The space station looked for the worlds as if an über-megalomaniac had
given up almost immediately on a plan to build a ridiculously enormous
android fortress in the most ridiculous way possible. The giant, boxy
palm that lingered oddly in space sprouted a full set of splayed Fu
Manchu digits. Garish multicolored light from an equally bizarre
assortment of beacons littered across local space bathed the
purposefully plasticized station skin in the luridly loving light of
Spaghetti-Space.
Wandblume took in the zany exhibit with an
expression that was a cocktail of amusement, chagrin and fondness as her
fast-courier cum cargo-pod transport completed a Freudian mating ritual
with the station’s docking assemblage.
“Of all the Geeks in
Fen...!” There was surely more to the epithet, but her delivery gave the
distinct sense that it had become a ritualized précis of the virescent
vixen’s thoughts, a slight soliloquy into her beguilingly bonkers
brain. She shook her head, a slightly loopy grin reminiscent of her
beau’s near perpetual-puss-posture curling the corners of her mouth.
Dies
Irae, togged out in her Shegoth black & greens, crossed the
insectile passage of the cargo umbilicus with a desultory sashay nearly
rivaling Morticia Anjelica Huston Adams’ skill.
“Come again, boss?”
Wandblume laughed : “Just my way of saying ‘My Man makes me crazy!’, Pen.”
“Madcap!”
Wandblume had no idea where Penny’s English accent was from, but she
did know that it wasn’t from anywhere near Comprende-ville.
‘Die
kacke!’ Wandblume’s face was impassive as the profanity rocketed harsh
consonants through her mind. ‘I’ll have to find someone to make her
understand ‘crazy!’ !’
“Collect the squad, Pen : time to meet the Lord of the manor.”
***
The
interior of the station, with the sole & notable exception of the
throne dais--it was full-throated Stark-Space-Tyrant aesthetic--, was
the stylish, cold, and uncomfortable black leather, backlit glass &
brushed steel open-concept style that Wandblume called Terminator Chic.
Especially that frakking steel-framed sectional couch : it had been
lovingly designed, she was certain, by a sadistic cabal of furniture
makers determined to destroy spines. She gave this seated Charybdis a
wide berth.
He, Van Loan, was on the dais--what a
surprise!--playing Zarth Arn with all of the glee of Raúl Rafael Juliá’s
Bison. A gauntleted hand resting on the spikiest steel throne ever
designed--a throne of swords would be far more comfortable!-- he gazed
through his injudiciously enormous cathedral window at his
varicolored expanse of space. He addressed his company with a
well-rehearsed cape-swirling pivot and an apropos villainous chortle.
It
wasn’t difficult for Wandblume to return the laughter with an extra
raucous dose of hilarity. Van Loan looked really silly in all of that
shiny red and black leather : Disco Bondage Dracula was about to,
‘[make] a man with blond hair and a tan....”
His laughter picked
up a minute silly infection of his partner’s before regaining its
gonzo-imperiousness as he strode down the raised platform towards the
arms akimbo Shego.
“Ah, your mission was successful, Lack...”
With
a speed that belied her usual indolence, Wandblume yanked the cloak ;
Van Loan sprawled indecorously onto his leather-clad backside.
“...Hey!” he managed, almost finishing the intended word.
She
considered her splayed beau with a look best summarized as
‘affectionately piqued’. The Shegoth squad, arrayed adroitly behind
their kingpin, sniggered and rolled their heavily made up eyes at the
dynamic melodramatics of the VanBlume relationship.
“What was that? You want to sleep on that couch?” She lazily swept an emerald fingernail in the direction of Charybdis.
A
snippet of grin broke though Van Loan’s comically indignant expression ;
quickly eroded the rest of it away with the much more Dr. D mien of a
loopy banana grin.
“Missed you my beautiful, mercurial Goddess!”
Shego moued. “The cold, spine killing caress of Charybdis!” It really was that uncomfortable.
He
ticked off items on his blueberry fingers : “Beautiful...” his sinister
pinky waggled ; “...Labile...” the neighbouring ring finger wiggled ;
“goddess...” the middle digit squirmed. “Two to go!" He inhaled
dramatically, and shot his index finger skywards. “Enticing, and...” Up
when the thumb in the age-old gesture of aplomb . “...hot as Hell!”
“You said sexy twice.”
“There are notable qualitative differences between my right hand and my right hand!”
It
took a few seconds for Wandblume’s brain to decode her boyfriend’s
double-squared entendre : “You really can make anything sound
empirical!”
“Super power!” Now come here and let me display my other powers!”
“Ewwww,
go get a satellite!” Pitchy bolted, a lingering contrail of girlish
squeal fading behind her fleeing, diminutive lacy figure.
***
“The
throne is dead : long live the new thrones!” Van Loan brandished the
ceremonial over-sized spanner over his head as the Shegoth solemnly
sashayed the old throne towards the airlock. Two egg chairs, firmly
bolted to the deck, now occupied the stagy soapbox space. Van Loan
flourished the gleaming instrument scepter-like in the direction of
wandblume : “Do you approve of your perch, my Empress?”
“Indeed! “ She spun the chair in a lazy full rotation.
***
Outside,
in the gaudy desolation of trans-Neptunian cosmos, a castoff chair of
totalitarian and trenchant attitude strayed steadily through space.
given up almost immediately on a plan to build a ridiculously enormous
android fortress in the most ridiculous way possible. The giant, boxy
palm that lingered oddly in space sprouted a full set of splayed Fu
Manchu digits. Garish multicolored light from an equally bizarre
assortment of beacons littered across local space bathed the
purposefully plasticized station skin in the luridly loving light of
Spaghetti-Space.
Wandblume took in the zany exhibit with an
expression that was a cocktail of amusement, chagrin and fondness as her
fast-courier cum cargo-pod transport completed a Freudian mating ritual
with the station’s docking assemblage.
“Of all the Geeks in
Fen...!” There was surely more to the epithet, but her delivery gave the
distinct sense that it had become a ritualized précis of the virescent
vixen’s thoughts, a slight soliloquy into her beguilingly bonkers
brain. She shook her head, a slightly loopy grin reminiscent of her
beau’s near perpetual-puss-posture curling the corners of her mouth.
Dies
Irae, togged out in her Shegoth black & greens, crossed the
insectile passage of the cargo umbilicus with a desultory sashay nearly
rivaling Morticia Anjelica Huston Adams’ skill.
“Come again, boss?”
Wandblume laughed : “Just my way of saying ‘My Man makes me crazy!’, Pen.”
“Madcap!”
Wandblume had no idea where Penny’s English accent was from, but she
did know that it wasn’t from anywhere near Comprende-ville.
‘Die
kacke!’ Wandblume’s face was impassive as the profanity rocketed harsh
consonants through her mind. ‘I’ll have to find someone to make her
understand ‘crazy!’ !’
“Collect the squad, Pen : time to meet the Lord of the manor.”
***
The
interior of the station, with the sole & notable exception of the
throne dais--it was full-throated Stark-Space-Tyrant aesthetic--, was
the stylish, cold, and uncomfortable black leather, backlit glass &
brushed steel open-concept style that Wandblume called Terminator Chic.
Especially that frakking steel-framed sectional couch : it had been
lovingly designed, she was certain, by a sadistic cabal of furniture
makers determined to destroy spines. She gave this seated Charybdis a
wide berth.
He, Van Loan, was on the dais--what a
surprise!--playing Zarth Arn with all of the glee of Raúl Rafael Juliá’s
Bison. A gauntleted hand resting on the spikiest steel throne ever
designed--a throne of swords would be far more comfortable!-- he gazed
through his injudiciously enormous cathedral window at his
varicolored expanse of space. He addressed his company with a
well-rehearsed cape-swirling pivot and an apropos villainous chortle.
It
wasn’t difficult for Wandblume to return the laughter with an extra
raucous dose of hilarity. Van Loan looked really silly in all of that
shiny red and black leather : Disco Bondage Dracula was about to,
‘[make] a man with blond hair and a tan....”
His laughter picked
up a minute silly infection of his partner’s before regaining its
gonzo-imperiousness as he strode down the raised platform towards the
arms akimbo Shego.
“Ah, your mission was successful, Lack...”
With
a speed that belied her usual indolence, Wandblume yanked the cloak ;
Van Loan sprawled indecorously onto his leather-clad backside.
“...Hey!” he managed, almost finishing the intended word.
She
considered her splayed beau with a look best summarized as
‘affectionately piqued’. The Shegoth squad, arrayed adroitly behind
their kingpin, sniggered and rolled their heavily made up eyes at the
dynamic melodramatics of the VanBlume relationship.
“What was that? You want to sleep on that couch?” She lazily swept an emerald fingernail in the direction of Charybdis.
A
snippet of grin broke though Van Loan’s comically indignant expression ;
quickly eroded the rest of it away with the much more Dr. D mien of a
loopy banana grin.
“Missed you my beautiful, mercurial Goddess!”
Shego moued. “The cold, spine killing caress of Charybdis!” It really was that uncomfortable.
He
ticked off items on his blueberry fingers : “Beautiful...” his sinister
pinky waggled ; “...Labile...” the neighbouring ring finger wiggled ;
“goddess...” the middle digit squirmed. “Two to go!" He inhaled
dramatically, and shot his index finger skywards. “Enticing, and...” Up
when the thumb in the age-old gesture of aplomb . “...hot as Hell!”
“You said sexy twice.”
“There are notable qualitative differences between my right hand and my right hand!”
It
took a few seconds for Wandblume’s brain to decode her boyfriend’s
double-squared entendre : “You really can make anything sound
empirical!”
“Super power!” Now come here and let me display my other powers!”
“Ewwww,
go get a satellite!” Pitchy bolted, a lingering contrail of girlish
squeal fading behind her fleeing, diminutive lacy figure.
***
“The
throne is dead : long live the new thrones!” Van Loan brandished the
ceremonial over-sized spanner over his head as the Shegoth solemnly
sashayed the old throne towards the airlock. Two egg chairs, firmly
bolted to the deck, now occupied the stagy soapbox space. Van Loan
flourished the gleaming instrument scepter-like in the direction of
wandblume : “Do you approve of your perch, my Empress?”
“Indeed! “ She spun the chair in a lazy full rotation.
***
Outside,
in the gaudy desolation of trans-Neptunian cosmos, a castoff chair of
totalitarian and trenchant attitude strayed steadily through space.