Batgirl Thwarts a Fateful Chance

Falling water pelted the rapidly growing puddle in the wading pool; the captive heroine’s costume; and the surface of the aquarium, driving the piranha inside it to the bottom. Batgirl was drenched almost instantly and considered her predicament as water streamed over the contours of her torso; along her bound arms; against her bent legs; and down the silver pole to which she was tied.

While the ache in her knees where she balanced on them; the pins and needles sensation denoting oxygen deprivation in her limbs; and the cold water chilling her to the bone combined to put her through a uniquely tortuous agony, Batgirl was primarily frustrated. She had learned of a crime, determined the identity of the perpetrators, tracked them to their lair, and nearly captured them when the Penguin’s new, perfidious partner, Florence of Arabia, had reversed the Purple-clad Cutie’s fortunes. Batgirl was not, however, frustrated because she had been taken to an unlikely location to be eliminated. She was the only person on Earth who even suspected she might be in dire danger.

Batgirl had wasted no time going after Penguin and Florence to confront them on their own terms. Ordinarily, she would have worked much more closely with the police, who would have been delighted at the progress she had made. They would have been too bogged down in rules and regulations to get as far as she had so quickly.

Batman obviously knew better, but it sometimes seemed to her she might be capable of convincing Gotham City’s leading lawmen that she really did employ the stars, tea leaves, crystal gazing, and tarot cards to fight crime. On this occasion, though, she had decided the GCPD’s questions about her methods could be too inconvenient to risk answering, particularly truthfully.

Her father; Chief O’Hara; or her friend, Lieutenant Diana Mooney, would have listened to her opinion and taken her deductions quite seriously. She would have amazed them with the obscure knowledge she had cataloged as a weapon for fighting crime. Ironically, their awed amazement was exactly the reaction she wanted from them. They all felt, perhaps unconsciously, she was kind of a better-looking, modern-day incarnation of Sherlock Holmes.

Yet, it had been Barbara Gordon, not Batgirl, who had looked over the crime scene where the Penguin had kidnapped Abbegail Dearson. To protect Batgirl’s secret identity, she had been reluctant to inform the department Batgirl was on the case. She could still think of no plausible explanation for how Barbara would have conveyed her suspicions to Gotham City’s Gorgeous Guardian. Now, of course, she had much more important things about which to worry.

She had elected to pursue the criminals on her own, and the decision to protect her secret identity might result in Batgirl’s death!

Her utility belt tantalized her from its place among the fish at the bottom of the slowly filling aquarium. In the belt, she carried a tracer she had used in the past to summon aide when she was helpless and in danger. Now, however, this device was hopelessly out of reach and even had she been able to use it, she was certain no one would be able to respond quickly enough to save her.

‘So, if I’m to escape, I have to rely upon myself!’

She concentrated on her labored breathing as she catalogued the agonizing sensations assailing her. The water still lapped at her thighs and had almost reached the level of her hips. It also streamed over her body; chilled her to the bone; and drenched her bonds, swelling them and thus further inhibiting precious circulation to her hands and feet.

Another tool she kept around her waist was a well-honed blade, which would have freed her in a few quick slashes had it been available. Yet, she was accustomed to being deprived of the belt and the wonders it kept within easy reach around her waist. Thus, she carried backup tools in her boots and gloves.

She wondered if the pole could be used to fray the swollen ropes and relaxed her fingers, which had been straining toward her knives since before Penguin and Florence had left her. Her fingers probed at the pole and she moaned, trying to spread her thighs further apart and pull her bonds downward. She succeeded and determined the pole was completely smooth. The only comfort she derived from her effort was the considerable relief to her knees. In fact, the rope holding her waist against the pole had become particularly uncomfortable when she found herself sitting on the part of it that had been run between her legs. Viciously, she shunted this observation and its implications aside to focus on other, more immediate things. The sound of her voice helped her to focus. “The rope is in the water now, and I’m going numb. If I loose control of my fingers, I’m finished!” she fearfully told herself.

She concentrated on the sensation of her hot breath against her cheek as her fingers resumed straining toward the hilt of her knife. After what seemed like a long while, she found her precious blade, took a tenuous grip on it, and began slowly pulling it free.

Control of her hands was ebbing away as the water level rose around her wrists and ankles. The stinging sensation of pins and needles, denoting oxygen deprivation, became even more acute as the cold water numbed her trembling legs. She knew she would have to feel her fingers to manipulate her knife and released a breath painfully. Once she had inhaled again, the blade came free from its sheath, held loosely between her palms.

Batgirl knew her survival depended upon overcoming the pain and numbness in her fingers, yet she could not afford to lose control of her knife. She used her fingertips to turn the tip of the blade toward her back and the sharp edge downward. Once the blade was positioned, she thrust it into the knot, where Batgirl prayed it would remain. Then, desperately, she flexed her fingers to restore circulation and warmth. With these sensations came pain Batgirl welcomed. Unlike the sinister sensations she had previously experienced, the pain in her fingers assured her she was still alive.

“Now,” Batgirl murmured as she took the hilt of her knife in one hand and drew the cutting edge back against her bindings before thrusting it gently forward, letting the weight of the blade cut into the rope. As she worked, the water level covered her feet and began inching up along her forearms. Strands of rope had just begun to separate when Batgirl heard a splash. She looked up, horrified, as she realized the first of the piranha had entered the larger pool. Her hands kept the blade moving over the ropes behind her back and beneath the water.

She watched the piranha swim aimlessly around the pool as the swollen strands of rope separated slowly beneath her blade. The piranha seemed initially to be getting its bearings, but was presently exploring its new surroundings. ‘Does it know its intended meal is watching it closely?’ Batgirl silently wondered.

She concentrated on keeping her body, apart from her hands, completely still, lest movement attract the carnivorous creature. She was not certain just what would attract the diner to its meal, but felt doing everything in her power to delay the inevitable would be worthwhile. So, she tried to ignore the cold and avoid shivering.

Suddenly, horror rendered Batgirl more still then her concentrated efforts ever could, as she recalled how her hips, arms, and back had been wounded in the fight at the Iceberg Lounge. Despite the time that had passed, during which the wounds might have closed and begun to heal, there would still be blood soaked into her costume around the incisions Florence of Arabia’s attractive aides had made. ‘If the blood I lost earlier mingles with the water, the piranha will certainly find me . . . and be frenzied when it does!’

Batgirl’s horror-induced paralysis passed as more strands of rope separated beneath her blade. At the same time, her eyes widened, since the piranha had aligned itself with her and begun rapidly approaching! ‘If the carnivorous fish sinks its razor-sharp teeth into me, the blood will literally start a feeding frenzy . . . which would prove fatal!’

She hardened her arm muscles and strained against the remaining strands of rope binding her. Batgirl became aware of something her concentration had previously allowed her to ignore, as her exertions continued. ‘My legs are cramping!’

Batgirl gasped as she felt her legs pull backwards as the knife finally cut through her bonds. The movement caused pain to wrack her entire lower body as the piranha swam closer. The deadly carnivore had slid between Batgirl’s thighs, darting toward her crotch. Her feet and lower legs slammed into the bottom of the pool with a splash and Batgirl pushed herself upward with all her might. ‘I’ve got to get my wounded hips above the water line!’

The water displacement Batgirl’s movements caused backed the piranha away from her an entire foot. Her numb leg muscles failed and she fell back into the water with a splash, causing the carnivore to retreat a second time. Batgirl’s forearms whipped defensively in front of her and the knife in her right hand plunged toward the exotic fish, spearing it on the blade! “Yes!” Batgirl cried happily.

She glanced up at the aquarium, from which water spilled as the school of killers inside swam randomly, approaching the water’s surface. Batgirl glanced down at the fish squirming on the tip of her knife and bleeding all over her glove before returning her gaze to the aquarium. She measured distances and angles before tossing the piranha with the blade stuck in it forward underhanded. Her makeshift missile sank into the aquarium.

Instantly, the cannibalistic piranha swarmed over the wounded fish, tearing it to pieces and leaving the vigorously churning water in the aquarium discolored.

Batgirl released the breath she had held during the prelude to her fate. She tried to rise again, making her legs protest violently. She began to fall, but gripped the pole for support. “I’ve got to get out of here!” Batgirl said. She reached down with one hand and began to massage her cramped legs. After a time, she switched hands and worked at the other leg. As she did, she watched the aquarium fill, waiting for the moment another piranha, and then the rest, would find their way into the pool. It was only a matter of time.

Once she could stand, she turned her attention to her remaining bindings. A second blade slid from her boot and severed the rope around her waist with a single slash. Carefully, she placed the blade against the bindings holding her upper body in place, and began to cut through them.

The moment her last restraint fell away, the remainder of the piranha spilled into the wading pool!

The blood in the water drew the school of killers toward her and she pulled herself upward, clinging to the pole. She hung on while the piranha waited below, waited for her strength to ebb away and her grip to fail. Batgirl watched them as she put away her second knife. Then, she felt her glove slide against the pole and the water streaming down it. Batgirl hung on, conscious of the unaccustomed weight the water drenching her costume and cape added. She felt herself shiver from cold and frowned. “I can’t do this forever!” she muttered.

She found the side of the pool closest to the pole and set her feet against the thin, metal column parallel to one another. Maintaining her grip on the pole with one hand, she bent her knees, bringing herself as close to the pole as she could possibly get. Then, she released the pole and straightened her legs, shooting away from the pole and over the pool’s edge before her hands hit the water-soaked carpeting and her chin tucked into her chest as she tumbled to her feet and safety.

“First, I'll get back my belt,” Batgirl decided aloud, enjoying the sound of her voice as she took hold of the back of a chair and approached the side of the wading pool near the aquarium. “Then I'll thwart an insurance scam.”

Batgirl swung her chair, shattering one side of the aquarium, and used a chair leg to lift the broken container from the wading pool. She retrieved her knife and belt before slipping the former into its sheath and buckling the latter into place around her waist. She then found her way to the establishment’s cellar and shut off the water to the building. When she returned to the wading pool, the room was quiet and the piranha swam, safely contained.

Batgirl sneezed and left Florence of Arabia’s establishment, intending to run to the Iceberg Lounge until she spotted a bus headed in the direction she was running. The driver kindly turned up the heater after Batgirl insisted on paying the fare. The bus brought her very near her destination and Batgirl found her Batgirlcycle and drove to Barbara Gordon’s apartment without searching the building where she had encountered the criminals for clues.

Once she had stripped off her sodden Batgirl costume; taken a steamy bath; and wrapped herself in a warm, fluffy robe, Barbara made herself a mug of hot tea and reported Batgirl’s findings to the police via email with the weak explanation that a concerned citizen had put her on Penguin’s trail. Then, she thoughtfully finished her tea and gratefully crawled into bed. Dreamlessly, she slept.

Meanwhile, the Penguin and Florence had moved their prisoners to an abandoned, riverside eatery, where they prepared to snare their next victim.

“We locked Emilio Post and Abbegail Dearson in the freezer, boss,” Gill reported. “Do you want us to turn it on?”

“Not yet, Gill,” Penguin said, conking him on the head with his umbrella and regarding his fink though a curtain of smoke. “The cold of that freezer and the heat from the stoves can be applied to our golden geese to extract whatever treasure we require of their personal troves – when the time comes. Wak!”

“Didn’t we have the same means of persuasion available at the Iceberg Lounge?” Florence of Arabia asked.

“Wak! Perhaps, my dear,” he conceded, “however, Batgirl found us there.”

“Who cares?” Florence asked practically. “She’s been fish food for hours.”

“Quite! Wak, wak, wak! But there’s no telling to whom she may have revealed her suspicions. All of the bats work closely with the police and each other. Our plans can be best achieved without having to bother outwitting them.”

“Outwitting the cops should not be bothersome for a genius like you, Pengy,” Florence pointed out.

“I could do it easily. Wak! However, I cannot match the entire Gotham City Police Department for sheer manpower. Besides, I would prefer to focus my brilliance toward perpetrating your revenge. Whom would you like to snatch next?”

“After Emilio Post and Abbegail Dearson, the most influential member of the Gotham City Decency League is Mrs. Harriet Cooper. She lives–”

“At stately Wayne Manor. Wak, wak, wak! Delicious.” Penguin smoked tranquilly while Florence stared at him.

“How do you know?” Florence demanded after a moment.

“Everybody knows that! Wak!”

Florence was not fooled. “You’ve been there before,” she reasoned knowingly. “Kidnapping Mrs. Cooper should be simple.”

“It will be, but knowing the layout of stately Wayne Manor will have nothing to do with our success. The house has three entrances, fourteen bathrooms and eighteen bedrooms. Nevertheless, that information will prove utterly irrelevant. Wak, wak, wak!”

“What do you mean?”

“Most major criminals in Gotham City have been at stately Wayne Manor for one reason or another over the years,” Penguin explained, blowing a smoke ring. “Yet, there is a much better way of getting our hands on Mrs. Cooper.”

“You don’t say.”

“I do say. Wak, wak, wak! If we grab Bruce Wayne’s butler, Alfred, we can use his captivity to maneuver Mrs. Cooper anywhere we want.”

“So, we can then take her . . . on our terms . . . in our own good time,” Florence thoughtfully said. “That’s brilliant, Pengy. You really are magnificent. I could kiss you.”

“Again? Wak! Why don’t you summon the rest of our help? I’ll describe how we put the snatch on Alfred, and then you may do with me as you please. Wak, wak, wak!” Penguin’s eyes glittered as she set his cigarette holder on the edge of a conveniently situated ashtray.

“It will be my pleasure, Pengy,” Florence said, raising her arms and approaching her super criminal consultant. “First things first, however.” Florence smiled and her tongue darted playfully over her lips. Then her arms fell over Penguin’s head and his arms wrapped around her waist, drawing her close to him. Slowly, they kissed.

A few short hours after dawn, Alfred, Bruce Wayne’s faithful butler, stepped from his employer’s limousine and made his way to the seaside, open-air market to take full advantage of the daily specials.

“So,” Honest Gabe, of Honest Gabe’s House of Scientific Discoveries and Deathtraps, said, “not all of Bruce Wayne’s money is inherited.”

“Speaking of money,” Hippolyta said. “Shouldn’t you get on with earning yours, darling?”

Honest Gabe opened a bag on his lap and pointed out its contents. “This garage dolly will let me slip under the car and hook this device to our target’s car with these tools.” He wound an arm around Sasha’s shoulder and indicated the car from which Alfred had emerged.

“Why don’t you shut up, move your arm, and get busy?” Sasha suggested.

“Listen, after you do all that,” Hippolyta said, leaning eagerly forward, ”if it works, we’ll both be very impressed.”

Honest Gabe smiled at both of his companions and let his hand slide over Sasha’s shoulder and slowly down her back. “What form will your appreciation take?”

“Let’s put it this way,” Hippolyta said. “When the time comes to play, if your gizmo works, you’ll get to play with us.”

“Otherwise, we’ll get to play with you,” Sasha warned. “I’d be careful of just where I put my hand, darling. We play rough.”

“You’re both making me so excited,” Gabe said, winking.

“Show us that this thing of yours will do the job,” Hippolyta said.

“Now?”

“Now would be the ideal time,” Sasha said. Honest Gabe stepped from the car and slipped under the limousine a moment later. “Do you think his gizmo will work?”

“Probably,” Hippolyta said. “Penguin wouldn’t waste time with him if he wasn’t reliable.”

Sasha swore. “I was looking forward to breaking his arm off and beating him with the wet end.”

“He isn’t that bad,” Hippolyta said. “You never know. He just might rise to the occasion.”

“Are your trying to convince me, or yourself?”

“I’ll tell you later. Here he comes.”

“That didn’t take long.”

“Well, we’re all set for phase one testing.” Honest Gabe said, returning to his place between the women and winding his arm around Sasha once again.

“This had better work, Gabe!” Sasha ominously said. “Let’s get started!”

“Business before pleasure,” Honest Gabe muttered. He pulled a device like a large remote control from his bag and touched a switch. The taillights on Alfred’s car flicked on and off. Honest Gabe then briefly turned the windshield wipers on and off.

“Impressive, so far,” Hippolyta said. “We’ve arranged to play at the Chessman Hotel in the Queen’s Suite.”

“Right after you buy us an expensive champagne breakfast,” Sasha added.

“You’re both worth it.”

“You are so right,” Sasha agreed.

“Here comes Alfred,” Hippolyta said. She started the car and drove past their target. Penguin‘s finks were in a second car around a corner. “He’s all yours, boys.”

Sasha handed over the controls. “Get him,” she encouraged, grinning wolfishly.

“Sure thing,” Dorsal said, smiling appreciatively at the blonde henchwoman.

Gill started the car and began to follow Alfred. When they forced him to go straight instead of turning a corner, they knew Honest Gabe had successfully installed a remote control on the underside of the car.

The Englishman tried to turn the next corner as well, without success. He let go of the wheel and unbuckled his seat belt. That was when his car finally turned a corner. He reached for the door handle and realized it was locked. He unlocked the door and was dismayed when it immediately locked again. Leaning across to the passenger door, he disengaged the lock and was not surprised when it, too, locked again immediately.

He was trapped!

Alfred reviewed his options as he realized he was not in control of the vehicle. Behind his belt buckle was a button intended to bring Batman and Robin to his rescue.

At the moment, Dick Grayson was attending a first year, graduate school, class. His academics; his crime fighting; and the active social life he maintained, in part, to conceal his secret identity, kept him extremely busy. The butler had no desire to interrupt the young man’s education when other options were available.

Bruce Wayne, on the other hand, was away on business in Londinium, where, in the guise of Batman, he was investigating a case that had left the much-vaunted investigators of Venerable Ireland Yard in a fog of confusion.

The Dark Knight Detective’s subsequent investigation of Ffogg Place’s forbidden cricket pavilion had uncovered secret defenses guarding the aristocrat’s home, as well as a trove of stolen treasures. He had just prepared to photograph this evidence, when a strange, white mist had begun to rise all around him. At first he was aware of his heart rate increasing, yet this response was paradoxical because he quickly found it impossible to move his legs. He lowered the Bat-camera, preparing to exchange it for a gas mask from his utility belt, when his arms and the rest of his body were utterly immobilized. Slowly, he became aware of the strange mist thinning. Obviously, it was being vented away.

Moments after the fog had cleared, a grandmotherly Englishwoman led a sextet of younger women, who wore halter tops in a rainbow of colors matching their short shorts, into the pavilion. Batman’s captors were a little surprised at how unprepared he had seemed for the malevolent mechanisms protecting the perfidious peer, since they had all heard how these devious devices had waylaid Batgirl years earlier. The younger women quickly surrounded Batman while their mistress addressed him. “Well,” the leading lady observed, “it seems we meet again, Batman. I’d introduce you to the newest members of our infamous finishing school’s faculty, but you won’t be with us long enough to make use of that information. We have a decision to make, girls.”

Batman recognized Lady Penelope Peasoup, the Lady of Ffogg Place, and understood instantly what had been happening in Londinium. He had suspected Ffogg Place was still a training ground for female criminals, covertly kept up in the absence of Lord Ffogg and Lady Peasoup while they served their jail time. Now, it seemed the nobility had returned and had sought evidence of the recent graduates’ prowess at “using their wits.” The demonstrations had been profitable and he could prove it. Yet, the perpetrators had caught him at the critical moment and would no doubt take steps to assure his silence — perhaps permanently.

A green telephone rang and Penelope moved to answer it while the others debated what to do with Batman in low tones. The Caped Crusader realized not all of the young ladies’ plans of attack would be murderous. “This call must be from His Lordship,” Penelope said, “He’s the only one in Londinium who knows this number.” She picked up the receiver. “Hello, Marmaduke.”

“There you are, Penelope. I say, what are you doing in the Cricket Pavilion? I’ve called every phone at Ffogg Place looking for you.”

“You could have reached me on my cell phone, Marmaduke.”

“You know I hate those infernal, modern contraptions. Now, what are you doing?”

“Well, the girls and I were about to have some drinks when your silent alarm detected an intruder. It seems Batman has invaded your treasure trove. We’ve just begun discussing the best means of detaining him.”

“I see. You aren’t going to take him down to the dungeon, are you?”

“I can already guess what he knows about our operation, Marmaduke, and I thought you were having the dungeon redone.”

“So I am, Penelope, my dear. You’re right. It wouldn’t do to have Batman dying in front of the workman as they renovate the dungeon.” Suddenly, Lord Marmaduke Ffogg was inspired. “What about our latest addition to the school?”

“The faculty on hand are discussing Batman’s fate.”

“I don’t mean the faculty, Penelope, although I admit I am quite fond of some of them. They all do marvelous work. I was thinking of that spur to the Underground.”

“The Underground, Marmaduke? What a marvelous idea!” Penelope gushed. “I’m sure the girls and I can see to it that Batman perishes there.”

“I’ll nip home and help you make sure. The boys won’t mind if I step out for a few hands as long as I buy a few rounds when I get back,” he thoughtfully said. “See you soon.” The Lawless Lord rang off.

“All right girls,” Penelope said, cradling the phone. “It’s all decided. Come along and bring Batman.”

Batman marveled at his helplessness as he was picked up and carried across the grounds of Ffogg Place, guarded from prying eyes by stone walls and lush shrubbery. He remained conscious, able to feel his captors’ touch and hear their every word, while being powerless to resist or even move. He could not even speak.

Penelope opened a large wooden door and led the way down a wide, stone staircase to a wooden platform. Presently, gas lamps illuminated the chamber, and Batman was lowered from the platform into a trench where parallel, metal bands extended into the darkness.

Batman felt his eyes narrow and realized the effects of the paralyzing fog were beginning to wear off. The metal bands in the trench had reminded him of an inter-cultural fact. When the English refer to the ‘Underground,’ they indicate what Americans call a ‘subway’. He was beginning to divine his intended fate.

The faculty for Lord Ffogg’s finishing school for young female criminals positioned Batman on his back between the metal bands and began searching his utility belt for the means to restrain him. Presently, they found his Batcuffs and snapped them around his ankles and the metal bands.

Footsteps on the stairs caused Penelope to back into a shadow beside the base of the stairs and her followers to crouch in the trench. Batman felt hands begin to massage his legs and realized his muscles would be reduced to jelly if the work proceeded continuously.

“Penelope, ladies,” Lord Ffogg called as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Welcome, Marmaduke,” his sister said. “You know, it wasn’t really necessary for you to come all the way home from your club at Bleet Street. The girls and I have this situation well in hand.”

“No doubt you do,” Lord Ffogg said. “Nevertheless, I wanted to take a last look at Batman before we pay him back properly for our capture, his testimony against us at the trial, and our subsequent incarceration.” The male villain glanced at Batman and noticed two of his faculty members massaging his shoulders while two others were working on his legs. The remaining two had snapped Batcuffs on his wrists and seemed poised.

“Um, Penelope,” her brother said, clearing his throat. “The girls are preparing to kill Batman, are they not? He’s tricky and I’d hate for them to get distracted and underestimate him.”

As Marmaduke Ffogg’s warning concluded, Batman sagged as his muscles were completely jellified. The fiendish faculty stretched him to his full height and a little beyond before his arms were extended above his head and fastened to the metal bands.

“You see, Marmaduke,” Penelope explained. “The muscles, when paralyzed, need to be vigorously massaged in order to be manipulated. While you and I say our goodbyes to our enemy, the girls will complete his final arrangements.” The Lady of Ffogg Place turned to her entourage. “You’ll find torches and the tools you need in that cabinet.” Moments later, each of the school’s insidious instructors had straightened, taken a tool belt and a flashlight from the indicated cabinet, and hurried away down the darkened tunnel.

“Now, Batman,” Penelope said, “one benefit of using the paralyzing gas is that you cannot speak or call us all of those nasty names you and your colleagues used against us at our last meeting.”

“My recuperative powers may surprise you, Lady Peasoup,” Batman said.

“Why can he speak?” Lord Ffogg demanded.

“It doesn’t matter, Marmaduke. No one who cares will be able to hear him anyway.”

“The question still stands,” her brother retorted.

“Batgirl told me how she had been captured years ago before she and I escaped from your vile dungeon. That was why I took a universal Bat-antidote pill from my Bat-capsule dispensary before ever setting foot into your forbidden cricket pavilion. Your paralyzing fog, though, was more effective than I was led to believe it would be.”

“Our chemistry classes have been put to good use over the years,” Penelope explained. “I am, however, very impressed.”

“Not impressed enough to remove me from the path of an oncoming train?” Batman sourly said.

“We’ve been utterly remiss, Batman,” Lord Ffogg said. “Please forgive me for not explaining your fate.” Batman said nothing and the evil Englishman went on. “The London Underground runs on electrified tracks. The one to which you are attached is being reconnected to the main system as we speak. Service won’t be slowed noticeably as the power courses along this spur and, of course, through you shortly before the next commute. I expect you’ll find the experience quite shocking.”

Lord Ffogg and Lady Peasoup threw back their heads and laughed as Lady Peasoup’s fetching faculty members returned. Each of the young women favored Batman with a glance as she climbed to the platform. He could see the pride they took in their murderous work, but noted longing and even regret behind some of the lingering glances cast at him before his comely killers allowed their employers' mirth to curl their lips into delighted smiles. Batman knew he could count on none of them to return and rescue him, perhaps despite some of their personal feelings.

“Is everything ready, girls?” They all nodded. “Splendid. What is the time?” One of the treacherous teachers consulted her watch and told her mistress. “Ah, the Batman has approximately ten minutes left to live.”

“Smashing, my dears!” Lord Ffogg enthused. “Let’s away, leaving Batman to his doom. The sideboard awaits and drinks are on me.” The criminal masterminds and their sextet of shapely sycophants hurried away, leaving Batman alone.

Immediately, the Dark Knight began silently working to reach the lock picks he carried in his gloves. The task survival required of him was monumental and would have been utterly impossible had he been forced to rely exclusively on the tools carried in his utility belt. These were hopelessly out of reach, despite the fact he retained his belt. He was grateful, and a little surprised, his muscles responded to his mental commands after the malevolent massage the Pfogg’s fiendish faculty had given him. Perhaps he had deliberately been given more of a sporting chance than many of his killers imagined.

He found a lock pick and began to extract it from one of his gloves’ phalanges. Slowly, the tiny tool slid into position between his fingers, which he bent toward the locks of his Batcuffs.

Shadowy darkness shrouded his actions as Batman began working his way free from the first Batcuff lock. In seconds his right wrist slid from its shackle and he reached across to deal with the left.

Far away, a soft hum began to sound and echo along the tunnel the terrible teachers had taken on the way to their wicked work. ‘I’ll never be free of the tube tracks before they’re electrified!’ Batman realized.

The second Batcuff fell away from his wrist and the Caped Crusader sat up, beginning to examine his gas lamp-lit surroundings. “Pipes,” he muttered. “Are they for the gas or . . ?”

Batman ignored his shackled ankles and reached toward his utility belt, from which he retrieved a Batarang and a small, plastic explosive. He attached the explosive to his missile and flung it at the pipes he had noticed.

The blast utterly shattered the pipes, spilling water over the tube tracks to which he was still fastened. Seconds later, blue bolts of electricity crawled along the metal bands and rippled outward over the puddle forming beneath the shattered pipe. Batman was not watching, but unlocking his ankles from their shackles with a key he had taken from his utility belt.

As Batman stood, he realized the puddle the water had formed was growing. ‘The water short-circuited the tracks, but will fry me just as thoroughly if I’m not out of here in time,’ he thought. Seconds later, Batman raced along the tracks with his cape spread behind him and his rubber-soled boots protecting him from the lingering electricity in the water that splashed in all directions. He had to prevent the electrical fire that would threaten Ffogg Place and probably the rest of Londinium. Only when the populace was safe would Batman attend to arresting the manor’s inhabitants.

Fortunately for Alfred, his employers’ unavailability, which kept Batman and Robin from helping him, enabled him to protect one secret by taking advantage of another. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Barbara Gordon’s number.

Her hand stretched slowly toward the telephone from beneath the bedclothes. “Hello,” she groggily said.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Miss.”

“Alfred?”

“Yes, Miss,” the butler confirmed. “I’m afraid I’m in trouble.”

Barbara Gordon was suddenly wide-awake. “What’s happened?”

“I did my morning shopping and was driving along when I lost control of the car.”

“Are you all right?” Babs asked. The concern in her voice was obvious.

“Perfectly, Miss. The reason I called you is – someone else has control of the car! I don’t know who it is or what he or she might want of me, but I’m afraid I’m being kidnapped.”

“Where are you?” Barbara fought to keep from sounding frantic. Alfred was as close to her as anyone.

“I’m headed inland from the waterfront on Hornblower Boulevard. I’ve just crossed Aubery Avenue.”

In the car following Alfred, Gill noticed, “He’s talking to someone on a cell phone.”

“I’ll put a stop to that,“ Dorsal said. The horn of the lead car sounded and blew continuously as it turned into a blind alley and accelerated.

The sounds of shattering glass and crumpling metal greeted the finks as they pulled into the alley after Alfred.

Barbara was out of bed and across the room before the wall had finished spinning to reveal Batgirl’s small, but functional, headquarters. She underwent her tantalizing transformation in record time and went zooming toward the waterfront on her Batgirlcycle at, perhaps, a little more than the top legal speed.

It took half an hour of systematic searching from the intersection of Hornblower Boulevard and Aubery Avenue for Batgirl to find the wreck of the car Alfred had driven. She was off the Batgirlcycle and racing to the scene in seconds, but the wreck was deserted!

Satisfied there were no injured people to treat, Batgirl began to examine the wreck more closely. The front bumper and grill had been pushed back against the engine; the headlights had shattered; and the hood as well as the front fenders were crumpled and shredded. The windshield and passenger side windows had cracked into intricate, spider-web patterns, but the back seat windows and rear window were intact. Curiously, the driver’s side window had collapsed inward.

Batgirl put her hands on her hips and glowered at the car. “This is wrong,” Batgirl said out loud. She reached through the driver’s-side window and unlocked the driver’s-side door. A glance told her the passenger door was also locked. Suddenly, she spotted something out of the corner of her eye and noted a silken thread from one of the glass shards on the seat. ‘Alfred was pulled out through this window,’ Batgirl concluded. She walked to the back of the car and crouched, examining the pavement closely. ‘No trace of a skid.’ Her eyes narrowed and she smiled without a trace of humor. ‘He didn’t get a chance to resist. The car hit that wall at top speed. How did the crooks get control of the car?’

She slid beneath the car and began to examine its underside with the aide of her tiny Batlight. Presently, she found what was left of the device Honest Gabe had installed. ‘It’s just as I thought. If those crooks hurt Alfred . . .’

“Hey!” a voice called. “What do you think you’re doing?” Batgirl slid from beneath the car. An officer glared down at her with his hands on his hips, but his attitude instantly changed when he saw the rest of the Dominoed Daredoll. “I’m sorry, Batgirl. I didn’t recognize you. May I ask what you are doing here?”

“I’m investigating a kidnapping.”

“Making any progress?” Batgirl pointed out the clues she had already found.

“Did someone report this accident?” Batgirl asked.

“No, but a woman named Harriet Cooper claims the Penguin is threatening Bruce Wayne’s butler. I was able to track down this vehicle through its OnStar security system.”

“Take Penguin seriously. This wreck is more than enough evidence of the reality of his threat. “I think it’s time to talk to the Commissioner,” Batgirl said, returning to the Batgirlcycle.

“So, you think I should pay him?” Harriet Cooper was asking when Batgirl arrived at her father’s office.

“Ordinarily, I would urge you to seek a means of standing up to the kidnappers and trying to string out the process,” the Commissioner said. “I hate negotiating with these scoundrels. Yet, Bonnie, my secretary, reminded me that Penguin has kidnapped Alfred three times before, tried to kill him twice, and brainwashed him once.”

“Oh, dear! That’s true,” Harriet Cooper said, wringing her hands as her face paled with horror.

“How much has Penguin demanded?” Batgirl gently asked, striding across the room.

“Oh, Batgirl, I’m so happy to see you!” Harriet Cooper said. “You seem to help out in all of these dire situations, like when Sandman looted the house.”

“I remember.”

“I wish I could reach Bruce. The Penguin has demanded five million dollars. That’s a lot of money, but I can’t bear to compare its value against a human life, particularly Alfred’s.”

Batgirl frowned. “That is a lot of money. How much time has Penguin given you to raise it?”

“He wants it at midnight tonight. I have a meeting with the bank later. With Bruce unavailable, I don’t think it will be at all pleasant.”

“Brave heart, Mrs. Cooper,” the Commissioner encouraged. “I’m sure the bank will cooperate . . . and tonight, keep in mind that we’ll be nearby the entire time.”

“Oh! I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Penguin said Alfred would be killed instantly if the police appeared while I deliver the money.”

“You are to personally deliver the money?” Batgirl asked.

“Yes and I’m going to become considerably angrier at Penguin if he does not keep up his end of this arrangement. I’m upset at having to give away this money, but Alfred is much more important than any sum.”

“How would you feel if I kept an eye on your meeting with the Penguin, Mrs. Cooper?” Batgirl asked.

“Would you?” Aunt Harriet asked with hope.

“I think it might be a good idea,” Batgirl said.

“Thank you, Batgirl! I feel much better about everything now, knowing you’re involved.”

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Cooper. You won’t see me tonight, but I’ll be there.”

Dick Grayson’s dowager aunt patted her head self-consciously. “I think I just have time to have my hair done before meeting with the banker.”

“Let me show you to the elevator,” the Commissioner offered.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Cooper said, giving him her arm.

“It sounds like the Penguin plans to make a lot of money tonight,” Chief O’Hara gravely said.

“I’m not going to let him,” Batgirl seriously said. “The fact Penguin demands Mrs. Cooper deliver the money worries me.”

“You think that waddling devil would double-cross her?”

“Emilio Post, Abbegail Dearson and perhaps Harriet Cooper are being cooped up by Penguin. The connections among them are the Gotham City Decency League and wealth.”

“Sure and they are,” Chief O’Hara agreed. Then he stared, horror stricken. “You think the Penguin is after Mrs. Cooper!”

“There may be more to this than money, Batgirl,” the Commissioner said upon his return, sitting at his desk once again. “You said Florence of Arabia was in league with Penguin?”

“That’s right,” Batgirl said. Then she snapped her gloved fingers. “The Gotham City Decency League closed her belly dancing club. She must be after them!”

“Begorra!”

“Mrs. Cooper is walking right into Florence’s fiendish hands tonight!” the Commissioner exclaimed. “Would there be a chance of finding these crooks and rescuing their prisoners?”

Chief O’Hara shook his head. “I had a squad go over the Iceberg Lounge. They didn’t find a thing, but I left two of my people on watch in case the crooks show up again. I doubt the officers'll have anything to report, though.”

“I’m not going to let anything bad happen to Mrs. Cooper tonight,“ Batgirl said. “Penguin and Florence think I’m dead, so my presence may take them a little by surprise.”

“I hope you’re right, Batgirl,” the Commissioner said.

“Good luck!” Chief O’Hara said.

“Thank you both,” Batgirl said and hurried off to prepare herself for the night’s work.

“We can rest a lot easier with Batgirl on the job tonight, Commissioner,” Chief O’Hara said.

“Indeed,” the Commissioner agreed. “Indeed.”

As Batgirl prepared herself for the coming confrontation, Florence of Arabia, the Penguin, and his finks completed their preparations for cashing in on their captives’ wealth. Earlier, following Alfred’s arrival, they had turned on the freezer, which housed the prisoners.

“Bring them out, boys,” Florence commanded.

“Do you want the butler, too?” Finn asked.

“Bring him!” Penguin reiterated. “I want him to see what we have in store for uncooperative captives.”

“Boss,“ Gill asked, “what more do you expect to get out of a butler, beyond the ransom the Cooper woman’s bringing tonight?”

“Revenge, you dolt! He’s been a thorn in my side for years. I want Alfred Pennyworth out of that freezer . . . so he’s even more uncomfortable when you put him back in again later!” the criminal mastermind explained, conking the hapless fink on the head with his umbrella. “Now, do as I say!”

“Would you like to have the girls handle this? I assure you, they’re not at all squeamish,” Florence offered.

“Wak! I think they are more suited to the task I’ve given them,” Penguin said, blowing a smoke ring. “My finks will manage.”

Florence shrugged as the finks dragged the bound, shivering captives into the room. “What is the meaning of this?” Alfred demanded.

Penguin regarded him through a curtain of smoke. “I’ll show you, Alfred, old boy. Wak, wak, wak! Tell me. Do you have a legal mind? Can you appreciate the nuances of contractual trickery?”

“The law is a means of governance!”

“Wak! I say you are wrong, sir!” Penguin crowed. “The law can be a club with which one can besiege one’s enemies to accomplish one’s ends.” Penguin turned. "Florence, present the documents, if you please.”

Penguin extended a white-gloved hand and accepted two sheets of paper Florence of Arabia extracted from separate envelopes and slowly brought to him. “Here you are, Pengy.”

“Excellent, my dear. Thank you,” he nodded and watched as she retreated. “Now, Alfred, do you know what these are?”

“I would hesitate to say for certain,” the butler confessed.

“Then, I’ll tell you. Wak!” Penguin put his cigarette aside and brandished the papers he had just been given. “These are legal contracts. Florence and I are about to enter into with your companions. They have been gone over with a fine-toothed comb by noted attorney, Mr. Alfred Slye.”

“That man is a notorious scoundrel!” Alfred exclaimed. “He represents mid-level underworld figures and moves in the social circles of some of the most infamous people in Gotham City.”

“He’s the ideal legal eagle for my purposes, making certain all of the loopholes in the contracts favor us and that all of the pitfalls await the other party.”

“You, sir, are unscrupulous!”

“Completely. Wak!” Penguin retrieved his cigarette holder and inhaled tranquilly. “Very soon, I’ll have your companions’ signatures on these documents, so that these contracts will be perfectly legal and above-board.” Slye had advised Penguin that contracts signed under duress could be voided. The Bumbershoot Bandit, however, had no intention of leaving any witnesses around who would be inclined to testify as to the circumstances of the documents’ executions.

“I’ll never sign!” Emilio Post declared.

“Nor will I!” Abbegail Dearson confirmed.

“Well said,” Alfred praised.

“When I want your opinion, you self-righteous servant,” the Penguin said, “I’ll tell you what it is. Finks, tie him to a chair. Now, Florence, what is the state of that stove over there?”

“I turned it on some time ago,” Florence of Arabia reported. “I would imagine it’s become nice and hot.”

“Would you be so kind as to sprinkle some water over the burners, my dear?”

“It would be my pleasure, Pengy.” Penguin watched the woman in the high cut, short sleeved dress closely as she approached the hot stove and paused to mop her brow theatrically, she opened a bottle of water, and took a long swig. She smiled and flung water from the bottle at the top of the stove. A hiss sounded as a cloud of steam began rising instantly. “I was right,” she said, glancing over her shoulder and setting the water bottle aside.

“Finks, bring Mr. Post to the stove.”

“What are you going to do to him, you horrible man?” Ms. Dearson demanded.

“Nothing, if he agrees to sign our contract,” the Penguin said. Emilio Post said nothing. “You know, Ms. Dearson, I’ll need you to sign your contract as well.”

“You want us to burn him, boss?” Gill asked.

“No!” Abbegail Dearson cried. “I’ll do whatever you say. Just leave him alone!”

“No, Abbegail!” Emilio Post shouted. “That’s what they want!”

“You give me your solemn word, Ms. Dearson?” Penguin asked.

She hesitated a moment and Penguin leaned toward her and glanced at the still-steaming stove top.

“Very well,” the captive woman quietly said.

“Splendid. Wak! Finks, bring Mr. Post back to his chair.” Florence followed the man and settled comfortably into a chair, crossing her long, bare legs. Penguin extended the contract and a pen toward Abbegail Dearson. “You see where to sign?”

“Yes,” Ms. Dearson said. “Would you mind terribly if I read this?”

“Florence and I have an urgent appointment later this afternoon and we wouldn’t want to keep our banker waiting.” Abbegail Dearson signed the paper. “Thank you, my dear.” Penguin handed the signed document to Florence, who glanced at it and nodded before returning it to its envelope. Penguin then moved the tip of his umbrella to the captive woman’s chin and gassed her. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’d find the rest of these proceedings rather distressing. Wak, wak, wak!”

“Now that we have her signature, Abbegail Dearson is nothing,” Florence of Arabia said, throwing her head back and laughing delightedly. “Money is the sole basis for her social standing, and after our visit to the bank this afternoon, it will all be gone — forever - and this is just the beginning!”

Penguin whirled and stood before Emilio Post with hands on hips. “Will you sign now?”

“Never!”

“Never is a long time. Oh, Mr. Post, by the way. You are right-handed, correct?

The retired businessman was so taken aback by the off-the-wall question, he answered truthfully. “Why, yes, I am. Why?”

Penguin ignored the inquiry. “Finks, use his left hand. Now, burn him!”

Penguin’s goons gripped the man and began to drag him back toward the stove, with his left hand outstretched.

“Stop!” Alfred shouted. “You can’t do this! Have you no decency?”

“Not a shred,” Florence of Arabia said, folding her arms. “This exercise is about retrieving the money out of which their holier-than-thou organization cheated me, and I’m going to get some satisfaction while, at the same time, I get the money my business would have made. Do it, boys!”

The finks continued their work and Emilio Post screamed a moment later. Penguin turned from the scene to regard Florence, whose face had become an impassive mask. Alfred could only watch helplessly.

Later, Alfred blinked, as his eyes grew accustomed to the available light. He blinked several times and tried to recall what had happened.

Emilio Post had, of course, been compelled to sign the contract. Florence of Arabia had hurried to the bank with Penguin to cash in. The captives had been sent back to their chilly cell, but Penguin had, for some reason, used his umbrella to gas Alfred on his way out the door. The butler remembered thinking the gesture odd before unconsciousness had claimed him.

Now, he reclined on a low, soft cushion without his coat. Behind him, he could feel his tortured wrists being massaged gently. ‘I’m not alone! What’s happening?’

He turned his head to see a blonde woman lying on her side beside him and letting her fingers work at his tortured wrists. He looked over his other shoulder to see a dark-eyed Greek woman with long, black hair mirroring her companion’s behavior. Both wore sheer, short togas over tightly stretched thongs that clung invitingly to their curves underneath these ‘garments.’ Brassieres molded against the women’s upper bodies strained to contain their breasts.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Alfred said, imbuing his voice with every bit of dignity he could muster. “To what do I owe this service?”

“It seemed to us you weren’t having such a good afternoon, Alfred,” Hippolyta sweetly said. “Penguin and Florence made you so cold.”

“That’s, however, all about to change,” Sasha predicted. “She’s Hippolyta and I’m Sasha. We’ve decided to heat things up for you.”

“You’re both very kind,” Alfred said, weakening. “You’re both very lovely, as well.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Sasha said, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“While our employers are away, we’re all yours.” Hippolyta let her fingers begin to move upward along Alfred’s arm as she leaned close to him and rested his hand on her thigh.

Suddenly, Alfred felt very warm. His tie seemed to constrict around his neck. He felt fingers kneading his shoulders and instinctively relaxed. Mercifully, he felt his tie loosen and his companions snuggle closely against him. Hot breath seared his neck and face as lips tentatively brushed his. He closed his eyes, conscious of how he was melting under the henchwomen’s amorous assault. As his tie slid away from his neck, the buttons of his shirt began to open.

Upon reflection, Alfred could hardly complain about the delightful developments and what they portended. ‘This is much better than freezing in Penguin’s refrigerator.’ Yet, his intelligence demanded he think. The obvious question made its way to the surface of his mind as his companions slowly stripped him to the waist. ‘Why are these gorgeous young women doing this to me? Each is possibly half my age, or, more likely, one-third of it.’ Alfred was not a vain man, although he did consider himself well-kept for a man of his years. ‘ As times and fashions change, it’s become much harder to discern what such women find attractive . . .’

After responding to a deep kiss from each, Alfred opened his eyes again and saw his and his companions’ reflection in an enormous mirror. “I can’t,” he began.

“Hush,” Sasha coaxed, letting her fingers play against his bare chest. “We know you want to, so don’t be shy.”

“Just leave everything to us,” Hippolyta added, encouraging him with the tip of her tongue. “We’ll take good care of you.”

“I believe you,” Alfred said. “I’m just beginning to fear the cost.” He pushed Sasha away and rolled over Hippolyta, sliding from the cushion. Reaching his feet, he took in the rest of the room with a sweeping glance. He barely had time to react to his surroundings, which seemed to have been converted into a sumptuous love nest, before Sasha and Hippolyta had reached their feet and began approaching him. Instinctively, he reached for the neck of a bottle protruding from an ice bucket on a low table.

“Don’t be stupid, Alfred,” Sasha warned.

“We’d hate for you to waste that,” Hippolyta agreed.

Alfred glanced at the label and nodded. He set the bottle down and snatched the ice bucket, as Sasha and Hippolyta closed in on him. He waited just a moment before hurling the heavy missile between the henchwomen, directly at the large mirror, which shattered. The camera behind it was still recording the action in the room.

“You really shouldn’t have done that, Alfred!” Hippolyta told him.

“Spoiling all our fun,“ Sasha scolded. “You really are a nasty old man.”

“I’m old enough to know you two . . . people . . . were too good to be true!” Alfred declared. “After all, I suspect I could cost your employers a lot of money.”

“You’re pretty smart, Alfred,” the shapely Scandinavian said. “You have no idea what all we would have done for you.”

“That, however, is your problem,” the Greek girl agreed, curling her lips into a smile that never reached her eyes, “and your loss.” Both henchwomen spun, slamming their heels into Alfred’s abdomen. As the butler doubled over, the hardened edges of their hands impacted the back of his head. The butler fell unconscious.

“I was feeling sorry for him, knowing what Penguin had planned,” Hippolyta remarked. “Besides, the threat of showing that video to his employer might have garnered us a few of stately Wayne Manor’s secrets.”

“Well,” Sasha philosophically said, “that can’t be helped now. It’s time we served this old man his just desserts, don’t you think?”

“Let’s go,” Hippolyta eagerly said, reaching down for one of Alfred’s shoulders.

“He’d have liked us to heat him up in here much better,” Sasha agreed with a shrug and a laugh as they began to drag him toward the kitchen.

That night, the Batgirlcycle pulled into traffic behind the car Harriet Cooper drove toward the waterfront. With Alfred available to serve as her chauffeur, Mrs. Cooper rarely had to drive herself. When she did, it was with an abundance of caution.

Batgirl had no trouble keeping up with the senior citizen motorist. In fact, at times it was hard for the Dark Knight Damsel to keep her bike upright, traveling at such slow speeds. Batgirl also learned to ignore the older woman’s turn signals, which often came on for no apparent reason. She was glad she had decided to start following Mrs. Cooper at the bank

Eventually, the tedious journey came to an end. Their ultimate destination proved to be an abandoned, riverside eatery. Batgirl parked, dismounted, and melted into the shadows to approach the structure. Mrs. Cooper emerged from the car with a large suitcase, stepped onto the wooden porch, and knocked on the door.

Inside, the Penguin and Florence of Arabia, as well as Sasha; and Hippolyta, who had each put on black pants and matching t-shirts, waited, regarding a gigantic, dough-filled pie tin, above which Alfred lay in a hammock that immobilized him as effectively as a straight jacket.

“See to the prisoner, my dears. Wak, wak, wak!” Penguin ordered.

“With pleasure,” Sasha said, cutting Alfred’s legs down and smiling as they sank into the pie.

“Have a hot time, Alfred, dear,” Hippolyta teased, slicing through the other rope.

“Now, to be done with him,” Florence of Arabia said, crouching beside the burner beneath the pie tin. “May I borrow, your smoke, Pengy?”

“Of course,” the Penguin politely replied. Florence took his cigarette holder in one hand and operated a valve with the other. She touched the smoldering tube to the wick of the burner beneath the pie and straightened, returning the Penguin’s cigarette as flames began licking hungrily at the bottom of the pie tin.

“Thank you,” Florence said. “By the time our business is concluded, Alfred will really be feeling the heat.”

“Let the lady in. Wak!” Penguin commanded.

Sasha and Hippolyta moved to the door. The Greek woman opened it while her partner stood behind it. “Hello?!” Harriet Cooper called.

“Good evening, Mrs. Cooper,” the Penguin cordially said. “Please do come in Wak!“

“Where is Alfred?” Harriet Cooper demanded.

“First things first. Wak, wak, wak! I trust the money is in the case?”

“It is,” Harriet Cooper said. “Before you see a cent of it–”

“I’ll take that,” Sasha said, emerging from behind the door and gently disengaging the woman’s fingers from the handle.

“Hey!” Harriet Cooper said as Sasha crossed the room with the case. The henchwoman set the suitcase on a table and opened it. “Now that you have the money, what happens next?”

Florence of Arabia ignored the woman, sternly regarding her as she examined a bundle of bills from the suitcase. “They’re genuine,” she announced. “Let’s count it, girls.”

Harriet Cooper turned her attention to the rotund rogue who had welcomed her. “Penguin, I’ve kept my end of our bargain,” Mrs. Cooper pointed out. “Now, I’ll ask you again. Where is Alfred?”

“I’ll answer you, dear lady,” the Penguin said. “Do you remember the second-to-last time I visited your handsome residence?”

“I’ve found all of your ‘visits’ to be unwelcome, as well as unforgettable. On that occasion, you threatened to cook a British forger before our eyes unless Bruce paid you one million dollars in cash. If Batman and Robin hadn’t arrived–”

“Wak! Ancient history, my dear Mrs. Cooper,” the Penguin said. “Let’s fast forward to the present, where our criminal stew is a bit thicker. Behold another of my humble pies.”

Harriet Cooper followed the Penguin’s gesture to the cooking pie and gasped.

“We have all the money, Pengy,” Florence of Arabia announced happily, closing the suitcase.

“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Cooper,” Penguin said, bowing. “Come, ladies. Wak!”

A window shattered and a purple streak arrived in the center of the shower of glass that covered the floor. “I’ve got you red-handed, Penguin,” Batgirl said, letting her hands settle on her hips as her legs spread to shoulder-width.

“Batgirl!” Harriet Cooper managed to say before fainting.

“Batgirl!” Florence of Arabia said, darting a questioning glance at Penguin. “You should have been fish food since sometime last night!”

“Batgirl!” Penguin said, clamping his cigarette holder between his teeth. “It’s utterly impossible . . . yet you’re here.”

“I’m here to arrest you, Penguin. You and your criminal colleagues are guilty of kidnapping, assault and battery, breaking and entering, attempted murder, attempted insurance fraud, and conspiracy. I’ll give you just one chance to surrender!”

“I believe I’ll add a charge to your list, Batgirl – try resisting arrest! Wak, wak, wak! Carve her into fish food, girls.”

Two knives flew toward Batgirl from different directions. She dodged one and slapped the other from the air. Both clattered to the floor and slid harmlessly from view.

“Time for round two,” Batgirl said, crouching and smiling.

“Get her!” Florence of Arabia commanded.

Sasha and Hippolyta dove at Batgirl, somersaulting to their knees and launching spinning kicks at Batgirl’s legs. The Curved Crusader leaped into the air and landed behind her attackers, turning to slam the sole of her boot into the back of Sasha’s head.

Hippolyta had regained her feet when Batgirl sank into a fighting stance. The combatants circled one another and engaged, attacking and defending in a perfectly balanced, deadly dance. As Batgirl and Hippolyta fought to a draw, Sasha got back up and waited for an opportunity.

“Where did you learn to fight?” Batgirl asked.

“You don’t want to know,” Hippolyta replied, realizing Sasha was back in action. She aimed a spinning high kick at Batgirl’s head, knowing the heroine would evade it easily. At the same moment, however, Sasha duplicated her partner’s attack, slamming a lower leg into the back of Batgirl’s knees. The Purple-clad Paragon went down hard.

Her attackers set upon her instantly, pummeling her with practiced hands that held her in position as they administered intolerable pain. Batgirl’s chest heaved as she became slowly numb to pain. She blinked and focused on a particular pocket of her belt. She tore at this pocket as a moan was torn from her throat and she took a moist pad from the pocket in each hand.

“Shall I fetch the knives,” Sasha asked, “or should we throw her into the pie?”

“Let’s put her in the pie,” Hippolyta decided. “She’ll cook up even better than the old man. I’ll give her credit. She kept herself in fabulous shape and her stamina was incredible. I don’t think Batman would have lasted as long as she did, given what we did to her.”

“I think you’re right . . . and I like the point about the pie. The knives would make a bloody mess of her, anyway.”

Batgirl curled her hands around the women’s wrists as she felt herself lifted.

“What’s that she put on my hand?!” Sasha demanded.

“It smells like . . . a knockout patch!” Hippolyta said, tearing at the patch, which had adhered to her skin.

“Right you are,” Batgirl said softly. “When you get knocked out as often as I do, it’s only natural to want to turn the tables.”

Penguin and Florence of Arabia were dismayed as their henchwomen collapsed. Batgirl began to slowly regain her feet, gasping with lingering pain.

“She’ll come for us next, Pengy,” Florence of Arabia predicted, reaching for the hem of her black dress and casting a dismayed look in Batgirl’s direction.

“Wak! Indeed, but she won’t catch us if we hurry. Get the money and let’s get out of here. We have as long as it takes her to rescue Alfred. Hurry!”

“What about the girls?”

“Forget them. They can’t run right now. Wak, wak, wak! Come on!” The criminal mastermind led his attractive associate from the premises as Batgirl plunged a hand into the gigantic pie.

Presently, she hauled Alfred’s head up above the cooking crust. A blade in Batgirl’s hand carefully slit the hammock that restrained the butler, allowing him to climb from his warm tomb.

“Thank you, Batgirl,” he said. His glance swept the room, noting his unconscious captors brought a smile to his lips. Suddenly, he froze when he noted Harriet Cooper had fainted. “I have to take care of Mrs. Cooper. You had better make certain our attackers do not escape,” he suggested.

“You’re certain you can manage here?” Batgirl asked.

“I’ll be fine. Go get them!”

Batgirl raced to the Batgirlcycle and was in time to see fading taillights far away as she engaged the kick-starter. She closed the gap between she and her quarry rapidly and confirmed Penguin and Florence of Arabia were fleeing toward Gotham Harbor. As they arrived at a public pier, Batgirl spotted Penguin’s finks preparing to cast off on an inboard motorboat their master and his companion approached hurriedly. Batgirl swung from her bike and flung a Batarang among the lines from which other boats’ sails were suspended. Penguin’s motorboat began to glide from its slip.

Batgirl swung to the bow of the fleeing boat and vaulted over the windshield to engage the crew in combat.

“Toss her overboard with the excess ballast,” Florence of Arabia commanded.

“Finks, repel that boarder,” Penguin shouted.

Batgirl braced her arms on the back of a chair and thrust her legs forward, letting her heels slam into Gill to send him sprawling astern. She let go of the chair as her feet hit the deck, hitting each of the other thugs with a gloved fist before they could attack.

Two forearms impacted Batgirl’s arms and all of the feeling suddenly left them. Dorsal and Finn both swung, following up on the numbing blows. Batgirl sidestepped and smiled as the men clobbered one another. Batgirl crouched to maintain her balance as Penguin sent the boat skimming swiftly over the waves. She spun and brought her heel into Finn’s chin, ushering him out of the fight. She was beginning to feel her arms again as Dorsal renewed his attack.

Batgirl weakly blocked Dorsal’s blow and retreated a step as the fink advanced. She spotted Gill rejoining the fight and continued evading Dorsal until his companion arrived to support him. Both men attacked and Batgirl slipped between them. Each delivered a stunning blow to the other. As they staggered, she leaped into the air and snapped one foot into each man’s chin. Both goons fell to the deck.

Penguin glumly watched with Florence as Batgirl finished dispatching his crew. “What’s the point of having a secret island retreat if I can’t get to it?” he grumbled.

“Look on the bright side, Pengy,” Florence said. “Your finks will never learn where it is.”

“Distract Batgirl while I sneak up behind her,” the criminal mastermind directed. Florence nodded while Penguin slipped off.

Batgirl looked at the defeated finks and scanned the deck again. Penguin had disappeared, but she had heard no splash. ‘He’s still aboard,’ she reasoned. Of more concern was Florence of Arabia, who had climbed over the windshield and crouched to balance somehow on the bow. “Stay back, Batgirl,” she warned, her voice audible above the screaming engines. “You’ll never take me alive.”

Batgirl dashed forward as Florence edged closer to the water. “Florence, wait!” Batgirl cried. “Talk to me before you do something rash.”

“Stop right there, or I’ll throw myself overboard!” Batgirl stopped.

Behind her, Penguin wolfishly grinned and let a thin, sharp blade click into position from the end of his umbrella. “Say goodbye, Batgirl. Wak!” the villain said, charging toward her.

Batgirl had instinctively tensed her muscles as she spotted a movement from the corner of her eye. She sidestepped, spinning and sweeping the Penguin’s feet from beneath him. The wily bird’s momentum carried him toward Florence as the razor-sharp umbrella tip glittered wickedly in the moonlight. Florence moved to avoid getting impaled as the portly predator collided with the windshield. Batgirl hurried forward as the pudgy master criminal turned to engage her once again.

Unfortunately, the Penguin bumped the wheel, which had been abandoned since the fight had begun, and turned the boat sharply. Florence of Arabia was unable to maintain her balance and plunged over the side with a dismayed cry and an enormous splash.

Batgirl leaped into the air and seemed to fly toward Penguin, who lurched aft, trying to maintain his balance. Batgirl grinned as her foot slammed into his nose and took him to the deck, where he remained still. She only spared him a glace as she cut the engines and spun the wheel, scanning the water for any sign of Florence of Arabia.

After a moment, Batgirl found Florence bobbing in the waves. “Can you swim?’ Batgirl called.

“Yes, but get me out of here!”

“I have questions first,” Batgirl announced. “Where are Emilio Post and Abbegail Dearson?”

“Why you–”

Batgirl ignored the unflattering description. “Florence,” she began, “you know I’ll leave you unless you answer me.”

“I’ll drown!” Florence whined.

“Not right away . . . if I throw you a life preserver . . . I suppose the water will get pretty chilly quite quickly.” Batgirl’s teeth flashed. “I’m sure you remember the position in which you left me last night. Well, it was very uncomfortable, to say the least.”

“You’re enjoying this!” Florence accused.

“Tell me where your prisoners are!”

“In the freezer at the abandoned, riverside eatery where we exchanged that butler for the money.”

“Good,” Batgirl said under her breath. ‘I’m sure Alfred will have the good sense to search the premises for his fellow captives.’ Batgirl threw Florence a lifeline. Once the evil entrepreneur stood dripping on deck, Batgirl handcuffed her and did the same to the rest of the day’s catch.

“I won’t forget this humiliation, Batgirl,” Florence warned.

“You’ll have plenty of time to decide what to do about it, but consider what your thirst for vengeance earned you while you do your thinking,” Batgirl said, turning and moving forward. “By the way, you’ll be warmer if you sit down.”

Batgirl made her way to the wheel and the ship-to-shore radio. She informed the police of Emilio Post and Abbegail Dearson’s location, just to be safe, and arranged a rendezvous with a GCPD boat. Then, Batgirl gunned the engines and guided the vessel toward shore.

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