The Penguin The scene was high drama. The villain hurtling through the living room on the back of a

The Penguin The scene was high drama. The villain hurtling through the living room on the back of a model train, the man’s faithful companion pursuing it down the carriages, a makeshift helmet on his head. Determination furrowed his brow, and he clambered forward, head down, eyes forward. The villain took aim, one beady eye closed to line up the shot. Blam. The bullet ricocheted off the upturned colander and the pursuit continued. But even here, the Penguin remained silent. Of all the villains in all the children’s films she devoured when she was in that particular target demographic, none had stuck with her quite as much as the Penguin from The Wrong Trousers. Not Scar, not Ursula, not Bonecruncher or the Fleshlumpeater, or even the Red Queen, with all her surrealist hysteria. It wasn’t that those characters weren’t scary, it’s just that, on some level, she could understand them. The Penguin? He was a cipher. An enigma. A blank slate fixed with a blank stare in a blank room with a red rubber glove on its head. She didn’t even know what gender it was, or even if it could open its mouth. It just was, a villainous force that set out to do harm. And that made it stick. He, on the other hand, her He, was someone she did understand. She’d spent months understanding him, week after week of getting a little bit further into his well guarded mind. But even still, when he employed the same tactic, became the Penguin for an evening and kept those lovely lips sealed, all her understanding did little to calm her nerves. In fact, on reflection, it made it significantly worse. They’d met at the station, an eager hug and chaste kiss before her question of where they were headed first was met with naught but a knowing smile. Even after they’d got  back to his place he hadn’t said a word, just planted a more intense kiss on her lips, forced her up against the wall so that his hands could roam for a few scant seconds before he pushed her past the threshold and down the hall, half stumbling into his room. He’d undressed her, had her step out of her clothes, and then stood back. And then he’d not said anything. For minutes. At first it had been amusing, a little game to try and get him to utter a few syllables, draw a sentence out of him. But frustration had taken over, and then fear had replaced it, until she was begging him, pleading with him to hear his voice, have a conversation, do something. But the whole time he had just smiled, narrowed his eyes slightly, and stared down at her as she stared up at him. What happened next was a blur, even when she looked back at it. His hand against her mouth, silencing her with him, before the other found her neck, and those two strong limbs lifted her up before shoving her onto the bed, the wind knocked out of her lungs only to die against his palm. He was over her, bearing down on her, the weight of him pinning her with all the gravity that she’d been so desperately looking for.  And then he’d tied her up, taking his time with the knots. He’d gagged her, and it was only after the buckles on the straps were tight, and her ability to speak utterly stolen from her, that she felt his voice tickling her eardrum. Her eyes were wide, and she could feel his chin against her neck. “Now, little dove, you see how important the ability to speak is, no?” His voice wandered up and down with a curious melody, as if she’d never quite heard it before. She could do nothing but nod, and a little part of her smiled. -- source link

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