There were a few more sales after Clive got knocked down to Dick. Scribe kept an ear cocked toward the cloak room. When Clark noticed what she was doing, he did, too. Of course, his hearing was a lot better than Scribe's, and she figured things must be going well with the disappeared duo, judging from how red Clark's face got. She had a feeling that the matron who'd purchased him was going to get her money's worth.

Just before it was Scribe's turn to be auctioned off, Dick and Clive exited from the cloakroom. Clive was refastening his cumerbund. Dick looked extremely mussed. In fact, if she wasn't mistaken, there was a teeny tag of boxer shorts peeking out of his fly zipper.

They wandered back up toward the stage, to the front of the crowd. Bruce was eyeing his ward curiously. "I haven't seen you look like that since you ate that entire box of liquer chocolates in one sitting. Sated." Dick smiled, and Clive rested his chin on the boy's shoulder. "Dick, we really need to have a talk when we get home."

Dick's smile broadened. "Whatever you say, precious."

Scribe sidled to the edge of the stage and hissed at Clive, "You lecher. Are you going to debauch the entire population?"

"Only the cute ones, pet."

"And now we come to what I am sure will be the high point of the evening..."

Scribe sighed as she went to stand beside the MC. "Oh, brother. No pressure here."

"I'm sure she needs no introduction..."

"But you're going to do it anyway." Scribe grabbed the mike. "Don't think so!" He tried to get the microphone back, but she held it away. "Hey, I don't give up the mike easily. Ask anyone at a kareoke bar." He kept trying, more or less plastering himself against her front. She said sweetly, "Step back, or lose the ability to father children." He stepped back.

"Okay, people. Time for me to make a complete instead of partial fool of myself, and time for you to dig deep into your bountiful pockets and actually do something that'll make you feel good without risking arrest. Open up the pocketbooks, wave away the moths, and prepare to shell out."

"The merchandise? Me." She turned slowly. "Forty-two years old, factory new. Not a lot of fancy bells and whistles, but all the standard equipment, and in good working order. I don't do windows, or scrub toilets. And as for if you're thinking about anything slightly, or extremely, off-color..." she cupped a hand beside her mouth, as if telling a secret. "It's called S-E-X. Don't tell the children. Well... Probably not. But who can say? Life is full of surprises. I know I sure as hell didn't think I'd end up in this situation when I got on the bus for the Fangoria convention. All right, sales pitch ended."

She tossed the microphone back to the MC. "Crank it up, Mr. Auctioneer. I'm kind of curious myself as to what someone thinks a few hours with me is worth."

"Can I have an opening..."

"One thousand." Scribe smiled and twiddled her fingers at Bruce, who twiddled back.

"I have one thousand. Do I hear..."

"Five thousand." There was a gasp from the crowd. That was the biggest, quickest raise of the night, and it took it automatically into the highest price bracket. Everone stared. Lex Luthor calmly sipped champagne.

The auctioneer recovered. "Brisk bidding on this lot, folks. I have five thousand. Do I hear..."

"Six thousand." Bruce glared at Lex.

"I have six thou..."

"Eight." Lex returned the look levelly. "Piker."

Scribe grabbed the MC's arm, leaning into the microphone. "Hey, did everyone else go home? Come on, people, talk it up. Yeah, the level is nice and high, but only two? You're hurting my feelings."

Someone from the back of the room yelled, "It ain't personal, Scribe, but do you think we're stupid enough to get between those two and what they want? Give us more credit."

She shot back, "Why should I? It's not like you've earned it."

The MC jerked his arm back. "I have..."

"Ten."

Scribe poked the MC. "You're getting to say less and less. Why don't you just nod from here on in?"

"Eleven-five." Lex snapped a nail against the rim of his glass, making it ring, and smiled up at Scribe.

She started muttering to herself. "It's just dinner and a date, it's just dinner and a date, it's just dinner and a date..."

Bruce glanced at her. "Don't worry, Scribe."

"Auctioneer, if there isn't another bid, shouldn't you begin the closing?"

"Don't be so sure of yourself, Luthor. Fourteen."

There were gasps from the crowd. Scribe held her head briefly. "Look, guys, this is getting ridiculous. I'm getting embarrassed here."

"Well, if this fool would just admit defeat and let us finish this, we could get on with it," Luthor murmured.

Scribe groaned. "The testosterone in this room is so thick you could swim in it. I almost feel the need to wear something pink and frilly to balance it out, and pink and frilly makes me gag. Will you two please stop this pissing contest?"

Bruce growled, "Auctioneer? Shouldn't you be doing the going, going, gone bit?"

"Fifteen."

Scribe was truly looking distressed now. "Oh, cripes. And that's in nineteen-sixtysomething dollars!"

"Seventeen." Bruce took a step toward Luthor.

"Twenty." Luthor took a step toward Bruce.

Scribe looked frantically at Clive, who was watching the show with fascination, leaning on Dick. "Clive? Should I feel like a bone between two dogs right now?"

"More like a filet between a couple of Bengals, pet." Clive said, watching the two men narrowly. "Tell you what, I'll have whichever one loses."

"Hey!" Dick poked him. "You're with me tonight, remember?"

"We haven't discussed the fun of chemistry and experimentation yet, have we, ducks?"

"Twenty-two. Back down, Luthor."

"Twenty-three five. Not a chance, Wayne."

Scribe wrung her hands. "I can't believe I'm saying this, I had such a laughing fit the first time I heard it, but can't we all just get along?"

They both looked at Scribe and said, in stereo, no less, "Hush."

Her brows went up, hands went to hips. "Hey!"

"Precious, be quiet and let the two pretty men fight over you," Clive advised.

"Shut up, Clive. You just want salvage rights."

"True."

The MC tried, futilely, to regain control. As if he'd ever had control. "I have a bid of (under his breath) Good God (normal voice) twenty-three thousand five hundred dollars." He looked at Luthor. "Um... you are aware that you aren't actually buying her? She doesn't come with a bill of sale."

"I can have my law department look into that later. Just drop the damn gavel, or whatever the hell you do to declare me the winner."

"Twenty five!"

"You can't do it, Wayne. Oh, you may beat me by a little in the total holdings department, but I'm willing to do layoffs and factory closings to get enough liquid cash to keep bidding till you drop out." He sneered. "I know you're too noble to crush the livelihoods of any of your little employees." He glared up at the stage. "Thirty."

Bruce was opening his mouth to respond, Scribe was wondering if there was any way she could have this taped, so she could take a copy home and have it to play any time someone read one of her fan fictions and declared her to be 'cheap'. Suddenly the doors to the lobby burst open and a group of men dressed all in black, right down to the tennis shoes, up to the hoods over their heads, and out to the guns they clutched, rushed in.

There were screams as a volley of gunfire raked the ceiling, tinkling the chandelier. "All right!" bawled the thug in the lead. "This is a hold up."

On the stage, Scribe rolled her eyes and sighed. "No shit, Sherlock." Scribe looked down at Lois. "Lo, do you remember that day that I came home from shopping? What did I say about charity events?"

She turned pale, staring at the gunmen, who were beginning to herd the crowd back toward the stage. "You said, that every other gala charity event you'd ever seen in comics, television or comic inspired movies got crashed by some sort of super villain."

Lex Luthor, raising his hands with a world-weary look on his face said, "My dear, I know super villains. Those are not super villains."