Part four of our round robin, featuring Amanda Feral from Mark Henry’s fab zombie series, and Nina Blackman from my accidental series The title is courtesy of Qwill–who was kinda in my head when she thought of this. Which should totally FREAK HER OUT! LOl

If you missed any of it–go to Mark Henry’s blog to begin the saga of our story. http://www.markhenry.us/blog/

It occurred to me that I didn’t even know this broads name, but now she knew mine. Fuckall, Marty never knew when to clamp it—especially in full-on freak mode. Anyway, whoever she was, she talked reeeeally slow, like it was hard for her to string a bunch of words together all at once because she was afraid she’d have to whip out a Webster’s to double check their meaning. Though she was really pretty, and she did work those heels like a pro…

That alone would totally explain her suck-ass pronunciation.

I followed her backstage and finally caught her name when her friend muttered something to her about waiting to eat ‘cause models legs were too much work for so little payoff.

Heinous, people. Heinous.

I grabbed Marty’s arm to keep her from slinking off. “Don’t be a candy-ass. You made me come to this skin and bones-fest, and just when shit gets good, you wanna go home? Fuck that. Now, c’mon.”

Following Amanda behind the curtain, my ubersensitive nostrils were brutally attacked by the stank of undernourished chicks and their goop. The air backstage was stale with hairspray (I’m almost damn sure it was Bed Head. You know, in the blue can?), and rows of open jars filled with more makeup than even Marty owned.

That wasn’t the only thing I smelled… “Yo, Amanda?”

“Hmmm?” She had this scary-hungry glazed thing going on in her eyes when she pivoted on her stratospheric heel–just like she’d done it in something as simple as a pair of pink, fuzzy slippers.

Yep. I wasn’t waffling anymore. This Amanda was definitely a pro. “Save the buffet for later. I smell something, so try to hang on to your size negative zero thong for just a little while longer.”

I followed the scent, dragging a reluctant, whimpering Marty with me. I stopped short at a row of clothes (dude—they were hanging on wire hangers), goddamn ugly ones, lined up on one of those portable racks you see on TV–like on that ridiculous show with the hostess who’s always tellin’ everybody she doesn’t have silicone implanted in her ta-tas.

Parting the clothes, Marty gasped from behind me.

‘Cause, you know, she’s all about the drama. Wait. Maybe it was because of the wire hangers…

And there it was—a model (go fig) that had the biggest poofy hair I’ve ever seen. She sat on a stool that was pushed up against the wall behind the rack, her legs spread wide, an IV pole bent in half at her feet. Something dribbled from the corner of her OD’d on Botox lips. A closer glimpse made me wonder how the fuck she could talk with lips that foofy.

I looked down. She had a bucket of chicken wings in her lap. Buffalo style.

Just inside the bucket was a bottle of prescription pills and a square black box with a big red button that blinked. I eyed the bucket—my mouth watered.

Christ. I miss chicken wings.

Oh, and the model? Yeah, she was dead.

Dude’s, if you haven’t checked out the first installment of me and Mark Henry’s round Robin–go hit up his blog– http://www.markhenry.us/blog/ then come back here

Marty stood next to the broad who’d eyeballed me from across the room. I gave her the once over and fought the urge to tell her to get the fuck over herself. But poor whoeverthehell was dead. Having a go at her would just be disrespectful. 

Instead, I hopped up onto the runway, giving a quick glance to the poor freaks severed head before addressing Marty. “Hands down, this beats our last outing to some crappy day spa for mani-pedi’s. So far, in all of our trips to the designer discount mall, nothing beats a hacked off head.” I knelt down behind the poor dude’s head, repositioning it so it stared straight at her. “So I gotta ask, Marty, ya think you got anything up your Bobbie-Sue sleeve that can camouflage this?”

Marty scrunched up her perfect, walking Bobbie-Sue Cosmetics advertisement of a face at me. “Nina Blackman-Statleon—get away from Rudolfo’s head—now.”

Heh.

There’s was nuthin’ that juiced me more than making Marty growl. It’s gotten to be like a sport for me—to see how long I can sustain her cranky. And fair is fair. I hate this fashion show shit. I hate anything girlie. I. Hate. I really hate scrawny-assed models wearin’ clothes that look like an acid trip. So she deserved me taking an op to get my cubes off at her expense. 

I looked down at her and the frou-frou chick that was with some guy. “So who do you suppose would want to off Raffikki?” 

Marty crossed her arms over her chest in a huff. “Rudolfo, Nina! Jesus, you’re a heathen.” 

I flipped her the bird. “Ricardo, Roberto, Renaldo, what the frig ever. Somebody sure didn’t like him. And seriously, do ya blame them? His clothes suck Raptor balls.”   

Marty cringed, giving an apologetic look to the couple standing next to her. She waved dismissive pink-tipped fingers. “Forgive her. She’s just—well, she’s just. I have no explanation.” 

I ignored Marty, because that’s like a sport for me, too, and turned the guy’s head again, making it move up and down. “Maaaaarrrtttyyyyyy,” I mimicked her high-pitched tone of voice. “I loooovee you. Wanna buy some of my freaky-deaky clothes? Bet they’re gonna have a bargain basement sale on ‘em now that I’m kaput.”

Marty blanched, jumping up on the runway with me. “Put Rudolfo down, now, Elvira. You’re making a scene!” 

I let go of the dude’s head because something else caught my attention. 

The other half of him. 

Sprawled on the runway’s shiny floor. There was a flowery pink piece of paper hanging out of his pants pocket. I yanked it out, unfolding it to read it while I ignored Marty’s hysterical, panic-laced babble about CSI and touching evidence. I skimmed the note, ending it with a grunt. 

Holy somebody sure was hacked off. 

Yeah, this was some jacked-up shite.