THAT’S ENTERTAINMENT!

A Parody by Lady UndaTramp

Rated R/Adult

Authors’ Note: Linda S Barth and Jessie Gurner, the authors of That’s Entertainment!, hope you will enjoy this story which arose from our somewhat warped senses of humor, lots of wondering about how Vincent would look wearing tights, and the great affection we have for our beloved BatB characters and world. It was written to provide a lighthearted, humorous adult romp. If you find it to be disrespectful or offensive in any way, we apologize,
as that was never what we intended.

We’d also like to thank the writers of the brilliant Whoopi Goldberg movie Jumpin’ Jack Flash for “lending” us the perfect pseudonym for this parody.

* * * * *

With picnic basket in hand, Catherine climbed down the basement ladder, her mind filled with plans she’d made for the evening. It wasn’t often she and Vincent managed to be alone. And the way things had been going lately, she’d begun to wonder if the world was conspiring to keep them apart, truly apart.

She dropped gracefully to the floor — not an easy task while wearing five-inch heels — and heaved a sigh. Every time it seemed as if she and Vincent might steal a few minutes of privacy, Kipper would beg for help with his trigonometry homework, or Mouse would seek advice on thermonuclear technology, or Father would discover an obscure medieval manuscript that had to be translated immediately.

But this time, she vowed, things would be different!

For tonight the tunnel world’s main chambers would be deserted since all the adults would be attending Father’s one-man show featuring Elizabethan poetry. During the planning stages, the community had shown a distinct lack of interest, and when an order of mandatory attendance was issued, rumors of mutiny began to circulate. However, Father quickly squashed every attempt by explaining that anyone skipping the show would be assigned to sewer-cleaning detail for six months.

The only person who had lucked out was Olivia, having won the latest – and most popular ever – tunnel lottery. The grand prize was the privilege of babysitting all 72 tunnel children on the night of Father’s performance. Cullen was still grumbling he’d deserved to win; Jamie was researching the possibility of faking a highly contagious disease for one night only; and Kanin wasn’t speaking to his wife since she refused to give her prize to him.

But for Catherine, the news of the upcoming night at the theatre had been an amazing gift, even though she knew it would be a challenge to persuade Vincent to agree with her plans. Using all her lawyerly skills, she’d presented her case a few nights earlier while lounging on her balcony in an extremely flimsy negligee. Upon his arrival, she had taken fate – among other things – into her hands as she murmured, nibbled, and nuzzled her suggestions for skipping Father’s performance in favor of a romantic picnic for two.

At first Vincent had been worried about disappointing Father, but after a few more minutes of encouragement from Catherine, he had groaned, quivered, and panted his agreement to her scheme.

Now it was time to put the last pieces of her plan into action. She grinned as she bent carefully to retrieve the picnic basket she’d lowered earlier. She didn’t want to risk any damage to her special outfit — a mini-dress of skin-tight scarlet silk that revealed all of her back and most of her front. Her crystal dangled between her breasts, helpfully pointing in the right direction. No sense being subtle on what just might be The Big Night!

She sighed happily. She couldn’t wait to peel layer after layer of wool, leather, denim, flannel, and God only knows what else from Vincent’s muscular body. Then, like an overexcited child on Christmas morning, she would eagerly explore the treasures that had been hidden under all that wrapping.

If everything went as planned, it would give a whole new meaning to Vincent’s never-ending praise of her amazing courage, generous heart, endless endurance, and various other virtues.

“Virtue be damned!” she muttered. “I’ve had the patience of a saint and more tolerance than Gandhi. What I haven’t had is Vincent!”

She reached into the picnic basket and pulled out a crisp linen napkin, then frantically began to wipe away beads of perspiration gathering on her forehead, neck, and various other parts of her anatomy.

“I can’t take much more of this! In a few more weeks, even Al “The Weasel” Roscoe down at Rikers is going to start looking good to me!”

Squaring her nearly naked shoulders, she stepped through the jagged brick opening, ready to hurl herself at top speed into Vincent’s waiting arms.

“Hello, dear.”

“Mary!” The picnic basket dropped from Catherine’s hand and crashed heavily onto the stone floor. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to Vincent? Has he been trapped in a cave-in, blinded by an explosion, held captive by a gang, or captured by a mad scientist who plans to do evil experiments on him?”

“Not this week. I’m afraid it’s Father who’s a little under the weather. Vincent asked if I would meet you while he copes with things.”

Catherine didn’t have to fake her growing concern. She seethed silently as she picked up the picnic basket, which was now leaking a fine vintage Cabernet. If Father has figured out a way to ruin my scheme, uh, plans…

She followed Mary down the dimly lit corridor. “So, what’s wrong with Father?”

“You know, I’m not quite sure. He was fine this morning. Then this afternoon he suddenly came down with the worst case of laryngitis I’ve ever seen.”

“He must be very upset about having to call off his show,” Catherine muttered through gritted teeth. It didn’t take a Radcliffe education to know where this was going. She could see it now – Father hurling one more opportunity for her to be alone with Vincent straight into the Abyss. And laughing as it vanished.

Mary patted her arm. “Oh, he wouldn’t let us postpone it. Everyone worked so hard on the costumes and set, and it was too late to cancel our invitations to the Helpers. So, he got Vincent to stand in for him.”

Checkmate. Somehow Father had figured out what was going on. She didn’t know how, but there was no other explanation that could have driven him to take such drastic measures. She felt her stomach clench in rage. Soon she and Vincent would be surrounded by everyone who lived Below and most of the Helpers from the city Above. It would be a miracle if they could grab a micro-second of alone time! And all because of one vindictive, possessive, conniving old…man.

She sighed heavily. It was a shame she hadn’t left Father to rot in jail when she’d had the chance. Oh well, no use brooding over missed opportunities. She’d know better next time.

As they neared the central chambers, Catherine blinked in disbelief at the sight of Rebecca racing toward them. Normally neat and well-groomed, even while working in the steamy candle-making chamber, Rebecca now was a walking disaster. Her hair looked as if Arthur had been nesting in it for a week, her blouse was rumpled and half-hanging out of her skirt, and her eyes were filled with a look of wild desperation.

She skittered to a halt in front of them. “It just can’t be done,” she wailed as she grabbed the edges of Mary’s shawl and began to shake the older woman back and forth. “There’s no way costumes designed for Father will ever fit Vincent! The tunic is above his waist, the shirt sleeves are halfway up his arms, and he can’t get the trousers past his knees. When I left him, he was wearing his old bathrobe over the shirt and a pair of tights, and he said he’s not going to take that ratty old thing off!”

Mary gently loosened Rebecca’s grip with a right hook to the sternum and then smiled benignly as she always did when coping with cataclysmic disasters. “Calm down, dear. Don’t upset yourself so. You’ll break out in spots, and everyone will think you’ve had a relapse of that nasty rash. You know – the one you caught the last time Devin visited.”

“I told you that was just a coincidence,” Rebecca hissed. “I’m allergic to strawberries. That’s how I got the rash.”

Mary shook her head in bewilderment. “That’s very strange, dear. I don’t remember you having any problems with the strawberry ice cream Catherine brought us. Or the strawberry jam William made. Or the strawberry cake we had for Samantha’s birthday. Or the strawberry Margaritas that –”

“Never mind!” Rebecca screamed. “This is a crisis! What are we going to do about Vincent?!”

Just then, the trio was interrupted by Jamie’s arrival. “Hi, Catherine. Vincent asked me to find a good seat for you, so I saved you the one right next to Father.”

“Uhh, thanks…”

“That’s okay.” Jamie shrugged. “No one else wanted to sit with him anyway. He’s in a really bad mood because he knows everyone’s glad Vincent is doing the show instead of him.”

Catherine took a calming breath. At least Vincent would see her in her new outfit, and maybe after the show he’d be interested in getting an even closer look. She smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from what little there was of her skirt.

Mary squinted as she eyed Catherine. “Jamie, why don’t you show Catherine to her seat while Rebecca and I see what we can do to help Vincent backstage.” She turned toward their reluctant guest. “And dear, that dress of yours is so very lovely and so becoming, but it’s dreadfully drafty in that old theatre chamber. Here, take my shawl. I can knit myself another one in a jiffy. I do it all the time, you know.”

Oh, great, Catherine thought, rolling her eyes as Mary draped the blanket-like garment over her shoulders, twitching as its wool scratched her chest and thighs. “How kind of you. Thanks so much.”

“It’s the least I can do. Now hurry along.” Mary smiled in satisfaction. She knew even on the best of days, she herself was a longshot, but there was no sense in further jeopardizing her chances with Father by seating a gorgeous, half-naked, extremely sexually frustrated younger woman next to him for several hours.

Deciding to abandon the picnic basket, Catherine pushed it under a table with the toe of her red satin shoe. From the corner of her eye she saw Arthur amble into view, then lift his head and sniff the air as the fruity scent of Cabernet reached his eagerly twitching nose. He headed toward the basket at a fast waddle.

Grinning, Catherine followed Jamie to the theater chamber. With any luck at all, Arthur would have a few belts, get completely sloshed, and cause total chaos. The evening might not be a total loss after all.

She easily spotted Father in his front row seat. Considering the number of people crowding the room, the area around him was remarkably empty.

“See you later.” Jamie cast a glance of pity at Catherine before making her escape.

As Catherine crossed the chamber toward her dubious seat of honor, the milling throng quickly moved out of her way. With a mental image of rats and sinking ships, she plopped onto her chair. Plastering what she knew was a very unconvincing smile on her face, she turned toward Father.

But before they could exchange what might pass for pleasantries, a bloodcurdling explosion ripped through the room. She froze and swiveled her head in the direction of deafening roars which gradually gave way to a series of hoarse, ragged whimpers.

Now what’s that all about, she wondered. Let’s see – pain? No. Rage? Uh-uh. Hmmm, fear? Maybe, but not exactly. Indigestion? Probably not. Oh, wait — maybe passion? She huffed loudly. It had better not be that when I’m not next to him – let alone under or on top of!

Oh well, all surely would be revealed in due time. Most likely in about 48 to 52 minutes. Even sooner if it was Sweeps Week.

She glanced at Father. Aside from a raspy “Dear God” or two, he hadn’t even flinched. You have to admire that kind of poise and self-control in a man of his age and temperament, she admitted grudgingly. And for once he can’t talk, so there is that. Silver linings and all. She sighed heavily. Maybe I’m reading too much into this. I guess I could give him just one more chance.

“I’m very sorry you aren’t feeling well, Father,” she began. A sudden vision of the way she had anticipated spending the evening set her teeth on edge, but she forged on with the few words of truth she could manage. “I’ve been looking forward to this night for weeks.”

Father’s expression brightened and his thoughts filled with pleasure. Finally! Here is someone who appreciates my extraordinary oratorical expertise, amazing literary knowledge, and brilliant artistic interpretation. Catherine’s insight is incredible and so unexpected. Until this moment, I never would have suspected she was a connoisseur of fine dramatic performances.

He pointed to his throat, grimacing painfully, not only to make sure she believed he was quite impaired but also to gain an extra bit of sympathy. “I’m sure Vincent will make a splendid job of it,” he whispered.

It’s such a shame Catherine must settle for less than the best, he lamented silently. One can hardly expect the boy to give a performance approaching the level of mine. But thank heaven Mouse let it slip that Vincent was planning to skip tonight’s performance and take her on a romantic picnic. It took some quick thinking on my part to make sure that wasn’t about to happen! But what a tragedy my performance had to be sacrificed!

He shook his head in a spasm of regret. I spent so much time and effort planning a show people would have talked about for years. Why just the selection of material alone took me hours just to make sure it was a proper match for my magnificent talents. And now here I am, stuck on the sidelines, forced to pretend I have laryngitis just to keep Vincent out of Catherine’s clutches for one more night. It’s a shame really.

He heaved a hoarse sigh. He knew it was his duty as the fearless leader of the tunnel world to make sure his charges stayed out of mischief. And he could only imagine how much mischief Vincent and Catherine would have gotten into if left alone for more than thirty seconds, let alone a whole evening. The amount of energy he had spent on separating those two over the years would have daunted a lesser man. It was a dirty job, but someone had to do it.

Completely absorbed in his thoughts, he was unaware of Catherine’s stiffening spine and the way she clasped her hands tightly together as if fighting the urge to wrap her fingers around someone’s neck and squeeze until his face turned the color of a rotting eggplant.

Obviously, Father was unaware that as the bond Catherine shared with Vincent had grown stronger, so had her psychic abilities. And while she possessed only a fraction of Vincent’s talent, it was more than enough to enlighten her to the musings of the man sitting next to her.

What was that old adage about revenge being sweet?

Let’s see…I could kick his cane out from under him during a stroll near the Abyss…or maybe add a little something special to his next cup of tea. Then again, maybe Arthur has a friend with rabies who’s looking for a new home. And didn’t Father once mention he has a phobia about clowns? There’s that costume shop right near the office…  

She cast him a murderous glance. So far, the Abyss idea was the most appealing — a quick one-and-done — but it still wasn’t quite right. With her luck, he’d just land on a ledge and crawl back up like the snake he was. As she considered the various fiends and felons she’d met on the job who could possibly provide some assistance, she became aware of Jamie and Brooke rushing around the chamber extinguishing most of the candles and torches.

She sighed loudly. I’m stuck here for the evening, so I might as well try to make the best of this nightmare. Even if the selections Father chose are excruciatingly boring, as I’m sure they are, at least I can enjoy staring at Vincent – and it will give me time to plan my revenge.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Father and his captive audience, a melodrama of far greater proportions was taking place just a few yards away behind a pair of moth-eaten velvet curtains. In the cramped backstage area, Mary, Mouse, and Rebecca crowded around Vincent who stood frozen in front of a full-length mirror. The trio watched as the veins in his neck bulged and his face turned the color of an over-ripe tomato.

“Oh, my,” Mary began, “Is something wrong, dear?”

He turned on her like a wounded rhino making its final death charge. “Is something wrong?!” he bellowed, tearing off his bathrobe and spreading out his arms. “How can you even ask such a thing?! Just look at me!”

Every gaze immediately traveled the length of the impressive figure clad only in a skin-tight, too-small shirt and a pair of tights whose stretchability was being sorely tested. Within seconds, at least two of them had identified the sizable source of Vincent’s concern.

Silencing Rebecca’s appreciative whistle with a sharp elbow to the midsection, Mary reached toward Vincent. After only the briefest hesitation, her hand rose to the level of his heaving shoulders. “Now, now, dear, I’m sure you’re overemphasizing the problem.”

“Noooo, I don’t think so, Mary,” Rebecca countered. “It looks pretty big to me.”

“Go get Catherine,” Mouse offered. “Go right away!” He was sure no matter how large Vincent’s problem was, Catherine could find a way to make it better.

“NO!” Vincent screeched.

“That’s very kind of you, Mouse.” Mary shook her head. “But I’m afraid Catherine isn’t the answer to this particular dilemma.”

Rebecca grinned. “She’d probably make it bigger than it already is.”

Shooting a withering glare at the younger woman, Mary tried to soothe the reluctant actor. “Come now, surely there’s something we can do to help.”

“There’s only one thing.” Vincent clasped his hands low in front of himself in a time-honored gesture of masculine self-protection. “Call off this performance!”

“Nonsense!” Mary protested. “You’ll be a huge success. Massive! What I mean to say is your performance will be magnificent! Uh – tremendous!” She took a breath and blustered onward. “No, really, it’ll be fine! That’s it – just fine! You’re only having a little problem with stage fright.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Vincent muttered.

“Now, now, you’re making far too much of this. It’s not as big as you think!”

Vincent groaned – loudly.

“Oh, no! Are you in pain? You’re turning so red! Do you feel feverish?” Mary’s kindly face was scrunched in concern. “We all can see you’re much too hot!”

“Oh my God, stop it!” Rebecca gasped through tears of laughter. “I can’t breathe!”

“Need your inhaler?” Mouse patted her on the shoulder. “Go get it for you. Will it fix the big problem?”

Unable to stop laughing, Rebecca could only shake her head and point. And then even Mouse finally caught on. “What?… Uh-oh – not your big problem. Vincent’s!”

Aiming a warning glare at her cohorts, Mary tried again. “Never mind, Vincent. Why don’t you go over your opening lines with us? It will make all your problems appear much smaller.” She beamed a smile at him. “Now, what wonderful part are you giving us first? I know it’s bound to be impressive! Why, it will catch everyone’s attention right away. I’m certain it will be something no one has ever seen. Why, people will be talking about it for years!”

Rebecca and Mouse doubled over, clinging to each other as they guffawed, but Vincent could only glower. If he didn’t know better…but surely Mary couldn’t mean – she would never – would she?

He sighed heavily. “I’m supposed to open with one of Father’s favorites — a speech from Act II, Scene 5 of Twelfth Night”. He took a deep breath and struck what he thought might be a dignified pose. “‘Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.’”

Rebecca, having finally regained her breath, let out a shriek of laughter that shredded what was left of Vincent’s nerves.

“That’s it!” he roared. “It’s over! I cannot appear in front of everyone saying such things while dressed like this!”

“Sure you can, Vincent! Sound good! Gooder than good! Look good, too! Just like that guy in the movie we snuck in to see. Robin Hood!”

“No way, Mouse.” Rebecca snickered. “Kevin Costner is just small potatoes compared to Vincent.”

“Rebecca, please stop!”  Vincent begged. “This is bad enough as it is!”

The candlemaker shook her head as she tried – and failed — to smother a huge grin. “I’m sorry, Vincent. I just can’t seem to stop myself.”

“That’s evidently a chronic problem of yours, young lady,” Mary retorted. “And, by the way, Kipper brought a message down for you earlier. It seems the people at the free clinic – you know, the one Devin always speaks so highly of – want to see you first thing tomorrow morning.”

With a loud gasp, Rebecca whirled and rushed from the chamber.

“My, my, that girl is becoming very flighty lately.” Mary frowned and shook her head. “I wonder what’s gotten into her now.”

“I’m sure I have no idea,” Vincent growled. “And never mind her – what about this performance? Are you going to tell Father it must be cancelled?”

The older woman’s constricted expression melted quicker than a candle stub at the Winterfest closing ceremonies. “I can’t do that!” she whined. “He’s counting on you! You owe him your loyalty. You must not let him down. It’s your responsibility. Your lot in life. Your reason for being. Your supreme and sacred duty. Your –“

“Not tonight it isn’t! If you won’t tell him, I’ll do it myself.” Kicking aside the shredded remnants of his bathrobe, Vincent quickly scanned the cluttered area for a more concealing garment. “My cloak — where is it?”

“Took it to your chamber. Knew you wouldn’t need it for the show.” Mouse gulped. “Not okay good, okay fine?”

“No!! Do something!” Vincent wailed. “Anything!” He turned, leaned his head against the painted scenery, and began to mumble incoherently.

Unnoticed by all, Arthur chose that moment to stagger backstage. His muzzle was smeared with caviar and oysters and his damp fur reeked of wine. Blinking, he stumbled toward what appeared to his blurry eyes to be a thick braid of his favorite treat — butterscotch taffy. With the unerring accuracy of a practiced thief, he pounced and sunk his claws and teeth deep into his prey, chattering loudly in satisfaction.

Mouse gasped. “Arthur, no! Bad! Badder than bad!”

Much too late, Mouse lunged for the animal in an attempt to untangle the frantic raccoon’s stranglehold on the rope that controlled the stage curtains. In a flash, Arthur tore himself loose and raced away, leaving Mouse clinging heavily to the rope as he swung wildly back and forth like a tunnel-dwelling Tarzan, before crashing to the floor and scrambling after his pet.

In horror Vincent straightened and stared over his shoulder at the now parted curtains which revealed a sea of faces all staring straight at him. Like a beacon, his gaze was drawn to Catherine, front row center right next to Father.

What a terribly odd way to begin the performance, Father mused, a puzzled look crinkling his face. A very non-traditional stance with his backside to the audience like that. And why has he asked Mary to stand there with her mouth hanging open? I wonder which character she is to portray. Certainly not Juliet, but perhaps Rosalind — well into her later years, of course —  or an elderly Imogen or Maria. Oh, I do like those names. What a shame Lena couldn’t see the charm in them.

His rambling thoughts eventually wandered back to Vincent. Still, as his mentor, I’ve trained him well, and perhaps this is merely an innovative approach he wishes to offer simply to show his devotion to the craft and, of course, to my exemplary training.

He glanced at Catherine, hoping she was not too disappointed by this less than auspicious beginning. Oh, dear, he thought, look at the expression on her face. Such a pity! She simply can’t believe what she’s seeing!

Her eyes had taken on a neon glow that put to shame the city lights which could be viewed from various vistas offered by the apparently revolving balcony of her apartment building. She blinked hard just in case this was a hallucination, which she fervently hoped it was not.

Her voice was a raspy whisper. “Oh – my – God!”

“Yes, my dear, what is it?” Father whispered. “Is there something I might do?”

Insulted when she ignored him, he touched her arm to draw her attention, but she shrugged him off like a bug. And although he was a highly experienced medical professional, he failed to notice it was taking all her energy just to breathe.

As her gaze traveled up and down the magnificent view prominently displayed on stage, her thoughts were a jumble of overwhelming sensations. Never had she seen such a sight, not even when the American Bar Association held their recent Ladies’ Night at Chippendale’s. Focusing on the revealing rear view of Vincent, one that until now had been rarely seen outside her dreams, she found a few puzzle pieces falling into place.

No wonder that tramp Lisa was so anxious to get him into a pair of tights! She probably couldn’t have cared less about ballet! What a cheap trick just to get a better look at Vincent’s…assets.

Her eyes narrowed and she was seized with anger as infuriating thoughts boiled over. And why can’t I ever come up with an idea like that?! I could just scream when I think of all the times I’ve walked behind him on our strolls through the tunnels, just trying to sneak a peek under that damn cloak. I could have tripped and broken my neck! But ooh, baby, it sure would’ve been worth it!

Still scarcely able to believe what she was now seeing, and hotly anticipating what she would see once he turned around, her expression began to border on the catatonic. She did not notice she had finally drawn the concerned attention of her seatmate.

Poor thing! She seems to be in a state of shock. Of course, her disappointment is perfectly understandable. This is certainly not what she had expected to see! He sighed heavily. What a pity I’m not on stage tonight to really do the part justice… Oh well, nothing to be about that done now. We’ll just have to see what happens.

While Catherine and Father made their own assessments of his entrance, Vincent himself was in a state of chaos. His mind screamed out survival options. Run away, leap over a subway track, ride the rails out of town, jump in the Abyss, escape to the Nameless River, or hide in one of those remote lower levels of the tunnels the fanfic writers are so fond of sending me to!

But he did none of those things. Somehow, his rational side suddenly took charge, and he made his move with the feline strength and grace with which he was endlessly labelled. Slinking closer to Mary, he snagged his claws into the crocheted edge of her latest shawl and, with a single swipe, ripped the garment from her body. In no more than a few seconds, he’d draped it diagonally across his Massive Chest from one Broad Shoulder past his Narrow Hips and down to his Muscled Thighs, then wrapped it around his lower half where it dangled like a lacy kilt. Surveying the results of his handiwork, he was relieved to discover his prominent attributes had been effectively concealed.

Catherine’s heart plummeted. Wouldn’t you know he’d think of something like that?! I want a few words with the costume crew the minute this is over! Maybe a bribe in the right place, say a job on the next Cameron film, and we’ll see how many shawls, cloaks, blankets, and movers’ pads show up next week!

After securing the shawl with the harness and tack belt he’d discarded earlier, Vincent pivoted and faced his audience, prepared for an ordeal beyond his worst nightmares. He took a deep breath, gazed at a spot in the darkness beyond Catherine, and began his opening speech.

“Be not afraid of greatness…” As he recited the familiar lines, he was amazed to find himself growing more confident.

The audience broke into belated entrance applause, and he bowed graciously. Maybe I’ll be able to carry this off after all. He nodded and continued. “…and some have greatness thrust upon them.”

“Yea verily, methinks ’tis true.”

He swung around and stared at Mary, who’d remained trapped on stage, completely forgotten. “Good morrow, wench,” he ad-libbed, cringing slightly at her raised eyebrow reaction. “How come thee here to tread these boards?”

“Thou know quite well, kind sir,” she hissed. “‘T’was caused by the tempest tantrum of a great, large lout who hath then forsaken me.”

“Odds bodkins! Name the cur and I shall deal with him in a trice!”

She glared at him, seething as he become caught up in the histrionic lure of the theatre, sparing no thought at all for her. He certainly is his father’s son! But I’ll get the two of them one of these days, and they’ll both be hey-nonny-nonnying out the other sides of their mouths!

Her voice was poisonously sweet. “Mayhap ‘t’will be I who shall act upon that matter, and, mark me well, ‘t’will be no comedy of errors when I do!”

“Gadzooks! Then all’s well that ends well!” Vincent cried out happily, gesturing widely toward the wings. “Now take thy leave, fair maid, and get thee to a nunnery right quickly!”

With a small, tight curtsey toward the audience, she swept from the stage, managing to kick him in his unprotected shins on the way out.

“Forsooth that maid hath a mighty temper,” he announced painfully. “Perhaps she is the Shrew of Padua of whom much has been written, and quite rightly, too.”

“Shrew?!” Mary’s muffled shriek reverberated past the first several rows of seats. Fortunately, Rebecca had returned to further enjoy the proceedings, and only her restraining hold kept the older woman from rushing back on stage to enact her revenge then and there.

“Let go of me!” She thrashed in her struggle to break free. “Or I’ll take you down with the rest of them!”

“Have you lost your mind once and for all?!” the younger woman demanded. “You’ve escaped — now let’s go sit in the audience and enjoy this.”

Twisting out of Rebecca’s grip, Mary smoothed her hair and skirt, allowing a demure smile to curve her lips. “Of course, dear, you’re quite right. Such a fuss is beneath my typical dignity, decorum, and otherwise ladylike behavior.” She nodded with regained restraint; yet a fire still smoldered in her eyes. “And as far as I’m concerned, it will be all well and good if Vincent is hung from the rafters by the end of this evening!”

“I’d say he had the well-hung part mastered way before this show started,” Rebecca chortled, skillfully sidestepping Mary’s backhand. “Come on, there are two empty seats on the side. We can see the show and watch Father and Catherine’s reactions at the same time.”

Mary grinned at her newfound partner in crime. Well, she certainly shares my appreciation for revenge! I’ve always wanted someone to follow in my footsteps, but I never dreamed it might be Rebecca. You never know when things will take a turn for the better, now do you?

Onstage, Vincent had continued with Father’s original choice of material, presenting two very dignified selections portraying Elizabethan tributes to spiritual love. However, Father still considered himself quite the rogue beneath his proper patriarchal exterior, and, reasoning that the audience would be all adults, he had spiced his planned performance with a few mildly risqué poems for which the Elizabethans were famously known.

Vincent, with a hand pressed dramatically against his chest, began to recite Robert Herrick’s “The Primrose”:

“Ask me why I send you here
This sweet infanta of the year?
Ask me why I send to you
This primrose, thus bepearled with dew?
I will whisper to your ears,
The sweets of love are mixed with tears.

Ask me why this flower does show
So yellow-green and sickly too?
Ask me why the stalk is weak
And bending (yet it doth not break?),
I will answer: There discover
What fainting hopes are in a lover.”

During the previous selections, Catherine had effectively zoned out and put her time to good use staring at Vincent’s thighs and hips, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was still hidden behind Mary’s damn shawl. But several words in the latest poem caught her attention, and she stifled a snicker.

Excuse me — a lover talking about his ‘stalk’? I wouldn’t have expected such a suggestive choice from Father, and I’m really surprised Vincent is going along with it. Then again, there’s a good chance he doesn’t even get the point — or if he does, he’s choosing to ignore it. As usual!

She concentrated but there was no conflict troubling their bond, so she let her thoughts continue unchecked. Hmmm, I can think of a few ‘hopes’ I’d like to discover in terms of a certain lover’s stalk – which wouldn’t be weak or bending if I had anything to do with it!

Contrary to her assumptions, Vincent was very much aware of the bawdy tone of the last poem. He had decided to muster on despite the potential dangers it presented, but just to be on the safe side, he’d blocked their bond. He dared only a single glance at his beloved, and with relief observed she seemed quite relaxed and unperturbed by what he considered his rather daring presentation.

Then in a heartbeat, his relief turned to annoyance. Reciting even such a mildly provocative poem had taken a lot of courage on his part, and she hadn’t even blinked. What was going on? Was is possible she didn’t think of him like that after all? He paused, hoping the audience would interpret it as dramatic effect not unlike the long silences, meaningful glances, and smoldering sighs Catherine and he exchanged on a regular basis when they should have been kissing.

His escalating anger sizzled. After all, it wasn’t as if he wasn’t interested or didn’t want to! It was all he could do to hide his ever-growing interest each time they met. Why else would he always wear about nine hundred layers of clothing, with extra insulation below the waist? Didn’t she wonder why he kept that cloak bound around his hips like a woolen chastity belt? It sure as hell wasn’t for warmth!

He had to know. Cautiously, he opened the bond, and like a lightning bolt received Catherine’s giggling reaction to her visual image of the aforementioned weak stalk.

Now, Vincent had had a particularly bad day. First the ruined picnic plans had destroyed his hopes that this would finally be The Big Night. Next, he’d discovered he had been appointed Father’s stand-in. That unhappy news had been followed by the costume fiasco. And now his erstwhile lover was snickering at his performance. Compared to this ordeal, dealing with Dr. Hughes, Mitch, and even Paracelsus had been a walk in the park.

It was more than even he could endure. She doesn’t think I’ve got what it takes?! Well, forget about that Dark Side I’m supposed to have. I can guarantee tonight she’s going to see a side of me even her hot little imagination never dreamed up!

Although it wasn’t on Father’s list, Vincent knew of a poem that would be just perfect for his recently revised set list. He strode purposefully to center stage and halted under a bright spotlight. Stretching out his arms as if in masterful entreaty, he looked straight at Catherine and began to recite in low, purring tones.

“Beauty, since you so much desire
To know the place of Cupid’s fire,
About you somewhere doth it rest,
Yet never harbour’d in your breast,
Nor gout-like in your heel or toe, —
What fool would seek Love’s flame so low?
There, there, O there lies Cupid’s fire.”

He paused, then had to smother a shout of victory as he took in the incredulous look on Catherine’s face. She sat up straighter and frantically shook her head, wondering if two years of acute sexual frustration had finally pushed her over the edge to the point where she’d started hearing things.

His chest swelled in satisfaction, and, trying not to gloat too much, he continued.

“Think not, when Cupid most you scorn,
Men judge that you of ice were born;
For though you cast love at your heel,
His fury yet sometimes you feel:
And whereabout if you would know,
I tell you still not in your toe:
But a little higher, but a little higher,
There, there, O there lies Cupid’s fire.”

She didn’t need a tunnel map to locate the exact location of Cupid’s fire, not when the sensations surging through it left her red-faced and breathless. Her thoughts spiraled like smoke up a chimney. Wow! He really does get it! This is absolutely incredible! Okay, maybe it took him long enough to get started, but yowza! I can’t wait to see what he’ll do next!

He made a deep bow from the waist, never breaking eye contact with his quivering Catherine. The sight of her flushed face and rapid breathing was deeply satisfying – but not satisfying enough. And while he didn’t need the bond to know his impromptu moves were working, he couldn’t resist temptation. He opened the bond fully.

What next you ask, Catherine? If I have my way, this time it’ll be you running to the Great Falls for an ice-cold shower!

He grinned wickedly and paused to contemplate his next offering. Since everyone was well aware he never did anything without a great deal of deliberation — except, of course, for leaping up and racing off to parts unknown every time Catherine so much as broke a fingernail – the audience waited contentedly for him to continue.

Most of the audience, that is. Rustling through the twenty-eight pockets in the seventeen garments he was wearing, Father searched frantically for his program notes. He was absolutely certain that last selection had not been on the agenda. At last, he pulled the crumpled paper from the fourteenth pocket of his ninth tunic and quickly scanned its contents. Scowling furiously, he sent his son a withering glare that the younger man totally ignored.

Just what does Vincent think he’s up to? The flagrant disrespect! Who does he think he is?! He’d better not pull another stunt like that, or I’ll have something to say about it…Oh, dear God, I can’t! I’m supposed to have laryngitis. Why that ungrateful wretch! I’ll wring his fuzzy neck!

Father took a quick glance at the rest of the audience. No one seemed terribly concerned, although Brooke was sitting rather close to her boyfriend Michael, who had a somewhat strained look on his reddened face. But before Father could give that situation further consideration, Vincent launched into his next selection.

Slinking closer to the edge of the stage, he stared into Catherine’s glazed eyes. Assured of her complete attention, he slowly inserted his fingers into the shawl knotted at his shoulder, then yanked. His Wonderfully Wide Shoulders and Massively Muscled Chest were now on full display, straining the confines of his undersized shirt. The shawl, still secured at his waist, just barely concealed his Tantalizingly Toned Thighs and Heavily Heaving Hips.

Still, if he were to be perfectly honest, he hadn’t been sure he was doing it all correctly. However, the look on Catherine’s face convinced him otherwise. He grinned as she shoved away the shawl that had been forced upon her earlier, clearly trying to catch a cooling breeze before she fainted from heat stroke.

His eyes narrowed and he leered like a lion about to enjoy a mouthful of flamingo.

“My Love in her attire doth show her wit,
It doth so well become her;
For every season she hath dressings fit,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No beauty doth she miss
When all her robes are on:
But Beauty’s self she is
When all her robes are gone.”

Father thought he might go into cardiac arrest. Vincent had lunged way over the limit with that one, but the older man knew that unless he revealed his deception in the plot, he had no choice other than to grin and bear it.

Catherine had a lot to grin about, too, but her smile was nothing like Father’s. I can’t believe it! This is the best show ever!! I’m about to pass out over here!

Getting rid of Mary’s shawl hadn’t helped at all. Every inch of her clothing, starting with her extremely expensive silk underwear, was drenched, and she wouldn’t have been surprised to find a large puddle forming near, as the Bard might have said, her nether regions. She glanced around self-consciously, hoping no one else had noticed.

That’s funny. I don’t see Brooke and Michael anymore. And I could have sworn Jamie and Mouse were sitting right over there in the fifth row, but now they’re gone, too. In fact, more than half the audience has disappeared. How can they leave when Vincent is giving such an amazing performance – oh…

Smirking, she turned back toward the stage, accidentally brushing against Father’s arm. He reached for a handkerchief and wiped away the large damp patch she had left on his sleeve.

“Catherine, you seem to be perspiring rather heavily. Are you feeling unwell?” he rasped dramatically.

“I’m fine!” she snapped. “Just watch the show and leave me alone!”

He bristled. That’s gratitude for you! And after all I’ve done to — I mean — for her over the past two years!

Vincent had enjoyed observing the interplay before him and now stood back contentedly, arms crossed over his chest and hips thrust slightly forward. Feeling that this was a moment when more was more, he wasted no time in offering another of Herrick’s greatest hits.

“Show me those fleshly principalities; thy thighs,
Show me those fleshly principalities;
Show me that hill where smiling love doth sit,
Having a living fountain under it;
Show me thy waist, then let me therewithal,
By the assentation of thy lawn, see all.”

A constricted gasp emanated from Father’s gaping mouth. “Ahhrrwr- wrrahhwrrr! Urrrhhhrrrrhhhgrrrrr!”

Catherine turned on him like a lioness launching a fatal attack toward tonight’s dinner on the hoof. “SHUT UP!! If you make me miss any of this, I’ll strangle you with my bare hands!”

He glared at her, defeated only for the moment, and continued to make sputtering noises, albeit much quieter ones.

Vincent had rarely — if ever — known this level of satisfaction. And just think, he told himself, I did it all by myself and on the spur of the moment, too. I can’t believe I was always so worried about such things. But it was all so easy! Just as the Elizabethans — and most of the writers on Harlequin’s bestseller list — might have said, it was as smooth as thrusting a fine, large sword into a smooth, silken sheath. Ah, the things one can do when one sets one’s mind to it!

While reveling in his apparent victory, he had forgotten about Catherine’s newly acquired skill with the bond, and, more foolishly, about her moral creed — I don’t get mad. I get even.

She thought back to his last poetic offering. ‘Show me those fleshly principalities,’ huh? Okay, baby, you asked for it!

She stretched out one slender leg and then lifted it slowly to cross over its mate, wishing she had thought of Sharon Stone’s finest performance when she’d dressed earlier that evening. With the tips of her manicured nails, she grasped the hem of her damp silk dress and pulled. To her satisfaction, Vincent’s eyes snapped wide open as he watched the shimmering fabric glide upward until the entire length of her shapely thighs was exposed to his view. Since the extremely lowcut dress had only about a yard of fabric in it to begin with, this meant quite a bit of Catherine’s rosy, gleaming flesh was now on display, beckoning to him like a flaming torch to a besotted moth.

Now that’s more like it! She smiled with satisfaction as she watched drops of perspiration immediately gather across his brow.

Vincent swallowed hard, feeling his heart race as she made her next move. As if needing to relieve severe bodily stiffness – hers, not Vincent’s (yet) — she braced her arms on the seat of her chair and thrust her shoulders back. The motion effectively arched her glistening, barely covered breasts forward and upward in the direction of Vincent’s gaping, panting mouth.

He wanted nothing more than to erupt off the stage and launch himself at her like a heat-seeking missile. But it was as if his feet had melted and fused to the floor of the stage. After what seemed like an eternity, she lounged back in her chair and looked up at him through heavy, half-closed eyes.

Her full lips eased open in a moist, pouting smile as her gaze settled on Vincent’s hips. With great satisfaction, she took in the pointedly obvious movement that now strained the confines of the shawl he still wore like no longer substantial shield.

Following her gaze, he looked down at himself and felt a quick surge of panic. He’d been so mesmerized by her performance that he hadn’t noticed the impressive role he had taken on. Why hadn’t they included the traditional codpiece with this get-up, he moaned silently. Then again, it would have been made for Father and would have been far too small for me anyway. He trembled, further disturbing the distended fabric, much to Catherine’s loud, spontaneous applause.

Okay good, okay fine. Vincent girded his proverbial loins. Enough’s enough. It’s time for this show to reach its climax!

Carefully – and rather painfully — advancing to the very brink of the stage, he addressed what remained of his audience. “For my final selection, I would like to ask a volunteer from the audience to join me on stage. That’d be you, Catherine! Will you please come up here — now!”

As Catherine leaped from her chair, Father shot out a restraining hand and held her arm tightly. “Now, Catherine, do you think this is wise?” he muttered as loudly as his deception would allow. “I simply will not tolerate any untoward behavior! I want you to stay right where you are and –“

His croaking demands ended in a painful yelp as she snatched her arm away and grabbed a fistful of his collar, twisting it into a tight stranglehold. “Listen to me, you pious, conceited tyrant! I’ve waited way too long for this and no one – not even you — is going to get in my way! So, give it up, old man, or live to regret it!”

Father was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. He saw the menacing fire in her eyes and quickly recalled the performance she’d once offered during a Tunnel Talent Show – a demonstration of techniques learned at Isaac’s self-defense studio. Poor William. He’d spent about a month in traction.

He struggled to dislodge the vise-like fist still clutched at his neck. With what was left of the air in his lungs, he whispered his agreement to her suggestion and then collapsed in his chair, although not before she’d shaken him several times like a tabby cat with a rat.

She reached for Vincent’s outstretched hand and then, like a bolt of lightning, vaulted to the stage where they stood facing each other. Her back was toward the audience, which now consisted solely of Father, Mary, and Rebecca, the latter of whom were nearly out of their minds with self-satisfied laughter.

Vincent glanced at Father and felt a momentary twinge of pity. But the surge of sympathy was followed rapidly by a flashing mental montage of each and every time the older man had managed to destroy a planned rendezvous with Catherine. That was all it took. Muttering a very un-Vincent-like oath, he tightened his grasp on her hands, then began his final offering. “Catherine, this work of art is called ‘The Vine.’ The poet wrote the poem for his Lucia, but with your permission, I shall address it to you.”

“Great, fine, sure, whatever! Just get on with it,” she panted, frantically trying to pull her hands from his grip so she could put them to far better use. “Come on — I can’t wait much longer!”

Her words sent fresh waves of lust surging through him, and they quickly found their way to his part that had been surging for quite some time now. Catherine didn’t miss the reaction and moaned loudly. It didn’t look like he’d be able to wait much longer either, and she had no intention of losing out on this long-awaited opportunity. “Hurry up!!” she shrieked. “Now!!”

He gave her his most incendiary smile and began.

“I dream’d this mortal part of mine
Was Metamorphos’d to a Vine;
Which crawling one and every way,
Enthralled my dainty Catherine.

Me thought, her long small legs and thighs
I with my tendrils did surprise;
Her Belly, Buttocks, and her Waist
By my soft Nerv’lets were embrac’d;”

Frowning as his performance was interrupted once again, he shook his head in reproach. “Catherine, if you don’t stop moaning and gasping like that, you’ll never hear all the words. Please let me continue.”

“About her head I writhing hung,
And with rich clusters (hid among
The leaves) her temples I behung:
So that my Catherine seem’d to me
Young Bacchus ravisht by his tree.”

Again he paused, but this time Catherine’s guttural sounds were nearly drowned by the rasping and gurgling arising from another direction. “Father, please be quiet,” Vincent admonished. “I am reciting a poem!”

“My curles about her neck did crawl;
And arms and hands they did enthrall:
So that she could not freely stir,
(All parts there made one prisoner.)”

Yet again Vincent was forced to halt his recitation, but before he could say another word, she yanked hard on his hands and panted out a protest. “If this is your idea of foreplay, it’s been great really – loved it — but I want the main event and I want it NOW!”

“And you shall have it!” He pivoted their bodies so that he now had his back to the audience and she faced it. “As soon as I finish the poem.”

“But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts, which maids keep unespy’d,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took,
That with the fancy I awoke;
And found (Ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a Stalk, than like a Vine.”

With his final lines, he released her hands and then snatched away the shawl to display a stalk that, had Herrick written of it, would have been termed a branch. Or a tree. A redwood at the very least. At Catherine’s loud, heated gasps of admiration, he hurled the crocheted garment behind him, not caring where it landed, and with hands on hips, indulged in a mighty pelvic thrust — purely for dramatic effect, of course.

Its effect on Catherine was quite gratifying. Finally finding her voice, she declared, “This Stalk is beautiful! This is my Stalk!” She reached eager hands forward to claim her prize, when suddenly a large, ranting, wooly lump descended on them like a crazed escapee from the local sheep herd.

Yanking Mary’s shawl from his head and shoulders where it had landed moments earlier, Father advanced toward them on the stage. “Stop right there, young lady!” he bellowed. “Don’t either of you move! I’ll have none of this!”

“Damn right you won’t,” Catherine retorted. “Not that getting some yourself wouldn’t do you a world of good!”

Vincent enthusiastically nodded his agreement and then cocked his head at his parent. “I thought you were suffering from laryngitis, Father. You sound fine now.”

The older man’s eyes squinted to slits as he glared at them. “No doubt it’s a miracle brought about by your outrageous performance! The very idea! I shudder to think what disgraceful display you have planned for the finale!”

With that, his eyes were drawn unwillingly to Vincent’s unmistakably enthusiastic piece de resistance. Up close and personal, the sight, Father had to admit, was daunting, and he was moved to a poetic recitation of his own after all. Assuming his best dictatorial stance, he proclaimed:

“Down, wanton, down! Have you no shame
That at the whisper of Love’s name,
Or Beauty’s, presto! up you raise
Your angry head and stand at gaze?

Love may be blind, but Love at least
Knows what is man and what mere beast;
Or Beauty wayward, but requires
More delicacy from her squires.

Tell me, my witless, whose one boast
Could be your staunchness at the post,
When were you made a man of parts
To think fine and profess the arts?

Will many-gifted Beauty come
Bowing to your bald rule of thumb,
Or Love swear loyalty to your crown?
Be gone, have done! Down, wanton, down!”

With a triumphant sneer, Father finished issuing his commands and looked at the two before him, fully expecting heartfelt remorse, promises of repentance, and abject apologies at the very least. What he got instead finally pushed him over the edge.

“The only thing this wayward Beauty requires,” Catherine said with a grin, “is for you to move aside so Vincent and I can get out of here and find some privacy! We really don’t need an audience for what we’re about to do.”

Vincent snickered loudly. “And by the way, Father, wasn’t that poem of yours written by Robert Graves? He wasn’t Elizabethan, you know.”

“Nineteenth century,” Mary called out when she had breath to speak. Then she dissolved into hysteria again as Father sank to the stage floor and buried his head in his hands, alternately whimpering and sputtering with enraged defeat.

Vincent and Catherine smiled at each other. “May I offer you my arm?” he asked.

“Sure! But just to start with. Where shall we go?”

His grin widened as they strolled off the stage and entered a nearby tunnel. “Everywhere. I want to show you everything…”

Back in the theatre chamber, Mary and Rebecca wiped their streaming eyes and sighed in exhausted satisfaction.

“What a show!” Rebecca crowed. “We should have thought of this ages ago! It’s just a shame Devin had to miss out on it.”

“That’s about the only thing he’s missed out on when it comes to you!” Mary chortled. “But don’t you think this extravaganza needs an encore? Come on.”

Rebecca followed Mary onto the stage. They stood on either side of the fallen Father and gazed out at the deserted rows of seats. Mary nudged Father – none too gently — with her foot. She knew she wouldn’t have to wait long for him to glare up at her.

She tossed him a wink and a grin. “I think Shakespeare said it best in ‘The Tempest,’ don’t you?”

His response was a tight-lipped grimace and a withering glare that gave new meaning to the phrase “if looks could kill.” But he somehow remained silent as the women had the last word.

“Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.”