Be sober, be diligent. The devil walks among you, seeking someone to devour.
Sobrii estote robusti. Diabolus ambulat in medio vestri, quaerens quem devoret.
Phantasm—The residents of a small town have begun dying under strange circumstances, leading young Mike (Michael Baldwin) to investigate. After discovering that the Tall Man (Angus Scrimm), the town’s mortician, is killing and reanimating the dead as misshapen zombies, Mike seeks help from his older brother, Jody (Bill Thornbury), and local ice cream man Reggie (Reggie Bannister). Working together, they try to lure out and kill the Tall Man, all the while avoiding his minions and a deadly silver sphere.
Meanwhile, Number One sodomizes Number Seven. When Number One pauses, standing up to savor her repast, she is immediately taken back by a rapidly-unfolding couturial transformation.
Right before Number One’s very own eyes. As if Number Seven is a Dragon whose outfit is a feature composed in turn of clothes and accessories that are themselves features, Number Seven’s Alice Seven morphs into an Ulrika Jonsson.
What is an Ulrika Jonsson? It’s sort of a cross between an Alice Seven and an Alice Quinn. Prudz, perls, and thinz. That white satin longline 6-suspender corselette, from an Alice Quinn et al. Blazer, bikini bottoms, tights, miniskirt, and boots, from an Alice Seven. Bikini bottoms worn underneath her fishnet hosiery. A virtual purse. Strait hair. No gender-bending Parts. No barbwire garters. No BDD. No Koenigseggs. An adult version of the underage, nice, nasty Parochial schoolgirl—i.e., that legal substitute for the pedophile in a tight spot who’s on the cheap for a fix, so to speak.
This is the template that the robotgirl assumes in her Borg drone alcove, when her metaphysical self merges back into her physical self. This merger results in the “real” Kirstjen reconstituting herself. Signaling that fun and games are over, and in more ways than one.
Again. As if Number Seven is a Dragon whose outfit is a feature composed in turn of clothes and accessories that are themselves features, the short-lived Ulrika Jonsson morphs into a Lindy aka a Lindsey Vonn. But it’s a Lindy signaling a profound difference in the robotgirl.
The copiously subservient Number Seven, is her smartass Kirstjen self again. Her physical self is now completely immune to involuntary ownership by anyone or anything, just like her metaphysical self—i.e., change of ownership has to be with her blessing.
Kirstjen unhooks from the alcove. Number One steps back. Smiling broadly, Kirstjen steps forward and out of the alcove. Prudz and perls. Half-slip. Koo. Careys. No eyeglasses, whatsoever, of course. High heels. Long hair galore. Lots of gloriously, teased locks. That mopp. Having fully embraced the use of features, as if she were a Dragon, means no virtual phone or purse, and no tangible phone or purse, either. Flesh-colored rubber panties in the retro style of 1960’s bikini bottoms, thus they are skimpy, though far less cheeky than the contemporary barely-there style of those faux pu snakeskin bikini bottoms—i.e., in today’s terms, the rubber panties are bikini briefs and the snakeskin bikini bottoms are a thong. That vintage white satin longline 6-suspender corselette, which is unapologetically torturous. No hosiery, fishnets or otherwise. Long, bare, shapely, silky legs—flawless—miles and miles of lily-white perfection. No gender-bending Parts. No barbwire garters. No BDD. No Koenigseggs. What you would expect of a Lindy, with the retro rubber bikini-style bottoms as examples of the very minor differences between this incarnation and the previous version of the Lindy that the girl sported. The jaw dropping difference is that this Lindy is her new de facto standard. Kirstjen has finally, and suddenly, come of age. Gone forever are her fixations with ugly or being a she-male—if she does ugly and/or she-male in the future, it will solely be in the capacity of a role for purely-twisted fetish reasons, or to sate the cravings of others, or as a disguise so that she can hide in plain sight.
Cold. Aloof. Haughty. Stiff-backed. Stern. Severe. Removed. And all likewise adjectives apply. As such, it’s as if she’s doing a spot-on imitation of Star Trek’s most famous, sexpot Vulcan, Ms. Spock. Shades, undertones of being a … God … and not just any run-of-the-mill God, either. Then, what God, in question? That blue-eyed flaxen-haired sex bomb Goddess of the British Domain … sometimes glamour model, sometimes figure model, sometimes showgirl, sometimes Playboy Centerfold … June Wilkinson. Kirstjen is sporting, as her new standard, the variation of a Lindsey Vonn preferred by June Wilkinson.
A frown of a mouth that shrieks of loathing and disdain even when that’s not the wearer’s intent.
A slender, buxom, leggy calculator. A two-legged abacus.
A skilled dominatrix, who can play the role of a consummate submissive.
The ultimate Blonde Bombshell, and therefore the ultimate Bombshell.
The Bomb …
“Hello, Toy. Destroyer of Atlantis. Eater of Worlds.”
My choice cut of meat, ever an obsessed fan of peek-a-boo and so much worse.
“It’s been a very long time since I’ve been called that. Are you a stalker? I’ve always craved stalkers.”
“I should be as obsessed about you as Tobar.”
“Every girl needs a habit to feed.”
“Yes, she does.”
Toy is having trouble containing her glee. That’s about the time that the other shoe drops.