STRINGS
by Stephen Leigh
The death of Andrea Whitman was entirely Puppetman ‘s doing. Without his powers, the sullen lust that a retarded boy of fourteen felt for a younger neighbor girl would never have been fired into a molten white fury. By himself, Roger Pellman would never have lured Andrea into the woods behind Sacred Heart School in the suburbs of Cincinnati, and there ripped the clothing from the terrified girl. He would never have thrust that strange hardness into Andrea until he felt a sagging, powerful release. He would never have looked down at the child and the trickle of dark blood between her thighs and felt a compelling disgust that made him grasp the large flat rock alongside them. He would never have used that stone to bludgeon Andrea’s blond head into an unrecognizable pulp of torn flesh and splintered bone. He would never have gone home with her gore splattered over his naked body.
Roger Pellman would have done none of that if Puppetman had not been hiding in the recesses of poor Roger’s damaged mind, feeding on the emotions he found there, manipulating the boy and amplifying the adolescent fever that wracked the body. Roger’s mind was weak and malleable and open; Puppetman’s rape of it was no less brutal than what Roger did to Andrea.
Puppetman was eleven. He hated Andrea, hated her with the horrible anger of a spoiled child, hated her for having betrayed and humiliated him. Puppetman was the revenge fantasy of a boy infected with the wild card virus, a boy who’d made the mistake of confessing to Andrea his affection for her. Perhaps, he’d told the older girl, they might one day marry. Andrea’s eyes had gone wide at that and she’d run away from him giggling. He’d begun to hear the mocking whispers the very next day at school, and he knew even as the flush burned in his cheeks that she’d told all her friends. Told everyone.
When Roger Pellman tore away Andrea’s virginity, Puppetman had felt the faint stirring of that heat himself. He’d shuddered with Roger’s orgasm; when the boy slammed the rock into the girl’s weeping face, when he’d heard the dull crack of bone, Puppetman had gasped. He staggered with the pleasure that coursed through him.
Safe in his own room, a quarter-mile away.
His overwhelming response to that first murder frightened him at the same time that it drew him. For months afterward, he was slow to utilize that power, afraid to be so rapturously out of control again. But like all forbidden things, the urge coerced him. In the next five years, for various reasons, Puppetman would emerge and kill seven times more.
He thought of that power as an entity apart from himself. Hidden, he was Puppetman-a lacing of strings dangling from his invisible fingers, his collection of grotesque dolls capering at the ends.
TEDDY, JIMMY STILL SCRAMBLING HARTMANN, JACKSON, UDALL WAIT FOR COMPROMISE
New York Daily News, July 14, 1976
HARTMANN PROMISES FLOOR FIGHT JOKERS’ RIGHTS ISSUE ON PLATFORM
The New York Times, July 14, 1976
Senator Gregg Hartmann stepped from the elevator cage into the foyer of the Aces High. His entourage filed into the restaurant behind him: two secret service men; his aides John Werthen and Amy Sorenson; and four reporters whose names he’d managed to forget on the way up. It had been a crowded elevator ride. The two men in the dark glasses had grumbled when Gregg had insisted that they could all make the trip together.
Hiram Worchester was there to meet the group. Hiram was an impressive sight himself, a man of remarkable girth who moved with a surprising lightness and agility. He strode easily across the carpeted reception area, his hand extended and a smile lurking in his full beard. Light from the falling sun poured through the large windows of the restaurant and gleamed from his bald head. “Senator,” he said jovially. “Good to see you again.”
“And you, Hiram.” Then Gregg smiled ruefully, nodding at the crowd behind him. “You know John and Amy, I think. The rest of this zoo will have to introduce themselves. They seem to be permanent retainers anymore.” The reporters chuckled; the bodyguards allowed themselves thin, fleeting smiles.
Hiram grinned. “I’m afraid that’s the price you pay for being a candidate, Senator. But you’re looking well, as usual. The cut of that jacket is perfect.” The huge man took a step back from Gregg and looked him up and down appraisingly. Then he leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “You should give Tachyon a few hints concerning his attire. Really, what the good doctor wore here this evening…” Chestnut eyes rolled heavenward in mock horror, and then Hiram laughed. “But you don’t need to hear me prattling on; your table’s ready.”
“I understand that my guests have already arrived.” That sent the corners of Hiram’s mouth down in a frown. “Yes. The woman is fine, even though she drinks too much for my taste, but if the dwarf were not here under your aegis, I’d have him thrown out. It isn’t so much that he’s created a scene, but he’s dreadfully rude to the help.”
“I’ll make sure that he behaves, Hiram.” Gregg shook his head, running fingers through ash-blond hair. Gregg Hartmann was a man of plain and undistinguished appearance. He was neither one of the well-groomed and handsome politicians that seemed to be the new breed of the 70s, nor was he of the other type, the pudgy and self-satisfied Old Boys. Hiram knew Gregg as a friendly, natural person, one who genuinely cared for his constituents and their problems. As chairman of SCARE, Gregg had demonstrated a compassion for all those affected by the wild card virus. Under the senator’s leadership, various restrictive laws concerning those infected by the virus had been relaxed, stricken from the books, or judiciously ignored. The Exotic Powers Control Act and the Special Conscription were still legally in effect, but Senator Hartmann forbade any of his agents to enforce them. Hiram often marveled at Gregg’s deft handling of sensitive relations between the public and the jokers. “Friend of Jokertown” was what Tune had dubbed him in one article (accompanied by a photograph of Gregg shaking the hand of Randall, the doorman at the Funhouse—Randall’s hand was an insect’s claw, and at the center of the palm was a grouping of wet, ugly eyes). For Hiram, the senator was that rare Good Man, an anomaly among the politicians.
Gregg sighed, and Hiram saw a deep weariness behind the senator’s good-natured facade. “How’s the convention going, Senator?” he asked. “What chance does the jokers’ Rights plank have?”
“I’m fighting for it as hard as I can,” Gregg answered, and he glanced back at the reporters; they watched the exchange with unfeigned interest. “We’ll find out in a few days when we have the floor vote.”
Hiram saw the resignation in Hartmann’s eyes; that gave him all the information he needed-it would fail, like all the rest. “Senator,” he said, “when this convention’s over, I expect you to stop by here again. I’ll prepare something special just for you; to let you know that your work’s appreciated.” Gregg clapped Hiram lightly on the back. “On one condition,” he replied. “You have to make sure that I can get a corner booth. By myself. Alone.” The senator chuckled. Hiram grinned in return.
“It’s yours. Now, tonight, I’d recommend the beef in red wine its very delicate. The asparagus is extremely fresh and I made the sauce myself. As for dessert, you must taste the white chocolate mousse.”
Elevator doors opened behind them. The secret service men glanced warily back as two women stepped out. Gregg nodded to them and shook Hiram’s hand again. “You need to take care of your other guests, my friend. Give me a call when this madness is over.”
“You’ll be needing a White House chef, too.”
Gregg laughed heartily at that. “You’ll need to speak to Carter or Kennedy about that, Hiram. I’m just one of the dark horses in this one.”
“Then they’re passing by the best man,” Hiram retorted. He strode off.
The Aces High occupied the observation tower of the Empire State Building. From the expansive windows, the diners could gaze out to a view of Manhattan Island. The sun touched the horizon beyond the city harbor; the golden dome of the Empire State Building tossed reflections into the dining room. In the gold-green sunset, Dr. Tachyon was not difficult to spot, seated at his customary table with a woman Gregg did not recognize. Hiram had been right, Gregg saw immediately-Tachyon wore a dinner jacket of blazing scarlet trimmed with a collar of emerald-green satin. Purple sequins traced bold patterns on the sleeves and shoulders; mercifully, his pants were hidden, though a band of iridescent orange could be glimpsed under the jacket. Gregg waved, Tachyon nodded. “John, please take our guests over to the table and make introductions for me. I’ll be over in a second. Amy, would you come with me?” Gregg threaded his way through the tables.
Tachyon’s shoulder-length hair was the same improbable red as his jacket. He ran a dainty hand through the tangled locks as he rose to greet Gregg. “Senator Hartmann,” he said. “May I present Angela Fascetti? Angela, this is Senator Gregg Hartmann and his aide Amy Sorenson; the senator’s the man responsible for much of the funding of my clinic.”
After a few pleasantries, Amy excused herself. Gregg was pleased when Tachyon’s companion took the hint without any prompting from Amy and left the table with her. Gregg waited until the two women were a few tables away and then turned to Tachyon. “I thought you’d like to know that we’ve confirmed the plant in your clinic, Doctor. Your suspicions were right.”
Tachyon frowned, deep lines creasing his forehead. “KGB?”
“Probably,” Gregg answered. “But as long as we know who he is, he’s relatively harmless.”
“I still want him out of there, Senator,” Tachyon insisted politely. He steepled his hands before his face, and when he glanced at Gregg, his lilac eyes were full of an old hurt. “I’ve had enough difficulty with your government and their previous witch-hunts. I want nothing to do with another. I mean no offense by that, Senator; you’ve been a good man with whom to work and very helpful to me, but I’d rather keep the clinic entirely away from politics. My desire is to help the jokers, nothing more.”
Gregg could only nod at that. He resisted an impulse to remind the doctor that the politics he claimed he wished to avoid also paid some of the clinic’s bills. His voice was laden with sympathy. “That’s my interest as well, Doctor. But if we simply fire the man, the KGB will have a new plant in place within a few months. There’s a new ace working with us; I’ll talk with him.”
“Do whatever you wish, Senator. I’m not interested in your methods so long as the clinic remains unaffected.”
“I’ll see that it is.”
Across the room, Gregg saw Amy and Angela making their way toward them.
“You’re here to meet with Tom Miller?” Tachyon inred, one one eyebrow arching. He nodded his head slightly in the direction of Gregg’s table, where John was still making introductions.
“The dwarf? Yes. He’s-“
“I know him, Senator. I suspect he’s responsible for quite a lot of death and violence in Jokertown in recent months. He’s a bitter and dangerous man, Senator.”
“That’s exactly why I want to forestall him.”
“I wish you luck,” Tachyon commented dryly.
JJS PROMISES VIOLENCE IF PLANK DEFEATED
The New York Times, July 14, 1976
Sondra Falin felt mixed emotions as Gregg Hartmann approached the table. She’d known that she was going to face this difficulty tonight and perhaps had drunk more than she should have. The liquor burned in her stomach. Tom Miller “Gimli,” as he preferred to be called in the JJS-fidgeted next to her, and she laid an unsteady hand on the thick muscles of his forearm.
“Keep your fucking paws off me,” the dwarf growled. “You ain’t my goddamn grandmother, Sondra.”
The remark stung her more than it otherwise might have; she could only look down at her hand; at the dry, liverspotted skin hanging loose over thin bones; at the swollen and arthritic knuckles. He’ll look at me and smile like a stranger and I can’t tell him. Tears stung her eyes; she wiped at them savagely with the back of her hand, then drained the glass that sat before her. Glenlivet: it seared her throat all the way down.
The senator beamed at them. His grin was more than just the professional tool of a politician-Hartmann’s face was natural and open, inviting confidence. “Excuse my rudeness in not coming right over,” he said. “I’d like to say that I’m very glad that the two of you agreed to meet with me tonight. You’re Tom Miller?” Gregg said, turning to the bearded visage of the dwarf, his hand extended.
“No, I’m Warren Beatty and this here’s Cinderella,” Miller replied sourly. His voice had the twang of the Midwest. “Show him your slipper, Sondra.” The dwarf cocked his head belligerently at Hartmann, pointedly ignoring the hand.
Most people would have ignored the insult, Sondra knew. They would have drawn back their hand and pretended that it had never been offered. “I met Mr. Beatty last night at the Rolling Stone party,” the senator said. He smiled, his hand the focus of attention around the table. “I even managed to shake his hand.”
Hartmann waited. In the silence, Miller grumbled. At last the dwarf took Hartmann’s fingers in his own ham-fisted grip. With the touch, Sondra seemed to see Hartmann’s smile go cold for a moment, as if the contact had pained him slightly. He quickly let go of Miller’s hand. Then his composure returned. “Good to meet you,” Hartmann said. There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice, only a genuine warmth, a relief.
Sondra understood how she had come to love this man. It’s not you who loves him; it’s only Succubus. She’s the one Gregg knows. To him, you’re just an old, shriveled woman whose politics are in question. He’ll never know that Succubus is the same person, not if you want to keep him. All he’ll ever see is the fantasy Succubus makes for him. That’s what Miller said we have to do, and you’ll obey him, won’t you?
No matter how much it hurts you.
Now it was her turn to shake Gregg’s hand. She felt her fingers trembling as they touched; Gregg noticed it as well, for a faint sympathy seemed to tug at the corners of his mouth. Still, there was only curiosity and interest in his gray-blue eyes; no recognition beyond that. Sondra’s mood darkened again. He’s wondering what horrible things afflict this old woman. He wonders what ugliness is sitting inside me, what horrors I might reveal if he knew me.
She reached for the glass of scotch.
Her mood continued to deepen throughout the meal. The pattern of conversation seemed set. Hartmann would introduce a topic, and Miller would respond with unjustified sarcasm and scorn, which in turn the senator smoothed over. Sondra listened to the interplay without joining in. The others around the table evidently felt the same tension, for the stage remained open for the two chief players, with the others inserting their lines as if on cue. The dinner, despite the hovering solicitude of Hiram, tasted like ashes in her mouth.
Sondra drank more, watching Gregg. When the mousse was set aside and the conversation turned serious, Sondra was quite well drunk. She had to shake her head to clear the fog.
.”..need you to promise that there will be no public displays,” Hartmann was saying.
“Shit,” Miller replied. For a moment, Sondra thought that he might actually spit. The sallow, pitted cheeks under Gimli’s ruddy beard swelled and his maniacal eyes narrowed.
Then he banged a fist on the table, rattling dishes. The bodyguards tensed in their seats, the others around the table jumped at the sound. “That’s the same crap all you politicians hand out,” the dwarf growled. “The JJS has heard it for years now. Be good and roll over like a good dog and we’ll throw you a few table scraps. It’s time we were let in on the feast, Hartmann. The jokers are tired of leftovers.”
Hartmann’s voice, in contrast to Miller’s, was soft and reasonable. “That’s something I agree with, Mr. Miller, Ms. Falin.” Gregg nodded to Sondra, and she could only frown in return, feeling the drag of the wrinkles around her mouth. “That’s exactly why I’ve proposed that the Democratic party add the jokers’ Rights plank to our presidential platform. That’s why I’ve been out trying to collar every last vote I can get for it.” Gregg spread his hands wide. In another person his speech might have had a hollow sound, a falseness. But Gregg’s words were full of the long, tired hours he’d spent at the convention, and that lent them truth. “That’s why I’m asking you to try to keep your organization calm. Demonstrations, especially anything of a violent nature, are going to prejudice the middle-of-the-road delegates against you. I’m asking you to give me a chance, to give yourselves a chance. Abandon your plan to march to Jetboys Tomb. You don’t have a permit; the police are already on edge from the crowds in the city, and they’ll move in on you if you try. “
“Then, stop them,” Sondra said. The scotch slurred her words, and she shook her head. “No one questions the fact that you care. So stop ‘em.”
Hartmann grimaced. “I can’t. I’ve already advised the mayor against such actions, but he’s adamant. March, and you invite confrontation. I can’t condone your breaking the law”
“Roll over, doggie,” Miller drawled, and then he howled loudly, throwing his head back. Around the dining room, patrons began to glance toward them. Tachyon peered at them with frank anger and Hiram’s worried face emerged from the kitchen doors. One of the secret service men began to rise but Gregg waved him down. “Mr. Miller, please. I’m trying to talk realities with you. There’s only so much money and help available, and if you persist in antagonizing those who control them, you’ll only hurt yourselves. And I’m telling you that fucking `reality’ is in the streets of Jokertown. C’mon down and rub your nose in the shit, Senator. Take a look at the poor creatures wandering the streets, the ones the virus wasn’t kind enough to kill, the ones that drag themselves down the sidewalk on stumps, the blind ones, or the ones with two heads or four arms. The ones who drool as they talk, the ones who hide in darkness because the sun burns them, the ones for whom the slightest touch is agony.” Miller’s voice rose, the tone vibrant and deep. Around the table, jaws had dropped; the reporters scribbled notes. Sondra could feel it as well, the throbbing power in that voice, compelling. She’d seen Miller stand before a jeering crowd in Jokertown and in fifteen minutes have them listening quietly, nodding to his words. Even Gregg was leaning forward, caught.
Listen to him, but be careful. His voice is that of the snake, mesmerizing, and when he’s snared you, he’ll pounce. “That’s your reality,’” Miller purred. “Your goddamn convention’s just an act. And I tell you now, Senator”-his voice was suddenly a shout “the JJS will take our protests into the streets.”
“Mr. Miller-” Gregg began.
“Gimli!” Miller shouted, and his voice went strident all wer gone, as if Miller had used up some inner store. “My fucking name’s Gimli!” He was on his feet, standing on his E In another, the posture would have seemed ludicrous, but none of them could laugh at him. “I’m a fucking dwarf, not one of your ‘misters’!”
Sondra tugged at Miller’s arm; he shrugged her away. “Let me alone. I want them to see how much I hate them.”
“Hate’s useless,” Gregg insisted. “None of us here hate you. If you knew the hours I’ve put in for the jokers, all the drudge work that Amy and John have gone through…” “You don’t fucking live it!” Miller screamed it. Spittle flew from his mouth, dappling the front of Gregg’s jacket. Everyone in the room stared now, and the bodyguards lurched from their seats. Only Gregg’s hand held them back.
“Can’t you see that we’re your allies, not enemies?”
“No ally of mine would have a face like yours, Senator. You’re too damn normal. You want to feel like one of the jokers? Then let me help you learn what it’s like to be pitied.” Before any of them could react, Miller crouched. His thick, powerful legs hurled him toward the senator. His fingers curled like claws as he reached for Gregg’s face. Gregg recoiled, his hands coming up. Sondra’s mouth was open in the beginning of a useless protest.
And the dwarf suddenly collapsed onto the table as if a gigantic hand had struck him out of the air. The table bowed and splintered under him, glasses and china cascading to the floor. Miller gave a high, pitiful squeal like a wounded animal as Hiram, a molten fury on his red face, half-ran across the dining room toward them, as the secret service men vainly tugged at Miller’s arms to get him off the floor. “Damn, the little shit’s heavy,” one of them muttered.
“Out of my restaurant!” Hiram thundered. He bulled his way between the bodyguards and bent over the dwarf. He plucked up the man as if he were a feather-Gimli seemed to bob in the air, buoyant, his mouth working soundlessly, his face bleeding from several small scratches. “You are never to set foot in here again!” Hiram roared, a plump finger wagging before the dwarf’s startled eyes. Hiram began to march toward the exit, towing the dwarf as if pulling a balloon and scolding him the entire time. “You insult my people, you behave abominably, you even threaten the senator, who’s only trying to help…” Hiram’s voice trailed off as the foyer doors swung shut behind him, as Hartmann brushed china shards from his suit and shook his head to the bodyguards. “Let him go. The man has a right to be upset-you’d be too if you had to live in Jokertown.”
Gregg sighed and shook his head at Sondra, who gaped after the dwarf. “Ms. Falin, I beg you-if you’ve any control over the JJS and Miller, please hold him back. I meant what I said. You only endanger your own cause. Truly.” He seemed more sad than angry. He looked at the destruction around his feet and sighed. “Poor Hiram,” he said. “And I promised him.”
The alcohol she’d consumed made Sondra dizzy and slow. She nodded to Gregg and realized that they were all looking at her, waiting for her to say something. She shook her gray, wizened head to them. “I’ll try,” was all she could mutter. Then: “Excuse me, please.” Sondra turned and fled the room, her arthritic knees protesting.
She could feel Gregg’s stare on her hunched back.
FLOOR VOTE ON JOKERS’ RIGHTS TONIGHT The New York Times, July 15, 1976
JJS VOWS MARCH ON TOMB
New York Daily News, July 15, 1976
The high-pressure cell had squatted over New York for the past two days like an enormous tired beast, turning the city unseasonably hot and muggy. The heat was thick and foul with fumes; it moved in the lungs like the Jack Daniels Sondra poured down her throat-a burning, sour glow. She stood in front of a small electric fan perched on her dresser, staring into the mirror. Her face sagged in a cross-hatching of wrinkles; dry, gray hair was matted with sweat against a brown-spotted scalp; the breasts were empty sacks hanging flat against the bony rib cage. Her frayed housecoat gaped open, and perspiration trickled down the slopes of her ribs. She hated the sight. Despairing, she turned back into the room.
Outside, on Pitt Street, Jokertown was coming fully awake in the darkness. From her window, Sondra could see them, the ones that Gimli always ranted about. There was Lambent, far too visible with the eternal glow of his skin; Marigold, a cluster of bright pustules bursting on her skin like slow blossoms; Flicker, sliding from sight in the darkness as if illuminated by a slow strobe light. All of them seeking their small comforts. The sight made Sondra melancholy. As she leaned against the wall, her shoulder bumped a photograph in a cheap frame. The picture was that of a young girl perhaps twelve years old, dressed only in a lacy camisole that slipped over one shoulder to reveal the upper swell of pubescent breasts. The shot was overtly sexual-there was a haunting wistfulness in the child’s expression and a certain affinity to the eroded features of the old woman. Sondra reached over to straighten the frame, sighing. The paint covered by the photograph was darker than that on the walls, testifying to how long it had been in place.
Sondra took another pull on the Jack Daniels.
Twenty years. In that time, Sonya’s body had aged twoand-a-half times as much. The child in the photo was Sondra, the picture taken by her father in 1956. He’d raped her a year before, her body already showing the signs of puberty though she’d been born five years earlier in ‘51.
Careful footsteps sounded on the stairway outside her apartment and halted. Sondra frowned. Time to whore again. Damn you, Sondra, for ever letting Miller talk you into this.
Damn you for ever coming to care for the man you’re supposed to be using. Even through the door she could feel the faint prickling of the man’s pheromonal anticipation, amplified by her own feelings for him. She felt her body yearning to respond sympathetically and she relaxed her control. She closed her eyes.
At least enjoy the feel of it. At least be glad that for a little while you’ll be young again. She could feel the quick changes moving in her body, straining at the muscles and tendons, pulling her into a new shape. The spine straightened, oils lathed the skin so that it lost its dry brittleness. Her breasts rose as a sexual heat began to throb in her loins. She stroked her neck and found the sagging folds gone. Sondra let the housecoat fall from her shoulders.
Already. So fast tonight. They’d been lovers for six months now; she knew what she’d find when she opened her eyes. Yes-her body was sleek and young with a fleecing of blond hair at the joining of her legs, her breasts small as they had been in her photo. This apparition, this mind-image of her lover: it was childlike, but not innocent. Always the same. Always young, always fair; some vision of his past, perhaps. A waif, a virgin-whore. Her fingertip brushed a nipple. It lengthened, thickening as she gasped at the touch, aroused. There was a wetness between her thighs already.
He knocked. She could hear his breath, a little too fast after the climb up the three flights, and found that his rhythm matched her own. Already she was lost in him. She unlocked the door, slid the deadbolt over. When she saw that there was no one in the hallway with him, she opened the door fully and let him stare at her nakedness. He wore a mask-blue satin over the eyes and nose, the thin mouth below it lifted in a smile. She knew him-she needed only the response of her body. “Gregg,” she said, and the voice was that of the child she had become. “…as afraid that you weren’t going to be able to be here tonight.”
He slid into the room, shutting the door behind him. Without saying anything, he kissed her long and deep, his tongue finding hers, his hands stroking the flank of her body.
When he finally sighed and pulled away, she laid her head against his chest.
“I had a difficult time getting away,” Gregg whispered. “Sneaking down the back stairs of my hotel like some thief . .. wearing this mask …” He laughed, a sad sound.
“The voting took forever. God, woman, did you think I’d desert you?”
She smiled at that and took a mincing step away from him. Taking his hand in her own, she guided him between her legs, sighing as his finger entered her warmth. “I’ve been waiting for you, love.”
“Succubus,” he breathed. She chuckled softly, a child’s giggle.
“Come to bed,” she whispered.
Standing beside the rumpled mattress, she loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, biting gently at his nipples. Then she knelt before him, unlacing his shoes, taking off his socks before unfastening his belt and slipping his pants down. She smiled up at him as she stroked the rising curve of his penis. Gregg’s eyes were closed. She licked him once, and he groaned. He started to remove the mask and she stopped him. “No, leave it on,” she told him, knowing that it was what he wanted her to say. “Be mysterious.” Her tongue ran along his length again and she took him in her mouth until he gasped. Pushing him back on the mattress and cupping him gently, she teased him into heat, following the path of his needs, his lust amplifying her own until she was lost in the spiraling, bright feedback. He growled deep in his throat and pulled her away, rolling her over and spreading her legs roughly. He thrust into her; pounding, moving, his eyes bright behind the mask; his fingers digging into her buttocks until she cried out. He was not gentle; his excitement was a maelstrom in her mind, a swirling storm of color, a gasping heat that flailed both of them. She could feel his climax building; instinctively, she went with that welling of scarlet, her teeth clenched as his nails cratered her flesh and he slammed himself into her again and again and again…
He groaned.
She could feel him voiding inside her, and she continued to move under him, finding her own climax a moment later. The whirling began to subside, the colors faded. Sondra clung to the memory of it, hoarding the energy so that she could keep this shape for a time.
He was staring down at her behind the mask. His gaze traveled her body-the marks on her breasts, the red, inflamed gouges of his nails. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Succubus, I’m very sorry.”
She pulled him down beside her on the bed, smiling as she knew he wanted her to smile, forgiving him as she knew he needed to be forgiven. She kept the thread of arousal in him so that she could remain Succubus. “It’s all right,” she soothed him. She bent to kiss his shoulder, his neck, his ear. “You didn’t mean to hurt me.”
She glanced at his face, reached behind his head, and loosed the strings of his mask. His mouth sagged in a frown, his eyes were bright with his apology. Touch him, feel the fire in him. Comfort him.
Whore.
This was the part of it that Sondra despised, the part that reminded her of the years when her parents had sold her body to the rich of New York. She’d been Succubus, the best-known and most expensive prostitute in the city from ‘56 to ‘64. Nobody had known that she was only five when it started, that a joker had been attached to the ace she’d drawn from the wild card deck. No, they’d only cared that as Succubus she would become the object of their fantasies-male or female, young or old, submissive or dominant. Any body or any shape: a Pygmalion of masturbatory dreams. A vessel. No one knew or cared that Succubus would inevitably collapse into Sondra, that her body aged far too rapidly, that Sondra hated Succubus.
She’d sworn when she fled her parental captivity twelve years before that she’d never let Succubus be used againSuccubus would only give pleasure to those who had little chance for pleasure otherwise.
Damn Miller. Damn the dwarf for talking me into this. Damn him for sending me to this man. Damn me for finding that I like Gregg too much. And most of all damn the virus for forcing me to remain hidden from him. God, that dinner at the Aces High yesterday .
Sondra knew that the affection Hartmann claimed to have for her was genuine, and she hated the realization. Yet her concern for the jokers was genuine as well, and her involvement with the JJS was a deep commitment. Knowing the government and, especially, SCARE was crucial. Hartmann influenced the aces that were beginning to side with the authorities after long, hidden years: Black Shadow, the Shaker,
Oddity, the Howler. Through Hartmann, the JJS had been able to channel government monies to the jokers-Sondra had discovered the lowest bids on several government contracts; they’d been able to leak the information to joker-owned companies. Most importantly, it was because she controlled Hartmann that she was able to keep Miller from finally turning the JJS into the violent radical group that the dwarf wanted. While she could dangle the senator from Succubus’s hands, she could limit Gimli’s ambition. At least, that was her hope-after the Aces High fiasco, she was no longer certain. Gimli had been grim and sullen at their meeting this evening.
“You’re tired, love,” she said to Gregg, tracing the line where his light hair dipped into a widow’s peak.
“You wear me out,” he replied. The smile returned, tentative, and she brushed his lips with her own.
“You seem distracted, that’s all. The convention?” Her hand slid down his body, over the stomach that age was beginning to soften. She caressed his inner thighs, using Succubus’s energies to relax him, to put him at ease. Gregg was always tense, and there was also that wall in his mind that he would never open, a weak mindblock that would be useless against most of the aces she knew. She doubted that Gregg even realized that the block was there, that he too had been touched, however mildly, by the virus.
She felt the first resurgence of his passion.
“It wasn’t very good there,” he admitted, cuddling her to him. “The vote didn’t have a chance, not with all the moderates against it-they’re all afraid of a conservative groundswell. If Reagan can knock Ford out of the nomination, then the whole show’s up in the air. Carter and Kennedy were both dead set against the plank-neither one of them wanted to be stuck supporting causes they weren’t sure about. As the front-runners, their nonsupport was too much.” Gregg sighed. “It wasn’t even close, Succubus.”
The words seemed to coat her mind with ice and she had to fight to hold her form as Succubus. By now the word would be spreading through Jokertown. By now Gimli would know; he’d be organizing the march for tomorrow. “You can’t reintroduce the plank?”
“Not now.” He stroked her breasts, circling her aureola with a forefinger. “Succubus, you don’t know how I looked forward to seeing you after all this. It’s been a very long and frustrating night.” Gregg turned to her and she snuggled against him comfortably, though her mind raced.
Musing, she nearly missed his words. “….f the JJS insists, it’s going to be very bad.”
Her hand stopped moving on him. “Yes?” she prompted.
But it was already too late. Already, she could feel the tug of his lust. His hand closed on hers. “Feel,” he said. His hardness throbbed on her thigh. Again, she began to sink into him, helpless. Her concentration left her. He kissed her and her mouth burned; she straddled his body, guiding him into her once more. Inside, trapped, Sondra railed at Succubus. Damn you, he was talking about the JJS.
Afterward, exhausted, Gregg would say very little. It was all she could do to convince him to leave the apartment before her form collapsed and she became an old woman again.
SENATOR WARNS OF CONSEQUENCES AS MAYOR VOWS ACTION
The New York Times, July 16, 1976
CONVENTION MAY TURN TO DARK HORSE
New York Daily News, July 16, 1976
“OKAY, DAMMIT! MOVE IT OVER THERE. IF YOU CAN’T MANAGE TO WALK, GO OVER TO GARGANTUA’S CART. LOOK, I KNOW HE’S STUPID, BUT HE CAN PULL A FUCKING CART, FOR CRISSAKES.”
Gimli exhorted the milling jokers from the tailgate of a rusty Chevy pickup truck, waving his short arms frantically, his face flushed with the effort of screaming, sweat dripping from his beard. They were gathered in Roosevelt Park near Grand, the sun baking New York from a cloudless sky, the early morning temperature already in the high eighties and heading for a possible three figures. The shade of the few trees did nothing to ease the sweltering-Sondra could barely manage to breathe. She felt her age with every step as she approached the pickup and Gimii, dark circles of perspiration under the arms of her calico sundress.
“Gimii?” she said, and her voice was a cracked and broken thing.
“NO, ASSHOLE! MOVE IT OVER THERE BY MARIGOLD! Hello, Sondra. You ready to walk?-I could use you to keep the back of the group organized. I’ll give you Gargantua’s cart and the cripples-that’ll give you a place to ride that’s away from the crowds and you can keep the ones in front moving. I need someone to make sure Gargantua doesn’t do anything too fucking dumb. You got the route? We’ll go down Grand to Broadway, then across to the Tomb at Fulton-“
“Gimli,” Sondra said insistently.
“What, goddammit?” Miller put his hand on his hip. He wore only a pair of paisley shorts, exposing the massive barrel chest and the stubby, powerful legs and arms, all liberally covered with reddish-brown curly hair. His bass voice was a growl. “They say the police are gathering around the park gates and putting up barricades.” Sondra glared at Miller accusingly. “I told you that we were going to have trouble getting out of here.”
“Yeah. Piss. Fuck ‘em, we’ll go anyway.”
“They won’t let us. Remember what Hartmann said at the Aces High? Remember what I told you he mentioned last night?” The old woman folded her bony arms over the tattered front of the sundress. “You’ll destroy the JJS if you get into a fight here…”
“What’s the matter, Sondra? You suck the guy’s cock and take in all his political crap as well?” Miller laughed and hopped down from the pickup to the parched grass. Around them, two hundred to three hundred jokers milled about near the Grand Street entrance to the park. Miller frowned into Sondra’s glare and dug bare toes into the dirt. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go fucking look at this, since it bothers you so much.”
At the wrought-iron gate, they could see the police putting up wooden barricades across their intended path. Several of the jokers came up to Sondra and Miller as they approached. “You gonna go ahead, Gimli?” one of them asked. The joker wore no clothes-his body was hard, chitinous, and he moved with a lurching, rolling gait, his limbs stiff.
“I’ll tell you in a minute, huh, Peanut?” Gimli answered. He squinted into the distance, their bodies throwing long shadows down the street. “Clubs, riot gear, tear gas, water cannon. The whole fucking works.”
“Exactly what we wanted, Gimli,” Peanut answered. “We’ll lose people. They’ll get hurt, maybe killed. Some of them can’t take clubs, you know. Some of them might react to the tear gas,” Sondra commented.
“Some of them might trip over their own goddamn feet, too.” Gimli’s voice boomed. Down the street, several of the cops looked toward them, pointing. “Since when did you decide that the revolution was too dangerous, Sondra?”
“When did you decide that we had to hurt our own people to get what you want?”
Gimli stared back at her, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun. “It ain’t what I want,” he said slowly. “It’s what fair. It’s what’s just. Even you said that.”
Sondra set her mouth, wrinkles folding around her chin. She brushed back a wisp of gray hair. “I never wanted us to do it this way.”