Dear readers, allow the Great and Devious one a brief respite. It’s been a crazy time lately. I am to blame for that, but even I occasionally want a short break. To that end, I’ve decided to let a few other stories be told. Yes, this town is big enough for more of us. Outlaw X, the pirate radio station beloved of villains everywhere, has more than a few stories to tell as well. Tales of a new age; others as old as humanity itself.
It was a humid night in Connecticut, why Captain Johanssen guessed Detective Staex wouldn’t have gone outside for a smoke. The detective had put on a few pounds, and like many people gifted with an excess of weight, wasn’t fond of added humidity or heat if they could help it. But the detective was fond of his tobacco. When he didn’t check in, Captain Johanssen’s aide found him and alerted him of it as requested. He’d been given orders to keep a close eye on proceedings at the charity dinner. It was his first since transferring to the Gold Coast of Connecticut, and he didn’t take the threat he’d been warned about as seriously as he did exerting his authority over his new detectives. So he left, and found Staex in a maintenance closet at the country club.
The detective was wrapped in wide, white, flat strips that held his arms against his body. He had begun mumbling through a similar strip wrapped around his bearded face when he saw light from the open door. He paused when he made out it was the new Captain, then started wiggling and murmuring even louder. What was impossible to make out through the strip was equally unlikely to have been heard outside the closet at all. The Captain bent down to the Detective and tore the strip off, taking off the man’s beard and sideburns everywhere the strip had touched them.
“Motherfuck me with a paddleboard!” yelled Staex.
“Later, detective. Who did this? What did they look like?” asked Johanssen.
“He was dressed as a waiter. I thought he was doing something weird. He had on a mask, tied me up in these things. They’re all sticky,” Staex explained.
Johanssen stood up and looked back. “I have to alert the rest of the force. Sit tight. I’ll send someone by when I’ve secured the club.” It was with no small amount of satisfaction at his subordinate’s predicament that Captain Johanssen left the detective at a brisk walk to alert his plainclothes people among the crowd to be on the lookout. It was only when he arrived back at the dining room and heard the gasps of those same wealthy socialites that he realized the threat had been real after all.
He arrived back at the dining room to see an open window on one wall and a pair of his detectives helping free a trio who had been stuck to Corinthian columns lining the room. A large and red-faced man approached, a volcano ready to blow his top. “Johanssen! You have this job because the last screw-up couldn’t stop this madman from his spree of kidnappings. This is the third time, Johanssen. Third! I want my daughter back, and so help me God, he better not have touched a single hair on her head.”
Johanssen gulped. Theodore Hunnicutt the Third had been the one to warn him. His family was old money, having been a smuggler during the Colonial Period. His money was so old, in fact, that the stink of crime had worn off it and the family was now seen as a pillar of the community. Johanssen had taken this job knowing a man like Hunnicutt could make a man’s career. Or break it. How was he, a seasoned officer who had encountered real villains before, to know how serious a threat was from a man calling himself “The Mad Waxxer”.
Room service at the Presario was as prompt as it was discreet. The staff wasn’t paid to gather evidence for the police, something appreciated by clientele ranging from wayward politicians and rambunctious aristocrats to the rare supervillain who could afford a stay in one of their exclusive suites. The concierge rolled in a tray containing chilled champagne, a pair of glasses, and a sampling of delicious desserts from the kitchen. The Mad Waxxer smiled from underneath his mask and shook the man’s hand, imparting a $100 to him as a tip.
The concierge smiled right back at the villain. It wasn’t his job to judge, not even when the client was a man in tights, a smoking jacket, and a mask that looked like the letter M on top of the letter W in a black design that almost looked look like the man had overly large eyebrows, sideburns, and a mustache like a lie detector test. If he looked close, he could make out that the “face” between and around the letters was actually a mask. He was paid well to not look closely, so he took his money and left.
The Mad Waxxer popped the champagne open and poured the bubbling drink into glasses. He sauntered to the bathroom and found his captive nowhere to be found. He smirked as he eyed the open balcony door and walked over. There, he found Theodora Hunnicutt, dressed only in a robe and looking up at the night sky. He barely heard her over the still quiet of the night as she commented, “Beautiful moon tonight.”
“A waxing gibbous, mon coeur,” the Mad Waxxer said, stepping up behind her. He kissed her on the back and side of her neck as his arms slipped around her and handed her a glass of champagne.
“Mmm… such pretty words. How many women have you kidnapped and threatened to wax? And men? Should I be jealous?” she asked, taking a sip of her champagne.
He chuckled. “How many of those who refused to pay were seen without a hair on their rich little heads, hm? No, I am not wining and dining fat bank chairs. I’m an extortionist, not a masochist.”
“Be a sadist for me?” Theodora said, allowing the robe to slip down and expose her shoulders. “Hurt me good.”
“For you, ma puce, it will be a pleasure to bring you pain,” the Mad Waxxer said, taking her arm and leading her to the bed, where his wax and strips were set up. Bikini season for his beloved demanded sacrifices.
The Mad Waxxer hadn’t intended to strike again so soon. One benefit of targeting the wealthy is that they pay so well; he didn’t need to work constantly and the heat died down between each kidnapping. His adventures with Theodora were a matter of love, not money.
The police received an anonymous tip and entered the hotel room at the Presario in time to “save” Theodora from being completely stripped of hair. Her brows and lashes were safe and Captain Johanssen could indeed report to the elder Hunnicutt that not a hair on the beautiful heiress’s head had been harmed. The new captain suspected she was missing fur above the lips that women were not supposed to be seen with, but he wasn’t about to tell someone as rich and powerful as Theodore Hunnicutt the Third that his daughter was supposed to have a mustache.
The Mad Waxxer’s work, his science, his art required preparation and his lifestyle required money. He didn’t like it, but it had to be done. Man was not meant to live without crepes and a beach house. The summer was a good time, however. There were many families who Wintered, Springed, and Falled away from home who enjoyed Summering in Connecticut. He settled on a French model, Lauren Blanc. She wasn’t old money or even new money, but it was a rare rich kid who would reject the company of a model. Her boyfriend of the month, a 29-year old retired from working in software whose sister married into old money, would pay dearly not to be embarrassed. And should he refuse, he’ll find it hard to attract any other girlfriends unless they want to risk being snatched.
Blanc’s boyfriend had set her up with a classy apartment near the beach. The balcony featured a table, jacuzzi, and lounges for the model to relax and enjoy a meal while looking out over the waves at sunset. A long strip of paper splatted against the side of the building and stuck fast. The Mad Waxxer arced over the rail of the balcony on the end of his wax strip whip and pressed a button. A vibration weakened the glue enough for it to come free. Another button rolled it up automatically. He slipped it into a hidden pocket up the back of his smoking jacket.
The Mad Waxxer helped himself through the unlocked balcony. Even in an age where men and women could leap tall buildings in a single bound and fly like a bird or a plane, few people were felt the need to lock every door and window that led to a twenty story drop. He knew Lauren would be home. He’d been watching her as tastefully as a professional kidnapper could stalk a woman. This was the time of day she would be working out in her home gym with her personal trainer.
He found the gym door open, an unusual purple splatter against the door. He frowned to himself. She didn’t seem messy. He reached back under his smoking jacket for the base of his whip as he made his way in. Greeting him was a wiry older man groaning on the floor, hands on his private parts. The Mad Waxxer looked around and saw no one else. He rushed to the downed man. “What happened?”
“He… he ripped it off. He ripped it all off!” cried the trainer, raising a hand to grab the lapel of Mad Waxxer’s smoking jacket. In the process, he exposed enough of the crotch of his pants that the Waxxer made out the missing fabric and complete absence of any body hair underneath it. The crude removal had left the man bleeding.
“What do you mean he ripped it off? Who did?” asked the Waxxer, wondering where his mark had gone. The trainer pointed up at the ceiling. The Waxxer raised his head. A bronze-skinned Adonis in nothing but hot pant clung to the ceiling with bare feet and one hand. The man’s other hand held Lauren Blanc close.
The man crawled along the ceiling toward an open window with the Mad Waxxer’s meal ticket. “Hey! I saw her first,” the Waxxer yelled.
“You’re too slow, oldtimer,” the beautiful brown man said, blowing the Waxxer a kiss. The Waxxer gawked, then remembered his whip. Too late, he hit the window the man was now on the other side of. He tried pulling it inward, hoping to stop the person in his territory, but it was useless.
He wouldn’t learn the name of his claim jumper until the next day, when the story made the news. “Introducing The Brazilian: Model Kidnapped By New Villain In Town.”
The Brazilian… the Mad Waxxer screwed up his face as he read the newspaper. He’d lost his target to someone diluting his entire game. He would have to show this impertinent newcomer who had called him an oldtimer that one does not put the Mad Waxxer in such a sticky situation.