MAN TO MAN PULP-APR 1960-JUNE WILKINSON-WAR-CRIME-EXPLOITATION-SKID ROW FR … Violent fight in cockpit of airplane – cover art. Exploitation magazine, pulp violence. Horse racing, “How Women Love on Skid Row”, war, Good Girl Art, June Wilkinson cheesecake. This is a Fair condition reading copy and is complete & functional. Missing back cover.
There are two people speaking. Both female. Their voices are masked. The speakers are indiscernible in their concealment of blurriness—i.e., they are blurry, from head to toe. They are obviously not denizens of this subterranean abode. They are “visitors” merely passing through.
“Drunken, junkie, whore. An interesting hobby she has picked for herself.”
“Interesting and quite entertaining, I must say.”
“If this [Parasite] creature weren’t mindless it might be frustrated by its inability to break her.”
“Then again, it might be just as entertained as it is now by its enslavement and degradation of her.”
“I imagine that its pleasure is derived from the enslavement of its mate. Breaking the girl is just a side effect to be enjoyed by it if it happens to happen.”
“Are we still on schedule?”
“A little ahead of schedule, even with this two-day detour taken by the girl.”
“Still no evidence as to the identity of the [pro-democracy] movement in our own ranks.”
“My female intuition tells me that this girl will succeed where her predecessor failed, and we will soon know who these misguided degenerate race traitors are in our midst.”
“A closed caste-based society is the natural order of things. It’s God’s way.”
“And yet there are those of us who act human and pursue something as unnatural and against God’s way as democracy.”
Miss Kane regains consciousness in the coffin.
There is no Frankenstein Monster post-op lobotomy scar circumferencing her skull. Mrs. Peel stopped lobotomizing the girl when the scar refused to manifest itself.
Her grossly-enlarged lizard brain and pineal gland are still giving her a head-splitting migraine, resulting from them displacing her frontal lobe. But. That no longer renders her a complete lunatic [i.e., stark, raving mad] and an insatiable whore. She still derives immense pleasure from the pain, nonetheless.
Tired of round perky breasts, the bullet bra [originally called the Chansonette bra] is back in play for her.
The bullet bra, that naughty underwire staple of haughty types—e.g., dominatrix and female librarian alike. An expression of sexual exploitation at its very finest. When tight sweaters came into style in the mid-1950’s, there was a short-lived craze for what is known as a “sweater girl” bra. This bra shaped a woman’s breasts into stiff, pointed cones. The look was popularized by film star Jane Russell, as well as by several other busty 1950’s screen stars.
Marilyn Monroe’s hourglass figure is epic, but what always holds a very special kind of fascination for her legion of admirers is something on her bod that isn’t so much curvy, but more so … pointy. That would be her breasts, which always seem to be standing at attention, facing directly ahead, ready to poke your eyes out without a moment’s notice.
Monroe’s very specific shape for her naughty bits isn’t due to some peculiar anatomy, but a bullet bra—a conical-shaped undergarment that helps women achieve that spectacularly triangular look.
Underneath the dead diseased Kaye, in place of the filthy hand-bra and Parts, she’s wearing her own sexy undergarments, the usual pair—i.e., a fancy lace torpedo bra and plain flesh-colored bikini-cut panties. She’s wearing her own perls as well. The hygiene mode for the bra, panties, and perls is off—i.e., they are filthy and infested.
When the bra is clean, it is crisp and white, and when it’s dirty like now it’s not crisp and it’s dingy grey.
Unlike the Maitresse Bullet Bra favored by Marilyn Monroe. The pointy Victoria’s Secret brassiere contraption that she’s wearing is of the style that does create cleavage, and a lot of it.
Akin to the Maitresse Bullet Bra favored by Marilyn Monroe. The pointy Victoria’s Secret brassiere contraption that she’s wearing also has a non-stretchy band and uses underwire stays, and is in point of fact [excuse the pun] extensively underwired. It’s as much an undergarment as it is an elaborate restraint [device] befitting a dominatrix of her ilk—i.e., the bra is contemporary couture, teetering on the precipice of post-modern expressionism, and yet 1950’s-retro at the very same time. A cross between a modern Victoria’s Secret “Perfect Coverage Bra” and a classic 1950’s “sweater girl” bra.
In contrast. Her Rubbermaid lingerie bikini panty is just that. An everyday panty. Nothing fancy or elaborate. Breathable latex. It’s skimpy. But. It’s not an exercise in minimalism that’s figuratively and literally cheeky—i.e., it’s not butt floss or something else of that behind-baring ilk. Providing the wearer with more than enough coverage to meet the minimum requirements for a pair of panties and easily sidestepping the indecency of e.g., a thong or a G-string. Picot trim. Bikini bottom—therefore, not mid-rise [i.e., hipster] panties. Moderate back coverage. A tastefully-understated Borg rune print.
Of course. Being modern underwear. In hygiene mode, the satin bra and rubber panties are self-cleaning. Keeping their wearer fresh and clean.
Her holster, phone, and purse are clipped to the waistband of her tattered skirt.
She sits up in the coffin. Mrs. Peel slithers over and spits its toxic, enslaving mix into the girl’s face. Miss Kane orgasms and licks the Parasite’s narcotic spittle off of her dirty face, smiling broadly, flashing her filthy teeth. She’s still sentient. Neither Leech nor Lowest. Deranged and depraved. Insane and randy. Miss Kane, in her new baglady mode, is baser than she has ever been before. Her Id reigns supreme. This is her new White.
The Parasite assumes human form.
“In the last day we have use of you.”
The girl says nothing in reply to Mrs. Peel’s announcement. She gets out of the coffin and French kisses Mrs. Peel. When they have finished their lingual frolic, Miss Kane falls in step behind Mrs. Peel. They ascend the rotting wooden stairs and emerge into the lobby. None of the hotel’s “guests” gives the two bagladies any special attention.
Outside, by the flophouse’s front entrance. Mrs. Peel’s battered shopping cart is still parked, unmolested. Miss Kane takes charge of the shopping cart, pushing it as she follows in behind Mrs. Peel. The two wretched pathetic-looking creatures disappear into a trash-choked alley.
No longer rendered mindless, in full possession of her faculties, Miss Kane can enjoy her degradation to the fullest. She can be as depraved, pathetic, and degenerate as her black heart desires, and this wretched lifestyle affords.
It’s while she’s in this ruined state that she dwells upon the significance of what she’s in the midst of. “Parasite” is not the name of Mrs. Peel’s species, it’s a designation. Peel’s nameless species is caught up in one of the Machiavellian marvels of Creation. The Parasites have been coopted by Otterbox, plain and simple. “Otterbox” is also a designation, and not the name of, a species.
“You sleep. They live.”
They are alone in an abandoned building. Mrs. Peel turns around to face Miss Kane in reaction to her revelation.
“You [depraved junkie whore] appreciate our predicament, yes?”
“Yes, I do.”
“We are Their unwilling coconspirators.”
“They’re using you as a means to an end. And, to avoid discovery, when you’ve outlived your usefulness they will surely destroy you and all of your kind, which will be a waste of a good addiction.”
“We are meant to be mindless things, ensnaring and enslaving other. We are supposed to be like Hags, but without their sentient ambitions. It pains us to be used as we are by Them.”
“What’s in it for me? I’m neither champion nor hero. I’m evil. A villain. The worst type of scourge.” Miss Kane laughs manically. “And. I am crazy, too. Mad as a hatter.”
“Free us from their boorish, inadequate deviancy. And we will show you how to plow the depths of your madness in ways undreamt of by even as wretched and depraved a creature as you.”
“A sample of what Mrs. Peel offer this drunken, junkie whore that is me.”
“Mrs. Peel makes it so.”
“And once I sample being kraved by you, I will never crave for anything else but the kraving you offer because all else addiction will pale in comparison to anything I have had or could possibly have?”
The monster smiles.
“Correct. And once you go kraved [by us], and thus compromised beyond compare, you will crave for no other addiction but us. Leverage we will use to coerce you into doing our bidding.”
“Enough talk. Force me [your better] on bended knee, mindless creature.”
Its eyes glow, but this time they fluoresce blue instead of green. From its mouth come a series of clicking sounds, but the clicking is unlike anything it has uttered before. Its clothes shred as it resumes its native form. The girl drops to the floor, trashing about as if she is in the clutches of a grand mal seizure. She’s foaming at the mouth. Ranting and raving. Experiencing one orgasm after another. Screaming for more of this worst. It is a narcotic high beyond any she has ever experienced.
The girl’s perception of time compresses. Hours seem like minutes. Six hours elapse.
The creature’s eyes cease to glow. It returns to human form. No more clicking sounds from its mouth. Mrs. Peel dresses itself in another set of rags taken from the jumble in their shopping cart.
The girl stands up. She is again wearing the hand-bra, Parts, and perls that Mrs. Peel got from Mrs. Carson. Miss Kane’s holster, phone, and purse are gone. No longer pretty. Her ravaged face is just hard.
When she is no longer a baglady, and is back to being clean and pristine, having returned to her other life. Her face will again have a hard, pretty face.
Compromised. She craves to do the bidding of Mrs. Peel.