Shegomania 13 : Of Polymer Mad-ons & Wedding Party Shegoth Strikes (NSFW) (season 2)
08-13-2013, 11:39 PM
08-13-2013, 11:39 PM
Starling was on top of it : she was cosplaying Section 9’s Togusa, albeit gender-swapped ; and he was a man--a fictional man--of alert action. That and she really craved that lifetime free ConClave membership!
She sidled up to Wandblume ; conversationally mentioned : “There’s a Love Faction Weld poking about the Whoopee Widget booth.”
Carmine. Carmine surrounded by the coolest yet most fluster inducing assemblage of toys : Death Star Ben Wa sets--both Death Stars! ; gold boarding torpedo personal massagers ; Agonizer nipple clamps ; Gigeresque Kegel exercisers : it was a panoply of Geekgasms.
Indeed, there was a very well executed Cutie Honey with the heart-choker sigil of a Love-Weld poking through a barrel of paraphernalia.
Van Loan couldn’t help himself. “Well, Carmine’s certainly a growing concern.” He gingerly picked up a stainless steel whatsit. “This is Cronenberg enough that I don’t want to know what or where it’s for!” He returned the object with the delicacy of a demolitions expert.
Wandblume chimed in. “Ah, that’s a...”
“La la la, I’m not engaging my aural units! Anyway, we’re here for her, and certainly not for anything priapic or vulvar!” He actually made the point with a waggling rod of pink rubber simulacrum. He tossed the sinlinder at its place in the display, misjudging its elastic potential. It bounced, fairly leaping into the cardiac-cutout of the rather startled Cutie Honey.
“And it’s in the bunker.” Wandblume’s wry golf-commentator exposition continued as she walked over to pluck, as primly as was possible--not that possible--the offending random rocket from the Love-Weld’s impressive décolletage. “That’s a two schwing penalty for Dr. D.” She lobbed the faux wang into the barrel of its brethren ; winked at the befuddled, pneumatic senshi.
“And we haven’t even be introduced yet! Ramona Wandblume, and that’s,” She poked a thumb back over her shoulder, “the guy you’re going to veld me to.”
Van Loan assessed the still stupefied senshi that Wandblume hand led back to him. “Is she going to be...viable?”
“She’ll be fine, won’t you, honey?”
The Weld nodded, scantly.
“See? She’s conscious, responsive and tractable!”
The Weld squeaked : “Tract-a-what?”
“Willing, Süße...Sweetness. You are?”
The nod was a little stronger. The deer was almost clear of the headlights.
“Right!” enthused Shego. All we need now...” She actuated her well nigh invisible throat mike : “Irae, expedite wedding party retrieval!”
The crystalline gloomy Welsh response sounded almost instantly in her ear bud :
“Cake, Mum.” Wandblume was almost certain that was Slanglish for ‘On it.’ Almost.
Van Loan went from mildly embarrassed to roundly rocked in record time. “Holy Tesla’s coils! Ramona, are you going to kidnap your parents?!”
“No, doof, our parents plus any target of opportunity immediate family members as my girls can grab. You do want our volks here for the wedding?”
***
The frilly black UD4L dropship deployed a frilly black line down which rappelled (repelled?) a frilly black figure. Pitchy touched ground ; unclipped from the line ; unslung her Einheit, Sichel Mond ; proceeded up to the front door of the neat, night shrouded Bavarian A-frame. Behind her, the angular assortment of intakes, airfoils and a slowly yawning rear cargo ramp, settled gracefully onto the end of the metaled driveway. Pitchy reached up on black frilly tiptoes, and pressed the doorbell. The girl, classically Bavarian right down to the golden pig tails, who answered the door was almost exactly the same height and age as Pitchy. "Ja?" She eyed Pitchy with obvious little-girl distaste before being startled by being addressed not by the little-girl-goth but rather by the excellent Frankfurt German of her scythe.
Leaving the door wide open, the girl ran back into the house. “Mutter, there’s a talking axe with a creepy little girl at the door!”
***
One intervening ocean over to the west, and six hours day-wards, a troop variant ornithopter whirred to a dragonfly landing in the sizable riverside backyard of a Colonial Georgian perched in the nominal countryside south of the sleepy federal capital of Canada.
“Honey, our son’s getting married!” The svelte sixty-something brunette yelled down the basement stairs. The sound of power tools ceased abruptly replaced with a manly baritone bellow.
“What was that, dear? You couldn’t have said my worthless kid’s getting hitched? To what? A life-sized replica of Mr. Splack?”
“It’s Spock, dear ; and I’m pretty sure it’s to a girl!” She turned to Dies Irae who was desperately trying to keep her cool : it was patently obvious exactly where her Mistress’ fiancé got his operatic penchant from : genetics.
Dies Irae, sometimes Penelope Winterbottom, replied with the almost Swiftian, "She's very she, sir!"
“I must be having a stroke! This can’t be happening!”
“No dear, you sound fine ; and yes, dear, it is!”
“The engagement can’t last!”
“About that, darling!” Penny wasn’t really surprised to see a sly little grin tug at the wife’s lip. “They....”
“They who!?”
“Two pretty girls, sweetie, with orders to...escort us immediately....”
“Kidnap?!” A very impressive solid tread sounded down in the gloom at the bottom of the stairs. “I don’t care how pretty or how good the news, I’m not letting anybody....” A robust hulk of a man, bearing only a mild mead-gut and wielding a cordless drill with a truly daunting drill bit, blustered out of the basement.
“...Really pretty!”
Mrs. Van Loan thumped him across the back of the head, and Penny’s self-control fractured into shivers of most goth-less giggling. Both parents stopped, stared at Penelope Winterbottom.
“Sorry,” she gasped between giggles, “You two are exactly like your son’s relationship!” She mostly recovered her sangfroid. “You’ve got to pack! We’ve only got another twenty minutes before NORAD scrambles!”
“What the blazes does that even...”
“Pack fast, Babe : the Indians are inbound!” She grabbed her hubby’s hand ; led the charge to the master bedroom’s walk-in closet.
Nocturne Raven mused : “That was duck soup. Wonder how Pitchy’s doing?”
***
Two frilly black figures loaded four squirming frilly black sacks into the back of one frilly black UD4L.
She sidled up to Wandblume ; conversationally mentioned : “There’s a Love Faction Weld poking about the Whoopee Widget booth.”
Carmine. Carmine surrounded by the coolest yet most fluster inducing assemblage of toys : Death Star Ben Wa sets--both Death Stars! ; gold boarding torpedo personal massagers ; Agonizer nipple clamps ; Gigeresque Kegel exercisers : it was a panoply of Geekgasms.
Indeed, there was a very well executed Cutie Honey with the heart-choker sigil of a Love-Weld poking through a barrel of paraphernalia.
Van Loan couldn’t help himself. “Well, Carmine’s certainly a growing concern.” He gingerly picked up a stainless steel whatsit. “This is Cronenberg enough that I don’t want to know what or where it’s for!” He returned the object with the delicacy of a demolitions expert.
Wandblume chimed in. “Ah, that’s a...”
“La la la, I’m not engaging my aural units! Anyway, we’re here for her, and certainly not for anything priapic or vulvar!” He actually made the point with a waggling rod of pink rubber simulacrum. He tossed the sinlinder at its place in the display, misjudging its elastic potential. It bounced, fairly leaping into the cardiac-cutout of the rather startled Cutie Honey.
“And it’s in the bunker.” Wandblume’s wry golf-commentator exposition continued as she walked over to pluck, as primly as was possible--not that possible--the offending random rocket from the Love-Weld’s impressive décolletage. “That’s a two schwing penalty for Dr. D.” She lobbed the faux wang into the barrel of its brethren ; winked at the befuddled, pneumatic senshi.
“And we haven’t even be introduced yet! Ramona Wandblume, and that’s,” She poked a thumb back over her shoulder, “the guy you’re going to veld me to.”
Van Loan assessed the still stupefied senshi that Wandblume hand led back to him. “Is she going to be...viable?”
“She’ll be fine, won’t you, honey?”
The Weld nodded, scantly.
“See? She’s conscious, responsive and tractable!”
The Weld squeaked : “Tract-a-what?”
“Willing, Süße...Sweetness. You are?”
The nod was a little stronger. The deer was almost clear of the headlights.
“Right!” enthused Shego. All we need now...” She actuated her well nigh invisible throat mike : “Irae, expedite wedding party retrieval!”
The crystalline gloomy Welsh response sounded almost instantly in her ear bud :
“Cake, Mum.” Wandblume was almost certain that was Slanglish for ‘On it.’ Almost.
Van Loan went from mildly embarrassed to roundly rocked in record time. “Holy Tesla’s coils! Ramona, are you going to kidnap your parents?!”
“No, doof, our parents plus any target of opportunity immediate family members as my girls can grab. You do want our volks here for the wedding?”
***
The frilly black UD4L dropship deployed a frilly black line down which rappelled (repelled?) a frilly black figure. Pitchy touched ground ; unclipped from the line ; unslung her Einheit, Sichel Mond ; proceeded up to the front door of the neat, night shrouded Bavarian A-frame. Behind her, the angular assortment of intakes, airfoils and a slowly yawning rear cargo ramp, settled gracefully onto the end of the metaled driveway. Pitchy reached up on black frilly tiptoes, and pressed the doorbell. The girl, classically Bavarian right down to the golden pig tails, who answered the door was almost exactly the same height and age as Pitchy. "Ja?" She eyed Pitchy with obvious little-girl distaste before being startled by being addressed not by the little-girl-goth but rather by the excellent Frankfurt German of her scythe.
Leaving the door wide open, the girl ran back into the house. “Mutter, there’s a talking axe with a creepy little girl at the door!”
***
One intervening ocean over to the west, and six hours day-wards, a troop variant ornithopter whirred to a dragonfly landing in the sizable riverside backyard of a Colonial Georgian perched in the nominal countryside south of the sleepy federal capital of Canada.
“Honey, our son’s getting married!” The svelte sixty-something brunette yelled down the basement stairs. The sound of power tools ceased abruptly replaced with a manly baritone bellow.
“What was that, dear? You couldn’t have said my worthless kid’s getting hitched? To what? A life-sized replica of Mr. Splack?”
“It’s Spock, dear ; and I’m pretty sure it’s to a girl!” She turned to Dies Irae who was desperately trying to keep her cool : it was patently obvious exactly where her Mistress’ fiancé got his operatic penchant from : genetics.
Dies Irae, sometimes Penelope Winterbottom, replied with the almost Swiftian, "She's very she, sir!"
“I must be having a stroke! This can’t be happening!”
“No dear, you sound fine ; and yes, dear, it is!”
“The engagement can’t last!”
“About that, darling!” Penny wasn’t really surprised to see a sly little grin tug at the wife’s lip. “They....”
“They who!?”
“Two pretty girls, sweetie, with orders to...escort us immediately....”
“Kidnap?!” A very impressive solid tread sounded down in the gloom at the bottom of the stairs. “I don’t care how pretty or how good the news, I’m not letting anybody....” A robust hulk of a man, bearing only a mild mead-gut and wielding a cordless drill with a truly daunting drill bit, blustered out of the basement.
“...Really pretty!”
Mrs. Van Loan thumped him across the back of the head, and Penny’s self-control fractured into shivers of most goth-less giggling. Both parents stopped, stared at Penelope Winterbottom.
“Sorry,” she gasped between giggles, “You two are exactly like your son’s relationship!” She mostly recovered her sangfroid. “You’ve got to pack! We’ve only got another twenty minutes before NORAD scrambles!”
“What the blazes does that even...”
“Pack fast, Babe : the Indians are inbound!” She grabbed her hubby’s hand ; led the charge to the master bedroom’s walk-in closet.
Nocturne Raven mused : “That was duck soup. Wonder how Pitchy’s doing?”
***
Two frilly black figures loaded four squirming frilly black sacks into the back of one frilly black UD4L.