The Man from TOMCAT by by Mallory T. Knight - Chapter 01

Genre: Vintage Sleaze / Spy Guy

THE MAN FROM T.O.M.C.A.T.

VERSUS THAT DIRTY, ROTTEN, LOW-DOWN, NO GOOD, RED CHINESE SECRET ORGANIZATION MOM-ZA

All they told Operative Tim O'Shane at the briefing was that there were twelve of them ...

All beautiful and all ready, willing—even eager!—to spread their particular brand of destruction throughout the length and breadth of the country in a stratagem so fiendishly clever that it had to be the work of the inscrutable Alexander Graham Wang!

Alexander Graham Wang, known to spies of all nations as the biggest of all MOM-ZAS!

Once Wang had set his notorious Joy Dragons loose, disaster would be the order of the day; for the awful truth about the Chinese agent's girls was that any man who allowed himself to be seduced by one of them was instantly rendered permanently sterile ... and became, in fact, an unwitting carrier of the same hideous virus ...

T.O.M.C.A.T. Agent O'Shane (Code Name: Petronius) had his work cut out for him. (1) Find twelve unknown beauties who had been conditioned that their mission in life was to spread “Joy" to every American man they met. (2) Keep them—somehow—from succeeding. (3) Manage—one way or another—to avoid succumbing to them himself!

Somehow Agent O'Shane (who was a big-time succumber) knew that last part was going to be the roughest aspect of the assignment!

CHAPTER 01

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The fact that he was stark naked in the middle of Red Square didn't particularly bother Tim O'Shane. A crazy thought rocketed through his brain: I'm not really naked, I am wearing my shoulder holster. What worried him distinctly was the fact that he was surrounded by what seemed to be a whole platoon of bare-breasted Chinese amazons. Their voluptuous beauty gave him no joy, for they were brandishing hatchets, sickles, sabers, hedge clippers, and long, gleaming razors. Worst of all, each of them seemed to be concentrating on that portion of his anatomy that dangled vulnerably below his belt—or at least, dangled where his belt would have been had he been wearing one.

As they relentlessly closed in on him chanting "Yankee, we clippee!" he looked desperately around for some means of escape, but it was no use. He felt like a trapped prairie dog on a superhighway in the path of a fleet of onrushing trucks.

Suddenly the bells in the tower of Spaskaya Bashnya, high atop the Kremlin, began tolling. It distracted the horde of Red China beauties long enough for Tim to take one long insane chance. With a single ear-splitting shout of "Banzai!"—the first word that came into his mind—he plunged headlong into their midst, in the general direction of St. Basil's Cathedral. Instantly he found himself the focal point of squirming arms, thighs, breasts, and navels. If he ever wanted to know if it was true what they said about Chinese girls, that was his chance. But he was more anxious to get the hell away.

Using his left hand to shield the family jewels, he lashed out murderously with his right.

With a bone-shattering crack he smashed his fist into a jaw.

Then, quite unexpectedly he found himself bathed in rivulets of perspiration, sitting upright in bed. His heart was pounding furiously and his breath came in short, hoarse gasps. Man, he thought to himself, what a nightmare!

His senses returned in an instant. Glancing at his wristwatch he saw that it was barely four A.M. That accounted for the tolling of the bell. But when the pain in his right knuckles persisted, Tim knew what he had done.

There, sprawled out beside him in bed like a life-sized doll gone limp, was Wanda Nofkiwicz, the delightfully oversexed Polish cryptographic technician he had been pumping regularly for the past week. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness Tim could distinctly make out the beatific expression on Wanda's slumbering face—not to mention the swelling lump where he had slugged her jaw. Judging from past experiences she'd be out cold for at least an hour. That was one good thing about Wanda—she enjoyed a belt in the jaw as much as a kiss. To her it was an important ingredient in lovemaking. To Tim it was a needed respite in the course of a harrowing job.

Climbing out of bed, Tim groped about on the floor for his shorts, pulled them on and unhooked the sub-miniature magnetic tape cartridge from under the bed on Wanda's side. She had spilled a good deal of classified information relating to Warsaw—Moscow code transmission.

Headquarters would find it extremely interesting.

He grinned as he visualized the expression on the Chief's secretary's face when she began transcribing some of the livelier—though non-classified—aspects of the tape. Chastity Beld was no prude, but so far she had managed to live up to her name, whether she liked it or not.

Taking the tiny cartridge and sealing it up in a tough plastic container, Tim then embedded the entire object in a soft rubbery plastic, then rolled it around between his palms for a few seconds. By the time it hardened to the consistency of an ordinary rubber ball it was ready for shipment. He stuffed it into a container that outwardly resembled an empty cognac bottle, then going to the window, he hurled it to the street at an imaginary cat with a single epithet of highly unprintable French. He knew that within seconds after it struck the pavement it would be on its way to T.O.M.C.A.T. Tactical Operations Master Counterintelligence Assault Team—in New York.

Gazing reflectively from his hotel room window to the deserted Parisian street below, Tim's mind began to drift backward in time. He wondered what mad god of destiny had ever catapulted him into the devious, perilous world of espionage. Then, after a short glance at the recumbent nude still out cold on his bed, he was forced to admit to himself that a weakness for the opposite sex had a great deal to do with it.

His five years in "the business" seemed like five weeks.

He would never forget the day he was unexpectedly dragged in as it were, if he outlived Methuselah.

It was early autumn 1961. He was still Captain Timothy O'Shane, United States Marine Corps, on special duty with the American Embassy in Paris. The day in question had been a beautiful, cloudless, October Tuesday. And like every Tuesday in the past six months, Tim was spending a blissful afternoon in the willowy arms of Marianne de Montreuil. Marianne, in addition to being a marquise whose family dated almost as far back as the Roman conquest, was married to a high-ranking French diplomat. Fortunately for Tim, Tuesdays were religiously reserved by M. Le Marquis for his mistress.

It was probably part of a long chain of amorous assignations that accounted for the high price of hotel rooms on Tuesday afternoons.

Marianne was the haughtiest looking beauty Tim had ever met. She was the sort of female who gave men the impression that she required burnt offerings before her sexual organs as a prerequisite to lovemaking. Consequently she hadn't had a decent proposition for ages before the dashing Capt. O'Shane came along. The affair had proved to be exhaustingly satisfactory to both of them. Though Marianne may have been a genuine blue-blood in public, in private she would have outperformed the most experienced whore in Paris.

The fateful Tuesday began innocuously enough with Tim and Marianne playing a rather sedate Chopin duet on the grand piano. It ended with their playing a furious naked duet of their own upon the piano as soon as their clothing had been suitably tom off and strewn about the room.

It was while the lovely marquise writhed and moaned in the throes of ecstatic passion that Tim discovered a peculiar obstruction in a previously unobturated orifice of the lady's pelvic region. Being blessed with the ability to make swift decisions, he removed the offending object deftly and proceeded with what ultimately proved to be a superb and fulfilling navel engagement.

The moment Marianne left the room, Tim had stuffed the mysterious thing—a plastic capsule about two inches long—into one of the pockets of his shirt.

It wasn't until hours later, when he was back in his own apartment that Tim had discovered what he had in his possession—a microfilm containing the minutes of a top-secret NATO meeting on the subject of nuclear warhead depots and missile emplacements.

Not only could he smell a large, ripe, furry rodent, he knew that he'd better do something and do it fast. A quick but guarded phone call to Marianne made Tim suspicious at once. Her husband had been unusually "playful" before leaving the house that day. The explanation made sense. Certainly if Marianne had hidden the microfilm, she would have picked a better hiding place—especially on a Tuesday.

Never having been a stickler about protocol when the going was tricky, even in the Marines, Tim had decided that the only man he would talk to in this instance was the ambassador himself. It was a little past midnight, but this was too hot to wait till morning.

Wanting to be as inconspicuous as possible, Tim changed into civilian clothes. Then, just to be on the safe side he slipped on a shoulder holster, checked the clip of his .45, and thrust a double-barreled derringer into his back pocket for good measure.

It took him exactly seven minutes and twenty-two seconds to reach the embassy. The ambassador saw Tim without delay, despite the fact that he had callers, the Secretary of State, and the French Foreign Minister.

There was one other person in the room whose presence told him at once that the meeting was a matter of top security. It was Corporal Jethro Turnipseed, the only man in the Marine Corps who was stone deaf, and who was NCO in charge of eating celery in front of Russian bugs during important meetings.

The three grim-faced diplomats had questioned Tim until dawn before they were satisfied with his story. It was a good thing, because by the time they were finished Corporal Turnipseed only had two more stalks of celery left.

After that, things had moved faster than Tim might have imagined before. Within twelve hours he was on board a military jet bound for an undisclosed destination.

In his hands was a bulky, sealed envelope marked TOP SECRET. He was under strict orders not to open the envelope until specifically told to do so. Lastly he was still in civvies. As a matter of fact he was still wearing what he had on when he had left his apartment for the last time. The only other things he wore that he had not left with, were a dark, snap-brim hat, black wrap-around sunglasses, and a heavy stubble on his chin. It was a good thing he was so fair-haired or he would have looked as sinister as he felt.

There was one other item in his possession, a late edition of the Paris Herald Tribune. A single item on page one had attracted his attention. The paper had been lying on an empty seat of the staff car that had rushed him to the airbase. The news item was a fairly long one under the heading DIPLOMAT SLAIN. It seemed that the body of Marquis Gervaise de Montreuil had been found floating face down in the Seine with a single bullet in the back of its head. The assassins were unknown.

So Marianne had become a widow, Tim reflected.

He'd also had a fair hunch that he was partially responsible.

It was dark and overcast when the jet finally landed, so Tim still had no idea of where he was, and it was plain that none of the fly-boys were about to tell him.

A quick transfer had been made to a waiting helicopter.

Then, after about thirty minutes of chopping up fog, it had let him down in what had seemed to be the middle of an empty stretch of farmland.

When the blinking lights of the chopper disappeared in the murk overhead he felt as though he'd reached the end of the line. The whole thing had been crazier than an acid head's dream. It had begun to dawn on him, as he stood there shivering in the dark, that the worst was yet to come. When it did it was fast and unexpected—like a ten ton safe dropping on his head. Just before he passed out Tim realized that he'd been expertly bushwhacked.

What had happened after he regained consciousness was still as vivid in Tim's mind as the sight of Wanda's lovely breasts heaving gently as she slept off the effects of the punch she had received.

His first impression had been one of a delicious warmth. Opening his eyes he found himself propped up in a womb-like, down-filled chair before a huge roaring fire. The ceiling had thick oak beams, and the comfortably overpowering atmosphere of masculinity convinced him that he was either in England or Scotland. He was even more certain when his eyes focused on the man seated opposite him in a rich, nail-studded leather chair.

He had short, silvery hair and an immense handlebar mustache to match. His complexion was ruddy and leathery, and his eyes had the piercing quality of a falcon's.

There was an unmistakably military bearing about him.

He looked like the sort of character C. Aubrey Smith used to play in the old Empire building screen epics of the 1930's. When he saw that Tim had come around he stood to an erect height of about 6'4".

"My name is Colonel MacSwiver," he said with a distinct Scottish burr. "Ye can open your orders now."

"What the hell's going on here, anyway?" Tim demanded, jumping to his feet.

With the force of a battering ram MacSwiver pushed Tim back into his chair.

"I said ye can open your orders now," he repeated, "ye'll find out the rest soon enough, laddie."

Tim glared. "My name is Captain Timothy O'Shane, U.S. Marines ... " then after a slight pause, "Sir."

"I ken vurra weel your auld name," MacSwiver said emphatically, then lapsing back into the more familiar English idiom, added, "You're going to be with me for a long time, Captain, so you'd better get used to my ways. From now on your name's Petronius. Now start reading. If you raise a thirst there's some good Highland whiskey over there on the sideboard." With that he turned and left the room.

Tim had barely recovered from the initial shock of meeting MacSwiver when he was hit by his second jolt.

The first thing he found after tearing the envelope open was a newspaper clipping from the Paris Herald Trib.

It was dated two days ahead. It was the detailed story of his own death in a plane crash.

During the five days that followed Tim learned at last what had really happened to him. He had been "recruited"

by MacSwiver on the urgent recommendation of the Secretary of State and the Ambassador to France.

Whether he liked it or not he was now a member of the most incredible intelligence organization in existence.

It was strictly supranational in nature and its agents came from all the countries belonging to NATO and SEATO. It was no secret that its very existence was known only to beads of state and a handful of top echelon diplomats. And right now Tim was in its nerve center, known to insiders as T.O.M.C.A.T.

Col. Duncan MacSwiver, T.O.M.C.A.T.'s chief, was as fantastic as the organization he headed. Although he didn't look a day over sixty, he was eighty-three years old. He had learned the spy trade from the grand master himself, Lord Baden-Powell. He had outwitted the Kaiser's best agents during World War I, given Lenin, Stalin and company many a headache in between, and forced Hitler to chew some of his best Oriental rugs during World War II.

His reputation in several other areas was equally awesome.

He defied all medical predictions that he would wear himself out. To the chagrin of men young enough to be his grandsons, he consistently outperformed them in physical endurance, marksmanship, drinking, and—most annoyingly—in the boudoir. It had been whispered authoritatively in the most knowledgeable of circles for over half a century, that if it hadn't been for his personal habits he would have earned a field marshal's baton before his fiftieth birthday.

On occasions too numerous to recount he was said to have been bailed out of serious trouble by Winston Churchill himself. It was just that MacSwiver was too valuable to be cashiered. Reprimands made him unhappy.

When he was unhappy his work suffered. When MacSwiver's work suffered the fortunes of the British Commonwealth teetered. Consequently it eventually became official policy to keep MacSwiver happy at all costs. This was not too difficult, since to MacSwiver happiness was a mental state derived from women, food, drink, tobacco, skulduggery and an unlimited expense account.

When T.O.M.C.A.T. had been organized, MacSwiver was the obvious choice to lead it. It was the first and only opportunity ever given the British government to get rid of him without losing the overall benefits of his continued existence.

All of these fascinating facts about his new chief, Tim learned from the old boy's secretary, Chastity Beld, a remarkable young woman in her own right. Tim had also learned that for the next full year he was to undergo rigorous training, next to which Marine boot camp and Paratroop school would seem like Sunday in the park.

The initial phase of the training took place at T.O.M.C.A.T. I, where Tim had been dropped by helicopter.

It was to all outward appearances a palatial, thousand-acre estate on Long Island. The balance of his singular re-education was conducted in such diverse locations as Barbados, Kuala Lumpur, Kobe, Rome, London, Reykjavik, and Little America.

By the time he was ready for what the others referred to as his MS, or Master Spy degree—actually a tiny metallic identity disc carried by all members of the organization—Tim was fluent in Russian, French, Italian, German, Spanish and Mandarin, passable in Arabic, Hebrew, Japanese, Persian, Greek and Thai, and familiar with at least seven other dialects or languages. He had been a good marksman in the Marines. Now he could have unsexed an undernourished mouse at 200 yards in the dark, with anything from a Colt .45 to a bazooka.

And when it came to throwing knives, hatchets, and other cutlery, he might easily have qualified for the circus.

There was, additionally, the distinct possibility that he might have to pose as a circus performer someday, and he was ready.

There were scores of other skills he had mastered in those twelve grueling months, including piloting a helicopter, under and over water demolition, safe-cracking, lock-picking, cryptography, hypnosis, skiing, and noiseless assassination ( to mention only the most important subjects). Hardy Dix, formerly Major in the OSS, and now T.O.M.C.A.T.'s director of SITS (Special Intelligence Training Section) had long since conceded that Agent Petronius, as Tim was now called by everyone, had earned top honors.

His final exam was a practical exercise. Like the rest of his classmates he had to infiltrate the embassy of any nation he chose, and to bring back at least one vital classified secret. If a friendly nation was chosen, the classified information plus proof that it had been obtained by theft or trickery was enough. If a Communist country was selected, the assignment required an extra ingredient—proof that some sort of sabotage was carried out as well as theft of a secret. It was a much tougher job to tackle, but if carried off successfully it guaranteed better assignments later.

Tim had chosen one of the roughest spots on the roster, a Red Chinese cultural center in Cairo. T.O.M.C.A.T.

had suspected for some time that it was a cover for something far more sinister than a mere propaganda office. Tim confirmed all suspicions and came through with incredible success. He learned that the whole setup was phonier than a purple cockroach. It was a blind for BURP, one of Peking's deadlier tentacles, the Brotherhood of Undercover Reconnaissance Patrolmen. This euphemism actually represented a web of spies, jet-age hatchet men, terrorists, and agents provocateurs. Not only had he microfilmed a highly guarded list of BURP's agents complete with descriptions, he had succeeded in blowing up the entire lower half of its building by flushing a plastic explosive down a toilet before leaving the place for good.

His piece de resistance, however, was not discovered until three months later, when it was learned that he had surpassed himself by getting three of BURP's top female agents pregnant, thereby putting them out of action indefinitely. It was that, more than any of his other feats that won him MacSwiver's unswerving esteem.

Upon completion of his training Tim had been permanently assigned to T.O.M.C.A.T. IL This was the operational section which occupied the top two floors of a posh apartment building, Park Towers, at 34½ Central Park South. It was an ideal location. Having control of the roof area facilitated the placement of all necessary antennas, unobtrusive arrivals and departures, and in addition afforded a superb view of Central Park. When the occasion demanded, the area was readily convertible into an elegant roof garden which served as an ideal setting for a wide spectrum of activities from assassinations to assignations. MacSwiver, when in one of his more philosophical moods, had spent an entire evening speculating with all staff members present about that roof. The question was simple. Which group was in the majority, those who had suddenly departed this life there, or those who had been leisurely conceived? It was a thorny problem that no one had been able to solve.

Naturally T.O.M.C.A.T.'s cover at Park Towers had to be perfection, and of course MacSwiver had come as close to that state of affairs as possible. To all outward appearances, the top two floors of the building were occupied by a prosperous, unorthodox commercial organization known as Global Air Services House, Limited. It was a veritable beehive of activity, open twenty-four hours a day. As far as anyone knew, GASH provided anything from charter flights for military or private groups, to shipping single bottles of rare wines to millionaires' banquets in Kenya or Bangkok. GASH did indeed, maintain a fleet of aircraft, but their resemblance to ordinary commercial planes was strictly surface. As Tim was to learn, it was an excellent and versatile setup.

Tim's reflective train of thought broke off abruptly as the recumbent Wanda stirred, curled up into a foetal position, and muttered a garbled Polish obscenity. The swollen part of her jaw was black and blue, but she was obviously no nearer to a state of consciousness than she had been when she was hit. Tim suspected that there was some powerful psychological force at work that kept her out so long, but he had no desire to explore the subject at the moment. He did, however, object to her tightly balled-up posture. The wench had far too luscious a body to be concealed like that. The way she lay now, curled up like a possum did absolutely nothing for the aesthetic side of his nature. He went over to the bed, pried loose her arms and legs, then rearranged her in a more inviting position—one that would facilitate matters when she regained her senses.

Deciding that a drink might help him pass away the time he fixed himself a dark rum with a dash of bitter lemon and sat down in a chair strategically located in the far corner of the room. It afforded him a clear view of Wanda, the window, and the door.

As the rum began coursing through his system and relaxed him sufficiently to unbend slightly, Tim's mind drifted ahead, to the meeting he faced in the morning.

Just what in hell did Pletnikov want to tell him that was so urgent it had required an immediate trip over from London? The thought triggered off a brief mental backtrack again, bringing with it a sardonic chuckle. If Pletnikov only knew that his best European operative wasn't even a Russian, let alone a tough Muscovite named Gregor Alexei Timoshenko, he'd probably commit suicide.

The entire improbable situation had been the result of MacSwiver's wildest scheme to date, and if the goddess of fortune continued to smile on T.O.M.C.A.T., it would prove to be the most successful.

It had begun shortly after "Agent Petronius" had finished his third year of highly successful field operations.

MacSwiver had taken him on a private stroll through Central Park one day and revealed his next assignment with the unexpectedness of camel dung on an antique sofa.

"Timmy, lad," he had said (the chief had long since dropped the Petronius address when the two were in private), "ye'r gang off on the maist muckle job ye've ever tackled. What's more, yer gang tae truly enjoy it."

The instant he heard the kindly old Scots granddad gambit Tim knew he was in for trouble. This time, however, it had been impossible to anticipate the enormity of it.

MacSwiver had learned that the Russians were in the process of organizing a new espionage web. Its nature was to be different than any of its predecessors. It was to be virtually autonomous in its operations, world-wide in scope, and technologically as modern as tomorrow. Its name was a jawbreaker, even for those fluent in Russian Bureaucratese, but it had been coded in T.O.M.C.A.T.

files as Bureau of Liquidation, Intelligence, and Security.

Someone in the Records Section had helpfully contracted this to BLINTS.

One of the cleverest departures from tradition was that BLINTS did not operate out of Moscow, but Paris.

This was a clever move, for its chief was an adopted Parisian of long-standing. He was Sergei Ilytch Pletnikov, known to the jet set as a jovial, wealthy, anti-Red, White Russian. Even Tim knew who he was, the man had acquired a highly respectable reputation during the war, having done some excellent work for the Allied cause.

Tim's assignment was simple. All he had to do was assume a Russian identity, infiltrate BLINTS, and keep a steady flow of information coming to T.O.M.C.A.T.

He wasn't even given a chance to protest that he needed a long rest. MacSwiver had assured him that the job was going to be like one long holiday, besides, everything had been carefully arranged. Of course a few details had to be looked after first. There had been the matter of having his nose slightly reshaped, his fingerprints altered, and his arm tattooed.

The nose job was easy and so was the tattoo. The latter was a simple black number and established that Gregor Alexei Timoshenko had been a prisoner in a Nazi extermination camp from his eighth to his twelfth year. The fingerprint alteration was a bit more difficult. It involved a graft-like procedure that required Tim to wear a microscopically thin set of finger pads for as long as the assignment lasted. They were made of a specially created organic plastic that functioned indistinguishably from human skin. It could be worn indefinitely, it breathed, withstood incredible punishment, and in no way impaired the sense of touch. It even healed like real skin if it suffered a minor cut or abrasion.

After the necessary physical changes had been effected, Tim spent five days of intense briefing and psychological conditioning. His Russian identity was perfect at the end of that time. The cleverest part of the entire scheme had been the way his "dossier" had been sent to Pletnikov through actual Soviet channels. MacSwiver had contacts in the most unexpected places. The summary was coded according to the function of Moscow's latest, most sophisticated computer. It virtually commanded that Timoshenko be assigned to BUNTS. His personality profile, asserted the "computer," indicated that he would be an ideal man for BLINTS's Special Operations Branch, where he would soon become an essential person. "Otherwise," read the terse little summary, "Timoshenko will in all probability defect to the Western Imperialists within six months. The mathematical odds favoring this potential defection are exactly 987,244 to l."

Naturally, BLINTS, and especially Pletnikov, welcomed the newcomer and extended to him the status of charter member. Fortunately, through some more of MacSwiver's adroit manipulations behind the scenes, Tim was assigned to BLINTS's London Field Operational Group. There he established himself with the cover of a special travel consultant. The name he chose for himself was Timothy O'Shane, a selection regarded by Pletnikov as nothing less than radiant genius.

As MacSwiver predicted, the assignment turned out to be a relatively enjoyable one, especially with the advent of the miniskirt. Tim had always been pretty much a leg man. The only thing wrong with being part of BLINTS's London FOG was that it worked havoc with his sleep.

In his dreams he began to lose track of who he actually was, and when—as happened occasionally—he dreamed in Russian, he felt like hell the next day.

The brightest aspect of Tim's life as a one-sided double agent in London, was the perpetual flow of highly styled, sexually venturesome females who kept his leisure hours active and contented. Thus, until he had received his urgent summons from Pletnikov, a week earlier, Tim had enjoyed a virtual holiday. When the affable Sergei Ilytch had not met him at the airport, Tim was cautiously apprehensive. However, the arrival of a coded message via the roundabout route of the Polish Embassy, and delivered personally by the curvaceous Wanda had dissipated all concern. He was to check into the Hotel Zenobia on A venue Carnot near the Etoille and wait.

Thanks to Wanda the nights of waiting had not been dull, and now, he was to see Pletnikov in the morning.

"Timchik, you beast!" came a low throaty cry from the bed.

Tim's mind snapped abruptly to the present. Wanda was not only fully conscious, she was ready for another bout of strenuous horizontal exercise. Assuming a feline crouch, and baring imaginary fangs she hissed, "I feel like a lioness in heat."

Grinning as he got out of the chair, he started towards the bed and said, "That's what I like about you, baby, your subtle way with words."

The instant he was within range she sprang, wrapped herself around him like a flying wet noodle, and deftly removed his shorts with a rapid flick of her left foot. By the time they fell squirming to the welcome softness of the bed she was nibbling furiously on his left earlobe. It was an action she repeated a number of times on various parts of his body just to be sure that she didn't miss a single erogenous zone. One thing about Wanda, she was an insatiably thorough girl. Then, just as she began working her way down from the navel his head suddenly seemed to explode in a single blinding burst of pain. The last thing he remembered before blacking out completely was the thought—The bastards have finally caught up with me!