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Finally, the door to the suite closed, and Wisper physically vanished from the room, though my mind would hold that last, heartrending image of her despondent face burned into my heart for the remainder of my days.

Waboombas fairly snarled at me, “You stupid, son of a…”

Then Washburne stepped out from behind me and showed off his little toy.

“Whoa,” Wendy said, her eyes as wide as the sea.

“Corky, look out!” Morgan called to me unnecessarily. “He’s got a gun!”

I just stared at my semi-retarded friend, blankly.

“I’m not kidding,” Morgan said, more distressed. “Look.”

I continued to stare.

“No, I’m serious. Look at his hand. There’s a gun. For real.”

“All of you get undressed,” Washburne said coldly.

“Fuck you, get undressed… ” Wendy said, raising herself to her full, towering height. But then Washburne waved the gun in her direction, and the two thugs-for-hire moved toward her. For a moment, I thought she might leap on them and perhaps sex them to death. But after a few deep breaths, and a moment or two to let her brain work through the reality of the situation, she settled down and likely realized killing them with her vagina wouldn’t be as much fun if she also died during the experience.

“I don’t want any of you following us,” Washburne said, as if I wanted to follow anyone but Wisper. “So take off your clothes, and…and get down on the floor, and stuff.”

We hesitated, and he waved the gun menacingly. Wendy, Sophie, and I were naked in moments, much to the delight of the professional wife-beaters, who were obviously locals and not accustomed to nudity. They showed tremendous interest in the ladies, whose tantalizing costumes had—oh, wait—nope, one was apparently getting off on me.

Morgan was the least willing to undress and had to be prodded by Washburne a couple times before a fearful Sophie started removing his clothes for him.

“What’s the big deal?” she said, not realizing that it might be the ‘little’ deal that was Morgan’s problem.

He resisted only a little, but squealed and moaned the entire time, staring longingly at each piece of clothing as it fell to the floor, like a small dog just the other side of the fence from its food bowl.

Sophie finally got him down to his underwear, and Morgan struggled more seriously with her as she tried to slip them off. Before long the minor struggle had turned into a full-scale battle as they each strained and complained, one against the other. But it was only fabric—Wopplesdown Struts fabric, at that—so it was inevitable the undies finally split, ripped, and tore away in Sophie’s hands. Morgan shrieked as if he’d been hit rather hard with an ugly stick.

“Oh,” Sophie said, a little sadly, staring at Morgan’s exposed ‘flea’. Then, ever the effervescent optimist, she rocked back on her heels and bounced—once, twice, three times. “Well,” she said, smiling pleasantly at Morgan. “You’ve got a pretty long tongue, right?”

It took a moment for what she was saying to slowly awaken Morgan’s hamster, but once he was fully alert, the little fellow fairly leaped into the wheel and sprinted madly, as if the finish line was finally in sight, and this time, this time, he would get there. “Yeah,” he said—Morgan, not the hamster—smiling back at her. “I do.”

“Good enough,” she told him, and tossed aside the shredded briefs. Then she put an arm around Morgan, clapping one hand on his bare ass. He perked up like I hadn’t seen since that day he learned Marvel had finally fired that one writer he thought was ruining the XMen.

What was his name?

“Down on the floor,” Washburne said, refocusing my attention.

Slowly, we complied. Wendy and I got down last, and most reluctantly, staring through Washburne’s soul the entire way.

“What’s in the suitcase?” he asked Henchman Number One?

“Nothing,” the thug replied. “Some paint, a couple a g-strings, and a buncha funnybooks.”

“Comic books!” Morgan, Wendy, and I said simultaneously.

“Shut up!” Washburne said. Then turned back to the thug. “Take the g-strings and the comics. You can leave the rest.”

Then slowly