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Sophie & Natalie’s Slapstick Comedy Lesson

[Author's Note: Here's the follow-up to my first story attempt. I took the feedback from the previous story on board, so there's no male WAM in this one ;) As this is the second story I've written in two weeks, I'm feeling a bit creatively burnt out so don't be too disappointed if I take a bit longer to get around to writing a third! Anyway, I'll shut up now. Enjoy the story!]

The ‘Jake Perry Show’ was a talk show with a difference. Jake, a stand-up comedian and former radio shock jock, would interview his guests to start, but the second part of the show involved them taking part in some sort of off-the-wall challenge or activity to shake up the stale ‘host fawns over guest’ format that had killed many similar shows. Of particular note is the episode that aired on Saturday 14th March 2015, with ‘Game of Thrones’ actresses Natalie Dormer & Sophie Turner as the featured guests.

Beautiful blonde Natalie was wearing a very low-cut stripy dress with a flesh-colored slip underneath to preserve her modesty. Redheaded Sophie had on a black crop top, displaying her midriff, with a pair of very tight red and white trousers. While interviewing the pair, Jake referred to the grim nature of their show several times. He made a number of oft-repeated jokes about the high number of deaths that occurred and suggested that the two might like to experience some comedy to balance out all of the tragedy.

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Natalie Dormer

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Sophie Turner

“That would be nice, but if you’re the one making the jokes we’re not likely to have much luck with that!” Natalie replied with a smirk as Sophie giggled and the audience cheered their approval.

Jake pretended not to have heard this remark or the reaction and continued, “Well, I’ve arranged a special stand-up comedy class for you two to take when we come back from the break.”

“That sounds like fun.” Sophie responded with an earnest smile as the audience applauded.

When the show returned from commercial, Jake stood alone on the stage and gave a conspiratorial wink to the camera. “Natalie & Sophie are backstage getting ready for the comedy class that we’ve prepared for them, but what they don’t know is that the class has nothing to do with stand-up comedy and everything to do with slapstick comedy!” he winked again and made a shushing gesture to camera as the actresses rejoined him. Both were now barefoot as the production assistants had suggested they take of their shoes, which had seemed slightly suspicious but hadn’t caused either girl to realize what they were about to walk into.

“Okay ladies, you look ready to learn so allow me to leave you in the hands of a very capable teacher…”

Jake stepped off to the side as loud circus music piped through the studio and a short fat clown with a red wig, red nose and thick makeup bounded onto the stage and ran forward to shake the hands of each person sitting in the front row of the audience. “Hello Boys & Girls! I am Sloppo the Clown and it seems that Mr. Perry has been kind enough to provide me with two new, very lovely assistants for this performance.” Natalie had a crooked grin on her face, but Sophie looked equally confused and nervous as Sloppo turned towards them. “Good evening ladies! I’m here on behalf of The Amazing Barden Brothers Circus (tickets now available online) to teach you the basics of slapstick comedy. Are you excited?”

Natalie grinned enthusiastically and said, “Yes!” while Sophie’s silence spoke for itself.

Sloppo approached Sophie, “Well dear, you seem a bit nervous but there’s nothing to fear. I’ve brought my star pupil along to help you learn the ropes. We’ll start with pie-throwing” He clicked his fingers impatiently, “Boppo! Bring me my bag of tricks!”

A second, lankier clown with green hair emerged from the wings wheeling a covered cart that displayed the logo and website information of The Amazing Barden Brothers Circus along the side. Sloppo dashed over to the cart, opened up the top and began rummaging through. He sent an assortment of props flying across the stage including a rubber chicken, an over-sized mallet and a banana skin before emerging with a thick custard pie in hand. He approached Sophie who scrunched her face up in nervous anticipation, only to find when she opened them that Sloppo was in fact trying to hand it to her.

“*Ahem* in your own time, dear.”

Sophie sheepishly took the pie from Sloppo who turned her around to face Boppo who had gotten into position beside Natalie. Sloppo adjusted Sophie’s arm until her pie was aimed squarely at Boppo’s face. “Now, swing it with some force and let it fly.” Sloppo instructed.

As Sophie threw the pie, Boppo took half a step forward and “accidentally” slipped on the banana skin that Sloppo had thrown earlier, toppling onto the floor as the pie sailed past where he had been standing. Sophie could only raise her eyebrows in horror as it continued until it connected with Natalie’s face and burst over her head and hair with a splat. As the pie tin clattered to the floor, Natalie cleared her eyes and began to laugh at Sophie’s shocked expression.

“You silly fool!” cried Sloppo, clipping Boppo hard across the ear as he got to his feet. “Look at poor Natalie, it’s all over her beautiful face.” He began dabbing at her cheeks with a flowery hanky before she batted him away.

“I think it’s my turn now” she said with a devilish grin, walking over to Sloppo’s cart and gathering two custard pies from within.

“Oi! Only I’m allowed in there!” cried Sloppo.

“Shut up or you get the next one!” said Natalie, sticking her tongue out at him. She rounded on shell-shocked Sophie who still hadn’t moved much since her pie throw and seemed all too aware of what might be about to happen. “Fair’s fair, Soph.” She said before smushing the two pies on either side of Sophie’s head with a movement akin to a cymbal clap. Filling exploded over Sophie’s red hair and face as the pies engulfed her. Natalie ran her finger down Sophie’s cheek, picking up plenty of custard filing in the process, and then licked it clean with a satisfied smile.

It took Sophie a few seconds to regain her senses, but when she did she found that she no longer felt guilty for accidentally pieing Natalie. In fact, she felt a little short changed since her head and hair were utterly coated with custard cream while Natalie only had a smattering over her face and fringe.

“*Ahem* It looks like the two of you have mastered pie throwing and splattering far quicker than I expected.” Sloppo said with a proud smile, “You might ever take Boppo’s place as my star pupils!” The taller clown put his hands on his head and looked down in response. “Let’s move on, shall we?” He returned to his bag and pulled out a bright blue bowler derby hat.

“This is an absolute classic, the shaving cream hat. Allow me to demonstrate its usage on Boppo…”

“…actually, Sloppo, I think it looks more like Natalie’s color,” insisted Sophie as she wrested it from Sloppo’s hand and walked over to her co-star with a wicked glint in her eye.

Defiant to the last, Natalie put her hands on her hips. “Let me try it on then.”

Sophie carefully lifted the foam-filled hat over Natalie’s blonde tresses, before upending it and pulling down right over her eyes as the cream spewed out of a hole in the top in a little geyser before dropping back down to land on Natalie’s shoulders and feet. Sophie twisted the hat around a bit before allowing Natalie to lift it off and admire her creamy new hairdo. The audience were going wild.

“You got the hang of that pretty quickly so I’ll move on to my personal favourite slapstick gag, filling your unfortunate stooge’s britches with custard. He lifted a heavy bucket out of his cart and advanced on Boppo, reaching for the elasticated waistband of his brightly colored pants.

“You know what Sloppo, I’ve got a much better stooge in mind for that custard.” Natalie had lifted the bucket from his hands before he could even object.

“Wait Natalie! The pies were bad enough… but that’s going too far! I don’t have any spare clothes with me!” Sophie pleaded as she backed away but Natalie pursued her with determination.

“I’m sure the wardrobe department can lend you some, now hold your trousers open or I’ll dunk your head in the bucket!”

Sophie knew that she was serious and could tell from the audience chanting that they wanted to see it too, so she gave in with a deep sigh. “I’m going to get you back for this,” she hissed as she hooked her thumb into her waistband and pulled her trousers forward enough to make room for the lip of the bucket.

“I don’t doubt it,” smiled Natalie, “Deep breath now. This is going to be cold.” She wasn’t kind enough to start slowly but lifted the bucket abruptly so that the custard surged into Sophie’s trousers leading the younger girl to gasp and squeal in discomfort as it soaked her panties, thighs and legs before oozing out the bottom of the leggings onto her bare feet. It was cold, it was gross and yet Sophie couldn’t deny that it was stimulating on some bizarre level. The audience certainly seemed to find it amusing and the clowns were thrilled.

“You’ve put Boppo to shame so far, ladies!” Sloppo said as he applauded the messy actresses. The taller clown had already removed a large novelty fire extinguisher filled with foam from the cart and was bringing it to Sloppo when he tripped again on the banana skin. The extinguisher rolled over to Sophie who snatched it up—feeling custard sloshing around her lower body as she bent forward—and grabbed Natalie’s shoulder.

“You’d better hope the wardrobe department have some clothes in your size, Nat.” She said as she pushed the extinguisher nozzle against Natalie’s cleavage and held down the trigger. Natalie’s eyes bulged wide as the sticky, pressurized foam flooded over her breasts and inside her slip. The tightness of the slip pressed it against her and helped to ensure the foam invaded most of her body. She squirmed and gave a gentle moan as the foam caressed her.

When the extinguisher was empty, Sophie pulled it aside and gave her friend a big hug, which was really just a ruse to squish the foam around some more. Natalie responded in kind with a cheeky pat to Sophie’s crotch, which pressed more custard into her underwear.

Once the girls disentangled from each other, Sloppo seemed at a loss for words. “Well ladies, I’m proud to say that you are the quickest learners I’ve ever seen. Perhaps you have slapstick in your genes!”

“I’m not sure about that, but I definitely have custard in my trousers!” retorted Sophie to appreciative audience laughter.

“Well, whatever the case, I think Boppo & I will honor you with an Amazing Barden Brothers Circus trademark: The twenty-one bucket salute! You’re about to pass this class with flying colors!”

Both girls had a good idea what this would entail, but neither made any attempt to flee as half a dozen more clowns of all shapes and sizes emerged from the wings carrying plastic buckets, each filled to the brim with a different colored cake batter. There was just enough time for them to link arms and yell, “bring it on!” before the deluge began.

Blue. Red. Yellow. Green. Purple. Pink. Orange. A veritable rainbow of goo—twenty-one bucket’s worth in total—splashed over the pair as they laughed hysterically, scooping up handfuls from the floor and rubbing it into each others bodies. Natalie scooped a large handful into the back of Sophie’s trousers, to which she retaliated by stuffing some down the back of Natalie’s dress. Eventually the slime stopped flying and the two girls collapsed to the floor play wrestling in the slop, trying with increasing difficulty to find clean areas on each other’s bodies to cover. Both were plastered head-to-toe so that it was hard to tell who was who. Natalie took particular delight in lightly tickling Sophie’s exposed stomach, as the younger girl writhed and wriggled at her touch.

It was such a sight to behold that the camera lingered on them for a good minute before Jake Perry reluctantly stepped in to close the show. “My sincerest thanks to Sloppo, Boppo and all of the clowns from the Amazing Barden Brothers Circus for joining us tonight and a huge, huge round of applause for my guests Sophie Turner & Natalie Dormer for being such great sports.”

The girls had stopped wrestling and Natalie struggled to her feet before extending an arm to Sophie to help her up. The two took a little bow before heading backstage to clean up as Jake delivered his closing monologue to the audience.

“Now, that was fun,” said Sophie as she caught her breath, “I can’t believe I was so nervous before.” She could feel custard, cream, slime and who knows what else in just about every crevice of her body, yet she felt incredible.

“You’d be surprise what you enjoy when you’re willing to try it,” Natalie replied, her devilish smile showing through the goop covering her face. “Speaking of which, the shower in my dressing room is pretty spacious if you want some help cleaning up…”

“Lead the way.” smiled Sophie.


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New Wamerific Videos

Jay Millers Circus

Hi, not sure if I’ve done this right because I’ve never posted multiple photos before. This lady is called Zsofia Jakab. She is Hungarian and is an aerialist (trapeze artiste) for Jay Millers Circus. More interestingly though, she also sometimes assists Peppi the Clown as a very capable stooge.

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Zsofie - Jay Millers
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Zophie - Jay Millers
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The Seven Deadly Sins: Vanity – Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapters Four and Five
Chapter Six
Chapters Seven and Eight
Chapters Nine and Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapters Twelve to Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen

Although Grace pays me no further attention after locking me in the wardrobe, she remains at large in the stage-loft for a good quarter-hour longer. I can hear clunking and sliding noises, and I guess that my captor is moving the furniture around. Then things turn quieter, but intermittent sounds such as the tightening of screws and the snipping of scissors indicate that she is intently working on something. At one point I make out the pouring of a liquid. Whatever is going on out there, I’ve little doubt that it will have messy consequences for somebody.

Eventually, the door clicks open and then shut, leaving me truly alone. It’s hard to gauge exactly how much time elapses after this point. On the one hand, the lack of visual and auditory stimulus detaches me from the physical world, so that minutes or even hours could be slipping by without my discerning them. On the other hand, the awkward configuration in which I am bundled, and the uncomfortable sensation of the slimy shampoo on my skin and hair, keep me aware of every dragging second.

One thing’s for sure; I have no shortage of quality time to spend with my thoughts. I meander through various stages of cursing my blunders, licking the wounds of betrayal by my supposed best friend, wondering whether this shampoo will cause unsightly stains to my face and hair, and fretting about what the future will hold. Even if I can thwart Grace’s attempt to frame me, Tawney is bound to throw the book at me for disobeying him.

Tawney. Grace didn’t call him Tawney; she called him Clive. Even though I’m wrapped in darkness, my eyes blink wide open. Few people know the Superintendent’s Christian name, yet alone use it. Only Tawney’s closest cronies call him Clive (the last person I heard using the name was Wamdale). It’s very strange that Grace would casually throw about the name, unless she has some connection to the Super that is completely unknown to me…

Before I can ponder the matter further, music blasts up from the hall below, muffled bass causing the wardrobe to rattle slightly. The final round of the contest must be due to start soon. Then another noise comes to my attention – a shouting, gradually getting louder. Then the door swings open and the voices are here in the room.

“Put me down!!”, cries a female voice that I immediately recognise. “Let me go! Put me down at once!”

“Patience my dear Cassie!”, the garbled electronic tone croons. “You’ll be going down alright!”

“My sonar! It’s jammed!” Cassie wails, as I hear her being dragged unceremoniously over the clutter. “You’re flooding the room with ultrasound!”

“Am I? How inconsiderate of me!”, Grace chortles, getting closer. “But fear not Cassie, I’ve got a treat for all your remaining senses.” The announcement is followed by a swooshing sound that I’ve come to recognise as the vat lid being opened. “Now, how shall we do this? Pushed over the side face-first? Or would you prefer to walk the plank?”

“You’re p..putting me in th..there?!”, blurts Cassie. “But why? Why me? I’m not a model!”

“Well Cassie, I know you’re rather lukewarm on the matter of beauty contests, but here’s your chance to make a splash on the catwalk, if you’ll pardon the pun. You’re going to be the star of the show! Now just wait there while I attend to something.”

A couple of seconds of later, the key softly clicks and the wardrobe door gently opens. Grace peers down at me and raises a silent thumbs-up. A few yards away, Cassie leans against the shampoo vat with her back to me. Her wrists and ankles are bound like mine, and her left leg is trembling. I try to make some sound to alert her that I’m here – a muffled cry or a knocking against the wood (I even try tapping out A-S-H in Morse code) – but my mouth is too tightly gagged, and my trussed body too firmly wedged in the wardrobe, to make any discernible sound over the blaring music.

In any case, Cassie is in no mood to hang around and listen. Having realised that the Assassin has left her side, she begins to hop clumsily along the edge of the tank. When she reaches the corner, she falls heavily to the floor. With a grunt, she begins to shuffle forward on her knees.

Grace strolls up behind her prisoner with an unconcerned air. “That’s it! Run Cassie run! Let’s see how far you get!” She points the cane and gives Cassie a quick squirt of foam up the back. Cassie shuffles onwards, but collides with a tea chest – one that I’m sure wasn’t there before.

“I took the liberty of making a few rearrangements in here”, Grace reveals, blasting another round of foam to the back of Cassie’s head. “I’ve put in some exciting new fixtures and fittings!”

I glance around the shadowy loft and see that Grace has indeed been busy – building a veritable obstacle course. Numerous coloured balloons hang suspended from strings, their weighted shapes indicating that they are filled with something denser than air, and there are several spring-loaded devices primed with cream pies.

Panicking, Cassie thrusts herself left of the tea-chest. This sets her heading straight for the dropzone of a bright orange balloon, but I am powerless to warn her. String whizzes through pulleys, and the balloon plummets to explode on the top of Cassie’s head, sending a wave of even brighter orange goo gushing over her short brunette hair. She squeals and squirms, both at the sensation of the gunge and at another blast from the cane, as Grace emits an evil laugh that would make moviegoers cringe.

Regaining her composure, Cassie soldiers on, but barely progresses another couple of feet before a green balloon comes hurtling down. It bursts on her shoulder, coating the left side of her face with lurid green slime. Instinctively she jerks to the other side, and in doing so triggers one of the pie launchers, which buries the right side of her face under a mound of cream. While Cassie recovers from this bombardment, Grace catches up behind her. In her present kneeling position, Cassie’s jeans display a prominent butt-crack, something that doesn’t escape the attention of her captor, who inserts the tip of her cane into this opening. Cassie shrieks as her jeans are filled with cold cream.

“Awww, that was a little mean of me, wasn’t it?”, Grace chuckles her computerised titter. “But I’m not unsporting, I promise. In fact, I’m so impressed that I’m minded to let you go if you can make it out of the room.”

Shaking her head like a dog in a bid to rid it of the gunge and cream, Cassie duly takes up Grace’s challenge. Finding her way blocked on either side, she lunges her body up onto an oblong box, shimmying along it on her chest. As I survey the scene from the confines of the wardrobe, my eye catches a glinting surface on the other side of the box, just at the edge of my vision through the gauze. Grunting silently behind the gag, I crane my neck to get a clearer view. Cassie is heading straight for a paddling pool filled with a shiny, uneven, whiteish-clear substance that looks like wallpaper paste. No wonder Grace is so keen for her to continue!

Right, I’m going to have to do something to warn Cassie. There’s no excuse for me to sit by – not if she can manoeuvre herself about the room with her wrists and ankles tied and her sonar disabled. Thrusting my body, I attempt to unwedge myself from the wardrobe, but achieve very little other than causing myself some discomfort.

Meanwhile, Cassie reaches the end of the box and tentatively leans forward, unaware that she is face to face with the shimmering surface of slop. While I watch with my heart in my throat, the box wobbles menacingly on its fulcrum as Cassie cranes her upper body into the void. She halts, the smell of the paste evidently alerting her that something is amiss.

I make a second, more violent attempt to burst free of my confines. The old woodworm-ridden wardrobe wobbles on its legs, and for a moment I fear it could come toppling down with me inside it. Once again, my efforts have failed, but it seems that this time I made enough noise for Cassie to hear me. In her precarious position, she turns her head in my direction. Caught in the spotlight, her sapphire eyes glint fiercely amidst the white, orange and green that coats her head. Even though I’m now familiar with her blindness, it’s hard to shake off the instinctive feeling that she can see me.

THWACK! Grace administers an expedient kick to the underside of the box, sending it tumbling forwards, and catapulting Cassie into the pool of peril. With a wince-inducing squelch, Cassie hits the milky goo at a shallow angle, her face entering first, her front torso and legs following in quick succession. She ploughs forward a couple of feet as if on a slip’n’slide. Either side of her, viscous waves of paste swell outwards, slap against the sides of the pool, and surge back inward, completing Cassie’s coverage as they wash over her.

Poor Cassie levers her front out of the slop. Her hair is saturated and matted, and her cardigan hangs sodden, nearly slipping off her torso altogether. She rises as far as her supple back will arch, but the bindings on her limbs make it impossible for her to get further purchase, and she flops back down with a dull splat. She flips onto her back and continues to writhe in the goo, while Grace’s digitally-cloaked mirth echoes around the loft like some unhinged villain from a B-movie. Eventually, thrusting with her elbows, she wrestles herself to knees.

“Oh Cassie, you’re such a card!”, titters Grace, as she wanders around the edge of the pool to face her gloop-covered victim. “But time is getting on, so shall we cut the warm-up entertainment and get on with the main show?”

“If you want me, you’ll have to come in and get me”, Cassie retorts, defiant in the face of her piteous situation.

An electronic snort issues in response. Grace rests the tip of her cane on the neckline of Cassie’s white – or as it is at present, semi-seethrough – top. She pushes downwards, revealing the beginnings of cleavage, and angles the cane into the opening. “Do you really want to make things any worse for yourself?”

That’s it. I cannot stay in this wardrobe any longer. Gritting my teeth, I lurch forward with all my might. This time I succeed in unwedging myself, and tumble into a tangled heap on the floor. Looking up, I see that Grace has turned to face me. I can almost envisage the angry glare through the gauze visor of her costume. In defiance I continue to shuffle and tap my feet on the floor. If I can’t help Cassie, then I can at least convince her that I’m here.

“Who else is here?”, asks Cassie, craning a paste-filled ear.

“Nobody else is here”, Grace insists, still facing my way. “Nobody knows you’re here; nobody’s coming to rescue… hey!!”

Cassie’s hands spring forward from behind and snatch the cane from Grace’s grip. Deftly, she flips it lengthways and fires a jet of white foam. As Grace instinctively turns her head towards Cassie, the volley splatters across her visor. While Grace wipes, Cassie takes the opportunity to untie her ankles and stand up.

“Looks like someone didn’t pay attention at Girl Guides; your knotwork’s appalling.” Globules of the gelatinous paste plop into the pool from Cassie’s sopping figure, but in spite of her messy state she smiles for the first time in this episode. “Now, how about we settle this with a fair fight?”

“Bring it on”, Grace flashes back, though with a noteable waver in addition to the usual electronic warble.

Cassie fires the opening salvo, sweeping the cane up and down. As with the time when she flicked her tart into Penny Black’s much-deserving face, her ability to pinpoint Grace’s location through auditory means is spot on. The brilliant-white cream snakes up and down the Flan-Flinger costume, striking a stark contrast against the black fabric. Grace retreats, shielding her visor with her hands, and in doing so stumbles into one of her own bobby traps. A turquoise balloon hurtles down and explodes on the apex of the hooded costume, recolouring the funereal shroud in the viridian hue. A growl indicates that the slimy dampness of the goo has registered underneath.

The Assassin isn’t on the back foot for long though. Grace reaches for another balloon – this one cherry red – from a nearby trap, and lobs it at her opponent. The projectile bursts open on Cassie’s upper chest, the scarlet gunk splattering her from her bust up to her chin. As Cassie reels from the impact, Grace empties a cardboard box full of polystyrene beads over her, which stick to the paste coating her head and body. White with the polystyrene snow, a spluttering Cassie tries to retaliate with another squirt of the cane, but Grace deftly sidesteps the spray, before continuing her attack with a sandwich of shaving-foam pies.

As she regains her assuredness following her setback, Grace resumes her laughter and taunts, while Cassie becomes increasingly disorientated in the barrage of mess that assails her. Grace is running rings around the poor girl – literally. In my trussed position, I again curse my helplessness to intervene. I attempt to worm my way towards the warring pair, only to become increasingly tangled in this dratted costume. Mad with frustration, I yank with redoubled effort at my bonds, hoping to free myself as Cassie did, but the knots hold firm.

Looking to bring this one-sided showdown to a close, the Assassin produces a length of rope from a hidden fold in her costume and swings it like a skipping rope over Cassie. Grace yanks the rope around Cassie’s calves, sending the girl flat on her face in the paste for a third time. The cane flies from Cassie’s hand and clatters across the floor.

Grace gingerly stoops over the paddling pool and lowers her knee into the small of Cassie’s back. She plunges a gloved hand into the goop and hauls up Cassie’s gasping face by her chin. “It’s all over, Cassie”, the electronic voice intones coldly, “Now let’s get you trussed up for the final drop.”

Grace duly attempts to rebind Cassie’s wrists, but even at this stage the latter isn’t going to come quietly. Thrashing and splashing in the pool, Cassie’s resolve makes me proud to call her my assistant, but with a sinking heart I realise there’s only one outcome to this confrontation. There only ever was one. All her determination and sharp thinking is no match for the Assassin’s simple sense of sight.

It was a very different story when Cassie brought me up here for the first time. Wistfully, I recall how Cassie nonchalantly navigated the jumble, while I myself bungled from one obstacle to another in the pitch black. In the land without light, the blind man is king.

Then make it dark, Ash!

It comes to my attention that the main ceiling lights are switched off. The sole source of illumination is the spotlight that I set up earlier. What if? Flexing my knees, I feel my bound ankle come up against one of the slender tripod legs. I push, and the tripod rotates slightly, realigning the ghostly shadows across the loft. If I’m to stand a chance of toppling this thing I’ll need to build up some momentum. I draw my knees back, then slide them forwards as forcefully as my circumstances allow. This time the tripod wobbles, causing the shadows to judder violently.

I glance across to the pool and see that my activities have drawn Grace’s attention. She realises what a grave threat I pose. I swing my legs again, resulting in another judder. Grace abandons Cassie and gets to her feet. She’s heading my way. Five seconds to do this or it’s all over. I need more leverage.

I wriggle onto my back and hook my feet under the tripod. And lift. The spotlight leans, but the centre of gravity holds firm. If I can just edge it a little bit more.

“DON’T TOUCH THAT!” No amount of digital cloaking can hide the panic in Grace’s voice.

Grunting silently behind my gag, I thrust my feet with every ounce of desperation, propelling the tripod into the air. The shadows teeter on the brink of equilibrium. Then their sweeping motion accelerates. Grace lunges with arms outstretched to catch the tumbling lamp, but at that moment, in the rapidly arcing illumination, she suddenly jerks back. Cassie stands behind Grace, tugging on the rope which has become looped around her torso.

With an anguished electronic wail, the Catwalk Assassin lurges backwards into the pool of paste. The last thing I see before the bulb smashes is a glint in Cassie’s unseeing eyes. It means business.


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Idoling!!! (アイドリング!!) vs Babyraids (ベイビーレイズ)

Here’s a pie game that was featured on the Messy Scenes Blog a couple of weeks ago. It’s been a trend of this show to feature younger and younger girls playing the game, and this showdown with the unpromisingly named “Babyraids” is no exception. Upon careful checking, however, four of the girls getting pied were found to make the cut.


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Belgian Mom brown snot

WAMlit review – Poor, Poor Emily!, by Peter Grimnim

Grimnim’s website has gone to a digital grave, but today’s story can be accessed at the Internet Archive.

[Adopts David Attenborough voice]

The Emily (introverta nervosa) is a reserved and timid species, related to the wallflower. Emilies are conservative in their plumage, camouflaging themselves in drab clothing and preening with less make-up than most other females. The astute male, however, will often discern a shapely figure under an Emily’s modest exterior, and may find her shyness adorable. Said male may speculate as to what carnal passions might lie dormant within the Emily, only to be unearthed during the mating process, but he’ll probably have to marry her to find out.

We all know an Emily or two.

Emilies are attention-averse and seek shade from the glare of social scrutiny. If an Emily finds that others are looking at her, even for positive reasons, she will blush, fidget, touch at her mouth and hair, and generally wish herself to disappear. Emilies view banter and horseplay with disdain. They flinch at the boisterous and the bawdy. Physical slapstick strikes Emilies with terror.

An Emily’s skin will crawl at the very thought of gunge.

On Saturday night, whilst bolder species such as the Shannon (cheekyvimto intoxica), the Danielle (promiscua gonorrhea) and the lesser spotted Jodie (asbo asbo) are vomiting into privet hedges and giving head in dark alleys, the Emily seeks refuge in the parental nest, doing A-Level coursework or preparing a Bible study for next morning’s Sunday School. And it is in this habitat that our story begins.

[back to normal voice]

Emily Watson, 18, the unsuspecting protagonist in this tale, is at home with her parents and younger sister Gemma, watching Noel’s House Party. This is not a show that Emily warms to, but inertia keeps her on the sofa. The opening paragraphs of the story introduce the reader to Emily, and Grimnim takes care not only to draw a mental picture of her looks, but also to flesh out her personality, something that is neglected by a great many writers.

Focus then turns to the TV, where Noel has plucked an unfortunate young woman called Rachel out the audience and, as punishment for some frivolous ‘crime’, sentences her to a gunging. This piece of “warm-up WAM” not only maintains the reader’s interest during a long story build-up; it provides valuable insight into Emily’s psyche. The disdain Emily is already feeling for Noel Edmonds and his tacky show rachets up to revulsion as the completely unwilling Rachel is frogmarched to the gunge tank. As in TheWhiteLady’s story Sympathy Sliming, Emily almost shares Rachel’s suffering as she watches. She cringes as Rachel pleads for her cleanliness, and jolts with each wave of cold gunk that inevitably comes surging down. While the audience whoop and Emily’s family snigger and grin, Emily appears to be the only person in the country who is sympathetic to Rachel’s plight. This compassionate response increases the injustice of Emily’s own impending downfall. Whereas many humiliation stories conclude with a ‘baddie’ getting an overdue comeuppance, Emily is totally undeserving of the messy fate that awaits her.

With Rachel unceremoniously carted offstage in the gunge tank, it’s time for NTV to start. While I’m sure that every regular reader of this blog knows about Noel’s House Party, I’ll give an explanation of NTV for those who didn’t watch the show. It was a segment where an unsuspecting viewer would have video cameras concealed in their living room, having been set up by family or friends. Noel would then snap his fingers and the show would go live to the hidden camera feed, leaving one very shocked person gawping at themselves. Noel would then trawl through various anecdotes and photographs to embarrass the victim, and the ordeal would culminate with some silly act, usually involving fancy dress or karaoke (gunge rarely featured in this segment).

I have to admit that I always felt a tingle of dread in the buildup to NHP, even though I was a child and they obviously never played this joke on children. My parents were more sceptical and thought that the whole thing was staged, claiming it would be impossible to put TV cameras in someone’s home without them noticing (we’re talking tech from twenty years ago, remember). Looking back, it does seem suspiciously convenient that the victim was never out of the room fixing a drink or going to the loo at the moment the NTV slot rolled around. That said, urban legend has it they once had to cancel the segment because the guy was having a wank (over a gunging, perhaps?).

Anyway, in our story, Noel clicks his fingers, and Emily’s world falls apart. Things turn from bad to worse; it transpires that Gemma has sent in Emily’s diary, and Noel proceeds to read out Emily’s most private thoughts to millions of TV viewers. There’s nothing Emily can do except sit cornered in her own living room, reeling from the betrayal by her own family, dying of embarrassment as Noel reveals her crush on a boy named Martin, squirming self-consciously in the glare of the nation’s scrutiny. She can only pray that this nasty little man will soon tire of tormenting her and move on to pick on somebody else, leaving her to crawl up to her bedroom in shame. Unfortunately, Emily’s diary contains a rather unfavourable review of Noel and his House Party, so the bearded one has organised an extra special ending to this week’s NTV…

“So”, Noel looked up at the terrified Emily. “I think there’s only one punishment for saying something like that.”

“Sorry” tried Emily meekly.

“It’s just not good enough Emily. Stand up.”

She was too scared to disagree with him. She stood up.

A cameraman walked into the room with a TV camera perched on his shoulder.

“Follow that young gentleman Emily.” Noel cried.

The cameraman beckoned her and she followed.

Every step she walked she felt she looked so, so, stupid. She was pretty sure what was going to happen and she really, really didn’t want it to. But there was no escape.

She followed the cameraman out of the front door onto the street.

The sight that met her rubbed salt into her gaping wounds.

Hundreds of people had gathered on the street. She could see all of her friends. She felt she could never look any of them in the eye again.

In the centre of the crowd was the gunge tank. The vat above the booth was filled with blueish-green slime.

The moment Emily saw it, she reacted in the same way as she had described in her diary. Her skin crawled all over. She suddenly realised how mush she was exposed, her clothing wasn’t going to offer much protection from the putrid muck that was going to be covering her very shortly.

“Please no” She tried to say to the cameraman who led her towards it. She hated the sound of her own voice.

He led her to the booth and sat her inside. She looked at the crowd around her. All cheering and shouting, “GUNGE HER! GUNGE HER!”

She was crushed, totally crushed. It was as if her life was ending. Her family had betrayed her. She’d been humiliated in front of millions. Martin was never going to look at her again with out laughing, let alone want to go out with her.

And now she was going to be gunged.

The stark enormity of that last sentence is emphasised by being in a paragraph on its own… or at least it would be if Grimnim didn’t use very short paragraphs habitually, an aspect of his writing style I’m not so keen on. But nitpicking aside, this is a masterpiece of build-up. I remember reading some long-lost comment (most likely on WamMonkey) that went along the lines of “I love how she approaches the gunging as if it were an execution”, and to this day I think this sums up the scene perfectly.

And that brings us to the moment when the lever is pulled and Emily’s worst nightmare comes to fruition. The gunging itself is described in the typical Grimnim style, with minimal detail on what the gunging looks like to the onlooker, and a focus on what the gunging feels like for the victim, in both the tactile and emotional senses.

The closing line “nobody could see her tears” echoes Grimnim’s previous story, Claire’s Humiliation (and also this earlier story). I wonder if this is a last-minute attempt by Grimnim to excuse the baying mob (for they know not what they do), and perhaps in doing so relieve his own guilt for the trauma he put Claire through…?

Of course, there’s no need to feel bad because this is only fiction. Noel Edmonds was never that cruel in real life. I mean, he wasn’t, was he?



Oh.

It’s my hunch that the inspiration for PPE came from the above gunging of an unfortunate Miss Charlotte Biggs. Betrayed by her own family, mercilessly teased and embarrassed over her personal habits, and then – la pièce de résistance – the gunge tank revolves into view! Even the green-blue colour of the gunk is the same. And just as Emily is humiliated in front of her classmates, “everyone at work’s watching” Charlotte. It’s going to be a hellish Monday morning.

It’s hard to tell, in the three minutes during which Edmonds and Charlotte’s mother Cynthia play judge, jury and executioner to the poor girl, whether Charlotte is an Emily. She’s commonly referred to in WAM circles as the “vain woman”, which would suggest that her personality type is diametrically opposed to Emily’s, but I’m not so sure. I think she might be rather shy and insecure. She certainly looks nervous, even when she still thinks she’s there to provide a supporting role in an amusing animal anecdote. When it becomes clear that the joke’s on her, she endeavours to keep smiling, but I can’t help but be reminded of Emily’s own battle to put a brave face on the situation:

It felt like her insides were being churned through a mincer. She could feel tears trying to creep into her eyes, she held them back. She mustn’t cry. She knew she mustn’t cry. She had to play along… She wanted to die, but all she could do was sit there and take it.

I’m left in a tricky dilemma, because this is one of my all-time favourite gungings. And while Charlotte’s beautiful attire and the brilliant facial coverage play their part in my preference, I’m afraid that the biggest turn-on is the manner in which she is set up and humiliated. It seems I’m not alone in feeling this way. Here are some quotes from the community:

“…the best ever. I always find myself re-watching it as the years go by. The setup, execution, and reaction of the woman are the apex of all the gungings in this show.”

“I thought it was one of the most sexy and overwhelmingly arousing things I’d ever seen. I was 19 years old and I literally couldn’t sleep with excitement that night.”

“I have been watching this one over and over angain lately as well. I love how her mother set her up for humiliation and her reacion.”

“It’s pretty much ideal as a set up. ‘Dressed up and nervous’ as someone once very well described her demeamour.”

“one of the best gungings ever and her reaction”

“This type of reaction is exactly what people are yearning for in this niche market. Kind of a niche in a niche. Thing is, this reaction is virtually impossible [for a WAM producer] to re-create.”

…and it’s impossible because it involves springing a gunging on a completely unsuspecting and unwilling victim. Sure, Charlotte could have stood up and walked out, but even doing that would have been a humiliation and loss of face for her. So even if, on a legal definition, she consented to being gunged, the situation raises serious ethical concerns.

Of course, we wammers watching the clip today can find ways to absolve ourselves of moral responsibility. We didn’t carry out the gunging, nor did we aid and abet it. Noel’s the bastard, not us. And besides, the thing happened back in 1991. It’s done, and no amount of hand-wringing can undo it.

And yet, my conscience is not assuaged. I can’t help pondering what I would do if I held the lever in my own hand, if it were me charged with deciding Charlotte’s fate. Would I be able to do the honourable thing and spare her, to send her skipping away unsullied in her polka-dotted dress, black tights and a very grateful smile, and in doing so deny myself what might be the biggest thrill of my life… and lose a superb scene that is still celebrated in community 23 years later? It’s hard to say if I could.

Ultimately, I think fiction is the only way to square the ethical dilemma. For those interested, this tale has a sequel, Gemma Gets It, in which fortunes shift in Emily’s favour and against the villain of this piece. Personally, I think it is Grimnim’s weakest story on a number of levels, and I suspect it was written out of guilt rather than enthusiasm. I don’t want to see Emily find love with Martin and get even with her sister; I want to see her lose. This fictional Emily was conjured into the literary landscape to be humiliated for our guilt-free pleasure.

It just isn’t Emily’s night.


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Becky’s Confession

The Mudford Festival of the Arts was a month-long celebration of all things music, dance, poetry, literature, comedy, drama and visual art, where in the month of July the centre of Mudford was brought to life with a myriad of street performances, installation pieces and special shows. Radio 2 was there for one week, and various performers made guest appearances on the shows. The Kayotics were selected to debut their first ever “Kayocoustic” set on the drivetime slot with Simon Mayo, where their brand of gloriously promiscuous hard rock was given a stripped back, softer feel. Michelle and Becky’s electric guitars were swapped out for acoustic guitars. Yumiko put down her electric five-string bass for an acoustic four-string, which she played in a higher octave. Chloe played a real piano rather than keyboard. Kassidy’s drumming became more sparse. As an experiment, it went down well.

It was following their rendition of Epica’s “Solitary Ground” (which for most of the crowd may as well have been an original) that Simon announced a regular part of the show was about to begin. “And now it’s time for our confession, and as we’ve been saying all evening, tonight’s confession comes from one of the Kayotics themselves.”

Her four bandmates all looked at Becky, sat stage left with a microphone in front of her face, her guitar laying peacefully on her lap. “Yes, it’s me,” she said, blushing a little bit. “Forgive me Lord, for I have sinned. It’s been a lifetime since I’ve last confessed. So, what I’m seeking to repent for is a prank I pulled in my youth. Now, I grew up in the 1990s, and if there was one common theme in family entertainment back then, it was gunge. If you wanted to get messy, you could go on a TV show and it would happen. You had an annoying family member or teacher or neighbour or whatever, you could go on TV and get the chance to gunge them.

“Now, when I was about nine, my sister Rachel was seven and my brother Jake six, we had a babysitter. She was a tall, Glaswegian student who did Chemistry at Mudford Uni.” Some of the crowd cheered at the dropping of their university’s name. Even Chloe didn’t mind punching the air, lightly. “Now, it would be remiss of me to omit that I found her to be very pretty on the outside. Really tall, or at least compared to my young self, with long red hair, shimmering blue eyes and a body like one of those supermodels. On the inside though… not so much. I’ll not humiliate the girl by using her real name, but let’s call her Mona. She was one, too. A moaner, I mean. She would complain all the time about stuff and blame us, even though it wasn’t our fault if the cheese she used to make cheese sandwiches was of a slightly different maturity to what she liked or whatever. If we were watching TV, she’d always moan about how she’d rather be watching something else until we changed the channel. If we were playing, she’d moan that we were being too noisy. She’d also moan about how exhausted and achy she was from working. There was even one time when she made me rub her bare feet.

“Needless to say, I wrote many, many letters to Get Your Own Back, but not once did I get a reply. Disheartened, I decided that I didn’t need the show, as fond of it as I was, to give Mona her comeuppance. Of course, I didn’t have access to real TV gunge at the time, so I had to improvise. One day when she was around and watching some crappy telly show, I went into the kitchen and opened the cupboards. There was a great big plastic mixing bowl, which I decided would be perfect for… well, mixing up a messy concoction. I grabbed it, along with a wooden spoon and took it up to the bathroom.

“I made several trips and to this day, I count my blessings that Mona never saw me! My horrible mixture consisted of anything I could find. Custard, rice pudding, semolina, various food colourings, a bit of lime marmalade (or slime marmalade as my old dad would call it), milk… I didn’t know what to expect, but I know what I was going for – the thick, colourful, sludgy muck that was all over those aforementioned TV shows. What I ended up with was a fairly faithful copy, though a lot lumpier thanks to the rice pudding and slime marmalade and the like.

“Now that I had my gunge, I just had to deploy it. I was never much of an actress, but I was definitely skilled at making myself sound ill. ‘Mona, Mona! Come quick!’ I called, groaning for emphasis. ‘I feel ill! Mona!’ I added after a bit, doing some very fake coughing. Sure enough, she came running while I waited at the top of the stairs. I stood on a chair above the stairs, looking straight down at bottom. Sure enough, there Mona was, stood in her favourite white t-shirt and skinny blue jeans… both of which were ruined just a moment later! I tipped the bowl and dropped it over the edge and it landed straight on her head, splattering all over. She was totally covered in my colourful sticky slop, from the top of her lovely ginger locks to her freshly pedicured toes” The crowd laughed at Becky’s recollection, and the image of ‘Mona’ getting gooped. The laugh was just as much of a cringe.

“She looked stunned at first that this could happen to her. ‘Just you wait until your mam gets home!’ she shouted as I ran to my room, cautiously treading so I didn’t step in the goo that hadn’t quite made it to the edge of the landing. As I heard her power up the stairs, leaving a trail of slime like some kind of angry slug, she demanded to know who had done this. I lay down on my bed and looked up innocently while clutching my stomach.

Now we come to part of the story I seek forgiveness for. Mona changed her ways soon after, and I think the fact I’m in a famous metal band means I had the last laugh in the end. It’s not the wasted food or the mess caused either, since I paid for that at the time through some vigorous scrubbing and docked pocket money, as did Rachel and Jake. In fact, it’s Rachel and Jake whom I beg for forgiveness. Until this day, I never admitted that I had pulled the prank and got my own back on Mona, but I had been so meticulous in my vengeance that I made it impossible to prove who had pulled the prank. My lovely little siblings ended up paying the price for something which was entirely down to me, and for that I seek the forgiveness of Father Simon and the congregation.” Becky took a deep breath, with a sense of relief that she’d finally relieved herself of a lingering demon – a demon that had lingered with her for thirteen years.

“So there you have Becky’s confession. Babysitter from Hell, Becky decides to give her a bit of a comeuppance, kind of sets up her siblings to take the fall. Let’s start with Sister Rebecca,” said Simon, looking to business news host Rebecca Pike.

Rebecca sucked air in through her teeth. “It’s a tricky one. If Mona the moaner was as bad as you say, then I can forgive you for wanting to get revenge. Any babysitter who complains about the wrong type of cheese in the fridge and demands footrubs… Yeah, that’s high-maintenance. However, you wasted food and set up your siblings to take the fall so for that, I can’t forgive you.” The crowd cheered at the verdict.

Becky pouted as Simon passed over to the next co-host. “Well, we can see what the crowd think! Father Matthew?”

“Well like Sister Rebecca, I’ve got mixed feelings, but I think I am going to forgive you,” said Matt Williams, the sports host. The crowd booed, but after Simon settled them, Matt continued. “The thing is, you’re the oldest sibling, and someone’s got to keep the little ones in order! And your babysitter sounded horrible, from what you said, so I totally agree with getting back at her! Yes, you’re forgiven!”

“And how about Sisters Yumiko, Kassidy, Michelle and Chloe?”

The rest of the band looked at each other and chuckled. “Yeah, we forgive her,” said Yumiko, to more than a few boos. “It’s typical Becky, really. If we couldn’t forgive her for that, we’d never be able to put up with her!” the bassist explained, the crowd laughing with her.

“So it’s a mixed reception. Text us on the usual number with whether you forgive Becky or not and why.”

Thought I’d try something a bit different, or different by my own taste anyway. I know the babysitter revenge fantasy’s popular, but I don’t think I’ve seen this sort of format used before. But hey, why always make the same thing?

So, do you forgive Becky?


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Hobgoblin’s Wheel of Misfortune

To celebrate Halloween, the brewery behind Hobgoblin ale hosted several editions of the “Wheel of Misfortune”, an internet-streamed quiz featuring a gunge tank.

While the quiz contestants were an all-male washout, the female assistant was chucked in the tank at the end of the final game. The video’s up on Hobgoblin’s livestream, but here’s a Youtube version that can be saved with just the good bits:


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An NHP Discussion: Best Device?

A while ago, there was a vote about the best dunking from GYOB. So, why not have a discussion about the best gunging from NHP?

Well, simply because NHP had a number of different gunging devices, so I can see such a vote being a LOT more contentious! Plus, I believe there are quite a few clips that have yet to surface. Still, let’s have a look at the devices. The clips I’m using are just the ones which I think best show them off.

Gunge Tank (no foam):

Gunge Tank (with foam):

Car Wash:

Trip Around the Great House:

Panel Beaters:

I’ll share my thoughts after there’s a few comments on here. Here’s the poll, by the way.


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New Wamerific Videos

A Halloween Gunging

A Halloween Gunging
By
Sunflower -Sama

I took a deep breath, as I peered toward the setting sun, a chilly wind blew across the land, the breeze shook the orange colored leafs and tossed up a few of there fallen mates. The laughter of school children could be heard, a small smile played across my lips as I looked up and observed the last faint rays of sun, shining down from its place in the heavens.

“Its almost time.” I said as I shivered a little as I pulled my pastel pink jacket a little closer around my railroad thin frame. The wind tossed a few strains of my coco brown hair around and caused a sudden shiver to pass over my body. It was clear to me, that the warmth of summer had passed away and now the cooling breath of Autumn was upon me. Or was it the first foretaste of winter. It was hard to tell this late in the year.

Sucking in some of cool air, I turned toward my right to where my little homestead stood. It was in all honesty my great-grandmothers old house. A humble little dwelling constructed from locally fired brick with a roof of imported slate, floated down by river barge from Melody Town.

Releasing my drawn in breath, I stepped off the cobblestone road and onto the brick paved walkway that connected my front door to the road. Before I could blink a eye, I found myself reaching down and wrapping my fingers around the old, tarnished brass door handle. The wooden door gave way with a loud groan.

“Finally.” I said stepping across the threshold of my front door and into my living room. The air inside my living room was nice and warm and very inviting. Though I knew I had little or no time to sit and enjoy the feeling. For tonight was the night of Halloween, a night of bewitchment. It was also the night of the major social even of the season, ‘The Halloween Fete’ that was being hosted in the brick paved town square.

The next hour and a half was spent in preparation and chores for the up coming events of the evening. The Dish’s left over from breakfast had to be washed, dried and put safety away. I then had to bath to rid myself of that odd medicine smell that clings to all of us who find work in that chosen vocation, and above all I had to brush and comb my hair out.

The minutes seemed to quickly fly by, and before long the old grandfather lock in the living in the corner of the living room, chimed the time to seven o’ clock in the evening. I was almost done curling my hair when the deep throated melody reached my ears. A small, little smile graced the bow of my lips as I counted off each chime.

“Almost finished.” I said walking out of the bathroom and heading down the hallway toward the old master bedroom that had become my new bedroom. Once within the confines of the bedroom, I removed my bathrobe and walked over to my closet and started to dig through the dozen or so dress’s, skirts, blouses and other odd and end articles of clothing that I had brought or collected over the years.

A minute or two passed before I happen to come across what I was looking for, without a second thought being given, I reached up and pulled out a low cute, snow white bodice, that would show a fair bit and maybe even provided a little lift.

Halloween was after all the only night out the whole year a girl could wear a reveling costume that flattered her and not run the risk of having her good name tarnished or soiled in any shape or form. And to be blunt this festival was all about hooking up with a cute guy or gal depending on one’s personal preference. And having a flattering and creative costume was the key to ones success.

With all the pieces to my outfit present and accounted for, I quickly started to dress myself. Once I had finished dressing myself, I took a chance and peered into the floor length mirror. Call it vanity if you will, but I could not help but smile as I ran my hand down my side, smoothing out the wrinkles in my dress.

“Well, little red riding hood.” I said under my breath, as I modeled my dress for myself. “I think its time for you to go out and bag yourself a big bad wolf this evening.” And so with that being said, I flipped the light switch to the off position and started toward the door. As I passed the kitchen table up a wicker basket.

A minute or two passed before I could feel my feet touching down upon the brown cobblestone squares that paved the small section of rod that ran by my house. The moon it seemed had finally over taken the sun in the course of my getting dressed, for the landscape was now veiled in the cloak of night.

Through surrounded by darkness, my road was not totally void of light. For the many gas powered streetlamps scattered along the path provided small pools of golden light. Further illumination was being provided by the light spilling out of the few shops that lined the route to the square. Each window had been decorated in a Halloween theme, with witch’s riding broomsticks and smiling, bucktooth Jack-o Lanterns being the two most popular choice among the proprietors of the shop.

Ten minutes into my track, I had to pause in order to allow myself to soak in the sights and the sounds of the holiday. The laughter of children filled the brisk autumn air, and the ringing of doorbells and the knocking of brush knocks echoed loudly across the cobblestones, quickly following the sounds was the seasonal greeting of ‘Trick or Treat.

Allowing myself a smile, I once more started my journey, and soon enough, I found myself standing in the brick paved town square where the majority of the major social event was being held. Sudden shiver passed over me as I stepped into the square. Lighting was scare and a air of mystery filled the air.

My eyes where quickly drawn toward a large phone booth looking box, located in the center of the plaza. A well worn three legged stool was located within the confines of the four walls. My eyes seemed to zoom in one the stool before shifting upwards, before coming to rest upon a large clear container that held a brownish sludge looking mixture.

I swallowed hard as I peered toward the brownish sludge, poised it seemed to cover anybody unlucky enough to be seated below. My gaze was broken by a loud cackling and there standing by the booth was a young women, who appeared to be around my age.
She wore a lose fitting midnight black dress, and a wicked little grin played across her face as she stirred a large black cauldron that was sitting a few feet away from the door of the booth.

“Round about the cauldron go; in the poison’d entrails throw. Toad, that under cold stone day and night has thirty one swelter’d venom sleeping got, boiled through first I’ the charmed pot” The young women chanted as she stirred the bubbling pot that seemed to hiss and groan. Her wicked little grin turned into a full blown smile as she caught sight of me standing before her.

“Come here my pretty, and listen well to my warning, for tonight all of the villagers here have gathered, to cast los, for who among them shall be doused in the brew you see in yonder hold.” He said pointing toward the container full of that dark brown mixture. Another loud cackle followed as she gave me a sideway look.

“The appointed time is near, so please do be careful where you tread.” She said returning to her brewing and stirring. All the while she wore a evil grin, something that reminded me of a cat eyeing a feeding song bird.

A sudden blush crept across my face, as I turned toward the gathering crowds. Every person seemed, save for me wore a feathered mask, adding a noticeable flare of village decadence to the whole scene. Still blushing, I walked into the gathered crowds, nobody really seemed to pay me much mind, as the ladies of the crowed seemed more content to carve away the hours in fruitless flirting with land owning farmers, who formed the bulk of Bourgeoisie class of the village, or the upper crust if you preferred.

Quickly, I worked my way over to the small refreshment table, where drinks and Hors d’ oeuvre’s where being served. Still wearing a little bite of blush I eyed a large crystal bowl, filled to the brim with dark crimson fruit punch. Minding my manners, I walked over to the bowl and picked up the serving ladle, quickly without giving it much thought, I poured some of the punch into one of the paper cups and took small shall draft to calm my beating heart.

“Fillet if a fenny snake, in the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of a bat and tongue of dog, adder’s fork and blindworm sting, lizards leg and owlet’s wing. For a charm of powerful trouble, like a hell-broth boiled a bubbled.” Cackled the witch from her position next to the booth. With a wicked little grin upon her smug face, she turned toward the full, autumn moon that shown like a beacon of light in the cloudless evening sky.

I must confess a chill ran down my spine as all turned toward the witch, all the senseless flirting stopped and a hushed silence fell upon the crowed as she all eyes where casted upon her. The witch, loving the attention stopped her stirring and peered toward the rising moon.

“Tis almost time!” The women said as she peered toward the rising moon, a small smile was playing across the bow of her lips. “Now ‘round about my children gather, to listen to my decree. A guinea is the price one will pay, to put thy rivals name into the box, or your own if you feel so inclined to do so.” She said as she took deep breath and said.

“And in a hour, all the names shall be collected, and who so ever shall be chosen, will be placed under my tank of doom and gloom. So.” She said. She then took a deep breath and said.
A little smile crossed my face, as my mind dispelled the silly notion that I would be the one choosen to sit under the goo. I mean nobody in there right mind would pay twenty and one shillings for the chance to see me covered in sludge. That was a hours wage in fields or in the office. Surly one of the village’s Bella’s would be the one to sit upon the stool.

And so with my fears having been put to rest, I set about enjoying party. Though a feeling of growing dreaded did indeed seem to cloud my mind as I observed the women of the village, flashing evil grin in my direction as the pointed and nodded there heads toward me, before returning to there whispering behind there raised hands.

My curiosity was also peeked, when I peered toward the table that the votes where being taken at. The faint scratching of the pens could be heard, as well as the ringing sounds of coins being tossed into the collection box. More than once, I happen to see somebody peering in my general direction before dropping there coins into the old wooden box, and inking a name into the small, thin strips of parchment.

Quickly, I took a deep breath and started toward the nearest exit. Judging by the size of the crowd that had already gathered around the clear, flour walled plastic booth. The voting had come to a end, and the votes where now in the process of being counted. Sure there was still a pretty good chance that one of the Bella’s of Sea Breeze would be chosen, or one of the tavern queens and all. But the threat was still there, there was still a good chance that little ol’ I had been picked.

And I for one was not about to let myself get covered in that fifth, no way in hell, was I bout to subject myself to being hauled up on stage, and sat down upon that little wooden stool and within a mater of seconds covered in what ever in the name of the god was in that holding storage.

I was just about to make my grand escape, when I noticed the route of my passage was blocked by three women. The first one was dressed in a more adult rated ’Alice’ the main heroine of Lewis’s ’Alice and Wonderland’. The second seemed to be Cosplaying as anime character who’s name escaped me and the third and final one ws dressed as a sexy nurse.

“Leaving so soon?” The nurse said to me as reached up and started to play with a strain of her golden blonde hair.

“And just there where about to draw the name too, I mean its not like you have anything to lose from a little slime.” The Alice said to me, as she started to circle around me, in a manner that brought to mind a stalking lioness moving in for the kill.

“Indeed, seems somebody is trying to be a poor sport.” The one who was Cosplaying as the anime character said to me as she peered toward me with her baby blue eyes.

“Indeed, I mean, who’s going to be so selfish and self centered as to op out of a proud village tradition. We’re all taking a chance you know.” Chimed in Alice again.

A dark crimson color spread over my cheeks as I peered toward the tree. I was just about to utter a response to there questions, okay more like there verbal assaults, when the voice of the witch rang out across the grounds. It must be time, because for the first time ll evening she had broken character.

“Okay ladies, gentlemen, princess’s, knights and ghoulish beings. Its time for are drawing.” She said with a broad smile. “I’m also pleased to say, that all money collected tonight will go toward the paving of the outer roads. Housewives, you can start rejoicing, for soon those old pig trails, shall be paved in nice, clean cobblestones.

The crow responded with a token applause.

“And now, without further delay.” She said moving toward the small black ballad box. Without a seconds delay she reached into its confines and pulled out a small folded piece of parchment. Another quick second passed before she unfolded the piece of paper, “Would Sunflower E. Woodlift. Please join me on stage?”

My heart jumped into my throat as I peered toward the raised wooden platform. Taking a deep breath, I started to move toward the clear plastic booth. It seemed the forces of nature had chosen me.

“Here..” I called, it had only taken a good three or four minutes for me to cross the cobblestones and wade through the gathered crowds and climb the wooden steps, my heart rate seemed to double with every step I took.

“Oh its little red riding hood from before?” The witch said as she held the clear door open for me. “We’ll honey step right in, I think you’ll be pleased to know that several local business pulled together.” She then turned toward the crowd and in a loud booming tone of voice cried out.

“And beside getting drenched in my gooey goo, the little lady will also be receiving a fifteen quid gift certificate for ‘Hind’s Steakhouse’” She paused as she locked me in and then said the last bit. “Proudly serving the Sea Breeze Community since 1948.” And that last bit being said, she stepped back and took into her hand a long piece of nylon rope.

Quickly I crossed myself as I peered up. A chill ran down my spine and the heat was starting to rise in my cheeks. I could only shutter and squeeze my eyes shut as I heard the women yell.

“Okay folks give me a count down.”

Time then seemed to come to a total stand still as the trap door above my head let way and a cascade of mush was poured down upon my head, coating my hair and clinging to the folds of the dress, before sinking into my top.

The whole of my world disappeared under a blinding torrent of sludge, I could feel the weight pressing down upon my hair, and much to my horror, I could feel it sliding down my blouse and over my breast, then it hit me, the scent of the sloop, it smelled like something akin to day old grease.

The whole my world turned upside down as I heard a dozen or so voices raising in cheer and laughter as the horrible mixture poured down my back and pooled in my lab before running down my legs and finally settling at the bottom of my feet.

The whole of my body became stiff as a board as the last few ounces of slop, dripped down upon my head. The mess was starting to roll down my back, and by a odd and wicked chance of fate it was starting to soak into my panties, bringing my discomfort to a whole new level.
“Wow, what an amazing sport!” The young witch called out as she pointed to me. “Lets give her a round of applause.” She said grinning from ear to ear as she walked over and booth and with one quick flick of the wrist, she unlocked the plastic door.

Releasing a long held breath, I forced myself to raise up from the seat of the stool. Still blushing, I took a few baby steps out of the booth. Quickly I turned upon my heel and offered the crowed a little wave. The responded to my kind jester by shouting there approval. And so with there shouts of approval, ringing in my ears, I step off the stage. And into the pages of Village History.

The End.


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The Seven Deadly Sins: Vanity – Chapter Seventeen

I wish I could describe to you the mayhem that ensues in the darkness, but the truth is I can’t even tell you how much time passes. One thing that is evident, from the cacophony echoing around the stage loft, is that the Assassin has well and truly lost the upper hand. Amid the thumping of furniture, splashing of slop and the bursting of balloons, the digitally-cloaked voice issues all manner of shrieks, howls, moans, groans and whimpers. Cassie, for her own part, keeps her communication to an expedient minimum as she metes out her untold revenge, speaking with actions rather than words. All I can think, as I lay there in the pitch black, is you go girl!

As time passes the electronic vociferations grow stranger still, stuttering and warping, and I can only assume that the gunge has reached the circuitry and caused it to malfunction. Then, with a dying squeal of static, calm falls across the loft. The music from downstairs has since ceased, and all that I can hear are cautious footsteps and rummaging.

“Hello?”, Cassie calls out. “Who are you? Where are you?”

I thump my feet with urgency, and it not long before a pair of slippery, slimy hands come to rest on them. The hands proceed up my legs, and then to my abdomen, probing my contours and curves with exactitude. “Ash?”, Cassie deduces.

“Mmm-mmm!!”, I strain against the gag.

With renewed urgency, the hands ascend my body, tug back the soggy hood, and yank the tape away from my mouth. An initial flash of pain is followed by relief as I gasp at the welcome cool air. I hope that the tape hasn’t chapped my skin too badly. The hands rummage inside the costume and untie my wrist bindings with enviable ease.

“Cassie!”, I cough. “What happened? Can you get some lights switched on?”

My request is duly executed, though not by Cassie. The overhead fluorescent tubes clink on, flooding the room with harsh white light. Squinting to adjust my eyes, I watch Cassie as she proceeds to free my ankles, weary yet dogged. The girl has wiped herself of the excess goo, but remains heavily slicked. Her cardigan is missing, and her white top has become a patchwork of colourful splotches and sodden see-through regions. I feel guilty for what she has been through, especially since I had her marked down as the Assassin. Perhaps if I had been smarter, and more trusting, she could have avoided this sacrifice. Fortunately, the situation at hand allows me to postpone any apology.

“Someone’s coming”, I hiss, staggering to my feet. I cast a glance around the loft, but our adversary is nowhere to be seen. “Where did Grace go?”

“Grace?”, Cassie begins, “Who’s…?”

A soft tap at the door gives me my answer. “Ash?”, my flatmate’s voice – her real voice – issues from behind the door. “How’s everything going in there?”

“You bloody well know!”, I mutter under my breath. My blood froths like a volcano. Devious bitch! Trying to stroll back in and play the innocent!

“Ash?”, Grace persists. “I came to tell you, the Mayoress might be in danger! She hasn’t turned up for the afternoon session. The police are going frantic down there. Ash? Can I come in?”

Seething, I snatch up two unused pies and storm over to the door. “Oh you can come in alright! Be my guest!”

After some fumbling with the handle, the door creaks open. Grace has changed back to her white lab-coat, betraying no sign of the messy struggle that just played out. I have to hand it to her for cleaning up so quickly, but I’m not fooled.

“Ash, hi…Oh!”

Grace raises an eyebrow as her eyes lock with my wrathful glare, but before she can react further, I spring forward like a Venus fly trap, clapping her head between the pair of pies. With a satisfying smoosh, the deep piles of white cream plough into her afro curls. Stunned, Grace puts up little resistance as I bend her into a headlock.

“Seeing as you like pie so much, why not have some yourself!?”, I thunder, while grinding the pie into the bitch’s face with my free hand. As I finally let the pie tin clatter to the ground, Grace’s face is revealed to be completely white, but this doesn’t stop me picking up another pie and repeating the process. I like to be thorough in my work.

“Pleugh!! Ash! What the…!?”, Grace splutters, her head now a huge mass of cream.

“You fooled me for a long time, Grace, but I got you bang to rights!”, I purr as I haul her over the loft jumble.

“Ash…”, Cassie pipes up.

“Fear not, Cassie! I’m going to get revenge on your behalf!” I manhandle the miscreant to the edge of the paddling pool. “Clearly you didn’t get messy enough the first time, Grace. So you can go in again!”

Grace manages to get a hand to wipe her eyes. “Ash, please!”, she wails, seeing the paste looming before her. “Not in there – no!!”

It briefly crosses my mind that I shouldn’t be indulging in police brutality, but my anger overrules any professional restraint. I can always say that Grace put up a struggle, and Cassie isn’t likely to say anything. This is personal; this is revenge. I can still taste the shampoo from when she dunked my head in the tank. With a triumphant war cry, I propel Grace forward with a shove to her back. She belly-flops into the paste, sending a surge of the translucent goo over the edges of the pool.

Smugness glowing in my cheeks, I stand over my former friend as she flounders in the slop. Her jeans are dark and shiny, and her lab-coat is grey with saturation. As for her hair, the paste has mixed with the cream to form a thick, lank mixture. It’s a suitably sticky end to the Catwalk Assassin’s reign of terror. Strolling around the pool, I wait until Grace levers herself up on her elbows, then apply my foot to her back, forcing her down for another faceful.

“Ash, what are you doing?”, cries a confused Cassie.

“Arresting the Assassin!”, I proclaim, fumbling inside my costume. Somewhere in here is the pair of handcuffs I brought.

“She’s not the Assassin”, Cassie contends.

“It pains me to say it, but yes she is”, I insist.

Cassie shakes her head with a wry smile. “The Assassin’s over there.”

With a nod of her head my assistant gestures the shampoo vat. Her sightless gaze traces upwards, and my own eyes follow. A black bundle hangs above the open tank, dripping with paste and splattered with cream, trussed by several loops of rope that snake around a beam in the roof. The misshapen parcel bears little hint of a human form, but as I stare, I realise that this is the phantom who imprisoned me in the wardrobe, and sent Cassie on the cruel obstacle course.

The Catwalk Assassin – scourge of the fashion world, sensation of the media, the rogue who struck fear into models and confounded five police forces – hangs before me, swinging gently like an encased fly carcass in a cobweb.

“I got a bit carried away”, Cassie says sheepishly.

“Don’t worry Cassie, so did I.” Ruefully, I look back at my best friend, now feebly supporting herself on all fours in the goo, completely innocent of the crimes I charged her with. Ooops.

“Grace”, I mumble. “I doubt this will mean much to you at this point, but sorry.” I extend a conciliatory hand. Grace is too busy spitting out paste and wiping her eyes to accept my pull-me-up, and I’m too impatient to wait for her. I abandon her and step tentatively towards the hogtied Assassin. My heart is in my throat, and my stomach not far behind it. I’m quivering all over with excitement.

After examining the bundle closely, I identify which end is the head. From inside the tangled costume, a faint groaning reassures me that the prisoner is at least alive. I extend a trembling a hand towards the hood.

My fingers falter as they make the contact with the sodden cloth. Who is it, Ash? I need to work out the identity of the villain before I unmask them. Dare I say, I’ve made a right hash of this case, lurching from one red herring to the next, but for my own satisfaction, I need to get it right in the end. This case has cost me dearly; Grace will likely never forgive me, and Tawney is going to peck out my entrails for breakf…

Tawney. Remember Ash, the Assassin called him Clive.

Oh. My. God.

It all falls into place.

Of course the suspect is on first name terms with the Super; she’s known him most of her life, she gets regular phone calls from him, she bends him round her little finger. And the suspect has unparallelled access behind the scenes at every fashion event going. She knows this Town Hall like the back of her hand.

Most galling of all, the suspect has sat in front of me jotting down notes for the past couple of days, and I never thought to register which hand she used. I was even presented with a second opportunity to spot it – left-handers smudge their writing. And I was treated to the little-known fact that the suspect once trained as an engineer, but I let that nugget slip past me too.

As for motive, who knows what grudges the suspect has chalked up over her long and distinguished career? Who can guess what psychoses a life of fame and glamour has wrought?

“You’re nicked, Mayoress”, I say quietly, as I pull off the hood.


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The Seven Deadly Sins: Vanity – Chapter Eighteen

“So Ash, what took you so long?” Sabrina Royale’s bird’s-egg-blue eyes blink as I expose her head, which sticks out of the contorted black bundle at a comical tilt. Her beehive hairstyle is likewise skewed, and tinged with various shades of gunge. Her fabulous cheekbones glisten with paste, and she bears a blob of cream on the end of her dainty nose, which causes her to cross her eyes in consternation. However, for all the tortured shrieks the Mayoress issued during her drubbing at Cassie’s hands, it appears the costume has shielded her from the worst of the mess.

Stunned at my discovery, I’m unable to come up with a witty riposte, but the Mayoress has her own answer ready anyhow.

“Your problem is you’re too vain”, she explains, “That’s why you’ve blundered headlong into one false conclusion after another. First hint of a clue, and you’re convinced you’ve got the whole thing sewn up. By the way, that phone call from ‘Grace’s school’ was me, and you fell for it.”

I sigh as look back at my bedraggled friend, who is being helped to her feet by Cassie.

“I have to say”, the Mayoress continues, “when I persuaded Clive to send you here undercover, I expected more of a challenge.”

“It was your idea to involve me?”, I gasp.

“Oh yes.” The Mayoress nods vigorously, causing her to sway in her suspended position. “The prospect of playing against a young, smart detective who used to be ‘one of us’ was a thrill I couldn’t resist.”

Despite the situation, I can’t help puffing out my chest. Assassin or no Assassin, when Sabrina Royale pays you a compliment that’s something to be proud of.

“I’m sure Clive believes he had the idea himself”, the Mayoress muses with a condescending air. “But he’s very suggestible, bless him. I planted the foam cannon where it would be discovered, and that set off his protective instincts. He wanted to send in a full police presence from the start, but I sweet-talked him into this lower-key solution. And so the trap was set.”

“And with Tawney feeding you info on the case, you could stay one step ahead”, I reflect. “Hang on… if Tawney told you he was taking me off the case, how did you know I’d be here today?”

“I knew you were too vain to accept defeat on the case, for one thing”, Sabrina smirks. “But more than that, Clive isn’t my only source of information. It’s amazing the things I’ve found out over the last few days.” The Mayoress’ eyes glint as she swings gently back and forth. “I know that Grace drinks more than her daily recommended limit of wine…”

“How dare you!”, Grace snaps, as she tries to shake off the paste.

“…I know that Cassie was inspired to achieve her intellectual feats by an 18th century mathematician…”

“So you’ve been bugging us!?”, Cassie snarls.

“Of course dear”, the Mayoress looks surprised at our surprise. “Your changing cubicle was wired before you arrived, and it wasn’t difficult to fix up your car, Ash. Oh, and Grace, that book you gave me to sign – I stuck a slimline listening device to the back cover. I heard every word in your flat last night.”

Grace continues to glower while wringing out her lab-coat.

“I’ve got a lot more technical know-how than most people give me credit for”, the Mayoress boasts. “But my biggest asset is my saintliness; I’m above all suspicion. Take the incident with Miss Reaping at Manchester, for example. All I needed to do, after committing the act, was turn the corner and stuff the costume into my handbag. The security goons even tipped their hats as they charged past me. Or the stately home in Bicester? I’m friends with Lord Hawthorne who owns it. Getting access was no problem.”

“I understand the how”, I remark grimly. “I’d like to hear about the why.”

“I already told you – to punish their vanity.” Sabrina’s stately countenance glazes over, staring sadly into a dusty corner of the loft. “Let me tell you a story, Ash. Back when you were a fumble on the backseat of your father’s car, I was at the top of the fashion tree. I headlined at the Paris Fashion Week, my face gazed out of advertising boards tens of storeys high, the New York Times referred to the ‘Royale Wave’ as a benchmark pose.

“And still it wasn’t enough. I needed more gushing reviews, more centrefold spreads, more paparazzi on my tail. I wallpapered my house in magazine cuttings. I started turning up late for shoots because I couldn’t drag myself away from the mirror. I threw a tantrum if I didn’t get pole position on the catwalk.” The Mayoress lets out melancholy sigh. “All that mattered was me and my beautiful self.

“That’s what vanity does to you, Ash. It’s a poison that hollows you out inside while extolling your exterior. First it’s an indulgence, then a preoccupation, then an obsession. It distorts your very perception, so that you don’t see how vain you’ve become. The only thing that can shake you out of it is a jarring shock of humility – a slap in the face from reality. For me it came when Versace dropped me. For these young models, I engineered the shock for them.”

“Really? And you think that poor, young Erica Wither needed a jarring shock of humility?” My fists ball.

“Ah, the Exeter schoolgirl. I was there on a Mayoral exchange”, Sabrina recounts. “Granted, she did look meek and modest, and I admit, as I lurked there in the shadows with my hand on the rope, I had second thoughts about pulling. But then, as she received the crown on her head, I saw the glimmer awaken in her eyes. She had taken her first intoxicating sip from the cup of vanity, and I could picture her one year, five years, ten years down the line. And so I made that decision to pull; the earlier you snuff out a vain streak, the better. In the long run, she’ll thank me for… What is it? What are you all looking at me like that for?”

All three of us – Cassie included – stare aghast at the Mayoress as she relates, with casual matter-of-factness, how she crushed a teenager’s dreams. It dawns on me that Sabrina’s musings on vanity ring true in ways that she herself doesn’t realise. In taking on this self-appointed crusade, in believing she has the right to punish others for their own good, she has become the vainest of them all. But I don’t want to venture any further down this rabbit hole; what I’ve seen is disturbing enough.

“Ok Sabrina, let’s get you down the station”, I sigh.

“You really think you can arrest me?”, Sabrina scoffs. “Whose story is Clive going to believe? The woman he idolises, or you three troublemakers?”

A click at the door makes us all jump. I turn to see Charlotte Wade standing in the doorway, her startled eyes flashing between us.

“Charlotte! Thank goodness you’re here!”, the Mayoress wails from her trussed state. “Look what the Assassin and her assistants have done to me! Quick, fetch the Police! Go!!”

Charlotte, instead of hurrying downstairs, steps into the loft. She raises a hand apprehensively to her frizzy hair, perhaps still fearful of our peroxide-loving, fictional fleas. “Nice try, Mayoress, but I heard it all outside the door. Recorded it too.” To authenticate her claim, she holds up her phone and plays back an excerpt of the Mayoress’ deluded rant.

Panic flashes across Sabrina’s fair features. “But Charlotte, surely you’d never snitch on me! Not after everything I’ve done for you.”

“Everything you’ve done for me!?”, Charlotte exclaims. “What about me standing in the rain holding the car door while you stroll along at a piss-taking pace? What about all the cups of tea I’ve remade because the amount of cream ain’t right for your delicate tastebuds? What about having to shine a dozen pairs of shoes so you can decide at the last minute which ones are worthy of your precious Mayoral feet?!” The besuited administrator works herself into an enraged frenzy. “Do this Charlotte! Do that Charlotte! Do it again Charlotte! And never one fucking word of thanks!”

Charlotte picks up a pair of scissors and advances on the prisoner, snipping them menacingly in the air. Sabrina’s eyes widen.

“Everyone’s looking for you downstairs”, Charlotte remarks through gritted teeth. “Why don’t you make an entrance?” She takes the scissors to the neckline of the Assassin’s costume, and begins cutting along the underside. The fabric flaps open, revealing the shoulders of a very expensive, pale-lemon suit. It’ll be a shame to ruin that.

Sabrina gulps as she looks down at the gently bubbling shampoo. “You wouldn’t dare, you horrid little rat!”, she hisses.

“You think not?” Charlotte grins with each determined snip. She’s now halfway down the Mayoress’ abdomen. With the support unbalanced, the Mayoress begins to tip forward, her face moving closer to the shimmering surface.

“Charlotte, I have a lot of influence in the industry.” Sabrina’s voice wobbles with alarm. “If you don’t stop, I’ll have you handwashing models’ underwear for the rest of your career!”

The threat has no effect on Charlotte, who continues to snip away at a merry place.

Desperate, the Mayoress tries a different tack. “Don’t just stand there Ash! You’re the Police; it’s your duty to protect citizens from harm!”

I stand by with my arms folded. “As you said yourself, Mayoress, I’m a terrible copper”, I reply sweetly.

The gash now beyond her waist, Sabrina tips so far she can almost kiss the uneven, soapy surface. Her vision must now be filled with the vivid, synthetic blue. Her legs clench in what remains of the costume, mustering the forces of friction in a bid to avoid going in. “Charlotte please!”, she whimpers. “I’m sorry if I treated you badly. I’ll give you whatever you want: your own clothing label, your own fragrance, your own magazine. Just name your price!”

Charlotte leans down to the Mayoress’ ear. “This is for the young girl in Exeter.” She closes the scissors in a final, decisive snip. Gravity delivers its verdict, and the Mayoress slides out of the costume, her head disappearing into the cobalt slop before she can say anything more. Her torso plunges in, followed by her skirt. Then her thrashing, tight-encased legs lose their battle, and finally her stiletto-clad feet are gone. The viscous surface swallows its prey with a most vile slurp.

A battle ensues in the belly of the vat. For an instant, the feet pierce through the colvulsing surface, now sans stilettos, the silky tights saturated with goo. Then they are sucked down once more. After a few seconds of anguished thrashing, a larger lump emerges. It is only after the appearance of shoulders that I identify this lump as a head. The beehive hairdo has collapsed into a misshapen mop, weighed down by a thick layer of shiny blue sludge. The Mayoress’ face is coated; her mouth gasps for air, her eyes remain closed. Two trembling hands appear and clutch at the side of the tank. As Sabrina tries to haul herself up, her sodden jacket drags down, revealing her mature but firm cleavage, also layered with gunk.

The vat jolts, causing the Mayoress to lose her grip and slip below the surface. I whip around to see Charlotte at the controls of the winch. The tank descends into the floor, and the main hall becomes visible through the hole. As the Monster of the Blue Lagoon re-surfaces, a preliminary gasp sounds around the auditorium.

“We’d better get down there”, I urge.

Downstairs, we burst through the doors to pandemonium. The audience throbs with confusion and excitement, photographers snap away, Police run round like headless chickens. The shampoo vat has already arrived at its pride of place in the middle of the stage. Sabrina has worked up quite a lather, with bubbles overflowing. As for the Mayoress herself, she desperately claws at the sides of the tank, trying to escape her sticky prison.

“Oh my God, there’s the Assassin!” Lacey points a denouncing finger at me. I really should’ve removed this costume before coming down. Ignoring the shouts and stares, I fight my way through the throng.

“DC Wednesday! What are you doing here? What on Earth is going on!?” A red-faced DS Sambrook grabs at my arm.

“All will be explained Sarge!” I shake him off, and press on through the chaos. I mount the stage, marching triumphantly into the blaze of flashbulbs. In front of me, the Mayoress hauls herself over the rim of the vat and tumbles onto the stage, gooped from her hair down to her hosiery. She stumbles to her feet, but promptly loses her footing, landing on her arse with a squelch. Again she tries; again her feet slip in the puddle of shampoo beneath her, sending her flat on her face.

It is a most undignified spectacle, this defiled beauty flailing in front of the watching world. And yet, the blue blob seems intent on making a getaway. After several more failed attempts to stand, she resorts to slithering across the stage. I really should put her out of her misery, but I’m inclined to draw out her disgrace a little longer. She deserves her ‘jarring shock of humility’.

Snaking a slimy trail behind her, the slithering villainess makes it to my feet. She halts, her eyes rising to meet mine from under the gunky mop that used to be her exquistively coiffeured Barnet. She knows it’s over. She thought it would be fun to play me… but she lost. The visage that once graced poster-boards and magazine covers, now slicked with goo, signals acquiescence to her downfall.

My heart palpitates. This is my moment. This time there will be no mistake. “Sabrina Royale”, my voice booms, “I’m arresting you for… for…” Dammit! Why didn’t I prepare this? “…for being the Catwalk Assassin!”


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Wamerifc Update 11/17

Natalya gets pumpkin pie and whipped cream

sing lose and pie best one

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The Wammies 2014 – Nominations

Another year has passed, and that means there’s another year of messy moments to honour with the Wammies!

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The award categories this year are:

  • Best Celebrity Wamming with a fairly loose definition of ‘celebrity’.
     
  • Best TV Show.
     
  • Best Civilian Scene, video or pictures.
     
  • The Holy Grail Award for best turn-up of an old, long-sought-after scene.
     
  • The Goolitzer Prize for WAM fiction.
     
  • The Showercap of Shame for lamest scene or most frustrating escape.
     

Nominations will be open for the next two weeks. Anything from 2014 is eligible, and you can make as many nominations as you want.

Once nominations close, the vote will then run until the end of the year.


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The Wammies 2014 – Voting

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