…

            Barbara had just finished packing for the twelfth annual Gotham District Librarian’s Conference. Her costume was tucked into the secret bottom of the suitcase. She’d been dreading the entire weekend. While she found the library to be relaxing, it was also quite depressing to spend the entire weekend before Halloween listening to someone lecture for the umpteenth time about the importance of the graphic novel as an essential tool to encourage young readers to explore other library assets. She carried her suitcase out into the living room and stepped outside onto the balcony.

Below, Gotham was waking up. Fifteen stories below, the traffic was just starting to crawl by. She yawned suddenly and then arched her back. The sun shone full on her face as the breeze drew her long red locks off of her shoulders. She smoothed her hair back and went inside, locking the patio door behind her. In some cities, you could feel secure leaving the patio door unlocked when you’re fifteen stories up. But in Gotham City, you might come home to find the Killer Moth rifling through your jewelry (or your underwear drawer).

As she stepped inside, she heard the familiar ring of the doorbell. She crossed the room, checked the peephole and saw the strange, warped image of her friend Suzanne. Opening the door, Barbara turned to get her suitcase.

She worked with Suzanne for about two years at the West Gotham Branch of the library. She was a bubbly little blonde whose cheeriness sometimes came across as overbearing. Today, sadly, was no exception.

“Hey-ya, Babs,” she said. “What do you say, what do you know?”

Barbara turned, suitcase in hand. She smiled at Suzanne and laughed. The games were already starting.

“Hmm…let’s see” Barbara said. “That’s James Cagney from Angels With Dirty Faces.” 

“Correct-a-mundo,” Suzanne replied. “You ready?”

“Always.”

An hour later, the two arrived at the Gotham Arms. Having parked in the underground ramp at the Gotham Civic center next door, the two proceeded to registration. As they entered the lobby, Barbara brushed against an old man in what appeared to be a lab coat.

“Pardon me,” she said, smiling.

“No problem,” the man replied.

 She followed Suzanne to the front desk but then stopped suddenly. She’d been trained to look for anything out of the ordinary, and the old man she’d just brushed against sounded like a teenager. She turned quickly, trying to catch sight of him again, but he was gone.

“Babs,” Suzanne called. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just thought I saw someone I knew.”

“An old boyfriend?”

“Hardly.”

Barbara laughed. It was an honest answer she’d given. But Suzanne’s question made it seem more humorous. The man she thought she’d seen was Professor Hugo Strange, an old nemesis of Batman. She’d never encountered him before, but she was almost sure that had been him. Yet, his voice was that of a young boy. And then Suzanne’s image entered into her mind. She could just see herself dating Hugo Strange, a man old enough to be her father. She began giggling to herself.

“What’s so funny?” Suzanne asked.

“Nothing, I just—”

She stopped short. A rustling sound caught her attention. It was a sound with which she was all too familiar. It was the sound of straw shifting against old cheesecloth. It was the sound the Scarecrow’s costume made. However, when she looked, there was no one there.

“Hey,” Samantha said, “Earth to Babs. You still there?”

“Oh,” Barbara said. “Sorry. Just a little spacey.”

“WHAT’S IN THE BOX?” Samantha shouted.

Barbara looked at her like she’d lost her mind. Perhaps, her brain began to postulate, that was the Scarecrow, and he’d set off one of his fear bombs. However, her friend had none of the tale-tell signs of being exposed to fear gas: red-rimmed eyes, nervous sweat, or convulsions. No, it was nothing like that. Quickly, Barbara’s mind searched for some type of response that would pacify her friend’s sudden excitement.

“What?” she asked.

“Seven,” Suzanne replied. “You know, Brad Pitt, Morgan Freeman, and Kevin Spacey.”

“That’s a stretch,” Barbara said.

“Come on, loosen up. The conference won’t be that bad.”

After they paid for their room, they headed for the elevator. Perhaps it was the boredom of the conference that was making Barbara imagine a more exciting time. Maybe it was the fact that she was still on edge after patrol last night. She did have one of Crazy-Quilt’s gang take a shot at her. Whatever it was, this feeling wasn’t going away. Then, the elevator door binged and the doors slid open.

Barbara gasped. The world went into slow motion. She knew the things she’d seen and heard up until this point were real. She knew she had been worried for the right reasons. She knew because when the doors to the elevator had opened, she found herself face to face with the Joker.

…

            Barbara’s body tensed. She was ready to pounce on him with everything she had. He was a severely disturbed psychotic and capable of anything. Her fists balled up and she hunched forward, ready to spring at him. Luckily, his kids spoke out first.

            “Let’s go, Daddy-Joker,” a young boy said. He sprang from behind the would-be Joker out in front of Barbara. He was a near-perfect, 4-inch tall replica of Batman.

            “Excuse me, Miss,” Daddy-Joker said.

            As he and “Batman Jr.” exited, a full-figured Catwoman followed them. This, Barbara figured, must be the mother. Trailing behind them, Barbara waved nervously at a floppy-armed Plastic man and a portly Green Lantern.  

            “Babs,” Suzanne said. “Are you okay? You look like you’re a nervous wreck!”

            “Just, surprised,” Barbara answered. “What’s with all the costumes?”

            “Oh, there’s a Con going on this weekend, too.”

            “I thought that took place in San Diego, in the summer.”

            “No, not Comic-Con. That’s the biggest one. And you’re right—it does take place in the summertime. But they have little mini-cons all the time. This is one of the last ones for the season. I thought we could even check it out if there’s a particularly boring lecture.”

            “Hmmm. That’s not a bad idea.”

            They took the elevator to the fourth floor and got settled. As they were putting their things away for the evening, Barbara paused briefly, running her fingers along the inside false bottom of her suitcase. Her Batgirl costume lay inside quietly, waiting to emerge once again.

            “Maybe this little trip won’t be so boring after all,” she thought.

…

            It was halfway through Arnold Vessler’s presentation about “A/V Resources in the School Environment” when boredom got the better of Barbara. Leaning over to Suzanne, Barbara quickly made an excuse to escape. She would have no trouble breaking away from Suzanne, as she had been making googly-eyes at Vessler during the entire presentation.

            “Hey, Suze,” Barbara said, “I’ve got a headache. I’m going to slip out and take a couple of aspirin and catch a nap.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “Positive. You stay and see if you can get Vessler’s number after the lecture.”

            Suzanne feigned shock.

“Barbara Gordon, you are naughty!”

Barbara smiled and slipped out of the conference room. The hallways were eerily quiet up on the fourth floor. The long expanse of green, floral carpet seemed like an untamed wilderness. She made her way to her room, and once inside, she locked the door behind her. She made her way to the suitcase she’d stashed under her bed, and popped open the false bottom. She stripped to her underwear and then dressed quickly in her leggings and top. She must have had the largest collection of matching black underwear in Gotham—every other color would show through her costume. Next, she secured her grease paint and layered a coat on her face around the edges of her cowl, incase she was ever un-masked. Then, she put on her cowl and her cape, and finished with her boots and gloves. She checked herself in the mirror, brushing her cape aside and patting her ass as she looked over her shoulder in he mirror behind her. 

“You are a naughty girl, Barbara,” she said aloud.

Smiling, she headed for the door. As her hand touched the handle, she stopped. She went back to the suitcase and slipped her utility belt around her shapely hips. In her experience as Batgirl, Barbara had learned that it was always better to be safe than sorry.

She slipped out of the hotel room, and let the door close quietly behind her. She checked the hall: there weren’t any security cameras in this hall. She smiled.

“Even if there were,” she thought to herself, “who’s to say Barbara Gordon didn’t go to the convention dressed as Batgirl?”

Emerging in the lobby a few minutes later, she saw another group of conventioneers (this time it was Dr. Occult, The Question, and Beast Boy) headed across the street to the Gotham Civic Center. Barbara fell in behind them and followed them across the street to the stadium. They stopped at the end of a line about a half a mile long. After a few moments of eavesdropping on conversation she couldn’t follow, she asked “Dr. Occult” how much longer the wait would be. He looked her up and down and smiled.

“Are you waiting for pre-purchased tickets?” he asked.

“Oh, you have to pay to get it?” Barbara asked.

“Well, you don’t if you want to buy tickets inside. Is this your first con?”

“Sort of.”

“Hey,” said “Beast Boy”, “don’t you guys get it? She’s probably a booth-babe working this gig for the first time.”

“Right,” said Dr. Occult. “The convention worker’s entrance is around the side, Miss.”

Barbara considered this for a moment. It really wasn’t fair to enter without paying, but for all the compartments her utility belt carried, there wasn’t one designated for petty cash. So, with a smile and a thank you, she made her way to the side entrance.

Inside, she joined a would-be group of heroines, including: Catwoman, Wonder Woman and Supergirl. Sidling up to them, she smiled sweetly and introduced herself. The girls blandly said hello and went back to texting whoever they were communicating with a moment before. Then, “Supergirl” broke away from the pack.

“Hey, who’s your stylist, Red?”

“Oh,” Barbara said, “My hair? I…do it myself.”

“Oh, wow, that’s cool. So, tell me, does the carpet match the drapes?”

“Excuse me?” Barbara asked.

Before the faux-Supergirl could answer, a short, pudgy man exploded into the room, barking orders at the girls. He quickly glanced around the room, making a series of short, quick checks on some sort of form attached to his clipboard. He paused when he saw Barbara.

“I don’t see a Batgirl listed.”

Barbara flushed. As she tried to come up with a quick answer, the man simply waved at her in dismissal. At first, she thought she was busted.

“Doesn’t matter. Last minutes like you are always getting added—makes my life a nightmare. Just have your agent sign this and try to remember to smile.”

He handed Barbara an information slip and rushed her out the door. Outside, she stood back and watched the flurry of activity as conventioneers of every conceivable variety marched up and down nearly a hundred aisles of retailers. She walked over to an artist scribbling furiously at something he was drawing. Behind him, on display, she saw an image of herself. Her ass was being spanked red by Robin.

“What the hell?” Barbara thought to herself.

As soon as the waiting fan departed, she confronted the artist. He glanced up once, and then did a double take. He smiled.

“Great costume,” he said. “Are you a booth babe?”

“Actually,” Barbara said, “I am. But I also happen to be a fan of the real Batgirl. I think what you’re doing here—marketing on someone’s image in this fashion—is disgusting.”

“Hey,” the artist countered, “look, lady. “Bratgirl” puts herself out there in the media. Her image as a peril-prone hottie isn’t something I just came up with. I tell you what—you have a problem with Batgirl, go look her up and tell her. I’m just a freelance artist. Now, unless you want to get together later, kiss off.”

Barbara was taken aback. Her mind twisted with rage as she groped for the right words. When nothing emerged, she gritted her teeth and childishly stomped her foot into the ground. She could have broken both of his wrists right there, but as assault charges go, being the daughter of a police commissioner had taught her a little restraint. As she marched away, she could hear the artist calling out after her. 

“That was adorable, by the way,” he said.

Barbara was still steaming by one of the exits when the three men caught her eye. They could’ve been conventioneers like the rest, but they were looking around nervously. One was a tall, gaunt man with a goatee and dressed in an all-white suit. An older portly man with what appeared to be extreme myopia flanked him. His thick glasses almost hid his tiny blue eyes. The third man was Asian, and was extremely large. His crossed arms looked as thick as Barbara’s own thigh muscles and his thick, purplish lips sat in a perpetual frown.

The man in the white suit was talking to a security guard who seemed to be pleading with the trio of oddballs. Then, the leader—the man in the white suit—seemed to stab a finger out at the area near the back of the civic center. The officer nodded and went through the door followed by the others. As the door swung shut, Barbara noticed the sign on the front read: EMPLOYEES ONLY. Barbara moved quickly to the door and checked the handle. It was unlocked.

“And you thought you wouldn’t need your utility belt,” Barbara thought to herself.

She closed the door behind her quickly, and looked around. Behind the main floor of the civic center, a small loading bay sat empty. Across the way, a brown door marked SECURITY lead to the underground parking garage. Barbara followed the stairs beyond the door down to the next level. Her yellow boot heels clicked softly as she descended the concrete steps. At the bottom of the stairs, a dim light could be seen from within the first floor security office. The blinds were drawn, and the light from within the office cast silhouettes of all four men.

Barbara crept up to the office window nearest the shadows of the men. Listening intently, she tried to make out what the men were saying. With no luck, she reached into her belt and withdrew a sonic amplifier earpiece, and clicked it on.

“Then the truck is secure,” a voice said. Barbara assumed this was the voice of the man in the white suit.

“That’s right Professor Phung. I got exactly what you asked for; a panel van with carrying compartment for at least twelve chemical canisters. Here—here’s the parking slip. You’ll need that to exit through the building’s electronic gates.”

“Excellent,” Professor Phung said. “All seems according to our arrangement. Here, Ming, hold onto this.”

“Right, boss.”

“So now,” the nervous voice of the security guard cut in again, “you’ll pay me. Like in the deal.”

“Yes,” Professor Phung said, “all according to our arrangement…except that it was supposed to be here yesterday.”

“Well, with the convention going on, I couldn’t really break away.”

“That’s…most unfortunate.”

Barbara heard the snap of the Professor’s fingers, followed by one of the most awful gurgling noises she’d ever heard or could have imagined. Ming’s shadow had lurched forward and his ape-like arms thrust out like two mighty pistons. His powerful, paw-like hands closed down above the guard’s throat and pinched off his carotid artery. As the guard began to black out, he flailed wildly. Barbara’s bright blue eyes went wide with horror as she watched the grotesque shadow dance from outside.

Barbara grabbed her grappler off of her belt and tensed her body. But, as his last moments of consciousness escaped him, the guard’s hand struck microphone handle of the old P.A. system that had been installed in the civic center back in the seventies. His finger just grazed the speak button, but it was enough. A loud static ping registered in Barbara’s earpiece. She’d heard similar noises before while listening to the radio. A caller would phone in to the station they were listening to, but not turn their radio off; the result is a high-pitched static whine. And this time, it was the same thing, only directly into her ear.

 Before she realized what she’d done, she cried out and pulled the earpiece away. As soon as the offending sound was out of her ear, she realized she’d blown her cover. After her equilibrium had adjusted and the world had stopped shaking, she pivoted quickly, glancing at the office. Now, facing the three outlines, she realized that just as she could see their shadows inside the office, they could also see her shadow, cast from outside the office, on the blinds. But the three figures were completely still. Curious, she approached the glass and as she was about to rest her gloved fingertips upon the window, the blinds were quickly drawn up, and all three men glared at her hungrily.

“Get her,” the Professor said.

Barbara retreated to the darkness. The first to emerge from the office was the hulking Ming. He searched aimlessly for her in the dark. Smiling, she fired her grappler. It effectively coiled itself around his feet. As Ming tottered helplessly, Barbara pulled the cord taught, sending the giant for a painful fall.

“Got 'ya,” she said.

Just then, she felt her arms pinned to her sides by two strong hands. Goggles’ full weight pressed down on her. Barbara tried to shake him off but his hold was too strong.

“So, trying to play Batgirl, eh? That’s a bad idea young miss,” Goggles whispered into her ear.

Barbara looked up in time to see the Professor charging at her. She saw that he’d slipped some kind of tank, like a personal pesticide sprayer, onto to his back. It connected to a long hose with a vented nozzle at the end.

“That’s it Goggles, hold her just a moment longer,” he said.

Barbara waited for the Professor to get close enough. When he was in range, she reared back, shifting her weight to Goggles’ upper body. She’d figured he couldn’t take the sudden addition of weight, and he buckled under her. She used him as a balance point, and brought her right foot up and smashed the heel of her boot into the left cheek of the Professor’s face. He sprawled onto the ground with a painful lump.

She landed on her toes. She could feel Goggles’ grip slipping, so she thrust her head back and smashed his face. The sound of his glasses clattering in the darkness told her that she was now facing a nearly blind opponent. Now free, she turned to face him. She drew him close to get him in better range.

“I’m not playing anything, pops!”

“You’re for real?” Goggles asked.

“Bingo!”

“She’s the real Batgirl,” Goggles repeated. “It’s her. She—”

Barbara brought up a solid haymaker under the man’s jaw and he lurched backward.

“Well, a for-real super hero,” Ming grunted. He had managed to escape the twisted bindings of the bat grappler. Now he lurched at Batgirl anew.

She easily ducked his left and caught one of his massive arms. Using his not inconsiderable forward momentum, she rolled him into a hip-toss and he landed with a dull thud. She smiled at his defeat.

“Sorry, Ming. This just isn’t your… dynasty.”

She heard the Professor charging at her again. Turning to face him, she saw he was not charging at her with that tank in his hands, intending some serious harm. He stopped short and hurled the tank at her.

Barbara leapt over the canister without a problem. The Professor, who couldn’t stop his forward momentum, ended up face to face with Batgirl. Seizing him by the lapels of his white suit, she performed another hip toss, and he landed soundly on his rump. She moved in to finish him off when Goggles’ laughter made her glace his way. He’d found his glasses, and was now aiming the canister, along with it’s the vented nozzle that was connected to the hose, directly at her.

“This’ll be a gas!” Goggles shouted.

A thick, gray vapor hit Barbara flush in the face. She tried to hold her breath at first, and when she felt the smoke going into her nose and mouth, she reached for her mini-oxygen supply. But her body was seized with a spasm of coughing and then, a strange sensation, like warm water flowing through her body rushed in upon her from her head to her toes. Again, she made a grab for her mini-breather, but Ming’s powerful hands clamped down on her arms, just above the elbows.

“Give’er another shot in the snout,” Ming growled.

Goggles flicked the switch and another spume of smoke shot into Barbara’s face. Again, the warm sensation flooded over her senses. She felt dizzy and somehow, impossibly light. Then, a churning, bubbling sensation began to convulse her body. She tried to resist it as long as she could, but it was no use. Seconds later, a high-pitched nervous laugh rang out. Another soon followed it.

“We call that ‘Giggle-juice’, girly-girl,” Ming said. “It’s super laughing gas.”

“Yes,” the Professor’s voice rang out. “It’s my own design. It coats the nervous system like regular laughing gas, but also the body. And you, my dear, are my newest test subject. Bring her back into the office boys.”

“N-n-o…ha, ha, ha,” Barbara managed. She tried to resist, but the fumes made her muscles into jell-o and she was so convulsed with laughter that Ming had to virtually drag her back to the office. Once inside, Ming laid her on the floor and undid her utility belt, sliding it off of her supple hips.

Barbara was able to get to her knees, but the laughter wouldn’t subside. Ming smiled while dangling her belt just out of reach. Each time she stretched out her hand, a new bout of giggles would erupt, and she’d let her hand fall to her stomach, where she gripped her side in an attempt to stop herself from shaking.

“Get her up,” the Professor said.

Ming pinned Barbara’s arms behind her and hoisted her up off the floor. The Professor spotted some desks and chairs in the back of the office. He moved with purpose, selecting a straight-backed wooden chair, and placing it in front of Ming. Goggles joined in as well. He rummaged around in a desk and found a small, but ample, coil of rope.

The Professor eyed Goggles’ discovery with malicious delight. Goggles rummaged around in his pocket and sliced the rope into three sections. Somehow, through all the tears and giggles, Barbara sensed what was being intended. She tried to struggle, but Ming held her tight as she giggled incoherently. One of his massive harms clamped around both of hers while he groped her left breast liberally. Then, the myopic little man tossed the rope to his larger companion.

“Tie her in that chair for now,” the Professor said.

“No-no…hah-hah…you c-can’t…ha-ha, hee-hee,” Barbara said.

As Ming set to his task, the Professor and Goggles talked. A strange fire was brewing in the Professor’s eyes and Goggles liked the look of this.  The professor stroked the tip of his goatee in an absent-minded furor as Ming twisted Barbara’s hands into place behind her. Cinching the rope tight, Barbara began to laugh again, instinctively kicking her long, shapely legs as he giggles continued to flow unabated. As Ming wound another section of rope under Batgirl’s heaving, pendulous breasts, Goggles licked his greedy lips. The Professor turned to where Ming was working.

“Stop,” he said.

He held out a hand in a grandiose, almost operatic gesture. Barbara had managed to stop laughing for a moment by holding her breath and shaking her head from side to side. Her luscious flame-colored mane swished seductively.

“Take off her boots,” the Professor said.

Ming laughed greedily, unzipping the yellow leather leggings. Slowly, he pulled them off, only to be struck at what he discovered beneath them. Grabbing Barbara’s ankle, he pulled her foot level, holding it in the light for his compatriots to see.

“Well, well, look at this,” Ming said. “You two will like this. Our girl’s color-coordinated. She’s got yellow knee-highs underneath her yellow booties.”

“How precious,” the Professor said. “Now tie her feet together.”

Ming complied. The Professor watched with excited glee and Goggles retrieved two more chairs from the back off the office.

“You’ll…p-pay…ha-ha-ha,” Barbara sputtered.

“Indeed, my dear?” the Professor said. “That’s big talk, considering you’re noting more than our busty captive.”

“Yeah, Bricktop,” Ming added. “You ought to loosen up.”

Ming’s hand slid around Barbara’s left breast and gave it a firm squeeze. His index finger slid around and found her nipple stiffening. He gently pushed on it in two quick succeeding trigger-motions. Barbara writhed with unwanted pleasure. She twisted against her bonds, but she couldn’t get away from his touch.

The Professor, who had sat in the seat Goggles provided, suddenly seized the coiled bonds wrapped around her ankles and hoisted her bound feet up into his lap. He smiled as he glided his fingers under and between Barbara’s socked toes. She howled with new laugher.

“Well,” the Professor said. “Let me correct myself.”

Barbara looked at him through tear-filled eyes. Titters of laughter were only broken by considerable effort. She bit into her lower lip in an effort to stop herself from laughing.

“Don’t say it,” she screamed in her mind.

“I guess,” Professor Phun said, “You’re nothing more than our busty, super-ticklish captive.”

Batgirl’s eyes revealed her terror. Her panic-stricken gasps of laughter came more quickly now. Desperately, she curled her toes in an attempt to keep Phun’s keen fingers from her probing between her toes, but he just slid his fingers down her insole until she laughed so hard her toes uncurled themselves by reflex. Her mind was searching for some kind of escape. Ming went to work on her ribs and underarms. Goggles ran the fingers of his right hand up and down her left foot in a scratching motion while his left snaked around to the backs of her knees. The worst was the Professor, who continued to work his way around her toes.

“Tickle-tickle, girlie,” Ming whispered.

“S-so…ha-ha..h-helpless…” Barbara stammered.

“Oh, yes you are,” the Professor said. “We’re going to send you into a frenzy! Kootchie-koo!”

“Puh-please!” Barbara screamed. “You-you’re..ha-ha…you’re driving me insane!”

Barbara endured the tickling for nearly twenty minutes. Then, things got hazy. At some point, the Professor announced he’d heard enough, and clapped a knotted bandana into Batgirl’s mouth. He then traded places with Ming and Goggles. He worked her ribs and underarms as skillfully as he’d worked over her toes. As her mumbled laughter continued, Barbara endured as much as she could until she began to hyperventilate from so much laughter that, mercifully, she passed into unconsciousness.   

…

            The tickling torture and now a failed escape behind her, Barbara found herself captive for a second time tonight. They’d apparently let her keep her boots, which would’ve been excellent, except for the fact that they’d cleared them out of all her lock-picks and mini saw blades. She sat in the back of the panel truck they’d picked up at the civic center.

            That was the only plus she had working in her favor. They’d forgotten the guard who had sold them the truck. In their “tickle-mania”, they’d forgot that, while choked into unconsciousness, he was still alive. She’d saved a life, and given the authorities a possible lead. There had been some other small successes along the way. They’d left her utility belt in the garage. Bruce or Dick[1] would know she was in trouble and come looking for her. And finally, the trio of ticklers was now late, thanks to her “shenanigans”.

            She sat on the floor of the panel truck, hands bound at the wrist, feet at the ankles, a bit of rope work pinning her arms to her side under her breasts, and (of course) the returning red bandana gag (at least she knew the gag hadn’t been in anyone else’s mouth). With Ming at the wheel and Goggles navigating, the Professor had elected to ride in the back to watch the supply of canisters and, of course, keep an eye on Barbara. However, she had determined to make the ride as unpleasant for him as she could. As he fought to communicate via cell-phone in the back of a mobile van, she created her own ambient sound. She writhed against her bonds and screamed muffled protestations.

            “Relax, Mr. Cane,” Professor Phun said. “I know you’ve had the plane ready for a half an hour, but I ran into some…complications.”

            Barbara watched and listened intently. He turned to look at her while the man named Cane spoke to him. He looked down and glared at Batgirl who broke into a new spasm of noise and twisting.

            “Mew jut mant mo mis! I mow mut mure mewing! I mow mut mure mewing!”[2] Barbara uttered.

            “I understand,” Professor Phun said. “What, no that’s uh…the fan acting up. Listen, I’m losing you. Just keep the plane gassed up and ready to go, all right? All right, all right. See you soon.”

            He hung up and glared at her. His eyes flashed at her hungrily as he traced the line of her hips up to her breasts. An unfortunate result for a super heroine being tied up is that your shoulders are often pinned back, forcing your breasts forward. Combine that with straining to get loose, and you’re basically a helpless go-go dancer in a funny outfit. She glared back at him.

            “You know,” the Professor began, “I didn’t study chemistry for twelve years and invent that giggle juice just to be stopped by some second rate snooperhero like you. I ought to let those two animals have their way with you. Maybe I will after they’ve loaded those canisters into the biplane.”

            Batgirl gasped behind the gag. The Professor smiled. He felt a tingle in his scrotum and he realized that he was tuned on by both her surprise and her helplessness.

            “Figured it out, have you?” He asked. “That’s right. The giggle juice will coat Gotham in a sweeping spasm of laughter. I’ll rob the city blind, and I won’t even need a gun. It’s genius.”

            Barbara gave a stifled protest.  Phun ignored her. He seemed lost in thought.

            “Although, I have to admit,” he continued, “the Joker’s laughing gas[3] was the inspiration for it. I had a student steal a vial from the Arkham Asylum warehouse. It’s potent stuff. But I worked with it until I reduced its murderous effects and then synthesized a version of it that could affect the skin as well.”

He returned to face Batgirl. Kneeling beside her, he reached out and fingered a few loose strands of her hair. When he rose up, Batgirl could see his erection bulging through his pants leg.

 “Your own reaction was a bit more powerful than I suspected, but since you’re a redhead and have more sensitive skin, you’re probably more prone to its effects. If your hyperventilating hadn’t made you pass out, who knows what could have happened. You know, I probably should’ve calculated for that population of residents with sensitive skin. Oh well.”

Barbara growled behind her gag. She was helpless to do otherwise. The Professor laughed at her helplessness and mockingly imitated her growl.

The truck began to slow down. They’d arrived at Brink’s Airport, just out side Gotham City. Moments later, the shocks of the panel truck were relieved of a massive burden as Ming crawled out of the cab. The scratching of metal on metal could be heard as Ming unfastened the lock on the truck. The panel door roared up as the glow from the lights of the airport entrance momentarily blinded her. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the glare, she saw Ming’s powerful arms scooping her up yet again. This time, he tucked one arm under her knees as his other found the small of her back.

“Mmmph!” Barbara screamed under her gag.

“Aw,” Ming mocked. “Did you miss me, Bricktop?”

“Take our pretty prisoner inside” the Professor said, “and put her in Dimbo’s room.”

Ming laughed and marched toward the darkened radar-tower. As she was carried inside, Barbara soon realized there would be no help from any airport security. Obviously, these three perverts had converted the entire strip into their headquarters. Ming flopped her down on the couch and turned on the lights. She was inside a flight office. At the far end of the room, she could see a control board and radio center and beyond that, the small gravel runway. Ming walked past her and into an adjoining room where he switched on some additional lights.

He returned for Barbara, scooping her up in his giant arms again. He stopped mid-stride and looked at the radio controls. Then, he smiled down at Barbara.

“Don’t even think about it lady. Once I’m done unloading those chemicals, that red snatch of yours is all mine. I’ll be cleaning little red pubes out of my teeth for two days. Just you wait and see.”

He carried her into the next room. All the lights were “pepto” pink. It looked, at first glance, to be some twisted mockery of a child’s playroom with ropes, and plastic, neon-green sex-toys hung on the walls in sundry, derelict angles. Barbara noticed one shelf filled entirely with bottles of chloroform. Just below this was canister of nitrous oxide and, or course, one canister of giggle juice, if the scrawled writing along the outside of the canister could be believed.  The centerpiece of the room was an oversized chair that was shaped as a grotesque clown. This was where Ming took her.

He placed her on the ground and then hauled her back up to her knees, forcing her to face the chair. His erection pressed through her cape and into her firm buttocks. He felt around and fondled her breasts liberally.

“Your boobs are driving me crazy,” he whispered. “Those other two weirdoes are into all that tickling stuff. But when they get tired, I always get to play with what’s left.”

“Mmmmph…” Barbara moaned in desperation.

“Mmm,” Ming said. “I bet your nipples are still pink. I read you red-heads stay pink a long time.”

He rolled both of her nipples between his thumb and index fingers. He lowered his head and inhaled the scent of Barbara’s hair. His hands fell away from her breasts and he suddenly took a step back. She heard him working the zipper on his pants and fumbling quickly with his belt. She tried the squirm away, but Ming just grabbed her chin and pulled her back toward him.

            “Sit you big-titied ass down,” Ming growled, shoving her back to her knees.

“What is he doing?” she thought. She felt a tug at the base of her skull heard the tussle of her hair as Ming scooped up a handful of her luscious locks. The flame-haired crime fighter felt the big man’s thighs bumping her shoulders as he shoveled her hair in his meaty paws. Suddenly, he let out a loud gasp of breath as a wet splat sprayed the back of her neck and dribbled icily down her costume, beading up in cold puddles above her braw strap.

            “Mmmmph!” Barbara recoiled at his touch.

            “Don’t worry,” Ming’s said. His voice was edgy and weak. He took long, deliberate moments as he chose his words.

            “I heard…cum makes…a great…conditioner!” He said.

            He untied Barbara’s hands from behind her and hauled her up from the floor. As he did so, he twisted her arm to ensure her cooperation. She was forced to comply as he sat her down in the oversized seat.

            Batgirl fairly sank into the chair as he sat her down. The chair’s arms mimicked the hands of the goofy clown after whose anatomy the chair was patterned. Ming grabbed the overstuffed arms and used them to tie Barbara’s hands to the wooden planks below. He reached down to untie her ankles and then repeated the action with the saggy clown feet that lay limp at the base of the chair’s legs. The knots were quite secure. While she couldn’t say much else for Ming, he was an expert rope man.

            Now that she was securely tied down, Ming told her he had to “test” the bonds. He reached in and ran his fingers over her ribs and thighs, tickling her again. Barbara tried to squirm away from his probing fingers, but there was little she could do but laugh into her gag. After a few seconds, Ming seemed satisfied.

            “There now,” he said. “If you can’t squirm away any better than that, you won’t be meddling with anything. You’re as pretty as a picture: helpless, ticklish, and trapped with us, all alone. Now, I have to go help the Professor, but Dimbo here will keep you company. Before he left, Ming flipped two switches and then walked out, slamming the door behind him.

            The first switch had caused the appendages that held Barbara to inflate with helium, tightening the bonds at her wrists and ankles even more. The second switch had started up a scratchy recording of circus music with a voice (which she assumed to be Dimbo) that repeated incessantly: “Hello! Dimbo likes you! Won’t you give me a hug? A-huyck!” Barbara squirmed and strained, but there was little she could do. She screamed into her gag and writhed in frustration, but it seemed, at least for the moment, that “Dimbo” had her in his grasp.

…

            Steve Cane had landed at the airstrip a half an hour ago. His pulse beat in time with the tripping of his heart. Every instinct he had told him that his Professor Phun was trouble. Steve may have been down on his luck, but he was no rube. He’d gone to Gotham University on a scholarship to play baseball with the Gotham Knights. While there, he’d pursued and obtained a degree in agriculture. He knew the professors could be eccentric, but Professor Phun had seemed more that just absent-minded. The image that always appeared in Steve’s mind when the two men talked was that of a carnival barker, not a man of letters.

            “Professor Phun—what a name,” Steve thought. “He claimed it was Asian. Sounds more made up to me.”

            He heard the airbrakes on the truck hiss to a stop just outside of the main gate. The big ape that worked for Phun—Ming was his name if Steve recalled correctly—was getting out of the cab of a big panel truck. He was joined by that screwy-looking oddball with the glasses that looked like they came from the bottom of a coke bottle. The two went around back and opened the door. To Steve’s surprise, Phun emerged from the back of the van.

            “Talk about Econo-class,” Steve thought.

            He watched Phun giving the big one directions. He figured it was probably that big lug’s fault they were a half an hour late. He headed over to his plane to get a hunk of chew out of his pouch. He reached under the pilot’s seat and pulled out the rolled up foil square and uncurled it. He leaned on the edge of the cockpit and formed a claw out of his first and middle fingers and thumb. He jammed it into the left side of his mouth. Ironically, it was tobacco that had got him into this mess in the first place.

            Growing up on the farm, tobacco was natural. His father had chewed it al his life. When he turned thirteen, he started to chew jaw as well. You were considered a sissy if you didn’t. It bothered the hell out his teachers, but his father never paid much mind if he was caught with it at school. In college, the formula stayed the same. Almost all the guys on the team used snuff, and Steve was no exception.

            However, when he met his wife, Mona, she got him to finally quit using. When he found his own son sneaking a pinch from his supply when they boy was twelve, he didn’t punish him, but he didn’t let him continue using either. He explained to the boy about the dangers of tobacco: the bad breath, the addiction, and the chance of contracting cancer of the gums. His son had respectfully listened, just as Steve had done himself, some fifteen years later. The only difference was that Steve was a grown man listening to a doctor. And he doctor wasn’t warning him, but consoling him about the fact that he had, in actuality, contracted the very same cancer of the gums about which he had sought so ardently to warn his son.

            Two years and two seasons of bad crops later, medical bills marked “last request” had formed a haphazard pile on Mona’s office desk. Steve had to do something. He’d started taking odd jobs from other farmers, even selling some of his grandfather’s antique farming equipment as well as auctioning off some of the jewelry Mona’s mother had left them before she’d passed. And now, he was selling his crop duster and his pilot’s license to a couple of misfits at an airfield in the middle of the night.

            “Ah, Mr. Cane,” Phun’s said.

            Steve turned to greet the academic, absent-mindedly wiping the corner of his mouth, lest he appear with a dark dribble belying his true intelligence. He chewed at the tobacco absently and headed across the tarmac. He did not extend his hand in welcome.

            “You’re late,” Steve said.

            Phun seemed taken aback. He smiled at his colleague with the glasses and placed his hands together ingratiatingly. He began to shake his head.

            “Right you are,” Phun said. “All apologies, Mr. Crane. As I said on the phone earlier—”

            “Where’s that big guy?” Steve broke in.

            “Oh,” Phun said, “he’s taking care of some…personal business. He’ll be helping my other associate here in a few moments.”

            “So this experiment of yours,” Steve said, “it’s to test some kind of new pesticide, is that right?”

            “Ah,” Phun said. “A man who gets right to the point. I appreciate that quality very much. But to answer your question, yes—the canisters you’ll be disseminating over the fair fields of Gotham tonight is, indeed, a pesticide. It’s quite natural, non-toxic, but I’m curious to see how it performs in a real-time scenario.”

            “And just what pest does it target?” Steve asked.

            “You ask a lot of questions for a shit kicker,” Goggles said.

            “What?”

            “Excuse my colleague, Mr. Crane,” Phun interjected. “He’s had a stressful evening and hasn’t gotten much sleep.”

            “No kidding?” Steve said. “Look pal—it’s my plane, so I’ll ask any questions I damn well please. I’m no idiot, okay. I got a degree from the same university as your boss here.”

            “Ah,” Phun said. “An educated man. Well, let me assure you, Mr. Crane, I will answer any questions you ask. As for your fist inquiry, the insect we seek tonight is a recent import to our fair county. Its Latin name is Cimex lectularius or, in the vernacular, bed bugs.”

            “Oh yeah,” Steve said. “I heard something about that.”

            He glanced at Goggles who stood, hands clenched at his sides, grinding his teeth. Steve despised the little man instinctually. Steve glared right at the diminutive criminal

            “See?” Steve said. “That wasn’t so hard.”

            “Quite the contrary,” Phun agreed. “It was most agreeable. Do you have any further queries?”

            Steve spat on the tarmac, his jaw line striking the tip of Phun’s otherwise immaculate patent leather shoes. He was sure there was something Phun wasn’t telling him, but for now, at least, he was satisfied. As Steve headed toward the bright red bi-plane, Goggles moved forward, but Phun’s arm jolted out to bring to a halt the little man’s homicidal rage. Steve climbed up into the cockpit and pulled his helmet from the passenger seat. He placed the helmet on his head and affixed the chinstrap.

            “I’ll run one last pre-flight check,” he explained. “You have your boys load up the tanks.”

            Professor Phun smiled and gave Steve a friendly salute. As soon as the old farmer glanced down at his checklist, Plum shot him the bird. He turned to Goggles, placing his hand on the little man’s shoulder.

            “After we’re done,” Phun said, “You can kill him.”

            “My pleasure,” Goggles said.

            The looming form of Ming emerged from the darkness. Phun ordered the two men to begin loading the first series of canisters into the biplane. As the two men began their work, Professor Phun headed back to the field house to check on Batgirl.

…

            “A-huyck! Hello! Dimbo likes you! Won’t you give me a hug? A-huyck!” said the recorded voice.

            “God that’s annoying,” Barbara thought. “If I don’t get loose soon, I’ll go crazy listening to that stupid recording.”

            She twisted in her chair, thrusting her weight right and left. It was all to no avail. Dimbo’s inflated hands and feet seemed to hold her fast. She could see no way out of those bonds. Then, a thought came to her. If she couldn’t get the bonds loose, perhaps the chair itself might be her means of escape.

            While each tie was quite secure, the floppy appendages themselves were composed of some kind of elastic material. She raised her right leg up, and found that she could extend her leg directly out in front of her. Slowly, she returned her leg to the ground.

            “I’ve got just enough slack to make this work,” she thought.

            Barbara raised her leg up slowly, digging her heel into the seat of the chair. She allowed the heel of her boot to slowly glide along the edge of the seat until the slack was all but gone. Quickly, she rocked to the left, and let the cord drag her foot along the seat until her heel caught the armrest. Now that she had enough resistance, she pressed on the armrest with all the might her right leg could afford.

            Her thighs and buttocks felt like fire. Pushing with everything left in her curvy, muscled frame, Barbara felt the muscles in her stomach and back strained nearly to the limit. A huge smile formed on both sides the red bandana as the wooden structure beneath Dimbo gave way. Once the supporting armrest was gone, Barbara quickly uncoiled her hand from Dimbo’s arm restraints. With one hand free, she quickly worked loose the other straps that had confined her. She stood, once free and untied the gag, pulling it out of her mouth and tossing it to the floor in a fit of disgust. Then, slowly, almost painfully, she reached around to the back of her hair, fingering the sticky knot that had formed in her hair. Even though she’d only touched it with gloved hands, the thought still repulsed her.

            “That sick bastard,” she thought. “I’ll make him pay for that.”

As much as it pained her to listen to it, she’d have to leave the recording of Dimbo playing until she could make sure the next room was unoccupied. She didn’t want to get caught a third time by Professor Phun and his boys. She didn’t know what they’d do next. Pressing her ear to the door, she heard footsteps marching toward her. She sprinted back to the chair, making sure to pick up the bandana gag as she ran, and picked up the broken armrest. In a flurry of motion, Batgirl reinserted the gag, and, holding the armrest, she once again coiled the loose appendages over her ankles and hands.

Professor Phun marched in and closed the door behind him. He seemed to be humming some kind of tune in his mind, thrilled to share some secret with her. He hummed aloud.

“Happy day/ Happy-day/ Phun’s fun is about to commence/With-out-delay. Hello my luscious little minx! I hope you haven’t strained yourself while I was gone. I’ve got a fresh batch of giggle juice ready for you. This time, I’ll find every—and I do mean every—little crevice on that tight little body of yours. Very few girls have ever left my playroom unsatisfied. And you, my titian-haired lovely, will be no exception. I’ll just prime the giggle-juice tank….”

“MmmphMmmph!” Barbara mumbled. “Have to sell this,” she thought.

She shook her head in wild protest and pretended to strain at her bonds. She jiggled her breasts at him as hard as she could. She almost choked when she saw his erection growing as it did back in the panel van.

The Professor cavorted like a schoolboy as he moved toward the tanks at the back of the room. He opened a cabinet below the shelving that held the chloroform and found a long, greenish hose. He attached the hose to the appropriate nozzle on the canister and then cranked its release valve to get the gas moving. As he listened to the gas seeping out of the canister, her began to think about the exquisite delight he’d experience as he blew out Batgirl’s tonsils. Her smart mouth would finally be silenced.

“Oh,” Phun said, “You ought to know, my perfect little pelirroja[4] prisoner, that the first wave of giggle juice should be making its way to the citizens of Gotham in just under ten minutes.”

“No time to waste,” Barbara thought. “If that stuff hits Gotham, everyone will be powerless to resist!”

He mind became a quick succession of images. People were lying in the streets, exhausted. She thought of her father, trying to organize what was left of the sane police force. Looters with rags and gas masks were terrorizing helpless victims. She saw flashes of Suzanne, hyperventilating as Arnold Vessler collapsed on top of her.

“Ready for round two?” Phun asked.

He grabbed the back of the chair, startling Barbara out of her daydream. He had a small office chair in his left hand and he placed his about a foot away, just in front of her. He disappeared again, briefly, in order to retrieve the giggle juice canister. He carted it over on a two-wheel dolly and set it down next to the chair. Finally, Phun sat down in the chair himself, resting his hands on his thighs. His tall, emaciated frame looked like a run-down caricature of Vincent Price.

“Before we begin my dear,” the Professor said, “we have one additional matter to take care of. As I said before on the way here, you cost me quite a bit of time and trouble tonight, missy. It was very naughty of you to snoop in my affairs. And so you must, accordingly, be punished. Namely, I’m going to spank your ass as red as the hair on your head.”

Barbara thought back to the convention and to the artist she’d argued with earlier that day. He’d drawn Batgirl getting spanked, and it had infuriated her. Then she’d been captured, tickled almost out of her mind, bound and gagged, groped and made to suffer one indignity after another. She scowled at the professor. She’d had enough.

…

            Cane had completed his pre-flight checklist. He checked to see if Professor Phun’s “associates” had finished loading the canisters. He gave a whistle in Ming’s direction.

            The big brute looked up stupidly at him. He smiled and shot the man a tentative “thumbs up”. Ming nodded his assent and moved away to join Goggles at the edge of the tarmac. Cane hit the contact lever on his plane and the propeller began to spin. Putting the plane into gear, he coasted down the runway, steering toward the far end of the tarmac. As he sped along, he adjusted the wing flaps for wind velocity and made a study of his horizon line and odometer. Soon, he felt the ground pull away from him as he glided off into the night.

            He eyed the red light under his crop release switch with skepticism. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. Out of habit, he flipped the switch of his radio on and gave his call sign. Professor Phun said he’d be monitoring the experiment’s progress from the radar room. He gave his call sign and asked for acknowledgement. Nobody responded.

            Below, Goggles watched the plane ascend into the night sky. There was something in him that hated that man. He adjusted his glasses.

            “I’ll paint a scarlet smile on that shit-kicker’s throat as soon as he lands,” he thought to himself.

            He turned and headed back toward the flight radar room. His thoughts turned to Batgirl. He smiled at the thought of mauling her big squishy boobs in his hands as she jiggled helplessly. His pace quickened as he grew more excited. Then, he realized Ming was trailing behind.

            “Come on you big poltroon,” Goggles said. “I get back to Bratgirl before Phun steals the show!”

            “You go ahead,” Ming said. “She ain’t goin’ nowhere. I have to stop and take a piss.”

            Goggles shook his head and turned away. Phun was probably tickling Batgirl into a near orgiastic state by now. He thought of her shaking her head from one side to another, tossing her vibrant red locks this way and that, her erect nipples popping through her costume as she bounced helplessly to avoid Phun’s probing fingers. As he got closer to the radio room, he noticed that the expected sounds of Batgirl’s exquisite gagged laughter were strangely absent. As he got closer to the office, he noted that the playroom was dark and that the door was slightly ajar. He hurried inside to investigate.

…

Phun’s world went silent as he flew out of the chair and onto the floor. Slowly, a gentle hum crept into his ear as he felt the warm blood cascade down his temple. On the other side of his head, the warm fuzz of the gray carpet felt inviting. He had never even seen the broken armrest, now converted into a club, swing out at his head. He just knew that his brain had commanded him to fall and now, it was telling him to sleep. He blinked for understanding, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew understanding could wait. He closed his eyes.

Barbara stood up, tossing the fake bonds aside. She looked at the sticky mess Phun’s head had made of the armrest and tossed it aside. She removed her gag for the second time tonight, and looked around her. Suddenly, she realized the perfect weapon was sitting right beside her. She quickly unknotted the bandana and held it over her nose and mouth. She flipped off the lights and, at last, the recording of Dimbo’s voice ground to a stretchy halt. She closed the door the playroom most of the way, leaving only a little space for the light from the next room to frame Phun’s bleeding head. Then, she knelt down behind the canister and waited.

Two minutes later, Goggles stammered into the room. He went directly to Phun and knelt beside him. As he knelt down, his face dipped directly in front of the hose that Batgirl had trained at him. Whether it was the total quiet of the room or some vague, miniscule noise like the sound of skin stretching to form a smile, he didn’t really know. But some instinct compelled Harland P. Wells, known to his associates as Goggles since he had been eight years old, to peer through the darkness to where Batgirl sat waiting.

The fumes hit him directly, causing tears to form in his eyes as the cloying scent of the giggle juice invaded his system. He struck out at the gas nozzle, but Batgirl easily dodged his clumsy attack. He got his feet as quickly as he could. Stumbling in the dark, he tripped over one of Dimbo’s loose appendages and sprawled to the floor. As he tried to recover, as spasm of laughter erupted in his stomach and he rolled onto his side, howling with laughter.

Batgirl pounced on her former attacker. The little man was in no condition to resist. She shook him forcibly.

“Who’s flying that plane?” she demanded.

“S-s-some…some…ha-ha-farmer. Ha-ha,” he said.

“What instructions did Phun give him?”

“Instructions? Ah-ha-ha. He-he doesn’t even know what he’s carrying.” 

Barbara dropped the little man and ran into the radio room. She examined the control panel to find the appropriate switches. When she heard a voice cut in over the radio system.

“Tower,” the voice said. “This is Bravo-Delta-Hotel-One-Seven-Nine, over?”

Barbara grabbed he headset and flipped a switch. She was inexperienced with flight protocol, so she would have to wing it. She spoke clearly into the mike.

“Uh…over…Bravo-Delta-Whosit. Um, listen! I know this sounds crazy, but I’m a… government employee. You’re carrying deadly chemical weapons. The men who hired you are terrorists. Repeat: the men who hired you are terrorists.”

The radio was silent.

“Uh…over?” Batgirl asked.

The static on the other end was silent. Barbara waited quietly, searching the sky for any sign of the plane. Finally, Cane’s voice replied.

“Damn it,” he said. “Listen ma’am, I didn’t have anything to do with this. I knew they were up to something, I just—”

“It’s all right,” Barbara interjected. “Just don’t release the spray. Come back to the tower and—”

Ming’s thick right hand wrapped around her mouth, and pulled her away from the radio. Without time to drop the headphones, the cable pulled away from the radio connection and went dead. Barbara felt Ming’s left hand clamp onto her arm just above her right elbow.

“I knew those freaks would foul this up,” Ming growled. “I’ll have to fix your ass myself.”

            Batgirl brought her left arm up and thrust it back into Ming’s solar plexus. He let out a quick gush of breath and released her other arm. She spun around to face the giant as he doubled over in pain. Slowly, he raised his head, glaring at her. Barbara didn’t wait any longer. She brought her right leg around in a deadly round house.

            Ming’s left hand snaked out and caught her ankle. Batgirl froze. For a moment, the two of them looked at one another. Barbara’s eyes wide, she panicked. Ming smiled.

            “Oh poopy,” Barbara said under her breath.

            In one fluid motion, Ming pulled her to him and turned, pulling her up and off of her feet. He flung her onto the meeting table behind him. Batgirl sprawled on the table, her legs akimbo. She felt Ming’s fingers tugging at the waistband of her tights. Her yellow, gloved hands wrapped themselves around his powerful wrist.

            “I told ya, Bricktop,” Ming said. “That little red snatch is mine.”

            “My name” Barbara growled, “ is Batgirl!”

            She sent her right leg up and caught Ming directly under the chin. She heard the sharp clack of the bottom of his jaw slamming to his upper teeth. He staggered backward, clasping his mouth in pain. To her astonishment, he immediately glared at her again and grabbed both of her legs. Repeating his earlier attack, he pulled Barbara toward him but also spun her around, throwing her across the room. Only this time, she smashed through the window of the radio house and rolled onto the dimly lit tarmac outside.

            Barbara managed to roll onto her side. She got to her knees, but a sharp pain at her side told her she’d defiantly bruised some ribs. In the distance, she heard Ming climbing over the radio-room’s switchboard in pursuit.

            “Well” she thought, “As a super heroine, sometimes you fight, sometimes you trick the bad guys. Sometimes you rely on superior brainpower, experience, or equipment. And sometimes you run the hell away and hope Batman appears at the last second and saves you.”

            Ming grunted as he climbed out of the window onto the tarmac. Barbara glanced back at him. A jagged piece of glass had found its way into the big man’s forearm. She looked at the wound with disgust. Ming glanced down to see what she was looking at. Smiling, he glanced back at her and pulled the shard out of his arm with one quick tug.

            “This is one of those times when you run,” she thought.

            Barbara got to her knees, and bolted down the tarmac into the night. She ran five steps and collapsed back to the ground due to the intense pressure on her ribs. Ming advanced from behind, coming at her with slow, measured paces. Again, Barbara managed to get to her feet and the effort garnered her another three steps. Ming continued his leisurely pace.

            “Can’t make it,” she thought. “Got to fight.”

            Slowly, Batgirl turned and, slouching from the pain in her side, balled her two fists up and assumed a defensive position. Finally Ming stopped. He still held the glass shard he’d extracted from his arm in his right hand.

            “When I’m done,” he said, “you’ll wish you let those two pervos keep you.”

            Batgirl said nothing.

            Ming set his jaw firmly. He advanced slowly three steps and then moved in fast to close the distance between himself and Barbara. That’s when he saw her turn tail and run. However, she only ran about four feet and then collapsed on the tarmac, hands cradling the back of her head. Then Ming heard the buzzing.

            “No,” he muttered.

            It was all he had time to say. The propeller blades of Steve Crane’s blades flashed out violently. A fine red mist sprayed the whirling blades as the bulk of Ming’s carcass careened violently to the left of where the plane had struck him. His remains were mostly hidden in the dark grass beyond the landing lights of the tarmac. Two weeks later, during a hair appointment, Barbara’s stylist would ask her if she had tried to give herself a trim at home. She would sheepishly say yes to avoid any further questions.

…

            The police arrived a half an hour later and arrested Professor Phun and Goggles. They were charged with attempted murder of the security officer at the civic center and possession of hazardous chemicals a month later. Steve Crane was told that he would be granted complete immunity in exchange for his testimony. Two months later, he received notice that all of his medical bills had been paid, thanks to a magnanimous donation made in his name by Wayne Corps.

            After an EMT at the airfield had examined her, Batgirl got a ride back to the Gotham with the commissioner. He dropped her off at the back alley of the hotel. She slipped into the hotel with a drunken Booster Gold and an overweight Creeper who had stopped by the bar after the convention had closed for the night. Stopping at the first floor, she washed her paint mask off and put her cowl back on before heading to the elevator. When she reached the fourth floor, she walked down the corridor to her room. She pulled her mask off again and knocked on the door. It was one in the morning. Suzanne would be asleep and just respond to her voice and open the door. Once inside, Barbara would make a b-line for the bathroom and Suzanne would drift off to sleep before she had finished with her shower.

            To her surprise, a sleepy, blurry-eyed Arnold Vessler opened the door.

            “Yes?” he mumbled.

            Barbara was lost for words. The stench of alcohol rolled off of his breath. She opened her mouth to speak when she heard a familiar voice from within.

            “Who is it?” Suzanne asked sleepily.

            When Arnold turned back to face her, Barbara simply smiled sweetly. She apologized to Arnold for waking him and explained she simply had the wrong room. Arnold smiled stupidly and vanished back into the room.

            As she headed down the hallway, Barbara made a plan to catch a taxi home and get some clothes and some sleep. She’d set the alarm for 6:30 and then rush back over to the hotel to meet Suzanne. She’d make up a story about meeting some guy and hooking up, just as Suzanne had done with Vessler. She slipped her Batgirl mask back on and took the elevator down to the lobby. As she walked past the hotel bar, she heard a loud wolf-whistle from within.

            She stopped short, and saw “Booster Gold” and “the Creeper” eyeing her drunkenly. She went inside. The two men smiled.

            “Hey Bartgil,” they said. “Have a drink.”

            “You know,” she said, “if you’re buying, I think I will.”

            She sat down at the bar, three stool spaces away from the drunken conventioneers. The bartender, a cute guy in his twenties, came over. He smiled, wiping the bar with a blue towel in an absent-minded way.

            “Batgirl,” he said. “Great costume.”

            “Thanks,” Barbara said.

            “Okay,” he continued. “Norm and Cliff down there are buying. So…what tickles your fancy?”

            She couldn’t help but laugh.

—End—