(go slow keep in the dark zone. ur in my beast belly now.)
Julianne Angelrose 5000 stepped out of her Dodge Viper and wiped the remains of the baby brains she had for supper from her tinted lips. Julianne Angelrose 5000 didn't believe in lipstick, only stain. She did believe in eating baby brains, because it made her feel like a mother. She breathed in the womb-like California air. This place is sweaty from sex, she thought. She smirked as she walked toward Cromwell Haldontian's front door. Sex was good. Sex was survival. She entered the Haldontian estate.
Haldontian's place was so stuffed that Julianne Angelrose 5000 could barely get through the door. Even so, Cromwell was by her side before she could even blink. A short, sturdy man, he swept Julianne up so that his face was buried in her breasts.
"Julianne Angelrose 5000!" he exclaimed, extracting his head from the beckoning crevice. "Your tits are as perfect as always." Julianne smiled. She appreciated Cromwell's honesty. Most men would just stare at her tits and act like she couldn't feel them pinching her as she passed them. It felt nice to be harrassed without shame. This probably wasn't feminist, she considered, but Cromwell was such a pathetic thing that she could probably squish him with her heel if she really felt the need. Julianne had squished a lot of men with her heel in her lifetime. Most of the guys she had been with had been into that sort of thing.
Julianne steadied Cromwell with a ferocious claw on his shoulder. He winced in pleasure. She leaned down and whispered in his ear, "Rotten crowd tonight, you disgusting bastard?"
Cromwell's eyes widened as he giggled hysterically. He quivered beneath her stony gaze. "The very worst," he replied. "You know, my darling, that I always root out the filthiest of what LA has to offer." He leaned in closer. "You'll never guess who I got this year," he said, clearly meaning to whisper but too aroused to be quieter than a diseased rodent. "I'll give you a hint: I believe you have a dirty little history with her yourself."
Julianne stepped back. "Cromwell," she said slowly. "Not Cynthia? Surely you wouldn't do that to me, your old friend? Not after everything we've been through?" She stepped on the toes of his right foot.
Her host laughed nervously. "My dear," he said, "I do promise the most rotten of the LA crowd." Julianne increased the pressure on Cromwell's toes. He gave a little whimper. "You must admit, beloved," he continued, "you got quite a lot of benefit out of your last entanglement with Cynthia."
It was true. After the fight with Cynthia at Tommy's concert, Julianne had gone home and written Puss Mad, an album that had earned her enough acclaim that she hadn't had to think twice about sustaining her particular diet for several years. Even so, Cynthia was a nuisance. Mold at the bottom of some decaying whiskey barrel. She curled her lip and released her hold on Cromwell. He sighed with lust.
Julianne scanned the room, eager to rid herself of that particular Haldontian stench. "If blood spills tonight," she murmered. "I promise any consequence will fall on your head."
Cromwell laughed. "Of course, darling," he said. He tried to follow her gaze. "My parties always come with excellent insurance, I assure you. Now, might I offer to take you to a spot where we might chat more comfortably?" He glanced back at her.
But Julianne Angelrose 5000 was already gone.
Julianne wandered through the crowd, enjoying the avaricious stares and maniacal grins that came her way. These were her people, she knew, though she might not always like it. There was no pretending here, no false sense of morality. It was, she thought, the only place one could be free. The modern world was full of hypocrites. Haldontian was a slimeball, but he was honest with himself. And so was she. And so was everyone here, with their sharp teeth and their raised brows, calling after her, "Did you hear who is coming? Do you know? Were you told?" They were, Julianne Angelrose 5000 knew, ready for bloodshed. Their tongues fell out of their mouths as she chatted with them; they salivated in her wake. They knew what they wanted and they would not hesitate to jump on the opportunity to get it. She shivered from a mixture of feelings. Julianne was never one to shy away from the spotlight, nor was she particularly averse to the promise of a fight. Expectations, on the other hand, made her feel like shitting. She pushed her way to the bathroom, where she yelled at the addicts and exhibitionists until she was given a moment of privacy.
She put her elbows on her knees as she took a dump. FUCK Cynthia, Julianne thought, letting people know she was coming. If she had kept her trap shut and surprised Julianne, they could have had a delightful evening in a spontaneous scrap. She shivered as she remembered her last meeting with Cynthia; it was incredibly erotic how impetuous the fight had been. That was one benefit of having a big mouth: everyone wanted a little tussle afterward. The verbal chase had been surprisingly difficult with Cynthia, who was uncharacteristically tolerant of Julianne's screeching voice and pointed remarks. Then Julianne had said it: It's so nice to see my ex so happily performing tonight. What happened to your boyfriend, Cunthia Tribstick? Did you dump him in a pool of sea ice with the rest of the men who rejected you?
Cynthia had turned around to meet her straight in the eyes. Julianne remembered the magnificent flush that spread through her body. The breathless gulp. "You know," she continued. "There are easier ways to brine a guy."
Then Cynthia had hit her, a delicious punch that made Julianne's eyes roll back into her head for a moment. When she looked at Cynthia again, she had pulled out a knife with a Malibu Barbie for a handle. It was a fantastic moment for kitsch-lovers, Julianne thought as she pulled out her own Emerson knife/microphone.
Julianne smiled as she wiped her ass. She looked down at her feet; she still had a scar on her left heel where Cynthia had managed to scratch her. Sometimes Julianne dug her elongated pinky nail into the mark, hoping to ensure it would never truly fade. She sighed as she pulled herself off of the toilet. Well, she thought, a manufactured fight wasn't ideal, but it was better than a bout of boredom.
She flicked her hands under the running sink—no real point in washing them thoroughly when they were about to get filthy again. She tossed her hair out of her face and opened the bathroom door.
Cynthia Lipstick's eyes, sharp as a marmorated stink bug, bore down on Julianne's own. Julianne's mouth opened, but was furious to find she could not speak. Cynthia raised her eyebrows but did not move. For a moment the two stars stood there, frozen at the sight of each other. Finally, Cynthia shoved past Julianne.
"Gotta piss," she grumbled.
Cynthia Lipstick peed like a stallion. She was proud of this. When you pissed loudly, no one walked in on you; they knew you were there. This was Cynthia's philosophy: if you're loud and gross enough, no one interferes with you.
The problem with this philosophy was that it didn't take into account the existence of masochists and idiots. Cynthia did not mind masochism as a concept, but the issue was, of course, no masochist would ever admit it. Take Cromwell Haldontian, for example: the damn canker sore only ever invited anyone to his mansion to feel degraded, but he insisted on calling
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