EXTRACT FOR
SAVING WENDY
(Kim Hardwick)

 "How I feel about Wendy's punishment is irrelevant to the ultimate goal of saving her soul."

Darius' firm grip on my shoulder was no doubt meant to stiffen my resolve as we both watched LeRoy prepare Wendy for her 'trial by fire', using a well-worn metaphor.  

I had mixed feelings watching LeRoy hoist Wendy up to my ceiling using meat hooks attached to her breasts.  With her hands cuffed behind her back, Wendy was unable to do more than scream.  

As soon as her feet cleared the floor, (there was about four inches between the soles of her feet and the hardwood floor), LeRoy tied off the rope and began to administer 'justice'.

Although my background is different from LeRoy and his cousin, the Reverend Darius Johnson from Lula, Mississippi, we shared a common appreciation of the threat Wendy's lack of respect for her master (me) posed to society.  A woman who could so flippantly flog and abuse a man who claimed emotional and actual ownership of her, was a dangerous woman.

The punishment that was going to be meted out to Wendy tonight was crafted to serve two purposes.  Firstly, to punish her in as harsh and painful a manner so that she would never stray from the rightful path, and secondly, to demonstrate our love for her, as fellow Christians concerned with the salvation of her soul.

As a Roman Catholic, I knew I could always go to confessional and afterwards, say my Act of Contrition and be on my merry way.  However, Wendy, being a Mormon, had to endure her trial by fire.  At least she wasn't a Scientologist.

"Marcus, join me if you will in a silent prayer for Wendy."

"Yes, thank you Darius."

"MARCUS!  PLEASE FORGIVE ME!  PLEASE DON'T HURT ME!"

Her cries for mercy wounded me in a most profound and satisfying manner.  Indeed, if Wendy, my sweet, loving Wendy was going to be tortured in the manner I expected, I could do no less than suffer with her.  As long as I wasn't getting flogged, because, as every civilized person knows (or should know) men cannot be tortured by women; the reverse is both true and in keeping with Nature.  That is why the liberties Wendy took with me the other night demand a brutal and barbaric response on my part.

"Marcus, be strong.  Remember, the Lord works in mysterious ways."

Darius was right, of course.  However, what really galls me is how I could have so misread the signs.  With all my experience destroying and breaking fertile young women, how could I have misread Wendy's predilection for sadism?  How could she have fooled me so completely?

"MARCUS, MY LOVE!  PLEASE DON'T HURT ME!"

Oh my love!  How I wish I could hold you and protect you from the bestial pain LeRoy is about to inflict.  I felt like saying it, but it's for the best that I keep quiet and suffer while LeRoy does what I should be doing.  I'm the one who should be crushing Wendy.  My standing aside witnessing the carnage that's about to unfold, smoking my Macanudo Certified Vintage, 1993 ($35 a stick) would have to do.

"PLEASE MARCUS, PLEASE!"

Her screaming for mercy, professing her love for me, causes me to stare into her tear filled eyes and realize that I had forgotten to refill my lighter.

"Darius, do you have a lighter?"

"MARCUS, MY LOVE!  PLEASE!"

"Thanks Darius."

"How are you holding up, Marcus?"

"Not well, to be honest with you."

Darius nodded and took a drag from his cigar (he was smoking a La Gloria Cubana Wavell) and soon, we both settled into our own quiet reflections on why women go bad,

"HEY SWEET STUFF, STOP BOTHERING MARCUS.  LOOK AT ME HONEY CHILD.  I'M GONNA LEARN YOU HOW TO BEHAVE AND KNOW YOUR ROLE.  YOU GOT DAT?"