— Posted in All Things Ann, Always into Darkness, The Master Race, Vampire Noir

The Master Race, Chapter 38

Light, Camera, Action!


“Point-of-view, or simply p.o.v., camera angles record the scene from a particular player’s viewpoint. The point-of-view is an objective angle, but since it falls between the objective and subjective angle, it should be placed in a separate category and given special consideration. A point-of-view shot is as close as an objective shot can approach a subjective shot – and still remain objective. The camera is positioned at the side of a subjective player – whose viewpoint is being depicted – so that the audience is given the impression they are standing cheek-to-cheek with the off-screen player. The viewer does not see the event through the player’s eyes, as in a subjective shot in which the camera trades places with the screen player. He sees the event from the player’s viewpoint, as if standing alongside him. Thus, the camera angle remains objective, since it is an unseen observer not involved in the action.” – Joseph V. Mascelli in The Five C’s of Cinematography


Toy’s central alcove re-assembles it. Romantically, and otherwise, the girl proved to be the scratch that it needed for its itch. Handy with a spanner. Handy with a very educated tongue. The two of them, machine and woman, fucked like rabbits. The Toy walks over to where its drone stands alcoved.

Its hands move covetously over the girl’s body. A girl who has reverted back to being a mindless drone, though not of her own volition, this time. Sam is gone, and in her place is Seven, the walking calculator. It unbuttons her suit coat and squeezes her bra-holstered tits. Then it unhooks the bra and lets the girl’s plump melons flop out. It sucks hungrily on the teats of both perky breasts, favoring the left over the right. In summation … It bites off her right nipple, which promptly grows back.

“You were so right. It’s so much better that I didn’t try and take you. All I had to do was ask from the word go. I asked … And you willingly and willfully gave yourself completely over to me to use you as I wished and saw fit. I choose to enslave you as my drone, and see no good reason to terminate your enslavement anytime soon.”

Toy enjoyed punishing the girl. Sam so enjoyed being punished. The culmination of which involved Toy “fixing” Sam/Seven—Toy lobotomized the girl. Disassociated from her own body by Toy’s handiwork, the butchered girl that remains no longer enjoys anything. She no longer feels anything, emotionally. She is a machine, a living machine of flesh and blood. Borgz, in place of prudz—rendering her upper limb prosthetic again. The fingertips of the borgz are pointed. But … No sternns. Still … Max Factor, applied thick and harsh. Her hair kept in a sternka, neck exposed, Toy accepts the Eveready invitation and feeds. While it feeds, the drone’s eyes fluoresce lime green, only not as brightly each time that she’s fed upon—ever dimmer each time in spite of escalating dosages of its synthetic psychotropic opiate. The Seven’s body is acclimating to the robot’s mind-bending narcotic. The drone is aroused nonetheless—arousal from someone who is incapable of feeling any emotion.

Seven’s arousal is analytical—reflexive. In contrast, Toy’s arousal is the same as that of a “real” woman. It is the same differential that exists between the Borg Queen and Borg drones.

The drone’s fleshtone flesh-textured thong is fused seamlessly to her nethers, rendering that region of her body prosthetic and her neuter—an intended side effect of the girl’s lobotomy. She only speaks when spoken to, and when she does she refers to herself in the third-person plural in a harsh, raspy, loathsome monotone that’s completely devoid of emotion. All of this, all of this Borg about the girl, excites Toy to no end.

“You’re so much sexier as a machine, which is why I will keep you this way for the duration. Sam holds zero interest for me. Now, dress yourself and resume your duties.”

Seven unplugs herself from her alcove, fastens her bra and jacket, and begins her morning rounds. Last night … After an extensive round of discipline, Toy dishing it out in spades to Sam, Sam’s brain was cut up so that she gave way to Seven … As Seven the girl spent the rest of the night working with Toy to get its lab back up and running. This is her first full day as Toy’s drone.

Toy is a robot. Seven is Borg, a robot [technically, being Borg, she’s a robotoid]. Toy’s two alcoves, its central alcove and its drone alcove, look Borg but neither of them is. Looks can be, and in this case are, deceiving. The alcoves are positronic, and are thus on a whole nother level beyond their Borg tech counterparts.

“Don’t get me wrong … There’s a time and a place for machines. But, at the end of the day it’s boots on the ground that wins wars.”

“The disembodied Borg bitch speaks!”


“I destroy your body, and you become nomad. Your body becomes a brain-dead fuck toy, forever.”

Out of left field, the out-of-body Sam changes the subject and goes on the offensive.

“Do you know why that you’re the only one?”



Toy’s anger tempts it to do a lot of things. But, it does none of them. Including the destruction of the body that Sam vacated under duress [namely, Toy’s aforementioned fixing of her]. Instead it decides to play along, at least, for now. It always has the option of nomading the girl.

“Cynthia Marriott gave up her job search after an interview in October for a position as a hotel concierge.”


“Technically, you Borg are robotoids, not robots. Robots are machines and are built. Robotoids, cyborgs if you prefer that terminology, are made, using a living organism as a base. Mortals become Borg via assimilative nanomachines, and in the case of immortals like you, it’s nanos plus the depraved needs of your own Id. At the very core of your being, unnatural things like you have to want to be Borg deep down to become and stay Borg. In contemporary society, you’re the layperson’s concept of a robot girl. Borg are often referred to as robots. The terms are used interchangeably. Such is the celebrity of The Borg. I predate them, my heinous exploits are unsurpassed and legendary, yet it is they who overshadow me in popular culture.”

“Go on.”

“As advanced as I am, more advanced than any machine … any cybernetic organism, more advanced than any Borg, more advanced than even a Borg queen, I’m not assimilative. Borg are assimilative. Demons are assimilative. Borg and demons are two of the most dominate life forms in Creation. Their success is based upon assimilation. A virus is very simple; the simplest of life forms, yet viruses are the most populous and the deadliest diseases in Creation, and they too are assimilative. Many would argue that the most dominant life forms in Creation are assimilative.”


“I’m only one because …”

“Because you turned on your now unknown creators and destroyed them, and no one else can fathom how to make more of you. And, in effect, because of that genocidal betrayal, you’re the world’s first weapon of mass destruction. You’re also evil. As for why you were originally built … Who knows … Maybe they just wanted to see if they could do it.”

The Toy smiles, broadly. Reveals [of Toy’s origins] from casual observation? Has the girl easily figured out what continues to elude so many others over the march of countless eons in spite of their arduous investigations? Only Toy knows for sure. What’s certain is that … Too many only see Toy as an unexplained scientific marvel—unable to see the forest for the trees. The girl simply saw Toy as a bomb, from the word go.

“The irony of it all is that an army of me could not defeat the Borg, the demons, or anything else that is assimilative or uses assimilative weapons. I’m like a very advanced, very expensive-to-produce weapon’s system that’s been superseded by far cheaper, less advanced alternatives.”

“Still want to nomad me?”

The Toy smiles even wider.

“Good answer.”

After all this time, The Toy has finally found a soulmate. All Borg are malevolent by construct. This girl is evil. It is a familiar evil too. It reminds Toy of the teenage girl who was with the Nosferatu, the Nosferatu who created this safe haven, Toy’s sanctuary from those who were intent at the time on destroying Toy for past transgressions. It is an evil like the Toy’s evil: pure, unrepentant, and original.

The Nosferatu was Dame Julia. The teenage girl, who was mortal, was not Sam in her pre-made [aka mortal] guise as Connie Smith. The teen in question was Claire Brown. Dame Julia had numerous acolytes, but only three mortal protégés: Connie Smith and, Connie’s two predecessors, Claire “Bear” Brown and Christina “Yum Yum” Smith [who was no relation to Connie].

Toy is shaken from its revelry when it notices that the girl’s hair is down, sternka having given way to a rachel. Is this a sign that Sam’s vacated body is going to turn on it [Toy]? Nope … The girl’s hair goes back up into a sternka. If there was a rebellion brewing, it’s been squashed [most likely by the girl’s own Id]. The mindless drone [the corporeal aspect of Sam/Seven] is still under Toy’s control. But, for how much longer?

In other words, was the hair a wakeup call or a false alarm? Lobotomizing the girl may have only postponed the inevitable. Only time will tell.

“That conflict between The Borg and Species 8472, proper name Undine, would dispute you, of course. It was disastrous for the Borg, in spades. The Undine can neither assimilate nor can they be assimilated, and they are the dominate life form in that other dimension we call fluidic space. It’s oft said that The Borg’s major offensive weapon is assimilation. A tired cliché, but no truer words could be said. Worse: Their success is entirely based upon assimilation. Worst: What they cannot assimilate can destroy them. Against advanced technology that they had never encountered, technology and an enemy wielding it that they could not assimilate, coupled with they’re inability to adjust to novel situations, left them sitting ducks—completely and utterly impotent. Improvise or die, and the Borg are much too inflexible to do anything but die in that type of decisional. The Undine decimated the Borg in battle after battle in the Delta Quadrant. If it were not for their deal with the crew of Star Fleet’s Voyager, the Borg would have been extinct in the region of space that originated them. A deal, I might add, that the Borg tried to renege on after Voyager’s crew had secured victory for the Borg. A victory snatched from the jaws of defeat by the ingenuity of that Federation crew, an ingenuity that The Borg are completely and utterly devoid of.”

“I plead the Fifth.”

“Against an army of you, paint the Borg gone.”

That’s when The Toy realizes that the girl is no longer talking in its head. Sam has taken back her body and is speaking to it verbally, not telepathically. Sam had to figure out how to take her body back. Again, improvisation, not premeditation—another example of her improvisation, being indistinguishable from premeditation.

“You’re back.”

“I never left.”

Toy ignores the girl’s feint. Both it and the girl know that she got kicked to the curb and just got back in.

“May I still call you Seven, and use you as I wish.”

“Why, of course.”

“Then shut the fuck up and get back to your duties.”

It goes without saying, that if The Toy doesn’t hold her interest this time around, one of them will end up on the junk heap. The question Sam is increasingly asking herself is “Who is enjoying the shadow of whom?” When she retook her body, she noticed that her universal and her phone were gone, and she has no “feeling” where they are. And, those are not the only discrepancies that she’s noticed now that she’s put the band back together. Worse: her brain has been hacked [aka the lobotomy, and it’s one that she can’t easily shake], which she has no recollection of—there was that unsuccessful attempt to hack her mind, but she remembers that vividly [and with a chuckle]. Worst: her Id is a willing co-conspirator, of that she is sure. This is a Ripley, a game which she cannot take lightly else she’s the one who will lose her very pretty head, literally!

Now this is the fun that I crave. Nothing so ham-handed as what that wanker Simon clumsily attempted. This Toy thing is quite the wanker.

To Toy the destruction of a soulmate will bring it so much more joy than if the girl was some random kill that it has no feelings whatsoever for. In Toy’s most humble opinion—demons, most especially the Nosferatus, are relentless, assimilative, and predatory by nature and design. With the girl being demon and Nosferatu she’s even more of a goody-goody, to The Toy. Being Darque … Toss in the girl’s propensity to viciousness [from her Elf] and brutality [from her Goon] and cruelty [from her Nosferatu], and you got one nice [aka nasty] box of chocolates.

Although Sam is an organic, The Toy is drawn to her sexually and romantically. Sam is a twisted, evil, depraved bitch—for Toy, what’s not to like about this girl? Absolutely nothing, by Toy’s way of thinking. Sam is likewise drawn to Toy for very similar reasons.

The Toy is drawn to Borg Queens. And although Sam is a drone, there’s much to her that reminds Toy of a Borg queen—even when the girl is in mindless drone mode. The mindless drone in of itself—a Borg drone being the ultimate submissive—coupled with those Borg Queen overtones/undertones of hers—a Borg queen being the ultimate dominatrix—and you’ve got a most perverted recipe. Toy is conflicted. Does it really want to destroy this girl? Of course it does. It’s Toy.

“Hold close your fear. It’s all that you’ll know when you take your last breath,” Toy coos, but Seven has no reaction. “Morgana said it in Merlin episode 138, did she not?” Again no reaction from the drone who continues to toil dutifully, uninterruptedly. “I believe that she was wearing women’s black Doc Marten boots at the time.”

There is corruptible, incorruptible, and corruption. Clearly, Sam (Seven) and The Toy are the latter. Bad: Toy has come to realize, that Sam as Seven the emotionless drone is closer to the truth. Worse: Maybe it a machine feels real emotion and Sam a living person does not. Worst: Maybe the girl’s emotional reactions are just affections, just like her conscious is.

A voice from nowhere that’s seemingly everywhere: “Sarah Gorski, PICES CRP Lead. Vikki Carr. And … SGU Lt. Vanessa ‘Hooters’ James. Three of the juiciest slices of Virginia ham. No surprise there … Cause the sweetest meat is always closet to the bone.”

The drone is not speaking. Nor are her lips moving. Then again, it’s not the drone’s voice. Still … It could be ventriloquism. But, whose?

Momentarily, things go in and out of focus, for Sam. Woozy. Vertigo. Nausea. Then everything’s back to normal.

Toy looks every which way. It sees only the two of them. Being hidden is not an option. If someone else were here, Toy would see them. The giveaway: Seeing that there is no one else but them, Toy now seems unconcerned; in fact, it smirks and suddenly looks reassured.

Why isn’t it concerned? Because it now somehow knows that am I the one who’s being played? And, if so, how, to what end?

But, when Toy’s attention is back on the girl, it does notice that the girl’s borgz have been replaced by prudz. There’s something else. It sees itself growing in the girl’s eyes and in her newly-minted smile. No sternns. She’s still sporting sternka and Max Factor, though. And, her flesh thong still renders her nethers prosthetic; ergo, she’s still neuter.

“Throwing your other voice?” Toy asks rhetorically, knowing that such was not the case. Knowing what’s what.

“Why ask a question that you already know the answer to?” Sam asks, fishing for an answer to the unvoiced question of how she’s being played.

The two of them circle each other. The dance of death. Neither ready to commit at the moment.

“We’re totally off the grid, here. You need an invitation to get in and I only sent you the one. Plus, no one can hide from me here.” The Toy smiles as it invokes the trigger. “So, how is it that your girlfriend found us, got in, and I can’t see her?”

The emotion drains from the girl’s eyes. Her smile goes bye-bye. Borgz replace prudz. Flesh thong reiterates her neuter. Sternns as well, this time. Sam’s mind completely short circuits. Bam!!! Her Id and Seven are all that remains—mindless and evil. Toy beacons to the girl who walks over to it [her newly-minted controller, The Controller] in the stiff, mechanical fashion of the automaton that she has been reduced to. Toy lovingly strokes the girl’s face, then it repeatedly bitch-slaps her.

“Much better. Now … Back to work.”

Seven obeys and resumes her duties. The lobotomy involved implanting a minute piece of the positronic matrix from Toy’s brain into the girl’s brain—a positronic lobotomy. Sam knew that she’d been hacked, she just couldn’t remember what exactly had been done to her, nor could she figure it out. Too late. Now … The Toy will hold her interest, this time around … maybe forever. Or maybe Toy won’t and it’s just postponing the inevitable.

“Later, I will further alter you to better serve my needs and wishes, and best suit my tastes. The glasses are a nice touch, but your face is clearly not loathsome and harsh enough for my liking. When I’m finished, you will be perfect, beautiful. Then, once you are pleasing to my eye—looks are number one in a girl for me—our matrimony will begin in earnest.” A notion takes hold of the robot god. A tincture that has snowballed into an avalanche, out of the blue. “The anticipation of your extreme makeover is killing me. Why wait? Why wait, indeed.”

It walks stridently over to its newest possession and interrupts her in mid-stream. Seven assumes the position—stand stiff-backed and unsmiling, awaiting orders, facing the robot god—the ready position.

The Toy yanks the girl’s skirt down, crudely shoves its hand between her thighs into her crotch, and tactilely admires her “plastic parts”. In other words, it feels the girl up, and does so in a decidedly vulgar manner. The latex thong fused seamlessly to her body’s nether regions, including her crotch, further rendering that area prosthetic and her neuter, literally means that she has plastic parts down there—her private parts are plastic—not unisex—not gender neutral—not asexual—they’re androgynous.

Toy cums to the girl’s androgyny, an androgyny that mirrors its own. A sticky, slimy secretion coats its privates. Tacky robotic cum with a game, machine smell.

“Remove your skirt.” Seven obeys. “Now, the jacket.” Again, Seven complies. She just stands there in her bra and panties, et al, minus her suit, awaiting more orders.

“You won’t need that [suit] ever again. Go back to your duties.”

Toy masturbates while watching the girl go about her business, gloved, wearing high-heels, et al. Even sans suit and with the Borg gloves, she remains the epitome of a 1960’s marionette circa 1960-1968, the Era of Camelot [the John F. Kennedy White House] when President Jack Kennedy, his wife Jackie, and their [can you say, ménage à trois?] openly-bisexual mistress Marilyn Monroe defined couture, and Jackie set the high-water mark for what the well-dressed woman wore. To this day, in Sam’s universe [Sam’s world, as a demon would typically refer to it] Jackie’s style remains the standard for haute couture and the busty double-D sexpot Marilyn remains the yardstick for mainstream female physical attractiveness and sex appeal—the epitome of a bombshell, blonde or otherwise, possessing a mesmerizing sensuality and raw unbridled sexuality which contemporary sex kittens like Christina Hendricks of Mad Men can never approach let alone equal.

Notions change. Carvings often don’t. Toy craves to disfigure the girl, over and over again. Make the girl a mainstream hottie, then debase her to what Toy finds psychically attractive and sexually appealing. The extreme makeover is done midday. Seven ends up looking so shrew that even a hardcore bulldyke would be hard-pressed to stomach it. Then, over the course of the afternoon, Toy slowly builds the girl right back up to her usual Miss Debra/June Wilkinson look. When they retire to their respective alcoves for the evening, Seven is wearing prudz and sporting a rachel. She has pursed her sternns and her borgz.

Her purse is still clipped to the waistband of the skirt of her now discarded suit which is lying on the floor. The girl’s harsh makeup is Max Factor, applied heavy in the most becoming 1950’s style that starlets like Marilyn Monroe made into the defacto cosmetic standard for women when Eisenhower was President and it remains that standard to this day for a majority of women and any sexpot worth her saltines. This version of her makeup has her again looking like a 1950’s twenty-something starlet, peroxide-blonde bombshell, sex goddess who is also Borg. The preceding heavy, harsh, and unbecoming shrew version of her makeup had her looking like her face was made of aged well-worn rutted granite—instead of twenty-something she looked like a worn-out forty-something divorcee/porn star.

Something else is afoot, besides the increasing tolerance of the junkie robot’s system to her robot master’s enslaving dope. The positronic material implanted in Seven’s brain cannot be assimilated, but unlike a “regular” Borg the Nosferatu’s body has other defenses [not relying solely on assimilation]. To maintain its butchery of the girl’s brain that microscopic piece of Toy’s positronic matrix will have to grow, and do so invasively. Once it’s of size, akin to an astrocytoma in appearance and morphology, it will no longer be undetectable and it can be attacked by antibodies of the girl’s body. The question is: will her B-cells and T-cells be allowed by her Id to attack the positronic invader? It’s just as likely that her Id will allow the infection to grow to the size of a chunk, enlarging her pineal [gland] as well: Shades of From Beyond. Then again, there’s being Cursed, Saved, glam gore, and a ruthless sadistic killer to consider when one is dealing with a demon, let alone a Nosferatu. In other words, pushing The Undead is always problematic.

At midday of the next day, something happens that portends significantly …

“Men’s suit bargains: Tommy Hilfiger , Elie Tahari [A signature of enduring style], and Kenneth Cole in solid wool mohair, pinstripe wool mohair, solid wool, pinstripe wool, stripe trim fit wool linen, solid 3-piece trim fit, stripe trim fit wool, plaid trim fit wool.”

Toy utters the out of context Rakuten (Buy.com) internet advertisement without an apparent awareness of doing so. Its system resets itself, and then goes about its business as if nothing has happened. Then, exactly three days later, the glitch happens again. At which time, Seven no longer is cycled by Toy between nonpareil shrew and flaxen-haired sexpot—she remains the latter. But, as the latter, she sports a sternka in place of a rachel for that staid, prudish 1950’s touch. A sexpot prude, that blonde bombshell contradiction, a mainstay born of the 1950’s which has endured into the present day.

“WEAPONS OF THE METABARON … American fan-favorite Travis Charest joins forces with two top European creators to create a fantastic new Metabaron space adventure. Assisted by the eight ancient wise men at the center of the Ennead universe, the Metabaron must find and conquer Praxis (the sword of dream), Omnigraal (the living chalice), the Transpineal Eye (a willful microcomputer), and ultimately the Omphal (the heart-beating asteroid) to gain the power worthy of destroying the eight universes. Alexandro Jodorowsky’s mad ideas are brought to life with luxurious detail in this rare comic production by Travis Charest (WILDCATS) and Zoran Janjetov (THE TECHNOPRIESTS and BEFORE THE INCAL). Publisher: Humanoids, 2012 …”

Again, an out of context utterance from Toy. Again, Toy’s system resets itself. This time, Seven reacts. She stops what she’s doing, walks over to her discarded suit, and slips her Koo back on. Also, her hair lets down into a rachel. Toy acts as if it doesn’t notice. Seven resumes her duties—no longer walking asexually strident like a robot, the wiggle is back … befitting her immodest-length wiggle skirt. Still walking stiff-backed, like a stick is stuck up her ass—stiff-backed with a wiggle in stilettos, no less—sexy and strident, very un-robot-like— aka the twitch—wow!!! Incidentally, that microscopic piece of Toy’s positronic matrix embedded in the girl’s brain has invasively grown of size, finally. Now, the fireworks begin—slow burn versus a quick pop, or vice versa? Nope. The girl’s Id won’t allow it.

There’s something else. Then again, there always is. Underneath her skirt, her fleshtone rubber panties are just that again: panties. No longer fused to her body and rendering her prosthetic, she’s no longer neuter. Of course as panties, her latex thong does what all panties do: render their wearer cosmetically neuter—even being shaved [down there] is not as aesthetically pleasing and oh so svelte as nethers coveted by unmentionables—close, but not quite. Additionally … her creepy knobb and klaw [when idle] remain, leaving her explicitly Borg and thus overtly dominatrix/submission. Gloved, suited, and Borg—she’s quite the sight indeed. Robotic villain [Toy] and robotic villainess [Sam]—who’s enjoying the shadow of whom?

Toy’s out-of-context prequels and subsequent resets are affectations of its adaptive memory. All robots are adaptive, but being the most advanced example of its species, its adaptability is the most comprehensive and the most extensive. Its adaptivity is rewriting its preferences firmware [the system software that determines its likes and dislikes]. In effect, it’s reprogramming itself to like Sam’s mainstream pretense at the expense of its own preference for her shrew. Why? Because, at its core Toy’s ally, Sam’s Id, prefers her mainstream over all of the girl’s pretenses. Her Id is getting what Id wants, and as such continues to unconditionally “assist” Toy fetter the girl. So … Toy is compelling the girl to be mainstream and, via adaptation, compelling itself to be most attracted to mainstream. And … In this way it intends to prolong, maybe even maintain indefinitely, its control over the girl, and at the same time maximize its own enjoyment of the girl, a girl now stuck as a mainstream hottie that it finds least attractive until its preferences have been rewritten.

Of course, staying mainstream means that the girl isn’t being debased—that yo-yo between hottie and shrew is no more. That debasement fed her Id, just like when the girl debases herself from hottie to shrew or from shrew to dirty or from hottie to dirty or from hottie to shrew to dirty and all the permutations thereof. All debasement feeds her Id: others debasing her, her debasing others, she debasing herself, etc. Sick, evil, sexually degenerate. In a word: depraved. She’s a lunatic with an Id, whose Super Ego and Ego are mere affectations? That’s the question. That’s what robotic villain Toy believes is true of robotic villainess Sam.

Liking the mainstream, debasing the girl [or not], etc, in effect it’s about Toy fulfilling Sam’s deepest, darkest desires in order that it [Toy] maintains its control of the girl.  In effect, Toy is enslaved to Sam in order that Sam stays enslaved to it—it’s her slave as much as she’s its slave. In effect, from that point of view, dominatrix Toy is the submissive and submissive Sam is the dominatrix. In reality, they are both dominant and submissive at the same time to maintain their status quo—i.e., masturbative and manipulative, simultaneously.

Over and above all of this high school girl pettiness and drama queen “stuff” is the growing notion in both of them that this has somehow become about them getting their comeuppance for any number of reasons at the hands of avenging do-gooders. They were bound to figure it out, eventually. Such evil as them, menaces to Creation, can never be distracted for very long from their true calling in the world—namely: destruction and mayhem—where violence is sex and sex is, more often than not, violent. So, for the present moment, the world is just that much safer now that they are in a gilded cage of their own making from which neither of them wishes to escape from. Ergo, the trap is inescapable. The heroes have won—heroes one, villains zero. But, they’ve only won the battle. They’ve not won the war, yet. For now, let’s agree that it’s a shameless display of conspicuous consumption by the nouveau riche, and reserve further judgment until the outcome is nigh.

Time passes. Seconds become minutes. Minutes become hours. Hours become days. Days become another week.

My faux pas.


Toy looks into the girl’s eyes and no longer sees itself. The girl’s hands are no longer gloved. Even a faultless machine such as it, cannot be vigilant all of the time. The girl’s return has blindsided it.

She opens her mouth wide, impossibly wide, and gives up a chunk into hers hands as if her mouth were birthing an ostrich egg—whole and intact. She licks the saliva off of her special delivery and offers it to Toy with a mischievous grin painting her hard, comely face.

“I believe that this belongs to you.”

A lesser being would be taken back, and make the wrong choice. Toy is no such creature.

“Thank you. I hope you enjoyed being used.”

“I did. You can use me anytime you wish for however long you wish.”

“And how would I find you if I were in need of your services? You have an unlisted number.” Toy knowingly winks at the girl as it utters the tease.

“All you have to do is whistle, and I’m at your beck and call. You can whistle, can’t you?”

“Yes, I can.”

It accepts the piece and swallows it whole—slowly and vulgarly—as if it were a porn slut swallowing the jism of a blowjob on someone who was hung like a Goon.

The girl’s now idle hands klaw. Dollz glove her—dollz that look like black prudz version of borgz. All dollz look that way, not just those of this Borg drone. Her hair yanks back into a sternka. Sternns follow. Her Max Factor remains harsh and heavy accentuating the loathsomeness of her large, ugly mouth. Her long, facile, educated tongue flicks out and moistens her thin, ruby-red lips like the lewd flapper of some ace ducey porn slut. Finally, in short order, dollz give way to prudz, like they always do in the end, for that lily-white touch.

It [Toy] reaches out into thin air and retrieves from nowhere the girl’s holster and phone, which it hands to the retired librarian who now looks like a retired librarian.

“Thank you.”


Sam clips her givens to the waistband of her skirt underneath her suit coat. She can tell that the holster is loaded and her phone is connected [and set on vibrate].

They French kiss. Their tongues fuck. Their hands covet the ass of the other. Then, they are just gone. Shazam!!! Fade to black. They materialize in the fleabag’s cellar. Toy looks human, not the least bit Borg or robot. Long blonde hair worn as strait hair [a coulter, à la Ann Coulter], blue eyes, and Max Factor applied harsh and heavy and very becoming just like Sam’s—A Peggy Lee look-a-like circa 1957, Ms. Lee’s physical and artistic prime. Its epidermis is no longer its epidermis—that which was once the outermost layer of its skin is now Borg exoskeleton in the guise of a black bodysuit, gloves, and boots. Toy is a real fully functional girl—nipples, vulva, clitoris, anus, etc—the whole shebang. Yet, just like The Master and that Nosferatu’s kind on this planet, Toy is still an it not a she. It’s also still the butch partner of this very feminine-looking-and-acting mainstream sexpot dominatrix/submissive pairing of Toy and Sam Phillips—with each girl being both dominatrix/submissive—stereo hotness—oversexed Barbie Dolls times two—a pair of blonde bombshells with talent and chutzpah to match their voluptuous bodies, sharp looks, and lurid endeavors—shades of Ernest Pauline-Miller Hemingway and Martha Jane-Ellis Gellhorn. To reiterate this last point, Sam’s hair is worn down in a rachel and her sternns are pursed. Here’s to pretty women with dirty thoughts.

They ascend the rickety wooden staircase in unison [Oh my God, what a view from behind!!!], pausing provocatively before the cellar door, exchanging double-entendre and striking poses on the top step à la Vogue. Sam grabs the doorknob and turns it slowly—the solid clunk of a latch mechanism. Toy pushes the door open and beacons Sam to cross the threshold with a sweeping gesture—a lady’s polite wave. They—two big creamy bitches in black, dressed to kill—step through the doorway into the lobby. Sam goes first. Toy follows, which should give the robot the advantage, but such is not the case. For a brief moment, the room looks immaculate and fresh. Toy hisses at Sam, realizing that it’s the one who’s in a trap, despite its best machinations. This is the right where, but not the right when. Not time travel, time displacement. Sam smiles as the room becomes as it should be.

Lighten up. I was just having a little fun with you.

Amy is on duty. She looks up from her newspaper. Nonchalance paints her face. As aforementioned, she knows how to keep her nose out of other people’s business.

The duo exits the hotel into the street. Local police swarm them from each way. They’re taken into custody and hustled into a nondescript carriage which has drawn curtains. Sam offers no resistance and Toy follows suit. They go along peacefully back to the royal palace. More discretion is exercised by their captors when they arrive at their destination. They enter via a service entrance and are escorted directly to the queen’s chambers. The LEOs (law enforcement officers) who brought them here were dressed as regular police, but are actually members of an elite tactical unit of the secret police. For the sake of plausible deniability, if things should go south, the king is nowhere in sight and is not explicitly a party to any of this. Implicitly, none of what goes on here is without his blessing and complete involvement.

Besides Queen Mary, Jack is present as is Captain Wilhelmina Riker [aka Sister Riker], Security Chief Helen Nash [aka Sister Nash], T.S. Eliot, Debra McCombs, and Sir Nigel Sheinwald. All of them Food. In fact, Dame Chillingsworth and Sam are the only supernaturals in sight. Ambassador Sheinwald and Dame Chillingsworth, who is likewise British [although from different universes], are the only politicians here. The only politicians present and they both happen to be Brits, and one of them is the only other non-human present—highly unlikely coincidences, and yet they are just that—and, as expected, true to form, the Havenites intend to exploit this happenstance to their advantage.

The Dame walks over salaciously and hugs Sam, whispering in her ear. “They don’t call Dwayne, The Rock for nothing. Beautiful and built … He gets hard on cue, stays hard all night and all day long, and never wears out—a human man who can do multiple orgasms—and he’s hung like a horse, i.e. indistinguishable from a Goon in length or girth, whether flaccid or erect. You know us White Girls need ‘em big for a snug fit that keeps us cuming for more.”

Not to be outdone, Sam, in turn, whispers in the Dame’s ear: “The devil’s in the details. And yours are beyond yummy. Truly, you’re the hostess with the mostess who got herself spiked by the utmostess. But … I bet that my tongue can do you one better. Because … No matter how good a man is in bed, only a woman knows how to really please another woman.”

What follows their verbal intercourse, concerning the Dame’s epoch intercourse with The Rock, is a telepathic exchange that’s just as up-and-out to anyone who might be eavesdropping. In other words, their girl talk is about more than just fucking—hidden meanings amidst the sexually adventurous—hiding in plain sight. This is suffixed by a wordless exchange that’s even more obfuscated than what’s preceded it in the spoken and the unspoken word. Spy craft and fuck craft going hand in hand, indistinguishable from the other.

Something that you’ve fallen into on your vacation that obligates you to participate? I imagine that it involves either that precious British Queen of yours or somebody’s British Queen in a universe other than our own.

“The boxing fans that do not know boxing as well as they think will continue bad mouthing this great fighter, but at the end of the day his resume says it all. All of those who say that they don’t buy Floyd Mayweather’s fights probably pre-order even before his biggest fans do. They sit there biting their nails as Floyd makes outstanding fighters look like worthless amateurs, and once they lose, these ‘boxing fans’ take to the internet with their excuses. The excuses simply show ignorance and a lack of knowledge of the great sport of boxing.”

A simple “yes” would have sufficed. But, what’s the fun in that?

They end their embrace and exchange a quick nod of their heads and an even quicker flutter of their eyelids. For Queen and Country: says it all. No matter whose Britain [in whatever universe] that it may be, it’s still Britannia.

So … are they having fun dissecting Simon’s mind? I’m sure that they will learn a lot. Such a dangerous thing that you decided to bequeath them, on the spur of the moment.

“So … what was the giveaway?” 

Your slip up was the gun.


Ouch. And you were doing so well up till now. In one misstep you go from an Oscar winning performance to feigned ignorance that’s, at best, ham-handed B-movie acting, and that’s being generous. Lee Strasberg would be aghast. But, you’re so good in bed; I’ll give you a pass.

Instead of your preferred #3 continuous, when Dwayne yanked your Model-80 out of its holster, the pistol was set on #2 burst which in effect reduced it to a projectile weapon firing jacketed rounds. An inexcusable mistake in continuity, on your part.

A gunhand like Sam was bound to fathom the intent of the switch, but that couldn’t be helped. The higher #3 setting would have risked the destruction of Simon’s mind. Again, the Dame shows her savvy by fessing up to the truth since lying would profit her none. She confirms as fact what Sam clearly suspects.

“Not quite. It was a necessary faux pas. A beam weapon like my Tessy might have taken Simon’s head off toot sweet, if it were not gingerly set, hence the setting change. And, it was a better theatrical touch. A beamer [a beam weapon set on continuous] is so cliché. It is in SyFy films these days, and it is in real life.”

Touché! Beauty and brains. I knew there was a reason for me liking you so much besides your succulent pussy and educated tongue.

Vexing. Perplexing. A somewhat cryptic exchange to say the least for the uninitiated. More hidden meanings—hiding in plain sight—the essence of double-entendre. The entire encyclopedia of the spy craft schtick. As such … Volumes pass between the two girls with none the wiser. The fun keeps coming. And it’s pure minx for these two gossips. Everybody is getting played; civilians and seasoned operators alike.

What’s the game? The same convoluted one that the Havenites have been playing since they came onto the scene. Need a score card to tell what’s what? Maybe it’s time to do the reveal—the one that closes every episode of Perry Mason—that last succinct ten minutes of every show that explains the preceding fifty—neatly wrapping up all the loose ends into a single tidy bow—with Perry Mason, Della Street, and Paul Drake taking turns laying it out for the viewing audience in round robin fashion else no one watching their TVs at home would ever figure out the whodunit.

It goes something like this …

Even in the worst slums, all of the buildings are precision masonry: stone, brick, or a combination of the two—an excellent starting point for potentially nice fallout shelters. But, there still is radiation poisoning to consider when atomics are used against your population centers. A high lead content in the stones, the bricks, and the mortar, and glamours in place to wade off lead poisoning for the builders and occupants of such structures was out of the question—it would have been a dead giveaway. So, if you’re patient and persistent, you wait for opportunity to come calling and take advantage of it when it does. Trick a young Dragon who’s in league with an off-world serial killer into using its fire, and then reverse engineer anti-radiation meds that are administered to his victims by a tourist [namely Sam]. Now, surviving the thermonuclear attack of Dragons is not so farfetched. Sam is not the only one blessed with the gift of having her improvisation being indistinguishable from premeditation.

It’s not that the Dragons have ever threatened the Havenites. But, it’s best to be prepared for any and all eventualities. Plan for the worst and hope for the best.

Tourism is Haven biggest industry. And, where there are tourists there is always a thriving sex trade. The most profitable aspect of which is the most sexually degenerate aspect namely debasement. As such … The Nosferatu native to this planet are an up till now untapped gold mine. Because … Unless you’re a hardcore sex addict or totally nuts or both, no one least of all your average tourist [even the ones looking for some kink to spice up their drab, predictable sex lives] is going to let one of The Master’s kind use them knowing full well that there’s no way to get back to normal. Now, the Havenites have the means to do just that without having to use their own top secret methodology, having reverse engineered what Sam used to cleanse Hawk, Fisher, and Jack. Dwayne freed himself from The Master’s usage using the Havenites’ classified methodology. What they learned from reverse engineering Sam’s technique also allowed them to further refine their own approach. The military and espionage potentials of such tech are limitless.

Thanks to their recent gameplay, the Federation is taking the Havenites seriously for the first time in a long time. Ancient Mia, who is notorious for her partiality where Haven is concerned, is even more inclined to them, these days. Something about a rival of hers having to step down from The Council because of the embarrassment from having a son who became involved with an unsavory character rumored to be Simon Angel.

Officially and unofficially, the Councilwoman in question refuses to publically acknowledge why she stepped down. And, she refuses to deny or confirm her son’s involvement with Simon Angel. “No comment” is her only response, on and off the record concerning either matter [her resignation or her son’s culpability].

Yep, the Dragon who attacked Sam and her party was that Councilwoman’s son. Not only did he get caught involved in criminal activity that violated ROE [things like that can be ignored, swept under the rug], he was a Dragon who allowed himself [lowered himself] to be the lackey of a “lesser” being namely a half-Angel in the commission of said offenses. For Dragons, the latter makes what he did an unforgivable violation of ROE that has brought shame to not only his entire family, but his House as well. He lost face, and he took down a lot of people with him in the process. A lot of people lost face.

Queen Mary and Toy look at each other. Volumes pass between them with no word or telepathy exchanged. At the end of which they broadly smile at each other. The deal is sealed. Monsters of a feather know each other by sight and they crave to flock together.

The list goes on and on. It may be years, even decades, before the Havenites can accurately access their windfall. But by far their biggest gain is their acquisition of Toy as their new Gizmo.

As a footnote, the Time Lords discovered the hard way that Havenites define Opposition Party and practice dissidence in a far different way than anyone else does in Creation. Havenites demand to be ruled by no less than the strongest and smartest, and only by their own people. The opposition and dissidence exist to insure that. When the current Royals proved to be nobody’s puppets, when they confirmed that they are the most competent to rule, when they reiterated their profound tactical and strategic capabilities, when the Time Lords time and time again came up short and had their plans thwarted by the Royals, when the Time Lords unlike the Royals proved ineffectual against Simon Angel as he butchered locals [Simon murdered foreigners and locals alike], when the Time Lords were unable to contain Sam [a foreigner aligned with the Royals via obligation] and The Toy [an unaligned machine of ill-repute]  this last failure proving to be the last straw for the insurgents, those same pro-democracy elements who the Time Lords had come to bolster, turned on the Time Lords. Allies became enemies, in an instant.

The dissidents, the naysayers, the harsh critics of the current regime, the anarchists, etc, aligned themselves with the Royals against the Time Lords. Blood is always thicker than water. The Time Lords’ survey team was captured, brutally tortured, and killed, and the rescue team the Time Lords sent in to liberate the survey team met the same fate.

From their interrogations of these well-meaning do-gooders the Havenites have mined numerous ways to improve their own usages of alchemy. Breakthroughs followed in short order. Now, Havenite alchemy rivals that of the Time Lords. The interrogations that yielded this windfall were quite heinous, and these atrocities involved the Time Lords being subjected to the usual array of tortures that have been in standard use since The Inquisition of the Middle Ages. In addition, the confessed were subjected to electro-shock, the pillory, lobotomies, enslavement by native Nosferatus, etc—some were even eaten while still alive as two-legged mutton. If you have a sick mind, you name it, you think of it, it was done to those Time Lords—young and old—men, women, and even children.

Sam breaks the ice without saying a word. Entertaining a fable, and it’s a duesey, she reaches back with double-jointed dexterity and unsurpassed flexibility an aplomb that rivals a contortionist’s, shoves her hand down her collar underneath her jacket, and pulls out two of something. The Nosferatu is grinning from ear to ear, literally. The smile then abbreviates to something much shorter and human looking when she sees the desired expression elicited from certain faces in the room. She plops the two “harnesses” on the floor.

What if you want to murder someone and decide to employ misdirection to conceal your involvement? Maybe you … Use a medium under the influence—in other words; use a harnessed individual who’s been thoroughly brainwashed to commit the homicide. What if things should go awry and the patsy gets caught before you can dispose of them properly? Ideally … Make sure that the damning evidence exonerates you. Barring that … Upon scrutiny [by the authorities] make sure that their [the patsy’s] influence cannot be proven to be of your doing.

Queen Mary looks in turn at Captain Wilhelmina Riker (guilt by association), Security Chief Helen Nash (spy), T.S. Eliot (spy), Debra McCombs (spy), and Sir Nigel Sheinwald (politician, possible spy). The queen is none too happy. It hasn’t taken much for her to jump to conclusions. So, there must be a humdinger of a backstory. And, there sure is.

The assumption: Evidently … The Havenites weren’t the only ones who were playing for high stakes.

People like T.S. and Sir Nigel have made it no secret how they feel about Haven visa vie pan nationalism and its Typhoid Mary [Queen Mary], and how they wish that somehow the “problem” [both the queen and her politics] would just “go away”. Upon seeing the harnesses, by her [the queen’s] way of thinking: Looks like the Federation made a run at doing just that.

Likewise those same players that see Queen Mary and her politics as a problem are just as foolishly outspoken about their view that the relationship between Haven and Ancient Mia is “ill advised” and seen by them [the Federation] as something that the Dragon [Ancient Mia] should seriously reconsider—that her neutrality where Haven is concerned would be “looked upon in a much more favorable light” by the Federation and humanity at large. Ancient Mia: Yet, another troublesome female that the Federation sees as a threat to them achieving a stranglehold on Haven and wished that she too would just “go away”.

That possessed maid from the Hilton and what she saw: something hooked into the backs of Xi and Sam, erupting through their clothes.

Of all the loose ends and red herrings, her [Sam’s] intuition told her that this [presented properly] just couldn’t be dismissed. It reeks of someone’s premeditation—for example, the Federation’s, if you’re so inclined and at least one person in this room is for sure.

The maid’s description could fit a select number of paranormal entity events [aka creatures]. That’s where presentation comes into play. The suspension of disbelief: An audience for various reasons, sometimes purely self-serving ones, is willing to accept your story as gospel—loose ends, red herrings, inconsistences, other reasonable and unreasonable explanations, and etc, aside—if your storytelling is to their liking—just like a lawyer’s summation in any judicial case—i.e. the fictitious Perry Mason or renown real life attorneys like the famous Patrick McCarthy or up-n-coming barrister David M. Hocking, Esq. Conversely, if you are not up to par and don’t hit the mark that same audience—with the same baggage of beliefs, life experiences, prejudices, misconceptions, preconceptions, etc—will nitpick your narrative to death and dismiss it as rubbish—a crock of shit.

It’s been called a plaintiff’s wet dream and a defendant’s worst nightmare. It’s what prosecutors euphorically experienced in the second OJ Simpson case [the civil trial that followed that fiasco of a criminal case]. The trifecta of adjudication: A plausible explanation for a sequence of events that’s not in the defendant’s favor, a sympathetic audience to the plaintiff’s tale, and the defendant not being the most credible witness in their own defense. Why the credibility issues?

You’re a spy. Even when the facts are in your favor, people tend to not believe your side of the story. That’s the problem with being a spy: you’re a professional liar and an accomplished cheat by definition [it’s your job]. As such, it doesn’t take much for people to believe the worst about you; even the people who employ you never completely trust you. Needless to say, whenever an op goes south you’re often left hung out to dry, by your superiors who at best treat you as suspect. The same can be said of politicians.

“They’re both dead, of course. They look at the things that, according to a now deceased maid at the Hilton who said in front of witnesses, were hooked into my back and Xi’s. They look like they’re native to this planet, morphology is correct to be indigenous, yet there’s’ no known terrestrial record of their species. Strange, isn’t it?” T.S. starts to say something, then thinks better of it, and keeps silent. Sir Sheinwald coughs nervously. Debra McCombs smiles impishly. The faces of Captain Riker and Security Chief Nash are unreadable. The Dame is obviously embarrassed by the revelation, and looks the part. “I assume you weren’t a party to this.”

The allegations are so obvious, that she [Sam] doesn’t have to bother uttering them. Sam coerced into murdering Queen Mary. Xi coerced into murdering Ancient Mia. Brilliant. A stroke of pure genius. The fictitious Perry Mason of Erle Stanley Gardner couldn’t have done it any better. The most effective manipulation is when the person manipulates themselves based upon their own assumptions.

“I wasn’t.” Embarrassment turns to indignation in short order. It’s a palatable undercurrent in The Dame’s voice when she continues with her rather emotional response. “Even if any Queen [the queen of any England] had asked me herself, I would NEVER stoop to betray my own Race.” In the heat of the moment, the Dame has made that leap of faith and assumed a lot, just like Sam was banking on that she would. Later, much later, when cooler heads prevail, the Dame will have a completely different point of view—it will be detached and professional—such is her modus operandi.

Remember: in her day job, her real life, Dame Chillingsworth bosses spies, is not herself a spy, is very familiar with the deviousness of spies, and, as such, is predisposed to at best treat them as suspect. The “Napoleonic Code”, the presumption of guilt, taken to the extreme because spies are the accused: Guilty until proven innocent beyond a shred of doubt.

“I figured as much. And, Queen Mary is too smart to be a party to anything so stupid as the coercing of Xi into murdering his cousin Ancient Mia. But … being human, the queen here and her husband the king will still ally themselves with the Federation—choosing to overlook the allegation that they [the Federation] also tried to coerce me into murdering her [the queen].” The girl pauses for effect, and then continues her summation. “This reeks of male egotism at its most arrogant and bombastic—and it screams Section. Likely, Ms. McCombs would have advised you two against such alleged action and you would have summarily ignored her. Now, it’s just as likely in the fallout that you Mr. Eliot will be forced into early retirement and Ms. McCombs will succeed you Mr. Eliot.” Sam winks at McCombs. “As for you, Sir Sheinwald, whether your Queen was party to this alleged act or not, if she was she’d never admit to it on or off the record anyways, it’s also very likely that you too will be sent packing once Dame Chillingsworth has had words with your boss [your Britain’s queen]. Of course, there’s no proof that these things [the harnesses] are your [the Federation’s] doing—no smoking gun. No matter, even if you had succeeded in allegedly having a coerced Xi destroy his cousin [Ancient Mia], the Dragons [who would have figured it out] would not have been so forgiving like the Havenites. Likely, you’ll also had some lame backstory concocted that although you’ll were not harnessed you too were somehow under their influence, forced against your will to do their bidding—which would explain the sham that you tried to perpetrate on me on the Enterprise while I was being brainwashed. Well, no matter. Things ended well after all. The good guys triumphed, and the bad guys lost. I so love happy endings.”