Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Attack of The 90's Pamela Anderson Robots! (a three part series)

ATTACK OF THE 90's PAMELA ANDERSON ROBOTS

by

Shane Grey

-Part One-

As I write this, even with all that is going on in the world, I still miss her. The one that got away. We had a perfect relationship. Her name was Mitsy Mittens. She was long bodied, firm, toned. Jet black hair. Her occupation was exotic dancer, stripper, I called it. Our relationship was perfect because she'd never talk, she couldn't. I mean she could if she wanted too, but if you're a hardcore mime, you never talk.
Mitsy Mittens, the love of my life, the apple of my sodden eyes, was a stripping mime. In the two years we were together I never saw her without her white face paint. She had little black hearts with daggers through them forming little x's painted on her cheeks. Her silent laugh was so beautiful I was sure I heard it every time. Once we went to a movie together. I insisted we have an official cheesy couple date. The kind where you eat dinner then sit in a crowded theater. I also insisted that I pick the place to eat and she pick the movie. The movie she chose had to be a chick flick I told her. She was so annoyed she trapped herself in a invisible box for three hours, pouting.
I never could penetrate her stupid boxes. I would have to stand outside the box and shout that she was behaving like a spoiled mime brat. Eventually she would come out, snatch me up with her invisible lasso, pull me to her and hug me and kiss me. That meant she wasn't mad anymore. Most of the time we would celebrate with hot steamy post argument sex. Her silent orgasms were so beautiful, I swear I heard them every time. A few times she faked it, but it was all good. She always apologized by making a heart shape with both index fingers and thumbs and place it on her chest, on top of her real heart. Then she would make pouty lips(“I'm sorry”).
I understood some nights she was just so tired from her mime stripping. It was a complex routine, I had seen it a couple of times. But I always got jealous and had to leave early. Luckily none of the club patrons got to see her beautiful nude body(It's mime stripping, only invisible clothes come off)but there is a lot of grinding and thrusting. Mitsy also did superb pole work and was a master at working her invisible clit.
The cheesy date didn't work out. I took her to a Sloppy Joe and BBQ Ribs place. She had no choice but to order off the menu. The place was so primitive they didn't even have silverware. It was encouraged and mandatory to eat with your hands. Needless to say BBQ ribs and Sloppy Joe's do not go well with white kid gloves. Mitsy finished her ribs and Joe but was pissed off because she didn't have a change of gloves. The popcorn at the movie had similar effects. I ended up having to cram handfuls of popcorn in her mouth when elbowed to do so. Her gloved hands were stained orange, red, yellow. The colors made me smile and I told her she looked as if she were a drunk five year old on a finger painting kick.
Mitsy spit Mountain Dew in my face and rushed out of the theater. I looked for her but couldn't find her. After stealth ninja sneakiness I managed my way into the ladies bathroom. Mitsy sat in the corner of the bathroom, in an invisible box, eating JuJu Bees. We made up before anybody spotted me breaking the age old rule. But none of these things is why she left.
Mitsy Mittens, the love of my life, the apple of my sodden eyes, the only mime I ever loved, was murdered. Murdered in cold blood...by Pamela Anderson(The 90's robot version).
The year was 4055...Not really, just kidding, the year was 2001. I was living in a small studio apartment in between Los Angeles and where Wyatt Earp was buried. Blane Brick they called me. Number one short porn writer in So. Cal. At the time. I wrote short porn stories and scripts. You ever see a twenty minute porn scene? That could've been mine.
Happy would be one way to describe my feelings. I wanted to be a main writer for commercials. Things like: 'Have it your way' 'They're Greeeeeeeeeat!' 'If it doesn't get all over the place, it doesn't belong in your face' 'Once you pop, you can't stop.' That was the goal for me. So I remained working at home while Mitsy picked up the tab. Occasionally my folk's sent money. They were rich but I wanted none of their help. One day I would be the next, 'I'm lovin' it'.
It was October, I was very excited for Halloween. But I knew Halloween that year would have been weird anyway with all that happened on September 11th in New York. Paranoia had already been spread to the mail, what would stop the panic from leaking into trick or treat candy? That's not Fun Dip! It's anthrax! I could hear it already. Of course, Mitsy, was going to go as a mime again. Just her nature. I guess if you're a mime every day is Halloween for you.
The world had had some changes in 2001.
The Uni-bomber, Timothy McVeigh had bit the dust via execution. I wanted to trick or treat in a hoodie with shades. I didn't have the balls to go that far. Halloween was going to suck. That 70's Show was awesome and I wanted to bang Donna. Apple Computers was going to release something called an iPod, I didn't quite understand it at the time but I was excited and wanted to get one.
On the day the world changed yet again, I was on my typewriter trying to come up with new slogans for products that had yet to be invented. Just little things that would work for any situation. Mitsy was at work. I stared out the third story apartment window at the dark clouds forming so early in the evening.
There was a loud knock, three times, at the door. A knock I recognized. It was Jimmy Grass. Jimmy was sort of my only real friend and he ignored all the flaws in my life. I did the same for him. He was short, stocky, dressed in a three piece suit always, complete with fedora. Jimmy Grass wished it was the 20's or 40's or 50's. He was a good cat, just paranoid too much.
I opened the door, then sat back down at my typewriter. Jimmy stormed into the room, sweating. Another thing about Jimmy Grass. The guy was always sweating.
“Ya hear the news, baby?” Jimmy said. He called everyone 'baby'. I continued typing pretending not to listen. “Well, it's serious, Blane. You still got the cookies by the bed? I need a snack, baby.”
“Yeah. Go'head.” I said. Jimmy bee-lined for the bedroom. Mitsy kept Chinese take-out food cartons of fortune cookies on the night stand next to our bed. She believed the cookies had the ability to effect our day, I assumed, the mind of a mime could be so silent.
Jimmy loved to snack on the fortune cookies when he stopped by. He just threw the little fortune paper in the trash. Which I thought was cool, he didn't care what some idiot cookie figured how he should do things. I however had made myself part of it and I believed it. That particular day, the fortune in my pre-tooth brush cookie. The message read: “The invasion will begin shortly.” It didn't make sense to me.
Jimmy came from the bedroom, handful of fortune cookies, he crushed the cookie tossed the shells into his mouth. But he did something weird, he read each tiny fortune. Something I shoulda' figured him being crazy and drunk for, he never did that.
“You hear about the invasion?” Jimmy said as he crunched pieces of fortune cookie.
“Nah.” I said. The problem that was on my mind, the thing that worried me at that time, my relationship with Mitsy. Clearly she had been less physical lately. She didn't want to cuddle as much. I needed to get our old spark back. I loved Mitsy with all my heart.
“What invasion?” I asked.
“Robots, baby. Futuristic shit. A scientific experiment gone bad.” Panic was creeping into his voice, he began sweating more.
“I got some Diet Rite in the fridge, nice and cold. Grab one will ya?”
“Want one too?” He asked.
“Yeh.” I said. Turned from my typewriter, sat on the sofa. This was going to be another one of Jimmy's freak outs over some paranoia shit he read off the internet. I couldn't blame him though. Once one of the fortune cookies told me I was going to get hit in the head with a rubber mallet, strange I know, but that didn't stop me from looking over my shoulder all day and even wearing a hard hat until the waitress at the Denny's told me to take it off. Later that night when Mitsy got home, she couldn't stop silent laughing and rubbing her flat tummy. She pointed at the hard hat. Pointed at herself. Mimicked the movements of typing and opening a fortune cookie(“I wrote that fortune on your typewriter, man it is hard to come by that tiny paper, I can't believe you fell for it. I hope you didn't wear that hat all day”).
If you can avoid falling in love with a mime, I would recommend it. You don't learn their hand gestures over night. It takes work to love a mime. It's not like sign language, it's like charades.
Jimmy tossed me the can of soda, he cracked open his own, took a long pull off it. The collar of his button down was now drenched in sweat.
“The economy hasn't been the same since the towers fell, ya know what I'm sayin' baby?”
“No. Keep going, get to your point.” I cracked my own soda and took a good sip. Jimmy paced a short distance, trying to put his thoughts in order.
“A scientist and some robotics geek down in Mexico in some secret lab were working on a project for the CIA.” He paused looking scared. “The project was to be some type of synthetic human life, more like a cyborg or something kooky like that, ya following me, baby?”
“No, I guess I'm not following, it sounds insane, but it's entertaining.” I laughed and put my feet up on the coffee table. “Keep going.”
“So the cyborg robot things were having malfunctioning problems right off the bat. BAM! Three technicians killed the first month of the project! They couldn't get the damn things to obey!”
“Awright, take it down a notch, breathe deeply.”
“Fuck you, baby, this shit is scary.” He downed his soda.
“Okay, but the robots are in Mexico, not here, so take it down a few notches.”
“Can I have another? Please, baby.” He shook his empty can. “Sorry I said 'fuck you' this shit is just too real, baby.”
“Help yourself, man.” I said. Still was having trouble buying into it and I hadn't heard anything in the news. Why would robotic engineers and the CIA need robots? I thought, they have drones, trigger happy racist Americans were signing up for to die righteously all over. No need for expensive robots.
But the government was insane sometimes. I wouldn't put it past them. Robots? Not that far fetched I supposed. Jimmy came back into the room eating a ham sandwich, I looked at my watch, he hadn't even been gone that long.
“You work fast.” I said. He handed me my second soda with his free hand.
“You know I get hungry when I'm nervous, baby.” He said. Bread crumbs, a cheese slice corner, lettuce fell from his mouth.
“You were saying?” I said. I waved my hands to encourage him.
“I got a disc a friend of mine from San Diego sent me. I got it yesterday and let me tell you,” Pure fear was in his eyes, “The invasion has begun, baby.”
Okay, so say your paranoid period piece obsessed only friend in the world showed you a disc. On the disc was crappy home video footage, we watched it in Windows Media Player, the footage was disturbing. Not at first.
The shaky footage showed a downtown area, full of people, they all seemed oblivious. Just shopping and eating ice cream. It seemed normal enough, until, I noticed Pamela Anderson crouched behind a dumpster. But it wasn't nowadays Pamela Anderson, it was her from the Baywatch days, or maybe just someone that looked like her.
Pamela Anderson leaped to her feet fast, grabbed a woman closest to her, the woman wore a fanny pack and shades. Pamela snapped her neck sideways. The woman hit the pavement, dead. The guy filming this squealed. The woman's husband panicked for a split second, until Pamela took him by the arm, they both smiled and continued walking.
The rest of the footage was the same thing happening all over different parts of downtown. All the Pamela Andersons' were dressed different, but they did the same thing, hid off to the side and snapped the necks of women that were with men. Some of the Pamela's even tore out the throats of women with their bare hands. I had to look away at times. I couldn't believe it.
“Why the fuck did your friend film all this?” I asked in disgust. There was no reply behind me. I turned to see Jimmy Grass crouched in the fetal position on the floor. “Jimmy, keep your cool. Don't freak out on me.”
“The guy...He's a film student...He was just filming random exterior shots, baby. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“But this is good! We can use this to expose the invasion!” I couldn't believe I was saying that. This shit was so far from being my business.
“It's not good for him, baby.”
“Are you kidding? With this footage? This is a key for him to open all the doors in Hollywood. He'll be set.” I said, excited for his friend I never even met.
Jimmy got up off the floor. He grabbed my cordless phone handset. His face grim. Dialed a number and handed me the phone.
I put it to my ear, it rang.
“Ask for Tommy and then ask who is speaking.” Jimmy said, low.
The phone clicked with someone answering.
“Hello?” Came the sweet feminine voice. It was the voice of Pamela Anderson, circa 1993.
“Is Tommy in?” I asked, my voice cracking.
“No he isn't.” The voice was so sweet and attractive.
“Can I ask who's speaking?” More cracking in my voice.
“Doris. His wife. Can I ask-”
I hung up. My stomach churned. I looked at Jimmy, we shared a mutual look of doom, his shirt was soaked in sweat now.
“How long until they're here?” I asked through a dry throat.
“They are here, baby. I spotted six at the doughnut shop this morning. Just right there, in plain sight, on the arm of some guys. No one noticed. I swear Blane, it was like everything was cool, no one could see they were Pamela Anderson.”
“What do they want?” I asked.
“I don't know, baby. I think terrorist intellect snuck into the secret lab in Mexico and turned the technology against us.”
“That sounds like a vague bullshit theory.” I said, angry.
“Not a theory, baby. I still have a guy. One that is single and lives in his parents basement. He has intel on the subject. All he does is work on the internet.”
“OK. Then we go see him.” I said, grabbing my coat.
“WAIT! Why?” Jimmy shouted.
“Because I can't allow this shit to go down. I'm gonna be the next: 'I'm Lovin' It!'”
“Huh?”
“And I will not allow Mitsy to get her neck snapped or throat ripped out.” I headed for the door. Turned back. “Let's go. I'm driving.”
“Baby, you don't know how to get to that cats house?”
“No, but you're gonna tell me. And we're not going there first, we gotta make a stop.”
“A stop where?”
“Silent Seduction. I gotta pick up Mitsy, so I know she's safe.”

Part two coming soon! In the mean time read:
http://mybestfriendsbucketlist.com/