Written by Brandon Arkell and Seth Gordon Little
Last time on Julie Gentron and the Lady League, the ladies broke into Simpson Oswald’s Paris hotel suite to warn him of the plastic demon’s diabolical plans to assimilate him into its army of plastic drones. After surviving a bizarre attack, the fashion critic decided to accept the ladies’ help, and together they made their way to the 221st annual Milky Way Galactic Fashion Show in Paris, where it was believed the fiend would make its next move. Oswald was the bait.
A mist obscured a long catwalk inside an ultra-modern hall whilst techno music thumped and buzzed in the background. The Lady League and Oswald entered in their most ravishing costumes, making their way to the front row. Others began trickling in–ladies with outrageous coiffures and cutting-edge, asymmetical dresses and gentlemen in much the same type of garb. (Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between the two—most of the men were of the sausage-gobbling persuasion.) The signature French sound of trilling uvulas fluttered softly through the air, a most elegant murmur.
“Well, here we are,” said Julie as she and the ladies took their seats next to the catwalk at the 221st annual Milky Way Galactic Fashion Show. The event was being held in a sleek new modern facility amid the charming tumble-down buildings of the crowded Marais district of Paris. Flashing lights penetrated the shadowy recesses of the auditorium, and the haunting 1980s disco track “Damned Don’t Cry,” by Visage, began to play in the background. “Ladies, keep your legs crossed and your tits up–we must be on the alert for any sign of P!”
“Julie, how can we tell the difference between regular supermodels and the demon’s spawn?” asked Rosalind, sitting tall and erect like Grace Jones grinding down on a dildo.
“Well, that could be Kate Moss,” pointed out Rosalind, “which begs the question, how can we tell the difference?”
“The demon-child’s gaze strikes a cold arrow to the heart, leaving nothing but a feeling of emptiness. To give you a rough idea, Lindsay Lohan looks like Jennifer Love Hewitt by comparison. At any rate, we are using Mr Oswald as bait to catch the demon, so we will know when it has arrived.”
“Bait, indeed,” said Oswald. “Normally I’d be screaming for a ‘hook-up,’ but I think I’ll pass—unless this thing turns out to be a big, burly bear on the prowl for some fresh meat. Anyway, I’m not sure I’m into P, whoever—whatever—it is. Will the models be as fat as Donna?” he asked nonchalantly, stroking his Shih Tzu, Peaches, with a heavily ringed hand.
“Oooo, you icy cunt!” hissed Donna. The surrounding crowds, still settling into their seats, suddenly froze. All eyes fell on her. “I’m not fat! I’m rustic. I’m a ripe, red rose to be plucked—a big, juicy pear to be savoured on a warm summer afternoon!”
“Ew,” murmured Oswald, attempting to hide a grimace. “She’s gross, isn’t she, Peaches?” he said, glancing down at the pooch in his arms, which gave a short bark.
“Queens! Queens!” cried Julie. “Stop your bitch-wailing. The rafters are collecting condensation from your flapping face-holes, and we’re drawing unwanted attention to ourselves.” Suddenly, the light, bubbly 1990s eurodisco anthem “He’s On The Phone,” by Saint Etienne, began to play. The show had begun.
“What is that? A beached whale off the coast of Italy?” said Oswald as a 100-pound model strode down the catwalk in a sheer, flowing, patterned beach-gown which barely enveloped her breasts and exhibited two long, slinky legs.
“I would wear that!” cooed Donna like Jennifer Love Hewitt. “It’s cute!”
“I would wear her,” said Rosalind with unabashed lust, “on the deck of Lady Fairfax’s yacht in the Greek Isles. She’s aching for some lady.”
“Rosalind, gross!” squealed Donna, comporting herself demurely but sneaking a neat glance at the model’s delicately pointed breasts. The model posed and retreated, a few other beached whales followed, and the theme switched to cocktail dresses. “Deep in Vogue”, by Malcolm McLaren, began to play, and a model strutted down the runway in a rhinestone-studded bolero jacket that opened from the back.
“I’d be content with the look as a whole if she weren’t wearing that awful disco straightjacket,” sneered Oswald, stroking Peaches with a stoney smugness. The model reached behind her neck and unsnapped the jacket to reveal a black satin bustier. “Ugh, who are you?” rasped Oswald disdainfully. “Lita Ford? Madonna in 1989? Paris is burning indeed.”
“Seal your lips, queen!” snapped Donna. “I’m outfit-hunting, and I don’t need your razor-filled snatch distracting me from my task,” she said, commenting on Oswald’s ever-pursed, rouge-tainted lips (the colour of which he had favoured ever since discovering “Menstrual Mystique” as an adolescent at the beauty bar in Barney’s).
“Ladies, do you know how much I’m doing to keep our cover?!” hissed Julie under her breath. “We’re here to sniff out P and her evil coterie of brainwashed Botox beauties, not bicker amongst ourselves, so keep your knees together and your tongues inside your mouths!”
“You’re right, Julie,” whimpered Donna. “But I’m not fat! I’m a gorgeous, talented, full-figured superheroine!” The air surrounding her body began to shimmer like heat rising from a hot summer street, revealing her latent ability to manipulate matter and space-time.
“Julie, I will crush each and every one of those skinny, over-primped bitches under my palm,” rumbled Rosalind. Her skin glinted with a slight metallic sheen, and her muscle fibers momentarily turned to hard strands of silver.
“And I,” cried Oswald, rising proudly out of his seat with Peaches cradled in his arms, “will hew them to pieces with my unwavering, sword-tongued invectives!” The pooch gave a salvo of barks in agreement, and Oswald returned to his seat with a look of smug self-satisfaction. Julie groaned and rolled her eyes.
“Quiet,” she said, sitting upright like a guard-dog on the alert. “I sense an impostor. My technopathic neural receptors tell me the computer-based security system has been breached!” An electrical charge filled the air as Julie concentrated her powers on the surrounding room. Meanwhile, a new host of foetuses were being chucked out onto the catwalk in P’s evening wear.
“What is she wearing on her shoulders? An oceanliner?” said Oswald as a model sauntered down the runway in a sleek, black-sequinned evening gown with sharp, angular shoulders and a leather corset. “Oh, wait. It’s just her lopsided shoulder-pads. Bahahaha! Sink,Titanic, sink!” cackled the queen maliciously. The model stopped. All was still as polished steel below her neck, but her head took a life of its own. Like a robot, she craned her neck to the side, fixing her cold gaze on the fashion critic.
“Forgive my candour, Madame,” said the simpering, loose-tongued newspaper columnist, “but the shoulder-pad revival was in, then out.You see, the appropriateness of shoulder-pads always depends on the proportions of the frames they sit on. I’m afraid your shoulders could support a steel warship. If I were you, I would avoid such exaggerated structuring.” The poor thing had forgotten himself. “And what on earth is that silly corset supposed to be? Some tranny-girdle from the bottom of a San Francisco S&M sex shop sales bin? You look like a tornado hit Times Square, flung you through the Olive Garden, and knocked over Sharon Needles on its way to the Folsom Street Fair.” The model retreated android-like behind the stage, and the music suddenly stopped. The show was over.
“You have failed the test, servant-queen,” said a lone, cold voice which echoed softly through the hall, “and so soon in your trial. Clearly, the depth and scope of my artistry far surpass yours. The comment on the reverse bolero jacket was particularly unsatisfying. I wanted to bring you in voluntarily, as one of my highest-ranking officers, but I know now I must exploit your cruelty without your kindness. It is time that I expose myself for what I am, and what I can do—to you.”
There was a pause.
“I—am—Plastica!” rumbled a deep, rich, female voice. Long, hard, green fingernails crept through the part in the huge, plastic curtains and swept them aside. The harsh lighting revealed the mysterious face behind the shadows—a horridly beautiful distillation of Pete Burns, Faye Dunaway, Jackie Beat, Joan Rivers, and Amanda Lepore. Green eyeshadow grew from the creases of her eyelids into fluorescent yellow till it met with unnaturally arched eyebrows, while a sleek, black eyeliner framed cold, green irises. The hair resembled that of Divine during his 1980s disco heyday, but was moulded to one side in a wavelike motion and coated in a hard purple lacquer, as if vitrified by the wind of a nuclear explosion, leaving behind an indestructible corpse of unnaturally perfect beauty.
Oswald suddenly lurched forward by a wrist adorned with intertwined jelly bracelets, which seemed to take on a life of their own, and the Lady League bolted up immediately. Peaches yelped and leapt up into Donna’s ample bosoms, falling inadvertently into her cavernous cleavage with a muffled squeal. The braceletted wrist dragged the unfortunate homosexual back and forth in a strange sort of uncontrollable pantomime, flailing aimlessly in the air, then at the ladies, who batted it away at first. It continued to whip the queen back and forth, and Julie and her companions struggled to hold him down, but it was like grasping at a fish flapping through a shallow stream. Refined French ladies gasped, clutching their bejewelled breasts in horror, and a flutter of French murmurs spread through the uneasy crowd.
The game had begun. The plastic witch had finally quitted her lair, and she was armed and ready for battle.
Stay tuned for the next episode of Julie Gentron and the Lady League to find out how the ladies stack up against the dreaded Plastica and her evil plasticons!