Free Blood Games by Richard Laymon Page A

the room, she found it crowded with Helen, Finley, Cora and Vivian. ‘What’s going on?’
        ‘You sure took long enough getting here,’ Finley said.
        ‘I was busy.’
        ‘You look it.’
        ‘Who took sandpaper to your mouth?’ Cora asked.
        Helen, laughing, said, ‘Robbie ought to shave better.’
        The sound of his name made Abilene’s heart pound faster, warmed her and gave her a funny tightness in the throat. ‘Yeah. Next time I go to the park with him, maybe I’ll take my Lady Schick.’
        ‘Did he pork ya?’ Finley asked.
        ‘Screw you. And no, he didn’t.’
        ‘What’re you waiting for, Hell to freeze over?’
        ‘Keep holding out,’ Vivian advised her. ‘Once they get it, they act like they own you.’
        ‘I might like that. As long as it’s Robbie.’
        ‘Wooooo,’ Finley said. ‘The babe’s hooked.’
        ‘Anyway, what’s everyone doing here? Just hanging around to interrogate me about Robbie, or what?’
        ‘Yeah,’ Finley said. ‘Drop your pants for a cherry check.’
        Helen giggled.
        ‘In point of fact,’ Cora said, ‘we’ve been trying to conjure up some fun. Too damn dull around here. We haven’t had a real blast since we nailed the Goddamn Sigs.’
        ‘And that’s ancient history,’ Finley pointed out.
        ‘We’re trying to come up with an idea that’s really daring,’ Vivian said.
        ‘Like what?’ Abilene asked.
        ‘Haven’t figured it out, yet. But something to do with Hardass.’
        ‘We want to get her,’ Vivian said.
        ‘I’m all for that.’
        Until coming to Belmore, Abilene had been convinced that people like Meredith Hardin didn’t actually exist in real life. The woman seemed too awful to be real - a caricature of prim bitchiness. Finding such types in the movies and on TV, and in the pages of melodramatic novels, her eyes had rolled skyward in disbelief. She’d pitied the poor writers responsible for creating characters so totally, unbelievably excessive in their evil, self-righteous, cold-blooded prudery. There simply weren’t people like that.
        Then she caught the Meredith Hardin show at Freshman Orientation.
        The woman stepped up to the lectern and, even before she opened her mouth, the audience of noisy co-eds went silent. This was the Dean of Women. This was Bad News. This was a crone with a cruel face and eyes of ice - all the worse, it seemed to Abilene, because she was neither old nor ugly. She was dressed like a man in a tailored gray suit. Her white blouse was buttoned at the throat. Her face was pallid, her lips nearly as gray as her suit. Her red hair was pulled back tight and bundled into a knot behind her head. She wore no jewelry at all that Abilene could see.
        When she began to speak, Abilene was surprised she didn’t have a thick German accent.
        Abilene could still remember bits and pieces of Hardin’s ‘welcoming’ speech. ‘As students at Belmore University, you will always conduct yourselves as ladies… Loose behavior will not be tolerated… You will attire yourselves at all times with appropriate modesty… There will be no gutter language at this university… The consumption of alcoholic beverages on campus is strictly forbidden… Any and all infractions of what we deem to be proper and decent behavior shall be dealt with by yours truly. I am fair, but I am strict, as you shall no doubt come to appreciate.’
        It might have been funny, but it wasn’t.
        As the direct result of Hardin’s opening remarks, four freshman girls - including Abilene’s initial roommate, immediately dropped out of Belmore. In the words of the roomy while she packed, ‘There ain’t room on this campus for me and that tight-ass cunt.’
        ‘Hey now,’ Abilene had said. ‘Watch that gutter language.’
        The girl had