Catwoman's Scorn

The reliquary pit was filling in faster than Batgirl anticipated. The wax was now up to her waist and ossifying wildly due to the relative coolness of the stone enclosure. If only she had her utility belt, she thought, she could reach the pouch at the back of the belt that carried a miniature electric saw and carve through the hemp in less than a minute. She'd be unbound instantly with enough time to pursue Catwoman and Vixen by cycle. All she had to look for was a black Jaguar with a white Cheshire cat painted on it's hood . . .

but her experienced adversary had removed her belt while she was unconscious . . . and there was nothing in the pit to help in her effort. No jagged corner of a crumbled brick or splintered femur of a saint was to be seen.

Batgirl estimated that she had roughly five minutes before the waxy swamp would be up to her nose, less than ten before she would be completely glaciated. Each sprinkle added more weight to the wax encrusted around her waist and upper torso. The stench was nauseating. She endeavored fiercely to no avail.

"Not like this...", she said nervously as another hefty chunk of wax oozed unceremoniously inward, congealing instantly down her back, bringing the level to chest height. If the wax didn't drown her, the heat of it would. She now more than ever frantically struggled to break her bonds, wrenching every available muscle in her hands and legs, searching for something to loosen. This only hampered her efforts by tightening the knots in the rope and cut off the circulation in her wrists and ankles; and for all her work she only managed to raise the perspiration on her brow.

She was close to admitting defeat. Feeling utterly helpless she began to slip into a euphoric state of surrender, where escape was a strange concept among the warm enclosing embrace of the white-lava flow of wax. She imagined the last of the wax settling over the top of her head, white heat searing her face, a last gasp for liberating air cut short by a sudden influx into her mouth, down her throat and into her lungs. Finally, an unpeaceful death . . .

Like a lightning bolt, there came a faint glimmer of hope! Batgirl realized that there was a paltry air pocket lodged between her fingers and the lower part of her leg. One of the things she had learned from Batman was that to survive hair-raising traps such as this one when her utility belt was removed, she would have to rely on other means for her escape. She had to keep something up her sleeve, or in this case, in her boots.

Just within fingers' reach in a pocket on the back of one of her boots was a tiny smoking-flash flare that she would periodically use to make a more dramatic entrance into a super-villain's lair. She nicknamed it "purple-haze." Once activated in the same manner as a "strike-anywhere" match, it would give her time to burn through the ropes and make her escape. All she had to do was reach it.

The first pass of her gloved index finger caused nothing more than brushing against the leather of the boot, missing it's mark. On the third try, she successfully managed to pop open the pocket's snap.

"Bravo!" she gleefully yelled out, the echo reverberating throughout the empty cathedral halls, heard by nobody but a few four-legged felines milling about. She painstakingly worked the flare out of the snug pouch millimeter by millimeter with her index and middle finger until it was out and tightly gripped in the palm of her hand.

"Now!" she yelled as she popped off the plastic safety cover with her thumb and struck the head of the sulphur-coated flare on the edge of her boot's sole, igniting it instantly. With a little bit of wrangling, Batgirl angled the smoldering flare towards the rope, praying that the thawing jumble wouldn't snuff it out. A few seconds later, she could feel the rope slacken, then finally give way.

During the daylight hours it was business as usual for Barbara Gordon at the Gotham city Public Library as she kept her mind occupied with the day's work activities . . . but the nights belonged to Batgirl.

For the past three evenings the Dark Angel would ascend into the lofty perch of Saint Bartholomew's crumbling bell tower to await the return of Catwoman and Vixen to its hallowed halls, her eyes intently trained on the street below for any sign of the diabolical duo's arrival. She had no companion other than a two-way police scanner, tuned to a city-wide frequency; no sidekick other than a static pistol attached to an itchy trigger finger. There was quite a bit of activity going on at the docks involving some drug smugglers . . . but no word on Catwoman. She could see a blazing fire hang off in the distance, evidence of a crime desperately trying to be concealed. The Batsignal pierced the dark. The Dynamic Duo would arrive shortly in their Batmobile to sort out the chaos, along with an armada of heavily-armed peace officers as backup and about a half-dozen fire units. Perhaps Batwoman and Flamebird would put in an appearance as well . . . but she wouldn't budge. The reason for her single-minded ritual was simple: "criminals always return to the scene of the crime."

The weather had turned sour after her escape. By day the sky burned an infinite milky-velvet, bleeding rain on Gotham's streets as it must have in the time of Noah. This night's deluge was no different. Batgirl was tired, cold and after hours of being pelted by fat raindrops, soaked to the skin, but determined to leave no stone unturned, nor no soul of a super-villainess unbedeviled in her one-woman war to make Catwoman and her treacherous tart Vixen suffer for the wax-trap into which Batgirl was dumped. Batgirl was so certain that she would succeed that the Dominoed DareDoll carried a pair of pliers to mark the occasion and make souvenirs out of Catwoman's set of fanged incisors.

Past the midnight hour Batgirl spied a solitary figure, blocks away and shrouded by an enormous parasol making its way up the street towards the cathedral. She licked her lips in anticipation as she yanked out a pair of binoculars from her utility belt to get a closer look.

At first she thought the lone figure was The Penguin, who often arrogantly scouted locations for hide-outs himself, leaving his henchmen to do more menial, back-breaking tasks . . . but there was no familiar wobble to the gait of the approaching phantasm; no walking stick to mark his next step. The figure was too tall and the nylon-draped athletic legs that vacillated on haughty spiked heels too shapely to belong to the old bird.

It was Vixen - dressed to kill in a two-piece dark Italian outfit and micro-mini skirt. In the murky dark Batgirl could make out her glossy red lipstick-covered lips puffing away on a cigarette, glinting thick-lacquered scarlet nail polish and flowing platinum curls. Even from this distance she imagined she could smell the radiant lilac scent of her perfume. Batgirl patiently waited until she was certain into which entrance Vixen would walk, turned down the volume on the police radio and promptly slid down her Batcable to bid her welcome.

In the vestibule, on the other side of the heavy oak door, Batgirl could hear the familiar scrape of heels on concrete as Vixen made her way up the cathedrals steps, cursing something, or someone, at every step. A flimsy lock was undone and the yellow and black plastic banners that cris-crossed the entrance that read, "POLICE CRIME SCENE-DO NO ENTER" were angrily removed and discarded. The door was flung open inward and the sudden gust of wind and cold rain caused Batgirl to glide with stealth a few steps further into the shadowy inner recesses to avoid being hit, or discovered. She watched as Vixen's silhouetted form took a long, last puff of her cigarette, flipped on a grimy low-watt light switch, and shook the rain out of her umbrella before entering and closing the door behind her.

Batgirl made a move toward Vixen, her static pistol drawn, pressing it against the blonde's jugular, much as Nora Clavicle had once done to Batgirl with a knitting needle. Vixen gave out a tiny yelp of shock.

"Surprised to see me, Vixen?"

Trying to maintain her composure, Vixen croaked, "Batgirl, you're alive."

"More than you'll be if you answer my questions the wrong way," Batgirl growled as she snatched the purse out of Vixen's finely manicure hand and tossed it far away, suspecting that a small caliber pistol might well be hidden inside.

"I don't know anything," the criminal call girl defiantly retorted, her back pressed against the door. Ignoring the statement, Batgirl moved the static pistol's muzzle to Vixen's temple, switching it to full capacity.

"Where's Catwoman?"

"I don't know!"Vixen furiously quipped, trying to stare the superheroine down.

"Wrong answer," was Batgirl's reply as she slapped Vixen across one cheek with her free hand.

Vixen's face began to turn red with anger. She bared her teeth and violently moved her arms up to shove Batgirl out of her way. Batgirl instinctively reacted by pulling the trigger of the static pistol, illuminating the hall in a prism of violent color; striking Vixen with an tornadic volley of current square in the chest. She doubled over and collapsed on the floor, spewing forth a stream of foul obscenities that reverberated throughout the walls of the cathedral. Vixen writhed in anguish as if stung by a scorpion as the dancing amber sparks arced and glided across her body for a full minute, like angry yellow jackets protecting their hive.

"You bitch," was all that Vixen could faintly muster through her sweat-stained, convulsing pain as the last of the sparks finally fizzled out. She staggered to her feet and drunkenly lunged at Batgirl but was stopped short by another quick blast of the pistol set at a lower capacity.

Batgirl reholstered her static pistol as she made her way toward Vixen's prone body. Knowing it would be a few minutes before she would catch her breath, Batgirl crouched down on one knee and grabbed a handful of Vixen's golden curls.

"Now," Batgirl hissed disaffectionately, "maybe we can talk like two civilized people without old Sparky butting in. I want to know where Catwoman is."

"Alright, I give up," Vixen gulped, her chest expanding and retracting with each heavy breath, a tear rolling messily down her face, mixing with mascara. "I really don't know where she is."

"Liar!" Batgirl shouted as she placed the palm of her hand on the butt of the static pistol.

"It's the truth!" Vixen screamed, raising her hand, not wanting to taste the static's fury again. "I was supposed to meet her this evening with Mister Riddler at his old hideout near the Shell Oil Refinery."

Batgirl's mind flashed back to her ordeal in The Riddler's Amazing Mirrored Maze. Although it was unlikely the Prince of Puzzlers would linger long in a known lair, she made a mental note to check it out later.

"Go on," Batgirl commanded.

" After a few hours of waiting and him telling me she wasn't coming and ignoring me, I decided to go to the old West Street subway tunnel!" Her voice lowered, "She wasn't there, either. I didn't know where else to go to look for her. I thought that she might have been caught by the police or Batman. So I came here."

"Did you really think she would return here?"

"No, but I had to come back and tie up a few loose ends."

"Loose ends?" Batgirl questioned as she tightened her grip on Vixen's hair.

Vixen rolled her eyes for a moment, angry at herself for getting caught in this predicament.

"I took out some cat books from the library a few days ago for Catwoman," Vixen blurted. "I had to come back here and get them to return before they became overdue."

Batgirl let go of her grip on Vixen's hair and stood up, shocked at what she had just heard. Since she began her career as a heroine, most of the super-villains' henchpeople were like faceless and mindless muscled thugs and bimbos, only interested in getting a cut of their bosses' plunders. None cared about who they might cripple or from whom they stole. It was incomprehensible that any would give a second thought to returning something borrowed. Batgirl re-evaluated Vixen: young, arrogant and beautiful, but hardly innocent.

Now that she had seen Vixen without clown makeup, Batgirl was, to some extent, thunderstruck by the girl's exotic look. She would remember this face. She knew that, more than likely, once Vixen got paroled, Batgirl would be seeing it again.

A smile emerged at the corner of Batgirl's lips as she reached for a pair of handcuffs from her utility belt. "Looks like Catwoman played us both for suckers," she said as they heard the howling approach of a patrol car siren. "And, Vixen, tonight you're going straight to jail."

Vixen obliged and raised both hands outward to accept her fate. Catwoman, whichever body she might be in, would have to wait for another time.

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