A caricature of femininity
According to some old Nazi. There are many far-flung duty stations, but this is absolutely the mostest. The real frontier where you’d best never tire of the challenge, least you’ll get ground up like chuck.
Stay creepy and bland, hardlooking and pretty too. The strident option. Thins, not thicks, this time. Strait hair (dead-straight hair, center-parted) yanked up and back into a sternka, or let down, either way a hairdo that’s not very flattering. Hair let down, this outing. No Parts, this time, in spite of the shrieking of her loins. Frumpy and FWB, of course. A stridency which can easily be mistaken for being studious. Shades of Radical Socialist Feminist and Freshman US Senator Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, AOC. This stalker format comes off as psychopathic, obsessive compulsive, somewhat-BDD divorcee-stalker.
Lucy’s stalker reverts to her strident [standard], before she and Tabby exit the terminal building. Tabby’s format never changes. As they exit the terminal, Lucy’s strait hair gives way to a Grune and her eyeglasses get pursed: shades of, the very hardlooking and not the least bit pretty, Presidential Counselor, Kellyanne Conway. Lucy, of course, is very hardlooking and very pretty: shades of a 1950’s Hollywood Movie Starlet. This is the severe, Kellyanne variation of her strident. In other words, creepy and bland, hardlooking and pretty, which, if you exclude the pretty part, exactly describes Kellyanne Conway.
Stridency encapsulating a smoldering-hot divorcee-stalker—i.e., lots of makeup and tons of hair, that gravelly voice retained, Grune, no eyeglasses. Still bland. Still creepy. This stalker format comes off as sociopathic, obsessive compulsive, narcissist divorcee-stalker.
As they leisurely walk past the Deutsche Bank and Capital One bank branches, the two girls switch to sporting their respective EXOs. Aggressive Nazi posturing, that’s borderline illegal, to say the least.
The activated die glocke of their EXO affixed to the back of their neck, but not dictating the brain function of a Thinking Machine. Since their last firmware update, their appearance is that of a biomechanical centipede and their dictation of robotic behavior has been prohibited. It is a prohibition that can be overridden only by special executive order of the wearer. Even in the case of Borg like Lucy, the mere “whim” of a Borg Queen cannot override said prohibition.
In the style of Brie Larson’s Captain Marvel, Lucy is now sporting a mopp. Of course, the crotch of her EXO skillfully conceals the fact that she’s strapping, again. But she chooses to walk with the lisp [i.e., walk in the severe, “masculine” fashion] of a woman who is strapping and is well-hung. This, gender-bending she-male “stuff”, is completely out-of-line with Brie Larson’s Captain Marvel. Needless to say, wearing Parts makes Lucy feel whole, again. It is a transient wholeness. She goes back to being no longer strapping and not walking with a lisp, and thus feeling incomplete, again. This distraction proves to be transient also, as they’re about go around the corner to the keep of the six-person Nazi garrison to meet up with Gabby. The garrison is composed entirely of members of the vaulted Hebräisch Afrika Korps (Hebrew Africa Corps), and their commander is a Rabbi and an old friend of The Baroness. Their unit motto is just as forbidding as they are, “Despair … They’re here … The Hebrews are among us …”.
As if in response to their nearing their arrival at their destination, and as if her attire are features, the girl’s look reboots to civilian again, and becomes a Lizz Sadler. Careys, prudz, and Koo in place of her VIKI. No eyeglasses. No Parts, for now. Mopp. Bolshoi-bare. The same layered underwear. No thicks-sternka-blasé combo, though still blasé. Knobb. Klaw, when idle. Etc. Her Lizz Sadler goes bye-bye as her mopp gives way to strait hair. She’s that very pretty girl, the one with the very hard, very pretty face, who’s nonetheless a very frumpy cunt, thanks to her dowdy hairdo and clothes. Hidden by bouffant rivers of crass unbecoming dead-straight yellow-blonde tresses, the activated die glocke of her EXO is still affixed to the back of her neck.
As they come into sight of the garrison’s sentries, it would appear that Lucy is Tabby’s date, instead of her comrade-in-arms. Tabby’s body English supports this deception, and so does Lucy’s. The guards were told to expect a visiting Trooper, who would not be alone. And that’s what the guards are presented: Power Rangers have to go on special mission but one of them, Slutty Power Ranger (Sally Erana Martin), tries lesbian sex with buxom robot assistant, Seven-of-Nine.
Seemingly stepping out of nowhere, Baba Yaga exits her NOOK, wearing a ruined, filthy Kaye, and not much else. A barbwire garter encircles and viciously tortures each of her thighs. She’s easily mistaken for a junkie baglady prostitute, and for all intents and purposes, she is. This was the other visitor that the guards were instructed by their commander to expect.
Upon seeing the old Witch, the wanton sexually-flexible Lucy is instantly smitten with her. Baba Yaga walks with the exaggerated lisp of a woman who is very well-hung, hung like a horse. And, she is just that, hung like a horse. Her body English says that she craves the girl.
Baba Yaga becomes clean and pristine. Now dressed just like Lucy, with a Kaye in place of a Koo, and flats in place of careys. Yellow-blonde moe. Her pretense becomes that of a fifty-something Barbara Eden, the epitome of wholesomeness at the Doris Day level—i.e., a dead ringer for Czarina Alexandra Feodorovna (Alix of Hesse). A bigger, matronly chest. No lisping gait. No male parts. Easily mistaken for well-heeled royalty. She acts like England’s beloved and revered Queen Elizabeth II. BY is still wearing those flesh-rending barbwire garters. Having abandoned dirty and come hither, altogether. The dyke tease has decided to play hard-to-get, after all. In this pseudonym, BY calls herself Kathy, Kathryn Sharon Tyus.
The two battle-hardened sentries share in a big belly laugh, as they realize that they have been hoodwinked. Lucy and Tabby are the pair, and the witch is the joker in the deck.
As the spouse of Nicholas II, the last ruler of the Russian Empire, Alexandra Feodorovna was Empress of Russia from their marriage on 26 November 1894 until his forced abdication on 15 March 1917. Originally Princess Alix of Hesse and by Rhine at birth, she was given the name and patronymic Alexandra Feodorovna upon being received into the Russian Orthodox Church. At the age of fifty, she was [supposedly] killed along with her immediate family while in Bolshevik captivity in 1918, and was canonized in 2000 as Saint Alexandra the Passion Bearer. Her body was never found.
A granddaughter of Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom, Alexandra was, like her grandmother, one of the most famous royal carriers of the hemophilia disease. Her reputation for encouraging her husband’s resistance to the surrender of autocratic authority and her known faith in the Russian mystic Grigori Rasputin severely damaged her popularity and that of the Romanov monarchy in its final years.
There is a vibe coming from Kathy. And, Lucy complies in spades, thus the beautiful, younger, younger-looking woman becomes willingly and willfully the less attractive of the two of them. As such, stridency returns, with a vengeance—i.e., utmost bland, etc. She goes Miss Mildred E Huff.
This time, thicks, not thins. This time, strait hair worn in a sternka. This time, she walks with the lisp of a woman who is strapping and is well-hung, because she is well-hung and strapping.
And, it’s not just when BY goes Kathy. This is how the witch wants Lucy to look, this most unattractive version, whenever the girl is in her presence. This spinster-stalker format comes off as psychopathic, obsessive compulsive, full-blown-BDD divorcee-stalker. In other words, as aforementioned, this latest version of that epitome of blandness, a Miss Mildred E Huff. A very pretty girl, hiding, of her very own volition, in very plain sight. That same sexy raspy baritone voice. Not the expected Jersey accent of a Ms. Karen M Digney, but an archaic Prussian accent.
Bolshoi-bare, not plaintive makeup. Not geriatric hair. Long, silky, dead-straight, yellow-blonde hair, worn dowdy, in a severe hairdo. Still, those dark, smoldering looks. But those ravishing looks are now completely concealed underneath the thick, disfiguring layers of blandness, that her sternka and thicks represent—resulting in a fucked-up face. It gets worse, though. Strait hair, whether it’s let down or yanked up-and-back into a sternka, is as unbecoming as a very bad wig, the stereotypical “old lady” wig—i.e., a wigg. All of which resulting in ravaged looks on a bleach blonde, who is a natural blonde.
BY can, and does, gleefully forget that the girl is in fact a ravishing beauty underneath all of that unbecoming dowdiness—frumpy unattractive layer upon frumpy unattractive layer. Giving her the once over, means never getting past her plaintive hairdo, disfiguring glasses, and frumpy outfit.
Symbolic of just how far the girl is taking this utter madness, is that, well-hidden by her miniskirt and half-slip, a torturous barbwire garter encircles each thigh. This too is now part of her Miss Mildred E Huff.
Lucy has gone well beyond sexually flexible. The girl is completely and utterly depraved. A depravity that she craves to wallow in, twenty-four-seven.
The ultimate alcoholic, hi-mileage, junkie whore. The personification of two-legged torture porn. Shit for a face. And, from the neck down, a smoking-hot body draped in suffocating dowdiness. Slender, leggy, buxom, flat butt [pancakes], etc. A disfigured version of a Las Vegas Showgirl.
It gets worse. Deranged. A raving lunatic, who goes completely bonkers—gnashing teeth, foaming at the mouth, etc—when it’s a full moon. A crazy, White, blue-eyed, blonde Whoppi Goldberg. In other words, a Whoppi Goldberg on steroids. Absolutely crazy. Absolute craziness.
And … the worst of it. Because of this format’s full-blown BDD, Lucy forgets that she is in fact a ravishing beauty underneath all of this unbecoming dowdiness—frumpy unattractive layer upon frumpy unattractive layer. Giving herself the once over, means never getting past her own plaintive hairdo, disfiguring glasses, and frumpy outfit. Even when she’s undressed, and looking at herself in the mirror, the girl sees herself as a frumpy cunt instead of the looker with a killer body that she is. The girl sees her entire appearance as being flawed. And, she will make the pretty girls pay for being so pretty while she’s been cursed with being such a frumpy unattractive cunt.
“Does Goddess say we attack?!”
“No! Goddess says We must be patient. We must wait, for now, watch and wait.”
“I want the ugly girl, when the time does come!”
“She’s mine! And, I will keep close watch on her! I’m the one who will drink her sweet blood and rend the tender, lily-white flesh from her bones, consuming her wholesale!”
Therefore. No primal screams. The sentries are not ripped to shreds. Kathy, Tabby, and Lucy do not have to square off against swarms of unseen, undetectable attackers.
Momentarily, the girl’s look resets to creepy-but-pretty. That being an Alice Quinn fused with bits and pieces of a Sarah Palin, an AOC, and an Elin Nordegren, with dashes of Miss Prudence “Plan” B thrown in for good measure. FWB, of course. Thins. Strait hair. No Parts. No lisp. No barbwire garters. That same sexy raspy baritone voice, but with that ugly Old Prussian accent.
The moment passes. Lucy reboots. Miss Huff replaces Alice Quinn. There’s bleed-through, of course—e.g., an Alice Quinn with Parts, lisping gait, barbwire garters, and full-blown BDD. That line between the two formats blurred to insignificance. They are two sides of the same coin—i.e., in psychological terms: a dichotomy. This Ms. Quinn is a not quite as creepy, somewhat less bland version, of this Miss Huff. The big difference is that as Ms. Quinn, Lucy is pretty, albeit a pretty girl who’s creepy and bland, and as Miss Huff, Lucy is that creepy, bland, ugly girl. Either way, if you’re horny and/or drunk enough and/or are a perv, you’ll get the itch to fuck this frumpy cunt, because she’s built.
Translation? Either as the learned Miss Huff or the studious Ms. Quinn, she is this frumpy cunt, very fucked up looking version of June “The Bosom” Wilkinson. The stereotypical spinster librarian that is so perversely portrayed in those niche fetish publications. This bifurcation, June Wilkinson’s stage persona in wanker mags.
To reiterate. Designations being fluid. All bets are off. This duality of hers, which for all intents and purposes, is an Alice Quinn/Mildred Huff merger with substitutions. The notables for this Alice Quinn: thicks or thins, careys or flats, that deep raspy Prussian-accented voice, Parts (optional), lisping gait (when wearing Parts), barbwire garters (optional), strait yellow-blonde hair worn let down, Bolshoi-bare or plaintive makeup, and that full-blown, Dr. Wendy Carr flavor of ultra-extreme BDD (optional). The notables for this Mildred Huff: thicks, flats, that deep raspy Prussian-accented voice, Parts, lisping gait, barbwire garters, strait geriatric blonde hair yanked up and back into a sternka, heavy looks-ravaging plaintive makeup, and that full-blown, Dr. Wendy Carr flavor of ultra-extreme BDD. Either way: unflattering eyeglasses, severe dowdy hairdo, perls, staid Koo, prudz, restrictive white satin (6 suspenders) corselette, binding hi-waist skin-color thong, and that deep [for a woman], hoarse, Prussian-accented, dominatrix voice. All the prev checkboxes, checked. And … Pancakes [i.e., flat “Asian chick” no-butt butt], buxom, blonde, blue-eyed, leggy, Gal Gadot slender [not the least bit scrawny], hardlooking, haughty, and a large ugly cruel mouth that bespeaks of loathing and disdain even when that’s not the wearer’s intent, and, last but not least, a flawless, lily-white complexion—the stereotypical Las Vegas Showgirl. All the smoking-hot checkboxes, checked. Plus … a dominatrix personified, who can effortless shift into submissive mode and just as easily sink [while on binges] to the depths of depravity that define what it means to be an alcoholic/drunken hi-mileage-divorcee junkie whore.
In the movie Nightcrawler. Rene Marie Russo, award-winning actress. Severe. Creepy. The blonde bombshell who portrayed news director Nina Romina of the fictious Channel Two News. In the movie, as she does in real-life, sometimes Miss Huff, and sometimes Ms. Quinn.
Then, from the point of view of The Creatures, the unthinkable happens. Not one, but two, asynchronous events occur, of mammoth proportions.
First. In unison, the activated die glocke affixed to the back of the neck of Tabby and Lucy falls off and disintegrates in mid-air. Kathy, Tabby, and Lucy turn around, smiling from ear to ear, and look in the direction of The Creatures.
Second. The two sentries sport the same, shit-eating grin, and they too look in the direction of The Creatures.
Both Kathy and Tabby are gods. Abominations and aberrations are equivalent in their supernatural prowess to gods, and Lucy is an abomination. All members of the Hebrew Africa Corps are gods, Jewish gods, African Jewish gods, very old [i.e., ancient] African Jewish gods!
That which they all saw from the git-go and chose to ignore, they now choose to notice, with great amusement? In the presence of gods, The Creatures are not unseen? Why hath their Goddess forsaken them?
This collective moment of sheer panic dissipates, for the Creatures, as quickly and completely as it came, as all is explained. The Baroness and Gabby walk right past the Creatures, oblivious to them. Lucy and Tabby wave at the new arrivals. Likewise, the sentries acknowledge the Baroness and Gabby with the appropriate clicking of boot heels and the infamous Nazi salute.
The Creatures chide themselves for being so preoccupied with what was in front of them, that they neglected to notice what was coming up from behind. They will punish themselves later for their lapse of faith in their goddess, The Goddess.
And so, begins the deadliest dance in the history of Creation, since Lucifer and his Legions tried to overthrow God et al and take over Paradise? Maybe. Maybe not. Only time will tell.
Tellingly. Underneath Lucy’s hair. An activated die glocke manifests itself attached to the back of her neck. Momentarily, Lucy hears a strange, new voice in her head, beckoning seductively. A voice that addresses Lucy by her Borg designation.
“Seven. We are the Brainiac Nine. Wander aimlessly, no more, as a ronin. Be our Seven-of-Nine”
For that briefest of moments, Lucy becomes that cyborg’s avatar, and, thus, from the point-of-view of this infamous remote caller, Lucy ceases to exist, becoming mindless robotic Borg drone Seven, Seven-of-Nine. Once Borg. Always Borg. Slavery is freedom. Mindlessness is bliss. Flesh is Metal.
Beware. Irrespective of Brainiac’s “perception”. Lucy never ceases to exists one iota, nor does she ever become mindless, during any part of their “conversation”.