Be My Baby is a song written by Jeff Barry, Ellie Greenwich, and Phil Spector. It was first recorded and released by American girl group The Ronettes as a single in August 1963 and later placed on their 1964 debut LP Presenting the Fabulous Ronettes featuring Veronica. Spector produced their elaborately layered recording in what is now largely considered the ultimate embodiment of his Wall of Sound production formula.
It is considered one of the best songs of the 1960s by Pitchfork Media, NME and Time. In 2004, the song was ranked 22 by Rolling Stone in its list of The 500 Greatest Songs of All Time and described as a “Rosetta stone for studio pioneers such as the Beatles and Brian Wilson”, a notion supported by Allmusic who writes, “No less an authority than Brian Wilson has declared ‘Be My Baby’ the greatest pop record ever made—no arguments here.” In 1999, it was inducted in the Grammy Hall of Fame, and in 2006, the Library of Congress honored the Ronettes’ version by adding it to the United States National Recording Registry.
Murder on Mars. There are restrictions, both magical and non-magical, that are applicable to this planet Mars of the god Mars which are not applicable to anywhere else in Creation. That’s why it’s often said by the homicidally-inclined, “If you can commit murder on Mars and get away with it, you can commit murder anywhere in Creation and are very likely to get away with it also.”
Some of these limitations have always been there. Some are latecomers. Not being able to possess someone is just one of them. Another one is that you can’t gate, teleport, or anything else of that “extraordinary” ilk, to and from the planet. You must use “ordinary” means to travel to and from Mars—i.e., for example, you need a spaceship.
Sarah Lane, the killer of the senator’s daughter, will not have easy egress from the planet. The police know she’s still on the planet. They just don’t know her exact location, but the net is slowly and inexorably closing in on her. She’s yet to be caught, though. Such a clever girl, she be.
Week three of Mondo’s stay on Mars.
As Frau Schmidt continues to pervert Mondo. Mondo continues to pervert Frau Schmidt. As such. In the latter case, Mondo is back to sporting a dowdy grune-sternka and equally severe elster-miles. In the fore case, Mondo is back to wearing her Parts in place of her thong, implying that Frau Schmidt has broken her which in fact Frau Schmidt unwisely has. But. Her hair is still yellow-blonde and her makeup is still bolshoi-bare. And, she’s back to wearing prudz in place of her foreskinz.
Hard, pretty face. Ravishing beauty. Beauty that ravishes, literally and figuratively. Beauty that will stop traffic dead in its tracks, if you’re into beauty of the explicitly cruel, uber dominatrix, “Worship Me, Now!!!” flavor, that is. A grune, dead-strait hair, yanked back into a sternka—i.e., grune-sternka. Long, flaxen hair—bleached to within an inch of its life and board straight. Lush, silky tresses bleached a bright, fake-looking, yellow-blonde color, the color of raw wheat. Yellow locks draping shoulders and breasts, when they are let down. A large rack kept at attention by a substantial, yet revealing, brassiere—i.e., big, “perky” bosom. Thin lips. Sharp features. Bolshoi-bare makeup befitting her harsh, haughty looks and hard, pretty face—i.e., bolshoi-bare and hard-faced. Cold, haughty, and aloof—seemingly unattainable—yet, you must be used by her at any cost, even at risk of your very soul. Cold, blue eyes. An Aryan ice princess gone decidedly Danish. A large, ugly, vulgar mouth that espouses loathing and disdain even when that’s not the wearer’s explicit intent. A mouth that would put a Largemouth Bass’ or Julia Roberts’ to shame. A “Bass eating bait” mouth which always personifies the oral perversion.
VDR (1/2) or WDR, notwithstanding. The Blonde—i.e., der Blonde, in German. But. Where or where is her Pyewacket?
That’s the sticky wicket for the butch Frau Schmidt, isn’t it? Frau Schmidt craves choice number one the most: the more girlie version of Mondo. The version who wears her hair down and doesn’t wear glasses. But. As a close second. Frau Schmidt also craves choice number two: this sexually-repressed shrew with her hair up, wearing readers with an eyeglass chain. There’s a version Frau Schmidt has yet to see: Mondo on one of her benders as the filthy, parasite infested, junkie whore—i.e., the drunk, high, and deranged “crazy” chick who hobnobs with bagladies and skidrow bums. Actually, there’s a fourth version of the girl, but it’s not been seen of late. It’s her as the cold, calculating killing machine for whom violence is the only form of sex she truly enjoys, torture is glee, and homicide is orgasm. That version of choice is focused, sober, and openly insane—an insanity that you can see plainly in her intense, tortured blue eyes—the monster you pray never comes knocking at your front door—i.e., sex is violence.
Mondo Kane, version four. No junkie whore, whatsoever—sober or otherwise. A two-legged flaxen-haired fantasy in her absolute physical prime. Physical perfection. Flawless uncompromising Nordic beauty, circa Hollywood of the 1950’s. Carnage knows no gender. She’s as deadly as she’s covetous to behold. Thus. In this guise, the beautiful blue-eyed blonde is a dispassionate killer—the flipside of being a Sandman.
Mondo is off-shift, waiting alone at their usual table at Starbucks. Frau Schmidt is late. She’s back at precinct house filling out the last of the forms in triplicate for a domestic dispute that ended in murder.
Meanwhile. In the alley behind the coffee shop, they appear seemingly out of nowhere thanks to their active camouflage. They’re on break and stopping in Starbucks for coffee.
Officer Samantha Philips (blonde) and Officer Karen Amos (brunette) are dressed like movie Sandmen. Mondo is a real Sandman, and she dresses in a woman’s business suit and stilettos.
In spite of what Officer Philips and Officer Amos are wearing looks like. The blonde and the brunette are not wearing Sandman costumes from Logan’s Run [either the movie or the subsequent, short-lived TV series]. Nor are they Fallen LRRPs (pronounced “Lurps”)—i.e., Fallen long-range reconnaissance patrols. Both women are human. Colloquially, police officers of their ilk are known as Peacekeepers. Formally, they are members of Martian Civilian Police Special Forces (MCPSF).
Two-tone antiballistic ware. Basic, not drab. The essence of classic simplicity and good taste—i.e., classy, tasteful, and understated. Banded undershirt—i.e., tunic-length (comes down close to the thigh), black and long-sleeved with a banded collar—the bottom of the shirt has three rows of rolled fabric about 1-inch thick that goes around the waist and is about 3-inches apart, the essential accent. One-piece banded tunic—accented with a 4-inch wide light grey stripe across the chest which matches the color of the undershirt’s banded collar. Black tights. Black neoprene booties. A wide elaborate black belt with a black chrome buckle. Holsters, both of them are black swisscheesed plasticine—one is for a pistol, the other is for a tricorder. DS (deep sleep) gun [aka flame gun, blaster]—black. Tricorder—black, with non-reflective brushed aluminum accents and control surfaces.
On Mars, just like in the Jewish Empire. Gun control is taken to the deadly, nth degree. Have a gun unlawfully, and the authorities have the legal right to kill you on sight. Have a gun lawfully and use it in an unlawful or irresponsible manner, and the authorities have the legal right to kill you on sight. For that reason, gun violence on Mars is a very rare occurrence. And. The civilian population poses no credible threat to either the civilian or the military police, police who are well-armed and well-equipped. With the MCPSF being fragrantly paramilitary.
None of this matters. Because. Neither officer makes it out of the alley alive. Simone Thérèse Fernande Simon appears in their midst as if out of nowhere and slaughters them both. Simone is using a cloaking device to evade detection. She could see the two MCPSF officers when they were cloaked. They, on the other hand, could not see her when she was cloaked.
Both police officers were killed by a lethal cut that extends their mouths through their spines. Post mortem, she butches both LOE’s (law enforcement officers) as is the MO of her Angelic namesake Simon Angel. Slaughtering them as proficiently as she dispatched the senator’s daughter and her partner Molly White.
As a post script, the brunette is beheaded, leaving the lower jaw attached to the neck—the head is to be left at the crime scene, the rest is to be carried off as a trophy. Simone’s message to law enforcement is unmistakable: you’ve been hunting me, now I’m the one who’s hunting you.
Simone reactivates her cloaking device and leaves. She and her gruesome trophy are rendered invisible to “ordinary” means. What she wisely chooses to do during this entire homicidal incident is to ignore the baglady rummaging through a nearby dumpster for a meal.
On the baglady’s dirty tee-shirt is written: “I’m free … let’s have sex”. Additionally, she’s wearing a dead, diseased Kaye and a dirty perl necklace. For a purse, she carries an archaic hand bag—large, grotesque, ragged, and filthy.
Specifically. Dirty perls. A filthy Kaye—dead and diseased—that’s seen better days—ripped seams, a tattered skirt with a ragged hem, and a well-worn coat with frayed cuffs.
Filthy and parasite-infested. Drunken and depraved. A junkie. Wanton. She appears to be human, but it’s an elaborate ruse. This indigent is not even remotely human. And. She is no one to be trifled with. This wretch was once a Martian goddess and formerly was the BFF of god Mars’ sister.
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 “intelligible” 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. Seemingly, all that matters to her is getting that next fix, that next bottle of booze, and procuring that next used as the acolyte of her precious self—but, that’s not all that does matter to her.
An incurable unrepentant drug addict and alcoholic, with an insatiable “need” that’s temporarily quenched by the liquid damnation which comes out of a needle or a bottle. Addiction is a way of life, for her.
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.
Teeth so filthy, they look rotten.
A long, facile tongue will morph into a long, retractile proboscis, akin to a Klapp’s, when it [the tongue] needs to feed. Fetid, wormy breath.
Her geriatric hair is liberally streaked with grey and a “dirty” white bordering on grey. Her geriatric bush is the same mosaic of grey and dirty white. That is. Matching drapes and rug.
Underneath her T-shirt. Two large, floppy pendulous breasts with hideous stretch marks and stringbean nipples. Tits that hang down to her waist.
A vile, reeking crotch. Possessed of male and female genitalia. The she-male’s nether regions have a strong, gamey odor—portending a sour degusting taste.
Hands that are horribly thin, the fingers are little more than claws—i.e., clawed hands. Long, dirty, ragged fingernails and toenails.
A tortured face partially obscured by long geriatric hair which drapes her shoulders and upper chest. Once she was a renowned beauty, worshipped by millions of humans and indigenous [i.e., non-human] Martians, and her acolytes were legion. A doppelganger for 1960’s sexpot, actress, thirty-something Nancy Kovak. Back then, this Martian goddess only had female genital.
These days, all but a scarce few of those willing and willful worshippers of hers have long gone. Long ignored and largely forgotten, she’s seen as a failed deity, and is a discredited senior official in the LC. Reduced to merely being an enchantress and a practicing witch. Now, she only has coerced victims as her acolytes, typically her fellow drunks and junkies. Now, she’s bereft of all vestige of physical attractiveness. As if disfigured by insanity and unchecked depravity, her face is a hideous parody of a human female’s.
A fair complexion. Filth-engrained skin. Patches of her body are so dirty, they look black.
When she’s about to feed, her eyes will fluoresce, her unkempt head of hair falls out, and venomous snakes will erupt from the scalp of her boney skull. It’s a fluorescent gaze that can be hypnotic and subjugating, mesmerizing and beguiling. Afterwards, when she’s had her fill, those snakes will be reassimilated by her scalp and her geriatric hair will grow back—grey liberally streaked with dirty white, to be again just like her smelly, greasy bush.
These days, the goddess calls herself Mrs. Jenifer Josephine Lee Carson. And, when she’s not employing a ruse, she refers to herself in the third person. Mrs. Carson could see the two officers when they were cloaked. She can also see Simone when Simone is cloaked.