Dr. Most walks up to the observation window and points at the door; then she rests her hands on her hips, fingers drumming, and impatiently and loudly taps the keen toe of her left pump against the tiled floor. Connie buzzes the bossy lascivious psychiatrist out. This statuesque Amazon, who spends more time experimenting on her patients than treating ‘em, has the expected milk-white flesh, stern face, and wavy black hair which looks dyed but isn’t. Needless to say, hers is that big hair with the Betty-Cut that Brunettes like so much.
Decades ago, Dr. Most starred in “Plan Nine from Outer Space” that 1950s Ed Woods classic; she was billed simply as “the zombie chick”. Horror movie buffs to this day remember her as the zombie chick in that god-awful movie. A piece of low-budget schlock, it earned the dubious distinction upon its release of being widely heralded as the worst movie ever made. An honor it still holds to this day.
Back then, she billed herself as “Vampira, the B-movie ghoul girl and supersex siren of the post-war [WWII] era”. As you can ascertain from that primo example of bombastic self-promotion, modesty has never been one of Dr. Most’s strong suits. Woods’ cheesy horror flick squashed her fledgling show biz career. Once more she turned to pursuing more serious endeavors and became Dr. Mildred Most again, a something infinitely more awful than a bad B-movie.
She looks forty-ish, but with Infernal you can’t tell by looks alone. One thing’s for sure: being Zealot, Dr. Most fervently believes that, although humans do have their many uses, they’re best as fluffy (for fucking and food). For obvious reasons, most humans consider it a decidedly vulgar colloquialism. Such a cute little word, to mean so deadly much.
Even by Lost standards, the old blood bag is one nasty piece-of-work, a real twisted sally. But, Jesus H. Christ, she sure knows her stuff! She’s as good as they come. Many say she’s the best. I’ve been in a lot of body shops in my time, but even the black market ones would be hard pressed to rival the setup she’s got down here. She’s got a lucrative trade in conventional conversions. But she keeps pouring all of her profits into these pointless experiments of hers. Girl, what a waste. But, then again, that’s like the pot calling the kettle, black.
Elaine was right. Shit, I hate that. Don’t know why I ever bother to argue with her. Yea. Right. Now who’s kidding whom? It’s just me being my usual pigheaded self. I’m gonna have to make it up to Elaine for the things I said to her. She was only looking out for my best interests. Like she said, “Talent like yours shouldn’t be wasted.”
And that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m wasting my talent, just like this Most bitch is doing with hers.
“I need some help with Mrs. Morris. Ha. Ha. Ha.”
Dr. Most’s voice is throaty and wanting. Her laugh is unpleasant and croaking. And, Smith’s spidey sense is tingling. Three obvious red flags which Connie, inexplicably, chooses to ignore.
Connie wastes no time in getting over to the open door. As she steps by Dr. Most, the good doctor gives Connie an ice pick lobotomy, jabbing the girl in the neck with a hypo filled with a Thorazine/Lithium/Prozac cocktail. The mix of mind-numbing drugs reduces Smith to a catatonic before she hits the floor. Her mind is locked into an induced redundant, an alpha-wave feedback loop. Connie’s eyes are rolled back up into her head, showing only whites. Her tongue is lolled out of her mouth. The girl’s world is about to change forever. Dr. Most has decided to Embrace her on a whim. Infernal can be like that.
“Now that I’ve got your undivided attention, thanks to that hypodermic bombast, here’s the skinny. You’re gonna become topsy-turvy. And, remember, Nurse Smith, you’ve never had any qualms whatsoever about helping me with my experiments, before. Now, time for the kiss that proceeds the endless night. You should feel honored.”
Dr. Most smacks the ruby-reds of her large, cruel mouth. Then, she unsheathes her fangs and sinks them into Connie’s neck. Feeding from the jugular, she proceeds to drain the girl. But, even for an Ancient such as her, it’s a very tricky procedure, fraught with many difficulties. If she feeds too deep, the Kiss will kill. If she feeds too shallow, the Whispers will kill. And, as is always the case in such matters, you wouldn’t want to live on the razor-thin difference. To make matters worse, Dr. Most is flying solo for the first time in over two thousand years. Both of the nurses who’ve been assisting her of late, are otherwise engaged at the moment. One is being Kissed by Dr. Most. The other is being “entertained” by a couple of zombies.
Excellent. The Kiss has taken. Another one of those rare bull’s-eyes. Must savor the moment. If my feeling about her is correct, there should be more than just a sexual windfall reaped from Embracing her.
“Every degradation, every debauchery, every humiliation known, even rape, you will suffer. All of it by my design, by my invention. And you will find my imagination is quite boundless, virgin, where my amusement is concerned. Enough talk about what you must endure. That’s of no concern to me. After all, you’re not my lovin’ daughter, yet. You’re not even my git.” Dr. Most pauses dramatically. “It’s time I got some, and made you no longer virginal. For a looker like you, ‘virgin’ is such a dirty little word. And who better to cleanse you of that unworthy moniker than I, your slip.”
Dr. Most rips open the uniform blouse of the all legs-n-tits, sending buttons flying every which way. Then Dr. Most lovingly licks the salt off of the twenty-something’s chest, having waited for such a long time to do so. She’s mentally undressed Smith, thousands upon thousands of times before, always portraying herself as the sexual juggernaut that uses brute force and ignorance upon the delectable twen. Reality proves far more fulfilling than fantasy, though. It’s been an eternity since she had such a fetching virgin to sully.
Mildred French kisses the twen, feels her up, and then devours her. The sodomy is indulged in a slow, deliberate, protracted fashion, that’s designed specifically to brutally rob Smith of her precious virginity. Many hours pass before Dr. Most ceases said debauchery and finishes the business at hand.
“Now, listen unworthy half-ling, my soon-to-be-git, to these whispered faerie tales. And, these Whispers, if I must immodestly say so myself, and I do, will be out of this world.”
As per ROE, Most uses a straight razor to slice her forearm open lengthwise, purposefully nicking the main artery buried deep within. She presses the bright-red geyser up to the girl’s lips.
But, once a mortal has been prepped by being Kissed, faerie blood becomes so much more than just blood; it becomes ichoric, the so-called, nectar of the gods; in other words, it’s the liquid stuff that damnations are made of.
In modern parlance, post Kiss, it becomes, in effect, a morphogenic concoction, teeming with inhuman DNA, gene splice, and the Vampyric B retro-virus; rewriting the mortal’s DNA, using inhuman DNA as the template, and then subsequently supplementing the human’s genes using inhuman genes as the splice-stock.
Needless to say, faerie are assimilative by nature, inclination, as well as design, just like their misbegotten The Borg.
“Biologically speaking, I’m taking you beyond the realm of mortal life into that Faustian never-never land of our immortality, our un-death. And, as you well know, it’s only through blood, that we truly seal-the-deal.”
Smith death-reflexively drinks Dr. Most’s So-Sweet. And, so, her re-creation begins. Already the Vampyric asserts itself as Connie’s face assumes its new default: aloof, disdainful, and schoolmarmish; that gaunt look; that faint, delicately haggard hollowness below the cheekbones that the fashion-conscious mortal girls all try for.
“If there is ever another war in Europe, it’ll come out of some damned silly ass thing in the Balkans. And most likely, one of those quad-fangs [Aryans] will be the culprit.”
Otto von Bismarck