Disclaimer: The characters and situations are all property of Richard
O'Brien and 20th Century Fox.
Just a little inner torment from our favorite neurospecialist. I promise I'll use an actual plot next time. Really.
I hope the italics work here. If not, I'll go back and change them.
*
(So if you're looking for a standard To which you can aspire Then baby, look at me)
That bitch. It's always the same story, isn't it? They get a taste of fame, and they forget about the people that made them. Well, we knew how to deal with that kind of attitude.
I stared across the room at Janet's body, lying prone on the couch. I recognized each slow breath; I'd watched enough people sink into unconsciousness to know when they'd reached their deepest point of pill- induced slumber. Her drained martini glass slipped slightly, the final mark of sleep. The orange slice tumbled. What a waste.
(I'll make the pathetic little crones love me.)
Oh, Janet. And I had had such high hopes for her too. In this business, it's not often you encounter genuine star material. But watching her pale, beautiful form slip across the stage, attracting every eye around, I had to admit that this was what she was born to be. Sad, too. The way she was going she'd likely end up a drug-induced fashion zombie, running to do Flavors' bidding. Her and the rest of this sorry town, too. Ah well, it can't be helped. I can only pray my brother and I manage to hang onto some semblance of free will.
Janet's heavy breathing draws my attention. She's really out of it now, her arm hanging prone over the seat, her head rolled to the side. Her dress has been hiked up an alarming amount as well, and splitting it up to the hip, hip, hip is seeming like less and less of a good idea. As yes, well, she wouldn't want to spoil the line, now would she?
My eyes wander over her exposed thigh and hip, and the fabric across her breasts that aren't doing a very good job keeping her concealed. Well, no better than they were the first time she burst into to the dressing room, her face shining, her body emitting pure confidence. God, she was beautiful.
That bitch.
I can't ignore my burning anger towards Cosmo, who, in my opinion, started this whole mess in the first place. He was her creator; his skillful hands had transformed her. Hands that probably took special care to smooth out the wrinkles and creases of the dress wrapped around her curvy thighs and flat stomach. Hands that had trailed daringly up the line of that up to the hip, hip, hip split.
(That siniful . . .)
My knuckles ground into my forehead, my mind shouting No! No! No! to the thoughts drifting in and out. I tried to focus on Cosmo, my beloved brother and colleague, his thin, bony form that needed me so much. And I needed him, too, he was all I needed. All I'd ever need.
But no matter what I said, Janet was still there, still pale and blooming, revealing the secret inside the girl next door. They're always the most beautiful when their brand new, untouched by the black corruption of fame. Really, it didn't take long for the television camera to poison this one. I should have know, I've seen so many phenomenons waste away like her.
God, won't that horrible chanting every stop? Yes, yes, we all want Janet. We all love Janet. Who do we love?
(Janet.)
That's right.
*
It was going to be longer, but it just seemed like the right place to stop. Review, please.
Just a little inner torment from our favorite neurospecialist. I promise I'll use an actual plot next time. Really.
I hope the italics work here. If not, I'll go back and change them.
*
(So if you're looking for a standard To which you can aspire Then baby, look at me)
That bitch. It's always the same story, isn't it? They get a taste of fame, and they forget about the people that made them. Well, we knew how to deal with that kind of attitude.
I stared across the room at Janet's body, lying prone on the couch. I recognized each slow breath; I'd watched enough people sink into unconsciousness to know when they'd reached their deepest point of pill- induced slumber. Her drained martini glass slipped slightly, the final mark of sleep. The orange slice tumbled. What a waste.
(I'll make the pathetic little crones love me.)
Oh, Janet. And I had had such high hopes for her too. In this business, it's not often you encounter genuine star material. But watching her pale, beautiful form slip across the stage, attracting every eye around, I had to admit that this was what she was born to be. Sad, too. The way she was going she'd likely end up a drug-induced fashion zombie, running to do Flavors' bidding. Her and the rest of this sorry town, too. Ah well, it can't be helped. I can only pray my brother and I manage to hang onto some semblance of free will.
Janet's heavy breathing draws my attention. She's really out of it now, her arm hanging prone over the seat, her head rolled to the side. Her dress has been hiked up an alarming amount as well, and splitting it up to the hip, hip, hip is seeming like less and less of a good idea. As yes, well, she wouldn't want to spoil the line, now would she?
My eyes wander over her exposed thigh and hip, and the fabric across her breasts that aren't doing a very good job keeping her concealed. Well, no better than they were the first time she burst into to the dressing room, her face shining, her body emitting pure confidence. God, she was beautiful.
That bitch.
I can't ignore my burning anger towards Cosmo, who, in my opinion, started this whole mess in the first place. He was her creator; his skillful hands had transformed her. Hands that probably took special care to smooth out the wrinkles and creases of the dress wrapped around her curvy thighs and flat stomach. Hands that had trailed daringly up the line of that up to the hip, hip, hip split.
(That siniful . . .)
My knuckles ground into my forehead, my mind shouting No! No! No! to the thoughts drifting in and out. I tried to focus on Cosmo, my beloved brother and colleague, his thin, bony form that needed me so much. And I needed him, too, he was all I needed. All I'd ever need.
But no matter what I said, Janet was still there, still pale and blooming, revealing the secret inside the girl next door. They're always the most beautiful when their brand new, untouched by the black corruption of fame. Really, it didn't take long for the television camera to poison this one. I should have know, I've seen so many phenomenons waste away like her.
God, won't that horrible chanting every stop? Yes, yes, we all want Janet. We all love Janet. Who do we love?
(Janet.)
That's right.
*
It was going to be longer, but it just seemed like the right place to stop. Review, please.