Valentine Stagbour saunters out of the hotel lobby, ballooning bosoms and swaying hips, wrapped with a tight pink number that makes her seem all legs. Her platinum blond bob bobs along with her boob job, framing a sexy oval face pasted with the sour expression only the rich have. Four inch heels elevate her to a daunting height of five feet, but don’t let that fool you. Her eyes are the green of hundred dollar bills and she has straight, small incisive teeth, a temper that flaunts these qualities with a quick sneer or a drawling snarl of ruby lips. A lashing larynx. She has business in town. An engagement to break. It is what a heiress does, after all.
She trots hot to strut, flanked by large muscular men in suits and sunglasses awkward in their haste to accomodate her pace. Just out the heavy swinging glass doors she ratchets to a halt, her fun parts almost defying gravity… but they settle joggedly. She turns back, lips rounding into an O. A fusillade of yips fills the air like rotten perfume, lightly accented with greased squeaks. Miss Stagbour bends down and affords unwary bystanders an enchanting glimpse of her assets. Bare like the bulbs that flash by from a busload of passing Japanese tourists. Konichiwa! A dog is caught in the door. Not just any dog, mind you. Her dog. A chihuahua, to be accurate. But yet, that description is not accurate enough. It is a chihuahua with wheels. And a handle.
“Poor Robocop!” Scooping the dog by the handle nestled against its back with a snug fluff covered vest she spins his darling little wheels (tricked up custom-made Tru Spinners), crooning as she glares up at a bodyguard. “Bad Cristo! Bad, bad boy!”
Cristo on her left pales and his bicep twitches. Flashes of studded leather and copious amounts of big black rubber. Last time he was bad, it was embarrassing, to whip out an inflatable donut when he had to sit. And she had made sure he would sit. Often, and in quite public places. The cash that padded his bum just wasn’t soft enough. To add insult to injury, he’d had that donut for a solid number of years. Armani, on her right snickers, a-haha! Cristo growls silently. That fucking dog.
The heiress catapults her assets into an acrobatic act that constituted walking. The dog, nestled in her crook of arm, pants and its wheels spin idly. Robocop was the recipient of a charity drive undertaken by Miss Stagbour that catered to dog amputees. Her love for all things Peter Weller was surpassed by the woes of limb challenged canines. Even naked lunches. She saw hearts on sight, him dragging his arse around, tail a-wog, like a little widdle spermie. She just had to have him.
By now she is yet again crooning to the cyborg chihuahua: ‘Yo Quiero, Robocop-o. Yo Quiero Robocop-o! With extra brass!” She giggles and looks at her bodyguards, who laugh through their shades. With effort. The dog silently snarls, but when she’s not looking, for the four-legged, whoops, two-legged also know what good they got going for them. Valentine Stagbour swings Robocop-o, fur purse extraordinaire, by the handle and struts hot to trot while Cristo and Armani scramble to accomodate her pace.
Alley right: digging in the garbage, a mangy mongrel with sexy smells and lava wet cunt.
A bark. A strangled cry. A glint of heliographing light. A tattoo of frantic high heel footwork. A-haha! A-ha! A-haha!