“I’b lyig od by bed.”
“Right. And there are no bars around it, no slats. Is that right?”
“Yes
“And you’re not afraid?”
“As logg as you keep your distadce.”
“There, you see!” Pierre stood back and crowed.
“See whad?”
“Your Clinophobia. It’s cured!”
“So? Ad hour ago I did’et eved habit. Add I dod’t hab it dow. So what?”
“That’s gratitude for you!” Pierre shook his head ruefully. “I make you all better and all you can say is ‘so what?’ What can anybody do with a patient like that?”
“Ker-choo!” Llona sneezed loudly. “You cad cure by cohd! Thad’s whad! Or cad’t you?”
“Well, uh__”
“Thad’s medical sciedce!” Llona blew her nose. “Clinophobia they cad cure! But whed id cobes to a cohd, they’re helpless!”
“Not at all.” Pierre reasserted his authority. “It just takes longer. It requires more intensive treatment.”
“Thad’s a cob-out!”
“No it’s not. Just be patient. I’ll be right back.” Pierre edged out of the bedroom.
“Where are you goigg?”
“To the kitchen. I’m just going to heat up some of that chicken soup for you.”
Llona waited. “Whad’s takig you so logg?” she called after a while.
“I can’t get this goddam cover off this goddam chicken soup jar!” Pierre called back from the kitchen, grunting.
“Pud id under the hodwader.”
“I did. It doesn’t help.”
“Dry tappigg id with the haddle of a knife.”
“I tried that too. No soap. Oof!”
“Brigg id in here.”
“Why?”
“A woban pud id od, thed a woban cad take id off.”
“If you do, the whole male ego goes kerflooey.” Pierre reentered the bedroom and handed Llona the jar of chicken soup.
She struggled with it mightily, but to no avail. “I cad’t do id!” she panted, beads of perspiration breaking out on her forehead.
“You’ll raise your temperature. Let it be.” Pierre took the jar away from her and set it down on the nightstand beside the bed. “And the exertion is making you cough,” he observed.
“Thad’s by cohd.”
“Whatever it is, it’s a nasty hack. Wait a minute. I’ve got just the thing for it.” Pierre popped into the living room and came back with a small plastic container.
“Whad’s thad?”
“It’s a special homemade liniment. The same lady who made the chicken soup gave it to me for you.”
“You’ll never ged the cab off!” Llona told him positively.
“Wrong!” Pierre was triumphant. “This one pries off. See.” Pierre held up the container in one hand and the lid in the other. “Now, if you’ll just pull your nightgown down from your shoulders,” he said with studied disinterest.
“Whad do you mean?”
“I’m going to rub down your chest with this. It’ll help clear out your lungs.”
“Nod on your life!”
“Now, you’re just being silly. I see you naked every day. Why are you being coy now?”
“I’b dot beigg coy,” Llona protested coyly. “I’b just shy.”
“Look, I’ll turn out the light. There.” Pierre suited the action to the words. “Now I can’t see you. There’s nothing to be shy about. Pull down the top of your nightgown.”
“Oh, all ride.”
“Good. Now I’ll just-—”
“Phew! Whad the hell is thad smell?”
“That’s the liniment.”
“Id smells like chicked fad.”
“Well, it does have a chicken fat base,” Pierre admitted.
“Id’s awful!”
“Oh, I don’t know. I thought it had a kind of romantic aroma.” He dipped his hand into the jar and groped in the darkness for Llona.
“Hey! Whad are you doigg?”
“I’m just going to rub in the liniment.”
“Rub id in where? Thad’s my face! Ugh! Whad a smell!”
“Sorry.” Pierre lowered his hand, located her bosom and applied the liniment. “How’s that?”
“Id bums a liddle.”
“That just shows it’s taking effect.” Pierre renewed his efforts, using both hands now.
Llona’s breasts tingled under his manipulations. “Yes, id is,” she sighed. “Id’s definitely takigg effect.”
“Turn over. I’ll do your back.”
Llona turned over. Pierre straddled her, bracing himself on his knees, one on either side of her hips. He bent over and began rubbing the liniment into her back with both hands.
“Ahh!” Llona moaned contentedly as knowing fingers worked up and down her spine. “Thad’s nice!”
Pierre leaned over and kissed the back of her neck. When she made no protest, he ran his lips over her back in the darkness. His hands massaged the liniment into her plump buttocks.
“Whad are you doigg?” Llona wriggled under his kisses.
“Just getting my bearings.” Pierre’s hands were just below the derriere now, gently separating her thighs. “Ah yes.”
“Ah, yes. You’ve got your bearings all ride.” Llona squirmed under his touch. “Dow whad are you doigg?”
“I put on too much liniment. I’m just taking some of it off.”
“With your libs?”
“Yep.”
“Add your toggue?”
“Sure. It tastes good. It has a very unusual flavor. Sort of like a kosher aphrodisiac.”
“Mmm!” Llona was on her knees now, crouching. “You sure know how do cure a cohd!” she panted, rotating her luscious bottom in anticipation of the final “treatment.”
“And now for the miracle drug of physical therapy!”
Pierre judged her willingness aright. He pulled off his trousers, sprawled over her, and —
There was the sudden sound of a window being raised across the room. “Whad’s thad?” Llona gasped.
“Who cares?” Pierre grasped her breasts firmly and groped for the target bobbing in the darkness.
“Do! Waid!” Llona grabbed him and held him off. “I think it’s a burglar. Look!”
Pierre looked. A shadowy figure was climbing over the windowsill, stealthily groping into the apartment bedroom. Pierre sprang into action.
He sprang off Llona. He sprang to the night table and hefted the jar of chicken soup. He sprang on the intruder and hit him over the head with the jar as hard as he could.
Llona turned on the light. “Oh, by God!” she exclaimed.
“What is it?”
“Hib!” Llona pointed at the unconscious man stretched out on the floor.
“What do you mean? Who is he?”
“Mortiber! He’s by husband’s cousin Mortiber!”
“So?” Pierre was confused. “What was he doing crawling in through your bedroom window in the dark?”
“I dod’t know.” Llona wrang her hands. “Oh, dear, he’s comigg to! Quick! You’ve god do ged oud of here.” She hurried Pierre to the door, shoved him out in the hall as he was still trying to get into his pants, and locked the door behind him. Then she returned to the bedroom.
“Owee!” Mortimer opened one eye. “What hit me?”
“A jar of chicked soub,” Llona told him.
“Homemade?” Grogginess prompted Mortimer to the irrelevancy.
“Hobebade,” Llona confirmed.
“It’s a Jewish plot!” Mortimer groaned. “That’s what it is! A Zionist conspiracy!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Everybody stared. They were all momentarily speechless. The black bikini Nymph panties had been flaunted in their faces and the group was stunned.
They looked from the panties to each other and back to the panties again. To each the panties represented the same thing -- a reminder of failure. But to each the reminder was a different image.
To editor Hugh Esquire, Esq. (née Comstock Bowdler), it was a flash of shrunken, waterlogged manhood. To art director Beulah Von Dyker it was a crackling electrical shock. To Raunch Rammer, publisher, it was the self-image of glamor sliding oft a bald pate. To H. Reb Klein, black-and-white photographer, it was parental poppycock pulling the rug out from under the fun of making love. The panties evoked the gurgling rush of plumbing gone berserk in the huckster ears of I. M. Zihnzeehr. And P.R. man Pierre Strongfellow sighed for the slosh of an unopened jar of homemade chicken soup.