Title: Leading an army of Pidgeons to kill a cat.

Plahn

Paring: Jean-Paul and Disk (a useless punk)

Disclaimer: Story for fun not profit I don't own the Characters

Rating: PG

Note: This is a preview of a storie I am writing Jean-Paul has been taken capture and at the time of the capture he is fighting hard not to make the transfer to Azreal. Of course the captors have no idea what they have gotten into.

Leading An Army Of Pidgeons To Kill A Cat
by Plahn

Jean-Paul sat on the edge of the bed in a room on the second floor of the Hilton hotel, his expression glum, and stared at the two punks who had been assigned to guard him. They were standing near one of the windows fronting the south side of the mansion, their arms folded, conversing in muted tones. Each man had an AK-47 slung over his left shoulder.

What should he do?

He looked down at himself, at the detestible boxer shorts he had been given, stupid little red hearts on a white background. What had he gotten himself into and how was he going to get out of it. He was trained it martial arts he should escape on his own not wait for Batman to save him.

But how?

Jean-Paul gazed at the closed door 12 feet to his left. There were not only guards in her room, the punks were posted on each floor and at least a half-dozen patrolling the grounds. How could he escape when the odds were stacked against him.

"Hey fella," one of the guardss unexpectedly said.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Drink?" Jean-Paul repated absently.

"Yeah. I'm going downstairs for a Coke. The boss said to give you whatever you want, so do you want a drink or not?"

"Water would be nice. Thanks."

"For a cute dish like you, anything." He smiled and left, closing the door behind him.

Jean-Paul studied the remaining punk, a young man in his early twenties with sandy coloured hair and blue eyes. He studiously avoided gazing in JP's direction. "Hi," Jp said.

"Hi," he mumbled while watching out the window.

"What's your name?"

"They call me Disk."

"I'm Jean-Paul."

"So I was told,"

Jean-Paul scrutinized him closely, estimating they were approximately the same height and weight. His clothing particularly interested him, a beige shirt and jeans about his size. An idea occured to JP, one that might not need Azreal, but he would have to act befor the other guard came back. "You're not being very friendly."

"The boss told us to keep our distance or else," Disk disclosed without turning around.

"Can't you be the least bit nice? I'm scared out of my wits and I need someone to talk to.
The young punker rotated at last and regarded him intently.

"I suppose it would be okay just to talk."

Jean-Paul grinned and patted the bespread beside him.

"Why don't you sit over here?"

"Why don't you sit over here?"

"Not on your life."

"Why Not?"

"The Boss would skin me alive."

Pouting, Jean-Paul let his shoulders slump and bowed his head. "Oh I understand. You don't trust me."

"It's not that," Disk said.

"Then what? You'd be doing me a favour. I'm sure your Boss won't mind."

The young punk glanced at the door, then at the bed. His eyes rested on JP's almost naked body. "I guess it might be okay, but just for a few minutes, until Gus gets back."

"Thank you." Jean-Paul said and gave his most radiant smile. Never had he decieved men in this manor before, and he found the experience delightfully fascinating. The order had kept him so sheltered through his adolescence that he had never dated.

Disk walked over and sat down several feet from him. "What do you want to talk about?"

"I don't know I'm to scared to think of anything how about you start the conversation."

Disk placed his hand gently on Jean-Paul's naked shoulder. "Don't worry. You'll be fine."

"I know," Jean-Paul stated firmly, twisting, he smilled coyly at the punk and then, when their eyes were locked, when he was totally distracted his apparent friendliness and his physical charms. he struck. His right arm swept out and around, his hand rigid, and the edge of his hand connected with the soft flesh on the punks throat.

Disk gagged and tried to stand, his hands instinctively going to his neck.

Jean-Paul stood, brought his right arm foward, and then drove his elbow back again, planting it on the Punk's nose, breaking his nostrils and sending crimson spray shooting from his nasal passages.

Sliding franticaly away from him, Disk struggled to get to his feet.

Jean-Paul spun and executed a side kick into the punks groin and was rewarded by Disk falling to his knees. He was in exquisite agony but not out yet.

Hurry! his mind shrieked.

Gus would be coming back soon!

His anxiety mounting, Jean-Paul kicked the punk in the stomach, making him bend over. He jumped in the air and brought both his kneecaps down on the back of his head, slaming his face to the floor.

Disk went suddenly limp.

Move! Move! Move!

In less then a minute Jean-Paul was dressed in the punks clothes and out the door.

END SNIPPET