Bent Revenge

by

LCabrillo

Bent had brought it on himself, Hutch thought, no question about that.

Hutch was a tolerant kind of guy. He'd put up with the endless taunts and innuendoes that had sprung from that damned Olympics that Bent hosted. He'd even gotten his own back with a few well-chosen verbal daggers. And, given that Hutch was a well-respected man with a successful career and the sexiest lover ever to strut in skintight jeans, and the "Olympic commentator" was...well, what he was, he had figured that he had everything going for him and that duelling with Cluck Bent was like carrying on a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent.

But to discover that Starsky, his Starsky, was covertly reporting intimate details of their love life to that twisted tittle-tattler had been the last straw. If Starsk hadn't distracted him from his righteous outrage by definitely underhanded means, Hutch probably would have decked him when he'd found out. Or tried to, he thought wryly. He knew from a few occasions that he didn't care to remember in detail that they were fairly well-matched physically.

Anyway, his partner, whom he loved with every fiber of his being and would have forgiven just about anything, wasn't truly the target of his anger. Earlier tonight Hutch had established pretty clearly that any poetic waxings Starsky wanted to share about his lover's ass, manly attributes, or golden goldenness had better be limited to said lover or to his private diary. Starsky, perched on the fine edge of sexual ecstasy and held there without relief while Hutch teased and tormented him, had sworn on the Torino that he would never again breathe a word of their private business to anyone. Given the sanctity of that oath, Hutch believed him. But that...jerk of a reporter....

Tomorrow they would be heading home, and Bent would be waiting. Hutch would have to put up with knowing leers and suggestive remarks, at the very least.

At the worst, there would be out-and-out detailed synopses of their sexual escapades, made right there for all those women at Venice Place to salivate over. He shuddered.

No. It was more than a man could stand. And Kenneth Hutchinson was going to make damned sure that it didn't happen, at least for a while.

It hadn't been difficult to talk Starsky into putting in to the port on Chios, "to stock up on wine for our last night." And it hadn't been hard to leave him buying last-minute souvenirs in the marketplace long enough to duck into a modern shop for the tools Hutch needed to implement his plan.

It was just after midnight when Hutch crawled out of their shared bunk, leaving his well-fed, well-soused, and well-fucked partner sleeping the sleep of the unjust and thoroughly debauched. Stealthily, Hutch dug into his duffel bag and removed the necessary items. Carefully he crept up onto the deck, where he used his flashlight to settle himself comfortably against the wall of the cabin, and spread out his materials.

The lightweight rubber gloves went on first; then he carefully brought out the jar of glue and opened the box of stationery, removing several sheets and an envelope. A small pair of scissors thunked down on the deck, ready for use.

The colorful Greek magazine was next. Hutch couldn't read the words, and couldn't have cared less. All he needed were fairly large letters in plentiful supply.

When the brilliant plan first struck, he'd planned to sacrifice Starsky's dog-eared Harold Robbins novel to the cause. But, given the significant cash outlay and major waste of time he was planning to cost the prying reporter, Bent just might decide to have the scam investigated. That meant that the instigator should avoid any risk of incriminating fingerprints. So Robbins' tale of jet-set lust and Starsky's beloved reference book, "Agamemnon to Zeus: Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Gods and Heroes But Were Afraid to Ask," were safe.

Hutch was going to compose a letter. A not-so-genuine, mysterious, ransom-type communication consisting of letters cut from a magazine. Sure to pique the interest of any dumb Cluck who received it.

Using Greek letters such as delta, theta, and phi would have lent verisimilitude to the communiqué, if he didn't suspect that Bent was too thick to know what phonetic sounds they represented. No problem there. He cut an American "D" out of a photo of a large olive in an ad and pasted it down at the top of a page.

He already had the text of the letter planned, and worked quickly in the warm night air, scissors glinting in the moonlight as he laid out his revenge.

"Dear Mr. Bent,

You were the first person I thought of when I discovered the Bacchus Club. I have admired you for years..." Hutch sneered. That ought to appeal to the little worm's ego. "...and know that only you could do this story justice.

"It's sex. Hot, animalistic sex."

The Greek letter 'lambda' bore no resemblance to the American 'L.' Hutch cut one from the burgundy liquid in a wine ad.

"Threesomes. Foursomes. Orgies. American movie stars in twisted acts of depravity. Telly Savalas and a harem of teenage..." Tired of clipping letters, and knowing he wasn't halfway through yet, Hutch shortened 'nymphomaniacs' to "nymphos."

"Perversions. Charlie's Angels in a menage a trois. Raquel Welch and a German Shepard."

His back was beginning to ache from his hunched position, and the wind was picking up. Painstakingly, he pasted, "I can say no more in a letter.

"Meet me at the five kilometer marker between Kavalla and Xanthe on Tuesday, the 24th, at one A.M. If I'm not there, go to the winery in Pyrgo. I'll be by the gate at noon on the 27th..." Hutch paused. It would involve more cutting, but he couldn't resist adding, "wearing a pink overcoat and a zebra-striped scarf."

By this time, he was delighted to have discovered shorter words and necessary letter combinations as part of longer words in Greek, which allowed him to put words together in multi-letter pieces and required less cutting.

He started the second page. "If I can't get away, I'll definitely be outside the Ladies room in the bar at the Achaea Hotel in Volos at 9 P.M. on Saturday, the 5th."

Volos. Carpet, copper and bauxite, and the brawny men who handled them. Yeah, the locals would just love a guy lurking around the tavern's Ladies room at nine o'clock on a Saturday night.

After three missed "contacts," Bent might be getting a little discouraged. Better give him something else to tempt him. "The club is on Hydra, but I have to take you there myself." The island of Hydra, four miles off the Peloponnesus, was noted for large mansions built by wealthy ship owners in the early 1800s. Hell, Hutch thought, there probably is a kinky sex club there!

Snip, snip, snip. He was beginning to feel like a demented Kindergartner, wielding his scissors in a vicious attack on the defenseless magazine.

Almost done....

"This could be your big break. There's a best-selling expose here. Come alone. Tell no one. No one deserves this like you do." Hutch laughed aloud at the irony of that last sentence and pasted in his nom de plume.

"Squash"

He grinned a satisfied grin and tossed the stationery box, glue, scissors, and decimated magazine over the rail, hearing the soft splash as the evidence disappeared to a watery grave. Tomorrow night they would be at the airport in Athens. He would slip the envelope into a mailbox before boarding the plane.

By the time another Olympics was due, Bent should be on his way to discover that there was nothing at the five kilometer marker between Kavalla and Xanthe but a sheep pasture.

Ah, revenge was sweet...