By Walt & Josh ©1999
"Aha, Crimson Fox! Now shall ye feel the weight o' me trusty cutlass, damn yer eyes!" shouted the busty bunny pyrate lass, as she swung aboard the "Flaming Vixen."
"Nay, me buxom brown swashbuckler--Now shall ye feel the weight of ME... just me..." purred the pyrate queen known as the Crimson Fox, as she lashed her lustrous tail and her long bullwhip.
"CUT! That's a wrap... It's in the can, folks!" Al the director yelled cheerfully... as Al the cameraman, his lens focused on Red Fox's heaving cleavage, reluctantly released the camera trigger, and Taffy O'Hare, Kelly's little niece, clacked the board one last time.
Kelly O'Hare wiped off her sweaty body with a ragged towel, panting, "My gosh! I'm glad this flick is finally done... I've never been in a movie with so blasted many takes of every single scene!"
Vikky Feldheyser, coiled whip braced jauntily on one smooth hip, slipped one arm around Kelly's shoulders as she purred, "Well, bunnikins, since I'm bankrolling this film, I just wanted to make sure every scene was perfect..." (peeking down Kelly's glistening cleavage) "Hummm, just perfect..."
Later, as best boy Fatty Tubbins, clipboard in hand, walked past a tiny makeshift shower booth, he heard voices coming from within:
"Oof! Dammit, Vicky, why don't we just shower separately?" came Kelly's clear contralto. "This thing is as small as a telephone booth!"
"Oh, I'm just afraid we'd run out of hot water, bunnikins..." Vicky cooed. "And this IS a telephone booth..."
Some weeks later, in a crowded nighttime street glaring with searchlights and flickering with camera flashes, the entire group climbed out of an old stretch limousine in front of a gaudy old Art Deco theater. Gawking, murmuring crowds pressed close behind velvet rope barriers, forming an aisle under the theater marquee, where the illuminated letters read: "TONIGHT, World Premiers...Theatrical Arts Awards."
The Als emerged from the car resplendent in cut-down tuxedos, with spats over their tennis shoes, gloves and canes and all the rest. Vicky was languorous in a long, slinky black gown with big sable furs huddled around her white shoulders. Kelly's sultry coloring was made more exotic by its contrast to a white low-cut gown, with simple diamond jewelry.
Little Taffy was dressed in her ordinary clothes, bouncing around in excitement.... and Tubbins was urbane in a dark-striped suit, with a pipe in his mouth.
On the door of their limousine, barely painted over, the sign: "Stan's Pest Control--Kill 'em In Style" was still clearly legible.
"Well, here we are, gang!" Director Al gurgled breezily. "Tonight's the night we cash in on our artistic genius!"
"I just hope it's not the night I have to run for my life in these damn high heels," Kelly murmured nervously, eyeing the crowd. "Vicky, how did I ever let you talk me into this turkey?"
"Oh, tush, bunnikins!" Vicky drawled. "It's a great movie... because I'm a great writer... Al is a great cameraman... and Al is a great director... a budding genius..."
"Not much difference between a budding genius and a blooming idiot," Tubbins muttered to nobody in particular.
"WHEEEE, da World Premier!" Taffy shrilled, still bouncing. " --What's a premier, Kelly?"
Seated in the balcony, the group had a perfect view of the screen, showing a tight close-up of the Crimson Fox's quivering white cleavage, and Old-English title lettering:
PS&GC Productions Present
Much later, their faces were a study in contrast as they continued to watch the screen... . Vikky looking smug, Cameraman Al gawking with rapt attention and a silly simper, Tubbin's' eyes agog, his pipe sagging, Taffy bored, Kelly furious, Director Al apologetic.
"I can't believe this!" Kelly hissed. "We're half an hour into the film, and so far the camera hasn't budged off Vicky's boobs! What is this, Al..?"
"I guess I should explain, cameraman Al is... er, kinda fixated on Vicky's --er, chest," Director Al mumbled. "But don't worry, I'm sure the audience can follow the story from the dialog..."
From the screen came the sounds of combat: Clang! Bonk! "Take that, ye red-haired spalpeen..." "Rrrrowl, I love it when ye're angry, me little spitfire..." But still nothing was visible but the pyrate queen's jiggling bosom.
"WHAT! You mean I worked my tail off in this film, and I don't even appear on the screen?" Kelly shrieked. "Dammit, Al..."
"Oh, but you do, Kelly!" Al soothed--adding hastily, "See? There you are..." pointing to the screen, where the vixen's breasts had jiggled a bit aside, and half of Kelly's blurred face was visible for an instant.
In the next scene, Kelly's brown breasts were rammed tight against Vicky's white ones. "Aha," gloated Red Fox's voice, "At last I have ye in me grip, me proud beauty..."
"And there you are again," Al burbled jovially.
The next instant, Vikky's breasts were shown on top of Kelly's, pressing them flat. The voices from the screen had become throaty and humid:
" No, no... yes!"
"And there you are again..." Al chirped.
Kelly lunged upright, aghast:
"WHAT! That wasn't even in the script!" She seized a handful of Al's tuxedo, dragging him out of his seat and into the air, pointing frantically at the screen with her free hand: "Dammit, that isn't even me! Al, THOSE ARE STUNT BOOBS!"
Vicky interjected coolly, "Well, dear, if you weren't such a little prude, it wouldn't have been necessary..."
In the front-row seats of the theater, a line of identical little movie critics were all scribbling in identical little notebooks, while their eyes bulged at the glowing screen above them and sweat sprayed from their faces... they were mumbling: "Majestic!" "Monumental!" "Overwhelming!" "Colossal!" "This is true folk art...."
From the back of the theater, Kelly's infuriated yell: "YOU IDIOTS!" the splat and thud of her hard little fists striking furry flesh, the yelps and howls of pain were apparently indistinguishable from the sound track; at any rate, nobody in the audience looked back at the disturbance.
An hour later, the group left the theater... Kelly stomping ahead, furious, lower lip thrust out, fists clenched. Vikky undulated behind her, complacent... after all, it was the gophers who got pounded. Al and Al were both sporting black eyes, their tuxedos considerably shattered, wearing the torn brims of their top hats around their necks.
But Al the director was carrying at port shoulder arms an ornate trophy, engraved "Best Experimental Film, T.A.T.," and grinning despite his injuries:
"See, I told ya so," he smirked. "Our little masterpiece wins the Theatrical Arts Trophy, the prestigious TAT..."
The other Al, grinning idiotically, piped up, "Which means, we got TAT fer..."
Tubbins, shoulders hunched, muttered out of the side of his mouth: "Better not say it, Al..."
Return to the Quagmire...