The Penguin

Lois entered the room boldly, projecting as much confidence as she could. Her first impression was a modest-sized bedroom paneled in dark wood, an antique four-poster bed prominent against the left-hand wall, a small wooden bar on the right. The carpet was a deep, plush blue that her feet sank into, and hanging over the bed was a large classical portrait of Leda and the Swan. There were few other pieces of furniture in the room: a coat rack, a folding Chinese screen, a marble-topped end table with a large, old-fashioned golden telephone on it.

The fertile reporter wasn't sure what she imagined her client might be like...and unprepared for the squat, rotund figure in a bathrobe by the bar. The top of his head was bald, but his remaining hair had been grown out in shoulder-length locks. The hands that grasped the highball glass had fused fingers, little more than flippers. He turned to her, and Lois recognized the famous, beak-like profile of the nose, the monocle over his left eye, the cigarette held in the long holder.

"Hello, my dear." He said, showing small white teeth. "I take it our...hostess...explained what is expected of you?"

"It's a dangerous day for me," Lois told him, staring the squat villain in the eye. "I like a little danger."

He took a long drag from his cigarette, the coal glowing as the white tube burnt down a centimeter of ash, and then blew out plumes of smoke from his nostrils. The Penguin set the cigarette and holder aside in a marble ashtray.

"That is exactly what I like to hear," he gave a toothy smile, and Lois remembered, oddly, that some birds had teeth. "Your costume, while fetching, is unnecessary. Please disrobe, and get on the bed."

Lois did as instructed, peeling off the Star Sapphire outfit and letting it lay on the floor. She felt oddly naked without it, though her "goods" had been on just as much display with it than without it. There was a swish as she slid onto the sheets—black satin, shimmery and soft, that quickly warmed under her body—and she saw the squat figure pull off his own robe, hanging it on the lowest hook on the coat tree.

He had to use the bed-steps to climb onto the fourposter. The reporter shivered as his heaving bulk came into view, the pale oily skin almost hairless. He was nearly as broad as he was tall, flesh smooth but there was muscle beneath that blubber, like a sumo wrestler in miniature...and all Lois Lane could think was:

Do I really want to go through with this? Let this squat, ugly man be the one to impregnate me? What would the baby look like?

Yet all ruminations stopped as she saw his penis come into view.