Anastasia Steele held her breath as he passed her a pen, her heart fluttering like a hummingbird. Sunlight poured in thru the corner office, high above the puny mortals protesting in Zuccotti Park.

"You're sure?" he asked, the liability waver still warm from the printer.

They locked eyes, a blush creeping up her face. The buttons on his desk phone flashed red, each one a shipping magnate , a junta dictator, a NASA scientist floating in the ether, and though she was a talentless, unnattractive twit devoid of a single original opinion, he looked just as excited. He could do anything to her once she signed.

She paused, nib suspended over the dotted line. "Is this what you want?"

Dick Roman smiled. "More then anything."


"...and in other news, DVD sales of 'American Pyscho' and 'Secretary' have set a new record..." warbled the radio.

Dean smiled at a table of cute hipsters, offering to help make signs for the protest rally while Sam interviewed a local activist.

"So you think there's a link between the book series and the recent disappearances?" asked Sam, a fake press badge around his neck.

"You don't believe me!" said the girl, wooden beads shaking, "No one believes me!"

"I do, really," said Sam, hands raised in defense, "But I need something more concrete if this is going to print."

Casting a quick glance at the traffic camera, she rummaged thru her pocket. "Read this," she said, handing him a grainy xerox, "We found it on one of the girls who came back alive."

Sam scanned it, his brows knitting the further down he read. "Just a second, I need to show this to my colleague."

Dean, who was about to invite several ladies for a meeting of Occupy Dat Ass, looked up as Sam approached. "Dude I'm busy." he said thru his teeth.

"Excuse us," said Sam, yanking Dean's arm, "We've gotta go."

"Aw come on, I was killing back there, you know none of their boyfriends even owned a car?"

"Dean, Roman's up to something, something big. He's commissioned that series of romance novels, and ever since then undersexed women everywhere have been signing away their rights," he said, waving the paper in his face, "To eccentric billionaires."

"Wait, which books?" Dean asked.

Sam rolled his eyes, snatching a paperback off a newstand and shoving it in his hands. "I swear you live under a rock."

Dean opened to a page at random, and thought he was going to choke. "What's Forty Shades of Tweed?"


"How's your morning so far?" asked Roman.

"Oh good," said Christian Gray, "Hot stone massage at six, teleconference to Hong Kong at seven, and, oh did I tell you?"

"What?"

He smiled, cutting into his kidney. "I bought Detroit."

Roman winced. "Tell me you kept the receipt."

"It was a bargain," he said, "I'll leasing it out to Michael Bay for his next movie."

"Well be careful the next time you visit there," Roman warned, "Negroes might look at your car."

"I thought you had a big stake in real estate."

"Mmm," said Roman, absently poking at his liver, "I've been eyeing San Francisco for a while, but if I made any committments I'd have to rename it to Awesome Franky."

"Too true," said Gray, shaking the ice in his martini glass until someone came to refill it, "Bilingualism is the worst kind of creeping communism."

The kitchen door swung open, servants wheeling in the next coarse as Anastasia dripped quietly in a retrofitted dentist chair, stiff with an expression of dumb surprise.

"Well, if you're ever in my neck of the woods," said Gray, wiping the corners of his mouth before standing to leave, "Drop a note, I've got my own sub-orbital rocket, and I've been spending my weekends on Ted Turner's moon ranch."

Roman sketched a salute in the air. "Give Jane a squeeze for me."


Dean replaced the book back on the news stand, his brief exploration into the female id aging him visibly. "Dang man, now I feel like I got a mouthful of cat hair," he said, shivering, "I'll never be clean."

Sam shook his head over the document. "And there's nothing we can do this about this," he said, "Even if we leaked it to the press, this is airtight. He's not breaking any laws."

"Do we at least know where this douchebag's hiding?"

"He's not exactly hiding," said Sam, pointing to a row of limos, "He's been here all day for a conference."

Dean swallowed, gazing at a park full of luscious, bra-less babes that at any moment could be snatched from his arms into the waiting jaws of Christian Gray. Roman was untouchable, wrapped in a cocoon of security thugs, but Gray...

"They can't break the laws," said Dean, taking the paper from Sam, "But we can."

"Wait, where are you going?"

Dean did not answer, striding into the nearest sporting goods store. A few minutes later, everyone in the park quieted down as the main speaker lifted a bullhorn to her lips.

"Okay everybody, thanks for coming," she said, sock monkey cap framing her freckled cheeks, "Now before we start the meeting I'd like to open in prayer and...wait, did somebody forget to bring the bongo drums?"

"The music can wait." said Dean, flashing a platinum smile as he took the bullhorn from her.

Sam shot him a look. He wasn't entirely sure about this plan. "Ma'am we know you've got an itinerary, and if could impose for just a minute..."

She looked down at the bag in Dean's hand. "Um, are you two here to talk about human rights?"

His fist doubled involuntarily. "You have no idea."

They stepped onto the milk crate, oddly comfortable in front of a crowd.

"Anybody here seen this?" said Sam, holding up the paper.

The girls looked away, ashamed to be associated with it.

"Because one of the guys responsible for this travesty, a Mister Christian Gray," said Dean, pointing to the office building behind him, "Works right over there."

"Oh don't worry, we know what to do with robber barons like him," said sock hat girl, "We've been collecting signatures."

"Well pardon me if I prefer the old-fashioned approach," said Dean, stretching out a hand to encompass the hundred or so town cars parked along Wall Street, "We happen to know that Gray is in one of these vehicles, and we need your help to smoke him out."

"He needs to answer for his crimes." said Sam.

"B-but we believe in nonviolent protest!" someone stammered.

"The time for that has past," said Sam, not unkindly, "This isn't about making flyers or organizing marches or quietly hoping the people in charge will put the pieces back together. Innocent people are dying, dying, and that means we have to push back."

"This is war, people," said Dean, a dark glitter in his eye, "This is real life."

A hush fell, cruelty-free panties moistening at the steel in their voices. For the last year the protesters had been directionless, fumbling from one cause to the next in pursuit of a unifying purpose, and here they stood, Justice and Punishment wrapped in flannel and the stink of motor oil.

"And when life throws you a curveball," said Dean, lifting a baseball bat out of the bag, "You hit back as hard as you can."


"Cancel my five o'clock Bob," said Grey, eyes sweeping over the librarian seated in the limo beside him, "I've double-booked myself."

Suddenly the window shattered inwards, glass spraying everywhere as the girl shrieked and began to claw at the door handle.

"What on earth?" said Gray, clutching her arm, "Don't leave, it's probably just the Teamsters angling for a payraise."

He knocked on the panel. "Driver!" he shouted, "Move it!"

But the driver had fled, emergency lights blinking as Occupiers lined up in rows on either side of the parked cars, unemployed liberal arts majors co-mingling with homeless teenagers who thought James Joyce was a brand of malt liquor. They raised their arms, baseball bats pointed to the sky like a bristling forest, and, at the signal, swung down on the cars in a shower of glass.

"Sorry tidbit," said Gray, opening the door as the librarian burst into tears, "That's my cue to leave."

One by one the Leviathans were yanked from their rentals, dragged into the nearest Starbucks by a pair of dockworkers and dunked headfirst into a janitor's pail for verification.

"Um..." asked the barista, twiddling a lock of hair as Gwyneth Paltrow took a facefull of borax, "Are you guys shooting a movie?"

"Yes," said Dean, sucking in great lungfuls of air as he reached for his machete, "That's exactly what this is."

Gray snuck past, weaving between cars as his business partners screamed in agony. A riced up sports car sat unattended around the next block, windows tinted and glowing purple underneath. With a final backwards glance he forced his way in, the car alarm provoking little response in this part of town.

He thumbed the door lock, chest heaving as he smoothed his designer jacket and listened for the mob. Everything had died down, people appearing to depart in the opposite direction, and he pulled out his cell phone.

"Gonna eat every last one of those dumpster-diving vegans if it's the last thing I do..." he muttered, calling to see if anyone else from the conference had survived. The phone rang on and on, every number he dialed going straight to voicemail.

He was alone.

A tap came on the window, oddly metallic, and he rolled down the glass without looking up.

"Excuse me," said Dean, blade glinting, with a grin that Gray would remember for the next thousand thousand years as he writhed in Purgatory, "Do you have any Gray Poupon?"