Three AM Channels (It’s 1986 in Spokane, Washington)

17 06 2012

More prodigious than his elegantly decorated beer belly is Joel’s capacity to sit through fifteen seconds of tranny sex phone commercials. Late night television in 1986 Spokane doesn’t offer much to be desired. Fortunately, the twenty-first century happened–fifteen years later, after a triple bypass surgery and a lesbian lawyer niece from Portland.





Julie Gentron and the Lady League, Vol. 1, Ep. 6: The Plastic Witch

15 06 2012

Written by Brandon Arkell and Seth Gordon Little

Last time on Julie Gentron and the Lady League, Plastica finally revealed herself and unleashed her attack on the Lady League at the 221st annual Milky Way Galactic Fashion Show. Now the ladies  must face the plastic witch in all her perverted glory!

Oswald reeled back and forth by the wrist uncontrollably as the ladies tried to subdue him, and the crowd’s murmuring grew to a shriek. The model in the oceanliner shoulder-pads returned with the rest of her sisters, and they surrounded Plastica, forming a phalanx along the entire edge of the catwalk like an ant colony guarding its queen. A volley of lasers shot forth from their eyes, shortcircuiting the security systems and sealing the doors shut. The sinister beat of “Selected Faces,” by Gesaffelstein, began to pulse throughout the hall, seemingly out of nowhere.

Suddenly, random audience members began lurching back and forth under a mysterious force, falling forward over the chairs toward the stage, while those unaffected were being stunned and knocked down by the supermodels’ dreaded eye-lasers. Ladies were being dragged across the floor by their overly smooth Morgan Fairchild facelifts, and others, by their voluminous fake breasts. Wigs flew and jewels spilled forth from necks and breasts as bodies tumbled to the floor. Those nearest the stage were sucked up first on to the catwalk, through the wall of models, and behind the curtains, screaming wildly.

“Lady League, unite!” cried Julie to her comrades, raising an arm. The ladies joined fists, and a blinding ray of light shot forth, filling the room with its purple-white lady-glow. Unfortunately, this meant loosening their grip on Oswald, who resumed his erratic, involuntary wrist-lurching. Finally, Plastica unleashed her stable of supermodels on the crowd like a fury of angry wasps.

Donna grappled with a couple of models and fell on top of them with her crushing weight. She bit and scratched at their faces, punched them in the cheek, and kneed them in the groin. She was so savage that she left her models bleeding, nails hanging from their paper-like faces.

Rosalind assumed the tactics of a wrestler. She threw a fist at the face of every model that came her way and body-slammed them to the ground, straddling them and pounding her chest triumphantly like a silverback gorilla. While she was expending her energy on this display of lesbian prowess, Oswald slipped past her toward the stage, struggling ferociously to remove the animated bracelet from his wrist.

Julie employed a more artful technique than her companions–she sliced away at several models with a fanlike, acrobatic sweep, chopping them down at the neck and kidneys and scissoring them in the groin. A few more came her way, and she deployed a noxious fume from her thighs which knocked them out cold.

Meanwhile, Oswald was being sucked through the wall of models and dragged onstage, where Plastica awaited him in six-inch Vivenne Westwood heels. He rose feebly and met her with a sneer. She was grinning, standing with a coquettishly tilted knee in a glittering, gunmetal grey, 1940s-style evening gown with huge shoulder-pads, hands on her hips.

“I’m going to gut your entire wardrobe, you bitch!” he cried, straightening his tie. “Just wait till I write my next piece in the paper!”

“Darling, you have nothing worth gutting to write about,” Plastica quipped, “but your own feeble fashion sense. Your fear of colour and texture will be your undoing.”

He charged at her in a desperate rage, arms outstretched and bearing down on the elegantly poised figure, but, like a snake, she blocked each strike with lightning speed, punched him in the temple, kneed him in the groin, and drove the web between her thumb and index finger into his throat. With a gasp, he choked and crumpled to the ground. She grabbed him by the lapel with her long, green talons, dragged him behind the curtains, and dropped him down, placing a tall stiletto heel triumphantly over his sobbing frame and purring into his ear, “note for your next piece in the New York Times: Plastica’s not just a pretty face.” She summoned her matrons. “Ladies, take him away! I have to do a wardrobe change.” A host of plasticons pounced on the queen like a pack of hungry hyenas, dragging him away into the dark recesses of the dressing rooms with shrieks of laughter and pleasure. The plastic witch vanished into her chambers and soon re-emerged through the curtains and on to the catwalk in a Dior-inspired evening gown, surveying the battle below, where her marionettes wreaked havoc under her spell.

When it was over, a pile of models lay in a heap at the Lady League’s feet, gurgling strangely.

I can already feel my nano-bot immune system knitting my torn flesh back together, thought Julie, but what about the others? “Donna! Rosalind! Are you injured at all??” She scanned the room around her.

“Just a small scratch,” answered Rosalind. “My super-hard metallic skin protected me against their steely talons, and my strength knocked most of them unconscious. Their movements are extremely precise and well-orchestrated, Julie, as though they work as a single organism—a sort of hive.”

“Good work, Rosalind. But where’s Donna? Donna!?”

“Here I am!” cried Donna, crawling out of a pile of plasticons and brushing off her outfit with a childlike grin. “I was able to shield myself from the melée and repel most of them with my psychokinetic powers. A few of them broke through, but I dug my fingers into those bitches with my Lee Press-On Nails!” She held up her hands proudly; several nails were missing or hanging by a cuticle.

“I’m glad you girls are OK. But what about Oswald? Where is he!? We were supposed to protect him! Oswald!?”

“In time, my beauties,” said Plastica in her distinct timbre, posing languidly onstage in front of the curtains. “For now, I think we’ll play a little game of catch-the-zombie.” With this, the defeated models began to rise, virtually unscathed. Their wounds were already healing before the ladies’ eyes.

“Ugh, they’re nearly indestructible! Take this, you overgrown foetus-women!” cried Donna, flinging several supermodels against the wall with a melodramatic sweep of her fingers. Her psychokinetic powers were beginning to show their true colours.

“Kiss my smoking, hot biceps, bitches!” roared Rosalind, sweeping up a group of them in her arms and throwing them to the ground like a wrestler. They gave an unnatural, babylike squeal.

“Snort this, you salad-eating blow queens!” shouted Julie, standing erect and pointing her breasts outward. A cannon emerged from each of her nipples and deployed a bright red laser beam which shot down several models. A few clambered back up on their heels, and Julie, fed up, blasted them across the room with a gamma-ray burst deployed from her groin. Still, a few stragglers persisted, bearing down mindlessly on the ladies. Suddenly, the dated asbestos-board ceiling broke, and Lupa the land-whale fell through, crashing down on  a cluster of models with a thunderous boom. He rose, stretched out his strong, stubby limbs, beat his coconut bra proudly, and gave a great, deep bellow from the depths of his throat, blowing away the remaining models.

“Lupa, I thought I told you to stay behind and man the grounds outside the building!” cried Julie.  The land-whale hung his head low and gave a pitiful, self-punishing moan. “But you have proved yourself a true Lady,” said Julie, stepping over the bodies of the twitching models. “With Lady Fairfax’s approval, I think we can make you a permanent, full-fledged member of the Lady League.” Lupa stomped up and down, flapping his fins together excitedly, and the ladies embraced him with affectionate gratitude. “Hoagh. I can tell Donna needs to change your diaper.” Donna gave Julie a scowl, and Lupa cooed, widened his eyes, and self-consciously grabbed the back of his diaper with his fins.

“How sweet,” said Plastica, with a hand on a tilted hip, “but I have a twitching, half-dead supermodel army to resurrect.” The ladies immediately resumed their pose and redirected their attention at the plastic witch. “That was only a taste of my growing legions. I have hundreds more.” She assumed an almost evangelical tone. “How many human vessels must I fill, how many make-up compacts, Tupperware containers, plastic \coffee cup lids must I wave in front of your vacant faces to drive the point home? You will never be anything but over-sexed secret agents till Ihave made you in my image! It is you who inhabit my world, children—not the other way around!”

“Remove every earring, reform your daily make-up regimen, disinfect every corner of your hallowed kitchen, peruse the depths of a casual lover’s orifice, and I am there, inside your most personal instrument of pleasure, comprising every brand of water-soluble lubricant. Plug in a table lamp, Iam there. Turn a steering wheel, I am there. Remove a stone in your long-neglected suburban garden, I am there, in the plastic fragment of a long-lost 1980s action figure!”

“Embrace this new paradigm, fellow mutants. You will not die—if you do not resist—but, like a caterpillar, you will metamorphose into my most beautiful creation, my most powerful soldiers, and march forth to spread my seed, my new strain of disease—Plasticitis! Look at what wonders it has done for my complexion.” She framed her face with elegant sweeps of her hands. “Do you like it? The concoction consists of a serum derived from the Joan Rivers and Victoria Principal genome. Soon, I shall implant the virus within you. Yet you are too special to remain as mere pawns or footmen–no, you are far too special, my ferocious battle-queens, which is why you will lead my forces as Captain Donna, Colonel Rosalind, and, most formidable of all, General Gentron!” She stared pensively at Julie, then whipped her head upward.

“I have been eager, gracious, patient; I have been overflowing with love, an irrational faith in your loyalty, a sincere desire to comprehend your wilful disobedience, your bare-faced defiance of the obvious moral truth. Why am I so weak? O, how many years have I spent staring into my mirror, burying these nails into my palms, straining to force just one tear-drop out of these artificial ducts.” She peered upward momentarily with the faintest look of regret in her eyes, then strode forward, gritting her teeth. The ladies bristled, yet rapt by her words, almost showing sympathy. “Why must you be so pig-headed?!” the horrible beauty yelled at them, pacing back and forth.

“I started out as one of you! burrowed my way through a heap of aging fashion zombies—so smug with their big, stupid grins, so rude and ugly—queens that doubted me, mocked my dreams, tormented me for my so-called deformity. My only solace lay in the fact they helped me realise what dimwitted apes they really were compared with the beautiful force of nature I should become!” Here she resumed a rigid stance, at the very front of the catwalk.

“You humans disappoint me. The ice-whales of frozen Europa, the space-dragons of Vega’s great dust clouds, the silicon crystal plant-women of Alpha Centauri’s many moons, show more gratitude than the people of Earth!” She contracted her claws and surveyed the ladies’ petrified features, turning her weird smile into a clownish frown as her eyes reddened. “Your cruel, violent, arrogant planet is nothing but a cold, blue, ego-inflated rock nine minutes from an average white star. And let us hope that precious, life-giving ball of light doesn’t snuff you out with a sudden solar flare, for when it does, it will suck the life out of your lungs, but I—once my genome is complete—will be immune to such assaults of nature due to my unique physiology. Why, I shall be immortal!” The strange spell suddenly broke, and the Lady League gathered their senses and prepared to strike,but to their shock Plastica instantly blasted them down with a sweeping arc of bright, thick, red laser-beams from her eyes, brighter than any they had seen from her plastic minions.

“How disappointing; I quite expected to be vanquished by psychokinesis, superhuman strength, or some mutant cyborg mammary cannon, but I see now the power of plastic has out-manoeuvred your silly school-girl antics. I have no use for you adolescent superheroines quite yet; for now, I will enjoy watching you suffer as I prepare your precious newspaper columnist for his new role as Vice-Queen of my growing plastic empire!” In an almost orgasmic fit of ecstasy, she threw her claws up into the air and dragged them down ominously in front of her face and breasts, unleashing anevil cackle. “Ah! Ah-ha! Ah-ha-ha! Ah-ha-ha-ha! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” The Lady League scrambled onto the catwalk, but it was too late. The plastic witch had vanished behind her plastic curtains, with Oswald and all of her other unlucky victims now solidly ensconced within her clutches. Sweeping the curtains aside, the ladies met an impenetrable steel wall and the rumble of what must have been a small spaceship inside rising out of the ground and into the air. They backed up to avoid the heat and exhaust fumes. They should have known better—Plastica practically owned this slice of Paris.

Plastica may have escaped the Lady League’s clutches with her secret Parisian space-station, but this doesn’t mean the game is over. Check back for the next instalment of Julie Gentron and the Lady League to find out the ladies’ next strike against the plastic witch!