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Scrapbook Delusions


I was entering my scrapbook pictures into my scanner last night when it
happened. It was an old photo of Mary Fox, also known as the Blonde Widow.
She was dressed in a dark blue fashion that was common for ushers in the 40's
and was leaning against a wall in the old Kirby Theater. She wasn't leaning
like a prostitute or a guard, but at a crooked angle like a nervous teenager.
It was funny, the timid way she was leaning would never cause you to suspect
that she was responsible for the deaths of twenty influential men. She was a
genius that way, disguising herself as a common employee so that men would
willingly try to seduce her. As I looked at this fifty year old color picture,
the image of Mary turned to me and spoke.

"Why did you have to kill me you bastard?" the image said.

"I didn't mean to and I'm sorry," was my ritual response.

I set the picture down and rubbed my eyes. These delusions were becoming more
common, but at the ripe age of ninety-three, I didn't bother to go to a doctor.
I would much rather spend my declining years organizing my memories than
having doctors tell me I was going crazy. My scanner was done converting the
last picture to disk so I entered the one that talked to me.

Ah, the pictures. When magazines debate about the scientific accomplishments
of the early 40's superheroes, they tend to focus on the flashy things. They
think Night Spectre's ultraviolet goggles that let me see in the dark were
ahead of the times. Some marvel over my Spectre Gauntlets; the world's first
use of electricity as a human incapacitator. Automechanics have written books
about the Spectre Mobile, but my personal favorite was the Spectre Camera I
placed in my helmet. Twenty years before I sold the formula to Kodak, I had
color photographs from a camera that I activated by a perculiar jaw switch. It
was always a hoot to watch the policemen be amazed by the photos I would hand
them of a villain committing a crime.

"No crime goes unwitnessed by the Night Spectre," they would say. Flipping
through my photos, I found one crime that should have gone unwitnessed. The
picture was of the Blonde Widow nude and mounted on top of the millionaire
Denny Eisner. There is a little reflection of moonlight in the picture, so I
think I was across the street from a hotel room when it was taken. This
picture was crucial, it revealed Mary with the deceased millionaire an hour
before his death. From a selfish point of view, it was a great picture of her
uncovered bosom, the paleness of her breasts luminescent in the darkness of the
night. I always kept this picture, but it wasn't till I was sixty-seven that I
was willing to admit that it was for hedonistic reasons. Back in my day, it
was still unhealthy to masturbate.

This picture didn't talk to me, but I think her eyes followed me as I put her
in the scanner.

The next series of pictures had fingerprint smudges. Not too surprising, it
was one the most erotic and yet humiliating moments of my life. I had trailed
the Blonde Widow to one of those countless abandoned warehouses. By a clever
use of floodlights, she surprised me and left me wide open to an attack by her
thugs. Despite the abundance of leather in my costume, her miscreants had
beaten me senseless. When I awoke, I was tied with heavy chains to a chair.
My legs were bound to the chair as well as my waist, limiting any movement.
The room was empty except for dust, a single lamp and the Blonde Widow. Oh,
and my pants were missing.

"You don't appear so scary now without your pants," she said, the smoke from
her cigarette clouding her face.

"That's strange," I commented, my voice still ominous although I was
terrified. "If I'm not scary, then why am I still tied up?"

She approached me. She was still beautiful with those high cheekbones even
though I knew she was a proven killer. I didn't flinch when she flicked her
cigarette toward me; luckily it fell short of my lap.

"I wanted to show you that you were just a man," she said. "With your
costume, your gadgets and your damn high morals, I wanted to demonstrate that
you're no different from any other man."

"No different from all the men you killed you mean." I was very brave back
then. "Just because every man was willing to make love to you doesn't mean
they deserved to die."

"Yes, they did!" she screeched. "All men deserve to die, they're willing to
make love to me, they should be willing to die for me! All men are pigs who
want nothing more than to stick their things into women and throw them away!"

"Not me madam," I interrupted. "I've done my research and I know all about
your stepfather." Your beautiful face drained of blood and I felt sorry for
her, but I pressed on. "I know how he abused you when you were just a girl,
and I know how you killed him in that car accident and no one knows it was you
that did it. You've been killing him over and over again every time you kill
another rich powerful man. None of those men deserved to die. The only one
who did died a long time ago Mary, and it's time to accepted that. I can help
you Mary, I understand your pain. You need help Mary, and if you turn yourself
in, I promise to talk to the commissioner about making sure you are sent to the
best hospitals in the state. Let me help you Mary before you kill again."

"You're wrong," she said, her voice as cold as ice. "You are like any man,
and I'll prove it."

Standing before me, she unbuttoned the front of her dress quickly. She
slinked out of her blue dress to reveal snow white arms and impossibly pale
breasts. Her blue eyes were half open and she licked her scarlet lips as she
ran her hands under her perfect globes. It was everything I could to do
prevent myself from having an erection. I was going to try to reason with her,
but she stuffed her gloves into my mouth, gagging me for the atrocity that was
about to begin.

"There's is no sense denying what you feel Night Spectre," she said. "You
must find me attractive, haven't you ever wished you could place a hand on
these?"

I remained impassive, concentrating on the unique transistor that powered my
gloves. My mind was trying to think far away thoughts as the Blonde Widow
circled her delicate fingers around her pink nipples. Around and around they
went. My jaw clenched as I shuddered, and my Spectre Camera took the first
secret picture of that awful circumstance. My penis reacted as well, throbbing
only slightly, but her deviant eyes caught it.

"You do enjoy me!" she said. Those blue eyes now flashed triumphantly. She
knelt between my bound legs, and I was terrified that she would actually touch
me there. My limp penis was grabbed by her soft hands and she began slowly
coaxing me. To my increasing horror, she was masturbating me, something I was
afraid to do myself! I might have been able to resist of those beautiful white
breasts weren't so damnably close to me. My willpower weakened with every
press of her chest to my thighs.

My Spectre Camera involuntarily took a picture when I shuddered. That was why
I had such nice photographs of Mary stroking my penis into a tower of shame.
She kissed the top of my penis, and I stiffened harder at the perversity of it.
Her eyes were so intent on me as she kissed around the length of my penis. I
was absolutely still, my mind devoid of any escape plans. I just watched her
as she kissed me. To my complete surprise, she next placed her lips around my
penis, and slowly pushed me into her mouth.

I had never had sex the 'French Way' before. The most impressive thing I had
experienced from a woman's mouth was when the young mayor's teenage daughter
kissed me after rescuing her from Dr. Vile. That became a childish memory in
comparison to what I went through from the Blonde Widow. I was encased in heat
as her lips and tongue welcomed me into her. Although I was shocked by the
terrible act she was committing, my penis betrayed me by refusing to shrink.
The Blonde Widow's scarlet lips traveled from tip to base on my penis, smearing
red lipstick on me. I remained still, watching in fascination as she performed
her ugly deed. As much as what she did scared me, I couldn't help but watch.

It was too much for me and my body submitted to her. I only let a single
grunt escape my lips as I finally ejaculated. At first her tongue flicked at
me as my essence when it flowed into her mouth. But after the first couple of
squirts, she removed her mouth and crushed my crimson penis to her breasts. My
Spectre Camera recorded as my sperm splashed over her chest, but the image was
forever in my memory. I'll never forget the look of victory on the Blonde
Widow's face as my sperm landed on her. The white fluid was like an accusation
against me, her proof that I was like all men.

I have at least fifty pictures of this encounter, and I entered them all into
my computer. One by one I placed them into my scanner, and one by one they all
moved. Every image was the same. She would take my penis out of her mouth and
while still stroking me, she would turn to face me.

"I gave you a blowjob before you even knew the word," she would accuse.
"Why did you have to kill me?"

I still apologized, to each and every picture. "I didn't mean to and I'm
sorry," I said.

Later her thugs came back. Laughing at my pantless condition, a few of them
took the chance to give me a few kicks to my groin. My humiliation complete,
the Blonde Widow ordered them to toss me, chair and all, into the river. She
went upstairs, but gave me a lipstick smeared kiss before she left. Unlike her
other kills, she wasn't going to hang around to watch this one.

The goons were stupid enough to pick me up by the chains. Since my hands were
chained with steel, it was simple physics that saved me. I activated my
Spectre Gauntlets, and the stunning electricity conducted through the chains.
Two of my assailants dropped to the floor twitching, but the wooden chair
prevented my injured groin from receiving any of the current. That still left
two of my enemies to fight.

The punks kicked me savagely, softening me up for the river. I tossed and
turned, flipping my chair over several times as they tried to pummel me. The
result was that their blows weakened the chair, until it collapsed from their
assaults. My hands were still bound, but my ankles now had wooden weights tied
to them. Using my skills that I learned from the wise Korean known only as
'The Master', I easily kicked the remaining villains into submission. I even
have a nice photo of my bare leg connecting with one of their crotches. That
picture brings a smile every time I see it.

Using some contortion skills, I escaped the chains. A little effort removed
the chair legs still tied to my legs. My pants were tossed in a corner and I
hurriedly put them back on. I was still terribly embarrassed, and in somewhat
of a daze. Upstairs was the Blonde widow and for the first time I was afraid
of a dangerous criminal. She had taken something unthinkable from me, and all
of my training was helpless in calming me down. Grimly, I rushed up the
stairs.

The door was easy to kick down. Rushing in, I dodged and rolled towards the
center of the room. I expected a hail of gunfire, but instead there was
nothing. I stood up carefully, and looked about the room. There she was,
huddled on a bed, crying like a lost girl.

My anger melted into confusion. I walked carefully over to her and sat down
beside her. She buried herself in my arms and just cried. I held her, trying
to think of something, anything to say, but in the end I said nothing. She
kept saying she was sorry, over and over again.

"Mary," I sad very gently. "We should go now. I'll still make sure you get
the help you need."

She nodded, and I helped her up. As we approached the door, she hesitated,
and pulled out a gun from somewhere. Her unstable mind startled me, and on
instinct, I grabbed her. My Spectre Gauntlets gave her a full dose, something
I only did out of fear, surprise and exhaustion. She jerked and through my
mask I could smell her skin burn. She looked at me horrified, and dropped to
the ground.

I had never used my Spectre gauntlets on a woman before, and now I knew what
the price was. The current was too much for her heart, and she died within
minutes. Numb, I took one final photograph of her. Her eyes were open,
accusing me from the grave.

I took the last photo and stared at it before entering it into my scanner. I
knew when I decided to catalog all my photos on disk that I would have to deal
with this memory. She was so beautiful, yet so hurt. There had been other
women, some evil, some as virtuous as gold, but never any as in need of a hero
like Mary Fox. I just wished I could have been the hero she needed.

Before the image could move, I apologized again.

End of Story