trail—”
“Oswald,” the Knife Lady interjected, “there’s someone here to see you.” She jerked her head toward The Penguin’s bed in the far corner of the loft. There, curled up on the mattress, with a pretty little kitty in her lap, was the woman of The Penguin’s dreams—the Catwoman.
He chomped down hard on his cigarette holder. Be still, he told his heart—not to mention other parts of his anatomy. He’d show this beauty that fur and feathers could mix and mate.
The canary beside The Penguin’s bed cried out in alarm, not at all pleased with the new visitors. But hey, what did canaries know? Maybe this Catwoman was dangerous, but it was The Penguin’s kind of danger.
The Penguin stepped forward to greet her. “Just the pussy I’ve been looking for.”
Catwoman sat up, moving her hands slowly up and down her upper arms. “Chilly in here.”
She must be talking about those air conditioners on either side of his sleeping area, set up to re-create the temperature of his beloved Arctic World. One always tried to relive the comforts of one’s childhood. But there was no reason this poor woman had to suffer for The Penguin’s sake. At least not while they still had all their clothes on.
“I’ll warm you!” he heartily volunteered.
“Down, Oswald,” Catwoman warned.
The Penguin stopped. He didn’t like the look of her claws.
“We need to talk,” she continued. “You see, we have something in common.”
“Sounds familiar,” The Penguin agreed. He’d like to have a lot of things in common with this babe. “Appetite for destruction?” he guessed. He tugged on his suit coat. “Contempt for the czars of fashion? Wait—don’t tell me—naked sexual charisma!”
“Batman,” Catwoman replied simply. “The thorn in both our sides, the fly in our ointment.”
“Ointment?” The Penguin leered. It sounded good to him. “Scented or unscented?”
Catwoman sighed and stood. “I’ll come back later.”
The Penguin gently pushed her back on the bed. Perhaps he was coming on a bit too strong. Maybe they did need to talk for a minute or two before abandoning all their inhibitions and giving themselves up to overwhelming sexual passion.
“Are you, perchance, a registered voter?” he asked pleasantly. “I’m a mayoral prospect, you know.”
She did not seem impressed. “I have but one pet cause today. Ban the Bat.”
“Oh, him again,” The Penguin replied dismissively. “what is it with you two? He’s already history—” He raised his umbrella and pointed to the blueprints on the wall. “Check it out.”
Catwoman walked over to the detailed diagrams of the Batmobile. It had taken Max a pretty penny to get them from the car’s designer—or a disgruntled former employee of that designer. The Penguin let the businessman handle that sort of particular.
And speaking of particulars, they had every single part of the Batmobile labeled on these charts; and not just those parts the average citizen might see, but every nut and bolt that held that infernal machine together.
The Penguin chuckled at the very thought of their plans.
“We’re going to disassemble his spiffy old Batmobile,” he explained heartily, “then reassemble it as an H-bomb on wheels.” He opened his umbrella as he made the sound of a muffled explosion—a visual aid for the death of Batman. “Yesterday’s victor is tomorrow’s vapor.”
The Catwoman shook her head disapprovingly. “He’d have more power as a martyr. No, to destroy Batman, we must first turn him into what he hates most.” She pointed at the Penguin, then herself. “Namely, us.”
The Penguin frowned. This was more complicated than he thought. Was she talking about sullying the hero before they could off him?
“You mean, frame him?” he asked.
But Catwoman was no longer looking at him. She had noticed the huge pile of yellow legal pads on his bedside table, and had even picked up one to peruse the names he had written
“Oswald,” the Knife Lady interjected, “there’s someone here to see you.” She jerked her head toward The Penguin’s bed in the far corner of the loft. There, curled up on the mattress, with a pretty little kitty in her lap, was the woman of The Penguin’s dreams—the Catwoman.
He chomped down hard on his cigarette holder. Be still, he told his heart—not to mention other parts of his anatomy. He’d show this beauty that fur and feathers could mix and mate.
The canary beside The Penguin’s bed cried out in alarm, not at all pleased with the new visitors. But hey, what did canaries know? Maybe this Catwoman was dangerous, but it was The Penguin’s kind of danger.
The Penguin stepped forward to greet her. “Just the pussy I’ve been looking for.”
Catwoman sat up, moving her hands slowly up and down her upper arms. “Chilly in here.”
She must be talking about those air conditioners on either side of his sleeping area, set up to re-create the temperature of his beloved Arctic World. One always tried to relive the comforts of one’s childhood. But there was no reason this poor woman had to suffer for The Penguin’s sake. At least not while they still had all their clothes on.
“I’ll warm you!” he heartily volunteered.
“Down, Oswald,” Catwoman warned.
The Penguin stopped. He didn’t like the look of her claws.
“We need to talk,” she continued. “You see, we have something in common.”
“Sounds familiar,” The Penguin agreed. He’d like to have a lot of things in common with this babe. “Appetite for destruction?” he guessed. He tugged on his suit coat. “Contempt for the czars of fashion? Wait—don’t tell me—naked sexual charisma!”
“Batman,” Catwoman replied simply. “The thorn in both our sides, the fly in our ointment.”
“Ointment?” The Penguin leered. It sounded good to him. “Scented or unscented?”
Catwoman sighed and stood. “I’ll come back later.”
The Penguin gently pushed her back on the bed. Perhaps he was coming on a bit too strong. Maybe they did need to talk for a minute or two before abandoning all their inhibitions and giving themselves up to overwhelming sexual passion.
“Are you, perchance, a registered voter?” he asked pleasantly. “I’m a mayoral prospect, you know.”
She did not seem impressed. “I have but one pet cause today. Ban the Bat.”
“Oh, him again,” The Penguin replied dismissively. “what is it with you two? He’s already history—” He raised his umbrella and pointed to the blueprints on the wall. “Check it out.”
Catwoman walked over to the detailed diagrams of the Batmobile. It had taken Max a pretty penny to get them from the car’s designer—or a disgruntled former employee of that designer. The Penguin let the businessman handle that sort of particular.
And speaking of particulars, they had every single part of the Batmobile labeled on these charts; and not just those parts the average citizen might see, but every nut and bolt that held that infernal machine together.
The Penguin chuckled at the very thought of their plans.
“We’re going to disassemble his spiffy old Batmobile,” he explained heartily, “then reassemble it as an H-bomb on wheels.” He opened his umbrella as he made the sound of a muffled explosion—a visual aid for the death of Batman. “Yesterday’s victor is tomorrow’s vapor.”
The Catwoman shook her head disapprovingly. “He’d have more power as a martyr. No, to destroy Batman, we must first turn him into what he hates most.” She pointed at the Penguin, then herself. “Namely, us.”
The Penguin frowned. This was more complicated than he thought. Was she talking about sullying the hero before they could off him?
“You mean, frame him?” he asked.
But Catwoman was no longer looking at him. She had noticed the huge pile of yellow legal pads on his bedside table, and had even picked up one to peruse the names he had written
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