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AN HOMAGE TO VINCENT VEGA

 

THE PIG STY: BEFORE THE BELL

 

“Are you comfortable with this?”

 

Tippi, Priscilla and Ian had retired to Bernice's guest bedroom, and without further ado Priscilla had handed Tip the key to Ian's diaper cover.  Retreating to the couch to make herself comfortable-- the same couch on which Suzie had nursed him the night before-- she left Ian sitting on the edge of the bed, and Tippi hovering over him.

 

“I'm more concerned about you,” Ian replied.  “I've had my diapers changed by so many beautiful women that it no longer bothers me.  But have you ever changed an adult before?”

 

“No,” Tippi conceded.  “In my babysitting days, I did change older children, but never a grown up … not even a teenager.”

 

“The principle is the same, but there's no getting around the fact that you are going to be taking a wet wipe to my penis and balls before powdering me.  It's intimate, Tippi, and I don't want you to do this if it makes you uncomfortable.”

 

“But I want to, Ian … er … Professor … I want to!  Sorry.  I don't know what to call you.”

 

“I had this conversation with Janis earlier.  We'll save the title for the classroom; in private I want you to call me whatever feels right to you.  Ian is fine.”

 

“The same is true for everyone in the house,” Priscilla interjected.  “We want to break down barriers, not erect them.”

 

“Can I call you 'Dad'?”

 

“Anything but grandpa,” he joked.

 

“You're not old enough,” Tippi protested.  “In fact, you're not nearly old enough to be my father … more like an older brother, but I don't like the feel of that.”

 

Tippi was actually feeling conflicted.  Sarah had brought her inside the fence, and chosen her to be Ian's caregiver for the foreseeable future.  She would have years to seduce him and turn him into her baby slave, and the fantasy still made her salivate.  But she would always be wearing a makeshift chastity belt, and Sarah struck her as the kind of person who would check her diaper, and know instantly if she had somehow managed to defeat it.  The idea of confronting Sarah, standing up to her, gave Tippi  the shivers.  If she had read Ian's fiancee correctly,  she would seize upon any excuse to put everyone around her in diapers, and keep them there.  Whether she knew it or not, Doctor Robinson was clearly destined to remain diapered for the rest of her life.

 

But her feelings, and her fantasies, had been rocked in the conference room, when Ian had taken Janis into his arms to comfort her, everyone present instantly recognizing that he had adopted the girl in his heart, taken her as his daughter.  A part of Tippi-- the part that felt alienated from her own family-- wanted that relationship for herself.  When she thought of Ian as 'Dad', something inside her warmed.

 

“Do you like to undress yourself, or do you want me to do it for you?”  She was looking at him with bright eyes that hinted at the conflict inside her.

 

“When I'm able, it's easier if I do it myself, but there are times when my left shoulder acts up, and I need help.”

 

Ian began methodically to undress.   Giving herself something to do, Tippi rearranged the changing pad, moving it a few inches deeper into the bed.

 

When he was ready, a thrill went through the girl that she had never experienced before.  For the first time, she was about to unlock the heavy canvas cover that imprisoned her father and teacher and baby slave behind the wall of his thick diaper.  The thrill was electric.

 

She eased the key into place as Priscilla had instructed her, felt it bite onto the lock, and eased it off the knob that held everything firmly in place.  With effort, she lowered the cover to Ian's ankles before slowly, slowly lowering his baby pants.

 

They were transparent, and she wanted them to be pink.  She wanted this as much as she had ever wanted anything in her life.  She made a mental note to bring the matter up with Sarah.  She was sure that turning her baby husband into a sissy was a big part of Sarah's own long-term plans.

 

“Lay back,” Tippi ordered, her expression stern and putting just enough bite into her words to make it clear that she was in charge, and that she expected him to obey her without question.

 

Ian complied, while Tippi wondered whether Sarah would give her permission to spank him.  She wanted to put him over her knee and turn his cute buttocks cherry red with the palm of her hand.

 

Unpinning his diaper, Tippi gently lowered it.  She was not surprised to see mushy poop peeking out from beneath his ass.  Sarah had held out the prospect of bottle feeding him, endless bottles of breast milk that guaranteed a mushy bottom.  As an added bonus, the clean up would be easy.

 

Without waiting for her command, Ian pulled his knees up toward his chest, fully exposing his bottom.  Tippi took the clean edges of the diaper and, as she had done in her babysitting days, used them to wipe off as much of the poop as she could.  Then she attacked him with wet wipes, her hand firm yet gentle.  In her hands, he would never have to worry about a diaper rash.  As long as he was obedient, she would shower him with all the love that she had stored up inside her.

 

“Thank you for taking Janis into your heart,” she murmured as she looked down at him, her gaze softening.  “Her parents have been neglecting her for years, and she's so lonely.  Your love will make her whole.  Thank you.”

 

“She's my daughter,” Ian admitted, a touch of wonder evident in his tone.  “I don't know how it happened, but it did.  I could feel it inside me … feel it happening.  I will take good care of her.”

 

Listening quietly, Priscilla could feel her heart melting.

 

“Let me slide this diaper out from under you, and then let's see if we can get a new one to take its place!”

 

Working together, Tippi and Ian got the diaper situated, and the moment of truth was at hand.  Unconsciously holding her breath, she ran a wet wipe the length of Ian's penis, and then lifted it so that she could make a return trip on the bottom.  Sensing that the wipes were too cold, she warmed another pair in her hands before using them to clean his balls.

 

Tippi squirmed, trying to get her own diaper to rest more comfortably around her hips.        

Lullaby's product was thinner, and for that reason it seemed to want to shift around a lot.  In future, she vowed to make sure that her diaper was pinned very, very tightly.  She didn't want it to move with every step that she took.

 

She took her time powdering him, first sprinkling and then spreading it around with the palm of her hand.  She loved touching him, and smiled when he began to harden.  When they were alone and the moment was right, she would take him in her mouth and make her feelings known.  He would welcome her, and it would be their secret.

 

The secret lovers.

 

Too soon, the moment came when her work was done, and she methodically pinned the new diaper in place.  Once again, he was imprisoned in the heavy fabric of the hospital diaper.

 

She slid his baby pants into place, taking care to make sure that no fabric was peeking out.  She did not want her Dad to soil his clothing.

 

Ordering him to stand up, she reached down to grab the canvas cover and pull it up completely to cover his vinyl pants.  She despised the transparent pair, and vowed once again to see them replaced with pink.  If Sarah could get him to wear the chastity cage and she could lay her hands on the key, she would see to it, as she would see to pleasuring him.

 

The lock clicked home, the sound echoing in the room.   It warmed her.  Some day, the key would be hers to keep, and with it she would own him.

 

Her baby slave.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Reminds me of a joint that Donnie and I have been known to visit in Delaware,” Ian observed as he surveyed the premises.  Entering from the rear, he could see at a glance that the bar was U shaped, and connected two otherwise separate rooms.  Tables two deep had been squeezed in between the bar and the walls, and he could hear the telltale sound of pinball machines being bounced around out of his line of sight.  Off to his left, a dingy sign with flickering red letters identified whatever passed for toilets.  Looking down, he noted that the linoleum floor was cracked, pitted, filthy, and uneven.  The Pig Sty was definitely a cop bar; no one else would have been able to pass inspection.

 

“A vintage Nordeast dive,” Vickie grinned, her eyes alight.  “It's got character!”

 

Priscilla elbowed her in the ribs, and then started waving to her friends.  Good natured wolf whistles rang out to welcome Vickie and Rita, reminding both that they weren't in the ornate watering holes that each favored in the upscale hotels downtown or ranging west from the airport alongside the interstate.

 

“Welcome, Pris! And thanks for bringing a couple of winners to grace The Pig Sty!  Are they on your team?”

 

A female in her mid-thirties came up to give Priscilla a hug, while the guy who had been sitting with her at the bar hoisted his stein in an alcoholic salute.

 

“Cassidy, this is Doctor Victoria Robinson, one of our fab four; her colleague, Doctor Stevenson, is here merely as an observer.  And this is our captain, Major … now Professor, Ian Grady.”  After doing the introductions, Pris leered at the guy seated at the bar.  “We all call him Hopalong, since he partners with Cassidy.  I honestly don't remember his real name.”

 

“He's been my partner for seven years,” Cassidy burped, “and I don't remember his real name either.”

 

Ian wandered over to the bar, and ran his hand over the stack of vinyl pants piled high in one spot, with the diaper covers and diapers ranged alongside.  The diapers took up a big chunk of the counter.

 

“I take it that Amos has been here,” he said to Hopalong.

 

“You talking about the walking fire hydrant with the sour disposition,” the veteran cop asked in return.  “He's in the other room, taking out his frustrations on a pinball machine.  You the Major they all call Street Racer?  The guy who came up with Hong Kong Rules?”

 

“Yeah, that's me.”

 

“Well, welcome to our little slice of heaven.”  Hopalong extended his hand, and the two men shook.  “Let me buy you a beer; if I ever get to Hong Kong, I'm going to follow in your footsteps.  What's your poison?”

 

“Leinie on tap?”

 

“Coming right up.  The ladies?”  Hopalong held up three fingers, which was shorthand for a Leinenkugel in every bar in the Twin Cities.

 

“Not a clue.  How about Pris?”

 

“Bourbon with a beer chaser,” Hopalong observed … “same as her parents.”

 

“They here?”

 

“Other room.  Herb's keeping an eye on your fire hydrant.  Word on the street is that the Third has to pony up periodically to replace the pinball machines that he breaks.  Even heard a story about him getting so mad that he picked up a machine, took it outside, and threw it in front of a passing bus.”

 

“True story.”

 

“My kind of guy.”

 

“Want him on my side in a firefight,” Ian concluded as he hoisted his beer and took a long swallow.  Even on a cold night, the first long pull on an ice cold beer went down easy.

 

“You one of the men in blue we be taking on,” he continued.

 

“Heck, no,” Hopalong laughed.  “I'll be sitting this one out … getting way too old for this shit.  But you should know that Dwight and Oscar are bringing two policewomen along who'll be tough competition … Carlie and Babs.  Gotta warn you that they both like to make side bets.  See that paddle on the wall?”

 

Hopalong pointed at a gumbo paddle hanging just to the left of the restrooms.

 

“You take the bet and win, one of them will drop her trousers, bend over to grab her ankles, and you get to let fly.  You lose, and either of them will set your ass on fire.”

 

“Through this diaper?”  Ian patted the bulging mound of cloth that imprisoned his butt cheeks.  “Good luck to them.”

 

He took another long pull on his beer.  It still tasted pretty good.

 

“Play fair.  Promise them something that will make up for it.”

 

“How about I get down on my knees, pull their panties down with my teeth, and tongue them to a mind numbing orgasm right here in front of the whole, damned crowd?”

 

“You'd do that?”  Hopalong's arched eyebrows made it clear that he thought the Major might just be all hat and no cattle.

 

“Had plenty of practice in Saigon.  A sort of combination bar, pool room and brothel that I used to visit when I breezed into town to brief the muckety-mucks.  Lots of lady pool sharks in that bar.  One thing, though; I don't want to get arrested.  Can we get by with calling it 'performance art'?”

 

“Don't see why not.  No one's likely to call a cop.”

 

Ian finished his beer, and planked the empty stein down on the counter.

 

“Thanks for the beer.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to join the others.”  He patted the large file folder that he had collected from his office en route to the sorority.  He had promised Rita, but he thought it would be good for Vickie and Priscilla to see the sketches as well.  Indeed, there was a part of him that badly wanted Sarah to walk in the door, and take her turn leafing through them.  Rita was right: with all that was at stake, he could not afford to have Linh and the other children remain anonymous and invisible.    As he walked toward it with a smile on his face, Ian was desperate for everyone at the table to come to terms with what they were getting into.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Anybody home?”

 

It was pitch black dark outside, in an industrial zone that was all but deserted after five in the afternoon.  Jerry was surprised that the door was unlocked.

 

A young and very attractive woman looked up from a desk off in the corner, and smiled.  “Hi,” she said; “I'm Francie.  You must be Mister Cromwell.  Welcome to Lullaby.”

 

Francie had a smile that would melt butter on cold toast.

 

If only I was twenty years younger. Jerry sighed.

 

“In person.  And true to my word, I've brought along some samples.”  Jerry dropped a carton with some of the hospital diapers on a nearby desktop.  He was just beginning to sort them out when a second girl walked in from what he presumed was the working side of the operation.  Harriet Belmondo was a raven haired beauty and, like Francie Sullivan, she took his breath away.

 

Harriet had a broad smile on her face as she walked up to shake hands and introduce herself.

 

“Thanks for your help, Mister Cromwell!  And to thank you properly, Francie and I would like to take you to dinner.  Nothing fancy.  There's a bar nearby that does catfish and walleye fingers that are out of this world!”

 

“You're on … and please call me Crummy.  The last person to call me 'Mister Cromwell' was a Captain in Viet Nam who thought he knew more about supply than I did.  We got him transferred out to Guam.  Anyone that dumb was either stupid or an enemy agent.”

 

“So, what have we got here,” Harriet laughed.

 

“I brought three of our hospital issue along.  This one's brand new … never been through the cycle.  This one's about a year old … say fifty washes.  And this one's seen maybe eighty-five trips.”

 

Jerry stood aside, and Harriet and Francine immediately began to compare the three diapers.  When they ran the cloth through their fingers, the two women nodded at one another.  Each could feel the difference, the older fabrics being rougher to the touch.  But what really jumped out at them was the size and thickness of the fabric.

 

Francine dashed off to grab three of Lullaby's diapers.  When she dropped them on top of the hospital diapers, the differences were stark.

 

“Wow!”  Harriet looked at Francine, and saw that her co-worker had had the same reaction.  “It's not just that these are quite a bit larger … they are so much thicker!”

 

“Amen to that,” Francine said in agreement.

 

“Did you get any numbers?”

 

Harriet nodded.  “I got off the phone a little while ago with Bernice Miller at the sorority house.  Here's what she came up with.”

 

Harriet reached into a pocket, and pulled out a piece of scrap paper.

 

“Assuming that everyone graduates on time, it totals out to eight hundred and sixty three months, or three thousand, eight hundred and twenty-two weeks.  At thirty-six diapers weekly, we're looking at one hundred and thirty-seven thousand, five hundred and ninety-two diapers.  Bernice told me that, when she ran the numbers, she almost had a heart attack on the spot!”

 

“Can you blame her?  Well, anyway, you're looking at one thousand, three hundred and seventy-five diapers going into the inventory-- and that's if they're new.  I still think you're better off  buying used for the older girls; cut costs where you can.”

 

“There's a joker in the deck,” Harriet added with an audible sigh.  “There's at least one Senior who doesn't even know her own major.  She'll be staying on for at least two extra years.  Another Senior will go on living in the house while she attends the teacher's college-- a two year program.  So, the numbers I just ran by you are the floor; the ceiling is a great, big unknown.”

 

“Two jokers, actually.”  Jerry hated to be the bearer of bad news, especially with two beautiful young women who seemed eager to talk about walleye and catfish. 

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“P&G is in the final stage of product development for a disposable adult diaper.  They think that Huggies and Pampers have demonstrated that there's an untapped market that's worth pursuing.  They're gonna call it Attends, and put it on store shelves sometime next year.”

 

“Oh, come on,” Francine scoffed.  “Really?  Do you seriously think that grown-ups who have pinned cloth diapers on all their own kids are going to be happy with paper diapers?  They'd be better off going into the restroom, grabbing a bunch of paper towels, and shoving them inside their underwear.  They must think people are stupid!”

 

“I can tell you that the hospital is interested.  It would cut down on laundry big time!”

 

“Well, then, I guess you are going to have a lot of surplus inventory on your hands,” Harriet said cheerfully.  “We'll factor that in when the two of us start haggling over the price we should pay for your excess stock.”

 

“Next item of business is figuring out how many of these monsters your machines can handle,” Jerry said.

 

“And after that?  Dinner!  I'm hungry!”  All the talk about catfish and walleye had made Francine realize that she was starving.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Ian stole a glance in Amos' direction.  His brow was furrowed in concentration, and his hands caressed the levers as he sent the ball skittering from one target to the next.

 

“He takes it pretty seriously,” Herb Canon quietly observed.

 

“I prefer pool,” Ian answered as he nodded at the deserted pool table teasing him from a few feet away.  He debated telling the Sergeant that he had lost his virginity atop the green felt, but prudently decided that the story was best postponed until they were well into their cups.

 

“Sit,” Julia ordered.  “Your friend hasn't alienated anybody yet, so for the moment at least, all is well.”

 

However reluctantly, Ian sat down.  He would have preferred for Amos to give him a hands on tour of Lake Street, just the two of them, but there was work to be done.  Getting Herb Canon off his case was priority number one.

 

“What are you drinking,” Herb asked.  He had what looked like a double Jim Beam in his hand, but Ian noticed that Julia was abstaining.  He guessed that she would be driving a lot of people home at evening's end.

 

“Nothing for the moment.  I just had a beer, and before that two shots of Rita's prized cognac.  It's going to be a long night, so I need to pace myself.”

 

“Did Sarah say anything?”  Rita knew that she must have smelled the liquor on Ian's breath, and if she had kissed him, she would have tasted it.

 

“No.  No … she was very diplomatic.  We had a good talk, and I'm hoping that we're back on the right track.  Surprising as it might seem, I'd be really happy if she stops by when she gets off work.”

 

Ian gently laid the folder on the table, and began undoing the knot.  “We should do this before the food arrives,” he softly remarked while looking steadily at Rita.  “I don't want anything to happen to the sketches.”

 

“It's Ian's daughter across the years,” Rita said as she saw the confusion on everyone's face.  “What a team of forensic artists at Langley think she looks like from one year to the next.”

 

“Don't ask me how it works,” Ian added; “Herb can probably explain it better than I can.”

 

The entire table went deathly silent as Ian passed the top sketch across.  “When she was three years old.”

 

Wordlessly, Vickie and Priscilla both got up and walked around the table to stand behind Rita.  Each put a hand on her shoulder as they peered at the rendering.

 

Rita fought to keep her hands from shaking before finally turning the paper around so that the Canons could see it.

 

Ian slowly laid out the next five sketches, counting off the years as he passed them on.  In the beginning, the resemblance to Nguyen was strong, but as the years passed, it became more and more obvious that the Eurasian child was her father's daughter.

 

He lingered over the last sketch.  “She's now nine years old,” he said so softly that Rita had to strain to hear him.  She looked at him for a long moment before shifting her gaze to the sheet in her hand.  Priscilla, she knew, was holding her breath.  It was easy to see why.

 

The artist had worked hard to capture a child drawing close to the age when she would leave true childhood behind.  Her silken, dark brown hair fell across her left shoulder, and hovered over her breast.  Her father's aquiline nose was now more prominent, his strong jaw and high forehead now on full display.

 

But what took Priscilla's breath away was Linh's eyes.  They were almond shaped, and framed by high, elegantly curved brows.  And they were green, the color of the sea as it swept in close to shore.  Was it yellow, or some very light shade of brown that the artist had used to tint the irises?

 

Linh wasn't beautiful in the conventional sense-- the whole was far too exotic to measure up to conventional standards of beauty.  But she was stunning, a creature so unusual that when she grew up she would turn the heads not only of men but of women as well.  It seemed unlikely that anyone who met her would ever forget the encounter.

 

“Dear God,” Vickie breathed, “she's stunning.  And there's so much strength there.  He's given her your determination and sense of purpose, Ian.  Truly, this is your daughter.”

 

“Our daughter,” Rita corrected; “our family.”

 

“Now and forever more,” Priscilla murmured.  She could feel it in her heart.

 

Herb Canon's anger was volcanic.  Like so many police, he hoped that there was a special place in Hell for the monsters who went around hurting children.  And someone had massacred an entire village to steal this child.  Beneath the table, he clenched his fists, wanting to strangle the life out of whoever had done this.

 

Julia looked at the sketch, and then at her daughter.  Her gaze was fierce, and it pleased Julia no end to realize that her daughter was a lioness who would do whatever it took to protect her young.

 

“We should eat,” was all that Herb could think to say.  “It's getting late,” he lamely added as Rita neatly stacked the sketches and returned them to the folder.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Emmett Bailey was playing a hunch.  He had been at the courthouse, and although it had not particularly surprised him that Professor Grady had taken the girls out the back way, it did surprise him that he had gone to the hospital instead of straight to the sorority house.  To get so many girls into diapers so quickly meant that he was well known there. 

 

Emmett wanted to find out why.  His instincts told him that the girls were an overnight sensation, but the enigmatic war hero turned university professor with his admitted CIA connections might have a story that would catapult the reporter  to a place at Sixty Minutes or one of the other investigative outlets in the Big Apple.

 

Emmett began in the lobby, which had a number of bulletin boards.  Learning the hours when Walter Kurtz would be playing the Steinway was not exactly what he had in mind, but it was better than the workshop teaching attendees how to build homemade zen gardens to set the mood for their meditation exercises.  Emmett wandered off.

 

He strolled the corridors.  There were bulletin boards everywhere, filled to overflowing with reminders to staff to wash their hands every time they visited the restroom.  As if nurses working twelve to sixteen hour shifts had time for that sort of thing.  Emmett had once dated an RN, and he had heard a great many horror stories.  One day, when he was right up there with Dan Blather, he intended to follow up on what he had learned, and bring the pretentious jerks Denise had so vividly described down a peg or two.

 

In search of coffee and a place to sit down and ponder his options, Emmett ended up in the cafeteria.  As he was pocketing his change, he noticed that a small group of doctors and nurses had congregated around a bulletin board near the exit.  Curious, and with his steaming cup in hand, he decided to check it out.

 

Emmett was so shocked that he almost dropped his cup.  Professor Ian Grady was staring back at him from a pair of aging photographs.  The first, set somewhere in the jungles of Southeast Asia, showed a younger man astride an enormous elephant, with a gigantic snake girdling his shoulders.  The second showed the same man, not much older, sitting with a baby in his lap, and a stunningly beautiful Asian girl at his shoulder. 

 

But it was the captions that made the story, four lines of brief text on a pair of note cards, written by hand with a heavy black marker:

 

WIFE MURDERED

 

DAUGHTER STOLEN

 

VILLAGE MASSACRED

 

SEARCH ONGOING

 

His coffee forgotten, Emmett raced out the door, and all but sprinted to the parking ramp.  He had a nice Olympus manual in the trunk of his car, and with it a Polaroid SX-70.  He would use both.  Kent State and the My Lai tribunal had opened the decade, and he had just stumbled upon the story that would close it.  Emmett Bailey had just won the ultimate journalistic trifecta.

 

THE PIG STY: THE EARLY ROUNDS

 

“Got room for one more,” Sarah queried as she approached the table.  Pocketing her gloves, Sarah started shedding her winter coat while Herb hastily got up and grabbed another chair from the next table.

 

Ian jumped to his feet, his joy evident, and swept Sarah into his arms.  “Thank you for coming,” he whispered before kissing her.  “I'm told that we're up against some serious competition.  We'll need all the help we can get.”

 

“Andrew will be coming by later to take Amos home.  They'll come back for his car sometime tomorrow.  I figure Julia will drive her husband home, which leaves me to get the three of you back to the sorority.”

 

“Rita can ...”

 

“No, Ian, she can't.  She'll be waiting for you at the house, drinks in hand for the happy warriors.  But remember, you're supposed to say 'no'.  And remember as well, that if you can't resist taking that next drink?  If Priscilla does not object, there will be consequences.”

 

Priscilla looked at her curiously.  She had no idea what Sarah was talking about.

 

“I'm starving.  A juicy lucy and some fries would hit the spot.”  Sarah reached out to grab one of the few remaining onion rings in a basket in the center of the table.

 

“And another order of these as well!”

 

Herb whistled to get the bar keep's attention, and then shouted out the order.  “We don't have waitresses here,” he said in an apologetic tone.  “Cuts down on the overhead.”

 

“Priscilla, could you join me in the restroom for a minute?”  Without waiting for an answer, Sarah got up and walked away.

 

Still wondering what was going on, Priscilla hesitantly followed her.

 

“What's that all about,” Vickie asked.

 

“Sarah needs Priscilla's okay to put a contingency plan into effect” Ian explained. “Apparently, the two of you have already signed off on it, and I've agreed to go along if all four of you believe it's for the best.”

 

“The chastity cage,” Rita whispered into Vickie's ear.

 

“Oh,” Vickie huffed.  She still didn't like the idea, but she was not about to go up against Sarah without Rita's support.

 

“I just don't know what this has to do with alcohol,” Ian added.

 

“It clouds your judgment.”  Rita was surprised that Ian was having trouble grasping the obvious.  “A guy who falls in love the way you do needs to keep his wits about him at all times.  Clear?”

 

“Clear,” Ian blushed.

 

When Sarah and Priscilla returned from the restroom, Ian didn't even need to ask.  He could tell from the big grin on Priscilla's face that she was all for locking little Ian up to keep him out of mischief.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Right on time.”  Herb winked at his daughter, and then nodded in the direction of the rear entrance.

 

Herb waved casually at the newcomers, which was as formal an invitation as they were likely to get.

 

“Running late tonight, Dwight.  Racking up the overtime?”

 

“Answering duty's call,” Detective First Dwight Underwood responded.  “You must be Grady,” he added as he introduced himself and his partner, Detective Third Oscar Contreras.  The three men shook hands before Ian introduced Vickie and Rita.

 

A moment later, the door opened again, and a pair of lady cops waltzed in.  They were both wearing civvies, but they had the look-- and the swagger.  Ian took an instant dislike to them both.

 

“The rest of our team,” Dwight confirmed as the two ladies approached the tables.  Beating Ian to the punch, he performed the introductions all around.

 

Ian judged Carlie Voight to be in her mid-thirties, and Babs Patterson around Priscilla's age.  Both women were stocky, with hard faces and dishwater brunette hair.  It was now the end of November, and Ian would have bet a month's salary that neither had been laid since last year's Christmas party.

 

Sensing that it was show time, Amos drifted over.  He grabbed an onion ring and swallowed it whole, his eyes never leaving the younger of the two women.  If they were hard cases, he was harder.

 

“So, what are we drinking,” Carlie wanted to know.

 

“It's not what Amos and I would choose, but in deference to Pris and Vickie, we're going with tequila.  Specifically, Don Julio Blanco.”

 

“That's expensive shit,” Babs snorted, “but it figures.  Where I come from, high-end tequila is a ladies drink.”

 

“Hey,” Oscar protested, “my granddad is Sinaloa born and proud.  He drinks reposado, and he's no pussy.  A little respect here!”

 

“Yeah, well, what I wanna know is who's picking up the tab,” Dwight interjected.  He didn't want to waste hard earned cash on this Mexican crap.

 

“I am,” Julia snapped.  She opened her purse, and pulled out a thick envelope.  Opening it, she fanned a stack of one hundred dollar bills.  “There's two grand here, courtesy of Spats Belmondo.  It'll be more than enough.  Ian and Amos are the real deal, and they are going to put you four lightweights out of your misery.  It won't take long.”

 

“Working for the Mafia now,” Carlie mocked.

 

“Spats is a pretty nice guy once you get to know him,” Ian mildly protested.

 

“In case you haven't got the message,” Herb chuckled, “Ian here is, shall we say, a part of the CIA's family, and he works hard to maintain good relations between the Agency and the Mafia.  Friendship abounds.”

 

“Does Belmondo change your diapers,” Babs sneered.  She was trying hard to stare Ian down, hoping for a reaction.

 

“That's our job,” Priscilla answered with a sweeping hand gesture that encompassed the whole table.  “And we're not sharing.  Know why?  'Cause once the diaper comes off, the telephone pole that's lurking inside tends to come to attention.  I changed him yesterday afternoon … one thing led to another … and I'm still stiff from the workout.”

 

“I thought you were walking with a bit of a gimp,” Rita laughed. “but I know what you mean.  He got my juices flowing after you left …”

 

“... you're right, Sarah; his tongue is pure magic.”

 

Rita was watching Sarah out of the corner of her eye, not sure whether she would run with it or not.

 

“Anyway, when I mounted him and we really got it underway, I thought that he was going to rupture my spleen.  Best sex I've ever had!”

 

“My turn tomorrow night,” Sarah declared.  “Vic, you're up on Sunday.  Saturday will be a day of rest … maybe Monday, too.  If any of us can pin Ian to the mat, it will be you.”

 

Ian looked at Babs, a self-satisfied grin telling the lady cop that Ian's girlfriends weren't blowing hot air.  For his part, Ian was thinking about the paddle, and trying to conjure up a side bet that she couldn't resist.  He planned to go easy on her, in the hope that she would be game for a second try.  If she was off duty on Saturday, she would end up on the floor of Rita's living room, wearing a diaper and being force fed one bottle of breast milk after another.  He had no doubt that at some point in the evening, Babs would end up over Vickie's knee, and discover at first hand what a hard spanking delivered by a real pro felt like.

 

“So what are these Hong Kong Rules that I keep hearing about,” Dwight pressed.

 

“Making the most out of your R&R.  Pretty simple, really.  You hit a bar, settle in with a lot of cash in your pocket, and you don't stop drinking until you go broke or pass out, whichever comes first.”

 

“The problem,” Ian frowned, “is that we're starting way too late in the day to drink up two grand, even with eight of us playing the game.  So, I've come up with a new twist.  First one to pass out or to piss his or her pants for all to see has to put all of their money in the pot, and sit out the rest of the match.  We go on doing this until all four players on one team end up on the sidelines.  Before we get started, the restrooms get locked down.  No one in the bar who steps outside will be allowed back in.  Contestants and non-contestants alike will be taking their chances.”

 

“Nice try, Secret Agent Man,” Carlie sniffed.  “Yeah, I caught the broadcast.  Only works if you take off your diapers.”

 

“You're right; we have to level the playing field.  But here's how we're going to do it.  Vickie and I are both wearing diapers, and Priscilla will be putting on her diaper momentarily.  Amos, you still refusing to wear?”

 

“Damned straight, Major.  I can hold my liquor, thank you very much.”

 

“And there you have it, ladies.  There's a stack of diapers on the bar, complete with the vinyl baby pants that we all know and love, plus locking diaper covers to make sure that everything stays where it should.   The three of us are going to piss ourselves to our heart's content, and the four of you are invited to join us.  Or not.  It's your choice.  If you diaper up, we should be able to keep this contest going till closing time.  Probably end up calling it a draw, giving us an excuse to saddle up for a second try down at The Barf Bag.”

 

“No fukkin' way I'm wearing a diaper,” Oscar snorted.  His machismo had shifted into overdrive.

 

“Suit yourself,” Ian shrugged.  “Amos will entertain you while the three of us use the office to get ready.”

 

As Priscilla led them to the office, Ian paused in mid-stride.

 

“One more thing.  Herb and I have something going on the side, so I expect to drink a good deal more than the rest of you.  That's why Julia's really here.  Herb suffers from the illusion that he can hold his liquor.  Julia will probably need help scraping him off the floor and getting him into the car …”

 

“Getting him out of the car will be another problem altogether.”  Ian's smile was positively wicked.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Are we just gonna sit here and take it,” Cindy yelled.  “Did we sit on our diapers and take it when the Russians bombed Pearl Harbor?  No!!!  We fought back!!  She can't lock us in our rooms, so what's she gonna do when we bust out of this joint?  Who's with me?”

 

Cindy was on her feet, dancing around in circles.  There were more than half a dozen other girls crowded into the room, everyone wanting to rush off and support their Dad, but no one quite sure of how to go about it.

 

“The Russians?”  Linda was looking at Kimberly.  “I thought it was the Germans.”

 

“She's on a roll,” Kim shrugged.  “Go with it.”

 

“Who's with me?”  Wide-eyed, Cindy whirled about and raced out into the hallway.

 

“Are you sure?  I mean, think about it.  Remember last year in the Student Union?  The food fight that got us all banned for the rest of the year?  All because Cindy was doing the Bluto, and started spraying that green slime they call jello all over the Omegas?”

 

“Who's with me,” Cindy shrieked when she returned.  “Oh, Cindy, Mom will get mad.  She won't change our diapers, boo hoo hoo.  We'll get a rash, boo hoo hoo.  Well, piss on our rashes!  Piss on them!  Who's with me?”

 

“She's right!”  Kimberly was on her feet, addressing the room.  “Mom can't throw us out 'cause she needs the dues.  What we need is ready cash.  If we're gonna crash the party, we need money!”

 

“Not a problem,” Slasher smugly replied.  “We aren't just playing with slot cars … we're running an underground casino.  Hell, at a guess I'd say that Coach is in to us for about three months of his pay.  We've got the cash … what we don't have is the ride!”

 

“Wheels?  Are you kidding me?”  Melanie couldn't believe what she was hearing.  “Have you looked out the back?  We're drowning in cars!  We don't have room for them all!”

 

“Then what are we waiting for?”  Cindy was working the room, looking for support anywhere she could find it.

 

“Snacks,” Tippi answered.  “We wait until everybody comes down for snacks, and we sneak out.  But does anybody know where we're going?”

 

“The Pig Sty.”  Jackknife smirked.  “What,” she said as she looked around the room, “you don't think we zeroed in on the cops before we opened the casino?  Well, guess what: unlike you morons, we actually do our homework!”

 

“Licenses,” Linda tossed out.  “Gotta be nineteen to drink in Pothole City, and the only fake ID we've got is for some black guy named Snerdley.  Slasher, you underage?”

 

“Eighteen, but don't worry about it.  Get me some wheels, cuz if I'm paying for this roadshow then I'm driving!”

 

“We'll sneak you in!”

 

“Don't worry about it!  Just grab me a bottle on your way out the door.  I want whatever our Dad's drinkin'!”

 

“All right, we need to synchronize watches.  On my mark,” Linda said as she stared at the second hand slowly, inexorably advancing on her wrist, “it will be nine ten …”

 

“MARK!”

 

Cindy's watch read four twenty.

 

Close enough.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“HOLY SHIT!!”  Hopalong's eyes almost bulged out of their sockets.  Coming out of the office, Vickie and Priscilla were wearing nothing below the waist except their locking diaper covers, and their shoes.  While Vickie's legs sported a bit of baby fat, Priscilla's were lean and mean, fat free delights certain to turn every masculine head in the bar.

 

Ian slurped.

 

Herb laughed.

 

Julia clapped.

 

Carlie and Babs almost had orgasms on the spot.   Their sexual orientation was no longer in doubt, at least for anyone paying a modicum of attention.

 

“What, no takers?”  Knowing full well that Carlie was a dyke's dyke, Priscilla was waving her heavily diapered ass around for everyone to see.  Less daring, Vickie settled for sitting on Ian's lap, wrapping her arms around his neck, and leaning in for a long, deep French kiss.

 

“Ever made love on top of a pool table,” he asked, whispering in her ear.  Ian was thinking of long ago nights in far off Saigon.

 

“Not yet,” Vickie whispered in return.  “But give me enough tequila, and I'm game for anything!”

 

“Sarah's got the key to both of our covers,” he went on whispering.  “God, I want you so bad ...”

 

“Tonight.  Just don't let Rita get that last drink into you back at the house.  Tonight ...”

 

“Contest is a sure thing,” Ian went on.  “No one on their team could swallow their pride and put on a diaper.  My big problem is Herb Canon.  I need him drunk enough to become his buddy, but not so drunk that he passes out and hits the floor.  Flirt with him if that's what it takes to keep him upright.”

 

“Does Julia know what's going on?”

 

“She does.  So, sit in his lap if you have to, and ask him if he has room for a second daughter 'cause it turns out that you and Pris are inseparable ...”

 

“We are ...”

 

“I know.  Just don't let his hands wander.  Remind him that soon he's going to be a granddad; that should sober him up a bit.”

 

“I love you,” Vickie blurted out.

 

“Have an onion ring,” Ian replied, holding one up to her.

 

“Not bad,” Vickie moaned as she took a bite.  “Not bad at all.”

 

Ian kissed her hard, and drove his tongue into her mouth.  Ian loved the taste of onion rings.

 

Vickie was thinking about turkey drumsticks.

 

“Let's get this show on the road,” Dwight called out.

 

Shrugging, Ian eased Vickie off his lap, and walked up to the bar.

 

“Six shot glasses,” he ordered. 

 

Silently, the barkeep set them out, and then carefully poured an ounce of Don Julio Blanco into each glass.

 

Ian picked up the first glass, and downed it in one quick swallow.  The next five went down just as smoothly.

 

“Your turn,” he coldly remarked, staring the detective in the eye.

 

The bartender refilled the glasses, and everyone in the bar looked at Detective First Dwight Underwood.

 

 Looking at Street Racer, seeing the steel in his expression, the cop knew that he was in for a long night.  One by one, he picked up the shot glasses, and gulped them down.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Where is everybody,” Emmett asked as he slid into one of the empty chairs alongside Herb Canon.  “I was expecting a full turnout.”

 

Emmett was referring to the beat reporters from the other TV station newsrooms.  He knew every cop bar in the Cities, but the opposition either didn't care or hadn't done their homework.  He was the only reporter on the premises.

 

“Private party, Bailey.  Butt out.”  Herb's speech was a bit slurred. 

 

Bailey glanced at Julia, wondering if she realized that her husband would not be driving home tonight.  Julia, he noted, was nursing a cup of black coffee.  The two other women at the table, one of whom he recognized, were also laying off the booze.

 

“I'm surprised to see you here, Doctor Stevenson,” he smiled pleasantly.  “This doesn't seem like your kind of dive.”

 

“Ian insists that I live too high-brow a lifestyle … dull and dreary.  He wants me to get out more.  See the sights.”

 

“Ian being Professor Grady.”

 

“Correct.  Sarah here is Ian's fiancee, but she shares him with me, and with Vickie and Priscilla.  So, we're here supporting our team.”

 

Sarah smiled politely, secretly pleased to see that the reporter was flummoxed by the casual way in which Rita alluded to their menage a cinq.

 

“Our household is modeled on the Kerista commune out in San Francisco,” Sarah explained.  “The Agency wants Ian to have as many children with as many women as possible, so this is what we came up with.”

 

“The Agency?  What Agency?”  Bailey's confusion was obvious to everyone at the table, and Julia was having a very hard time keeping a straight face.

 

“Why, the CIA of course.  Ian's gift for languages is very rare, and the Agency hopes that genetically he will pass it to his children.”

 

“And there goes Oscar,” Julia tittered, “more or less on schedule.”

 

Detective Third Oscar Contreras had slid rather gracefully to the floor, and was now softly snoring, much to the amusement of the assembled crowd.

 

“Was that round four,” Rita asked.  Julia had been designated as their official score keeper.

 

“Six shots of tequila per round,” she added in order to bring the reporter up to speed.

 

“Right.  And by the looks of it, number twenty-two was the coup de grace.”  There were two untouched shot glasses still sitting on the bar over Oscar's head.

 

“One down, three to go,” Ian chuckled as he sauntered over to the table.  He promptly downed two more shots, and looked expectantly at Herb, who was contemplating his seventh and eighth tequila shots on top of the bourbons and beer chasers that he had downed before and during dinner.

 

Herb didn't feel so good.  And he didn't look so good either.

 

“Mister Bailey, what brought you out on a night like this?”

 

“Good question,” Julia echoed.  She also wondered what the nosy newshound was doing in their bar.

 

“Professor, I saw the photographs in the hospital.  I am genuinely and deeply sorry for what happened to your family.  I'd like to hear your story, and run it by our production staff.  I can pretty much guarantee you national coverage, which should help with the search for your daughter.”

 

Ian thought about it for a second, then looked expectantly at Sarah.  This was a big decision, and he wanted her to run with it.

 

“Ian has signed a contract with Marilyn Marsden of Recruitment Services International,”

Sarah said in a matter of fact tone.  “At my urging,” she added.  “I'd like you to run this by her first because she will have a better sense of the downside here than we do.  If you'd like to meet with her, give me your number, and I'll give here a call.  She'll get back to you, and set something up.”

 

Not the best answer, Emmett thought, but something was better than nothing.  He fished a business card out of his wallet.

 

“The number will go to message if I'm not there,” he advised as he passed it over.

 

“She might be a hard sell, Mr. Bailey.  You should know that the young lady who knocked you down earlier today is Marilyn's daughter.”

 

Figures, he thought, the way my luck has been running …

 

“Street Racer, get your diaper butt over here,” Babs yelled.  She was competing with the juke box, and losing badly.  She was irritated, and getting more so with each passing minute.  The asshole kept feeding quarters into the machine, taunting them over and over again with Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass.

 

If the asswipe plays Tijuana Taxi one more time, I swear I'm gonna puke.  Enough of this shit!

 

Pausing only to give Sarah a lingering kiss and a whispered thank you, Ian donned his game face and returned to the fray.  Ignoring Babs for the moment, he examined his own troops with a critical eye.  Like her father, Priscilla looked a little wobbly on her pins.  Vickie was at the we're having fun stage, and Amos looked like … well … Amos, a barfly's barfly.  The orderly would, he judged, out drink them all.

 

As for the other team, Dwight was looking distinctly green around the edges, and Babs had clearly reached the I'm pissed off stage.  Ian reckoned that she was about to stir the pot with a game of Drink or Dare, with the paddle awaiting the loser.  He was lying in wait.

 

This left Carlie Voight, and she scared him for the simple reason that he couldn't get a read on her.  She lingered over each shot, and otherwise kept her mouth shut.  He reckoned that she was probably a pretty good cop.

 

“What's up?”

 

“I'm bored,” Babs snorted.  “What d'ya say we spice things up a bit … say … oh, a side bet between the two of us?  The winner gets to take the paddle to the loser's ass.”

 

Babs pointed vaguely in the direction of the gumbo paddle hanging on the wall.

 

“Sounds okay, though my fiancee gets the last word.  What do you have in mind?”

 

“First, I want your fiancee and girlfriend to go into the bathroom and pee in a bucket.  When they bring it out, we'll transfer their piss to an ordinary drinking glass.  If we need more piss, it will be Julia's turn, and if we still don't have enough, we'll ask for volunteers.  When we're ready, you will brush your teeth with ketchup, then gargle and rinse with the glass of piss, repeating however many times it takes to empty the glass.  Then, you drink your next round of shots.  If you complete the challenge and don't puke as a result, you win.  Drop out or throw up, and you lose.  Pretty simple, really.”

 

“Don't have a toothbrush,” Ian sighed.

 

“I brought one with me,” Babs snapped.  She opened her handbag, and pulled out an unopened package with a baby toothbrush inside.

 

Ian looked at her quizzically.

 

“You're wearing diapers,” she sneered; “in my book, that makes you a big baby.  So, here's your toothbrush.”

 

She laid it on the bar.

 

“Hey, come on,” Amos growled, but Ian held up his hand to silence him.

 

“It's okay, Amos; believe me, I've heard it all before.”

 

In the final months of a disintegrating marriage, Ian had indeed heard it all.

 

“Only problem here is that I'm wearing the same diaper as Vickie and Pris.  It's thick enough that I'd barely feel the hardest swat you could possibly deliver.”

 

“So, take it off.”

 

“Don't have the key.”

 

“But I do,” Sarah interrupted, “and unless Ian can come up with something better, we'll play your game.  Ian?”

 

“Hopalong and I talked this over earlier.  You strip down to your bra and panties.  I'll kneel before you, and using only my teeth, we'll say goodbye to your panties.  Then, we'll start the clock, and I'll explore you with my tongue, and only with my tongue.  If I can give you an orgasm in twenty minutes or less, you lose.  If you don't cum, I lose.  Pretty simple, really.”

 

Rita burst out laughing, and Sarah started snickering.  This was a sucker bet, and they both knew it.

 

“Why don't we play both games,” Babs viciously suggested.  “Mine first, and then yours.  I've never had a man get me off.  Who knows, maybe you'll be the first.”

 

“Except that I don't hit women, so in the event that I win, I have something else in mind.  You off on Saturday night?”

 

“Finish up at three.”

 

“You like to party?”

 

“I'm game.”

 

“Then, here's the deal.  We're having a party at Rita's on Saturday night-- what the gang calls 'The Saturday Night Frolics'.  If you lose, you show up.  You'll be stripped, diapered, bottle fed with breast milk, and hand spanked by anyone who feels like spanking you if you act up.  When it's time for bed, you'll be put down in a crib in full restraints, including a pacifier and locking mittens, and there you will remain until fed breakfast in the morning.  You'll be home by noon at the latest, and a fun evening will have been had by all.  You still game?”

 

“And you'll just take my word for it … that I'd actually show up?”

 

“Yep, because I don't think you're the kind of person who would welsh on a bet.  And who knows?  You might enjoy being the center of attention, and beg to come back and play with us some more.”

 

“Babs, you don't want to do this,” Carlie warned.

 

“Why?  No guy has ever got me off.  He'll lose.”

 

“No, he won't.  Face facts.  These two men have been places and done things that the rest of us cannot even begin to imagine.  You'll lose, and his girlfriends will spend at least twelve hours rubbing your nose in it.  Just like we're going to lose this contest.  Oscar's already passed out, and neither you nor Dwayne are going to make it through another four rounds.  I can outlast the two women, but these guys are going to bury me.”

 

“We'll see about that,” Babs huffed, her nostrils flaring.  “We'll just see about that!  All right, Diaper Butt: you're on!”

 

THE PIG STY:  THE KNOCKOUT PUNCH

 

“Interesting mix,” Babs observed as she carefully topped off the glass that was now full of piss.  “Julia and your two girlfriends were drinking coffee, black; Cassidy, Glenda and Sandy were drinking their usual high octane beverages.  Poor Diaper Butt,” she cooed, “your tummy is gonna get so confused.”

 

Ian ignored her, and likewise paid no attention to the bottle of ketchup that had magically surfaced alongside the baby toothbrush.

 

“It's time for round five,” he said as he signaled to Ray Reardon, the ex-cop turned bar owner, to set out six more shot glasses of Don Julio Blanco.  Four more shots magically materialized on a small tray, which he carried over to the table with a steady hand.  Vickie was now perched on Herb Canon's lap, but his hand was free, and Ian sat two of the glasses down within easy reach.

 

“I'm glad to see that you two are getting acquainted,” Ian smiled as he downed two glasses of his own, his hand still steady. 

 

“She's a nice girl,” Herb slurred as his hand fumbled around in search of a glass.  When he found it, his hand was shaking so badly that fully half the tequila sloshed onto the table.

 

Julia winked at Ian, letting him know that the evening was going pretty much the way these things always went for the Canon household.  Her husband was in the process of getting smashed, while her daughter had already become the life of the party.  Julia didn't understand how anyone could dance to Tijuana Taxi, but Priscilla and Hopalong were somehow getting it done.

 

And if Pris collected a dollar for every hand that's patted her ass, I could stop doing stakeouts …

 

Gotta admit, though, she looks sooo cute.  That diaper really suits her, and the way it makes her waddle while she's dancing!

 

“Herb, I need to borrow my girlfriend for a minute, but I promise to bring her right back.”

 

Ian helped Vickie to her feet, only to have her more or less fall into his arms while she clasped her hands behind his neck and pulled him down for a sloppy kiss.  “Am I really your girlfriend,” she slurred.

 

“Mine, and mine alone.  And if any of the hot babes in here hit on me, you have my permission to drive them off with a turkey drumstick.”

 

“Don't have one.”

 

“A bit of onion ring up the nose will do nicely.  In the meantime, you ready for round five?”

 

“I'm wasted.  I want to go to bed … with you.”

 

“Later.  Right now, Dwight's about ready to take the fall, so hang in there, and come Saturday night Babs will be going over your knee.  Think you can make her beg for mercy?”

 

“Hey, my spankings are world class!  After I get done with her ass, she'll welcome a nice, fluffy diaper.”

 

“Here we go then.”  Ian half carried Vickie to the bar, propped her up, and then methodically downed the six shots of tequila.

 

“You're up next, Dwight.”

 

The Detective First audibly groaned as he watched Ray Reardon refill the shot glasses.  Dwight used a twenty-four ounce pitcher when mixing Margaritas at home, but there were only four ounces of tequila in the mix.  If he could make it through the fifth round, Dwight Underwood would have downed thirty ounces in less than ninety minutes.  He, and his stomach, were venturing into uncharted territory.

 

Gotta tough it out, Dwight kept telling himself, gotta tough it out …

 

And it looked like he would make it.  The first four went down easier than he had expected.  But he choked on the fifth, and that was all it took.

 

Whirling around, Dwight puked all over the floor.  When he was finished, he weakly raised his arm in surrender, and without saying a word stumbled over to a nearby table to slump into a barely seen chair.  It was a safe bet that he wasn't going to make roll call in the morning.

 

The barkeep was about to clean up the mess with a well used mop and bucket when Amos held up a hand to stop him in his tracks.  He held up six fingers.

 

“Got the pinball machine nicely warmed up,” he commented to Ian.  “Let's do this.”

 

Six shots later, Amos walked away without a word, eager to resume battle with his arch nemesis.

 

“My turn,” Priscilla called out over the music as she sashayed to the bar.  Giving Babs the stink eye, she downed her six shots in rapid succession before letting out a loud and satisfying belch.

 

“Your turn, Princess,” she mocked.  “And I hope you like breast milk,” she added as Babs raised the first glass to her lips.  “Because you're gonna be drowning in it.”

 

“Screw you,” Babs snarled when she downed her sixth glass to finish the round.

 

“Should have worn a diaper, Princess.  Just think.  I might be standing here pissing to my heart's content, and not even my hairdresser would know for sure.  But you're going to be shit out of luck.”

 

“Any time now,” Vickie laughed, happy to pile on.  “What d'ya think, Pris?  Does Princess Puddle Pants have a nice ring to it?”

 

“Oh, I like it,” Priscilla gloated as Vickie slapped the bar to get Ray Reardon's attention.  “Just make sure that you have a nice, thick diaper under her when you put her over your knee!”

 

Vickie took her time, savoring the tequila before downing each of  her six shots.

 

“Damn,” she decreed, “this is good stuff!”

 

Carlie finished the fifth round as silently as she had the first four.  She gazed steadily at Ian throughout, and hoisted her last shot to offer him an alcoholic salute.  She wanted him to understand that the others were supporting players on their stage: in this performance, Ian was the leading man, and she the leading lady.

 

“Time to brush your teeth, Diaper Butt.  Get to it!”

 

Arms crossed, Babs was staring at Ian, openly daring him to proceed.  She expected the   

sickly sweet taste of the condiment to trigger a violent reaction when it caught up with the tequila.  Watching Diaper Butt puke his guts up would be the highlight of her evening, no matter how the rest of the contest played out.

 

Ian asked the barkeep for a plate, and squeezed a large dollop of ketchup out of the bottle.  Taking his time, he did a thorough job, periodically running the toothbrush through the mound of ketchup to make sure that he wouldn't miss a spot.

 

“What d'ya think, Vic?” Ian first bared his teeth, and then opened wide so that she could check the gum line.  “Did I miss anything?”

 

“No … and you've still got your wisdom teeth!  That's amazing!”

 

“Show me,” Babs ordered.

 

The inside of Ian's mouth was bright red.

 

“Good enough,” she growled.  “Now, it's time to gargle and rinse.”  She handed him the glass of urine, and kicked the bucket that one of her girlfriends had used into his line of sight.  “You can spit in this … spit, or puke your guts out.  Whichever comes first”

 

Babs stepped back, arms still crossed, a triumphant look on her face.  Diaper Butt had arrived at the moment of truth, and like every other jerk who had accepted her challenge, he was about to humiliate himself in front of the whole bar.

 

Ian raised the glass to his lips, an enigmatic smile on his face.  He decided to gargle first, and then to swish the piss around in his mouth.  He silently counted to ten, and then spat the ketchup stained urine into the bucket.

 

“Very refreshing,” he commented.  “A few years ago, I was traveling in northern Afghanistan, trying to improve my grip on the Tajiki Dari dialect.  I had to drink Bactrian camel's milk every day, and I detested the stuff.  My guide took pity on me, and  suggested that I try mixing it with camel urine.  That did the trick.”

 

The room erupted in laughter.  Rita and Sarah were shaking their heads, each of them certain that Ian had enough tales to tell to keep his new family entertained and amused for years to come.

 

“That's my Secret Agent Man,” Priscilla hooted.

 

Ian raised the glass, and nonchalantly gargled and rinsed a second and then a third time.

 

“Can I use the rest to brush my teeth,” he politely asked Babs.  There was a small amount of piss remaining in the bottom of the glass.

 

“Sure,” she shrugged, knowing that she had been beaten.  Time to move on.

“Thanks,” he said as he handed Ray the toothbrush to run under hot water.  “I just don't like ketchup on my onion rings.”

 

Julia chuckled while stealing a glance at Sarah.  She doubted whether any of the women who had fallen under Ian's spell knew what they were getting into, and for her own part Julia was beginning to wonder just how different her grandchildren might turn out to be.     

 

“In the Middle East, people have been drinking camel piss to cure various ailments for thousands of years.”  Ian was using the last of the urine to try and get the red stain off his teeth.

 

“Personally, I can't stand the beasts.  They're ill-tempered, and when they're not amusing themselves by pissing or vomiting all over you, they're trying to take a bite out of your anatomy.  Nope, I'm done with camel safaris.  It's me and Toby and Pete against the world!”

 

Ian could feel mushy poop sliding around inside his diaper, but he paid it no mind.  He was pretty sure that Vickie had messed herself as well, but he was absolutely certain that Priscilla had yet to do so.  He well remembered what it had felt like the first time he shat  his diaper while lying awake in the post surgical ward at Yokosuka.  The sense of humiliation had been overwhelming-- and Priscilla was not giving off that vibe.

 

“Say something in Tajik … er … whatever it is,” Vickie called out in a drunken voice.

 

Shrugging, Ian turned back to the bar.  “ʙoz şaş stakan tekila,” he said. 

 

Tajik was close enough to Russian that Ian had mastered it easily, and Dari was cognate to Pashto.  It was the damned dialects that kept him awake at nights.  Down at the village level, eastern Pakistan and Afghanistan were tribal societies intensely suspicious of outsiders.  And no one at the embassies in Islamabad and Kabul had a clue.  He was very much on his own anywhere in Africa or the Middle East.

 

Ian downed the next six shots in a hurry, deliberately speeding up the tempo to find out who could no longer answer the bell.  It wasn't a problem for Amos, but Dwight was now officially down for the count.  Vickie, Priscilla and Babs were staggering, which left Carlie to match him shot for shot without noticeable effect.

 

Defeated and depressed, Babs stumbled over to the wall to grab the gumbo paddle.  She returned to hold it out in front of Ian like a Sioux Indian peace pipe.

 

“Do your worst,” she said defiantly as she shoved the paddle into his hands.  Awkwardly, she unbuckled her belt, lowered her pants, and bent over to grasp her ankles.

 

Ian tapped her very lightly on the butt, then handed the paddle off to Hopalong to hang back up on the wall.

 

“DAMN YOU,” Babs screamed, the public humiliation magnified in her mind by Ian's refusal to play by the rules.  “Don't you ever fight fair?”

 

“No.  Fighting fair can get you killed.  When the other guy gives you an opening, take advantage of it.”

 

“Then, let's get on with it.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“Our second bet.  Just because you won the first don't mean diddly squat.”

 

“Fine.  Let's adjourn to the office ...”

 

“No!  Right here!  Right frigging here!!”

 

Ian looked at Ray Reardon.  He was an ex-cop and it was his bar, but there had to be limits.

 

“Whatever,” the barkeep shrugged.  This wasn't going to be the first time that he had extinguished the outside lights and locked the doors.  What the Fire Marshall didn't know wouldn't hurt him. 

 

“Go for it, Major,” Amos called out.  “This ain't nothing compared to what happens on Lake Street during The Death March!”

 

Ian had absolutely no idea what Amos was talking about, but the light chuckles that he heard all around him made it clear that every cop in the bar knew the score.

 

“Think of it as a Minneapolis version of Mardi Gras,” Julia called out.  “It takes place in mid-March, when the weather is at its most unpredictable.  You start at the Uptown Theater at five on a Saturday afternoon, and walk down Lake Street to the river.  It's five miles, thirty-eight bars, and you have to drink two beers in each bar.  Somewhere around eight … eight-thirty, people start climbing up on the pool tables to have sex, take a nap … whatever floats your boat.  Herb's caught the duty more than once; the object is to keep the revelers from playing in the traffic and getting themselves killed.”

 

“It's a busy night in the ER,” Sarah observed.  “Hypothermia for the most part.”

 

 “Sounds like fun,” Ian grinned.  “Think I'll tag along next year … of course, strictly as an observer.”

 

“No, you won't,” Sarah snapped.

 

Ian blew her a kiss in response, then shifted his attention back to Babs.  “You should wear a blindfold,” he urged.

 

“A blindfold?  What the hell for?”

 

“Eliminates distractions.  Helps you to focus on the messages that your body is sending to your brain.  Resist because it's painful, or surrender because it's pleasurable.  Twenty minutes, Babs-- and you lose if you step back or push me away.  For twenty minutes, my tongue owns you.”

 

“Fuck the blindfold.”  Babs unbuttoned her blouse and threw it on the bar, but she had to sit on a stool to wrestle her shoes off.  When her pants followed, she was down to her bra and silk panties.

 

Ian knelt before her.

 

“I learned this trick in a bar in Saigon that doubled as a pool hall downstairs, and tripled as a whorehouse upstairs.  You challenged the lady of your choice to a game of  Eight Ball.  Win or lose, you headed upstairs, where someone ended up on their knees.  I'm a lousy pool player; I spent a fair amount of time on my knees.”

 

The bar erupted.  Even Carlie smiled.

 

“Uh, did the lab test his sperm for venereal diseases?”

 

Sarah was whispering in Rita's ear.

 

“They checked for everything.  He's clean, so settle back and enjoy the show.  This should be fun.”

 

Ian squirreled around to Babs' left hip and, with his hands clasped behind his back, gripped the fabric with his teeth and nudged it down.  Continuing the tour, he first eased it down her left buttock, and then her right.  He finished up at her right hip: the material slid easily, and with a little encouragment ended up around her ankles.

 

Ian was rewarded for his efforts with a warm round of applause as he knelt on the floor with his head between Babs' trim thighs.

 

“Someone start the clock running,” he ordered.

 

Babs surprised him by reaching down to grip his shoulders and slightly adjust his stance.

 

“I don't cheat, Diaper Butt.  You'll get your twenty minutes, and no excuses when you lose!”

 

“Counting down,” the barkeep said as he watched the second hand sweep around his watch.  “And … NOW!!”

 

Ian nuzzled a spot on the inside of Babs' thigh, and then settled in to explore her clitoris.  He wanted to taste her before he began to explore the walls of her vagina.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Typical Thursday night?”  Emmett aimed the question at Julia, figuring that Herb Canon was too drunk to give a coherent answer.  Watching Ian Grady and Babs Patterson put on a strip show worthy of a late night performance at a seedy truck stop bar down in South Saint Paul might, he thought, have the makings of a story.

 

“More a Saturday night sort of thing,” Julia shrugged.

 

“Makes sense.  It's a tough job, and cops need a place where they can go and let their hair down.  It's pretty much the same with firefighters and nurses working the ER.”

 

“You know about that?”  Julia was surprised; Emmett Bailey struck her as the kind of reporter who would be comfortable writing for one of the rags sold at the grocery store check-out counters.  He definitely wouldn't pass on the opportunity to interview a purple Martian centipede.

 

“I had a girlfriend who worked ICU,” Emmett shrugged in turn.  “Twelve hour shifts took a toll on what was otherwise a very good relationship.  So, why not Saturday night?”  Emmett nodded at Babs and Ian; he figured that the lady cop wouldn't make it fifteen minutes, never mind twenty.

 

“We'll all be at Rita's, for what's known as the Saturday Night Frolics.  It's the same sort of thing … booze … the occasional male stripper … nurses putting some very tough weeks behind them.  When you deal in life and death, you need to recharge the batteries.”

 

“I'd like to do a story about this-- about how the men and women in these professions go about keeping their humanity … not becoming desensitized in the presence of so much tragedy and death.”

 

“If you're thinking about doing a tell all,” Julia warned, “think again.  Law enforcement is a tight knit community, and these people know how to harbor a grudge.  And you really don't want to run afoul of a nurse working the ER or ICU.  Talk about being in a position to commit murder and get away with it!”

 

“This would be on the up and up,” Emmett protested.  “I want the Big Apple, and I'm not going to get there doing run of the mill stories about campus protests and fraternity high-jinks.  Life in the raw … that's what I'm after.”  

 

  .  .  .  .

 

Shit!  Shit!  Shit!  Shit!

 

Babs' fists were clenched, her eyes shut tight.

 

Oh, fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!

 

She didn't dare open her eyes.  She knew that everyone in the room was watching her, watching her melt into an erotic pile of goo.  Amusement … condescension … nothing awaited her when she opened her eyes except a very public humiliation.

 

Where did this guy learn how to do this?  Oh, yeah … a whorehouse in Saigon.  Figures … he learned from the pros …

 

Shit!  Shit!  Shit!  Shit!

 

She couldn't believe what Diaper Butt was doing with his tongue.  She had felt a butterfly's wings on her clit, and a serpent's tongue probing inside her cunt.  He had found the wall here …

 

And driven her nuts.

 

He had found the wall there …

 

And driven her nuts.

 

“Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!

 

Her breathing was ragged, coming now in captured gasps, her mind swirling in the mists of ecstasy, her body responding to her tormentor in a way that it had never done before … not even imagined possible.

 

Shit!  Shit!  Shit!  Shit!

 

She could hear them tittering, all around the bar.  Her breathing was still more ragged, the gasps more and more irregular, stolen moments of time.  She felt like her brains were going to explode out of the top of her skull.

 

THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING!!!

 

But it was.  An orgasm that her mind didn't want, but her body was telling her to go get fucked.  It was in control now, … ha ha … see you later, bitch.

 

She screamed.

 

Ecstasy and despair all rolled into one loud plea.  Was it absolution she sought, or a fall from grace?  She didn't know … her body didn't care.

 

Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!

 

She screamed a second time, and reached down to grab Diaper Butt's head.  She was so close …

 

SO FUCKING CLOSE111

 

She steered him to her secret place, the place she had never revealed to anyone, always holding something back, always keeping something in reserve.

 

No more.

 

Not this night.

 

Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!

 

The steady rhythm of the pinball machine had suddenly ceased, the player become a spectator to her humiliation.

 

Taking on a life of their own, her hips began to gyrate, trying to match the rhythm of her tormentor's tongue.

 

She screamed again, agony charged with ecstasy-- or was it the other way around?

 

Daddy?

 

It had to be an hallucination.  No matter.  Her hands were an anvil, imprisoning his head, his tongue her serpent in the Garden of Eden.  She was Eve, and there was no Adam, only the power of the serpent's tongue.

 

She convulsed, the power of her orgasm driving her to pound her fists into his shoulders as she came and came and came, wanting to suspend time, wanting never to let go of the moment.

 

The pounding on the door was unceasing.

 

“DADDY!”

 

Priscilla and Rita looked at one another, both recognizing the voice, both equally aghast.

 

“Janis … what?  She shouldn't ...”  Priscilla was so shocked that she couldn't move.

 

Rita jumped to her feet and rushed to the bar, screaming for the keys.

 

Babs sank to the floor, kneeling in front of Ian, who was still on his knees, savoring his victory.  Whimpering, her defeat cataclysmic in scale, her world view utterly and completely shattered, she began blindly groping for her panties, found them somewhere on the cracked and faded linoleum.

 

Rita found the right key, unlocked the door and flung it wide open.  She swept Janis into her arms, knowing that her view was blocked by the mass of spectators gathered round the combatants.  She buried Janis' head in her breasts, buying time, praying that Ian and Babs would come to their senses, get dressed, and put an end to it.   

 

Priscilla and Hopalong came up behind Rita, arms spread wide to block the other girls from squeezing past.  Mouths agape, wide eyed, it was obvious to both cops that their adolescent brains had shifted into overdrive.  Priscilla had to work through an alcoholic haze to summon their names … Kimberly … Cindy … Joyce … the others were just shadowy faces in the background.

 

“Should we card them,” Hopalong asked.  He was also stalling for time, hoping that Babs and Ian could somehow get their act together before the girls forced their way inside.

 

“Three of us are either underage or on probation, and will stay in the cars,” Kimberly advised.  She had collected their driver's licenses and passed them to Priscilla, who examined them carefully.

 

“Everything's in order,” she finally confirmed as she returned the licenses to Kimberly.

 

“We just need a minute to clean up a mess on the floor,” Hopalong explained, still stalling for time.  “But why don't you collect your friends?  It's a little known feature of the law here in Minnesota that an eighteen year old can enter a bar to eat, but not sit at a table where alcohol is being consumed.”

 

“Anybody fancy an order of onion rings,” Rita asked as she continued to cradle Janis.  “They're house made, and to die for.  We're working on our third basket!” 

 

Somehow slipping Rita's grasp, Janis pushed into the crowd, forcing her way to the front.

 

“DADDY,” she screamed, catching sight of him.

 

Ian flinched as if he had been shot.  He was on his feet, helping Babs to hers.  She was still holding her panties in her hand.

 

Wide-eyed, not sure what she was seeing, Janis hurled herself into Ian's arms, the father in him instinctively hugging her close.

 

“Jannie, we have definitely got to stop meeting like this!”  He kissed her on the top of her head as he gently patted her diapered butt.  He hoped that the now familiar refrain and the warmth of his embrace would calm her down.

 

“Are you okay?”  We heard screaming.”

 

“Babs and I were just settling a bet; it looks like I won.”

 

“But she's … she's not wearing ...”

 

“I can't find my pants.” Babs was leaning with her back to the railing, struggling to stay upright as she looked around, not knowing that they were on the bar behind her.

 

“Panties first,” Carlie said as she steered her partner onto a stool.  While Ian reached out to get a grip on her shoulder and steady her, Carlie knelt on the floor and managed to get her panties started up her legs.

 

“Let me help,” Joyce said.  The crowd had parted to make way for Rita and Priscilla, and the girls had followed in their wake.  Taking over for Ian, Joyce took hold of each shoulder, and pulled Babs upright.  The drunken woman had a trim, athletic build; Joyce was pretty sure that she was an off-duty cop, but she was also pretty sure that she was a kindred spirit.

 

“Just because he won doesn't mean that you lost,” she whispered in Babs' ear, wanting to console her.  “It's all a matter of perspective.”

 

Babs leaned into the hands on her shoulders, seeking a measure of comfort, no matter the source.

 

“My pants,” she murmured.

 

Joyce reached behind her to grab them.  She blindly passed them to Carlie, who was still on her knees.

 

Joyce gently pushed Babs back onto the bar stool so that Carlie could get to work.  “You're in no condition to drive,” she judged; “but don't worry, we'll get you home.  And if you want, you can come back to the sorority house with us.  We have a lot of strays sleeping in tonight.”

 

“That explains it,” Carlie said without looking up.  “I knew I'd seen you someplace before.  You're the diaper thieves; I caught you on the five o'clock news.”

 

“Jannie, what are you doing here?”  Ian was counting heads as Rita directed the girls to the table next to her own.  Priscilla was ordering more onion rings to cover for Jackknife and Slasher, while making sure that none of the girls would be served alcoholic beverages.

 

“We're here to help out.  Jackie and Kimberly will follow the Canons home.  Mel will drive Amos home in his truck, and Cindy will tag along and pick her up.  You and Aunt Batgirl will ride with Tip and me, and Steph and Joyce will get Aunt Vickie home.”

 

“This sounds like Tippi's handiwork,” Ian smiled.

 

“She's very smart,” Janis agreed.

 

“Only thing is, Amos has a friend coming to collect him after he gets off work at eleven, and Sarah is planning on driving her three happy warriors back to the house.”

 

“Oh.”  Ian could hear the disappointment in Janis' voice.  “Well, maybe we can still use the police escort.”

 

“Say again.”

 

“Mom and Tip both had the same idea-- have a police escort get our conquering heroes home in style.”

 

“Works for me,” Ian gently laughed.

 

“Great idea, but we haven't won yet!”  Priscilla had overheard them, and she knew that Carlie was still going strong.  “Carlie's tough competition; this could take a while!”     

 

“Pull her jeans up,” Carlie instructed Joyce.  Kneeling on the floor, she had been taking Joyce's measure.  She thought that a fling with a college girl might be good for Babs, who had been in a bad mood ever since the ugly breakup with her most recent lover.      

 

Climbing to her feet, Carlie looked Ian straight in the eye.  He had driven Babs to her knees, and then helped her up.  Men tended to miss the import of such gestures, but in that moment every woman in the bar had seen a window open onto Ian Grady's soul.  She knew damned well that Julia Canon hadn't missed it.

 

“Does the liquor ever get to you … to you, or your friend?”

 

“Not sure about Amos,” Ian answered as he nodded in the direction of the pinball machine.  “Lot of anger there.  That's part of why I'm here.  Two troubled vets, a policewoman, and a clinical psychiatrist working as a team.  The alcohol is just a tool.”

 

“I've been keeping score.  So far, you've had forty-six shots, and your friend thirty-six.  Neither of you seems to have a buzz on.”

 

“Not tonight.  But I was well and truly plastered the Saturday before Thanksgiving.  If you want a blow by blow description, talk to Rita.”

 

“I'll take your word for it.”

 

“Want to call this a draw?”

 

“You'd do that, when it's obvious that you're going to win?”  Visibly surprised, Carlie rocked back on her heels, thinking it through.  And then she nodded to herself, the truth dawning.

 

“It was never about the contest, was it?”

 

“It was always about helping Amos and his friends,” Janis whispered as she turned her head to peek at the policewoman.  “And that's why we're here … to do our part.”

 

Ian's only response was to rest his chin on top of her head while he continued lightly to pat her diapered behind.  And then he smiled.

 

In the mirror hanging on the far wall, he could see a grimy reflection of the tables behind him.  Vickie and Herb now had the table to themselves, and they were deep in conversation.  Come the morning, neither would remember a word of it, but it hardly mattered.  Vickie had an arm draped across Herb's shoulder.  That mattered.

 

Julia and Sarah had moved to join Rita and the improbable collection of his adopted daughters.  Rita had opened the folder, and was passing the sketches of Linh around the table.  Sarah was seeing them for the first time, and he watched her expression harden.  When the time came, he knew that she would indeed back his play.

 

Priscilla carried two baskets of onion rings to the table, but waited until the sketches were safely back in the folder before setting them down.  Cheerfully playing the waitress, she took drink orders, and with Cassidy's help, soon had soda pop in front of everyone.

 

Amos wandered over, sat down, and helped himself to an onion ring.  Priscilla and Cassidy soon joined them, and as soon as he was armed with more soda, Hopalong decided to join in.  Amos and Priscilla both appeared to have lost all interest in the contest.

 

Carlie watched the play of emotions in Ian's eyes, and looked over his shoulder.  Doctors, police officers and college girls were crowded together, sitting cheek by jowl, having a good time.  And however slowly, one troubled vet was being drawn into the mix. 

 

With Joyce's help, Babs found a seat.  This time, it was Rita who went off in search of soda.

 

“You've done this before, haven't you?  In Viet Nam, I mean … built a unit from the ground up.”

 

Ian nodded.  “Thank you,” he whispered.  “So far, you're the only person to see it.”

 

“Major, we'll do our part; you have my word on it.”  Carlie extended her hand, and the two of them shook.

 

Holding up six fingers, Carlie caught Ray Reardon's eye.  Soon, the six shot glasses were once again full.  Methodically, watching Ian the whole time, she downed the first five, one on top of the other.

 

Picking up the sixth glass, she saluted him, and then gulped it down.

 

An enigmatic smile creased her lips.

 

Looking down, Carlie watched the stain spread rapidly down her pants legs.  The sorority girl had it right, she thought-- Ian had won, but that did not mean that she had lost.  Truly, it was a matter of perspective.

 

“Should have worn that diaper, I guess.”  Her smile was still in place.

 

“Maybe next time.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

Easing Janis into his left arm, Ian held out his hand to Carlie, who accepted the offer.  Together, the three of them crossed the few steps to the table, Amos already busily collecting chairs and pushing another table into place.

 

“Am I the only one who prefers Ranch dressing on his onion rings,” Ian asked.

 

“That's gross,” Slasher protested.  “Mayo is the only way to go!”

 

“Canadians,” Kimberly explained to Hopalong, who had a mystified expression on his face.

 

“Can we join the party,” Vickie somehow got out.  She was holding Herb Canon more or less upright, but it was only a matter of time before he went down for the count.

 

Hopalong hastily climbed to his feet, and helped Herb find a seat.  “Getting too old for this shit,” he muttered.

 

“You and me both, brother,” Hopalong laughed, remembering how he had said pretty much the same thing to Ian earlier in the evening.  

 

Julia studied her husband.  Bleary eyed, Herb Canon was staring at the still life scene spread out before him, trying to come to terms with the world his daughter had embraced-- one so far beyond the reach of his conventional, Midwestern imagination and upbringing.

 

He'll get there.  There was no doubt in Julia's mind, because Herb Canon loved his daughter in the same way that Ian loved Linh and Jannie and all the other women in his life.  He'll get there.

 

Sitting alone in the shadows, Emmett Bailey stood up and donned his coat.  The reporter in him knew that he was watching history, but without a camera rolling, there was no way to immortalize it.  He would have to rely on Marilyn Marsden to help him take the story of Major Ian Grady to the nation, and ultimately to the world.  It was a story worth telling.   

 

 

 

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