COLONEL CHRONOS and the Time Bomb (Part Six)1

by  Rodin

The game clock ticks down after Dura-Damsel’s superhuman investigative efforts pay dividends, and the heroine away team infiltrates a top-secret military installation not unlike their own.  Will Deedee’s nymphomaniacal Achilles’Heel be the Quint-Quints’ undoing, or perhaps its salvation??
[Check out the previous installment here, read this saga from the beginning by clicking here. Ed.]

COMIC PAGE FIFTY-ONE:  Ingeno-Lady flicks longish raven bangs back from a creased perspiring forehead with a sub-conscious jerk of her neck.  Releasing her squinting gaze from targeting crosshairs atop the condensation-coated tube (housing for Professor Johannson’s miniaturized freeze-ray incapacitating device) stitched along her yellow spandex gauntlet sleeve, our superheroine slowly lowers her left arm and looks about.  Annoyed by the harsh mid-range claxon of a low-power alarm emanating from CPU fuel cell monitors crowning  her hydro-fusion jet-pack, this brilliant and intense girl-next-door surveys the neutralized combat zone all around her and feverishly schemes, WHAT NEXT!!??    Only moments before,  her team’s  initial  frontal  assault upon Colonel Chronos’ North Dakota ultra-secret military base entrance security unfolded swiftly, advancing in calculated stages tailored to each QQ’s extraordinary strengths & abilities.  Up first (with Scott McGillicutty- now nearly fully recovered to his late-20’s actual physiology, thanks to Empath Girl’s remarkable healing powers-  jamming ground radar using a portable reverse-sinusoidal, double exponentially-smoothing radio emitter), our diminutive Asian-Indian muta-clone teen innocently wandered toward the 50-yard perimeter security gatehouse.  EG looked like a cross between underage supermodel and lost waif, and three USAF sentries watch with surprise and awe as Emma strode toward them in her sandaled feet, letting them catch glimpses of lovely olive-skinned calves as they emerged and  disappeared among folds in her saffron robes.  Pulling waist-length straight jet-black hair away from her delicate facial features to proffer her best “I’m SO lost and confused, PLEASE help me!” girlish expression, this youngest of the Quintessential Quintet team successfully had managed  penetration to  within her effective telekinetic range without challenge.  Then inwardly chuckling to herself  female guards would never have fallen for this!!, EG implants the first of three directives:  a Mind-Halt invading into the infatuated head of the Sargeant-at Arms confronting her.  The 6’4” blonde crew-cut hunk’s thoughts turned to molasses, falling under Emma’s powerful spell as he was stupefied in mid-sentence:  “HOLD IT RIGHT….”   Sarge’s two companions responded quickly to his immobile demise; yet hours upon the Area 57 combat practice range prepared Emma well.  Indeed, before any rifle could be trained upon her, the QQ had executed a palms-closing arm gesture which released opposing & entrapping Mind-Blows toward the angry charging airmen.  Unceremoniously hurled together four feet through mid-air by our formidable superheroine’s force projections, the duo collide like puppets caught amid tangled strings with a THUNK !!: bodies and helmets crashing together as they slump unconscious to the guardhouse floor.  The not-so-harmless exotic beauty looks over her shoulder and winks.


Phase one of the assault then completed, another of Emma’s companions rushed forward from rocky concealment toward the USAF base’s main building entryway steps fifty yards further ahead.  Using her ‘flashing’ super-speed  powers (fueled by concentrated bursts of strength from an immeasurably-deep well of endurance which gives name to her QQ character), athletic  Deedee covers the distance between her hiding place and the two front door sentries in a whooshing blur taking less than one second!  These next two targets had watched Empath Girl with concern as she sauntered up to the gatehouse; but the QQ teenager had made no apparent hostile moves (simply  a few slight hand motions), and the sudden stilled fate of their comrades at the perimeter was unclear from this distance.  They only had time to exchange a glance of confusion at witness to EG’s telekinetic triple-knockout before Dura-Damsel had popped off each of their military MP-style helmets and rendered them both senseless with a sharp blow to their skulls with the blunt side of her boomerang weapon.  In little more than a blue-yellow-red spandex blink of an eye,  DD had brought down her designated targets and then taken cover- hurtling down over and off to the left side of the building stairway risers.  With all exterior defenses down, their assault’s third stage began three seconds later.

Ingeno-Lady alighted adroitly from her sixty-foot-high jet-pack jaunt onto the sidewalk some thirty feet shy of the building double glass door entryway at the top of the steps.  Her timing couldn’t have been more perfect, as four remaining interior sentries simultaneously burst forward across the threshold to investigate the downfall of their security comrades.  Working in pairs, two sprang toward fallen guards and were easy targets for the quick reflexes and deadly aim of the Quint-Quints leader.  Before the patter of the limber superheroine’s landing footfalls could register in their minds, these advancing sentries felt a slight impact accompanied by a distinct THWACK!! as IL’s hyper-lariat pellets struck.  Within five seconds each was virtually mummified by whirling spinning synthetic fibers which blossomed and multiplied outward from the marble-size projectiles.  The instantaneous high-tech equivalent of outpourings from thousands of gigantic drone spiders, steel-strong cords quickly and mercilessly constricted all free movements and forced each victim into ramrod-straight ‘at attention’ postures with arms pinned firmly against their sides.  Balance totally lost, they plunked down helplessly atop their unconscious colleagues whom they had intended to help- instead joining them as combat statistics.  It was all each could do to struggle and flex bound jawlines open to gasp for air through their tightly-wound gags.   The other guards had almost managed to get a shot or two off, but were instead summarily paralyzed by the last of Inga’s SDT-2 synaptically-disrupting taser darts.  Each sparkled bright green momentarily as an incapacitating electrical shock tetanized muscles into total rigidity with their firearms half-raised.  One of these sentries, an extremely-physically-fit 28-year-old blonde Corporal 1st Class named  Sandy Locke, was cemented into  a delicious sideways-kneeling-crouching attempt to gain her shooting balance with feet firmly affixed to fourth and fifth steps.  Anger and desperation sour normal military composure as she snarls while absolutely motionless: caught with mouth wide open amid the act of screaming some warning order back toward remaining  defenses behind her.  Thanks to the feathered projectile-gadgetry protruding out through Sandy’s ample bulging right shirt breast pocket, these words will not be forthcoming anytime soon, however.  The flexing-bended circumstances of this muscular involuntary statue brought longer-than-needed appraisal from two team members.  Creases, crevices and  curvatures along rearward areas of the lady’s taut uniform slacks cause both the nerdy shy Scotty - as well as the sexually overcharged Diedre- to blurt out “Nice Ass!!”  simultaneously in tones well above a whisper.  Both turned to each other and blush slightly as their private intimate thoughts were unexpectedly laid bare.

But the superheroine team leader had more pressing matters to attend to than the interesting Ms. Locke mannequin. IL’s keen eyesight provided our green-and-yellow-spandex-clad good-gal chance to spot one last opponent: a curly-tow-headed receptionist in a Lieutenant’s uniform now raising up in shocked astonishment from her seat  behind a large control console inside the entrance foyer!  Sarcastically mumbling, “thanks for the clean shot, buddy” to her latest victim (a behemoth security guard halted with legs widespread and arched back propping  open a glass door in his newly-statued state),  our cool-as-a-mountain-lake under fire QQ had raised her freeze ray to produce a wild-eyed (Lt. Ann Holt wasn’t  combat-trained as a G-11 clerk/typist) agog early-thirties human popsicle with an index finger stiffened one inch above a console general quarters button.  And so, with this hoarfrost-crowned adversary frozen in mid-lunge from her receptionist’s chair and glistening beneath an inch-thick coating of encasing ice, the battle ended.  Quintessential Quintet: 10;  Military Security: 0.  But was their attack still secret??  As the other three members of the reconnaissance-rescue unit gather to her side, our ingenious but low-on-batteries QQ leader waves her team forward and climbs base entryway stairs, leaving immobilized captives to contemplate their defeat in silence.


COMIC PAGE FIFTY-TWO:  Some 950 hundred miles away to the southwest, Major Roger Bannister slapped his comrade and drinking buddy Captain Mike Stone hard on the back in a gesture of congratulations.  Mike had just parlayed $20 of initial bets at the Grand Façade  casino’s craps tables into more than $15,000!  “Must be these crazy radiation sensor badges they’re making us wear that’re bringing us good luck?” the superior militiaman proposes.  “Naah… luck’s got nothing to do with it, Rog.  Been playing this game in the city alleyways since I was seven years old”.  Both Air Force officers were perplexed but pleased to be assigned to drive military mega-haulers (with top-secret cargo) from their North Dakota base to Las Vegas.  Neither of the tip-top physically fit USAF career men had the slightest idea how or why some big-shot Marine Colonel had ordered them down to the more comfortable climes of Nevada- but they weren’t about to question those orders:  make a one-way delivery to the outskirts of town (next to some weird looking tower with an experimental package atop its girders), then take two days of R&R in ‘Sin City’.  And, as hoped, their financial successes were not going entirely unnoticed.  There were the expected gaudily-attired gold diggers and prostitutes orbiting their table location to be sure; yet the men were enraptured by a much classier and more alluring prize.  Standing exactly oppositely across the oblong green-velvet playing surface perched an absolute knockout blonde in a royal blue low-cut sequined minidress.  Huge diamond earrings and matching tennis bracelet screamed to the slightly inebriated uniformed studs this dame was not attracted to them for their new-found liquidity.  Green eyes sparkled atop a seductive ruby smile which was summoning them as surely as any dinner bell to delectable mealtime morsels.  Her striking beauty obscured any exact age: the overall impression of the perfectly-proportioned goddess was classically timeless.  Their libidinous curiosities could not be contained further as the golden-tressed siren beckoned them to follow and sashayed  (what a wiggling backside!) toward an exhibit gallery entitled Le Cirque D’ which had glass walls opening out to the Hotel’s main promenade.  Slipping into a 5-foot-radius curtained alcove with an encouraging wink… and pale-sheer stockinged left leg trailing after her, both tall crew-cutted USAF hunks finally greeted the seductress standing atop a 1-foot-tall acrylic pedestal centered within a red velvet circle. Her name was Giselle, and she was French- of course!!  Very direct and sexy. Pursed pouty lips… pronounced and uplifted cleavage (which she kept massaging beneath and together in an irresistible way)… her tight sparkling dress hinting at the tantalizing triangle between luscious thighs and a delectable crack along her derriere.  The very atmosphere within the tiny private enclosure seemed erotically charged, becoming thick with the heat and aroma of pleasures soon to come.  Her heavy accent seemed to cast its own sexual spell onto ever-more-befuddled military male bookends as Madame Giselle spun her web.  “Bonjour, mes soldats magnifiques.  I vonder eef I could eenterest you Messieurs een a little-  how you say-  Aaaction”?  Both men couldn’t believe their luck… now well  beyond the  incredible good fortune at the craps table only minutes before.  Raising both her delicate arms to brush prettily among long fair tresses, the temptress began a slow hip-gyrating rotation atop the acrylic platform.  Once turned completely away from a stupefied duo, Giselle suddenly snapped her head over her shoulder and fixed her new targets with a smoldering stare.  “You haf studied zee rearguard strateegee, mais non”?  With a quick sweep of her right hand, the blonde slid the hemline of her minidress upwards across beguiling curvatures and held the fabric atop the lovely dent at the small of her back.  Sudden sight of this tan-lined oval moon toppled any remaining caution or defenses the men held in reserve.  Black-edged see-thru acrylic panties left virtually nothing to their imaginations.  Giselle took satisfaction in the audible gasps-  and responded by bending forward at the waist to rest both hands upon her knees.  Appraising her choices-du-jour:  both stance-shifting uncomfortably with obvious bulges along their uniform slacks inseams, she asked bluntly, “You two vould love it from behind, n’est-ce pas”? Roger and Mike exchanged a wide-eyed flushed glance before enthusiastically nodding lustful assent.  The vixen giggled naughtily, barking her first command: “Pull zee curtains shut behind you NOW”!!  Next she slyly extracted the vial concealed between voluptuous breasts from down her dress front.  Neither preoccupied man noticed Giselle’s tan latex gloves.


COMIC PAGE FIFTY-THREEWeasel had tailored the booby-trap to perfection: the watch fit her wrist exquisitely.  Of course, Hercules noted the incongruity of Major Shirley Glide’s ‘wild wild west’ get-up with the sleek functional elegance of a Swiss chronometer encircling her lower arm.  Who in the #!%&*^! would wear a cowgirl outfit to meet with a President of the United States??   What an ego this gal must have!  Being the first American female in space has certainly gone straight to her pretty little head.  Probably explains why she’s been so much trouble about our Melkosian cube and the emitter package scheduled to go up Monday on Endeavor.  No matter now… with that watch on her wrist all our problems are solved.  This Shuttle Commander’s arrogance, attitude- and even that silly costume- will be of absolutely no consequence momentarily!   Glancing at his own watch by shoving up the sleeve of his formal ‘dress blues’, USN Captain David Nicholson noted that approximately ninety seconds remained until a frequency-adjusted TRAMP’s theta-wave radiation would make first  contact with Shirley’s epidermis.  Unlike all the other occupants of the Oval Office on this late Monday morning in April, the Navy Seal with the mythological nickname (earned by carrying a wounded Marine Captain Oliver South over three miles across the Mekong Delta to out of harm’s way some 30 years before) wasn’t paying the slightest attention to Major Glide’s formal protest and appeal to reject the Space Shuttle’s suspicious payload already secured into its cargo bay.  President George Lush and Shuttle passenger ex-President Don Raygun sat attentively to Shirley’s haughty tirade and whistle-blowing threats to scrub the mission.  NASA Chief Jim Perigee squirmed uncomfortably under accusations from this strong-willed astronaut dressed in buckskin fringed jacket, chaps and boots, a silk blouse and tight denims.  She hadn’t even bothered to remove her ten-gallon cowgirl’s hat.  The subconscious message was crystal clear:  you corrupt politicians don’t deserve my respect… and your secretive plans-within-plans endanger MY mission!  Yet the “soft sell” provided by the gift of the Omega had taken her aback, setting her somewhat off-course.  Shirley had blushed slightly and let a weak appreciative smile escape her full lips as she read the watch’s inscription “… for unrelenting service to her country“- would soon ring all too true.  This independent and athletic early-forties lady certainly had class and courage etched into a still-youthful blue-eyed visage.  Suddenly, the Major’s bright expression winces in unexpected pain as a sharp pinching indicates disconnect between Hippocampus and Brain Stem.  A few barely-noticeable sparks jump across contact points on the back of the watch case as Shirley steadies unsure balance. Raw lust grows rapidly in Hercules’ mind (and elsewhere) as he strides forward from the edge of the room onto its center stage.  “Gentlemen”, he began, “I believe I have an answer to the Major’s objections-  if you’d please permit me a moment”?   He tosses a manila envelope onto the Connolly desk for President Lush’s perusal and turns to face a now-furious feminine adversary.  With a cool smile, the trained assassin fingers a collared bell and packet of grass clippings in his left coat pocket, while removing the bar of soap from his right.  Shirley’s rage softens into uncertainty.


COMIC PAGE FIFTY-FOURThe aroma and tantalizing proximity of the hot dog was driving her taste buds crazy. A still-steaming foot-long wiener, fresh from the Rose Bowl vendor’s beer & water vat and plunked onto a sourdough bun, hovered between Tina Sorenson’s O-shaped waiting lips.  Gluttony’s glee from anticipating her first big bite was plastered all over this attractive coed’s face: brown eyes bright and wide with eyebrows raised, the tip of her tongue arcing to greet her tasty target with shiny incisors and bicuspids only centimeters away from culinary delight. And yet, try as she might (and she’d been trying over eleven days now!) Tina’s tempting halftime snack was unscathed.  One last determined thought- to savor the taste of the stadium hot dog- recirculated again and again in an endless mental loop which had been derailed by Weasel’s down-thrust upon a Melkosian cube’s temporal dilation plunger.  From that instant forward, very little had made sense to the still-hungry sophomore.  The hot dog vendor she had flirted with only minutes earlier returned wearing a skintight metallic silver hooded cowl, matching eye goggles and gloves… the getup looked almost like a spacesuit straight out of a ‘50’s B-movie!  From her shoulders-hunched sitting position, Tina could discern little away from the direct line-of-sight provided by her static stare out over the wiener, but was able to register confusion, amazement and horror in realization that she and (almost) everybody else  in the 100,000+ person football arena had been halted stock-still in their tracks.  And the nightmare continued to unfold, as the nerdy stadium vendor untied her bikini tube top and rolled it down to her tummy.  Squashed 38DD boobs ignored their newly-found freedom (and gravity), hanging close to her ribcage as upthrust pink clumps with indented nipples. Next, a small tug on abbreviated cutoffs waistband lifted her off the bench to hang suspended in midair!  Another tug at her waistband- decidedly southwards this time- and she felt denim shorts and panties stretched across slightly-parted knees.  High-pitched sounds from some scientific measuring device were the only accompaniment to an unearthly tinkling noise seemingly emanating from the electrical-sparking blue haze which enshrouded every aisle and row, all the way up to the starched-stiff stadium pennants all frozen in mid-flutter.  A quickly-copped feel of her pear-shaped backside demonstrated to a time-stopped lovely her complete state of helplessness.  Actions by her assailant seemed to accelerate and move into a whirling blur.  In what felt like a mere instant, a weird pager-sized device had been clipped to her bikini top, and a six-foot-radius blue sphere engulfed her.  Tina began to lose all perspective… her sense of reality overwhelmed by the incredulity of switching from carefree gridiron spectator to one of Colonel Chronos’ mostly-nude victims.  The last sensations  she had experienced before the world went dark (as she entered the psycho-physiological state engineering genius Weasel had nicknamed “storage mode”) was that of spinning and whirling past energetic-looking UCLA and USC football player statues as she was rolled inside her chrono-cradle across the field toward a waiting catering truck in the stationary stadium’s far end zone tunnel.


     Yet all that excitement and activity now seemed an eternity ago.  She had vague recollections of spending some time down inside a very long dark vertical tube, and then occasional recent jostlings- a road trip maybe?- while stuck in the cargo hold of a big vehicle.  But what really brought all five senses back to life was her disgorgement onto the Nevada sands only moments before- she along with nearly eight score other half-naked time-stopped temporal fuel cells.  It was more than the physical sensations from the rollout down the back of the truck gangway, or the collisions with other radiation-encasing marbles. Tina’s final resting attitude placed her vision almost straight up into the sky; yet she also had clear view of a tanned shapely calf and New Balance from an adjacent jogger frozen in mid-stride.  No, there was also a psychic connection established as bio-electromagnetism inside each victim’s alien prison drew all of CC’s cruel TRAMP spheres tightly together.  Our top-heavy coed sensed first the awkward embarrassment of a nearby UCLA cheerleader whose pose and random sphere orientation forced her to stare straight at Tina’s squatting rump, bush  and upper thighs.  Next she felt the girl jogger’s frustration while somehow overhearing Judy’s thoughts: Why can’t I MOVE!!??  I’ve GOT to pull my shorts back up and get the %@#! out of here before those silver-suited maniacs come back and do GOD knows what.  Come on girl… left foot in front of the right… DAMMIT! Might as well be a sculpture on a pedestal for all I can struggle. No good- can’t even BLINK, for pete’s sake … SOMEBODY HELP ME! It was the same for all of them, and after a few moments of mental eavesdropping(Tina couldn’t stand it), the hot-dog hottie realized the full extent and degree of collective fear and panic contained in those 150+ bubbles in the desert.  Thoughts of what might happen to them were too daunting for the auburn-haired coed to consider further, and her focus shifted to movement she perceived over the far end of her sourdough bun.  Some two hundred feet in the air above her, one of the silver-suited criminals was tinkering with a chest-freezer-sized bundle of wires and metal that was crowned by a large gold-plated umbrella pointed sideways.  This villain spoke vehemently into a TV monitor.  Tina stared in mounting dread that something terribly wrong was about to happen.  But her hot dog smelled yummy!


COMIC PAGE FIFTY-FIVE:  The recipient of the communication from the man at the top of the tower sat six levels underground in the nerve center of Colonel Chronos’ secret-base-within-a-secret-base.  Dwight Wyolzelczki (a.k.a. “Weasel” for his unappealing and extremely nerdy physical features) ran down a high-tech checklist with the five-foot-high countenance of Oliver South illuminating the laboratory’s jumbotron video monitor.  The megalomaniac Marine was decked out in his custom-tailored Melkosian temporally-insulating flight suit.  Encased head-to-toe in its skintight metallic silver protection with goggles up across his forehead, only his rugged mid-fifties confident good looks (despite the exaggerated ‘Dick Dastardly’ waxed handlebar moustache) could prove he was not an outer-space alien to the dozens of time-stopped women scattered on the sands below him.   Reading the various gauges and LED indicators attached to monitor consoles of the calibrating ‘Little Bang’ theta-wave parabolic deflector-dissipator, he visually confirmed and verified instrument settings that were also being relayed by military spy satellite to the control panels beneath Dwight’s gaze.  “Sequencing capacitors engaged to cascade at a threshold of 47.68 megarads?”, whined the electrical engineering genius while squinting behind his coke-bottle-thick bifocals.  “Roger that”, replied the evil military mastermind hatching a grand scheme to resculpt the entire world into Mommy and The Chief’s image.  “Distance to nearest target registers 22.63 kilometers… farthest GPS signal from a radiation badge is 26.83 clicks… we’ve got good dispersion from five out of seven guinea pigs, but two of the officers are right on top of each other in one of the casinos”.   Chronos frowned, “Will that impair data collection seriously?” Weasel thought the problem through mathematically in his head, then reported, “Probably will result in a type-II statistical error increase of about 1%... perhaps +/- six months to final chronological coordinates.  We could compensate by increasing initial bioresonant energy another 1.675 joules as measured by Composite Comeliness Score.  Any beautiful long-legged  hitchhikers wandering down nearby Route 66”?   CC chuckled at this extremely unlikely prospect.  Their gang had spent the past two months extracting the 700 most seductive and voluptuous young women from an entire Southern California population- arguably the most overall physically  attractive gene pool on the face of the earth- and chances of a couple more (together they would need to average .88 or higher on Dwight’s pulchri-meter) babes simply falling in their lap at the last moment were pretty far-fetched.  Ollie glanced at temporal fuel below him: Playboy playmates, aerobics instructors, Hollywood B-Queens, models, beach bunnies…  all near-perfection of the feminine form.  Each held the stunning vivacity and energetic life-force (inherited via secret Melkosian genetic intermingling with humans over the past three millennia) to sufficiently trigger five alien time-altering mechanisms recovered from the Phaethon crash 19 years before.  “Aggregate CCS measures 127.61 from our guests downstairs.  We’re scraping the bottom of the barrel as it is, based upon your Cray supercomputer estimates, to still have enough for our Big Bang with only the one progress launch remaining.  I’ll explain to the Chief how December ’44 will have to be almost as good as June”.  With a twist on his greasy moustache and parting evil smirk to the video feed,  Ollie turns back to his countdown list.

With attention of his boss temporarily directed elsewhere, Dwight now glances back over his shoulder in response to the stiletto click-clack of high heels across the laboratory hardwood. A Colonel’s second-in-command (not counting Mommy and The Chief, of course, who consider themselves superior to everybody), Dawn Fall seductively slithers past the chilled bubbling argon and ammonia-filled stasis tube containing the original owner of CC’s flight suit.  Arms and luscious never-ending pale green legs slowly undulate inside the freezing prison which has kept space-timeship Captain Kel-Bar Sasha in an incapacitated-yet-compliant dream state for nearly two decades.  Alien exaggerated drop-dead gorgeous curves displayed from head to toe on the seven-foot-tall female humanoid put even the sexiest of today’s world-famous supermodels to shame.  Yet the military’s best-kept ultra-secret serves a totally diabolical purpose as sole survivor from Colonel South’s Central American stinger missile takedown.  Just now, Sasha’s shaved-bald pate and pubic region are welcoming back a smattering of aquamarine fuzzy dots.  Surgeons sworn to secrecy have once again sterilized the ten-foot-tall cylindrical life-support container so as to extract tissue samples from her Melkos kattra- a distant anatomical cousin to the human liver.  Contained within Capt. Kel-Bar’s mystery internal organ is more bioresonant electro-chemical potential energy than all the lithe dynamite beauties walking the earth put together!  However, our stoic and aloof space-time traveler’s uncooperative(indeed uncommunicative) state -as well as the extremely short lifespan of Melkosian cellular matter in an oxygen-based environment- forced use of kattra samples as direct power supplies in only the most unusual circumstances.  CC’s gang had booby-trapped one of Dwight’s TRAMP(temporal reduction or amplification via modulation of phase) theta-wave governance devices in this manner; then allowed QQ’s to unwittingly carry the deadly gadget into the heart of their New Mexico lab-base stronghold… with limited success.   More recently, tiny surreptitious devices providing a last-resort security defense inside their own elevator- as well as the Mind-TRAMP adorning Major Shirley Glide’s wrist- are also kattra-powered.


Wincing at the surgical scars and staples maligning the otherwise ethereal appearance of the nude Melkos prisoner, Dawn Fall headed diagonally from one corner of their subterranean control room toward its elevator access.  Sexy and vivacious in her own right (having received offers from Playboy and Penthouse to pose back in the Iran-Contra heydays), this early-fifties dynamo now stood fully restored to mid-twenties looks and health as reward for her fine and faithful service to the Colonel and his cause… thanks to Weasel’s ingenious TRAMP age regression algorithm.    Dawn tried not to think hard or often about the 2-3 California Girls who had sacrificed their own temporal energy to power her personal high-tech fountain of youth. That process left them all as prematurely-aged senile old bitties! 

She certainly looked incredible now as she wriggled past twin Cray XR-71 supercomputers in a tight gray tweed   miniskirt and matching double-breasted jacket over a navy blue ruffled silk chemise.  Dark suntan hose combined with the abbreviated skirt and 3-inch heels to produce a prancing presentation which could stop Times Square traffic at rush hour in the blink of an eye.  Our nerdy genius could not withhold an appreciative wolf-whistle, and Dawn doffed her 1960’s newspaper-reporter-style black fedora with fake press ID card wedged into its hatband in return to him.  “I’m off to the pageant… got all five of those Metal-TRAMPS inside the lead-lined false bottom of my portfolio.  Tell Mommy that I’ll expect her there with the cube at 3:30 sharp”!  Weasel had wanted to accompany his cohorts in crime on their last scheduled fuel acquisition run, but was simply too darned busy at this point.  He consoled himself with enticing memories of fuel cell “Julia 26F”- Miss Florida- with whom he had already become acquainted atop a Malibu dune. Nonetheless, Dwight intoned to the striking frosted-blonde ‘reporter’: “Even if none of those is the proper auric molecular oscillatory recombination, our odds will be improved to one-in-five for any subsequent Operation Goldmine empirical testing”.   Crinkling her cute nose at the egghead (since she hadn’t understood a word he just said), she replied, “All I know is I’m supposed to spare “Miss Mass”.  Seems the Colonel saw her in a TV interview and has taken a fancy to her.  What’s she gonna be… granite… plastic… wax”?  Weasel’s gaze involuntarily swung toward the mechanical red and yellow double-doors  marked “NO ADMITTANCE” in the far laboratory wall adjacent to the control room’s utility storage area. On storage closet shelves sat various cans of textured bodypaint which Dwight had lovingly applied (with  still more to come!) on objets d’art contained beyond those massive steel doors.  The Colonel’s penchant for statues had arisen following his addition of superheroine Looker (stiffened within a self-inflicted mannequinized state) to the collection several days ago.  “And exactly HOW  do YOU know about THAT!?”, asked the engineering genius of the Colonel’s former personal Washington D.C. secretary.  Realizing her mistake, Dawn stutter-steps and nearly falls down from atop her too-tall heels.  The unbalancing act shifted papers inside a folder stuffed down the front of her chemise, and she had to grab and gather an obviously-expanding bulge back into the secure grasp of her pantyhose waistband and lower brassiere elastics.  Her clandestine snooping was now doubly exposed, and she stammered- searching for a response which would save her- but found none.  “Well, old habits die hard, I guess, Ms. Fall.  Whatever you’re doing, it’s gonna cost you a daily BJ from now on for me to keep quiet”! The prospect of serving up on-demand oral sex to a slime-ball geek was more than could be stomached, so she counter-attacked rather than conceding defeat.  “You breathe ONE WORD of this to anybody, and I’ll let Ollie know how you’ve been helping yourself to his love-doll collection while he’s away”!  Patting the dossier shoved precariously into her underwear, the back-against-the-wall bad-gal took no prisoners, “I’ve got photos of you from yesterday while you slurped away from behind at that ankle-grabbing brunette cheerleader in there.  What’s this oral fascination you’ve got, anyway ?  Weasel’s wankie won’t work well ??  Spent too long on baby bottles when you were in diapers?… if you’ve ever been potty-trained!   Want ME to blow YOU??  Buster, you’ve got a better chance of blowing YOURSELF”!  Grabbing the briefcase containing her own silver temporally-insulating suit, she stormed over to the waiting elevator. These materials better be enough for the Enquirer’s editor, because my cover’s FULLY blown!

Weasel watched her go, growing more angry by the second.  Checking the bank of 9” building interior monitors, he observed her ascend to reach a subterranean corridor between the CO’s quarters and INTEL-COM-SAT data arena, whereupon Dawn veered off into a ladies room.  With no security cameras inside there, he shifted his attentions to adjacent screens routinely, until happening on Lt. Ann Holt’s very still and glistening rear-view in the base entryway.

It’s unclear whether the cheap thrill of the uncontested and unwavering sight of the Lieutenant’s bended backside (Weasel’s favorite approach angle) was sole cause for the big smile forming onto his thin pale lips, but- whatever the reason-  Colonel Chronos’ third-in-command pushed a console button marked “ELEVATOR MT ENABLE”.

Then he nodded in knowing approval as sight of the deliciously-iced female was replaced by a more-to-be-expected bustling scene populated by usual NSA and USAF personnel (including a reanimated Ms. Holt!) in the front alcove.

However, when he swiveled his chair back round to the jumbotron, he saw a five-foot-tall mustachioed expression of annoyance and displeasure staring him in the face.  “Uh… Boss…  How long have you been watching”? he gasped.


COMIC PAGE FIFTY-SIX: FBI Special Agent John Straightarrow’s pronounced jawline was grimly set by the evil scene laid before him.  Sobbing softy upon Professor Helen Troy’s anterior office couch were two USC coeds who until a couple of hours ago didn’t have a care in the world.  Miranda and Shelley had sprawled in classic sun-worship poses amid a secluded Arts Quad corner with bikini ties loosened to prevent unwanted tan lines.  Suddenly, an evil cackle could be heard over the Eminem song blasting through Shelley’s walkman headphones, accompanied by a blinding blue flash of light.  The next thing Miranda knew, her youthful beauty had been snatched away and she was somehow accelerated to more than 90 years old!  Breasts and buns which had snugly and flatteringly filled out her swimsuit now awkwardly overflowed and sagged out its sides and edges.  Hell, she could practically play soccer with her tits!  Toned skin was crinkled and age-spotted, with elbows and knees flabby-creaky.  And based on the horrific scream Shelly had exhorted (bringing campus police on the run) upon looking at her face, she knew that she didn’t ever want to see mirror.  Bowing her head and starting to cry, peripheral vision took note that every pretty black perm ringlet had inexplicably turned snow white. And her mind was gradually starting to go too.  Memories were fading, replaced by confusion, headaches and fuzziness clouding once-sharp thought processes for this straight-A student.  Completely overwhelmed by her rapid transformation from comely coed into ugly old crone, Miranda had allowed herself to be led slowly (stooped and bent-over posture and arthritic knees didn’t help her progress) by a USC safety officer into the office of the Ancient History Department Chair, following his terse two-way-radio conversations. A handsome Native American G-Man therein had visited several prior crime scenes littered with victims from Colonel Chronos’ cruelty.  The pandemonium inside the Getty Museum special exhibit stood out in his mind particularly. And yet, this was the very first time (John knew of) that the villains had used on-site bystanders to fuel their mischief.  That new wrinkle had an ominous feel about it, and he mentioned it straight away- both to his Washington superiors and to Professor Nils Johannson via the A/V wrist communicator the famous scientist had provided him.  “Yaaah, John.  I also now fear zat utilization of temporal life-force from proximate sources may well indicate that their ‘tank is full’, so to speak.  In other words, zis is evidence zat zey have collected and stored all the potential energy zey need to accomplish their nefarious planz.  Yours was clearly a mopping-up operation designed to tie up looze endz.  Is there any sign of Helen Troy?  If she Mind-Melded again with Empath Girl, we might cast out a very wide net indeed”. The skilled investigator shifted his gaze from the antiquated distraught duo in the anteroom to the Department Chair’s door threshold where he now stood.  Overhearing Shelley bemoan, “Department of Ancient History… PERFECT!!! These digs fit us to a tee, Miranda.  I can be their office mascot…  Here’s Shelly:  she’s older than the Seven Hills of Rome…”.  Ancient hysteria is more like it! thought Agent Straightarrow(uncharacteristically unkindly) before gazing again at the third innocent victim of Chronos’ bizarre technology posed beside him.  A solid pewter version of what was earlier today Professor Troy’s pretty secretary Brenda Glaze teetered with legs apart, holding a perpetual shrug of ineffectual embarrassment from letting Mommy storm past her.  John couldn’t help but notice pleasing proportions along the young woman’s hourglass figure, and hatred for bastards who would so carelessly throw away defenseless lives swelled. “No sign of Troy, Professor.  Only someone we’ve identified as her secretary.  She’s inexplicably been solidified into metallic form.  Look”!  Pointing his wrist-screen at Brenda’s cute (but now dull-grey) countenance, John wrapped firmly on her forehead to produce a muffled CLANK!  Turning to scan the interior of Helen’s now-abandoned office, he didn’t notice his frustration from failing to capture the corrupt USC prof had vented in the form of a little bit too hard of a blow.  Brenda’s sexy statue wobbled, then tumbled backwards- the dense inert gal crashing completely through her own wooden desk to rest horizontally amid debris and splinters on the office floor!  John blushes visibly.


COMIC PAGE FIFTY-SEVENThe one individual with knowledge of Helen Troy’s exact location was in that very moment staring at Norman Rockwell’s masterpiece Child Psychology (a classic portrait of a concerned parent teaching ‘facts of life’ to a child upon her knee- with assistance from the back of a tortoise shell hairbrush) which conveniently hung upon the south wall of their home’s private library.  Although this painting was one of more than two dozen Rockwell’s there displayed- The Chief simply adored this particular artist’s realistic (and often moralistic) scenes depicting a better, simpler and humbler way of American life- Boy and His Dog, Freedom from Want, Doctor’s Office Visit and all the others collected as icing-on-the-cake prizes from various temporal fuel acquisition runs didn’t quite speak to Mommy’s personality in just the same way.  The woman in this picture had power… control over not only the present (evidenced by tears and protestations of the mischievous munchkin squirming in sharp pain with reddened buttocks), but of the future as well.  Behavior was being altered here, and lessons were being learned.  The boy would be doing things her way from now on!  That delicious sense of authoritative dominance revealed itself not only by the twinkle inside the eyes of the oil-based parent; but in a strikingly-similar smirking expression of haughty superiority upon the face of her real-life admirer also.  Teaching people lessons- and putting them in their proper place- was one of life’s sweetest pleasures for this loose-cannon member of Colonel Chronos’ criminal conspiracy.  In fact, Mommy was right in the middle of doing  just that  with a surly and impolite Pacific Edison bill collector who had the audacity to arrive at their Santa Barbara mansion front door brandishing an overdue notice for $137,588.  Clearly, in the absence of ongoing use of immobilized beauties to sustain their temporal dilation fields twinkling down the corridor, and with cancellation of the top-secret military subsidy by Joint Chiefs General Hawke at his near-detection two weeks ago, the electric bills had spiraled rapidly out of control.  Yet The Chief and Ollie then assured her that Operation Goldmine would provide the needed supplementary funds in short order.  However, Mr. Jenkins here (now frozen inside a six-foot-diameter TRAMP sphere amidst a shouting tirade and pointing at the past due notice still held aloft in his left hand) hadn’t been in any mood for excuses of explanations.  So Mommy was left with little choice except to fetch the black cube theta-wave emitter always residing in her cinematic visitor’s gallery and proceed to ‘put him in his place’.  Permanently.  And-not coincidentally- a place quite close to that of the world-famous and attractive history professor.  Turning away from the Rockwell exhibit wall, Mommy shoves with both arms the giant blue ball containing her newest guest toward the oversized archway at the far end of the library.  By first unlocking elegant double French doors and deactivating the gallery security system, she enters the central viewing corridor of a high-tech dreamland-come-true.  Six of the eight 20’ wide x18’ tall x 12’ deep West Wing presentations stand partly or fully completed with theta wave energy swirling behind 6-inch leaded glass.  Re-creations of films which had catapulted their female leads into superstardom- much to the envious dismay of Mommy herself- glimmer on left and right.  Defining Hollywood moments taken from Cleopatra, Psycho, Seven Year Itch, and Wizard of Oz all stand on proud display, fully populated and replicated down to their last details- albeit earning somewhat racier R-ratings than those original films.   Starlet Sharon Rock’s Egyptian beaver shot atop her portable throne-dais contrasts and complements Playmate of the Year Victoria Goldstedt’s soapy shower scream and supermodel Kathy England’s blustery panty-less street stance down the gallery hall’s right.  A fourth display area- hopefully awaiting arrival of five muta-cloned collection additions- remains dark. At the far left actress Roberta Julies and her boyfriend stand in for Judy Garland and Ray Bolger, although their Oz classic costumes are more-than-slightly askew.  Scenes from the films From Here to Eternity, Titanic. and Gone With the Wind  comprise the nearer–left-hand-side movie exhibits.  These are in various stages of completion.  Instantly-recognizable Carol “Halt” lies stretched upon an Oahu beach while frozen in a passionate embrace.  Slathered by time-stopped sandy sea-foam and drenched by the static wave crashing down over her perfect figure (replica of Deborah Kerr’s swimsuit lies entangled around both ankles), this  supermodel snatched from the Sports Illustrated swimsuit photo shoot awaits her own Burt Lancaster with infinite patience:  eyes closed and pink lips puckered into an exaggerated kiss.  Sniggering at Carol’s silly pose from the scene’s half-completed circumstances, Mommy passes a just-constructed empty ship’s forecastle (where she intends to place the lovely Miss Massachusetts onto display along with another expendable member of their own brutish gang) and pushes the immobilized Mr. Jenkins’ bubble to rest in front of a balcony scene taken straight from a Georgian plantation. Any gallery visitor has a cross-sectional side view from second-story height, looking onto a flirtatious Scarlett O’Hara  as she gathers praise and adoration from multiple Southern suitors in Tara’s courtyard eight feet below her.  Mommy has already decked out an earlier pair of Mormon goody-two-shoes missionaries (who had the bad luck to try proselytizing her the other day) into 1860’s full-dress tie and tails, and now the unpleasant bill collector would soon be joining them as decorative counter-point to a not-so-prim-and-proper lady appreciatively smiling downward.  Given the O’Hara’s financial difficulties in the post-Civil-War era, Scarlett poses dressed in a hastily-sewn ball gown constructed from their drawing room draperies.  Not surprisingly then, fit and coverage across the Belle’s shapely figure is less than perfect.  Huge amounts of overly-uplifted cleavage coquettishly cascade out the front of her dress to tease the “gentleman callers” with top-half glimpses of large chocolate aureloles.  Yet the most significant design lapse of her wardrobe isn’t visible from below, as Scarlett bends appreciatively across the balcony railing offering a handkerchief wave. Velvety-red material wraps round her body to come up some twelve inches shy of meeting in the back!  From neckline to her trim waist, this shortfall is redressed by white corselet-like criss-crossing strings and stays which allow viewers appreciative sight along her shallow curved spine to the small of her back. From this point downward, though, all is laid bare- literally.  The gorgeous peach shape and crack of a bent-round derriere are delightfully displayed by an ever-widening wedged gap in her dress.  Pretty pressed-together legs roll and curve most the way to balcony hardwood, punctuated only by dainty white silk panties stretched across her calves and elegant black high heels.  Mommy plans to add more characters to this scene… once their usefulness to her has been spent.  Dawn Fall- in hilarious black face with bandanna-bound hair and slave’s rags- will soon fill the balcony’s background with a wide-eyed disapproving scowl which would make “Mammy” proud.  An emboldened Rhett Butler caller should complete the scene perfectly, while also making Scarlett ecstatic.  As we peer more closely beneath the elaborate coiffured tresses of a foot-tall black beehive wig, we can recognize the captured countenance of Professor Helen Troy.


COMIC PAGE FIFTY-EIGHTTemperatures inside the Grand Façade  circular alcove were rising rapidly- just as Madame Giselle had planned.  With both airmen turned away to pull closed red privacy curtains behind them, our knockout blonde in the upturned minidress quickly moistened her gloved hands with several milliliters of a clear viscous chemical before tossing the vial noiselessly aside among floor-to-ceiling draperies.  “Aand whhoo vould  like to un-zeep mee”?  she queried of her catches-of-the-day.  Roger Bannister needed no further coaxing from this sexual powderkeg… stepping quickly up on the foot-tall acrylic pedestal to hasten a zipper’s descent through blue sparkling sequins.  Gentle encouragement down from off the seductress’ smooth shoulders and around her flawless figure brought the shiny fabric to rest about ankles encased in sheer champagne stockings.  Whether if by luck or precise accuracy, the green eyed gal foot-flipped the garment atop her secret vial laying at the room perimeter.  She then commenced a pre-mating ritual which easily put the dance of the seven veils to utter shame.  First a clear vinyl brassiere with black latex edges- perfect complement and match to her panties, by the way- titillated and tempted    masculine bookends as a sensual French siren slowly massaged upper then lower undergarments with both palms.  Squashed-together breasts, stretching buttocks, and seductively swaying nether regions were tantalizingly displayed as Giselle slowly writhed and gyrated before them.  Transparent material of bra and panties veritably glowed from the feminine self-rub-down (and chemical coating), matching the glistening beads of perspiration running down Mike’s forehead.  This USAF target suddenly noticed that- unsure exactly when begun- his own personal waist-down self massage was well underway, with a monstrous crotch bulge now aching to burst free.  A lascivious low groan escaped from the Captain’s lips, primordially urging his torrid temptress to move inevitable events faster forward.  The blonde bombshell took this sound as palpable sign that the critical moment of entrapment had been reached.  Success or failure would come in the next few seconds.  With her bawdiest, most debaucherous stare she coaxed prizes-to-be yet again:  “Mons chers soldats, you eeeach vould like to remove a peece ov my preetee lingerie, mais non”?  The instantaneous nods of assent were more sexually instinctive than deliberative. “Ces’t ci bon…  but SLOWLY, and vith no handz.  DO  EET  NOW”!!, she commanded.  Officers Stone and Bannister exchanged one final predatory glance and went wide-eyed as the beauty upon the pedestal again leaned away from them to rest both hands on her knees. Lost in a sexual haze, Roger sauntered round the room perimeter to look his conquest (or was that the other way round?) face-to-face.  Planting a preemptory and permission-getting kiss upon her left cheek, he then hungrily dived downwards atop clear-coated cleavage.  Pulling and yanking the shiny latex exterior with lips, teeth and tongue, it took no more than sixty seconds to loosen and then peel down the bra from around its dual mountainous charges.  Giselle was both surprised and impressed with the Major’s diligence and enthusiasm, yet the mischievous Madame did not yet allow him to sample the presents so quickly unwrapped.  Instead, she slowly-but-firmly coaxed his head southward until he crouched on all fours facing point-blank into the front of her see-through panties.  “Geeve  your buddeee some aide… hee ees not as talented as you”, she growled like a big tigress in heat.  Indeed, Captain Stone faced a more challenging rearguard task in removing such tightly-stretched acrylic underwear from a bent-round backside. Not that he was complaining, mind you.  Hands casually clasped behind his back, this squatting career man had hungrily and happily nibbled and gnawed at an unrelenting taut black waistband over the past several minutes before lovingly sliding lips and tongue across Giselle’s glutes (she giggled gleefully as he did so) to attempt a toothy dislodgement using panty bottom seams.  The woman allowed their seduction to progress for another minute or two, delighting in the muffled heavy breathing, snorts and snarls as dual companions tried ever more assiduously to devour the plastic barrier right off from her privates!  As the pair’s efforts boiled to a frustrated-yet-feverish pitch, she allowed (finally!) them successful release.  Twin rock-hard soldiers received assistance from their horny hostess, who suddenly stood up straight and spread her gorgeous gams to a moderate V-shaped stance.  Releasing hip-high side ties connecting  front and back panels, more-yielding shiny fabric now slid loose down and along crotch and full fanny (accompanied by a wonderful whooshing!! noise). Our comrades-in-arms surprisingly found themselves eyeing each other inches apart between upper-inner thighs, just beneath moist crinkled tufts of blonde nether strands.  Identical looks of shocked sexual abandon are mirrored by each military hunk, connected by counterparts of slick transparent panties in their lips and mouth.  Then, most unexpectedly, came sharp sound of rubber gloves being removed.  In the instant following the weird stretchy thwack!!  and a lesser slap! of latex hitting the pedestal base- indeed before these sounds truly could register onto their erotically-overcharged minds- one gentle feminine finger brushed the top of each crew-cutted head.  The force of this contact was mere en passant, just the slightest grazing which thereby  nudged our dizzy duo an inch or two closer together until beet-reddened faces ogle point-blank through scrunched-together clear acrylic.  But then they realized it!  The woman’s touch (fleeting as it had been) absolutely stole all power and ability of any movement from their bodies. Crouching-kneeling and half-squatting awkwardly toward each other with opposing facial contact as only counterweight preventing tumbles off the platform edge, they were totally helpless.  Giselle released garter clips to dismount her sexually pent-up creation with an up-over leg swing: like a girl exiting a favorite Shetland pony.  Stepping back wearing only heels and hose, and with a dislodged-but-fastened bra still round her tummy, she stares intently and critically into frozen frenetic faces of latest victims to Cirque D’Artificiel’s inimitable talents.  A smile of satisfaction spreads over her striking face as she hastens to unzip Mike’s bulging fly.


COMIC PAGE FIFTY-NINEProfessor Nils Johannson put down his copy of the Los Angeles Times onto an oblong sandalwood conference table situated near the far wall of the QQ base communications-nerve center.  Shaking his head slowly and sadly at its front page headlines, he pensively stroked his cropped gray beard and took a long pull on his Comoy pipe.  It was just moments before 1:00 p.m. official starting time of the weekly Genesis Donor meeting-update, yet his tired eyes noted only two of the five Captain’s chairs located on the far side of a 12’x 6’ smoked brown glass window comprising (most of) the room’s western wall were as-yet-occupied.  Colonel Chronos, of course, had ensured that no more than four chairs would be filled today by DNA contributors to the fantastic biogenetic muta-cloning process which had produced the Quintessential Quintet superheroine team.  The beautiful and world-famous Kathy England’s kidnapping over twelve days ago from the Getty Museum gala had triggered their foray against the time-manipulating criminal gang- with further losses incurred.  Looking past today’s Times top story screaming out:  GOTHAM’S CATWOMAN  VANISHES FROM  SAN QUENTIN  SOLITARY!!  to its readers,  our sixty-something kindly and brilliant  geneticist scans the frozen sandy curves of a ZONKED Maw perched at the conference table center.  Oldest of the QQ’s, her formidable combat skills had been neutralized by thought-controlling theta-waves upon Catalina Island shores, then her molecularly-adjusting powers tricked into assuming this current sand sculpture state.  Nude except for ankle-top boots (all that remains of her costume regalia), our muscular blonde teeters on tip-toe, buttocks coiled up-out-back behind her,  with head, arms and torso heaving forward in counterbalance amid startup of a frog’s leap. Taking a fire-extinguisher-sized container to delicately spray this humiliated fuzzy-tan victim of Chronos’ high-tech arsenal with a protective polymer clear-coat, the Professor wonders  How many more sacrifices must we make to stop these heartless criminals?   Kathy… Looker… Maw… can we save them?  Or who will be next?   With a heavy sigh, he turns west to address a now-assembled quartet of Genesis Donors sitting in semi-anonymity behind the glass partition.

“Yaaah… und good avternoon, Ladies.  I vish to apprise you of the QQ’s progress in their rescue-reconnaissance of vhat vee believe to be Colonel Chronos’ secret military stronghold.  The away-team is under radio silence according to standard combat-tactical procedures; yet Scott McGillicutty has just now transmitted the pre-agreed mathematical coding at zee designated frequency which signifies our team’s successful penetration into the North Dakota military facility.  Zis base was used during the Cold War as a SAC regional headquarters, and zurroundz it is a 25-square-mile network of decommissioned ICBM silos.  Since the mid-1990’s, zee facility has been converted into und ultra-secret National Security Agency spy satellite downlink-decoder arena and listening post.  I could not, of course, confirm or deny existence of zis base with the intelligence community or through my connections with General Hawke” (at this brief mention of the double-crossing Joints Chief Chairman, a video-capture from Johannson’s earlier D.C. com-link flashed across the wide-screen monitor in the room’s eastern wall.  Gasps and sniggering emanated from behind the brown glass as Genesis Donors considered a metallicized loose-end already disposed of by CC’s henchman). “As you can plainly zee”, the eminent scientist continued, “our benefactor was apparently playing one end against zee other… to his obvious disadvantage”.  Gesturing over his shoulder with a petulant hand wave hinting at the anger and frustration Hawke’s side-stepping, stalling and lies generated within him, the Professor permitted himself a short respite from his avuncular “good-guy” by-the-book role:  “Our friend zeemz indisposed… und quite completely so”!,  which produced chuckling all around, given the cold hard fact that CC’s metal-TRAMP booby-trap had quite literally caught the General with his pants down upon the commode.  “Unfortunately”, continued Nils, “zis dead-end is compounded by Agent Straightarrow’s inability to locate Professor Troy.  Thus, vee must hang our hat, zo to speak, entirely on efforts of Scotty and our remaining three superheroines to bring zeese criminals to justice”!


COMIC PAGE SIXTY:   Steady forward progress of the QQ team into Chronos’ lair was gradually grinding to a halt. Scotty had tended to the technical-electronic details of maintaining their surreptitious profile.  First, he attached twin cables to the alarm systems activator just inches below Lieutenant Ann Holt’s icicle-tipped finger and emitted an E-M pulse which coursed through base security circuitry and rendered sounding of all general quarters alarms physically impossible.  Professor Johannson’s protégé next aimed his picnic-basket-sized instrument package at the overhead surveillance camera mounted in the entryway alcove.  A bright white light shot directly into the lens, blanketing and blotting CCD photoreceptors at its electrical/optical interfacing.  The shy engineering expert explained his tactics to Ingeno-Lady, Dura-Damsel and Empath Girl:   “I’ve just washed away the past five minutes’ worth of camera diode recording history, and drawn back the prior twenty minutes from a buffering “retina” in its electronic eye.  Anybody watching security camera monitors will be seeing the usual activity from before we barged in… optical history rather than the present”. The leader of the Quint-Quints nodded her approval to McGillicutty, then rotated a sleek charcoal monitor visor downward from its resting place among her wavy dark bangs.  Scrolling through multi-formats and various indicators of this ingenious miniaturized “heads-up” display,  our girl-next-door cutie notes her instrument battery cells still remained extremely low on power following their initial assault on entryway security.  The cold hydro-fusion reactor contained in her backpack was already in regeneration mode (slight resultant humming barely audible); yet it would take several crucial more minutes before her incapacitating weaponry encased in twin gauntlet tubes would be operational once again.  And Inga knew that time was of the essence.   Turning to the tall yellow-caped crimefighter in a skintight red tunic and cowl standing by her, she inquired, “Deedee… we need in-depth reconnaissance of their complex interior ASAP before they can detect us and set defenses into motion.  What about that “blinking” ability you’ve been fooling around with on the practice range”?  IL’s caramel-skinned companion straightened and tugged nervously at her contrasting royal blue bit-too-short miniskirt, again concealing all but bottom-most curves of distracting frilly white panties.  Shifting stance left and right between thigh-high shiny yellow boots, Dura-Damsel stared at the ground: hesitant to commit to using a newly discovered hyper-extension of her super-speed  “flashing” powers so soon in actual combat against live targets.   With steel-blue eyes of the QQ head-honcho boring into the side of her down-turned head, the lithe and athletic superheroine found it difficult to voice any objections… yet defensive languid body language spoke volumes even the feminine-inexperienced Scotty could pick up on. He also had the duty to mention further potential complications, embarrassing as they might be.  “I’m not certain that’s such a great idea, Inga.  The Professor and I have recently identified an unintentional high correlation between DD’s metabolism and libido via the design structure of her proto-matter crystalline cellular matrix.  Don’t misunderstand me… I believe she can do this job by concentrating energy reserves to produce ultra-high body speeds.  I’ve seen her poring through those 22 million utility bills in an amazing blurring whirlwind back in New Mexico!  And I also know everybody’s powers are reaching incredible new plateaus after theta-wave exposure back in California… along with increasing dangers of triggering the ZONK after-effects we’ve discussed.  In Deedee’s particular case, I’m just afraid she won’t be able to fully control herself while “blinking” and…”  Ingeno-Lady’s patience is worn thin and she cuts the scientist’s ramblings off:  “ENOUGH of this!!  I’M the one in command of this mission, and EVERY second counts”.  Scott halts in amazed mid-sentence with mouth wide open, then decides not to continue.  Teenage Empath Girl picks up some very bad vibes from her companions here, but also elects to stay silent.  The bronze-skinned saffron-sari-clad superheroine merely scowls at her QQ leader instead.  Addressing Dura-Damsel once again, IL enquires, “Didn’t you brief the Professor that you had discovered a technique for accelerating your entire molecular structure past the visible detection threshold of the human eye?  Attaining a virtual invisibility?  WELL!?!?”  The pressure and stress of her leadership role in such a high-stakes game was beginning to take its toll upon the green and yellow spandex good-gal’s cool composure.  Courage and confidence wavering, DD finally responds in her best South-African accented English, “Guess I’ll give it a go, boss… as you would like”, was all the super-endurance QQ could muster.  “That’s great.  Thanks, babe.  We need to know their security weak spots… our ‘path of least resistance’ to the target, as it were.  I know we’re pushing your proto-matter  potential-kinetic capacity to its limit, but we need you to identify a way to get through base upper levels into Chronos’ HQ.  It’s our only hope of getting Maw and Looker back from their statued states.  Everybody should put their wrist communicators into open-mike “monitor” mode, so we can hear what’s happening- even if we’re split up.  Good luck, honey”!  With a quick encouraging hug and pat on her shoulder, Inga steps back to give Deedee plenty of room to commence her own remarkable “blinking” energy concentrating-expelling process.  


            Closing green eyes and bowing her head in deepest concentration, Dura-Damsel draws her 5’11” athletic frame to full height and wraps both arms tightly about her torso.  As her three companions stand in a rough line surrounding the shocked-looking human popsicle on the far side of the receptionist’s desk, Diedre releases an almost-unbelievable burst of kinetic energy into her body at its molecular level.  The very composition of her cells flexes-bends, groaning in agony (it’s an extremely unpleasant process only her super-high pain threshold allows), as flesh and blood are dragged to a velocity and plane of existence no other biological organism could sustain or survive.  IL begins to more fully understand her friend’s reluctance to initiate such a process as wrinkled-wincing expressions of discomfort pass across her classical facial features.  The jaw sets tightly, while high cheekbones appear somewhat sharper.  At first it seems the transferal process is unsuccessful, and DD’s companions exchange glances of confusion and disbelief.  Come on… you CAN do it  transmits Empath Girl as telepathic encouragement to her far-less-experienced colleague. Tiny perimeter edges along her cellular structure become fuzzy and indistinct, as the visual threshold barrier to her accelerating frame begins to be breached.  Hundreds of flowing chocolate ringlets pouring out the back-crown of a red hooded cowl now suddenly appear to merge into a darkened semi-translucent cascading waterfall of fog and shadow.  An over-stressed, impatient Ingeno-Lady doesn’t pick up on these clues in the ensuing thirty seconds and blurts out, “It’s NOT working… I don’t see any change… maybe her matrix is…”.  But this brings a swift counter response from the ever-accelerating miniskirted superheroine: “I can feel myself speeding up, Boss.  There’s a micro-shaking and itching to the process… most disagreeable.  And the three of you certainly seem to be moving a whole hellava lot slower than before”.  Yet this South-African lilting reply transfers back into the world of normal speed as incoherent buzzing: like the sound of a giant pesky mosquito.  And then, accompanied only by a weird mid-toned popping!! noise, the ultra-accelerated Quint-Quint disappears from sight in the blink of an eye!  She moves out past three brave companions- now seemingly rooted to their spots as if transmuted into hyper realistic mannequins- down the base inner corridors.     


COMIC PAGE SIXTY-ONEPresident George W. Lush stands behind the Oval Office’s Connolly desk while slowly flipping through the contents of a manila envelope.  With subsequent perusal of each successive 7”x9” photograph in the pile his eyes become just a little bit wider.  It was rapidly becoming clear why NASA Chief Jim Perigee was “on board” with the numerous non-inspected Delta payloads shipped to rendezvous with the International Space Station over the past six weeks, as well as the mysterious high-tech cargo loaded and ready to go in Endeavor’s transport bay. Candid snapshots of the highest compromising (i.e., blackmailing) quality lay stacked one on top of each other: here was Perigee taking some hooker over the hood of a Cocoa Beach taxicab in broad daylight…  next a scene with him receiving a blowjob from a semi-nude young teenager in his own backyard…  then- he couldn’t believe this one- a shot of the NASA big-whig boinking his old rival’s wife Tupper Ware Bore while she languished ass-deep in a bowl of  guacamole dip!  Al Bore himself watches stoically from the photo’s background.  If I only had known about this one, he muses, all of those pregnant and hanging chads would have been totally academic.  Our race wouldn’t have been so close!   Shifting his focus back to the Navy Seal and Air Force Major arguing loudly in the middle of the room, GW now realizes that Captain David “Hercules” Nicholson- recommended to him expressly by no one less than the ill-fated Joint Chiefs Head General Hawke himself- is addressing him directly. “Mr. President,  I can understand and also appreciate Commander Glide’s reluctance to give her mission a green light without full and forthcoming explanation of the instrument package in the Shuttle payload bay.  Let me assure you that General Hawke- before his untimely demise- and Colonel South both had their highest confidence in the paramount performance of this ultra-secret cargo.   They simply ask that you, Mr. President, trust in their years of loyal service to this country and order Major Glide to carry that deflector-dissipator array into orbit without further inquiry or protest”.  This statement, of course, sets off explosions in the headstrong astronaut’s reply: “ORDER ME!!  You’ve GOT to be joking, Nicholson.  I know WAY too much about this “joyride” former President Raygun is taking for me to be steamrollered.  Fellow astronauts talk, you see.  I’ve heard all the rumors.  Supply modules shipped up to the ISS supposedly containing food, water and air; but instead hermetically sealed and attached at the far end of the solar panel assembly- out of sight.  Our station crews detected radiation readings in the theta band from them!  Rob Winston returned from a repair EVA saying he saw a pair of huge tits plastered up against one supply module portal window with a weird blue glowing inside.  I’ve got you guys by the balls!  Spill your guts RIGHT NOW or NASA Chief Perigee and President Lush will be twisting in the political winds before I…” The moment had arrived.  Hercules had been thoroughly briefed about physio-psycho impact of frequency adjusted theta-waves on Hippocampus and Brain Stem.  Any forceful sharp command would be immediately and instinctively carried out - albeit often with initial verbal protests until a victim accepted the hopeless nature of their technological plight.  Following Weasel’s instructions, the Seal brusquely interrupted the maddened Major’s ultimatum by screaming: “HIT THE SHOWERS”!!   The cowgirl-clad astronaut wheeled around, glaring at her rude adversary while suddenly experiencing a sharp pang at the base of her skull.  A blank look of confusion and dismay quickly replaced Shirley’s haughty smirk of only seconds before.  “WHAT?!?!” was all she could coax forth as her mind reeled… feeling like all her carefully-planned words were being sucked down into a kitchen sink disposal.  Holding out the brand-new bar of Dial soap extracted from his right-hand coat pocket and motioning as if he were turning hot and cold water faucets with his left hand, Hercules described a mind-trap scenario planned for the Shuttle Commander in greater detail.  “Honey, you’re no longer standing in the Oval Office.  It’s 6:30 a.m. and you’ve just now woken up…  you’re gonna take a nice long, slow relaxing hot shower for us”.  Searching for a mental protest to this ridiculous request- and shocked at finding none- the physically-fit brunette went wild-eyed.  As world famous White House surroundings disappeared from her mind’s eye, she caught a final glimpse of an amused Don Raygun and scowling James Perigee seated at the coffee table.  Her final pleas of “Wait… no, this isn’t real… I’m still…” were cut short by Nicholson’s final imperative: “DO IT NOW”!!  A 4’ x 6’ cubicle of tiles materialized around her, and she slipped fully and obediently into her assigned role.  Taking a soap bar prop, our All-American heroine doffed boots, chaps, jacket, jeans and other accoutrements in less than one minute.  As her bra, panties and ten-gallon hat hit the Presidential Seal woven into the carpeting, she adjusted imaginary water temperatures and vigorously began scrubbing her torso.  A smile blossomed on the Navy Seal’s face as he enjoys watching boobs dangling and bouncing before him in perfect presentation during this textbook illustration of CC’s theta-wave mind control.  President Lush’s jaw was eventually drawn up from where it lay upon the desktop.  Blinking and shaking his head in utter disbelief at first,  GW finally gathered himself to address the surprisingly-persuasive military man.  “Now that’s dang-near incredible! Uhh… you know… I’d make it worth your while, Capt. Nicholson, if you’d whip up a couple of those amazing little watches as presents for the Democratic leadership.  Them-thar gadgets are perfect for expediting the political process and getting key players to sign onto our team”.    Energetically rising out of his chair in a manner belying mid-90’s actual physiology, Donald Raygun produces a 35 mm camera from his pocket and snaps a souvenir shot of Shirley as she bends to wash her feet and ankles.  Turning to his Oval Office successor, he states bluntly, “Funny you should mention that, George.  I suppose great minds must think alike.  You might want to take a look a one of those candid pictures further down into the stack”.


 COMIC PAGE SIXTY-TWODust and sand kicked up as the Hummer pulled away, obscuring full view of the eight-score temporal fuel cells surrounding the base of Project Sodom and Gommorrah’s calibration tower.  With settings for the bizarre instrument package adjusted properly and double-checked by Weasel back in North Dakota, all that now remained was to climb a nearby Sierra Madre peak, sit back and enjoy the show.  Glancing at a LCD timer atop his SUV’s wooden dashboard, USMC Colonel Oliver South a.k.a. Colonel Chronos notes he has little more than forty minutes until his ‘Little Bang’ experiment would provide all data necessary to complete a master plan Mommy and The Chief had commanded him to undertake nearly two decades ago.  Technical research needed to unravel their Melkosian-Gordian knot had been difficult at first… and beyond the skill of military scientists.  But lovely  Professor Helen Troy become their evil team’s Rosetta Stone: her vast knowledge of ancient hieroglyphics enabling them to unlock the secrets of alien schematics, technical literature and instrument labeling so as to provide safe controlled experimentation with five time-dilating black cubes.   Insight, imagination and electrical engineering genius behind Dwight’s inch-thick spectacles had done the rest.  Micro-TRAMP’s…Mind-TRAMP’s… Metal TRAMP’s… Algorithms for Age Regression… and now Aphasic-TRAMP’s which can provide cloaking or the ultimate punishment…  all these were spectacular high-tech accomplishments piggy-backing on Captain Kel-Bar’s time-manipulating theta-wave emitters.   Maybe I should forgive the lonely guy for messing with my personal collection of time-stopped statues?  Without him, we’d never gotten beyond the petty theft and lewd teasing tricks that raw unharnessed radiation temporarily provides us.  I think I’ll give him that full-mooning frozen cheerleader he seems so fond of… what’s her name… Maggie?   After all, I’ve still got the blonde one with a look of surprise cemented across her face.  She’ll be perfect painted up as red-veined white marble…Perhaps I can sneak her onto the Shuttle and keep her long-term… A maniacal Marine’s reveries continue as his vehicle speeds southwest.  From inside 6-foot chrono-cradles, helpless static stares watch him go.


COMIC PAGE SIXTY-THREE: Discipline, Dura-Damsel… DISCIPLINE!! , the molecularly-accelerated superheroine  scornfully reminds herself.  Once the boundary between normal biological velocity and virtual invisibility had been crossed, Deedee’s comfort level was restored.  Existing temporarily (even her incredibly deep well-spring of strength and endurance could only sustain such energy expulsions for a few moments) within a ‘blink of an eye’, the spandex-clad good-gal moves at more than 700 times normal speed.  By temporal-relativistic comparison, therefore, any and all movements in her surrounding world progress at less than a snail’s pace.  One ‘regular’ elapsed second now translates to her striking green eyes as seemingly more than nine minutes!  DD’s muta-cloning powers thus create an appearance of time-dilation to rival the grandest of Chronos’ theta-wave fields.  Yet- as Scotty had predicted- her amazing revved-up metabolism would be purchased with a price.  Passing the barracks occupied by more than one dozen poker-playing Army Green Berets (an exact equivalent to the interior security billet filled by Navy Seals back at their own Area 57 laboratory-base) had been easy enough… although certain outstanding anatomical assets had  set off naughty whispering voices in the back of her mind.  Elevator access down to base subterranean levels would have been impractical (and excruciatingly boring), So Diedre helped herself to a stilled Army Major’s set of master keys and used fire exit tubes and stairwells instead.  Base primary workspaces located two levels down might well have been taken straight from the Wargames Hollywood movie set.  Bigger-than-life satellite tracking screens, vast banks of control consoles, gigantic supercomputers, military and NSA personnel huddled around conference tables littered with maps and deciphering codebooks… you name it!  Yet the eerie silence accompanying the red-tunic-clad super-athlete during those few nano-seconds required to stride across the INTEL-COM-SAT data collection arena starkly contrasted with the sense of bustling frenetic activity displayed in her paused surroundings. A first chink in her armor materialized as she passed a NSA Big-Whig who was immobilized amid the process of chewing out some pretty blonde technician sitting in front of an intercept-translation terminal screen.  The mid-thirties black bearded supervisor leaned over with left hand on the woman’s console desk, his reddened face inches away from hers and mouth wide open in mid-yell.  An index finger hovers right in front of her dismayed upturned face.  The flattering form and fit of this man’s brown flannel slacks ensnares the caramel-skinned superheroine’s ever-building sexual curiosity, and before she even fully realizes what is happening, his belt is loosened.  Although the G-22 technical coordinator would likely never experience more than a resultant passing itch, DD slid both slender cupped palms down inside checkered boxers to lovingly sample and squeeze his fuzzy buns.  Losing herself among a warm damp contentment growing between her lean runner’s thighs, she recovered just in time before succumbing to the urge to stick that finger up into a place less menacing (but far more amusing) to the suffering lady de-encryption specialist.

            Fleeing the huge control room before endangering their secret mission further, she hastened toward a ladies room visible down the opposite far-end corridor.  Yet (surprisingly) here also the hooded Quint-Quint’s nymphomaniacal nightmare would continue.  Hoping to recover somewhat by splashing cold water onto her face, she instead had practically run over a time-dilated Dawn Fall standing in the L-shaped lavatory entryway.  The frosted blonde beauty’s wardrobe and appearance were striking enough; yet her compromising attitude and circumstances were mysterious at best.   Curvaceous legs moderately spread apart, the lovely disguised newspaper reporter pulls up-outward at her blue silky chemise and white lace brassiere.  Following a young woman’s static gaze straight down her own outstretched shirt, Deedee discovers the presence of a bundle of papers stuffed snugly down the front of her pantyhose waistband!  It seems secure counter-balance is being sought from the bra’s underwiring and elastics; however, what had instead mesmerized the libidinous superheroine were silver-dollar-sized dark pink aureoles and thimble-shaped nipples peeking out from the loosened upper attire.  Waves of pure desire not experienced (or even remembered) since her involuntary intimacy with Maw upon Catalina Island sands swept over her, and Diedre soon found herself buried down Dawn’s stock-still shirt throat with her hand sneaking up-under miniskirt front to snake atop the gal’s pubic bush.  It’s unclear exactly how many nanoseconds elapse in these circumstances, but it is safe to say that our QQ’s self-control suffers and sexual drive heightens as result of the flirtatious encounter.  Eventually, though, our tall lithe muta-clone battles (and wins for now) her disciplinary tug-of war.  Still savoring salty-sweet tastes of an unpercepting villain’s impressive cleavage, Dura-Damsel moves away in search of Colonel Chronos’ secret headquarters entrance.

            The overall design layout of the North Dakota base was strikingly similar to that of the QQ’s own installation.  With the exception of the multi-story War Room she had just passed through on sub-level two (this space was occupied by support staff living and recreational quarters back in New Mexico),  all subsequent spaces and corridors our heroine in the too-short blue shiny miniskirt and mid-thigh yellow boots now encountered looked identical to their own Area 57 digs- at least in general detail.   So navigating toward what DD expected to be the tip-top-secret elevator access to further-down secured subterranean facilities was nothing more than memory matching.  Moving past a big bookend collection of handsome Marine guards protecting the outer entrance to the base Commanding Officer’s suite, she soon recognized a corresponding  security setup to familiar NM passageways.  Password-protected, dual retina-scanning  failsafe key locks sat the prescribed seventeen feet apart to the left and right of a single elevator door.  Between these almost-impossible-to-defeat entryway measures and herself was a standard three-desks-in-a-horseshoe setup.  To the near side of a five-foot-tall office partition sat the base CO’s personal secretary’s disheveled workspace. This desktop was littered with standard high-tech gadgets accompanying such an important role:  laser de-encryptors, shredding machines, electronic coders and message scramblers- not to mention the more-typical computer with its printer, fax machine and scanner combo.  The only gizmo impossible to fit atop Rachael Conway’s 4’ by 5’ personal space was the heavy-duty Xerox located in an alcove to the office’s immediate left.  Deidre notes that her reconnaissance has caught the base’s “Mother Hen” secretary hard at work making copies… a nearly-blinding bright flash from the duplicating machine is overspilling illumination (continuous during this particular nano-second interval) in the CO’s reception area.  On the far side of the partition divider- set off slightly to the left and right to leave a walk-through aisle to the far elevator door- were the oversized mahogany desks of the base’s commanding and executive officers.  General Nathan Halsey was inexplicably absent from his office at present, apparently hastening off to address a pressing concern.  Hurriedly opened inter-office mail lay strewn across his leather-framed green desk blotter.  USAF Lt. Colonel Gregory Brady, however, sat at the right-hand desk with a wistful distracted expression frozen upon his early-40’s chiseled features.  Admiring his sandy-blonde short hairstyle with its distinguished graying around the temples, Dura-Damsel moves in for closer inspection.  The Colonel’s complex countenance mixes awed surprise, concentration and delight:  his left hand holds up a photo-copy of some grayish bisected blob at right angles to his desktop, while his right hand is obscured from view beneath an open wooden center drawer.  A caramel-skinned Quint-Quint closely and assuredly takes in the far wall’s security setup for ultra-secret elevator access (and thus completes her assigned reconnaissance task), but then is strangely drawn to the image Greg is grasping.  Subtle shading variations emerging radially outward from a slightly curved fuzzy-thick dark center line strike a strange chord deep within her heightened libido.  What kind of a picture is this??  Who in their right mind  photo-copies a massive chunk of dark and shadow?  Then DD notices similar pieces of paper sticking out from the inter-office envelope sitting atop Army General Halsey’s blotter.  Leaving a time-dilated airman to his own musings, she struts in shiny thigh-highs to the left-hand desk, hoping to further unravel this mystery.  Here the answer is laid bare.  A top photo-copy exposes twin softball-sized blobs with dark gray smaller circles centered within them.  Smashed out sideways are pencil-eraser-shaped black nubs.  Attached to this R-rated Xerox ‘top view’- perfect complement to the ‘rear view’ Brady holds in his hands- is a mid-sized yellow post-it note: Dear General:  I’ve got some things stuck in the copier.  Could you give me a hand?  Bring tool!  Love, Rachael.  Another heated wave of sexual excitement (twice as strong as the one ensnaring her in the ladies’ room alcove) washes over our ultra-accelerated superheroine, and a naughty smile emerges.  Returning to the XO’s workspace, she rolls the seated Colonel’s desk chair back-away upon its castors.  Evidence revealed by this investigative maneuver places a mischievous twinkle in Deedee’s green eyes.  Frozen Greg is massaging eight thick reddened inches protruding in very non-regulation manner from unzippered uniform trousers.  He’s beating off at stolen sight of the photo-copy moon!  The overcharged good-gal pulls her hooded cowl away from her face and allows the red spandex material to gather and crumple across her shoulders among dark chocolate ringlets.  Breathing in rapid shallow gasps, she smacks her lips in puckish delight.  Discipline, Dura-Damsel… DISCIPLINE!! , she mentally repeats to herself, and manages to restrain her exponentially-increasing primordial urges.  But only momentarily. Following the direction of Brady’s dreamy gaze across the office suite, our long-legged super athlete now strides purposefully toward the illuminated Xerox alcove while adeptly tugging southward at her frilly white lace panties.


COMIC PAGE SIXTY-FOURTwo Motion Vampires were born nearly 200 years ago as an accidental genetic by-product of Melkosian intermingling within elite Napoleonic aristocracy.  Alien temporal historians had scrutinized closely- too closely it seems- the political machinations and military genius which emerged from the time of Louis XVI through Jacobin’s  ‘reign of terror’ and into the First Republic.  Jen-Wir Monpa’s empirical research became a bit too personal regarding one Mademoiselle Genvieve St. Pierre, however, and nine months later remarkable twins entered into the Parisian turmoil of 1807.  Incredible stories almost immediately emerged: to be whispered in shadows behind a newly-created Austerlitz monument outside St. Pierre apartments in the Place Vendome.  A wet nurse disappearing without a trace except for her incredibly-lifelike topless wooden replica sold to London auctioneers for 2500 francs.  Family chat and chien pets inexplicably replaced by highly-detailed stone and metal sculptures which became door stops or garden ornaments in the nearby Tuileries.    Yet when Father D’Estang vanished from a private christening   ceremony in a Notre Dame Cathedral narthex with only his fully-clothed rose marble likeness left behind next to the baptismal font, even the St. Pierre’s high-ranking political connections could not silence accusations of witchcraft.  The 9-month-old boy Jean-Luc became another one of the countless-faceless victims of the overworked guillotine in the Place de la Revolution.  Hushed pleading arrangements spared a beautiful golden-haired girl, however, who was able to escape with her mother to ripen into young womanhood in the quiet Alpine town of Albertville.  There her growing reputation as an incorrigible flirt of striking appearance lured handsome suitors toward her in droves.  And her blossoming talents as sculptress (possessing skills equal to those of Rodin or Lalique long before either of those names would be known throughout Europe) attracted many willing models and interested parties… most of whom were never heard from again after Giselle’s artwork had been completed.  She became known as La Gantee, due to  her elbow-length gloves perpetually covering hands presumably made rough and unattractive by hewing stone.  As  stealthy Melkosian family visitors well knew, however,  her lovely hands stayed covered for non-aesthetic reasons.

            Combined human and Melkos DNA had coaxed forth an extremely rare medical condition seen only dozens of nairas (earth decades) apart on the alien homeworld.  Instead of the kattra (or liver in Giselle’s case) providing a reservoir source of bioresonant potential temporal energy, in this scenario the exact opposite occurred.  A malformed hybrid organ swallowed energetic life-force from its surrounding host body, and without periodic donations or a transplant the diseased victim becomes fully paralyzed- unable to move or exist within her temporal surroundings.

A need for increasing quantities of motion-granting external time-life energy rises as stricken patients grow older,  and often would heighten with sex drive upon reaching puberty.  Thus her initial symptoms resembled those of nymphomania, and Giselle had thereby added several pants-down psychological physician statues to her collection.  For alien powers wielded through delicate fingertips due to Monpa’s improprieties with her mother made her into a modern-age equivalent of the fabled King Midas.  Not only could she purloin some temporal mobility from any living thing she briefly touched (immobilizing them for a short time as her own deficient kattra-liver was assuaged);  but by prolonged and sustained contact could literally suck all temporal grace and life-force completely from their bodies in an energy extraction leaving victim’s cellular structures vacant and unstable!  Material equilibrium was only restored by adaptation to whatever more-solid inert substance the victim happened to be in contact with when the bizarre process began.  Thus by altering her sculpting model’s podium, Giselle could easily produce various amazing detailed statues without ever raising hammer or chisel.  Yet still the disappearances raised eyebrows, and one day in 1844 Mrs. Paddinton and Dr. Carnelian from the touring Cirque D’Artificiel visited Albertville to critique her skills.  They wanted to see if she could live up to a devilish reputation which had spread all the way back to her birthplace. 

More than 150 years had passed since these members of the Cirque’s “inner circle” had renamed her from Gantee to Vampire and invited her to join their global quest to preserve beauty by freezing and immobilizing it.  The Las Vegas casino in which she now stood had been constructed to facilitate and perpetuate their association’s aims and goals.  Stealing temporal life energy from thousands of victims had allowed her an alien source of perpetual youth- she didn’t look a day over 25 despite closing in upon her 200th birthday!  Yet (like the fictitious monstrous creatures for which she had been renamed) Giselle’s thirst for motion was insatiable and never-ending.  That’s exactly where the two military fools crouching in front of her on the acrylic pedestal came in.  Sufficient time had now passed for the strong hypnotic-hallucinogenic chemical smeared over her undergarments to have fully affected the Captain and Major’s thought processes.  A mostly-nude temptress gingerly removes clear latex panties smashed between their shocked-looking faces.  Noticing the gold wedding band on Roger Bannister’s left hand, she realizes that her next wishes would not go over well with him- as if he could actually disobey!  Yet long years of involuntarily transforming attractive people into erotic artwork had hardened her heart as surely as those of her resulting statues, and so she began formulating a final pose coolly…unemotionally…with an artist’s practiced keen eye.  She suggests: “Yooo twooo  are now madly aand passionately een luvv vith eeech othher.  Feeel  zee  unavoidable lust buildeeeng inside of you… yearning too get out.  Een just a few moments, yoo weel be able to move once again.  Act out theese feelings!   You cannot stop yourzelves from dooeeng thees”!!  Giselle slowly orbits the masterpiece-in-progress to observe results of her  commands.   She is gratified to notice from the otherwise-motionless victims that their very first action taken as a kattra-induced freeze wears off is to slowly-yet-firmly intertwine tongues.  She emits a peal of pure delight.


COMIC PAGE SIXTY-FIVEWith another bizarre, almost comic-book popping sound, Dura-Damsel rematerializes next to her three companions after what seemed like just ten or twenty seconds of elapsed ‘normal’ time.  Of course, a great deal more transpired and had been experienced by the caramel-skinned QQ super-athlete within the millions of nano-seconds of her assigned reconnaissance task.  Only an immeasurably-deep wellspring of potential-kinetic super endurance provided by her muta-cloned proto-matter-laced cells had allowed for her accelerated antics; yet even this energy was now near depletion.  Perspiring and breathing heavily as if she had just completed back-to-back Ironman triathlons, Deedee slumps to the base corridor floor: gasping to fully catch her breath and make a complete report to her team members.  Standing closest to the recovering heroine, Emma’s natural empathic tendencies coax her to place a sympathetic and healing hand onto her comrade’s yellow-caped left shoulder.  Waves of pain and pure exhaustion sweep into her dainty frame as normal part of remarkable injury absorption-expelling abilities; yet unexpected strong urges and afterglows are also telepathically noted as well.  With a sharp scowling rebuke and a jolting start, Empath Girl removes her hand and whirls to more closely examine caramel classical facial features.  A tell-tale flush sits plainly across the high forehead and cheekbones,  while DD’s green eyes refuse to meet her inquiring gaze.  Lower legs and knees tucked up-under a too-short spandex mini can’t quite totally disguise evidence of the lingering dampness spread across frilly white panties.  Remembering Scott McGillicutty’s admonitions of moments ago- as well as Ingeno Lady’s obvious impatience under stressful circumstances- the youngest and most demure of the QQ team decides again that discretion is the better part of valor.  After a moment or two, DD’s breathing slows and she raises her lithe frame into a more composed straightened sitting posture.  “I’ve located what I believe to be ultra-secret access to Colonel Chronos' headquarters via an elevator portal on sub-level three.  Security seems to be extremely similar in strength and design to our own New Mexico arrangements.  Maybe the Pentagon got a quantity discount?  Of course, this is both good news and bad news.  We know what we’re dealing with and can probably defeat the technology; but we have to get by all the guards to do so.  I counted twenty-three more MP sentries left to negotiate between where we’re standing and that elevator door”.   Inga’s brow furrows in momentary brief concentration of these words, then her girl-next-door features brighten.  Scanning  'heads up' readouts in her futuristic monitor visor once again, she shakes her head at continuing low-power registers.  But they don’t call her Ingeno-Lady for nothing!  Opening a small pouch on her sleek yellow utility belt, the QQ head-honcho extracts four smallish pink pills and distributes them to her away team.  “We’ll be needing this antidote to my new anti-personnel armament very shortly.  I’m going to introduce everybody downstairs to ARCHIE”.  Emma and Deedee exchange confused glances while swallowing their pills; yet Scotty nods with knowing approval as he watches this physically-fit shoulder-length brunette disconnect and extract an elongated phallic canister from inside her left gauntlet tube carrying case.  “My jetpack power supply is still too low to use its auto-diffusor, but…” McGillicutty whispers a brief explanation to his in-the-dark teammates: “ARCHIE stands for ‘aerosol rendered catatonic-hypnosis immobilizing effect’.  It’s a fourth and newest of IL’s high-tech arsenal… designed to impact multiple personnel targets quite quickly and effectively”.  As her companion in the scientist’s laboratory white coat finishes his description, Inga reaches her target destination:  an air conditioning recirculating intake duct halfway down the corridor.  Standing upon yellow costume tip-toes (and thereby distractingly placing both her shapely spandex-clad upper thighs and firm fanny into bolder relief) , Inga reverses ARCHIE canister pressure and begins to empty purplish misty contents into CC’s base airflow systems. 


COMIC PAGE SIXTY-SIX: Eight sub-levels below our advancing superheroines, Weasel is accepting a verbal tirade the Colonel had just unleashed upon him extremely well.  Being caught 'red handed' (or perhaps with other portions of the anatomy reddened) tinkering with the boss' private love-statue collection had not been pleasant, but severity of his punishment was likely mitigated by the urgency of the tasks at hand.  Returning from an adjacent kitchenette with a plate containing a bologna and cheese sandwich, pickle and potato chips, the nerdy engineering genius again sits down in front of the laboratory base communications center/master control console to further peruse three classified personnel dossiers.  Repeatedly revised and updated by Chronos' mole planted inside Quint-Quint's headquarters complex, these files provide up-to-the-minute inside information on their arch-enemies' abilities and weaknesses.  As any good military commander (including Oliver South) knows, a battle is usually won or lost before it is ever fought- depending upon which side has better intelligence.   Taking one large bite out of his sandwich, Dwight flips open the first folder labeled "IL".  At the top is an urgent hand-scrawled note from their New Mexico spy, with a small plastic pouch stapled onto it.  Reading this recently received message, the high-tech villain opens the zip-lock bag to extract a small pink pill- which he quickly swallows.  Briefly scanning other file contents: photographs (including a topless one with an expression of shocked surprise!) , Inga’s personality summary and psychological profile,  description of her super-powers and weapons, etc., he takes some blank notepad paper and jots down notes consistent to posing instructions recently described to him by the Colonel.  Hmmm…Reminiscent of a feminine version of Rodin's "The Thinker", he muses.


COMIC PAGE SIXTY-SEVENWith the first phase of their White House operation intended at obtaining full and unfettered NASA and government cooperation in Operation Grand Slam and "Big Bang" detonation fully completed, attention of the two Chronos gang members present turned to President Lush.  His quiet complicity over the next few days- until final temporal fuel acquisitions were complete and all essential personnel are aboard Endeavor- would be Mommy and The Chief's 'ace in the hole'.  James Perigee was already bought-and-delivered, thanks to his various time-stopped compromising positions clearly illustrated by the glossy photographs GW held in his hands.  Now, the Colonel saw no reason why the President himself couldn't be similarly encouraged.  Hercules therefore interrupts a mind-controlled Shirley Glide's imaginary shower in the middle of the Oval Office with a new set of directives, while ex-Commander-in-Chief (hence his nickname among CC's criminals) Don Raygun readies his 35 mm camera.  "OK, honey, you're nice and clean now.  I've got another job for you.  Something of a dramatic and sudden career change, I'm afraid.  You're flat fired as a Shuttle Commander astronaut!  But this gives you a chance to try your hand at the world's oldest profession instead.  Something your body's just aching to accomplish.  You've just become a cowgirl-callgirl!!  And Mr. President over there has got a $100 bill stuffed down the front of his pants.  COME AND GET IT"!  Only a briefest wild-eyed expression and trembling lower lip demonstrate any struggle from the nude brunette as she swiftly segues between cruel sentenced scenarios.  Dropping a bar of soap and washcloth,  Shirley mechanically redresses into boots, chaps, buckskin jacket and ten-gallon hat.  The obedient victim of Weasel's engineering genius even briefly stands beaming and wide legged with breasts out-thrust while Raygun snaps another souvenir photo!


But as she brainlessly strides seductively toward the Connolly desk with a lascivious leer plastered across her pretty face, GW holds up his hand in a traffic cop's palm-outward gesture and commands "HOLD  IT  RIGHT  THERE"!!

Theta-wave disconnect between Hippocampus and Brain Stem kick in once again, and the sexily-attired Shuttle astronaut immediately halts in mid-stride… rawhide-framed tits, ass and pussy proudly placed on immobile display with her smoldering eyes hungrily fixed upon GW's zipper.  Fighting back anatomical response to Shirley's paused advances, the President mumbles feeble verbal protests:  "Wait… I can't let you do this… I've got a wife and…".  Then George notices what Don Raygun is pointing to in the top-most of several blackmailing photographs dropped onto the desk.  Reeling from combined shock and partly-restrained lust (world-famous Shirley's perky nipples sure look enticing!), the crafty politician realizes that this battle is already lost.  Perched atop a mechanical bull in a downtown Austin night club is a totally-naked Jenna Lush.  GW's wayward daughter waves gleefully at Chronos' camera while sporting a mostly-empty bottle of Jack Daniels in her hand.  A strange blue haze fills the foreground (courtesy of the Melkosian time-dilation cube Dawn Fall brought along on her Texas visit) of this bawdy action-packed scene, as Jenna's bouncing boobs asymmetrically dangle in mid-air during her wild ride.  Yet the most politically-damning attraction of the photograph lies between an irreverent coed's chunky thighs and leather saddle.  Some backwards-seated  drunken cowboy straddles the President's daughter wearing only a kerchief-bandanna and five-gallon hat.  


Now, Lush may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but his political instincts set off alarm bells as he realizes that these criminals have him almost exactly where they want him.  Sharing with NASA Chief Perigee a knowing grimace of cuckolded defeat, he steps back away from his desk to let re-animated Shirley Glide drop his trousers to the floor.

"Well, George, I convey thanks and appreciation from Colonel Chronos himself in your willingness to do things our way",  crows Raygun.  Sucking and slurping noises accompany whirring of a lens-shutter motor over the next few minutes.


COMIC PAGE SIXTY-EIGHT: Scott McGillicutty had trouble keeping pace with his superheroine companions, due to walking discomfort from the huge bulge along his pants inseam.  Sure- on multiple past occasions he observed unmoving female victims of Chronos and Mademoiselle Mensa (including all three of his rescue teammates); yet he'd always tried his best to behave maturely and professionally.  But the sheer volume of immobilized catatonic women produced from dispersal of Inga's ARCHIE gauntlet weapon was just absolutely incredible!  First, there had been the frosted blonde National Enquirer reporter perched frozen in mid-stride ten paces down the entrance foyer corridor. An enigmatic, purposeful expression cemented across her lovely face crowned a flawless hourglass frame sheathed in silky blue blouse, miniskirt and sexy dark suntan-colored stockings.  Only a disapproving scowl sent his direction by Empath Girl (had she read his shaky thoughts?) kept Scotty from lingering to open her portfolio- and perhaps more.  Several other women-in-uniform added tantalizing wares to an amazing inventory begun with twin beguilingly-bent backsides of tetanized Corporal Sandy Locke and  'on ice' Lieutenant Ann Holt.  A stilled curly-chestnut-haired cutie with dynamite legs stood upon the nearer War Room archway threshold.  Intimations of shocked surprise hover on her brown-eyed features…apparently IL's incapacitating vapor had affected an INTEL-COM-SAT arena more quickly than its access corridors, thereby giving USAF Major Maureen Wooden a startling brief glimpse of the grand military tableau vivant before she too became mere room décor.  Teetering amidst a semi-recoil-step (left foot firmly planted back, but right leg tentatively pushed ahead onto tip-toe), the airwoman's arms are half-raised to chest height (and quite an impressive chest it is!... we're not talking about medals, either)  with palms turned outward.  Her dropped-jaw coaxes forth a priceless O-shape from awed Maureen's ruby lips.  Then there was the sexy blonde de-encryption specialist who sat at a worktable surrounded by code books and notepaper.  ARCHIE anesthetic chemicals had rendered her quickly-and-fully oblivious to all assigned tasks, leaving  her dulled mind absolutely fascinated with the shiny tip of a ball point pen which she held (and held… and held… and held) some four inches in front of blue crossed eyes.  The QQ-induced pharmacological stupor stole away one pretty young National Security Agency G-14 translator's thoughts in mid-sentence.  Diane McGowan's fixed thousand-yard stare seemed completely inadequate response to a caller at the other end of the telephone receiver held up to her left ear. Loud  repeated queries of "Diane… Di, are you there? What the $%@#!+* is going on?  DIANE!?!?" go unanswered as this wavy-haired brunette sits silenced and stupefied with the oval tip of her pink tongue hanging out the corner of a slackened mouth.   One poor Navy yeoman took the exact moment of gas infiltration to drop her duty roster clipboard onto the War Room floor!  The blue gabardine heart-shaped greeting Barbara Carr thereby delivered to an oncoming Quint-Quint team was- to Scotty particularly- more than a little bit disconcerting.  Passing by this posterior-peaked paralyzed pretty as he moved deeper into the North Dakota military complex, McGillicutty noticed that overturned Barbara's disheveled upside-down dishwater blonde strands were not quite long enough to cover up ample dangling cleavage straining to pour out from regulation bra and V-neck uniform front.  Delightful sight of this enlisted woman's immobile mounds had stopped him in his tracks… until Emma had kicked his shin.

Expert navigation by Dura-Damsel (thanks to her previous reconnaissance) quickly lead the away team past more than 100 involuntary statues- including nearly two dozen helpless armed guards- and into the CO's suite.  Once inside, Ingeno Lady had quickly issued orders to bring both the base commander and his exec over to respective failsafe instrument consoles.  Each had two essential elements to permit QQ breach of ultra-secret security and thus gain elevator access to Chronos' headquarters below: coordinating turnkeys about their necks, and acceptable retina patterns in their eyes.  General Halsey and Colonel Brady held flushed somewhat-sheepish facial expressions in their ARCHIE'd states, and both had been caught with hands fumbling to fully fasten their trousers. These somewhat strange circumstances promted Inga’s order that Scotty have a closer look around the office suite while Empath Girl struggled telepathically to extract instrumentation-initializing password codes from the General's memory. The mid- 30's green-eyed raven-haired beauty McGillicutty discovered in an adjacent copy room alcove surprised him…  in several different ways.  This last victim of Ingeno-lady's powerful hypnotic-narcotics stands posed within a half-squat amid the process of pulling back up her nude-colored pantyhose.   The Marine Gunnery Sergeant's uniform skirt is hoisted up and pinned between her elbows and green suit jacket sides.  Creamy toned thighs- along with distinctly non-regulation emerald silk see-through panties- are presented to the QQ technical advisor for his private inspection.  The air within the small alcove hangs close with the heat, humidity and after-aroma of sexual activity, and Scotty immediately imagines the obvious scenario recently played out: And what have WE been up to, my pretty little secretary? Some overtime on the copying machine?  Let's have a look at your work productivity and… What our nerdy young scientist discovers in the output tray of the photo-copy machine shocks him- but not only due to his sheltered inexperienced lifestyle.  Several explicit visual extensions to the R-rated top view, rear view, etc. on the officers' desktops have been created.  But one especially is extremely unsettling.  A physically-fit feminine derriere sits photo-copied onto Xerox paper: twin bisected globes smashed onto the copier glass top with dozens of crinkly black lines merging into a wide V of parted lean thighs.  A gray stout enlarged shaft-shape runs straight through the V and into the blackened mass of lines and shadow.  Sex: Xerox-style thinks Scotty.  Clearly, a well-endowed male had recently been another occupant of this room.  But this photo-copy evidence suggests yet another likely visitor.  And he had to be sure.  So Professor Johannson's engineering assistant unceremoniously pulls back upon Rachael's rear panty waistband- just as Inga and Emma appear in the alcove holding other erotic photo-copies taken from the Army General's desk.  Dual looks of  dismayed disapproval cross pretty superheroine faces as Inga shouts, "What the HELL do you think you're doing, Mister?!  You haven't died and gone to Candyland heaven, you know".  Beet-red-faced McGillicutty meekly hands over an X-rated photo-copy as explanation to the QQ leader. Thumbing toward still-squatting Rachael, he mumbles, "Her backside isn't the one in this picture".  Beneath IL's gaze is evidence to fully support the timid scientific genius' assertion.  Even within a black-and-white Xerox copy, clear outline of most of the "REJECT" insult stamped in large red permanent ink by Chronos onto Deedee's shellacked ass (as long-lasting souvenir of her Catalina Island defeat) is plainly visible. All three away team members swiftly move back out into the base Commanding Officer's suite to question and confront their teammate- who was left behind to fulfill the mundane tasks of placing the General and Colonel comfortably back into respective office chairs, now that elevator security was defeated.  But Dura-Damsel has disappeared!  Both military big-whigs sit at their big mahogany desks with silly stupefied smiles plastered in place… the elevator door offering access to their arch-enemy's lair stands open… but no sign of the tall lithe super-athlete?!   Had she overheard the damning conversations inside the Xerox alcove and fled in embarrassment?  There was no time to be sure.  The effects of the ARCHIE incapacitating weapon would soon be wearing off.  Making a fateful split-second judgement call, IL elects not to pursue their trouble-making companion and instead orders the others to accompany her downstairs via the waiting elevator.  As twin metal doors close, however, Emma catches a brief glimpse of two yellow boot soles poking out from front of the foot-well beneath Lt. Colonel Gregory Brady's desk.  Wow!  She's gone off the deep end… become a total nymphomaniac!!  realizes our teenage superheroine.

At Ingeno-Lady's approving nod, EG presses an elevator floor button marked "Lab Level".  To all remaining QQ team members’ utter astonishment, electric-blue theta-wave sparks jump up across Emma's outstretched finger and hand!  The diminutive saffron-sari-clad superheroine wavers helplessly while the radiation shock convulses through her delicate frame, and a distinct sharp pain emerges at the base of her neck.  In a knee-jerk chivalric gesture, Scotty lunges across to try and extricate the young Asian-Indian beauty from this insidious trap… only to be pulled into it himself.  Grabbing Emma by her blue-sparkling left arm, he immediately experiences full power and force of alien energy specifically tweaked to affect muta-cloned brain cells laced with proto-matter.  Yet this intricately-adjusted spider’s web is pure venom to any ordinary human being.   Our brave young McGillicutty’s cardiovascular and respiratory systems are assaulted and overwhelmed by the Melkos radiation overdose.  Sheer force of his lunging maneuver succeeds in dislodging Emma from the booby-trapped elevator floor button; but now the scientist himself collapses like a rag doll into a crumpled heap upon the cold steel floor.  Dazed and disoriented Empath Girl struggles to regain her balance- a stunned vacant look spreading across her coal-black-eyed visage.  It’s now up to Ingeno-Lady to save the day.  Her team must retreat: get out of here and attempt to regroup before it’s too late!  Once again, the QQ’s have terribly underestimated the technological skill and calculating cleverness of their foes.  Repeatedly jamming the “Door Open” control panel button, a second kattra-powered energy burst envelops our Quint-Quints leader’s hand!  Her surroundings whirl and spin as a tell-tale jolt at the base of her neck signals disconnect between Hippocampus and Brain Stem.  Struggling to fight off powerful thought-numbing effects of Weasel’s Mind-TRAMP, Inga slumps to her knees as the elevator begins its high speed descent toward Colonel Chronos’ laboratory base.


Will Inga and Emma now become mind-controlled puppets at the lascivious beck and call of a nefarious Weasel?   Or can Deedee overcome sexual abandon in time to prevent an immobilized fate for the Quintessential Quintet??  Tune in next month for answers... and more (in)action!  –R.

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1Copyright © 2003 by B.B. on characters and story. Any similarity between individuals described in this fictional work and actual persons (living or dead) is purely coincidental. No such personal affiliations should be inferred or made.

2 Special thanks to Dmuk and Fool for uses of their ‘motion vampire’ ASFR character concept and Grand Façade story location, respectively.

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