COMIC PAGE ONE (March 14, 1984):
A Zodiac cruises virtually silently toward the verdant Nicaraguan shoreline some ¾ mile distant, propelled by a powerful electric motor across a glassy sea turning orange-red in the late afternoon setting sun. Four men- three US Navy Seals and the top-secret Marine messenger- sit impatiently inside the rubber vessel, leaving behind the black hunter-killer submarine (already submerged again behind them) on their way to a rendezvous with Jose Mendez-Garcia. This leader of the Contra rebel movement fighting the Communist-backed government regime is increasingly nervous about assassination attempts by political rivals within his own ranks (and from Daniel Ortega’s cruel secret police). So Jose has demanded assurances from arms-for-hostages cronies in Washington which bolster his safety and financial security in their "dirty little secret" arrangement. Two wooden crates and the bulging briefcase tied down tightly in the small ship’s interior prow contain such assurances- three dozen of America’s most sophisticated laser-sighted, fully-automatic machine pistols for Garcia’s elite bodyguard forces, and 20 million US dollars.
The Navy Seal in charge of security on this rather dubious delivery mission is Lieutenant David B. "Hercules" Nicholson. The seemingly-simple rendezvous has just too many unknowns which could turn their little ‘party on the beach’ into a complex military nightmare. So he’s brought along two ‘baby-sitters’ who (wearing scuba gear) would slip over the inflatable craft’s side five hundred yards from shore, then slowly encroach with their waterproof weapons to keep watch from just beyond the crashing surf. Also, in case the Nicaraguan government decides to drop by in a combat helicopter, Hercules has brought along a surprise for them- resting inside a short squat tube in the bottom of the boat. Expertly steering the outboard motor toward a tiny bonfire alight on golden sands at the edge of the densely-wooded jungle, he intently scans the beach with a sullen frown upon his face. "Lighten up, Herc", chuckles the military envoy dressed in green combat fatigues. "I’ve had dealings with good-ole-Jose before…everything will go smoothly, I promise". The Seal remains unconvinced, and nervously twirls his moustache between thumb and index finger. Lieutenant-Colonel Oliver South smiles and quips again to try and break the palpable hanging tension with, "You know, 20 years from now I’ll kick back in my beach chair under a Jamaican coconut tree, stroke some of my own facial hair- like that ugly thing you’ve got plastered across your lip (Marine regulations require officers and enlisted personnel to be clean-shaven)- and smile about how tawdry lil’ adventures like this one successfully changed the course of the free world! Once we reach shore, you’ll n…" He is interrupted by a crackling squawk from the two-way radio receiver linking them with the USS Tiger Shark. "bzzz…Dromedary to Balthazar…Dromedary to Balthazar…do you read? Come in Balthazar…radar is now tracking incoming bogey bearing 107 degrees, altitude 2500 feet and speed 750 knots- range at 30,000 yards and closing fast…Captain says get your butts back here as fast as you can paddle! Abort mission…I say again, ABORT!"
The seasoned Viet Nam Navy veteran coolly swings the outboard’s rudder handle fully over to initiate a sharp roundabout turn, then opens the throttle up full. Unfortunately, the Zodiac is outfitted more for stealth than for speed, and Hercules knows that escape from the approaching aircraft is unlikely. He gauges their chances of survivability from abandoning the vessel and swimming mostly underwater back to a sub about 1000 yards away in calm seas to be very good- even for the soft-bellied D.C. bureaucrat sitting next to him. The Seal therefore orders everybody over the side- an order quickly disregarded by an arrogant upset Marine.
"Dammit, Ollie! I’m personally responsible for the safety of my team- and that includes making sure YOU get back to that big cushy desk chair and keep pushing those pencils of yours. Now JUMP!" South knows he’s just a diplomatic passenger on this mission- even though he outranks the Lieutenant. Blind patriotic stubbornness gets the better of his self-preservation instinct, however, and his short-fused temper blows! Catching Hercules off-guard with a powerful uppercut to his prominent chin, he succeeds in sending the Naval officer splashing over the stern. The Marine next grabs the silver-gray tubed weapon and places it across his right shoulder. As Nicholson swears loudly in protest to his friend’s loose-cannon behavior, a combat-rusty Lieutenant Colonel activates laser-guidance tele-sighting in the Stinger’s range-viewfinder.
Unfamiliar with the paranoias and preemptive combat tactics of Earth (since war itself was vanquished on her home planet more than three thousand nairas ago), Kel-Bar-Sasha considers the quartet of quarreling young human males not to be any threat to her exploration vessel’s well-being, and therefore orders no course changes to her ship’s trajectory. Leaving her race’s secret (A.D. 900) Andes Mountain laboratory-base only moments before, she has followed pre-planned mission directives to briefly visit in the mid-ninth decade of the A.D. twentieth century to witness and record high tensions and denouement of something her Melkosian historians have termed "The Cold War". Central American hot spots such as Cuba, Panama, El Salvador and Nicaragua were thought to offer excellent microcosms for study of conflicts between archaic socioeconomic ideologies of ‘capitalism’ and ‘socialism’- with little chance of their detection by unsophisticated militaries. However, the human on the visi-monitor aiming some sort of tube at her spacecraft is not indigenous to the region, and acts in an unpredictable- almost threatening- manner! Too late Kel-Bar commands her five crew mates to energize silver temporally-transparent flight suits, and expand respective instrument chrono-cradles. A skilled helmswoman-navigator executes amazing evasive maneuvers while the hyper-time propulsor coil commences a second emergency charge- and successfully escapes the Stinger’s initial pass. However, basic aerodynamic physics seal their fate. The turning radius of this elegant-but-unarmed 200-ft. diameter disc-shaped craft (in Earth’s dense oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere) exceeds that of a US small-fin subsonic missile. Seeking out the very hottest target along the ship’s dull-stone-colored Adamantine exterior skin, the Stinger collides with the vertical-stablilizing repulsor emitter array on its underbelly, then explodes with a sickening THUMP. Despite super-human (what else?) efforts at the helm, the sleek flying saucer quickly loses forward momentum, then wobbles over downward toward the Pacific Ocean at precipitous speed.
Sufficient time has elapsed for alien bioresonant energies to fully charge the temporally-insulating systems which protect each of their five workstations. Commander Sasha pulls the tightly-fitting hooded cowl of her flight suit over short curly-green tresses and lowers the oversized silver-tinted control visor. As the Phaethon plummets out-of-control, she screams out desperate orders while hitting her own chrono-cradle activation plunger. A sparkling blue sphere of light emanates radially outward, enveloping the curvaceous 7-foot-tall humanoid-alien female and the multi-tiered displays and control panels adjacent to her Captain’s chair. A smile of relief passes across her yellow lips as the protective bubble isolates her from the physical chaos elsewhere in the ship’s cockpit. Two of her three companions also manage to engage their cradles (used as shielding from relativistic-slingshot effects of crossing the speed-of-light threshold while breaking through the time barrier). Kel-bar’s first officer, however, loses his grip on a sensory data analysis console, and is hurled by Earth’s merciless gravity- nearly twice that of Melkos’- into a ship’s communications panel with bone-crushing force. Hails of sparks course over a smoldering silver uniform- confirming his demise- and he slumps to the cabin floor like a crumpled doll. One lone tear falls from a lidless eye and rolls down the pale green cheek of his stunningly-beautiful companion of six nairas. "Forgive me, beloved Jor-Nak", she whispers, then Captain Sasha grimly turns attention to her engineer’s report on the condition of the space ship’s cascade-failing propulsion systems. Learning that structural integrity of their Adamantine hull is breached at its interface with a repulsor array, Kel-Bar asks the Phaethon’s exploratory scientist to speculate on expected chemical reactions between sea water and their precisely-maintained atmospheric interior mix of argon-hydrogen-ammonia. The male grimaces, shakes his head and says, "You don’t want to know". The flying saucer’s hyper-time propulsor coil reaches 57% of its charge capacity- but it will not be nearly enough.
Back in the rubber dinghy, Oliver South gathers himself up from an awkward
tumble which the shoulder-fired missile’s recoil threw him into, and helps
his three Navy companions back aboard. The men cheered as they saw the
explosion nearly two miles distant, but gave the enemy aircraft little
further thought. The decreasingly-pitched roaring whine approaching from
the SE was a sound the men had grown all-too-familiar with in Viet Nam.
When Hercules Nicholson raised field glasses to observe the death-throes
of what he expected to be a MIG-25 fighter (given its speed), the most
eloquent description of what he saw instead was "Holy %!&#@!". Grabbing
the binoculars away from a dripping-wet Lieutenant, the Marine examines
his handiwork for the first time. In the ensuing seconds they would all
get an almost-fatally-close look. A barrel-rolling flying saucer streaks
at an almost-recoverable shallow angle across the red late afternoon sky.
Flames belching from the underside are its only visible exterior illumination-
it appears as a huge disc-shaped rock (it is) falling out of the sky at
over 500 MPH! Eyeballing an arching trajectory, the Colonel soon realizes
that their boat is within yards of the likely impact area. He opens the
outboard throttle as far as it will go and points the bow directly at the
descending space craft. As the ship passes 50 ft. above their heads, four
men catch a fleeting glimpse of remarkable alien high-technology and craftsmanship
brought to its knees by a $10,000 toy rocket and its two-pound nitro charge.
The saucer’s front edge strikes the waves in just the wrong way, flipping
the ship over onto its back before beginning to sink. The Zodiac moves
COMIC PAGE TWO (one week ago):
Orange rays from the rising morning LA sun aren’t quite yet warm enough to offset the damp post-dawn chill still hanging over the Ventura Boulevard waterfront. Carmen Rodriguez shivers slightly in her crisp white maid’s uniform as she waits before the crosswalk with her charges- one full-grown female Sharpee, an Irish Setter male pup and twin Lhassa Apsoes. Ahead lies the Malibu pier and beach, which are only now beginning to spring to life with their daily activity. Scattered store owners (no employee would ever agree to arrive at such an ungodly hour) sweep clean the grayish wooden boardwalk fronting their establishments, or hand-polish exteriors of plate glass display windows.
The "beautiful people" that this knockout 22-year-old from Guadalajara has come to strongly resent during her four months in the USA are now starting to converge on the locale. Joggers, rollerbladers, Tae-Bo’s, weight-lifters and the like already populate sidewalks and sands fronting the pier, most of them dressed in the absolute bare minimum coverage allowed under local decency ordinances so as to show off their tans.
As the traffic light finally changes in her favor, Carmen enjoys the warm offshore breeze tossing her curly raven locks back from the side of her head; thereby (just in time) bringing into peripheral view a stereo- typical skater bearing down on her! Disregarding the red light, the bronzed and bleach-blonded bombshell barrels straight through the crosswalk at full speed, nearly flattening the Setter pup as he strains upon his leash. Dressed in a bright yellow tank top and ragged denim cutoffs (that do little to disguise the flexing well-toned glutes which propel her along her way), the young woman never even slows down- much less apologizes. She appears totally oblivious to anything in the world around her, shielded behind a pair of futuristic purple sunglasses and Walkman headphones cranked on ‘high’. These accessories prevent her from acknowledging the chorus of barked protests in her wake, or an impressive stream of Spanish epithets.
Flying past a mid-sized rental truck parked to her right just beyond the intersection, Brandi Moon catches glimpses of shimmering blue flashes of light out the corner of her eye. For what seems like just an instant, the world around her inexplicably whirls and spins , and she almost loses her balance. Recovering from a near fall, this high-school senior glances back over her shoulder to determine what just happened. The view over her perfectly-rounded derriere doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Four lonely and very confused -appearing dogs stand blankly looking around for their master (their master’s maid, to be precise) with leashes trailing loosely behind. A Sharpee sits down in the middle of the street and starts to howl.
The pretty Hispanic lady in her white dress and a parked yellow truck have vanished into thin air??. But wait! As Brandi swivels back round (her generous cleavage bouncing and jiggling underneath a too-loose-and-too-short half top, giving delightful lower breast curvatures a peek of golden morning sunlight), she discovers the truck somehow has moved 100 yards further down Ventura?! Hopping onto the beachfront sidewalk without breaking stride, this air-headed California Girl employs every available gray cell trying to understand what the #$%&!? is going on. As she whizzes past a row of half-dozen upended surfboards planted nose-down in the beach sands off to her right, the 7’x10’ rear cargo door of the rental truck rolls upwards, and Brandi stares toward it- clueless. Under the circumstances, nobody could blame her.
A male and female figure pose menacingly at the threshold of the truck’s cargo bay. Both are covered head-to-toe in skintight one-piece reflective silver suits that seem to emit a slight green glow from shiny surfaces out into the cool morning air. Visible pink foreheads, noses and chins are scanty evidence that owners of these outlandish (even by Southern Californian standards) outfits are not alien visitors from another planet- this and stray frosted-blonde strands across the woman’s brow and the man’s black waxed handlebar moustache. As Brandi continues to hurtle toward them (now gaping in surprised disbelief) the man raises a one-foot-cubed black box to eye level , examining cryptic control panel symbols and indicator lights through mirrored ski-goggle-type protective eye wear. He then depresses a large red plunger sitting atop the device. At nearly this same instant, the distracted girl skater catches her right heel brake pad on a cracked fragment of sidewalk concrete. Not falling immediately, Ms. Moon’s flailing awkward correction attempts send her into a cartwheeling, legs-and-arms-akimbo attitude, while bringing a look of desperate panic to her face. It is just then that a bizarre wave of sparkling blue-white energy discharging from the cube crests over her, and her speed drops to effectively zero- along with muscle movements and brain activity. As if caught by the shutter of a high-speed camera, she hangs immobilized amid a very non-elegant tumble.
The twenty-foot-high foaming wave continues to expand outwards at moderate pace, stopping everything it touches dead within its tracks. A sparkling bluish tint and eerie near-silence remain behind its swath. Sliding a lever on the black box to the left, the silver-uniformed male reigns in the cascading energy effect some 75 feet beyond the static rollerblader, then jumps down from the truck to examine his new catch closely. His companion follows three paces behind carrying two very high-tech-looking palm-sized instruments. Using an aerial-tipped sensor device inches away from the skin, she slowly traces along curves of Brandi’s face, chest and midriff , considering results on a LED display . "Colonel, as I guessed before", she exclaims, "her forward velocity did obscure the Pulchri-Meter readings via some doppler-like effect. She’s actually 0.8437 CCS fully clothed, and that doesn’t even count the bonus scores for her ears. This one’s definitely a keeper"! The silver-suited woman’s voice rings out slightly dull and hollow inside the weird electrified, sparkling-blue atmosphere artificially generated by the mysterious black cube; nonetheless it sounds distinctly human. A very faint tinkling noise resonates inside the field as unearthly audible background accompaniment. The taller, older but physically-fit male companion replies, "Dawn, you know the Chief’s protocols as well as I do…we need to measure comeliness magnitudes directly comparable to those of all the others so as to exactly calculate aggregate potential. You will proceed with the final adjustments now". Metallic heels click sharply against the pavement as the woman methodically moves about the tousle-haired Brandi, first pulling up her tank top in front to fully reveal tan-lined 38D boobs- one suspended while bouncing up and the other flattened down by gravity in the instant of her fall. Colonel Chronos appraises this unusual breast positioning carefully, tracing his index finger around brownish aureoles and tweaking nipples semi-erect from the cool air. Dawn has difficulty tugging down the time-stopped woman’s denim shorts due to her widespread bicycle-kicking leg orientation; however with minor repositioning of Brandi’s curvaceous gams, she soon has cutoffs and a skimpy neon yellow thong brief crumpled down behind the crooks of her plastic-padded knees. The villainess begins another sensor scan of a mostly-nude victim: posing patiently and seemingly disinterested with her totally-shocked expression cemented behind tinted shades, and bright pink lips frozen in an ‘Aaaahh’. Following up and around from her neatly-trimmed bleach-blonde pubic hairs along the deeply-clefted bending crack of her tight athletic ass, Dawn finishes the examination atop copious cleavage and announces, "Wow! 0.8865 composite comeliness score! That makes her a ‘niner’ with an attached lobes bonus…it helps CCS that she’s so young…only 17 or 18? I’ll attach the TRAMP now, Sir, with your permission". He gives a slight nod.
The science fiction fantasy come-to-life continues. A small rectangular instrument not much bigger than a pager attaches to a belt loop in Brandi’s shorts, its multi-colored indicator lights flashing and blinking. A tiny countdown timer on the device reaches zero, then the tip of a small emitter coil glows red at one end. Rapidly thereafter the periphery of the time-stopping effect recedes and shrinks; however the field no longer seems centered on its black cube source, instead around the helpless rollerblader. Seconds later only a three foot radius sphere remains, and a captured blonde floats inside what looks like a giant blue-tinted shiny soap bubble. The world about the trio springs back to like, fully regaining its bustling activity as if nothing has ever occurred to interrupt usual progress (or course, from anyone else’s perspective, it would seem as if nothing had). Colonel Chronos quickly lowers an inclined plane loading ramp onto the pavement, and Dawn gives the encasing time bubble a shove in the direction of the truck. In nearly-total stasis now after several minutes of exposure to the cube’s effects, Brandi Moon’s final fleeting thoughts are of a growing warm contentment gradually replacing her foggy whirling confusion from the blue wave. As the big blue marble rolls her head-over-heels up into the cargo bay, she accepts her objectified circumstances (what choice does she have?) just as her mind reaches its minimally-conscious storage mode. From this moment forward, the uniquely-posed rollerblader is dimly aware of her existence, but perceives little more. While the evil Colonel slides down the truck’s large rear door, he notices a glint of sun-on-metal out the corner of his eye. "And what do we have here?...", he mutters softly.
Tawny Harper was right in the middle of her third set of clean-and jerk
reps when she noticed an incredible sight through two-foot-wide gaps between
the upended surfboards. Her brain is having trouble processing the unbelievable
visual circumstances before her, and her body has simply stopped short
at the top of pressing aloft shiny 50-pound free weight dumbbells over
her head. Her muscle-bound boyfriend Duke stands on the cool Malibu sands
some five feet away; but his orientation doesn’t permit a proper angle
to see anything. He knows something is clearly wrong, however, by the loud
audible gasp escaping from her ruby lips. Tawny’s oiled rippling leg and
arm muscles poise fully flexed in a dramatic weight-lifter’s classic standing
pose- with unexplained astonishment painted on her pretty face. Duke reaches
over for his camera to capture her in that moment; unfortunately someone
else has similar ideas. For several long seconds, the well-toned, curly-haired
Muscle Beach citizen stands aghast watching two silver-suited criminals
roll an imprisoned partly-nude skater up into the cargo bay of a truck.
Tawny’s blue eyes now widen further as she realizes also inside the vehicle
is a busty shouting Mexican lady paralyzed in the act of shaking her fist!
Her disheveled maid’s uniform skirt defies gravity, hovering up and outward
at waist level to reveal creamy adobe thighs and a bushy jet-black pubic
region. Two more electric-blue spheres bobble about behind the furious-but-bottomless
maid, and our micro-bikinied early-20’s brunette views a motionless striding
jogger wearing nothing but an askew sports bra; and the powerful legs and
buttocks of a female surfer teetering to stay balanced atop waves (as well
as her wet suit) left far behind. Tawny starts to scream, but doesn’t finish
the attempt. Briefly blinded by a blue light flash, Duke suddenly stands
alone. A distant truck engine fades.
COMIC PAGE THREE (four days ago):
The 199X National Science Foundation annual awards banquet is an elegant and gala affair. Organizers had moved the location of the ceremony away from it usual D.C. venue in order to make it more convenient for the three Republican former U.S. Presidents who will be the guests of honor this year. Donald Raygun and George Bushed have traveled to the Palm Springs La Costa Resort in under two hours via helicopters plucking them from respective retirement mansions; while Harold Bored has literally walked over from the eighteenth green only five minutes away. Despite this proximity, the golfing-nut-accidentally-turned-chief-executive was running quite late, due to lengthy apologies needed to an innocent bystander on the clubhouse patio whom he had struck squarely with an errant approach shot.
Now changed into their spiffy tuxedos, these members of the world’s most elite club sit joking and chatting while finishing their chateaubriand and roast rack of lamb. Conversation rarely touches upon any of the current political dilemmas around the country or world-wide... no way- these guys have "done their time", and now simply relax and enjoy the lucrative speaking engagements and other perks befitting their lofty status. Talk among them meanders across such topics as golf (what a surprise), drilling for oil, whose wife looks youngest, and debate as to the cinematic merits of "Bedtime for Bonzo". Finally, NSF Chairman of the Board Melvin Firestone introduces the first of his three honorees. President Raygun rises nimbly from his seat at the head table, and saunters jauntily over to the podium. Most of the audience (and press corps in attendance) have not witnessed this man out in public for many years- but everybody’s heard the sad rumors about his deteriorating health. Yet the man standing before them belies any assumption of infirmity- in fact, the guy doesn’t look a day over 50! With unexplained youthful vigor, he launches into a 20-minute spirited and comical appraisal of the more questionable accomplishments of the current Washington Administration.
He has lots of material to work with, given the startling front-page Inquirer photos showing Bob Clampett humping his stupefied secretary still fresh in everybody’s minds. The Democratic onslaught is merciless.
The octogenarian finally now turns to topics more suited to his audience.
"Ladies and Gentlemen … I am honored to address some of the most
intellectually-gifted and scientifically-dedicated people in the world
today. We rightly rejoice in the marvels of all our breath-taking scientific
achievements and high-tech conveniences. I’m proud to have been part of
the development of many of the devices and systems we all enjoy- some of
them invented originally as part of my multi-trillion-dollar "Star Wars"
arms race buildup against the Soviet Evil Empire. But let us NOT forget
the simple pleasures of the less-complicated lifestyle from decades past
which threatens to become nothing more than a fond memory. It doesn’t take
a micro-processor inside a toaster to cook a good breakfast, then enjoy
riding off on your favorite horse across the countryside. Many of our country’s
social and family problems today stem from a lack of moral base that is
impossible to achieve in our world-gone-mad by its worship of high-technology!
Noticing the wide-eyed uncomfortable stares from his audience, Raygun realizes
he has gone off onto something of a tangent. He returns to the text of
his prepared speech saying, "Sorry…got a bit carried away there…Now, what
I want to propose here tonight is a rejuvenation and revitalization of
man’s conquest of space- truly the final frontier! America’s modern greatness
was defined in her successful race to the Moon. I say to you all now, on
to the other planets! The Space Station under construction today is the
next leap forward in our colonization of the solar system. I want to make
a grand gesture by offering to visit this bold effort as a passenger on
an upcoming Shuttle flight- symbolically ‘passing the torch’ from my 20th-century
generation into the future"! The nation would embrace the President’s venture
into space even more enthusiastically than John Glenn’s.
COMIC PAGE FOUR (the day before yesterday):
Seven individuals crowd a solitary genetic muta-cloning pod in the top-secret New Mexico desert headquarters-laboratory of the Quintessential Quartet. Two faces are unfamiliar to these high-tech surroundings, while we easily recognize the others. Professor Nils Johannson, the lanky mid-sixties bioengineering genius behind the creation of this government installation (and its four offspring feminine wonders), escorts a pretty new Genesis Donor on a grand tour which is just now reaching its climax. Scott McGillicutty, Joyce Sisters, Kathy England and the other two original QQ "moms" peer intently through a thick plate glass window atop the silver pod at a sleeping caramel-colored face inside. The Professor dons bifocals to closely scrutinize the biomedical readings on various monitor displays, stroking his gray scraggly beard thoughtfully for a moment. As everything apparently proceeds within accepted mutating parameters, he smiles broadly. "Ladies and Gentlemen", he begins, "may I please introduce to you the newest members of our little family. I think the woman standing beside me already is known to you all from her many famous books, magazine articles and television appearances. Suffice to say that she’s made a remarkable reputation for her feminine dogged determination and ability to achieve results where few others would have the patience or endurance to even try. I offer to you as evidence her signature commercial patio furniture line crafted from ordinary wooden toothpicks! Her incredible DNA traits have been mated with those of an Olympic marathoner and Nelson Mandela to create the lovely muta-clone you see before us. Behold the newest member of the renamed Quintessential Quintet!
I give you Dura-Damsel, who shall be known as Deedee to her friends
(Diedre on more formal occasions). This extraordinary new superheroine
shall embody and epitomize the amazing creative patient endurance inherent
in all women. She will be capable of successfully undertaking and accomplishing
feats that would make even the sturdiest among us blanch. An incredibly-high
pain threshold should also make her a decisive factor in the inevitable
confrontations to come. Most importantly, Scott and I mutated her molecular
structure using two kilograms of proto-matter so as to enable her
to concentrate long-lasting strength into incredible bursts of speed! With
practice and a auper-human physical effort, Diedre will move in a blur
over 50-75 yard distances, operating effectually in the wink of an eye".
Scott McGillicutty interjects, "Unfortunately, the Professor hasn’t yet
been able to overcome certain problems and limitations with Dura-Damsel’s
sub-atomic p-m crystalline matrix. Although DD’s powers are more
consistently stable and effective than those of her four colleagues- since
she has been cloned to full maturity- her ability to "flash", as we’ve
nicknamed it, causes momentary extreme weakness which will make her vulnerable
afterwards. These and other side-effects will restrict high-speed operations
to 2-3 bursts within a 24-hour time period, although her endurance-oriented
DNA may well improve that capacity over time". Kathy England bends over
to peek directly through the squat pod’s glass portal from just inches
above, and both men cannot help themselves but to evaluate the supermodel’s
luscious curvatures so well highlighted in an abbreviated blue clingy cocktail
dress. Assessing Deedee’s creamy skin, high cheekbones and densely-ringleted
shoulder-length chocolate hair (gleaming in the pod’s heat lamps), Looker’s
Genesis Donor states, "She’ s quite pretty... How long now until she’s
done, Scotty"? Glancing up at the nice-but-nerdy engineering assistant,
Kathy catches him gawking at generous boobs hanging delightfully down from
a fancy daringly-low-cut neckline. She frowns at him disapprovingly while
he stammers out an embarrassed reply, "Oh… ahh…well, less than 24 more
hours to go". Empath Girl’s "mom"(a trained psychiatrist) skillfully breaks
the awkward tension of the moment with, "Yah, OK children…when zee QQ ladies
return from zeir Hawaiian vacation, I would zey they are in for a delightful
zurprise! Und how do you think zey weel feel about zis new
sister? Mozt likely, the oldest of …" Eyes roll.
COMIC PAGE FIVE:
Later that morning, Courtney Whittington smiles proudly as she surveys the debut of the Getty Museum’s new special exhibition of masterpieces by 20th-Century American painters. This East Wing Vice-Curator (gatherer of loaned pieces which she then combines into unique dazzling once-in-a-lifetime art events) has quickly made her reputation among the museum staff. Now admittedly, her rich daddy’s generous donation to the Getty Foundation had provided ae foot-in-the-door eighteen months ago when the palatial hillside art complex first opened to the public. But ‘Coco’s’ meteoric rise from gift shop cashier to among the complex’s most-senior personnel had been propelled by her accommodation (usually from under their desks) of two dozen Getty big-whigs; most of them more than twice the age of this early-30’s, perky-breasted curly-auburn-haired cutie. Though in Coco’s slightly-dull scheming mind, the end has justified the means. She considers herself a shrewd business woman who simply used all of her skills to break through the professional art world’s thick glass ceiling. We observe her dressed smartly in a mauve Louis Vuitton suit and frilly oatmeal blouse, scrutinizing her exhibit’s final checklist while barking out curt orders to her staff. Coco is unaware that even the security guards spaced around this big vaulted-ceiling exhibition hall know all about her, considering her nothing more than a manipulative, blowjob-happy bitch.
The East Wing outer walls and its temporary inner partitions support some of the most famous and instantly-recognizable paintings the world has ever known. The expense involved in gathering such a group of breath-taking opuses into one location was something only the Getty could undertake. Coco stands next to Grant Wood’s "American Gothic" while considering the growing crowd that already populates the hall just thirty minutes after the exhibit’s grand opening. All of a sudden there is a commotion at the hall’s side VIP entrance next to the gigantic "Clouds" painting by Georgia O’Keefe. Arriving more than fashionably late is famous movie actress Sharon Rock, now newlywed to Getty trustee Richard Donahue (the principle benefactor making this very exhibition possible). The Papparazi press had a field day with the whirlwind romance between the early-70’s billionaire and this sexy younger starlet; however, today Sharon was to preside over the ribbon-cutting ceremony in her husband’s absence. Courtney smoothes down a mauve skirt over full curvy hips, her long legs striding across the room with a hand extended to greet a kindred spirit. Sharon icily ignores the welcoming gesture, and instead deposits her mink stole onto the Vice-Curator’s arm- using it as an impromptu coat rack. Lighting a cigarette in a diamond-stud holder, the starlet veritably sparkles in a painted-on red spangled Bob Mackey designer minidress. "Let’s get this over with already", Sharon blurts out condescendingly, "I’ve got a tennis game at Riviera". "But Ms. Rock", Coco protests, "the exhibit opened to the public more than 30 minutes ago! I’m afraid I had to cut the ribbon for you so we could…" "WHAT??!!", exclaims the movie-tramp-turned-high-society. "How DARE you do such a thing. When my Richie finds out about this, he’ll have your head on a platter!" All eyes in the hall turn to stare at two catty women facing off beside Andy Warhols’ Campbell’s Soup montage. Su-Ling ‘Susie’ Quan, a 21-year-old UCLA art student sitting nearby, harshly ‘shushes’ the duo and returns to her detailed pencil sketch of Edward Hopper’s "Nighthawks". Wearing a waist-length open denim jacket over her blue-and-white-striped aerobics Danskin, she perches cross-legged atop a flat square viewing bench and gives them one last dirty look. Susie’s undulating baby-blue tights shimmer beneath overhead lights (contrasting her white socks & sneakers) as she spins back round to face the painting - turning her shapely back on the rude bitchy women. Sharon critically appraises the Chinese student’s flexed bottom as she sits Indian-style, sketching once again in peace. Thinking to herself, "My ass USED to look that good", the jealous arrogant starlet is about to give Su-Ling verbal hell when an interruption sets off crowd murmurs near the Norman Rockwell display. Yet another celebrity arrives for the ‘Modern American Splendor’s’ grand opening noon reception! As recent guest on everything from 60 Minutes to The Oprah Winfrey Show, the quickly-recognized Helen Troy sets off various "Ooohh’s" and "Look who it is!!" from the general gallery population. Like Carl Sagan some twenty years before her, this early-40’s chaired USC Professor of Egyptology has managed to take a quite dry subject such as ancient history and make it fun… exciting… yes, even sexy!. Unlike the Cornell astronomer, Helen has the drop-dead-gorgeous looks to pull off such a marketing victory easily. She cuts a swath through the crowd smiling appreciatively, decked in a stereotypical academic tweed woman’s pant suit and sporting a thick tattered-looking reference manual on famous antiquities. Her bright electric-blue eyes(colored contacts are recent additions to her ensemble) survey the room, noting first the location of the VIP outer door and the Norman Rockwell pieces, then alighting on the pair of trouble-makers disturbing the exhibit’s serenity. Having just arrived from Getty’s North Wing (where she made an animated, voluptuous presentation about her now-famous recent breakthroughs with cryptic Peruvian hieroglyphics translations to a packed auditorium), this tall brunette signs a few autographs, then moves to a curtained-off alcove (NYC’s Met hasn’t yet sent the five Jackson Pollack’s they promised ) for some privacy. Meanwhile, the tone of the disagreement between Courtney Whittington and Sharon Rock is now changing rather dramatically.
Recognizing her vulnerable political position, Coco decides to undertake ‘damage control’ while resorting to her usual coquettish tactics. As Ms. Rock-Donahue tongue-lashes her thoroughly (and also wholly inappropriately), the Vice-Curator presents a more submissive body language pose and averts her eyes toward the marble floor. Only occasionally does the young museum employee raise her head to nod in agreement or mutter "yes Ma’am" to the sexy woman in red who could place her into an unemployment line by late that afternoon. It does not go unnoticed by the domineering film star that, as Coco returns her gaze back downward, she lingers on Sharon’s ample boobs and pubic triangle region subtly showcased by her ultra-tightly-fitting designer dress. This only adds to her excitement from the delicious control she now enjoys over the situation, and when Coco begins to shift about awkwardly (straightening her skirt and smoothing her blouse) the billionairess fully realizes what a ‘dish’ she has at her beck-and-call before her. Sharon therefore suggests they move to a nearby curtained alcove and discuss details of Coco’s apology.
Neither of the two kindred spirits notices Helen Troy standing behind a big ice sculpture of Venus in the middle of the darkened room. Instead they move over to a table elegantly prepared for the VIP reception covered with hors-d’oeuvres and fresh fruit- Sharon leading a compliant Coco by the hand. The starlet props a red-spangled derriere against a table edge and pulls the Vice-curator to stand directly in front of her. For her own part, the famous trendy professor doesn’t see the duo as she is engrossed in conversation.
Holding a small high-tech-looking video communication device the size of a pack of cigarettes, the sexy but slightly-pale (too many hours spent lecturing and in the library) woman speaks in guarded whispers to an as-yet-unknown collaborator at the other end of the line. She seems slightly nervous, her full ruby lips drawn a bit too tightly at the corners of her pouty mouth. We note that Helen’s severe appearance seems remarkably youthful and vivacious for a 41-year-old. In fact, closer examination reveals the professor to still maintain the uplifting breasts, tight backside and smooth face of one of her early-20’s undergraduate students. Only intermittent strands of gray in her straight chin-length Gloria Vanderbilt hairstyle convey a faint impression as to her actual age. No wonder America (men especially) is so fully captivated by her! "I’ve arrived at ‘ground-zero’, Dwight. Are the others in their proper position? Where’s the Colonel?"
The clarity of the audio-video communication signal belies the 900 mile distance between the two odd parties. Sitting next to three giant parallel-linked Cray supercomputers busily humming away at their nearly-impossible assigned tasks, Dwight Wioseywlski (dubbed "Weasel" by jealous MIT classmates many years earlier) squints through incredibly thick horn-rimmed spectacles and whines into his microphone:
"Everything’s set, Professor. Mommy and Dawn are ready to pounce whenever you are. And the Colonel is standing right here in the room with me. Would you like to speak with him?" The nefarious leader of this criminal gang doesn’t hear the current conversation, as he’s momentarily engrossed in examination of a third occupant of their large laboratory. At the far room corner stands a twelve-foot-high thick glass cylinder extending from floor to ceiling. Illuminated by unearthly interior lighting (part of a vast array of intricate medical monitoring and environmental control devices) we observe a pale green, curly-haired 7-foot female humanoid floating gently in the super-cooled clear bubbling liquid of a stasis tube. As sole survivor recovered from the watery crash of the Phaethon, Kel-Bar Sasha’s very existence has been kept ultra-secret (two levels above top-secret) among less than two dozen key military figures on a ‘need-to-know’ basis for more than fifteen years. Recent unexplained tragic ‘accidents’ had now reduced that number of informed persons down to only seven…all but two under Oliver South’s direct command. The once-Captain Sasha’s beauty has always been a point of fascination to Colonel Chronos. Her lovely nude body complements and flatters the human female form with its oversized exaggerated curves. She floats effortlessly with her delicately-muscled arms and legs (four fingers and toes on each) drifting within the tube’s artificial current. The Melkosian (as investigating military scientists reverse-engineering some of the saucer‘s salvaged equipment had learned their race was called) digestive and reproductive systems are remarkably similar to those of the inhabitants of Earth; and our Marine often fantasizes about what love-making might be like with the striking alien before him. He stares into her cat-like lidless yellow eyes, wondering to what extent (if any) she retains consciousness inside the freezing ammonium-argon liquid.
Ollie is quite captivated by Kel-Bar’s distinctive slightly-pointed alien ears with their attached earlobes.
Shouts from the Weasel at the base’s communications workstation bring him back from his erotic reveries.
The merciless Marine shakes his head slightly in disapproval as he proceeds to the video screen. Missions such as the one his team is about to embark upon seemed superfluous and unnecessarily risky to him; yet the Chief and Mommy continue to (in his own opinion) abuse the almost-unbelievable Meklosian time-manipulating technology and acquire perks for their amusement and appreciation. Of course, quite unbeknownst to everybody except himself and his trusted second-in-command Dawn Fall, Ollie has also assembled a rather unique collection from their operations. As he glances toward the password-protected retinal scan device connected to a mechanical door at the far end of their laboratory headquarters, just the thought of what lies beyond the portal marked NO ADMITTANCE makes his crotch stir excitedly. He now addresses the pretty professor in the LA museum exhibit hall, "Helen, you have my assent to proceed. Chronometers are synchonized to commence operations at precisely 11:15- that’s just seven minutes from now. You know what you have to do. Good Luck!" The prof acknowledges her orders and signs off. As she is about to leave the curtained alcove, she hears moaning and heavy breathing coming from a table off in a dark corner of the room. Squinting in Coco and Sharon’s direction, she nods and smiles knowingly then heads off toward the East Wing’s VIP entrance. Helen Troy greets a handsome moustached guard standing there with her best flirty smile, running both hands down the front of her suit blouse to better show off the lacy see-thru aquamarine bra encasing enhanced 36CC breasts underneath. "Hiya, big boy!", she begins, "Didn’t I see you over in the North Wing at my lecture this morning? I couldn’t HELP but notice those exceptional biceps and pectorals you’ve got barely hiding under that uniform shirt. Do you work out?" The security guard falls for the obvious distraction-seduction hook, line and sinker. He’s more than a little bit flattered to receive attention from one of the most popular females on the planet. As Kevin dumbly smiles back at her advances and begins to make flirty chit-chat, he doesn’t notice the professor is now maneuvering her tall (he thinks reminiscent of a classic supermodel's) frame between himself and the entrance’s outer door magnetic key lock. Casually running a pink-nailed finger into one of the belt loops at the front of his pants, Helen coos, "You know, stud….I’ve got office hours this afternoon from 2 until 4 o’clock. Ever done it on top of a professor’s desk!?" This full frontal assault creates the proper imagery in the foolhardy guard’s head long enough for the clever woman to slide a credit-card-sized electronic gadget through the VIP lock. Almost immediately, the faint buzzing and crackling of an electrical short-circuit is heard by the prof (but not by a distracted guard who is little more than putty in her hands now). Her task completed, Ms. Troy’s mood abruptly changes. Raising her voice, she proclaims to the room, "WHAT?!
How DARE you come onto ME like that!" Slapping him hard across the face, she strides off leaving the dumbfounded guard staring blankly after her with a reddened cheek and a noticeable bulge in his trousers.
Back in the North Dakota military complex which serves as their gang’s secret laboratory base, Weasel comments to his commander, "Just thirty seconds to go now, Sir. I’m watching very closely this operation. It’s the first live field test of my twelve-minute delayed residual effect circuitry, as well as a new "reverse" setting on the TRAMP in Professor Troy’s purse". "I have full confidence in you, Dwight. You and your Crays haven’t let us down yet. There’s a GO signal from Helen. She’s opened the door!"
An excellent tailoring job on the rounded seat of Ms.Troy’s tweed suit pants provides the final effective distraction ensuring the criminal operation’s success. A perplexed security guard watches the lower half of a perfectly-toned academic bottom wiggle off into the gathered crowd, rather than notice the outer door next to him swing open and see two silver-suited females step into the Getty’s East Wing. Without a word a tall, lithe frosted-blonde surveys the large room and activates her Pulchri-Meter, while a petite brunette (appearing to be in her late 30’s, although actually significantly older) depresses a big red plunger atop a strange black cube. The guard is the first to go. He is captured in a mid-whirl of recognition and reaction, having just glimpsed uninvited guests out the corner of his eye. Legs spread wide in a semi-crouch and waist pivoted around to the right, one hand hovers mere inches away from his holstered revolver. Dawn considers the classic expression of amazement frozen on his youthful face as priceless, and closely eyes this newly-formed hunk-statue. "Hey, he’s kinda cute…and look! Helen really did a number on him", the villainess blurts out as she stares at his barely-contained erection. Seconds later trousers, belt and boxers defy gravity at his knees, and eight thick inches stand forth as the exhibit’s most recent artwork addition. Mommy gives his rock-hard flexed buttocks a playful squeeze, and turns to survey a time-stopped gallery.
The sparkling blue wave of alien energy had washed through the large room in less than three seconds, offering little time for response from any of the 200+ targets now held suspended within its power. A handful of quick-reacting visitors had managed to turn in the direction of the source of a huge Melkosian chrono-cradle, and now stand wide-eyed or agape in halted astonishment. Most of the men and women, however, are caught unaware of the incredible time dilation effect, and therefore remain in stiff poses of thoughtful appreciation next to the various American masterpieces. At least temporarily, the inhabitants of the museum gallery have become perfectly detailed statue artwork themselves- of a quality equal to the paintings mounted upon the walls. Every gesture, emotion, curve and line of the victims is rendered in still life for Mommy and Dawn’s appraisal. The duo quickly proceed though the immobile crowd until they find a tall brunette in a brown tweed pantsuit stopped in mid-stride with a gleeful coquettish smile stuck on her beautiful face. As they approach, a small electronic device inside the professor’s purse ends a pre-set timer countdown, and its emitter coil glows faintly pink. Next, a shiny white aura emanates outward from around the frozen woman, pushing back and away the tinkling blue energy field from her sexy frame. Seconds later a re-animated Helen Troy shakes her groggy head, stands up straight and greets her cohorts in crime. "Nice job with the door, Professor. That guard never knew what hit him.", states the petite brunette with an air of authority. "Let’s get the Chief’s favorites, then we can poke around to see if there’s any useable temporal fuel inside the hall." Dawn Fall interjects, "I’ve now identified four or five potential targets with a preliminary CCS scan, Mommy. I think we’re gonna get a lot more than what we bargained for here today!" The skintight-silver-suited pair and the time-unstopped woman head in the direction of the extensive Norman Rockwell displays. A dozen of original paintings ranging in size from 5"x7" to 3’x5’ -many of which had served as unforgettable Saturday Evening Post magazine covers in the good-old-days of the 1930’s, 40’s and 50’s- are quickly gathered, wrapped and deposited into the back of a minivan waiting with its engine running in the driveway outside the VIP entrance. Strangely, the bizarre blue energy field stays mostly contained inside the gallery, ‘bleeding’ only 1-2 feet out the open doorway.
Their primary task completed (the Chief will be so pleased!), Dawn leads her companions toward a gorgeous Chinese woman squatting cross-legged on a square bench before a Hopper with pad and pencil in her hands. Su-Ling is one of the few who noticed the oncoming blue-white wave of imprisoning energy before it had hit her, and she now poses helplessly glancing in fright back over her left shoulder- the arm with pencil in hand upturned before her lovely Asian facial features in a feeble protective gesture. Susie’s big luscious coral lips form a wide ‘O’ shape from a half-spoken protest to her unavoidable statued fate.
Dawn announces the girl’s 0.8644 composite comeliness score as determined by the heartless Pulchri-Meter and in less than (what would in other circumstances be) two minutes, the evil trio raise her up to float above the bench, pull away sketches, pencil and denim jacket (they float alongside the art student), then roll the Danskin and tights down her pronounced almond-skinned curves to become a wadded ball around her socks and sneakers. Re-measured CCS of her terrific flexed buns, crotch and boobs is 0.8782!
A time bubble-generating TRAMP device attached to her shoelace, Susie is ready for rolling transport.
The beeping PM beauty sensor directs the criminals toward a curtained-off alcove several feet to their left.
Already familiar with the alcove’s occupants from her earlier video communication, Helen chuckles softly.
She saunters lazily over to a frozen Dimitri, Sharon Rock’s gigantic (6’4" 235 lb.) chauffeur-bodyguard standing imposingly in front of the alcove curtain with hands clasped behind his back and his legs apart. This being the first time Ms. Troy has actually participated in a time-stopping "acquisition" with any of her partners in crime, she is more than a bit overcome by the remarkable scene surrounding her. The flirty side of her personality gets the better of her momentarily, and she plants a big wet kiss on the movie star’s swarthy muscle-bound employee. Curiosity builds, and she unbuttons his shirt to run a hand through his generous dark chest hair, then unzips him to fondle very ample equipment. Finally, repositioning a limp oversized dick through his fly for later full consideration by the hall’s other lady visitors, a nearly-giddy giggling professor leaves behind the ineffective bodyguard to revisit the reception area.
Mommy and Dawn have arrived there first and pulled back the alcove curtain to allow light from the main hall to better illuminate their newest catches. All three evil villainesses are quite stunned by what they discover in the corner of the room beside the hors-d’oeuvres! Apparently, Sharon and Courtney were too caught up in the heat of the moment to notice the time-dilation energy wave sweeping underneath the alcove curtain and suddenly washing over their sweaty bodies moments before. The resulting erotic pose, however, might have been taken directly out of a BDSM magazine centerfold. The movie starlet-turned- billionairess leans forward with her bent backside creased by the edge of the table, a tensed right arm raised above Coco’s ass. Sharon’s spangled-red Mackey dress straps dangle beneath her exposed breasts, one nipple currently receiving grateful attention from Coco’s tweaking left thumb and index finger. Her other big luscious melon hangs suspended amid a bounce produced by our celebrity’s spanking lunge. The shiny designer hemline resides at present just above her navel, where the Getty Vice-Curator yanked it up several minutes ago. From waist level down, Coco’s curly auburn locks partly obscure the view between Sharon’s widespread world-class legs. Yet as the cruel trio approach to closely examine the wild statues before them, they more clearly see a museum employee’s frozen outstretched pink tongue enthusiastically lapping away at her new master’s clit. A mauve Louis Vuitton skirt and frilly moistened underwear have been torn off and thrown aside to rest among the canapes. Kneeling Courtney’s delightfully-spread ample buttocks is presented to amused spectators on center stage. Plainly visible are two of Coco’s purple-nailed fingertips stiffened while furiously rubbing her own swollen clit and labia. Lovely bare rounded cheeks have begun to turn red from Sharon’s repeated ‘apology acceptances’ to Ms. Wittington’s earlier naughty- girl behavior. A wicked smile is stuck on Sharon’s flushed face; while Coco’s caught expression blends pleasure, pain and wonder amidst the beginnings of a skyrocketing multiple orgasm. The duo provide a bizarre contrast between wildly kinetic domination-submission and virtually-halted time. Dawn energizes a Pulchri-Meter, getting accurate CCS scores (given their state of undress) for master and slave. "Hmm… 0.8816 and 0.7754, respectively. We’ve got both good news and bad news here, ladies", she explains.
Several minutes later (if clocks had been running inside the hall) when the criminals finish rolling their TRAMP-encircled lovelies out to the minivan, Dawn Fall makes one last sweep of the East Wing gallery with her sensor device. To her surprise, the PM indicates yet another possible knockout female prize waiting near the exhibit’s main entrance. Both she and Mommy (Helen Troy has already resumed her mid-stride pose and deactivated her reverse-TRAMP to again become a striking statue) step beyond ‘Modern American Splendor’s’ outermost partitions to discover a treasure time-stopped amid a turn-style. Wearing the same pretty blue low-cut cocktail dress which caused Scotty embarrassment earlier that day, we see a quizzical-looking Kathy England frozen stiff in the act of extending a VIP invitation to a guard! Our quite beautiful but none-too-bright Genesis Donor noticed a puzzling blue energy field in front of
her and had wondered why nobody was moving, but didn’t put 2+2 together before blundering too far. Smiling cruelly into the instantly-recognized Kathy’s vacant hazel eyes, Mommy exclaims, "Exquisite!!
Don’t bother to measure this one, Dawn. We’re proud oweners of a supermodel with attached earlobes."
In what seems to be only seconds after he was slapped, Kevin the security guard feels a major draft. Busily pulling up his pants amid female snickers and wolf-whistles from the crowd, he overhears shouts of utter astonishment from the Norman Rockwell display area. He also catches an amazing sight on his own! That bitchy Vice-Curator kneels bottomless and fingers her own crotch in the very center of the large hall.
Her tongue outstretched and nearly cross-eyed in ecstasy, Coco’s pelvis
shudders rapidly during a lengthy orgasm and loudly moans "NNNnnuuuhhhgg!!!"
Shocked visitors nearby her also note the word REJECT has been stamped
in large red ink across her taut pink behind, while an elegant-looking
gold pocketwatch hangs on a chain around her neck. Strangely the second,
minute and hour hands move backwards on this timepiece, and engraved
on its back case are the words "Courtesy of Colonel Chronos". Susie Quan’s
coat, sketch pad and pencil now tumble to the Getty’s marble floor- all
that remains behind of three breath-taking statued females. Inside a minivan
with twelve minute’s head start, two heartless women trying on for size
an overpriced mink stole and Bob Mackey dress laugh hysterically at the
ease of their mission’s success, and the fantastic booty in back that they
will soon deliver to their superiors.
COMIC PAGE SIX:
The Ionospheric Clipper floats across its landing pad turnaround amid a whirlwind of desert sand and dust. Nils and Scotty’s improvements to the IC’s vertical thrusters have not only made the QQ’s Space-Shuttle-type airship more safe and maneuverable, but also less damaging to any chosen landing site. As a hydraulic embarkation stairwell pivots downward to touch the painted Area 57 concrete, we catch our first glimpses of the tropically-tanned and rested original Quintessential Quartet. Dressed casually in shorts and light tops suitable both for the Honolulu climate left behind, as well as the New Mexico heat they now find themselves stepping into, three of the remarkable foursome descend waving and smiling broadly to Professor Johannson and their Genesis Donors. Each pretty QQ carries a large suitcase in one hand, and a traditional Hawaiian lei in the other. Maw, Emma and Inga happily place their flowered greetings around the necks of their ‘Moms’. Looker, however, trails behind (as IC pilot she was delayed by the intricate process of shutting down key navigational and propulsion systems), and now searches vainly for her DNA donor Kathy England. A sober Nils musters his best paternal smile while placing a steadying hand on Looker’s shoulder. Although we cannot hear exactly what is said over the slowly-diminishing roar of the airship’s cold-fusion reactor engines, a shock to this most-beautiful of the Quint-Quarts is apparent by the sudden release of an orchid lei and oversized flight bag onto the ground.
Brushing tears aside following news of her Mom’s disappearance from the Getty Museum, Looker squares her shoulders and walks alone with some composure toward the NM underground base’s elevator. After a moment Nils makes a suggestion, and both Joyce Sisters and famous Doctor Two follow to offer the quite stricken QQ counsel and comfort. He then tries to cheer up the remaining superheroines with a surprise. "My young friends, I greet you warmly on your return, and I apologize for cutting short your recuperation from the diabolical Mademoiselle Mensa. As you may know, another crisis has sprung forth in Southern California which already has engulfed over three hundred beautiful women- Yaah, including our Kathy!
We must now plan our investigation and counter-measures; yet I am pleased
to announce you will have added assistance from a new companion". The three
QQ’s exchange puzzled glances among themselves while a sudden strong breeze
rushes over them. Inga soon notices that all four of their suitcases are
now sitting in a perfect row some 100 yards away inside the base elevator!
Following another rush of wind (unexplainable in the still desert air)
the women are startled by an elegantly-accented breathless voice now directly
behind them saying, "I thought you ladies might appreciate some assistance
with your luggage."
COMIC PAGE SEVEN:
The NASA video-conference receives one of the highest Nielsen ratings ever recorded for a news event of its type (rivaling the Dixon resignation, and even the announcement by Bob Clampett that, "I did not have sexual relations with THAT woman"). Following overwhelming public support and approval by Congress, Donald Raygun’s physical training and technical instruction prior to his odyssey up to the under-construction International Space Station are well underway. We now see the youthful 85-year-old dressed in his orange pressurized flight suit and space helmet, standing at the front of a packed media room answering questions behind a podium decorated with the US Presidential seal. Donnie is "back in the saddle" again- the center of attention and acting his heart out- just like the good-old 1980’s. He’s loving every minute of it, noting with superiority how the reporters hang on his every word (even though they often can barely understand him through his thick glass helmet plate). Perhaps his sense of showmanship had gone a little too far with that flair, and so he finally opens the seal and raises his visor to answer one final question. Amid protests against his imminent Houston departure that further massage his inflated ego, Raygun admits to reporters he has a prior commitment which he cannot avoid. An important delivery is scheduled to arrive at his Santa Barbara residence late in the afternoon.
NASA Operations Chief James J.Perigee shakes his head disapprovingly
standing at the back of the room.
COMIC PAGE EIGHT:
Nils Johannson handles the necessary introductions, and after a moment of polite awkwardness Inga, Emma, Maw and Deedee exchange warm greeting hugs on the Area 57 landing strip. As four members of the newly-expanded Quintessential Quintet jovially bound toward the elevator which will take them down past ultra-tight security to the depths of their secret laboratory headquarters, we get our first good look at the newest member of the QQ superheroine team. Dura-Damsel is decked out in full regalia for her initial meeting with new colleagues, and presents a truly striking sight. A bright metallic-red half-sleeved costume top contrasts with her royal blue miniskirt. Shiny yellow boots extend to meet her strong caramel-colored thighs halfway, and match an abbreviated waist-length cape fluttering in the IC’s diminishing engine exhaust. Any onlooker cannot help but be captivated with her lithe, leggy gazelle-like frame which veritably screams of athleticism- evidenced in the amazing sprinting prowess she so ably demonstrated to her new-found friends only moments ago. Frilly white undergarments peek from beneath her miniskirt as she strides across the New Mexico desert waste, offering a bit-too-much in the way of visual suggestion (an intentional distracting defensive tactic, or perhaps a strong hint at the flirty -almost exhibitionist- side to Deedee’s personality?) of darker treasures gyrating under a snowy veil both in front and back. A yellow multi-compartmented utility belt draws tightly about her already-tiny waist, with a lasso and boomerang attached in clever holsters to each side. These bounce slightly up and down off her slender runner’s hips. A lowered red cowl attached to her top is barely visible at the neckline among countless shiny densely-ringleted chocolate strands encircling her beautiful face. High cheekbones accent understated lips and nose, adding to an exotic but slightly-wild countenance. Sparkling green eyes hold a remarkable intensity which suggests a determination and resourcefulness well beyond human norms. Like the stereotypical spandex costume of their ingenious leader, Deedee’s tightly-fitting top has a large silver lightning bolt emblazoned across her team’s ‘QQ’ insignia. Not that many criminals would be trying to actually read these letters on her ample chest- they would rather be lost among her delicious breast curves. Dura-Damsel seems a modern-day equivalent to the huntress Diana, possessing a tall sleek sexy elegance.
She’s given the honor of pressing the lab-level button with her yellow
gloved finger for the very first time, and four young women, one Genesis
Donor and the Professor watch the dual doors close. With an air of seriousness
and slight sadness which alters the mood among the new acquaintances Nils
states, "Yaah, und now my friends, we must review the available evidence
concerning the evil genius Colonel Chronos!"
COMIC PAGE NINE:
In orange-gray twilight of early evening, a huge green-and-brown-camouflaged Hercules C-130 military transport plane rolls to its designated parking station atop the tarmac of a North Dakota Air Force Base. The pilot and co-pilot watch in startled amusement as Oliver South and Weasel approach their aircraft (its four huge engine rotors still spinning menacingly beneath its wings) dressed in skintight silver costumes which seem to glow faintly green in the dusk. Our notorious Marine waves casually to the duo in the cockpit while pulling into place the tightly-fitting hood and protective control visor on his temporally-transparent Melkosian flight suit. Designed by alien engineers as an insulation-within-insulation for the counteraction of destructive natural forces experienced while crossing the time barrier inside a spacecraft, the ingenious Weasel (with assistance from his three Cray supercomputers so generously provided by the US taxpayers) has adapted the Phaethon’s time adjustment systems to meet their own merciless needs. And they will soon employ them once again to complete another evil harvest.
Dawn Fall pokes her frosted-blonde head through the cockpit door to ask US Army Major Dan Robertson to begin lowering the C-130’s rear-loading cargo ramp. The aircraft’s co-pilot is raised out of his flight chair, leaning forward to press a sandy-bearded chin against windscreen glass in close scrutiny of the unusual silver-attired men passing beneath the plane’s nosecone. Flipping a ‘TAIL DOWN’ toggle switch (among thousands of such controls littering the control bay), he doesn’t realize their young lady passenger on this extremely hush-hush flight from Vandenberg Air Force Base (near Los Angeles) is now also similarly attired to the men outside. Nor does he see the avaricious glint in Dawn’s eye as she scans Dan’s strong glutes straining against his flight suit while she depresses a red plunger atop a black cube.
Amid the shimmering blue energy field that engulfs the men inside the cockpit, a second-in-command to Colonel Chronos bids her kind hosts over the past three hours farewell saying, "Bye now, fellas. Thanks for the ride. Sorry I can’t give you a better send-off- especially the rugged Major Roberton here- but my orders require me to make sure nobody gets a glimpse of our precious cargo out back." And yet the thrill of complete power and control experienced each time Dawn freezes any victims clouds her judgment for a moment. Amused by her own quick sense of humor, she peels a label off from above the switch Dan’s finger still holds down, then unzips his flattering flight suit’s drop seat. Following minor rearrangement of Army regulation white ID-stenciled briefs, the handsome major’s taut downy backside soon pops out rearward for Dawn’s inspection. She guffaws while affixing the "TAIL DOWN" label onto his left cheek.
Some twenty minutes later (confused airmen sheepishly departed back
home), Ollie, Weasel and Dawn lounge in their base’s secret underground
control room viewing hydraulic robot arms lowering two dozen glowing TRAMP
spheres into a deep tube on a video monitor labeled ‘Silo Seven’. We catch
clear sight of a bushy pubic triangle framed by lovely adobe thighs beneath
a maid’s uplifted skirt; the unusual up-and-down positioning of a rollerblader’s
large bouncing breasts; and a totally nude dumbbell-pressing cutie, among
others. Just as a cross-legged flexing almond-skinned bottom glides downward
past their silo monitor camera in close-up, Colonel Chronos inquires with
Dwight about the recent printout update from his Crays detailing progress
toward completion of their ‘Time Bomb’ ultimate project. The spindly engineering
genius tears a wide-eyed gaze from the video screen to discover he can’t
stand up right now.
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