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.
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.