inside my stolen handbag by this time. But I didn't really need it. Algernon was too scared to put up a fight.
In Reno we were married by a chubby, red-faced justice of the peace, in a little white cottage surrounded by rose bushes. It was real romantic, except for Algernon shaking so much.
Then we hired an air-taxi-Algernon wasn't up to doing any more flying himself-and flew to his huge estate in California, where I cooked him a wedding breakfast. Or at least, had some of the fifty servants cook one.
After he'd eaten, and drunk half a bottle of imported brandy, I said: "Friend husband, I told you a teeny-weeny fib yesterday. You married me because I said a wife couldn't testify against her husband. But that isn't what the law says. I know, on account of I've read lots of popular fiction in paperback form."
"What-what is the law?" he gasped, gulping more brandy.
"The law is," I said, smiling, "that a wife can't be forced to testify against her husband. Any time the whim strikes me, though, I can voluntarily testify against you-and send you to the gas chamber. More brandy, Algy?"
Poor Algy! Who'd have thought those few words would send him all the way around the bend?
I had him placed in one of the best private asylums in California, where I understand he babbled a lot. But who pays any attention to the babbling of a madman? Poor Algy. I was almost sorry when they telephoned to say he'd wriggled out of his strait jacket and swallowed three bottles of rat poison.
And that's how I became one of the richest sixteen-year-old widows in California. Even though he was a weakling and a murderer and a sado-masochistic pervert, poor Algy really was Mr. Right-for me.
I guess there's a moral to my story, and I guess the moral is that even though things are bad all over, this is still the Land of Opportunity for a girl who knows what she wants.