Gollem revisited—as evidenced by her “extra” appendages, somewhere along the way, she assimilated a Dagon. Physically, Dagon are akin to a multi-pedal version of The Hidden—octopus tentacles from the waist down. Tentacles, covered in suckers, which end in rattlers akin to a rattlesnake’s. Eight such tentacles wrap her midriff when not in use. Four sprout from the leftside of her torso and four sprout from the rightside of her torso.
Sentient. Not a creature of pure instinct. Deranged. Demented. Completely insane. Clicks and hisses are the only sounds that normally come out of her mouth. Normally, she uses speech as a lure for prey. During a full moon, she will foam at the mouth, and rant and rave incoherently.
No personal hygiene whatsoever. All that matters to her is getting that next fix and procuring that next used in worship of her Precious.
An incurable unrepentant drug addict, with an insatiable “need” that’s temporarily quenched by the liquid damnation which comes out of a needle. Addiction is a way of life, for her; a life-destroying obsession that started off innocently enough as a recreational pastime she indulged from time to time.
Skinny. But not skinny to the point of looking emaciated. Not a walking bag of loose wrinkled skin and bones. Ravenous. Varicose-veined legs. Age wise: looks to be a septuagenarian.
Her tongue will morph into a long, retractile proboscis, akin to a Klapp’s, when it [the tongue] needs to feed. Fetid, wormy breath.
Floppy pendulous breasts with hideous stretch marks and stringbean nipples. Tits that will hang down to her waist when they’re not clutched and held up by her hand-bra.
A vile, reeking crotch. Her nether regions—crotch and Doll Parts—have a strong, gamey odor and sour degusting taste.
Hands that are horribly thin, the fingers are little more than claws—i.e., clawed hands. Her long, dirty, ragged fingernails stick thorough the fingertips of her prudz.
Bereft of all vestige of mainstream physical attractiveness. Disfigured by insanity, her face is a hideous parody of what it looked like when she was an ordinary human female. Back then, before she became Gollem, she had been a very successful and very attractive Sears Roebuck catalogue model; staying in modeling on a semiretired basis after she got married.
Mondo bids the contessa and Professor Song adieu as she exits the contessa’s condo. The hallway is empty, except for a maid making morning rounds.
No sternka. Sternns, those disfiguring coke bottle eyeglasses, hang around her neck from her DLC. Bolshoi makeup. But, her current guise is not quite ACM.
She’s sporting a full bang wave, a ruskie, in place of an Ann Coulter—not a curly perm, a body wave perm with full bangs, follicular sauerkraut with just the barest hint of the deranged and demented. As such, China Doll bangs, a full uneven cut [i.e., somewhat thatched], and long shoulder-draping tresses with just the barest hint of a wave. Think: Stevie Nicks in her absolute physical prime as the lead singer with Fleetwood Mac.
This guise is Bolshoi, the same one that’s been popular with a certain segment of Russian women for decades. It was Stalin’s favorite look for a woman. All of his wives and mistresses sported it—he was married seven times and had thirteen mistresses during the course of his lifetime.
The rest of her getup is her usual. Perls. Prudz. Black push-up conical bra, Koo, flesh-colored thong, and Careys. Phone, purse, and universal clipped to the waistband of her skirt underneath her jacket. Koo Stark, that form-fitting business suit; mid-thigh length pencil skirt, a miniskirt, and its suit coat has a plunging neckline when buttoned—derogatorily known as a female stripper’s business suit.
Severe and stiff-backed. Stern. Strident. Aloof, haughty, and seemingly unattainable—i.e., “Kneel down … and … Worship me, now!!!” An uber dominatrix, with an insatiable “need” that’s temporarily quenched by the liquid damnation which comes out of a needle. Time and time again, she proven that she’s a selectable drug addict. Therefore, she’s able to turn her addictive behavior on and off as need be. Addiction is a hobby, for her; not a self-destructive obsession.
Borg-esque creepiness, i.e., knobb and klaw when idle. Sober, junkie whore. In other words, the GOP’s perennial stalking horse and hate-monger meets the 1950’s “Plan Nine from Outer Space” Vampira, with a liberal dose of wanton librarian thrown in for good measure.
The deranged, demented, degenerate killer—the darkest side of the moon called Sandman—is still gone. Nor is she back to being the cool, calculating, dispassionate killer, either. She’s clearly something in-between, but, this time, it’s cut-n-dry to define. She’s the murderous niche bureaucrat. An ace-ducey private secretary and first-class personal assistant, who can be called upon to assume the role Sandman or assassin in a pinch. In other words, in modern parlance, an elite’s Girl Friday with a Russian-Borg twist, whether the Girl’s employer, the lady of means in question, is supernatural or mundane.
She walks by a wall mirror and is stopped dead in her tracks by her reflection. Mondo studies herself and changes her mind about the ruskie. The Russian-Borg twist becomes just a Borg twist as her hair goes from a full body wave with bangs [i.e., a ruskie] to straight hair no bangs [i.e., an Ann Coulter], and then yanks itself back up into a sternka. She slips on her sternns: AVM gives way to AWM [i.e., the WDR-02 variant of ACM].
Unbecoming hairdo. Disfiguring thick-lensed glasses. And, she’s still making wood for the girl watchers with that frumpy look of hers. So, for added effect, she goes to her goto. Her Tuppence, so to speak—as in, Prudence “Tuppence” Beresford, Agatha Christie’s most famous fictional detective. Mondo’s sternka lets down into an Ann Coulter; she removes her sternns and purses them.
Still. Her guise is not quite ACM. Because, with this latest iteration of The Look: knobb, klaw when idle, sober junkie whore. Tuppence is whimsy, couture, and escapism juxtaposing depravity, dark half-robot Borg, and a bohemian edginess just below the surface. Mondo admires herself in the mirror and smiles. She thinks: So, for now, Tuppence it is.
“Time to kick ass and chew bubblegum. Ooops. I’m all out of bubblegum.”
In a Machiavellian world of political intrigue, the honesty and directness of this homicidal Girl Friday is a breath of fresh of air; beguiling yet scary at times. As beguiling of her current look. As scary as the dark Borg-esque of said look.
A long time ago, this callus insensitive girl was a legbreaker for local mobster Fats Waller. She was in the hurt business, and she was just a teenage mortal back then. As of late, as Coco’s Girl Friday, she’s been in the secretarial business. For the time being, she’s also back to doing what she does best. Cool, clinical, and vicious, murderous by trade, with a blank check from the powers-that-be to do whatever she deems necessary.
“Maybe it’s time for us again, mistress,” her readers [telepathically] whisper to her.
The readers she normally keeps pursed, these days. It’s been a coon’s age since she wore them.
The rimless reading eyeglasses have wire frames that hook behind the ears. Fashionable ultra-thin polycarbonate lenses. These schoolmarmish readers [Kazuo Kawasaki 704 eyeglasses, to be precise] are authentic 1950s era spectacles, the style favored by Sarah Palin, and they’re legit librarian eyewear to boot.
Unlike factory palins, these rimless reading eyeglasses are hand built, based upon Kum instead of Borg technology; as such the lenses only do clear [no opaque or provocative rose tint]. Too bad, because rose colored glasses with her blue eyes is such a yummy combination.
Like her sternns, her palins are spinster spectacles which are paradoxically flattering and unflattering: They say, “Sexually repressed, stay back” and “Come hither, fast”! Some call them “old maids”. Most others, including librarians, simply call them readers.
She uses sternns and palins, in that order of preference, strictly for disfigurement. Of course, when she’s bereft of their disfigurement, she craves their disfigurement. Hence the constant, unending flip flop between wearing eyeglasses and not wearing eyeglasses.
In other words. Whether her hair is up or down. Whenever she’s not sporting sternns or readers. She as a frumpy, loathsome, fascist prude with glasses, is always just around the corner.
Robotic: regardless of “the look”, there is always something vaguely robotic about her walk, speech, and mannerisms that easily pass for dominatrix and it can just as easily be taken for Borg. Very subtle, but it is there. In mainstream parlance it’s called: being very proper. In other words: stiff-backed.
Regardless of the cultural context. Stiff-backed for a woman [whether she is beautiful or ugly, attractive or unattractive] always translates as the aforementioned haughty, aloof, and seemingly unattainable. In a word: severe.
Severity as it applies to a woman [whether she is beautiful or ugly, attractive or unattractive] further translates as strident. Strident, nevertheless, sexy, and a compulsion [i.e., a feeling of “I MUST have her!”]. Think: the fictional Borg drone Seven-of-Nine from Star Trek Voyager, who the Borg Queen coveted so much to the point of lesbian obsession.
Last, but not least, she slips on her hand-built palins. As usual, the addition of eyeglasses bestows a look that is both a turn on and a turn off. And. Just like that. Tuppence has given way to SCP. Her version of The Sarah Palin.
Spinster hot and spinster nuts. Double shrew. Still … A walking orgasm, nonetheless. She’s easily recognizable as a librarian [of Borg derivation].
For Mondo, the palins represent something else. That something else is change. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
And yet. She purses the palins and lets her hair down, without a second thought. SCP gives way to SAP. SAP is the proper couture nomenclature for her Tuppence. Just like SCP is the proper couture nomenclature for her Sarah Palin. There are other colloquial names for SCP and SAP, but these are their proper ones.
Sporting SAP, she most definitely is a walking orgasm.