Kirstjen remembers every detail of what has happened to her during her enslavement to Auntie as blank Kirstjen: sexist, degrading, demeaning, exploitative … she loves it.
Her next big thing?!
Underneath the covers, where it really counts, there is NO meaningful difference between the personality of the “real” Kirstjen and that of the “shame nun” Kirstjen. In essence, Kirstjen’s shame-nun is just an uber robotic version of the sadomasochistic swinger that Kirstjen is.
Would she willingly and willfully, through the agency of a Crueler, turn herself into its flesh-n-blood robot slave/enslaver in the same way that Auntie already has?!
Kirstjen enters Auntie’s wheelhouse, but Auntie is nowhere to be found. Nor is she in the head by the dumpster. As Kirstjen exits the alley, somehow, someway, she’s whisked off to somewhere else.
An anonymous dungeon/torture chamber/laboratory that would be a treatment room in a Victorian Era insane asylum. The room is fully automated as it would be in the Victorian Era.
A painstaking reproduction or a vintage original? Everything looks authentic. Nonetheless, it’s hideous design is clearly that of a Mindless Machine, and clearly not of a biological’s invention.
Dark and dank. The stomach-churning stench. Her confines are filthy, smelly, and infested. Slimy walls, much of it carpeted with contagious parasitic sewer moss. Evidence that bats once inhabited the vaulted ceiling is the bat shit that covers most of the floor.
There’s a pool of raw sewage, rendering the space into a grotto or an indoor swamp of sorts. Things scurry or slither about in the shadows. Things that make your flesh crawl, when you glimpse them.
Buried in a pile of coal in a corner bin are female remains of various persuasions in various stages of decomposition, some of which are skeletons; think: fodder for a boneyard customizing base resin kit.
During the Victorian Era, experimentation, torture, degradation, humiliation, bondage, and discipline, were cornerstones of treating mental illness.
There is a Crueler, of Victorian Era vintage. Auntie is strapped down, oblivious to the world, stretched out just short of being pulled apart, clothes ripped to shreds reduced to rags. Zero personal hygiene. Features offline. Filthy, smelly, and infested. Teeth so filthy they look rotten and snaggle tooth. Filthy tongue. Fetid breath. Long ragged finger and toe nails. Patches of her dirty white skin are so dirty they are black. Infectious sewer moss covers the inside of her thighs. Leeches cover her left cheek and right breast. No gloves or shoes. Strapping butch, of course. Foaming at the mouth. A ball-gag prevents her lunatic shrieks from being heard. Collar (leashed) and shackles (handcuffs and ankle cuffs) that are padlocked and hardened. She still has her legs instead of tentacles.
Auntie looks like some vile, animalistic thing who you crave to feed upon you—à la 30 DAYS OF NIGHT. Looks can be deceiving, but in this case they are not. Animalistic implies mindless, bestial. In her case: mindless, yes; bestial, yes. She is a Barbed Wire Doll (a Crueler’s mindless drone) in transition.
Auntie’s disheveled hair is geriatric blonde. Her unkept jeannie is yellow-blonde liberally streaked with white and grey. A lunatic hairdo befitting a lunatic.
The table is doing things to her: lobotomies, narcotic injections, rape, blood-drinking, blood-letting, etc.
Notably. An appendage of the Crueler restraining Auntie is using that cursed pair, the silver syringe and ice pick, on Auntie.
Increasingly, Auntie devolves. Culminating in? Glowing eyes. Tentacles from the waist down. Razorblade smile. Joker’s smile. Killer tongue. Insane. Mindless. Struggling against her restraints, as if she’s feral and robotic. A feral robot. A Barbed Wire Doll (a Crueler’s mindless drone) who is now fully transitioned into her Lovecraftian form, a Lovecraftian hybrid of a Kraken and a Cthulhu, where she has a hideous parody of a woman’s face. Total subjugation to the Crueler.
When the Crueler’s straps finally release Auntie, Auntie goes about doing seemingly pointless repetitive tasks, as if she’s demented, stuck in a fugue, looping. Some of the thick cables crisscrossing the floor connect the Crueler to this mindless robot Auntie; cables attached to Auntie’s backside the length of her spine.
Tellingly. Kirstjen also is “presented” a clean and pristine version of “this”, with an emphasis on the ultra-extreme severity of an out-n-out automaton. That is, robot purity easily mistaken for, and interchangeable with, mindlessness. Contagious. Next level Borg (NLB)?
“Clean robot” versus “dirty robot”. The “clean robot” Barbed Wire Doll version, the Julie Newmar’s “My Living Doll”, is clearly more “compelling” to Kirstjen. Irresistibly so.
Briefly, Kirstjen is “presented” herself “reimagined” as a Barbed Wire Doll, naked and shackled, in a corner; her generous mouth fitted with a ball-gag. Naked, except for thick-readers, perls, prudz, and strapping butch—there’s also a grotesque biomechanical harness attached to her backside the length of her spine; providing a wireless connection between her and her controlling Crueler. Stretched out between the ceiling and the floor. Hanging from the ceiling via the shackles binding her wrists. Weighted down to the floor via the shackles binding her ankles. A whip lashing her exposed backside from shoulder blades to buttocks, including her legs from thighs to ankles. She’s overdosed on agony. Some of the thick cables crisscrossing the floor connect the Crueler to this nameless mindless whip. In point of face, thick cables, akin to large withering snakes, connect the Crueler to all of the torture devices in the dungeon and to the dungeon itself, not just to the flogger.
This “reimagined” Barbed Wire Doll version of herself has zero personal hygiene. Features offline. Hair disheveled. Filthy, smelly, and infested. Teeth so filthy they look rotten and snaggle tooth. Filthy tongue. Fetid breath. Long ragged finger and toe nails. Patches of her dirty white skin are so dirty they are black. Infectious sewer moss covers the inside of her thighs. Leeches cover her left cheek and right breast.
Not yet fully transitioned into the razorblade smile, Joker’s smile, and killer tongue, and she still has her legs instead of tentacles.
Insane. Mindless. Struggling against her restraints, as if she’s feral and robotic.
Tellingly. Kirstjen also is “presented” a clean and pristine version of “this”, with an emphasis on the ultra-extreme severity of an out-n-out automaton. That is, robot purity easily mistaken for, and interchangeable with, mindlessness. Contagious. Next level Borg?
“Clean robot” versus “dirty robot”. The “clean robot” Barbed Wire Doll version, the Julie Newmar’s “My Living Doll”, is clearly more “compelling” to Kirstjen. Irresistibly so.
Then. Just like that. Kirstjen is transported back to Auntie’s wheelhouse, somehow, someway. But. Auntie is nowhere in sight. Nor is Auntie in the head by the dumpster. Kirstjen exits the alley, and this time she’s not abducted.
Subsequent visits prove futile. Seemingly, Auntie is gone for good. Gone without a trace.
Time passes. During which, Kirstjen is 24×7 her default the hard pretty thirty-something Kirstjen, who, of course, is not wearing eyeglasses and is not strapping butch.