INTO THE BALD NADS: TUNA TROUNCED BY PYTHON
By Quillon42
(Fritillary: Certain kind of nymphalid butterfly colored red, orange, and black.)
(Janissary: Member of Turkish guard in centuries past; also name for devoted follower.)
Contained within the most grandiose of gilded prisons now, and on her own hellcat-trooper-teeming turf no less, were the woman of wine follicles who furiously sought to seize the realm raging all around her…as well as her gentler, yet no less truculent consort.
To be sure, it was the Widow Minerva now with her bruiser beau Gaius Chau, they both prisoners of a most unctuous uprising occurring within their own ranks. Yet while said rebellion herein was indeed led by the one-living-legged ragamuffin known as Wren…beside her as well was a pair of far more treacherous frau who could cut the Baron to the quick much more succinctly.
"Your execution will be tomorrow morning…
"…Mom."
And with that, said mother's malevolent issue Matilda turned on her heel, along with her lover Odessa and the girl with the gam of a pirate.
Seeds of such deceptive dissension were planted by the ruler of ruby locks herself, arguably. It all came back to that incident in the hideaway house, where the brutality-brainwashed Butterflies had come upon verily a most tender treasure in the form of a record player. From thence they danced to the tunes squalling through the device to their paradisiac delight…
…Swooning in bliss the girls were, for all about five seconds, whereupon the Widow happened onto the scene and dashed the disc and their hopeful hearts into so many frustrating fragments.
Such careless capering was ever so unconscionable to the scarlet martinet; to be sure, the only funky "Flea" these femmes would listen to henceforth as far as the Widow was concerned would so be Minerva herself, the Red Head Chilling PippiLivesTaking that she was.
(Okay, even this author admits that was rather insanely belabored).
At the instant that very vinyl was most vituperatively wrecked, so too, once more, were the final vestiges of innocence regarding many of her mincing minions. It was honestly enough at that juncture, in this dimension diverging from the accepted mainstream continuity issuing forth from AMC, that Matilda would militantly recruit her own run of roustabouts. All of such wily women seceding with this siren would want to keep the gala going—the metaphorical mullet of autonomy both in terms of the business between their ears of banging musical beats, as well as the party in their pajama pantaloons regarding the forswearing of all that galling grooming.
Because, allegedly, the depilation "down there" would enhance one's pugilistic potential beyond even that of any Gifted guy or gal. Thus the schism of the Widow's world into the two factions of loyalist Fritillaries, still cool with hymenal haircuts…and the Janisshairies jiving with fibers ever flowing from their most hallowed of hollows.
In the months to come, Minerva's magnificent mug would become fuchsia with fluster upon finding out that her daughter's drones had actually overpowered her own loyal ladies quite handily. It would so turn out, then, that the greatest threat to the ravishing one's regime, then, would not be through the machinations of a Rabbit, nay, but rather a revolutionary who was far hairier than any such Hare heretofore in existence.
(And by the way here, for those ever so snowflakily offended by the neologism of "Janisshairy" here…look up "Januhairy" on Google and see exactly which gender it was that inspired all this).
Yea, seemingly in defeat were the Widow and her resilient regent, they appearing to be at the mercy of she who was so much undeniably sweeter to family in the more canonical course of events (as Tilda ably demonstrated by graciously uttering the most terroristic of threats to Gaius while congratulating him on his love with her mother, she offering ever so compassionately "If you break her heart, I'll cut out yours.") Just like passionate paramour Odessa was so pleasant when being so close-mindedly dismissive in conversation with MK, whose initials apparently stood for iMitation anaKin after what we all witnessed by the end with his giving into the darker side. Just like the greatly grateful Wren was so appreciative with an enlightened iteration of Ed from Shaun of the Dead when the latter helped revive the former, giving her back life even if it were at the cost of a limb.
Yet there was even still then a most assertive ace up the sable sleeve of the vicious titian seductress: a power mightier than the blackest-irised Gift: the perennially-irrepressible dynamic known as Dostofinvi.
"What the fuck is Dostofinv…"
"Shhhhh," sibilated the Widow as she finessed her finest forefingers across the lips of her lover.
From thence she took her same index indicator and, with the positive portion of a Gift which no one needed to activate within her given her love, effected a most ET-esque healing upon Gaius's steadfast frame, she easing the pain via a crossbow projectile to the chest which the faithful fighter took on behalf of the both of them.
She then gathered those same digits of damask and divested her own bituminous bodice, the Widow wholly revealing herself to her most zealous of disciples.
Behind those stolid steel bars were some of the softest caresses the Badlands had known in seeming eons. Now with his heart beating as fleetly as Kannin could impossibly cross from one sector to another to assist her brother Sunny, Gaius traversed with heated palms across the delectable crimson crumble of his ember-tressed empress's thighs. After this Gaius made for the magenta meringue of Minerva's cinnabar breasts, his hunger so sated by her bodily bounty yet his soul starving for her sufferingly to no end. Almost diabetic with delight was the cream-clothed crusader as he kissed the vermilion velvet cakes of her brick-brandy buttocks. From thence the adjutant so aroused smothered with his mouth the coquelicot cobbler of his queen's coral-colored belly, the same stomach soon to contain the sum game of their tandem tryst. Emanating out of the maroon mousse of her face now was her claret tongue, her lover catching the same gingerly with his teeth, each scrambling to ensnare the other's lips in the most soothing of submission holds.
At the culmination of this carnal clash would Gaius thrust forth with his skewer so ceremonial, one upon which at the Widow's request he would soon tattoo, to the envy of even the inkiest clipper around, the most elevated erotic inscription NO MERCY.
…
…
…
While cradled within the crook of a now-slumbering Chau's able arm, Minerva rolled her eyes back in concentration, she once more utilizing her recently-re-gleaned Gift to convert her irises to a carnation tint, she mentally summoning someone who had in this rendition of the reality had come upon a most terrifying find far sooner in the scheme of matters.
…
…
…
"Well, it looks like you've survived your little trip Into The Bald Nads™ this past evening," jibed Matilda to Minerva's mate the morning after.
"He did so with my blessing," warbled the Widow, "which consequently afforded him safe passage…the kinds of glorious concessions I realize that you yourself no longer deserve."
Aside Minerva, the chariest Chau now stared dead into the eyes of a (W)ren far more contumacious than Kylo. "If you don't release us at once…all of your fates will so be sealed by a warrior wielding a Weapon of Mass Destruction."
The peg-legged persecutress stifled a derisive snort at this. "Ffffff…No one upon Asra's Emerald Earth has even seen or heard of those things in a dog's decade. You really expect me to believe…"
"You believe just what your little heart and your cedar femur tells you," chided Minerva. "Fact is that one of those eliminating items is incoming…and there won't be a single one of you vandyked VJs who will be able to stop it."
As if on cue thereafter, the three insufferable insurgents looked on ever incredulously as a grain-maned grim reaper alighted onto the scene.
"Growing up so fast honey, you've come quite the long way, this I realize." Cold steel seemed to line the terra cotta trifle that was the Widow's succulent throat as she spoke.
"What you didn't rely on, Tilda, was that I could still take your greatest power away from you.
"That of DOSTOFINVI:
"The DOuble STandard OF INtergender VIolence."
Then before Matilda could much as muster even the meekest "Mommy," thence alighted the Master's monastic acolyte Eli, that fair-follicled follower who resembled a mini-me Martin Gore (who helped with popular hits in the reader's reality such as "Personal Jesus" and "Enjoy The Silence"), that same Neo-Atomic Blond now with the same six-shooter he'd unearthed at the end of "Seven Strike Against One," he entering the scene with the selfsame Weapon of Mass Destruction featured at the climax of any beat-em-up video game from Renegade to Urban Reign wherein it was dome-detonatingly unthinkable that someone could actually bring a gun to a fistfight. (Or, in the case of the Badlands here, a swordfight or bowfight or tacky-Bajie-nunchakusfight).
[BLAMMM BLAMMM BLAMMM BLAMMM BLAMMM BLAMMM]
Thence this deadly Depeche Monk discharged most destructively the lead within the Colt Python purloined from the ground, he heaving out with that same heater to hush the breaths of those those Janisshairies who would jounce the Widow and her Fritillaries out of existence. (NB: This author is very uncertain as to whether the pistol found by Eli in the episode was indeed a Colt Python, but this is a Fan Fiction alternate telling anyway so whatever).
Thus was undone the Dostofinvi which defended multitudes of maids from fates as graphic as that suffered by their male counterparts on so much more of a massive scale.
The same Dostofinvi which had Quinn suffer the perfidious plot device of an intermittent tumor, the same activating whenever a scene saw him have too much of an upper hand in, for instance, his skirmish against Minerva in the first AMCeason of the show.
The same Dostofinvi that let Oprah Winfre…er, Cressida off scot-free and thus denied Nathaniel Moon the vengeance that he, and so much more saliently Lydia, had effing deserved. (Which this author seeks to rectify through his own writing concerning this in another month or two).
The same devious and diabolical Dostofinvi that invariably had male sentries (and most of the time white male sentries really, though this author is not going to take on race this very day) in every installment of this series standing there like idiots with knives or crossbow bolts sticking out of their foreheads before falling dead to the ground at the hands of girls a third of their age, because even after all these years we still need the scenes that show "Herp that little lady can't beat those grown mens ZOMG SHE SLAUGHTERED ALL THE MENS!" and can't we all ever move past this kind of shit in screenwriting? (Or really any sort of narrative?!) Real equality can never be reached between the genders until we did indeed progress ahead on this front.
Finally, for now, the same Dostofinvi that had Hit Girl butcher dozens of mobsters in Kick Ass, yet Roger Ebert honestly cried foul when Mark Strong's character fought back and flung her onto a table; because Chloe Moretz's character was "just a girl" and not a combatant. Or really, combatant* as a term of art here.
Because throughout presentations like Into The Badlands, when there are XY-chromosomed combatants facing off against XX-genetic combatants*, there is no way that fanny-famished script scribes would ever allow, at least on balance here, for the former to ever prevail over the latter.
Because the major TIL takeaway from shows like ITB, as well as The Walking Dead, Game Of Thrones, and countless other offerings is that Women Are Automatically Better Than Men At Everything Ever Forever.
Well, in this very story at least, it was yet uncertain if Asra would ever come back into being…but those Asterisks printed above would now become much more than endangered, if not as extinct as the Tyrannosaurus whose skeleton graced the Pilgrim's stomping grounds.
Forsooth, perhaps each between Tilda, Odessa, and Wren had longed to be more like Sunny from the immediate boundaries of the baldest nads…
…Unfortunately, it would come to pass that the closest that any of these snider sisters would come would be that they would all end up like Sonny…from the first effing Godfather.
(It wouldn't even be that dignified herein, in all honesty. Said trio of traitorous tricks would not herein go down like a cadre of conscientious Boromirs, but rather like a bunch of CSI Biebers under the power of the portable Weapon of Mass Destruction wielded by their enemy (who managed to modify said pistol into really a sixty-shooter for this occasion.))
And before the bowler brawlers backing Minerva and Gaius really set to work on dismembering the corpses of the duplicitous dames, so that no witch of any assortment could begin to bring them back…they noted with utter satisfaction the indentations idiotically appearing from their foreheads from whence the bullets had barged most brashly into them.