Chapter Two
The Deal
Up the towers of powers, rose might!
In the towers of powers, ran fright…
‘You should have drowned that pandering shit-eater at birth!’ Barb Towdemaker screamed at Alcester Hent. ‘Imagine!’
Alcester, on his lofty penthouse chair, peered out his lofty penthouse window at the lofty
‘Imagine!’ Barb(who built her fortune and fame with good old fashion divorces) repeated herself, certain the argument required an answer.
Speaking of Sinatra. ‘We don’t need to “imagine”, Barb.’ Pat Tennyson made money off of Sinatra when Sinatra was nothing, and continued to make money off the Chairman of the Board to this very day in 2008, along off thousands of other dead singers. ‘Imagination is for kids reading Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea a hundred years ago. We have TV now.’
Alcester did let Tennyson’s words into his brain. A failed crooner, the man could still play the game at every level from wedding parties to changing Hollywood scripts to allow more soundtrack time—and he knew the difference between PR and bullshit. He could sing alright, still to this day, but he could never sing well enough to expect payment. But he knew it.
Those who can’t do, represent.
Barb stood like an idiot as Tennyson moved about the room on ninety-year old bones with a grace the “youth culture” couldn’t imagine; not with gym made muscles that had never known real work or war, or minds that have never known desperation. The angry-at-nothing know-nothing kids would have to see the easy gambol to believe it, but that old goat would never allow himself to be captured thus. He handed Barb, frumpy if elegant, a martini he fixed himself, forcing her back down to her seat to sit and shut up with body language alone, never touching her.
‘What we have, as the man said,’ Tennyson pontificated as he fixed himself a martini. ‘Is failure to communicate. The fruits of the failure, to be exact. Times have changed. Time changed on its own; Jack only woke us up. Even now the mobs form, for now a thousand feet beneath us. Yet nothing yet has certainly changed.’ He took a sip, and was satisfied. He turned from the bar to face the rest. ‘So, do we wait, or control the integration of the change?’
Slick he was.
“The rest” sat with their heads in their hands. Alcester sneered at them. A dozen feckless billionaires, sad and beaten because they couldn’t pretend they were good people anymore. Even Lance and Tess Able, of the Ables, their only offspring on the wrong side of the barred animals, moped like children. Where was their perennial plastic surgery now?
Weak! Weak has man become!
Alcester smiled then. If man was no longer strong, then Alcester was no longer a mere man.
‘Suggestions?’ Jack’s father asked Tennyson, making it clear he wasn’t asking “the rest”.
‘That’s as far as I can think.’ Sip. ‘For the moment.’
‘Never mind. Your thinking sufficiently passed the baton. When I was a child, I killed a Korean sniper with my bare hands for shooting me in the foot. I then used his sniper rifle as a crutch to hoof it back to base to save my foot from the jungle. I was well received. Oh, I was sick all over with the Guani Worm Disease, swollen liver, tooth decay, yellow fever, two broken fingers, and strap throat—but all anyone noticed back at camp was my shot-up foot and the rope of the Korean’s entrails I kept in tow to distract the flies. The docs fixed my army boot filler, and I went back to killing gooks until I could clock my ticket.’ Alcester lit up a thirty dollar cigarette. ‘That’s all people ever notice. The most extreme example.’
The Rest, for now they were a proper noun, looked at each other.
Tennyson sipped again. Often he reminded Alcester of Claude Rains in
Others balked, Tennyson mused. Then he cocked his head and returned to his drink. Alcester was satisfied.
‘Well, Able?’ Alcester rarely addressed women he didn’t pay to listen, so he kept his eyes and singular case on Lance Able. ‘You look confused, Lance Able. It suits you. What do you think?’
‘About what? The situation? It’s terrible!’ Able’s worthless wife renewed crying on his arms. Lance patted her and whispered in her ear. His only ability.
‘No, Able.’ Tennyson walked by the seated Able towards the empty secretary’s desk on the wall opposite the bar. ‘About the swap.’ Alcester leaned back and smiled. And smoked.
‘What?’
‘Of responsibility, of course. The tax payers of
‘But…’ Lance looked around again, as if truth reflected light and could be seen. ‘We already agreed Lyz couldn’t be bought into house arrest! It would be too obvious that, you know… we’re above the law.’
‘No one is above the law of nature.’ Tennyson reached the phone: old fashioned, attached to a wall. He polished its black chrome with an handkerchief.
‘House arrest? I mean Home arrest of course. You’ve never given that wretch of a daughter a home a day in her life. No rules, no boundaries. No rearing. Do you even have picnics? Ever force her, kicking and screaming, to play Monopoly on Saturday night? No. Everybody knows it. Everybody is talking about the poor girl’s upbringing.’ Tennyson glanced over at Alcester Hent, who was all smiles through expensive smoke glanced back. ‘So, what public official could refuse Lysistrada Able a real, traditional home? What pundit will balk at a reverse Little Orphan Annie: a spoiled brat getting at long last her dream of a real, traditional American home?’ Tennyson took a healthy gulp of his drink, to collect his thoughts, then smiled. ‘And what home is more real, more traditional, than the Home of Jack Hent?’
---
Two Legions marched, escorting Lyz, from rehab to cab,
The purified wench so sad, to the cabbie no tab.
Per arrangement, none of Able’s many and mighty Legions were permitted near Jack’s humble three story Brownstone. Neither were the press allowed on his private stoop, but the sidewalk and street were public, and there surged hungry jackals, dry humping the cab, trapping Lyz inside, and screaming questions too loud and fast to allow answers.
‘Enough!’ Jack’s screamed through a bullhorn, which he set aside after the press set aside their fury. ‘If you don’t let her out, we’ll be here all day. It’s supposed to rain later.’
Galvanizing a corridor, the mobile media allowed just enough space for Lyz to exit her cab. Her hair was up and lustful, her red dress tastefully hid sixty percent of her breast and thirty percent of her legs, and some artist had made it rich panting her face. Jack glared at the vane idiot as she waved her hand and smiled for the flashing cameras as if she walked towards an Oscar instead of a mere Jack.
‘What,’ Jack pulled her close and hissed. ‘is the Hell wrong with you? You should look penitent!’
‘Relax, I’ve done this a thousand times before. Here give me, I have a statement to make.’
‘Absolutely not.’
She wrenched the bullhorn from his hands and spun on the sprawling, drooling press. Jack knew, as Lyzistrada did, that to deny the media a statement now that they were so close to copy would spark violence. Jack was helpless.
‘Ahem! Oh! Wow, Jack, good bullhorn. Anyway, I’d just like to say that I think we can all celebrate this proof that the American Justice System still works! Hooray! Power to the People!’
Jack gawked, the press core gobbled. Lyz smiled back, wide and mindless, until Jack dropped to his knee, rolled her over so her face still faced the throng of reporters and cameras and notepads, and tossed aside the lower half of her winsome half-dress.
The Brownstone front entrance bottle necked in front, so the cameras could not get a good shot of the heiresses’ exposed, yet easily Googled, backside. They did, however, get a perfect shot at her horizontal face. Jack, as so many before him, had a shot at the brat’s rump. However, Jack was a man--and acted it.
SMACK HEY! SMACK AHH! SMACK NO! SMACK STOP! SMACK YEOW! SMACK GAA! SMACK JACK! SMACK OOoohhhh SMACK…
And on it went. The longest recorded impromptu, and public spanking in mankind’s history. Being so recorded, the whacks were counted to a precise total of 109, each eliciting an unique cry of pain. Tens of thousands of people formed internet groups over which was their favorite SMACK/Yelp. Millions were made from the T-shirts and bumper stickers. “I’m a GHHAA! Girl” T-shirt was very popular, but “Yeeallpppp!!!” became the ladies’ subtle hint of choice that they wanted their men to be a tad more traditional in their role as pants wearer in the home. ‘I hope you d-ahahhh-ie” was a top seller as well. Also, “I spank to GRRRRRRRR”, Lyz’s last spanked induced complaint, paid very well and helped a number of young men express themselves past their shyness.
Chastisement over, and put on her feat, Lysistrada stood on wavering legs, her hands rubbing furiously under her half-dress, Jack’s right hand around her neck to keep her from running or falling. Her eyes were red, but not crying. Her perfect facial cheeks were taught, evincing pain and shock. Her blonde hair wild like a savage. Her spanking ruined $2,000 of high art.
Cruelly, Jack refused to let the press see Lyz’s other pare of cheeks.
‘That would not be seemly.’ He said into the bullhorn.
‘Always leave them want’in more, eh Mr. Hent?’ yelled out the man from the
‘Lyz is here to change, friend.’ Knowing laughter from all except, as might be expected, the girl with an aching butt. ‘Lysistrada’s foolishness just now was a public insult, thus her punishment was public. Anything you want to say to the public you negligently insulted, brat?’ Jack stressed the word for the people’s benefit.
‘Somebody call a cop!’ she pleaded, trying to get away from Jack’s grip.
A small surge of laughter, then a robust man from the Atlanta Monthly yelled out above the others, ‘Better frisk her for a butter knife, Jack!’ And the crowd laughed with earnest. It was light, as the wounded cop didn’t even get a scar. Instead he got a little place in
Jack made to put a knee down on the ground, the cameras went supernova as the crowd smugly “ooooohhhh hoooo hoooooooooo”, the music of Shadenfreude. Lyz, came to her senses.
‘No…nononono, I (ahem), I’m sorry I’m a spoiled brat, and I’m going to try really, really hard to… do better. I am.’ The press prepared to laugh again. Jack, behind Lyz, thought fast and waved the jovial mob down with his hand. Each member of the media surreptitiously stifled their incredulity. Jack Hent was not only a man of international gravitas, he was also the best lead to the story of the year. Best not to piss him off; not yet.
---
The Hands of Men
the Passions of women
inflame.
When a woman loves a man,
she can feel no shame.
Lyz lay on her stomach on the couch. A big comfy one. Jack handed her a wash cloth wrapped into a bag of ice. A little nervous, she applied the medicine to her still searing sitter. Then bit the pillow she buried her little head.
‘Errrrrrrr-ooooooohhhh… ahh-ahh… oh,oh,oh… ok. That’s better. I have to hand it to you Jack, that was brilliant.’ She swiveled her head to look up at Jack, who sat on the end of the couch. They were in his private office, which was soundproof. ‘You were right not to warn me. I’d have just screwed up my performance.’
‘I didn’t plan on spanking you. It’s just that you acted like such a damn idiot.’
‘It’s what they want!’ She remonstrated, but moving was still painful, so she settled back into the pillow with a wry, pouting face. She reacted to punishment much like house cats do: bitterly, but aware that the humans, while clods, are unbelievably powerful.
Still, she thought. Why be angry with old Jack? ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter if you planned it. Brilliant. I get more publicity than I ever dreamed of, the people get their petty revenge, and I’ll just ride it out in my favorite prep school friend’s house for a couple of months. It’ll be fun shopping online for a change. And you can tell me ghost stories! Ahhhh… this is going to be great. Just what I needed. Hey, how long is my ass going to hurt like this?’
‘I don’t know. Depends on the coloring. Cooking time for bottoms very.’
The hand on the face silent laugh. Jack straightened her hair while she worked to regain herself. She did, and nuzzled his hand for the effort. She was like a cat, Jack thought.
‘Well, go back there and look, tough guy.’
‘No, just rest up.’
‘Wha… Jack, come on. Everybody’s seen my ass at least a thousand times. Jack? Come on.’
‘I haven’t seen your ass since the senior year pool party.’
Many would not have recognized Lysistrada, as she was deep in thought. ‘Really?’
‘I don’t watch Skinemax.’
‘Oh.’ Now people could I.D. her as she looked confused. ‘But, you just spanked me.’
‘I was looking at your head to make sure the cameras got a good look at your face.’
‘Hmmmm.’ Bitter again. ‘Well, who cares anyway, doc. Check out my ass and tell me—‘
‘No.’ Jack stood up, upsetting Lyz who hadn’t realized she’d partially leaned the pillow against his bulk. ‘I’ll fix you something to eat, then you bathe and get to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a hard day for you. The day after wont be Kite Day, either.’ Jack opened the door to the hallway.
‘What? Jack, what are you talking about?’
Jack Hent, of the Hents, turned at the sill. He wasn’t cruel or dominate, just correct. ‘Lyz, none of this is for show. You have no money left; it all went to your legal defense, and to certain charitable funds for the city. The show business agencies agreed to take you back only with my approval. Your parents are terrified of you. They’re hiding their money. Things are changing. You can do as I tell you, or you can go to prison for a year. I’m going to help you grow up. How painful that will be is largely up to you.’
‘Jack?
‘Lyz?’
‘Ah…’ she gawked at him. ‘Ah… are you going to be mean to me?’
‘Likely, but ultimately up to you. However, I am in charge, and you’re going to obey before you ruin all your options. Time for a little virtue.’
‘Like Hell!’
‘Rest.’ The permanent sadness around the eyes belied the force of his voice.
He closed the door.
Lyz dug into the comfy couch, deep in thought again. Jack had always been so passive. Well, not really. Passive with her. Sure, he scolded her even as kids, but he never even hit on her before. Even when she was really drunk. Now he was her warden? He wouldn’t even look at her ass…
‘Sheesh. Guy gives you one lousy spanking and he thinks he has a vote.’
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