A Game of Chicken

Gotham City: a city of both industry and agriculture - where, just a few miles beyond the outskirts of the city, Peter Paultry’s Poultry Plant produces prize winning poultry.

Paultry, a short, stocky man in his early 40's, dressed in overalls and a flannel work shirt, began the day by feeding his prize-winning chickens, unaware of the danger looming on the horizon.

“Heeeeeeerrrrrrrrrre, chick-chick-chick-chick,” he said, spreading feed among his flock.

“Mister Paultry?”

Paultry turned to find the nasally voice came from a curvy brunette standing behind him. She was dressed in a reporter’s overcoat and wearing a hat that said “Press” on it.

“I’m sorry to barge in on you, sir, but your door wasn’t locked. My name’s Penny Henny and I’m with the Gotham Gazette. We’d like to do a feature on you and your prize-winning poultry for our new section on agriculture.”

Paultry responded with enthusiasm. “Hot dang! I’m gonna be in the news. Heck, little lady, I’d love to be in your paper.”

“Wonderful,” replied Penny. “First, let me get a picture.”

Penny lifted her small compact camera and pointed it at Pete, who quickly smoothed out his hair and smiled. When she clicked the button, however, there was no flash - just a puff of smoke that hit Pete in the face and knocked him to the ground in a deep sleep.

A short while later, we find Batgirl, the petite paragon, in the office of Commissioner James Gordon (who, unbeknownst to him, is the father of her alter-ego, Barbara Gordon. )

“Most perplexing this purloining of poultry, Batgirl,” said the silver-hared civil servant. “I can’t help but see this as the prelude to something so much more diabolical.”

“And I’ll bet on me sacred mother’s life Egghead’s behind it,” offered Police Chief O’Hara. “We’ve been waiting for him to make a move since he escaped jail.”

“It does smell of a rotten egg like him, Commissioner,” Batgirl said, “but it’s too soon to jump to conclusions. Besides, wasn’t the thief a girl?”

“Sure’n enough it was, Batgirl,” answered O’Hara. “From her description, I’d say it was The Penguin’s former moll, Chickadee.”

“Yes, she managed to escape the Gotham Women’s Correctional Facility just a few days ago,” added Gordon. “At the time, we weren’t sure of any connection.”

“I think it’s a safe assumption now, Commissioner,” said Batgirl. “Do we have any leads?”

Just at that moment, the phone rang. Gordon answered.

“Hello?”

The voice on the phone was a snarl with a rolling sophistication to it. “Hell-ll-ll-oo, Commissioner,” it said. “This is Egghead speaking.”

“Egghead!” shouted Gordon.

“Egghead?” asked O’Hara.

“Egghead!” declared Batgirl.

“Yeeeeesssssssss, Egghead,” snarled Egghead. “I just called to catch up on old times. How has everyone been?”

“What do you want, you hard-boiled heathen?” demanded Gordon.

“Well,” answered Egghead, “I’m sure you’ve scrambled your brains trying to figure out what I’m hatching, so I’ll take this opportunity to egg-splain myself.”

Gordon grimaced. “I should arrest him for these puns,” he said to the others.

“Tell Pete Paultry he can have his hens back in eggs-change for a ransom of 60,000 dollars. I want it delivered to the abandoned egg-packing plant on Highway 707 just ten miles from town. No police. Otherwise, they’ll learn first hand the secret blend of eleven herbs and spices!” With that, Egghead hung up.

Gordon slumped into his seat in near shock. “Sixty thousand dollars ransom for a flock of chickens! Unbelievable.”

“Well, Commissioner,” offered O’Hara, “bear in mind, those are purebred chickens. The flock’s worth at least a hundred thousand.”

“Which raises the question why Egghead would demand such a relatively small ransom,” added Batgirl. “Commissioner, let me deliver the ransom. I want the chance to crack that hard-shell act of his.”

“We can’t thank you enough for your help, Batgirl,” said Gordon. “Especially since Batman and Robin seem to be out of town this week. Those two are always on the go, fighting crime.”

“The way those two run around,” joked Batgirl, “you’d think they had ants in their pants.”

(Ironically, at that very moment they did. The beautiful, but evil, Madame Debase, out on bond awaiting trial, had captured our heroes and had them bound by the wrists and ankles to stakes in the middle of the Gotham woodlands, where a stream of ants followed a trail of chocolate syrup out of their ant-hill and into funnels tucked into the front of the trunks of the Caped Crusaders.)

In the shadows of the abandoned egg-packing plant, the sinister Egghead put the finishing touches on his evil scheme, as an attentive Chickadee looked on with glee. Egghead wore a lab-coat over his traditional white tuxedo, while Chickadee had forsaken her usual hat-check girl attire for a red-checkered short-sleeved flannel shirt and cut-off denim shorts that showcased her curvy legs.

With a gleam in his eye (almost as shiny as his bald head) Egghead finished injecting the contents of a syringe into the last of Pete Paultry’s chickens. The bewildered bird ruffled its feathered wings as Egghead put it back in the coop with the others.

“There,” he sneered. “that’s the last of it. Now all of Paultry’s prize chickens have been infected with my new gen-EGG-ticly EGG-genered super-strain of salmonella. When these hens lay their eggs, they’ll pass on the virus to the yolk of each one. Then when the eggs are taken to market, they’ll be sold to the gen-EGG-ral public and start an epidemic rivaling the bubonic pl-EGG.” He giggled. “Then I can extort billions from the city by offering the only antidote.”

“Gosh, Eggy baby,” gushed Chickadee, “that’s brilliant.” Then she looked puzzled, “but ain’t eggs safe to eat if you cook’em long enough?”

“My dear Chickadee,” sneered Egghead, “I’ve thought of that. That’s why we’re going to sabotage the Gotham Power Company tonight. We’ll rig the whole works so that no one in the city will be able to get a stove fire higher than 105 degrees. No one will notice until it’s too late.” The two twisted team-members burst into giggling.

A defiant voice thundered from the rafters. “I’m afraid someone’s already noticed, you soft-boiled psycho!”

Chickadee and Egghead shot a glance upwards to see Batgirl’s spritely shape leap down in front of them. “I arrived with your ransom, but waited in the shadows to see what you were up to. I have to admit, it’s a whole new realm of depravity for you.”

“Oh, well, thank you,” responded Egghead humbly. “I always try to better myself…”

He turned to Chickadee. “CHICKADEE!” he hollered. “GET HER!”

With that, he shoved Chickadee into Batgirl. The two girls locked up like wrestlers. Batgirl grabbed Chickadee by the arm and flipped her down on her butt. She got back up and was tossed down again. She grabbed for Batgirl’s hair and tried to gouge her eyes, but Batgirl just spun her around and kicked her in the behind, sending her crashing into a stack of egg cartons. Chickadee jumped back up to her feet and charged Batgirl. Batgirl simply spun out of the way and booted her again, sending her sliding face-first across the floor into another pile of boxes. This time, she stayed down.

Batgirl turned to Egghead. “Now it’s your turn, Eggy!”

Panicking like a schoolgirl, Egghead ran away, flailing his arms and shrieking. He ran into a broom closet and slammed the door behind him. Batgirl ran to the door and grabbed the knob, only to be knocked out by a surge of electricity shooting through her when she grabbed it.

Egghead stepped out of the closet to loom over Batgirl, leering like a cat over a wounded bird, holding a specially designed stun-gun in his hand.

Batgirl awoke, finding herself laid out on the floor. She was bound by the wrists to a pipe above her head. Her ankles were tied together and tethered to a metal drainage grate in the floor. She tried to get free, but she was tied too tight.

Egghead and Chickadee stepped into her view, both smiling like naughty children with a secret. Chickadee held a large jar in her arms. Egghead had a huge bag of chicken feed at his feet.

Batgirl questioned him demandingly. “What sick game do you have planned for me, you demented dome-head !?”

“Oooh,” squealed Egghead. “I’m so glad you asked.”

He turned to Chickadee. “Begin,” he commanded.

Chickadee crouched down beside Batgirl with the pot in hand. She stirred a wooden handle around in the pot a few times and pulled it out. It was a paintbrush dripping with thick, rich caramel molasses. Chickadee began smearing it all over Batgirl’s body. Chickadee stroked the brush around each of Batgirl’s breasts, spiraling upwards to the tips, making Batgirl shiver with goose-pimples.

Chickadee patted the brush gingerly over Batgirl’s pelvis and poked it into the crime fighter's crotch. She caressingly slid the brush along Batgirl’s thighs and the sides of the heroine's purple clad buttocks. Batgirl, helpless, could only yelp quietly from the sensations caused by Chickadee's artistry.

“All done, boss,” said Chickadee.

With that, Egghead ripped open the bag of feed and poured it all over Batgirl, making sure to get most of it on her breasts and thighs.

“And now,” announced Egghead regally, “it’s time to feed the chickens!”

He pointed to a lever across the room. Chickadee strutted over and pulled it down. Sliding doors opened in the walls, revealing a coop containing hundreds of wildly clucking chickens, held in place by wire fencing.

Then the fencing dropped.

Batgirl’s eyes went wide as dozens and dozens of chickens swarmed over her. Within scant seconds, dozens of beaks were stabbing at her body, like knife-tipped rain.

She cried out, “Ow! Ow! Ow! Ouch! OWW! OWW! OW-AH! AHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

The beaks began to tear through her costume and pinch her flesh.

“OW! OWEEEEE! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE !!”

They began to draw small drops of blood.

“AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

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