V
They did not feed her for four days. She grew weaker and weaker. To make
matters worse, they put a diuretic in her drinking water. She constantly had to
pee and her weight plunged from her usual 140 pounds to under 125.
The Magyar had decided that he would kill her barehanded, and he wanted
to make sure she had no fight left in her when the time came. Mastiff and
Wolfhound contributed to the effort by roughing her up every few hours, under
Corgi's supervision.
"She's a lot weaker than she was, boss," Corgi said after the third day.
"She could barely stand up when they went at her today."
"Good," said the Magyar. "I want to be able to disable her quickly. But
as for the killing, I think that should be done slowly, don't you?"
Corgi squirmed uncomfortably. "Not really, boss," he said. "I mean, my
rule is that you get it over fast, so there's less time for surprises."
"Hmmm, I see your point," said the Magyar. "But I do want to give my
fans a bit of a show."
# # #
Showtime came on a Friday. MA had been allowed to sleep no more than ten
or fifteen minutes at a stretch the night before. The three bitches - Mastiff,
Wolfhound and Bulldog - took turns keeping her awake. Once, when the clanging of
a big cowbell next to her ear didn't work, Bulldog dumped a pitcher of ice water
on her. Mastiff used an electric cattle prod. Applied to MA's butt hole just as
she was falling asleep, it produced splendid results.
At noon, Corgi and Mastiff dragged the exhausted former superheroine
into the courtyard. "You gotta stand," Corgi whispered. "If you don't stand,
he'll be pissed and stomp you to death." He was beginning to feel sorry for her.
With enormous effort, MA stood on her own. She teetered in one direction, then
another, but she stood.
The Magyar came out in a dark blue silk dressing gown and blew kisses to
his "fans" - the 45 or so people who worked on his estate and provided muscle
for his businesses.
He removed the dressing gown with a flourish and tossed it to his valet.
He wore white satin boxing trunks and fawn colored boxing gloves. He bounced up
and down in his sneakers. He had boxed at the lyceum in Budapest as a youth, and
he prided himself on his skills.
Corgi pushed MA forward. She and the Magyar met in the middle of a
square bordered by yellow ribbon. Ripon, the head gardener, was the referee.
"No rules," he said. "Just a simple fight to the death. Shake hands and
may the best man win." He winked at the Magyar.
Corgi grabbed MA's elbow and tried to get her to extend her hand, but
the Magyar had decided to dispense with this formality. He hit her in the face
with a left.
As MA stumbled backwards and Corgi scurried out of the ring, the Magyar
signaled to a young man on a platform full of sound equipment. Suddenly,
"Dancing Queen" blasted from two huge speakers, and the criminal mastermind
began prancing to the disco beat. He threw jabs in time with the music. They
weren't very forceful, but they kept MA confused and off-balance. Desperate, she
tried to take the offensive, swinging wildly and missing. This left her open to
a savage punch to her side, just below her rib cage. She groaned and sank to her
knees.
"Get up, darling," Magyar taunted. "Get up. It takes two kitties to have
a catfight."
MA got back on her feet just in time to take a hard punch to her right
breast. She wrapped her arms around her chest, bent over and sobbed.
"Oh, the poor wittle tittie's hurt," said Magyar. He kicked her in the
behind to make her stand up, then danced around her and threw three quick jabs
at her head. She raised her arms to protect her face, but that just left her
belly defenseless. The Magyar took full advantage, slamming his fist into her
gut. She doubled up and again fell to her knees.
"Praying, darling?" asked the Magyar. Then he hit her with a karate chop
to the back of her neck. Her head snapped back, and she fell face forward onto
the cobblestones.
Ripon didn't bother to start counting. It was clear she wouldn't be
getting up. Spaniel, who had been taping the proceedings from a step ladder at
the back of the crowd, now came forward, pushing through the crowd with his
camera. Magyar saw him and started dancing lasciviously. He removed his gloves
and tossed them into the crowd. Then he reached into the waist band of his
trunks and slowly pulled out a black silk stocking.
"Frivolous luxury or implement of death?" he purred to the camera. "You
decide."
He caressed his body with the stocking, stuffed it back into his trunks
to rub his crotch, then pulled it out again. He was having a glorious time, and
the crowd was clapping to the music.
Finally, the song came to an end. The Magyar glanced at the sound stage
and drew a forefinger across his throat. It was the signal for a change of
music. What came next was a heavy metal cacophony appropriate for a concert in
Hell - or a public execution.
The Magyar stood over MA's prone body, bumping and grinding obscenely.
Then he slowly knelt, straddling her. Spaniel knelt, too. The camera lens was
only inches from her face. Blood flowed from her nose and mouth.
"Goodnight, sweet princess," the Magyar said, leaning down and slipping
the stocking around her neck. Slowly, dramatically, he tightened the noose.
"This is awesome," said Spaniel.
"How does she look?" asked the Magyar.
"Like a dying whore. Pull tighter."
The Magyar jerked her head back and pulled with all his strength.
The music grew louder, and MA's body began shaking violently.
"The death tremor," the Magyar cried. "I love this part!"
Suddenly, above the jangle emitted by the speakers came a resounding
"No!" The voice had boomed out just behind the Magyar. When he turned to see who
it was, a big fist smashed into his face.
It was Corgi who had thrown the punch, and he followed up by kicking the
Magyar in the balls. When Spaniel tried to intervene, Corgi grabbed the camera
and slammed it down on his head. Spaniel and camcorder fell together on top of
the Magyar.
Corgi pulled a pistol out of his belt and turned slowly, facing the
crowd.
"Okay, who's with me?" he yelled. A murmur ran through the group, but no
one volunteered.
"You'll pay for this," Bulldog hissed.
"You all saw what happened," Corgi shouted. "You saw how this poor bitch
never had a chance. The Magyar gave himself every advantage. Look, I like seeing
beautiful women roughed up as much as the next thug, but there's a limit."
Two members of the security team stepped forward and joined Corgi.
"We're with you," one said.
"Me, too," said a third, drawing his pistol and scanning the crowd as he
backed toward them.
He needn't have worried. No one was going to fight for the Magyar. Even
the bitches knew the game was up. Mastiff wept quietly, profoundly disappointed
at the outcome. Wolfie tried to give the fallen MA one last kick, but Corgi
shoved her away.
He knelt and rolled MA onto her back. Her face was purple, and her eyes
had rolled back. But when he loosened the stocking from her neck, he felt a
pulse. She had made it - against all odds.
