COMIC PAGE TEN :

At eight o’clock in the evening, an official meeting of inquiry begins. Looker (still red-eyed from a teary afternoon) has recovered sufficiently from heart-breaking news of her Genesis Donor-Mom’s recent kidnapping to rejoin her four other colleagues. Thus five striking members of the Quintessential Quintet team now sit attentively in bright costumes around an oval sandalwood conference table inside their base’s spacious audio-visual presentation room. The ultra-modern furnishings of this information gathering and strategy-making chamber are rather Spartan. Only a teak podium and Sun computer workstation interrupt the plushly-carpeted open space between the oversized table and a 4’x 6’ viewscreen mounted on the far wall (framed by vertical floor-to-ceiling batteries of constantly-changing 19" television monitors and other electronics). Nils Johannson shares the podium with a familiar face.

Dressed in an extremely conservatively tailored three-piece gray flannel suit (despite the NM heat) and employing a laser pointer during his grim presentation, we recognize the pronounced brownish-red square jawline and fierce gray eyes of FBI agent John Straightarrow. At the other end of the AV-strategy room (beyond the conference table) is a smoked-glass window which covers almost the entire far wall. Barely discernable through the one-way brown partition are four female silhouettes of the remarkable Genesis Donors- with one cushioned chair sitting vacant. The athletically solid frame of the American Indian lawman distracts the youngest muta-cloned member of the QQ team. Emma catches herself wondering exactly what might be rippling underneath the agent’s white silk shirt, and misses a question put to her.

"Oh…ah, sorry, Inga. What did you say?", she stammers in her formal Oxford accent while forcing her stare away from John’s mid-section. Ingeno-Lady notices her young Asian Indian friend’s hesitation from sexual embarrassment, and smiles inwardly at the apparent dreamy schoolgirl crush. Then the steel-blue-eyed leader of the superheroine team repeats, "I said, can you infer any emotional clues using empathic abilities when watching the videotape we have of those villainesses?" Empath Girl considers the strange panorama currently projected across the chamber’s huge presentation screen. Security cameras from the Getty East Wing have provided their first and only visual evidence- albeit fleeting- of two time-stopping criminals. Next to a distracted museum security guard holding a thick tattered-looking reference book, the arrival of Dawn Fall and Mommy across the Getty’s VIP entrance threshold is frozen in video pause. Due to their encasing protective silver suits, very few visible clues can be discerned, save the evil duo’s general builds, height and weight. Stray blonde and brunette hairs across pink foreheads provide very little more. "I am sorry, Inga, but all I discern from facial expressions is extreme cruel avarice and a thrilled lust- both for the power that black box gives them over their victims, and for the erection of that poor guard", replies EG. "There’s little else I can tell from a video. My powers are effective only on live targets". The FBI agent allows the security camera tape to move forward a few seconds, and the superheroines collectively gasp as a shimmering blue energy wave blasts forth from the plunger-depressed black cube and causes a momentary ‘white out’ in the lens. Immediately thereafter the villainesses disappear from the scene and the crimson-faced security guard struggles to hoist his uniform trousers back into place. Deedee snickers.

Maw casts a sideways disapproving glance at unprofessional behavior from their team’s newest member, when suddenly Inga shouts out, "Wait a minute! Run that tape backwards to the beginning, John. Now everybody look! Do you notice anything missing from the male security guard after the time-stop? Looker cannot resist. With the first smile she has offered since her arrival home she quips, "Ummm… he seems to have everything a girl could ever need there, boss. Nothing’s missing". The women in the room break down in laughter for several seconds, then IL continues, "I’m serious, here gals. The book! Nobody’s noticed the book. It’s gone. Where did it go?" The Professor interjects, "Yaah, Inga you are right! This is an important clue we have overlooked. Although I cannot answer your question, I believe I can shed light onto where this textbook comes from. Watch." As the bioengineering genius rewinds the security tape, the attractive tweedy frame of Helen Troy strides backwards onto the presentation screen. The pretty USC Egyptology prof ‘takes back’ a hard slap to Kevin’s face, then engages him in reverse flirty chatting.

When the tattered antiquities reference travels back into the woman’s slender hands, Nils freeze-frames.

"Is there a wider-angle view of the entire art gallery , maybe from another camera?", asks a harsh voice behind the brown glass. John inserts a second VCR tape, and all eyes focus on Helen ‘angrily’ striding across the room. Immediately after the expected blue-white flash, IL shouts, "OK Pause it!!" Everyone spots a mysteriously re-materialized textbook suddenly now residing in the crook of Helen Troy’s elbow. The ingenious Quint-Quints leader meets the gaze of each of her team members, receiving a nod in return.

"It zeems that you ladies have zome questions to ask of a certain University of Southern California history professor. Scotty will begin countdown preparations toward a pre-dawn IC lift-off. Yaah, und just one more thing. While you are in Los Angeles would you, Looker, substitute for Kathy in your Mom’s absence?. Sports Illustrated’s Catalina swimsuit photo-shoot begins tomorrow, and the magazine’s editor explicitly requested you as stand-in. You do bear considerable resemblance to your donor, my dear, and with your appearance-altering abilities, the impersonation should be quite easy." Fresh tears well up in the dazzling QQ’s hazel eyes at the mention of her missing Mom. Nils then removes a small squarish box from the pocket of his ever-present white lab coat, and places it before the saddened superheroine in an attempt to cheer her up. Looker opens the box to discover one-carat diamond stud earrings sparkling in the overhead track lighting. Placing a weathered hand on her lovely green-sequined shoulder, he begins, "I purchased these as a ‘ Thank You’ present to Kathy for her critical assistance in defeating the megalo- maniacal Mademoiselle Mensa.² Although I have not yet been given the opportunity to bestow them onto their rightful owner- thanks to cruel Colonel Chronos- I would ask that you safeguard these until she can return home to us. Please." Looker considers the beautiful jewelry for a moment before drying her eyes and nodding assent to his requests. She gingerly slips the diamonds onto delicate attached earlobes.
 

COMIC PAGE ELEVEN:

Weasel is in a strange humor. Maybe it’s just jet lag and nausea experienced in the back seat of the F-14 Tomcat providing him transportation from North Dakota down to Vandenberg earlier this evening. Or perhaps a sense of nostalgia washing over him during his only return to Pasadena since his undergraduate days at Cal Tech ten years ago. Most likely, the explanation lies with an amazing black box sitting next to him on the front seat of the Aramark catering truck. With a simple press of its large red plunger, anything and anybody (not wearing a protective Melkosian flight suit) would fall under his complete control. Dwight fidgets in the driver’s seat as the skintight silver suit beneath his clothes pulls a bit too tightly in strategic areas. But any short-lived discomfort would be worth it tonight. As he turns the white van toward the Rose Bowl’s loading dock area, a cute policewoman waves his vehicle to a stop at a gated guardhouse. Not a bad way to start the evening, he thinks to himself while leering down at Officer Stephanie Summers. "Evening, Ma’am" he offers in a nasal drone. The young lady cop returns this friendly greeting with an icy stare from bright baby blue eyes and responds, "Where’s Joe and Mike?"

Dwight just shrugs his narrow shoulders, trying to play innocent (as if he knew nothing about the truck’s driver and passenger currently ‘TRAMPed’ in a blue-shimmering dumpster on an alley off Fifth Street). Gauging our electrical engineering genius’ pasty white skin and thick horn-rims, Stephanie’s suspicions mount. "You don’t look like a hot dog vendor to me…", she continues. "Uh, well, maybe if I put on the complete uniform you’ll think better of me", he says while snickering slightly. His bending over out of view to pull into place a silver hood and protective goggles triggers an instinctive alarm in the brunette’s Dorothy Hammill hairstyle-framed head. Rapidly drawing her service revolver and assuming an expertly- trained target-minimizing shooting crouch, the moonlighting LAPD officer says, "HOLD IT! Sit back up NOW! And keep your hands where I can see them,asshole…FREEZE"!! The Melkosian chrono-cradle expands just slowly enough to let Steph’s green eyes go saucer-wide reacting to Weasel’s silver headgear.

Hopping down out of the truck cab, Dwight stares point-blank into Stephanie’s stilled features and taunts, "You seem a bit mixed-up. Those orders are all backwards. YOU’ll do the freezing from now on, Officer!

The nerdy criminal is joined at the gate by a silver-suited Helen Troy emerging from the truck cargo bay.

Employing a Pulchri-Meter, the USC prof begins a scan of the time-stopped cop’s athletic frame, while Dwight delights in tugging down Steph’s navy uniform pants around rearward-protruding buttocks and taut muscular legs. Her shirt is more problematic. Taking the pistol from her extended hands, Weasel pushes apart straight-out arms (nicely tanned in LA sunshine) enough to unfasten the buttons. Seconds later- thanks to a distinctly non-regulation Frederick’s ‘front-loading’ red lace bra- Stephanie’s bronzed globes present themselves for CCS estimation (0.8012). Inward-pressing triceps from her outstretched arms provide an aesthetic lifting-squashing effect that greatly enhances her modest-but-perky bustline.

Officer Summers teeters open-shirted with dropped trousers, a look of shocked desperation cemented onto her pretty face. Stepping back four paces, Weasel fondly appraises Stephanie’s curvaceous side view: resembling a sun-tan-colored erotic question mark from the waist down. Dwight’s pants inseam stirs. Two criminals soon have their first victim rolled up into the truck, raise the gate, and reach the loading dock.
 

COMIC PAGE TWELVE:

James Perigee is working very late tonight. Not that he really has any choice. He is getting screwed from all quarters at this point. The late-40’s Chief of NASA Operations scans two important pieces of paper sitting atop his large mahogany desk. The first is a letter from President Alan Bore himself, instructing him and NASA to do everything possible to make up for delays due to Russian equipment complications with the International Space Station. Although he doesn’t come straight out and say it, the letter gives him a green light to cut corners- do anything it says- to put ISS construction back on schedule. With stereotypical Federal Government hypocrisy, the President also goes on to demand full assurances from him as Chief that everything will be done to accommodate and assist former President Raygun in his historic-symbolic Space Shuttle "Flight Into the Future" due to lift off in twelve days time. How in the $&@*!? can he be expected to make good progress on the Station while ridiculous distractions and publicity stunts like the Raygun joyride cost him time, resources and a legitimate Mission Specialist’s seat on the next Shuttle? He holds his aching head in his hands, then reaches for his fourth martini of the evening. In all truthfulness, it is actually the second piece of paper which has driven him to drink. Jim picks up the classically-constructed anonymous note (made from various words and letters cut out from more than two dozen different magazines and newspapers so as to make it completely untraceable) which demands keypad security code access to the Cape Canaveral perimeter fence gates. Part of his soggy brain screams out NEVER! in response to the outrageous blackmail attempt. But then he considers the rather compromising photographs enclosed with this note. How in the hell did they do that?? Perigee distinctly remembers the lovely African-American prostitute sauntering up to his green Oldsmobile last week as he waited to turn right at a Cocoa Beach intersection. The broad was obviously a tramp: dressed in a tight red ultra-short miniskirt and mostly-see-through white tube top showcasing huge aureoles and nipples atop amazing cleavage. The happily-married Perigee had responded to Angel’s, "Would you like to give me a ride, sugar… a nice long one, I hope" (boobs tumbling out of the flimsy low-cut shirt as she leaned in through the passenger-side window) with a labored. "Get lost!". Yet now sitting before him on the desk blotter were three different scenes of him with his cock partly buried into Angel’s wet pink spread crotch:  One from behind as she stretched across the hood with her skirt hiked and panties around her knees, and two more atop his back seat- her chocolate gams raised high and wide apart with her soles on the ceiling!

The NASA director has virtually no recollection whatsoever of the experience. He only remembers his involuntary erection formed at sight of the hooker’s tantalizing boobs, then a strange blue flash of light.

In fact, he now ponders the weird bluish tint hanging in the air surrounding him and the conniving hussy in the photos, and their somewhat blank- almost frozen- facial expressions. Film negatives for the codes!  With a 22-year career flashing before his eyes (along with a wife’s furious face), Perigee dials up security.
 

COMIC PAGE THIRTEEN:

"GET YOUR HOT DOGS HERE!…FOOT LONGS ANY WAY YOU WANT EM… MUSTARD, KETCHUP, RELISH- YOU NAME IT, AND YOU GOT IT! HOT DOGS!!"

Dwight was catching on quickly as he made his way down the impossibly-long concrete stairwell toward the Rose Bowl playing field. He had actually sold four weiners to customers on the way down, spreading condiments and making perfect change from the metal auto coin holder attached to his belt. This heavy device was rubbing uncomfortably against bulging trousers, his dick anticipating success with a baker’s dozen of luscious targets currently shouting and gyrating seductively along the home team’s 20-yard-line. The principal purpose of tonight’s chrono-cradle expansion was testing and calibration of its full capacity and strength against a large number of live targets. With its 120,000+ seating capacity jammed full for the annual USC-UCLA Spring football ‘Clash of the Titans’ exhibition game, few places on earth could offer a better experimental laboratory within such a perfectly contained physical structure. Of course, the Chief’s ever-growing need to obtain additional temporal fuel meant that Weasel was going to have a lot of fun tonight as well. He squints beyond the gigantic football players dumbly butting heads together out on the field, and down past the far goal-post to catch a glimpse of their catering truck waiting with engine running and rear doors closed (lest a moonlighting Officer Summers’ immobile backside attract attention by shining its own moonlight toward still-animated passing security guards) at the runway loading dock. A bubble-headed redhead with amazing tits barely restrained by a neon lime bikini top is a serious tease. She winks at him as he hands her a foot-long in row two("I want it naked", she told him), then seductively closes her lips around the far end of the meat protruding from the bun. As Dwight’s jaw drops wide open responding to her antics, she flashes perfect pearly whites and giggles. I’ll be right back for you,he thinks.

Finally reaching the level of the playing field, he checks on his partner’s similar progress. Helen vends patiently one aisle over, waiting on the first row step to sustain eye contact with the nerdy engineer. Weasel waves to her and she nods in response, then both crooks pull into position silver protective hoods and goggles while striding confidently toward the gridiron. They receive a few puzzled looks from some players and coaches, but most everyone is engrossed in the 78-yard drive UCLA has just made down to the goal-line. First and goal with a yard to go. USC is entrenched to stop them with the score tied. Those few male players not staring intently at the field are sneaking glimpses of the dozen-plus UCLA cheerleaders prancing about the near sidelines. As luck would have it, these energetic and athletically toned lovelies begin the very same cheer that had always entranced Dwight back in college. His hand moves to the big red plunger on the chrono-cradle hidden down inside his hot-dog warming box as his eyes widen. Trying to generate maximum crowd volume, 22-year-old cheerleading Captain June Metcalf orders all her white mini-skirted (sky-blue-and-gold lettering and uniform trim) Bruin squad to turn away from the audience:

Bent 60 degrees at the waist and pom-poms held straight out to their sides, the entire line of cheerleaders begins (what is supposed to be) five seconds of hypnotic hip-gyrating and bottom-wiggling, intended to drive the home-team fans up to a fever pitch. Dwight is himself momentarily overcome by the sheer sex appeal of thirteen leggy shining asses of various shapes and origins- Caucasian, Asian, African-American and Hispanic(representing the diverse UCLA student population)-rotating rapidly up,down,back-and-forth ten feet away. Yet this is exactly what he was waiting for, so he manages (through fogged glasses) to push
the plunger downward. June and her teammates are caught in mid-jiggle almost instantaneously, and the sweeping electric-blue wave of the Melkosian device set on full charge crests over the Rose Bowl’s nose-bleed seats at its top row six seconds later. As the powerful time-dilation effect snakes through corridors into concession stands, offices, skyboxes and locker rooms, greater than 100,000 people pause stock-still.

Signaling OK to his partner in crime, Dwight advance toward a smiling chorus line of curvaceous teases.

Weasel reaches the cheerleaders first and produces a small pair of scissors, while signaling Helen to hold back on her CCS sensory readings for just a moment. "Indulge me, Professor. You see, I’m something of a perfectionist. I want their facial expressions to be just right", he drones. It takes less than ninety seconds (had any clocks actually been ticking) for him to adroitly snip and remove a baker’s dozen of shiny gold uniform panties and hose. Instead of stepping back and assessing his handiwork from a wider rear-view, the spindly engineering genius walks onto the playing field facing the delightfully frozen dozen-plus girls.

Just as Helen shouts, "What do you think you’re doing?", Dwight pulls the red plunger on the black box back upward and re-animates the entire Rose Bowl! Reaction time among the Bruin pep squad varies from one to five seconds, but the audience response is virtually instantaneous. Thousands of young male hoots, howls, wolf-whistles and exclamations of sheer voyeuristic glee fill the UCLA stands at the sight of this unwitting multiple moon. June herself experiences a wide swing of emotions that show across her face, providing wonderful entertainment to the observing Weasel. Continuing her sexy bottom-gyrating, she is suddenly aware of a cool March evening breeze stirring among bushy platinum blonde pubic hairs in the cleft of her protruding ass! Almost involuntarily- without any real conscious thought- she drops her blue and gold pom-poms and reaches around her miniskirt to find her own exposed cheeks. An initial look of confusion and puzzlement gives way to absolute amazement- her mouth forming a pursed ‘O’ shape and deep blue eyes wide-crossed in shock. It is in exactly this embarrassing pose that June (quite comparable ones for her coed colleagues too!) will now find herself halted for quite a long time to come, as the nerdy Dwight re-depresses the Melkosian chrono-cradle plunger. Circling a once-again-frozen band of beauties, he notes that June has now made her startling exhibition even better. Lovely pink-nailed cupped hands firmly planted onto her bare half-globes have accidentally spread firm cheeks apart wider, offering all onlookers detailed views of a moist pink nether region covered only by a crinkled platinum blonde veil.

He slowly completes inspection of the lovely June and twelve bottomless companions. Each poses stiffly, miniskirts in mid-flutter, with upside-down L-shaped poses and shocked facial expressions (the effect he had been going for) like their Captain- except for a longhaired brunette at squad’s end! Maggie Mitchell (apparently a young lady with considerable exhibitionist tendencies)had quickly and gleefully accepted her sudden circumstances and run with them. Realizing her bottom was exposed, she fully flipped up her skirt and grabbed the backs of muscular calves to accentuate her display into near-perfection. A broad naughty grin is plastered across her pretty flushed face. She’ll now elicit adulation from adoring fans indefinitely.

Weasel and Helen tear themselves away from respective frozen playthings (our USC prof had curiously been examining the contents of a Greek-God quarterback’s #14 uniform while waiting) to start mundane tasks of taking chrono-neutralizing Kilo-Joule estimates, and Millirad-per-meter radiation decay readings.
 

COMIC PAGE FOURTEEN:

Some seven hundred miles away, Empath Girl tosses restlessly in what seems to be very troubled sleep. Amidst the minimal light invading into her darkened bedroom from the lavatory she shares with Maw (whose own quarters are adjacent on the bathroom’s far side), we recognize a mixture of concern, resentment and anger passing across Emma’s young frowning countenance. In what would be outright heresy to the Hindi culture of her cloned ancestors, our late-teens superheroine sleeps in slender tangerine panties and an oversized Chicago Bulls #45 jersey, which gaps open strategically as she tosses and turns revealing delicious conical-shaped nutmeg breasts. Hints of pointed dark mocha nipples are shadowed in semi-darkness. As the sleeping girl brushes her forearm over a lovely chest and across her furrowed brow, she moans softly and calls out, "NO!……must……break……free……if…I……could……only……move……". EG’s gifted mind is clearly racing…drifting…wandering far outside her body, as its sub-conscious flexes her amazing extrasensory mental powers. Fledgling telepathic abilities grow and mature right before our very eyes! Beads of perspiration dampen jet-black bangs framing a lovely face as an anguished young woman lapses more deeply into a long-distance contact. Her highly-sympathetic and compassionate psyche had reflexively reached westwards moments earlier, responding to aggregate last-second mental cries for help from thousands of football fans time-dilated within in the Rose Bowl.

As grotesquely fascinating as a telepathic link with so many captured souls was, EG knew instinctively (even within her dream-trance state) that there was nothing she could do to help Colonel Chronos’ latest victims. Emma allowed her remarkable empathic powers to focus only momentarily on nearly two dozen strikingly-beautiful women singled out by the Colonel’s henchmen for kidnapping. Briefly touching edges of their crawling, terrified thought processes, she experienced raw confusion and incomprehension as they were systematically stripped, subjected to some sort of analysis or estimation, then encased in a blue-white energy bubble and unceremoniously rolled across the playing field to join other frozen victims in the back of a waiting catering truck. In her sanity’s defense, the psychic linkages had to be broken after one or two minutes. Yet before her own consciousness fully returned inside her, she had established another contact.

Telepathically wandering some fifty miles to the north, Empath Girl now discovers slow-motion thoughts much more familiar to her than countless pleas from dull minds ensnared in CC’s experiment.

Fully entering this newly-found time-stopped target, Emma sees, feels, experiences everything she does.  Her fixed gaze is positioned downwards, yet through a limited field of view and peripheral vision, she has come to realize she stands inside a small mural-painted room upon some sort of stage. The air all around her is tinted a strange blue color, and an unearthly tinkling noise softly reaches her ears despite the thick platinum blonde wig atop her head. This room has been carefully appointed to closely resemble a NYC street scene, and she stands upright with hands low on hips astride some sort of sidewalk grating. As the world beyond a facing thick glass panel whirls and spins incomprehensibly forward at a blurred, rapid-as-lightning pace, this beautiful suspended female continues to mentally struggle against an objectified fate- alas, to no avail! In completed mink-link now, EG utters the other’s thoughts again while talking in her sleep:  "This…can’t..be…
….happening. Why….am….I….so....stiff??? HELP!!!" As strong fear, confusion and helplessness wash over her, Emma bolts upright in her bed- wide awake- and screams, "KATHY!"
 

COMIC PAGE FIFTEEN:

At six o’clock the next morning, a loud grating incoming communications alarm sounds in the underground laboratory of Colonel Chronos. At first it seems that nobody is awake at this wee hour to hear the important message signal from their Chief (except perhaps a floating wide-eyed Captain Sasha), until suddenly the high-security mechanical door slides open at the room’s far end with a loud hydraulic hiss. A red-faced Ollie South emerges from his mysterious private chamber hastily retying a plush terry bathrobe. In his rush to respond to the communications request from his superior, he forgets to push the "close" button on the steel door marked NO ADMITTANCE. We thus glimpse an amazingly- beautiful brunette reclining onto her back and elbows atop a three-foot-tall oblong white pedestal inside. Her upper back is slightly arched, shoulders up off the marble, head up and swiveled to the left- green eyes holding that same hint of confused surprise as when ensnared by the chrono-cradle upon the LA Ballet Company stage some two weeks before. Dainty pink-nailed hands coax modest freckled breasts up from underneath, cupping together and offering forth two delectable appetizers in complement to a main course further down. Perfectly sculpted stiff dancer’s legs suspend up at an angle to form an incredibly sexy V-shape in mid-air. On her brow, a quarter-sized blinking microchip disc attaches to a thin silver headband running into long copper-bronze strands that cascade down behind the podium. Irina Petruskova wears only this minimal headgear, and pretty pink ballet slippers with ribboned calf leggings while she mutely awaits return of her owner. A faint blue aura emanates from the disc, sweeping over pale porcelain skin to engulf her sculpted frame. The sexy spread-eagled world famous ballerina can’t so much as twitch.

As the video screen springs to life, Ollie tries one last time to disguise his over-animated dick by adjusting the folds and tie-strap of his robe. ‘Caught in the act’, we now see a bemused Chief and Mommy on the large monitor quizzically staring at the Marine’s terry-covered bulge. Behind the diabolical duo in the background, several of the freshly acquired Norman Rockwell paintings hang on display. "We’ve been awaiting your report, Colonel. How goes the construction of the Time Bomb?", begins the Chief. "We are making steady progress, Sir", responds a discomfited villain. "Based on Weasel… uh, I mean Dwight’s- latest Cray supercomputer assembly update, sufficient temporal fuel has been collected to undertake the final calibration test; while almost 85% of the aggregate 526.98 CCS target score required to produce the "Big Bang" is now also available. That’s four hundred twenty-two females, not including as-yet-unknown CCS additions from Pasadena. We’ve already filled six silos and begun upon a seventh. One remaining technical obstacle still facing us is actual viability of Dwight’s new micro-TRAMP". Mommy jumps in here, and we notice that her gaze drifts downward as Ollie nervously shifts his weight from one foot to another. She inquires, "Remind me, Colonel, exactly what this device will do that our existing TRAMPs do not?" He explains, "The issue here is primarily one of storage space during fuel transport, Ma’am. If a micro-TRAMP successfully maintains suspended animation inside a two-millimeter-wide encasing energy field- instead of our usual six-foot-wide bubble- we’ll succeed in quintupling storage capacity inside each ISS supply module. Without the micros, we simply won’t be able to hoist up enough temporal fuel to make the Big Bang work!" The Chief asks, "What’s the status on testing the micro prototype"? South flushes beet red as he responds, "I was right in the middle of its first field test just when you called, Sir!" Mommy chuckles openly at this remark, and closes their comm link with, "Well, then, get back to it! The Marine snaps to full attention and offers a formal hand salute to his superiors as the video screen begins to fade. This elicits one last sarcastic comment from Mommy: "Oh, and Colonel, you might want to fix your robe. It’s not necessary to salute with more than one appendage". After the video screen darkens, Ollie glances downward to discover his modest erection poking strait out between parted terrycloth folds. He doesn’t notice Dawn hiding in far laboratory shadows furiously scribbling notes with a 35MM telephoto camera in hand. Neither human sees an expression of blatant anguished horror briefly crossing Kel-bar’s face.

Nine hundred miles away in their plush private residence, Chief and Mommy exchange a cold congratulatory kiss. Everything is going exactly as they planned. Well, almost everything. Walking over to the large bay window overlooking cliffs of the Pacific Palisades, a dark scowl forms on Mommy’s face as she views a nearly-completed glassy modern mid-rise condominium complex on land adjacent to their property (where used to stand a beautiful dense pine grove). A large billboard out on Highway 1 is also visible, advertising a real-estate developer’s dream(and their nightmare) by screaming about technological conveniences and appliances (e.g.,‘automatic ice-crushers built into every wet bar!’) coming as standard furnishings with each unit. As Mommy begins to weep softly over their own personal Shangri-La gone to hell, the Chief consoles her saying, "Patience, my dear. Less than 2 weeks now, and we’ll have everything back to the way it should be…Forever!" Mommy smiles cruelly at this prospect, then departs their living room to enter the newly-partially-redecorated West Wing- now a bizarre theatrical gallery-shrine.

Slowly walking down the shadowy long central corridor, Mommy considers the first of three completed theatrical exhibits illuminated by a shimmering blue translucence off to her right. Behind leaded glass sufficient to contain within the effects from a Melkosian chrono-cradle poise six men (easy acquisitions from the local Gold’s Gym which Mommy frequents) and an elaborately-attired woman. In tribute to their former profession, these heartless criminals are in the process of reproducing landmark scenes from classic motion pictures featuring roles they themselves desperately wanted to play. Three blonde celebrity stand-ins already play integral parts. The nearest display is a re-enactment of the grand coronation parade from Cleopatra. Four heavily muscled male slaves hoist a portable gold, pearl and onyx inlaid throne upon a Persian-carpeted stretcher-like dais. Each slave strains under the weight of a thick wooden pole handle crushing his back and shoulders. Another servant (outfitted as the others only in sandals and an abbreviated leather loincloth with his head shaven bald) deftly maneuvers an eight-foot- tall purple feather fan to produce cooling breezes in the vicinity of royalty seated atop the heavy portage. Proudly perched upon her throne and condescendingly surveying her subjects is a frozen Sharon Rock! Smothered beneath thick movie pancake makeup, raven hair dye and the gold-and-jeweled trappings of her role, we note that slight artistic license has been taken with the film’s original G-rated scenario. Her white silk tunic’s sweeping neckline falls underneath two impressive exposed breasts- serving as the ancient Egyptian uplifting equivalent to an as-yet-unconceived brassiere. Gold pasties speckled with emeralds, rubies and sapphires provide the only accent to her gorgeous globes. Sharon’s facial expression is identical to the one when she was captured- the same evil smile cemented over her heavily painted lips with a dominant glint in overly-mascaraed eyes. She pauses leaning slightly forward, pointing her asp-topped golden scepter accusingly toward one of the four slaves transporting her. The sixth male in the exhibit freezes in mid-response to her command, cracking a whip in the unfortunate fellow’s direction. Careful onlookers to this fantastically-detailed film reproduction note the Queen wears no undergarment beneath her silk-gold-and-leather short skirt. She is time-stopped in a pose not only suitable to her sadistic personality, but also faithfully reminiscent of Sharon’s famous Basic Instinct beaver shot. Mommy now jealously sneers at the helpless starlet’s involuntary humiliating pose, then walks on to the next display.

Our cruel brunette fondly appraises Playmate of the Year Victoria Goldstedt (the sexiest of more than a dozen exquisitely-beautiful women acquired from a Playboy Mansion party several days ago) and their own hapless former pool boy (whom Mommy seduced, then decided to make sure he wouldn’t reveal the affair to her husband) reenacting the famous shower scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. Miquel stands frozen slightly off to the left, pulling the white shower curtain back from a 1950s’-style porcelain tub containing a nude Janet Leigh stand-in. A huge wood-handled butcher’s knife is poised menacingly above his victim’s head, halted in mid-thrust. Victoria is a still-life contrast between sheer terror and raw sex appeal. Her heavily lathered seductive frame is caught in side profile, curvy hips swiveled back and around to the right as she glances over her shoulder to discover the attack. Stereotypical Scandinavian blonde locks lie plastered against her head, shoulders and back, and her body glistens with thousands of time-stopped water droplets bouncing and dribbling across her smooth tanned skin. Heretofore engrossed in the obviously-pleasurable (given erect nipples) act of soaping up her mountainous cleavage with a giant loofa sponge, we appreciate the lucky trail of lather wandering down through the deep cleft between her breasts, across her washerboard-tight tummy, through soaked blonde pubic hairs, and swirling down those long luscious legs. Our Playmate is suspended in the very instant of her realization of danger, a mixture of of astonishment and fear sculpted on classic Swedish facial features- her mouth wide open in mid-scream.

Chuckling at the time-dilated duo behind the leaded glass, Mommy suddenly catches sight of her own reflection and screams in outrage. Crow’s feet have returned around her eyes! She instantly bellows for the Chief, who materializes holding the black-boxed Melkosian chrono-cradle source they keep on the premises (against the Colonel’s better judgment) for just such ‘emergencies’. Placing the one-foot-cubed alien device into its docking bay atop the small wooden control table in the center of the gallery visitor’s corridor, the criminals survey complex instrumentation. Embedded in the tabletop is the heart and soul of the West Wing- Dwight’s ingenious multi-TRAMP. This single cigar-box-sized microprocessor is capable of manipulating each of the three (eventually all eight) cinematic reproductions separately, via "Temporal Reduction or Amplification thru Modulation of Phase"- a central principle of Melkosian time dilation and time travel. However, as the Weasel accidentally discovered several weeks ago (with analytical assistance from three Cray supercomputers), time-modulating theta-wave radiation generated in the chrono-cradle effect could be highly concentrated by a TRAMP to produce yet another incredible outcome- one which the 86-year-old Chief and 71-year-old Mommy had already taken considerable advantage of. But at what cost to their victims!? Inputting a secret numerical command sequence across the multi-TRAMP keypad, this technologically-terrifying device hums and soon reports readiness by displaying "REGRESSION TRANSFERRENCE INITIATED". The Chief slides a power-setting lever on the black cube to point at an alien hieroglyphic which Helen Troy has translated to mean "two nairas"- approximately 1.2 years in earth’s chronology. He then slams down the chrono-cradle’s big red plunger as his wife smiles cruelly.

Hall lights flicker, and Pacific Edison power usage meters in the control console whirl at a blurred pace.

Telltale age lines that had crept back around Mommy’s eyes, lips and other facial features now smooth and become more shallow. Wrinkles on the Chief’s furrowing brow nearly disappear once again, while various streaks of gray hair fade. The three beautiful sources of temporal fuel on the other side of the leaded glass have just donated bioresonant energy sufficient to rejuvenate the evil duo by nearly three months!  Unfortunately for Sharon, Gloria and their third celebrity guest, differences between alien and human physiology (and other technical inefficiencies) required each of their life forces be sapped by the full Melkosian interval. Now more than a year older, "Cleopatra’s" breasts droop slightly lower beneath bejeweled pasties, while Vickie’s once-perfectly-taut soapy derriere sags ever-so-slightly. The Chief now moves to their third completed exhibit (the immortal moment from The Seven Year Itch) and expresses concern, while Mommy runs more-youthful hands across her face and giggles gleefully like a schoolgirl. "Dearest, we can’t keep on doing this to our guests. This is the tenth time now, and the effects are really starting to show. The bloom is falling off the rose". She replies, "Nonsense! What does it matter anyway? Once the Time Bomb blows, their youth will be fully returned to them- and more"! The Chief sadly views newly formed wrinkles around Kathy England’s eyes, thinking she’ll never have the chance to be born.
 

COMIC PAGE SIXTEEN:

"Altitude 370,000 feet, velocity 1920MPH, course 282 degrees. ETA in LA estimated at eight minutes". Maw’s navigation aids Looker’s expert piloting of the Ionospheric Clipper through its typical guided missile-like arcing trajectory toward their Southern California destination. Back behind the heat-shielded, leaded-glass-encased nosecone command compartment, Ingeno Lady, Dura-Damsel and Empath Girl recline (fully strapped in during this Mach-3 roller-coaster ride) in three of the dozen plush leather passenger seats inside the IC’s comfortable main cabin. A tactical debate is underway.

"My swiftness can be used to incapacitate Professor Troy before she has opportunity to use any time-stop weapon against us. I believe that I should be the vanguard of our attack upon her academic department, Boss", asserts Deedee to Inga. Although they have known each other for less than twenty-four hours, a distinct personality clash between Molecularly-Adjustable Woman and Dura-Damsel is already beginning to surface. Maw shouts back from her co-pilot’s chair to disagree with her new colleague, saying, "IL, we should use overwhelming force to secure her office suite. Let me morph my epidermis into solid marble and crash straight through outer walls from the hallway! One good stone-fisted punch and that bitch will be seeing stars before any drywall dust has a chance to settle". Maw and DD lock eyes in a disapproving glare until Ingeno-Lady forcefully clarifies their circumstances with, "Calm down ladies. The issue here is neither speed nor strength, it is information. Helen Troy is clearly only one member of a criminal gang whose ultimate purposes are still completely unknown to us. We must do everything within our powers to free all of those poor frozen women- including Kathy- yet we must keep as our foremost goal the arrest of their gang’s leader Colonel Chronos and neutralization of his time-stopping technology. Therefore, our interrogation of the good Professor must be covert- stealthy to the greatest extent possible- in hopes that she will lead us to her superiors. Now that’s a job for Emma and me alone. The Ionospheric Clipper will touch down briefly onto the USC main quadrangle to drop us off on campus; then both Maw and Deedee will accompany Looker to her Mom’s Sports Illustrated supermodel swimsuit photo-shoot on Catalina Island." One lone tear trickles over perfectly-applied make-up and down Looker’s striking countenance at the mention of her kidnapped Genesis Donor. Empath Girl spins her passenger seat 90 degrees to face the IC’s communications console station adjacent to her. Several new pieces of important information have arrived. Scrutinizing details from a front-page story about the Rose Bowl in the Los Angeles Times, as well as a lengthy FBI report faxed to them by the handsome agent Straightarrow, Emma reports, "John’s trace of CC’s pocketwatch calling-card left around the immobile Getty Museum curator’s neck offers few clues to go on. The serial number on its casing shows it to be one of more than four dozen mysteriously stolen from a Santa Monica wholesaler five days ago. Coincidentally, this is the same business which supplied our friendly free-enterpriser back on Waikiki Beach2… remember? That’s why all his sleazy watches were exactly twelve minutes slow! Apparently, Colonel Chronos’ time-stopping device has a residual effect duration of 1320 seconds which allows his gang to make their getaways. Last night, for example, nineteen beautiful young women- including nine UCLA cheerleaders and a LAPD lieutenant- were spirited away in the back of a catering truck. Police helicopters quickly located the vehicle at an Interstate 66 truck-stop; but CC’s twelve-minute head start was enough time for them to transfer to yet another larger vehicle. Eyewitnesses inside the truck stop diner identify the second rig as a giant Martin- Marietta transport hauling six huge white canisters. The transport was last seen heading northwest in the direction of the Mojave Desert". Inga calls up a surface map of Southern California onto the IC’s comm station video screen. "Hmmm….about the only thing out that direction is Vandenberg Air Force Base.

Let’s contact Nils and Scotty and see if we can use their military connections to investigate this further".

Seconds later, the beaming intelligent faces of the bioengineering genius and his talented assistant fill up the TV monitor. "Yaah, but of course, Inga. We shall contact General Hawke of the Joint Chiefs right away. But surely our own military cannot be involved with these crimes Und Look! We have just now received from Los Angeles- thanks to Agent Straightarrow- our first useful insights into Chronos’ time-stop technology". Nils holds up one of Weasel’s insidious TRAMP devices into the Quint-Quints’ view.

The Professor continues, "this electronic controller was used to imprison the catering truck driver inside a trash dumpster. It drew attention because of the incredibly high amounts of electricity it was pulling from a nearby garage where it was plugged in. Scotty and I now plan to dissect and reverse-engineer it"!

As Ingeno-Lady terminates the IC’s communication link to New Mexico, a shiver runs down her spine.
 

COMIC PAGE SEVENTEEN:

Oliver South lounges in the back of a black stretch limousine as it pulls into the parking lot at the Laguna Beach Marina. His brilliant engineering minion briefs him on progress he and Helen made overnight while CC twirls a waxed handlebar moustache in interested amusement. A one-foot-cubed black box with a crowning oversized red plunger rests between the two men. "Everything went as smooth as silk, Colonel", begins Weasel. "Loading from the Vandy warehouse- including most of last night’s merchandise- took less than an hour. As usual, however, I’ve held back 4-5 of the best ones in case either you or Mommy wanted to hang onto them". With this sentence CC looks closely into Dwight’s eyes- searching for signs of disapproval- yet finds none. He’d love a frozen female collection of his own, realizes the cruel leader of their criminal gang. Of course, Ollie would take a look at last night’s catches.

But his heart was really set upon 1-2 acquisitions planned for later that afternoon. The Marine was still recovering from losing out on the delicious Kathy England to Mommy and the Chief. Perhaps some of her lovely colleagues could provide adequate similar consolation? Business before pleasure, however. As both villains walk down the wooden pier to the Chief’s huge yacht, Weasel inquires, "And what about my booby-trap? The FBI and the government are bound to be hot on our trail by now. Did they take the bait?

With an evil smile, our Marine responds, "A mole I have planted at the highest security levels- codename Hercules- informs me that it was delivered this morning. Some eggheads are about to learn an entirely new meaning for the phrase "Life flashing before your eyes"- I’m afraid the hard way!! Ha Ha Ha…"

Moments later, a ninety-foot cabin cruiser motors steadily out of the harbor toward its target destination.