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Victoria Atomblast

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I am sprawled, languid and insouciant, on Irving’s king-and-a-half-size bed, the gelatin mattress molded around my edges; the industrial-strength muscle relaxants have just started doing their thing and I can barely focus on the wall monitor, incessantly flashing life-size high-res images of burning Los Angeles and its blood-crazy citizens, like a riot right here in the penthouse being staged for my benefit. I fumble for last night’s half-finished champagne, unable to remember who I shared it with, or when they left me by my lonesome. Flat and warm, of course, but it’s Dom ’53 so I drink it anyhoo, straight from the bottle like the cheap piece of street trash I really am inside. Gargle it like mouthwash, almost choking on it when I hear the elevator gate crash open, spitting up a fine spray of the stuff at a noise like ten thousand jackboots goose-stepping my way across the vast living room.

“Irving! Where are you, you son-of-a-bitch! You better not be here cause I am fully prepared to disembowel your skinny little cokefiend ass, pull your guts right out through your deviated septum!” A screeching harpy drawing ever nearer, pounding on the bedroom door with a fist apparently gloved in iron. I slip a hand under one of the pillows, searching for Irving’s Magnum; it isn’t there.

The door splits its hinges with a thunderclap, wood splinters and plaster particles exploding inward, and framed in the ruined doorway stands a sneering Amazon warrior goddess, a living mythic entity, fire flashing from ice-blue eyes, robust and muscular body apparently tensed to pounce, ethereal, evil, delicious. I want her instantly, wet and hard all at once.

“What the fuck are you?” she snarls, glaring darts and daggers.

I could very well ask you the same, I want to say, but my vocal chords are suddenly rendered dysfunctional, as if by some wicked magick being perpetrated from her unfathomable power source.

“Where’s Irving?”

“Ow–ow–outta town,” I stammer, embarrassed and awed.

“Bullshit. I can smell him,” she declares, cruising the bedroom, tearing open closets, wardrobes, chests, disappearing into the master bath.  “Son-of-a-bitch!” she shrieks, fuming at the absence of her prey.

“Wh-what is it, hon?” I manage with uncharacteristic timidity. “Maybe I can help?”

“I doubt it, sister,” she states, matter-of-fact now, her narrowed eyes taking me in with a hint of interest.

“I’m—my name’s—Tom-boy,” I inform her, trying to smile.

“Victoria,” she replies, clasping, nearly crushing my hand in her vinyl-gloved grip.

“Oh my God,” I gulp, overwhelmed by this unexpected brush with greatness.  “Not the—”

“Victoria Atomblast,” she says curtly, apparently unimpressed by the attentions of yet another adoring fan.

“So,” she continues, giving me a frank and slightly contemptuous appraisal. “You must be Irving’s new…plaything.”

“You…could…say that…” I mutter humbly, blushing at the fragility of my own ego, crumpled now to the proportions of a spitball.

“Well, tell that despicable prick I stopped by,” Victoria says, kicking the broken door aside with her heavy-duty paratrooper boots. “I’ll be back to kill him later.”

“Waitwaitwait!” I cry, attempting to stay her determined departure with tremulous outstretched fingers.

“Whattayawant?” she spits over one shoulder, pausing in the threshold.

“You,” I respond, shy and docile.

She hesitates, eyes narrowed to frightening slits, then whirls around and comes straight at me…

“So, if you’re such a big fuckin fan, how come you didn’t recognize me when I kicked in Irving’s door?”  Victoria asks me later, her enhanced pneumatic frame bunched up against me. For a moment, I’m at a loss.  But only for a moment.

“Maybe ‘cause you look so much like you do on the tube, I thought you had to be an impersonator,” I say, opting not to tell her that it’s really because she’s so much more…diminutive, ahem, than I anticipated. She isn’t a dwarf, by any means, nor disproportionately endowed, just kind of small and stocky, a full-figured gal, Rubenesque, all that, except in miniature. She is sort of cuddly, subtly passive, exuding an unexpectedly sisterly eroticism, which only vaguely dampens my initial desire.  Not at all the insatiable ball-busting freak-fucking dynamatrix whose flagrant sexual caprice has made her not only a household name, but in This Thing’s not insubstantial estimation, the greatest star who ever shone her light on this unworthy little ball of dung.

            She is mine for an hour, maybe two, and then she splits, off to run some other tedious errand of vengeance, apparently her second occupation, though she claims she just does it to unwind.  I am left with her smell all over me and the small depression she’s made in the sheets.

Didn’t even get to ask why she wants to kill Irving. I consider warning him, figure he doesn’t wanna be bothered on his vacation, blow it off. Besides, it’s just so much…effort.

Houston, We’ve Got A Problem (2001 Flushes)

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“Mulliver, the most important thing to remember about this mis—zzt—the whole she—pop—is—squawk. You got that? That’s it. Without you, folks are pretty much—fzzh. Keep that in mind. Brainthrust out.” Zzzk.
            “Sir!” Mully banged futilely on the monitor, as if the solar interference was nothing more than bad reception during a Bowl game.  “Sir, what…?” But it was no use. Outside the atmosphere, there wasn’t much you could do about wavejam.
            “Fuck it,” Mully muttered, tapping a Camel straight on the console and punching in the jerry-rigged dash lighter. As commander of the Globeshuttle IRON LUNG, he didn’t give a good goddamn about Co. directives. Just another charter where he was concerned, a slow and easy way to pay the bills. And in space, there were no bills. And no place to spend the dough. Anyway, let the dinks who’d converted his rec room into a floating speed lab worry about terrestrial needs. He’d relocated the wet bar to the front cabin, okay by him, but the Ping-Pong table was stored in a corridor adjacent to the airlock, where it rattled and rolled calamitously whenever the boosters fired, which seemed at times to occur at the shuttle’s own whim, a glitch Mully would find time to fix one of these days.
As long as he was at the helm, he decided to kick back with a Jack rocks and watch the Earth loom ever nearer in the forward viewscreen. No pressing need to pass on the Co. static to the dinks. They had their orders, what they didn’t know already they’d savvy soon enough upon their unceremonious deposit in the thick of the LA fray. This was it, the ultimate proving ground for the Pan-Utopian Gestapo. It tickled him to think of it, this bunch of pseudo-military slacker trainees being called in non sub rosa to quell an Earth-bound uprising after six muscle-atrophying months monitoring the stars for the barest hint of an unlikely intergalactic threat.
            His thought balloon was heedlessly punctured by a thundercrack, something striking, sizzling against the hull. The shuttle keeled sideways in space, shuddered, engines whining, righted itself and resumed course.  Reminiscent of old-school attack simulations, he thought. Of course, that was out of the question; more likely some stray NASA debris that the fritzed-out sensors didn’t pick up. Gulped the last of his Jack and prepared to run an external scan. Interrupted by sudden red-light buzz from the dashcom, he tapped a button, grunted a brusque monosyllable and received the stricken, quavering voice of the usually laconic Pinback down in maintenance.
            “Capt., we got a situation down here?”
            “Pinback, what are you doing on this frequency?”
            “This is definitely Priority Level 1, sir. Whatever just hit us pierced the sewage tanks.”
            “Oh, for Shephard’s sake. Just jettison the damn things.”
            “Too late for that, sir. It’s flooded engineering already.”
 
            A Global Armed Services inquest would later reveal that the cause of the minimized catastrophe was a Coca-Cola ad/sat, its scanners having apparently misread the Stars-n-Stripes decals on the shuttle hull as the similarly red-white-&-blue Pepsico logo entering its airspace, activating its weapons array, which fired a warning beam at the supposed intruder. As a result, Mulliver and the crew of the disemboweled IRON LUNG were left with no choice but to break contract and return immediately to the lunar surface, prematurely aborting the much-anticipated first employment of the Global Armed Service forces. Subsequently, all ships of US origin were compelled to drop their colors in deference to corporate stratagem.