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!





Julie Gentron and the Lady League, Vol. 1, Ep. 4: The Homosexual!

22 02 2012

Written by Brandon Arkell and Seth Gordon Little

Last time on the Lady League, the ladies were spreading their legs and lighting up London’s nighttime skyline with a blast of super-powered lady plasma, in preparation to confront the dreaded Plastic Demon.

The suite was decorated in whimsical turn-of-the-century art nouveau decor, with a view of the Eiffel Tower through great French doors which opened up on to the balcony. Oswald’s young, handsome male assistant, Frederick, was tidying papers at a desk in front of the main window.

“I’m bored of Paris”, groaned Oswald, clutching a voluminous goblet of wine and gazing outside the window. “Why do I even bother? It farms fashion trends like a soccer mom chugs corporate coffee. All of those simpering mules strolling by—they think they’re the cat’s meow, but, honestly, their City of Lights has grown dim in my eyes, and its fashion, stale.” Frederick turned his head from his work and nodded vacantly in agreement. “They’re nothing more than a bunch of dime-store papier-mâché drag queens strutting their sad plastic corpses down a worn-out catwalk. And now we’re faced with another fashion horror—this new ‘plastique’ line. It’s all over the magazine covers–Vogue, Marie Claire, even Harper’s—a glittering pile of garish, costumey garbage-bags plucked out of The Wizard of Oz or Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. What’s wrong with a simple, classic dress? Stick with the basics, I say.” Here he paused briefly, swirling the wine inside his goblet meditatively. “For the life of me, I can’t figure out what the designer’s true identity is. All we know is her initial, ‘P’, but I want to know the true P, what makes her tick, what makes her build such clownish garments, what makes people fawn like puppies at such horrid sartorial monstrosities.” Frederick nodded.

“I need new surroundings, fresh inspiration!” cried the stuffy queen, throwing the emptied wine goblet at the fire-place. “Pick that up”, he said to Frederick, who hurriedly scooped up the shards of glass on the edge of the fireplace, burning himself slightly but keeping his pain to himself. “I crave the shapes, colours, and sounds of avant garde Berlin, wild, exotic Africa, remote, mystical Asia! What I need is a new muse.”

“Racist”, mumbled Frederick under his breath, swabbing his wound and shuffling papers at the desk.

“What was that?!” cried Oswald. “You’re my assistant, wretch, not my sociology professor!” He slapped Frederick with the back of his hand, which was adorned with a large, chunky ring. “I’m paying you to help me write about fashion—and pleasure me—not lecture me on stereotypes!”

“Yes, Mr Oswald”, said Frederick obsequiously, pawing at his abused cheek.

Suddenly there was an explosion of sparkle and glitter as the double doors burst open to reveal Julie Gentron and the Lady League, shrouded in a ball of lady-light. Lupa the Land-Whale clumsily smashed in through the window and tumbled over the desk, lolling about on the ground. Frederick tumbled out of his chair, overcome with shock and amazement. Expensive antique cocktail displays with colourful negro caricatures from the nineteen-twenties, among other accoutrements, were thrown to the floor in the commotion. Oswald dived behind a divan and covered his head.

“Sweet tits of Mary!” screamed the queen.

“Lady League, pose!” cried Julie, stationing herself in the middle of the hotel suite. The ladies gathered themselves and spread their legs in a buffalo stance at Julie’s side. Lupa joined the posse, spreading his stocky legs and placing his fore-fins on his thick hips. His head brushed up against the chandelier, sending a few tear-drop crystals to the floor.

“What in the name of God’s jugs are you—you praying mantises??” cried Oswald, peeking out from behind the divan at the ghastly menagerie before him. “And what is that horrible, gigantic turnip-thing?!” he cried, pointing at Lupa. Lupa lowered his head with shame and frowned. There was a pause, which gave Oswald enough time to analyse their wardrobes. “What’s that??” he hissed, pointing at Donna’s outfit.

“It’s from last season’s Halloween rack at the Bay”, said Donna, looking down at her outfit self-consciously. “It’s kind of retro trashy kitsch, isn’t it?”

“I know what it is, you minx!” grumbled the insufferable bitch. “It’s a throwback to some tacky twentieth century superheroine T.V. series. How gauche. And besides, it’s badly tailored. Look at the seams. And the theme is poorly incorporated into the piece as a whole.” He looked at Frederick for approval. Frederick nodded hesitantly, but turned and glowered.

“Why are you so ruthless??” cried Donna, observing poor Frederick’s reaction. “I thought that the fashion world was full of rainbows, baby-dust, unicorns, and—”

“—and the genius of Simpson Oswald!” cried the queen. He assumed an evangelical tone. “If I were a unicorn,  my aim would be to search out the kind of trash you’re wearing and impale it on my horn of truth! The world of fashion has no room for the lies which you parade.” He stopped and took a few moments to breathe and regain his bearings.

“Sweetie”, said Donna, drawing on a mysterious reservoir of courage, “your world of understated, black-and-grey business wear isn’t fit for a Louisiana trailer park. I Googled you, you prissy little bitch. I’ve seen the garments you made in the fashion department at Oklahoma City Community College. They say one thing: stale, dull, and conservative!” Oswald gasped and cringed in horror.

“That’s three things”, Rosalind said.

“Oh. Yeah. Three things”, Donna said, correcting herself.

“Why, you impudent child!” cried Oswald

“You heartless queen!” returned Donna.

“Girl, I’ll claw you to pieces!”

“Bitch, I’ll crush your queeny ass with one flick of my Lee Press-On Nail!”

Donna and Oswald began to tango, but Donna’s psychokinetic powers got the best of him, trapping him in the pose of a retarded gay Egyptian hieroglyph. He grunted as he fought helplessly against her stranglehold over him. She grinned smugly. Lupa began stamping the ground, flapping his fins up and down and cooing in protest. Another window-pane broke.

“Donna! Mr Oswald!” cried Julie, pressing her breasts outward and assuming an imposing stance. It was enough to cause Lupa to cower, knowing that Julie was the alpha. Donna desisted, and Oswald fell back, regaining his senses. He turned his eyes to Julie.

“Your outfit, on the other hand, is impeccable”, he said, gazing at Julie’s body like a sexually disinterested homosexual infatuated with clothing, “a flawless, streamlined melding of apparel and physique.”

“That’s because you designed it”, said Julie, impatient but flattered.

“I designed this masterpiece??” screamed the queen in disbelief.

“How quickly they forget when they sell their genius for a profit”, said Rosalind contemptuously. “Doesn’t it suit her? She’s a cyborg, after all.”

“Wh–wh–wh–what? One of those icky cyborg things? In my Paris hotel suite? Why on earth?”

“We’re here to save your puny little twig-armed white man’s arse—that’s why!” boomed Rosalind, channelling Grace Jones. Her strong, muscular body glimmered momentarily with a metallic sheen. Julie and Donna nodded in agreement.

“Save me from what?” Oswald was agog.

“Mr Oswald, let me introduce myself”, said Julie with a confident sweep of her shoulders. “I am Julie Gentron, and together my friends and I form the Lady League, a special branch of the Secret Intelligence Service devoted to defending the earth against galactic criminals.”

“Indeed! Except for that one”, he said, glowering at Donna. “Do you always let small-town drag queens follow you around like overly primped puppy dogs?” At this, Donna threatened him with her fingernails; he resumed his station behind the divan, cringing at the psychokinetic mutant.

“Do you always prance around like some useless Project Runway contestant who dropped out of community college with nothing but a pink cotton tank top with a skull-and-crossbones Hello Kitty graphic for a portfolio?” returned Donna, leering at him triumphantly. Lupa remonstrated against Oswald and Donna’s exchange with a low, almost subsonic moan, and the song seemed to have an effect on them, as they began to relax. No-one but Lupa seemed to notice.

“Ladies, please!” cried Julie, standing between the two. Lupa’s big, limpid blue eyes smiled with relief. “This display of oestrogen will get us nowhere. Let’s get to the point of this meeting. Mr. Oswald, we believe that your life is in danger. I realise this must be hard for you to accept, but you must believe me when I tell you that a malevolent and powerful she-thing is working to turn members of the fashion élite into mindless plastic-surgery drones, and you may be her next target.”

“Ba! No one touches Simpson Oswald, least of all some Rubbermaid robot from the Tupperwear Galaxy!” laughed Oswald smugly, dismissing them with a flail of his limp wrist. “I haven’t heard such a farfetched conspiracy theory since Coast to Coast AM said that evil, shape-shifting harp seals were infiltrating the Canadian Parliament. My dears, if I don’t attend this fashion show, I’ll have nothing to say in my next column.” He stopped and scanned Julie. “Why, that’s it! You just hate me—you want to kill my career! The only foe I see is in your jealousy, you viper! If you insist upon hounding me, I shall call for security to remove you and the rest of your wicked brood from my premises.”

“Sir, that is absurd!” said Julie passionately. The other ladies, including Lupa, backed up respectfully. “We don’t wish to destroy your career—the plastic fiend does! If you refuse our help, your entire career will be co-opted by P, who wants to assimilate you! That is why we are here. To help you. To defend you against P. The combined powers of the Lady League are the only way to protect you from this sorceress. Now, if you’ll just—”

“—Very well. I see that your arrogant, heaving bosoms will not desist. Frederick!” he said, summoning his cowering assistant from behind the desk. “Telephone!” Frederick brought Oswald a telephone in the likeness of a statuette depicting a woman in the act of inserting a pear into her bottom. With apparent indifference to this image, Oswald opened up the telephone and turned the rotary dial. A French voice answered.

“Oui. This is Mssr Simpson Oswald, Suite 405. Put me through to security. Security? Oui, Oswald here. What? Speak English. Yes, I’m afraid a throng of squatting harridans have stolen into my suite and wish to kidnap me. I am rather perturbed, naturally. They are quite persistent and flail about like octupi, insulting me and disturbing my evening cold-cream regimen. Will you please send—Allo? Allo?! I demand that you furnish me with sufficient personnel to evict these—”

“—Your kind words beguile my heart, queen”, interjected a strangely soft, purring voice, as if from a synthesiser. The telephone chord silently stirred to life and wrapped itself round the fashion critic’s neck, cutting off the rest of his sentence. “With such sweet sentiment, you warm it to the core, to the hard, brilliant deposit of lust which drives the engine behind this vinyl visage of mine. For this reason I elect you as vice-queen of my holy plastic army. Enjoy wearing my new hot pink, patent leather catsuit with purple-feather epaulets, Sergeant Sodomite. Today is the last day you wear an American-style suit!”

“Wha–? Gak! Help! It’s choking me!”, gurgled Oswald, tearing at the cord round his neck. Frederick flailed in panic, trying desperately to unwrap the cord, but the Lady League acted without hesitation and took over.

“Girls, waste no time!” cried Julie. The skin under her silver body-suit began to squirm; her subcutaneous weapons were preparing for the assault. “It’s the plastic demon trying to take control of objects in her environment. She must be nearby.”

“I hate to side with old dumpy bottoms here”, cried Rosalind, leering at Donna, “but the world is at stake.”  She leaped at the possessed telephone, grasping the receiver in one hand and the cord in the other. “Quick, Donna! Help me get this thing off this tired old queen’s neck!” She had more trouble than usual unwrapping the telephone cord from around Oswald’s neck given her superhuman strength. Obviously some other force was at work.

“Hey! Truck-lady!” said Donna, placing her hands on her hips. “Go grease up something with holes and pistons. If you think I’m going to help save ‘Oklahoma Male Weekly’ over there, with her queen-bee attitude, you’ve got another thing coming. Ass pirate,” she sneered at Oswald. He returned the look.

“Donna! Rosalind!” cried Julie. “We have no time for petty jealousy. For once, stop with your taunting and concentrate your powers! Now! I must rely on you two while I focus on disarming the device.” She stood erect, closing her eyes and pressing her chest outward. Donna half-heartedly followed her captain’s lead by unfolding her arms and dropping her buttocks down on top of the phone’s carriage, burying it within her cheeks. The signal sputtered.

“I’ll admit,” said Rosalind, trying to tear the cord from the queen’s neck, “Donna’s got a point. He’s a cunt. Even if we do convince him that we’re protecting him, what good will it do us? Donna’ll probably end up killing him with her bare hands anyway.” She began to wrap her hands around Oswald’s neck, her fingers intertwined with the cord.

“Girls, I’m surprised at you!” said Julie. “Especially you, Rosalind! We aren’t here to pass judgement on this man! He’s being strangled by a telephone cord, for goodness’ sake!”

“He seems to find no qualms in passing judgement himself”, said Rosalind, increasing her stranglehold. The poor man’s eyes bulged.

“And he’s such a bitch!” said Donna, gliding her fingernails over the poor queen like hovering reconnaissance aircraft.

“God damn it!” screamed Julie, the circuits of her suit suddenly lighting up in response to her mental state. “That’s no excuse! He may be a cold-blooded, ruthless lizard, but that doesn’t mean he deserves to die!”

“Help me, please!” gurgled Oswald. “I’m sorry I was such a supercilious cunt. Maybe I’m wrong about the use of colour and texture—pastels and crushed velveteen are not fashion faux pas! A smokey eye with a dark-red lip is not overdoing it! I give up! Just save me!” Rosalind looked upward snootily, and Donna bore into Oswald’s eyes with a disapproving glower.

“Girls, stop!” said Julie. “We’ll discuss this another time! Donna, stop sitting on the receiver. Use your psychokinetic power to fight the demon!”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Duh!” said Donna, raising her buttocks from the receiver and placing her fingers to her temples. “Sorry for spacing out, Julie. I can do this. I can undo the fiend’s work.” She stood still and concentrated her powers on the cord wrapped around Oswald’s neck. Rosalind assisted by tearing at the cord, and Lupa sang a whale-song which nobody could hear. The cord snapped. Oswald fell back and scurried against the wall, gasping for air. Frederick ran forward to embrace Oswald, who turned him away with a tired groan. Confused, he ran over and embraced Donna, who returned the gesture with a soft pat on the head. Rosalind looked on at Donna approvingly for once, and Lupa stamped up and down, flapping his fins, tears welling up in his big, blue eyes.

“Good”, said Julie, nodding, “but we need more juice to defeat this thing! I’ll deploy a short-distance electromagnetic pulse to short-circuit the apparatus.” She stretched out her arms, her hands curled into fists, and shot forth a beam of gamma radiation that fried the telephone receiver. Meanwhile, Rosalind and Donna were ripping apart the remains of the telephone cord. Finally it dropped to the ground.

“Bahahahahaha!” cackled the sinister voice through the mangled, disconnected receiver. “Your powers may have succeeded in this small trial, Lazy League, but you have yet to defeat my many minions! Soon you shall witness the rise of the demon, and you shall bow at her feet! I’m not going to kill you. Oh, no. I have something far better in mind for you—the beauty of my sweet, immortal caress! Yes, that is right. You shall become like me—plastic!”

The lights flickered and dimmed, as if from a power surge, and all looked at each other in silence.

Stay tuned as the ladies hunt down the inscrutable plastic demon in the next instalment of Julie Gentron and the Lady League!





Julie Gentron and the Lady League, Vol. 1, Ep. 4: Duty Calls

14 01 2012

Written by Brandon Arkell and Seth Gordon Little

Last time on the Lady League, the ladies encountered an obstacle course in the Kuiper Belt, but they were able to warp-drive their way back home to London with the help of Donna Destruction. At the landing pad, they met a mysterious, foreboding figure, Lady Fairfax, who scolded them over their tardiness.

“Lady Fairfax, I apologise”, cried Julie. “You see, we encountered a sort of obstacle course in the Kuiper Belt—”

“—Mere congestion, Gentron!” replied Fairfax, rolling in on her wicker wheelchair, cane in one hand and gin and tonic in the other. “You know that MI6 agents encounter such notorious bottlenecks every day. You can’t possibly see yourself as special in the strive to defend the galaxy against the horrors which lie beyond our thin atmosphere—the microbes of Mars’s half-frozen crust, the virulent tar-women of Io’s angry volcanoes, the space-whales of Saturn’s engorged rings?” She paused and looked about her, then tapped her cane. “Wh-wh-where do you expect me to place my gin and tonic, girl??”

“May I, Lady Fairfax?” offered Rosalind graciously. Fairfax acquiesced, harrumphing indignantly as Rosalind reverently placed the gin and tonic on the spaceship console. 

“Ladies”, cooed the venerable matron, “you are tardy for your next assignment. I have intelligence on a surreptitious figure rumoured to frequent the salons of Paris, the gay bathhouses of Seattle, the opium dens of Shanghai. It—for we do not yet know what shape it takes—traffics in something more precious than the methane riches of Titan itself. Humans!”

“Humans!” gasped the Lady League. Fairfax nodded soberly.

“I—I don’t understand”,  said Julie. “Why, we should have no trouble apprehending a mere slave-trader. We’ve done it before. Remember Slimeball and his power over slime? That’s how Rosalind joined the League. She was his captive aboard his Red Sea freighter, and we helped her escape.”

“This isn’t some seaborne skirmish, Gentron”, thundered Fairfax, thumping her cane. She resumed her milder tone. “Due either to some sort of genetic mutation or medical procedure, this—entity—has acquired a symbiotic relationship with a material we all know too well—far too well. And it is to our detriment. Plastic!” The girls shrieked. “This being has commandeered the entire plastic manufacturing industry of Europe. It has so insinuated its way into the beauty and fashion marketplace that one cannot slide on a condom or spear one’s beans with a cafeteria spork without this—thing—turning it against one. The Continent’s brightest plastic surgeons have either disappeared or fallen into secrecy, avowing nothing for fear of retribution. I am afraid Britain is Europe’s last bastion of defense”, she said gravely in her rich, woody Home Counties accent. “This thing, it seems to control certain people. It targets beauties—those who have fallen under the knife, as it were. Supermodels. Actors. Homosexual fashion critics. The list goes on. Our best biophysicists cannot crack this one, girls. Earth—the solar system—is at risk of falling prey to this fiend’s wiles. It has evaded my smartest agents, some of whom never returned from their missions. I fear the worst for them. I fear that they have become a part of its shapeless morass.”

“Fairfax, this is horrible!” cried Julie. “Why, it is inconsistent with the Lady League mission protocol to allow such a crime against humanity to be committed. What can we do to stop this—this creature?”

“Nothing—but to hate plastic!” cried Fairfax. “You must waste no time. Take nothing of plastic with you—it is the warhead of this hideous fiend. You must rely on your own feminine prowess now more than ever. Rosalind Armour, you possess superhuman strength and near-indestructible skin. Donna Destruction, you can move objects with the power of your mind. And, Julie Gentron, with the power of your mind you can control all technology, including the arsenal of deadly weapons implanted within your body by extraterrestrial beings. Surely”, she said, focussing her bespectacled eyes on Julie, “as director of the MI6, I can rely on you ladies to fulfil the objectives of this mission?”

“We will do everything in our power to smoke this fox out of its hole and put an end to it”, said Julie, “even if it requires digging our bare, hangnailed fingers into that hole.”

“Beautiful. You will commence your assignment forthwith by escorting famed New York fashion critic Simpson Oswald to his next fashion show”, said Fairfax, cringing slightly at the name. “He boasts a number of friends in the industry, but, recently, he has acquired a few enemies, so we have reason to suspect he is target number one for this—this—plastic demon. Yes, I know that the pansies can be rather flakey and out-of-touch with reality, but you, Julie, are wearing one of his creations”, she revealed, grabbing the gin-and-tonic back from the spaceship console.

“Really?” cried Julie, scanning her shapely physique up and down. It was a sheer, form-fitting, silvery-metallic suit which covered everything but her face, and was implanted with myriad wires and electrodes which channelled and amplified her thought patterns. Unbeknownst to Julie, the electronic armoury embedded within the suit was the work of the galaxy’s best British engineers–its true powers remained a sinister secret. She wondered at the thing she was wearing, Who am I? What am I?

“What about me??” cried Donna.

“You’re wearing nothing but a leftover tarp from last season’s Halloween sales rack at The Bay”, said Rosalind peremptorily.

“But it’s vintage!” cried Donna, “and it goes with my complexion! Doesn’t it?” There was an awkward pause as everybody else looked at her.

“Enough small talk!” said Fairfax impatiently, waving away Donna with her gin and tonic. “Ladies, you will escort this Oswald to his next show in Paris. As I have stated, he is most likely the fiend’s next target. But beware the plastic demon’s wiles. I warn you. It is as sly as a snake in grass, and it owns every blade.” At this, Julie knew exactly what to do.

“Lady League”, cried Julie, “unite!” The League spread their legs in a buffalo stance and joined fists—which included Lupa’s fin—and a beam of super-powered lady plasma shot forth, illuminating London’s dank, dirty nighttime skyline. The girls were hot and ready to cream that plastic bitch.

Stay tuned for the next instalment to find out what the Lady League do with their legs.