— Posted in Always into Darkness, Murder on Mars

Murder on Mars, Chapter 14

Fight the Power

 

A caricature of femininity. That is the definition of a corselette. Figuratively speaking, it is the seamless fusion of a bullet bra and a girdle corset. The artificially exaggerated curves of its bullet bra gives the wearer’s bosom that sexy “missile” look, resulting in an especially voluptuous chest and profound, thought-provoking cleavage. In other words, projectile breasts.

Torpedo bras go perfectly with skin-tight sweaters. This tight sweater-bullet bra pairing is dubbed the “pointy look”. The longline open-bottom girdle corset rigidly enforces Christian Dior’s “New Look”, a Neo-Victorianism which persists to the present day, with no end in sight.

After the lean fashion years produced by decades of haute couture’s post-modernism and the abortive feminist movement, women got their curves back, and they got them back in spades. Rising from the ashes of banality, like a Phoenix, came the much anticipated arrival of Dior’s “New Look” which had a lasting impact on style throughout the world.

When the trend arrived in 1947, the Dior revolution touted the return of the severe “hourglass” figure of the Victorian era. The New Look was characterized by round hips, belted jackets, prominent breasts, flattened derrieres, and an ultra-cinched waist due to the return of the corset, much to the dismay of Coco Chanel, who fought to liberate women from the torture device.

Women reclaimed the stylish curviness of their bodies through the use of lingerie. Thus, girdles, waspies, and waist-cinchers made their way back into closets, making it possible for women to embody the idealized Dior silhouette and the Victorian aesthetic.

None of this is comfortable, of course, but society ceaselessly craves to recapture some kind of lost femininity, which continues to give free reign to the most eccentric of fantasies.

 

She’s gotten herself snatched ….

Haughty, aloof, seemingly unattainable. 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. This describes her to a tee.

Lucy is wearing perls, prudz, a Koo Stark, and Careys. Underneath her suit she’s wearing her usual white corselette and a flesh-colored thong. A hardshell snakeskin cigarette purse and an iPhone XM grip the waistband of her skirt underneath her suit coat. Bolshoi-bare makeup, of course. Her long silky yellow blonde hair is worn in a Grune—that severe, outdated, very becoming hairdo. Hands klaw, when idle. Knobb. In other words. Her standard Sarah Palin circa early-to-mid 1960’s.

On the round table in front of her is a pair of skin-z. Those black shoulder-high kid gloves from Rubbermaid. Setting beside those long leather gloves are a pair of sternns. She is being implicitly “asked” to stop upstaging the looks of her betters. The girl complies. As such, her Sarah Palin gives way to her most recent acquisition, her early-to-mid 1960’s tight-assed Professor Wendy Carr PhD. Grune gives way to sternka. Prudz are pursed. She slips on her skin-z and her sternns. Flats in place of high heels—i.e., the Careys also get pursed.

In place of Bolshoi-bare, plaintive makeup overamplifies the hardness of her otherwise pretty face, resulting in a severe distortion which renders her beautiful face very unattractive—i.e., a hard, pretty face is now a hard, plain one. Sternka—i.e., a dowdy, serviceable hairdo. Dead-straight hair, centered-parted, yanked up and back into a tight bun resting on the nape of her neck. Golden blonde hair that is now geriatric—i.e., a pale yellow, that’s liberally streaked with grey and white. Sternns—i.e., those disfiguring eyeglasses. Horn rimmed glasses with thick, coke-bottle lenses. Unflattering footwear: women’s black ballet flats. Koo—i.e., drab ladies [skirt] suit mandatory: flecked gray tweed with no accents whatsoever, severe, form fitting, and figure flattering. Matching strictured pencil skirt, with high fitting banded waist, and a miniskirt hemline. Her corset’s obligatory bullet bra which overstates the size of her bosom, and her suit’s chaste high-waist pencil skirt. Frumpy clothes, nothing the least bit flashy, for a decidedly frumpy girl.

Staid. Severe. Stiff backed. Lucy is easily mistaken for a sexually repressed, forty-something spinster who’s pushing fifty hard with a sour, spiteful attitude, even though she’s in her thirties and she’s not sexually repressed in any sense of the word.

Her looks are now the antithesis of what they were when she first arrived. Lucy is a legitimate traffic stopper. Now, you shouldn’t want to give her a first look, let alone a second one. And most won’t. Yet, for those of you for whom this is bait, you do.

The girl’s voice is now hard and stern. Deep for a woman. Raspy. Her manner and mannerisms are now masculine, too. There’s an accent. It sounds like a New Jersey accent, but it’s cultured and smooth, befitting an academician from back East.

Lucy’s obscene bun and strictured suit, along with that dyke voice, manner, and mannerisms of hers. All contribute to create an overall impression of a grotesquely deviant femininity. Maybe she’s one of them [a lesbian]? If so, she’s a bulldyke.

In summation. Tight-assed shrew. The wannabe old biddy. Conservative, but not entirely un-fun or completely anti-feminine.

The grand hall is hexagonal. Free Masons, some of whom Lucy knows and many more whom she doesn’t, are sitting in high-back chairs along the walls, wearing fancy robes and the ornate golden necklace of Freemasonry. She hears the bang of a gavel, announcing that this meeting to which she has been summoned is being brought to order.

A few moments ago, the former blonde bombshell was exo-suited and armed to the teeth on Mars, about to be beset by Dragons. Now, she is an unarmed harpy and wearing a staid business suit in Prince Albert Hall, the Grand Masonic Lodge of The Council, somewhere outside of the confines of Creation.

There is a murmur of voices. Nothing that Lucy can understand. Then, the hall’s main entrance doors swing open all by their lonesome and Lucy hears a very familiar voice. It is her Baroness, Baroness Kroger. The robed figure of Baroness Kroger comes into view from nowhere fast.

“Don’t worry, you will be returned in time to rejoin your comrades at ‘play’, without missing out of any of the real fun. What passes for fun for you young ones, that is.”

Lucy says nothing. She holds her head down and makes no attempt to make eye contact with her better. Her hands are held behind her back. The girl has assumed the standing position of submission.

“There has been a murder on Mars. At the behest of that planet’s patron deity, the god Ares, we have chosen you for investigative oversight. Mars Gov has given its approval, and has offered its full cooperation in this matter. You will be paired with a convicted murderer and serial killer, a half-Angel named Simon. Do you know him?”

“I know of him, my Baroness.”

“Professionally?”

“By reputation, my Baroness.”

“Well then, it’s time for you to make his acquaintance. Your Mrs. Emma Peel to his Sir John Steed, so to speak. Our, Avengers. Comments? Questions? Concerns?”

Lucy looks up and smiles, looking Baroness Kroger dead-straight in the eyes. That ravenous look of hers paints her hard, plain face.

“And what are the rules of engagement, my Baroness?”

“None.”

A gong sounds. The meeting is adjourned. Without any fanfare, whatsoever, Lucy is back on Mars, with the others. She looks and is dressed just like she was upon her ingress of the Masonic Lodge—i.e., the classic Nordic blonde bombshell showcased by a standard Sarah Palin circa early-to-mid 1960’s. Not the bulldyke shrew Dr. Wendy Carr of her egress. But. She’s slinging her phase rifle and, underneath her suit coat, she’s wearing her phase pistols in her double holster rig strapped around her waist. As promised, Lucy hasn’t missed out on any of the real fun.