Murder on Mars, Chapter 30

A man must have drawn that, my breasts look ridiculous!

Velvet Buzzsaw. After paintings by an unknown artist are discovered, a supernatural force enacts revenge on those who have allowed their greed to get in the way of art.

The Lucy who exits the morgue, hours later, looks like she’s doing an Alice Quinn, but she’s not. For that usage, off the top of your head, list the discrepancies, subtle or otherwise? Same voice, but no accent—i.e., Lucy’s real voice. It’s very matter-of-fact in tone—straightforward, unemotional, but, not the least bit mechanical in delivery. Prudz, although gloves are not a requirement for that usage. In the here-and-now, a half-slip and Parts are optional. A half-slip is a requirement, for that usage.

It’s more of a fusion of an Alice Quinn with bits and pieces of a Sarah Palin, and dashes of Miss Prudence “Plan” B thrown in for good measure. As such, Grune, thins, perls, the aforementioned prudz, Koo, careys, satin corselette, rubber panties, and, for this outing, a matching satin half-slip. Bolshoi-bare, of course. Still, Parts delete—i.e., no junk shoved in the crotch of her latex knickers, in spite of the proverbial screaming of the girl’s nethers to be strapped.

Bottomline. In no mode, whatsoever. Just being herself, circa early-to-mid 1960’s. A somewhat-dated appearance, to say the least. A very prim and proper, young lady. Top heavy, wasp waist, leggy. A bland expression which conveys complete and utter emotional detachment even when that’s not its wearer’s emotional state. That bland expression, is also in no way, shape, or form, the tell of a bland personality. Classic lines on an otherwise-contemporary, young, smoking-hot chick. Stern. Conservative. Stiff. Stiff-backed. Point of reference, because we crave labels? Her standard. A prudish standard which is best described as bland.

Although her standard is prudish, this sexually-flexible girl, this swinger, is clearly not a prude, nor should she ever be mistaken for one. The cleavage-enhancing bullet bra of her corset and no blouse, coupled with a brief pencil skirt and “fuck me” high heels, should be your most obvious hints. Miss Debra meets Miss Manners—i.e., a Miss Handcock of Standards & Practices. Emily Post is positively green with envy.

How can she be so bland and not again be a creepy, unattractive, frumpy cunt? Hers is a hard, pretty face unmarred by the bland expression it’s wearing, and a young, smoking-hot body that’s deliciously poured into an equally-bland, yet revealing outfit. The result is a very pretty, well-endowed grown woman who personifies severity and restraint, and you crave to fuck her every which way and loose. A proper Victorian gentleman or lady would call it The Erotic Art of Sexual Repression. In other words, in 1950s terms, she’s: The Tingler.

Bottomline. She’s neither creepy nor is she unattractive, but she is frumpy. Her bland is thus a contradiction in terms: a frump with a hard, pretty face and a smoking-hot body? In a very real sense, yes. Her bland comes off as an affectation of being haughty. Yet, her look has nothing to do with her being aloof, let alone disdainful or supercilious. It just is, what it is, nothing more and nothing less.

Underneath the dowdy, form-fitting suitcoat of her dowdy, form-fitting skirt-suit. Nestled in the small of her back, gripping the boned waistband of her drab business suit’s hi-waist miniskirt, is her Russian parochial. Likewise, in the front, just ahead of her hip, are her hardshell snakeskin cigarette purse side-by-side with her holstered phone, purse and phone holster gripping the waistband of her brief skirt—this time, rightside, but sometimes it can be leftside mounting for her purse and holstered phone.

Dark looks, so-called “brunette” looks, because of her heavily-applied Bolshoi-bare makeup. But, even without said makeup, she, akin to the fictional Alice Quinn as portrayed by actress Olivia Taylor Dudley, still has those “brunette” looks. With makeup, she just has them in spades. Hard, pretty looks that shriek in a hoarse, grating voice: “Dominatrix!”

There’s been more than just a changing of the guard, so to speak. The girl’s phone and its holster are knockoffs. Generics that are as good as the brand-name originals that they’ve been reversed engineered from, and they’re considerably cheaper. Her smartphone is a Huawei knockoff and her Wanzhou-style holster is a Meng knockoff. Meng is the hi-tech proprietary brand of Alibaba. Whose generics? Sentient one-offs of her own handiwork—i.e., her own skool!

Next on her list of gear scheduled for replacement? Her Russian parochial. Once that’s been swapped out for her own skool, she plans on continuously improving her entire line of generics, with the intent that they become considerably better than the brand-names they’ve usurped. No plans for ever going public with her skool. Just “toys” of her own invention for her private use. But, Wal-Mart has made her a very tempting offer to exclusively handle her wares if she were to change her mind.