Vogina Vetter had an entourage like a wedding train trailing her tremendous buttocks the day she was shot. Her blood sprayed them with arterial force that was impressive for such a superficial wound. It was astounding that she was even shot at all, not because she was not the type to be shot at—she was, with a hefty inheritance tucked under her bodice and many to benefit from her death—but because a third-rate assassin was hired, the first and second bowing out owing to a vicious viral infestation, or perhaps, this being probably closer to the truth, playing hooky. The assassin on the rooftop, employed with paltry capital via dubious channels, was suffering a severe magnesium deficiency and during the calibration of his weapon an involuntary tic inveigled itself into his trigger finger, thus sending a bullet tracing a delicate path across the head of the notorious Miss Vogina Vetter, parting her scalp down the middle to expose the bone white skull underneath in a miniature parody of the biblical red sea. Blood, like a swarm of angry red bees, splashed from her expensive giant beehive ‘do onto her astonished sycophants, who at first dismissed it as one of their ward’s many eccentric whims until she started running in circles and collapsed in a dead faint.
The assassin, cursing himself, brought his gun to bear for a second, more intentional go, straining to center the crosshairs, but with all the people frantically hurling themselves in front of Vogina’s prone form, all he could target was her enormous haircut. He shot at random until he ran out of bullets and fled. He hit: a weaselly accountant in the bum, an hairdresser’s index finger (an accompaniment to the soprano of Vogina, who had just regained consciousness, she wailed in alto “My livelihood! Ruinnnnned!”), a bodyguard’s Kevlar boots to chink its immaculate shoeshine, the lipstick applicator in the ear, the coffee girl drenching herself with two armloads of piping hot java in the chaos, an unwitting window shopper who clutched his stomach before dropping dead, and finally, Dogrito, Vogina’s dear beloved Pampered Brand (trademarked) Chihuahua tucked and zippered in a custom made pink alligator skin purse carved and dried from the flesh of genetically modified alligators. This was the image news reporters, like flies to a corpse, captured and holovidded across the network, of Vogina pressing the headless purse to her ample breast and wailing like a banshee.
A few hours later the headlines, in great flashing letters, screamed THE DOG WAS NOT SHOT!, showing a holovid of Vogina waddling into her limousine with bits of matted fur amid a great red stain adhered between the cheeks of her buttocks. Vogina’s teams of lawyers futilely battled the newshounds for three days, and knowing the only paradigm was that crises create money, changed tactics despite their figurehead’s vociferous claims against, to capitalize on the tragedy and released a new clothing line, Doggone, under the already existing Vogina Vear brand name. Vogina coped with the emotional stress by having Dogrito cloned, and while waiting for CloneAPet Inc. to deliver the dog, she occupied herself with an electronic goldfish. It swam in lavender waters above a bed of pearly stones in a large circular tank recessed in the floor and attempted to escape the electronic moray eels a bored Vogina tossed in. Sparks escaped the fish tank. It was her twentieth fish.
“Congratulations on your pregnancy, Miss Vetter!” the newshound winked, lecherously fingering the brim of his fedora. “Who’s the lucky gent?”
As was usual when Vogina attempted to swallow indignity but spat it out instead, pandemonium slipped a foot into the door, beginning with a wide arc of her enormous arm, terminating with a custom made pink alligator skin purse carved and dried from the flesh of genetically modified alligators, intersecting with the insipid newshound’s pallid skull. Then chaos truly ensued, clamoring voices gibbering in a strange cadence that pulsed with the stroboscopic fervor of the paparazzi.
When she made sense of what she was hearing, she drew the purse to herself, eyes widening at the uneven stump, still flapping with torn fur and trickling indifferent gushes of what was left of inside its severed arteries, hugged it to her breast and wailed. Like an historical assassinated president’s wife, Vogina dropped to her knees, her fingers like fat worms leeching the ferrocrete for sustenance, rummaged frantically for the little head of her new dog. When a member of her entourage, a rogued and plumped doppelganger of Vogina herself, held up Nachochip’s head with a proud exclaim, Vogina keeled her over.
“This has to stop!” said Vogina’s public relations agent, Flashbulb B. Gettadonner. His lacquered, plasticized features scrunched in frustration as he contemplated the PR nightmare afoot. Resembling a gigolo android from some archaic movie, back in the day before holovids when moving images were projected through celluloid, he rendered an impressive figure as he paced around the heiress’ sleeping quarters. He kneeled at Vogina’s fat toes and traced a finger gently along a jellied forearm.
“Vogina, m’dear, I think it’s best you stay inside for now,” he said softly.
“But the business! What will they do without me?!” she screeched, sending small folds quaking to the ends of the couch. Flashbulb got on his feet and spread his hands wide.
“Don’t kid yourself, Vogina,” he said without rancor. “They don’t need you. You’re a stone you pushed down the hill and now that it’s rolling, it doesn’t need any more help from you.”
“That’s how it is, m’dear,” said Flashbulb. He circled Vogina, speaking placatingly. “Now you need to stay inside, and out of trouble for at least a month. Find something to keep yourself busy. Get a hobby. I hear worm-knitting’s quite the fad, or you could order in a sound recorder and collect stamps.”
He stamped his foot.
“I have to make my leave, my dear, and restore your public image to its formerly glistening facade. Now you relax. Rest. Things will get better. And… stop reading this drivel. It’s not good for your blood pressure. Now, ta-ta, m’dear!”
Vogina nodded dumbly, the pills her agent had brought finally taking effect.
Flashbulb B. Gettadonner left, trailing in tow a glossy with the screaming headline: VOGINA KILLS TWO! AND HER DOG… AGAIN!
“How can I be pregnant? I don’t even like men!” she muttered angrily, her plump fingers trailing typically during moments of extreme stress, towards the poodle she kept in the house always. She started pulling it towards her, letting the creature lap at her thighs as she absently stroked its abdomen. Her attendants, previously bustling to and fro, recognized the cues and swept out of the room, preparing to return in twenty minutes with trays laden with exquisite and obscure victuals encompassing mainly charred remains of the animal kingdom, with a dash of tubers and seed fruits.