Let's write a story about Strippers!!

"Igor Badenov." That could prove useful.

"Ms. Chokondik, we'd better go. It's not safe here." said Teddy, shepherding Betcha back into the limo. He had secretly been in love with her all these years, and figured she never suspected, but of course she knew and was just cool about it.

"Yes, of course." purred Betcha. Once safely in the limo, she added, "I hope that Lacy girl was bright enough to pick up on our signals."

"To infiltrate the deprogramming center? Maybe yes. Maybe no. Maybe maybe."

A stranger witnessed it all, surreptitiously playing with a retractable whip and wondering what to do about a comatose Russian spy in fishnets.

500 feet below the street level, where Igor now stood, was a catacomb like city, housing labs delveloping spy equipment, double agent detectors and triple agent vaporizors.

In one of the larger "treatment" rooms, Ivana B. was struggling to regain consciousness, her head feeling as if she'd been struck repeatedly with a ball peen hammer.

In spite of the straps holding her head in place, by straining her neck to one side and using her peripheral vision, she was shocked and dismayed to see who her fellow prisoners were.

Damn, somehow they've gotten all 3 of us Fox Force Five (she paused, as always, wondering why they were called Fox Force Five when there were only 3 of them)Girls captured!

To her left, slumpled over a high schoolers desk, was an breathtakingly beautiful ebony hottie, wearing school girl skirt and midi blouse....and white panties. The French Connection, Amelie Gaul.

On her right, a tawny skinned cheerleader, hair in twin pony tails, and clearly not wearing a bra. The Italian supremo secret spy, Donatella Nobody.

It was rumored that Donatella was Italian aristocracy, specifically the daughter of Count de Lire. She'd had the kind of connections that every aspiring socialite envied.

When she ripened into puberty, her father had taken the protective measure of sending her away to a Swiss boarding school. There, Donatella learned to speak flawless French, German and English. And Pig Latin.

The girls needed a secret language of their own for those Friday and Saturday nights when they slipped past the strict headmistress and hooked up with some of the local village boys, for titillating trips into town.

It was on one of those nights, when Donatella first discovered the strip clubs. She was fascinated by this sexy world of steamy music, beautiful women, and horny, frustrated men.

She wanted to join this sisterhood of exceptionally intelligent and talented women.

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.

Donatella, clad in the distinctive chianti-red cheerleading costume of her
alma mater, Watsamatta U., appeared comatose. She was, in fact, in a
state of intense concentration. She was disengaging the bones of her
wrists and knuckles, and would soon be able to slide them free from their
restraints.

As far as our Parisian beauty, Amalie Gaul, why, she was practically raised in the business. One could say she was born with a pole between her legs. Her father was the well known, well endowed male stripper, Long Jean-son. Although a gay in Gay Paree, he had once become overly tipsy and endulged in a night on the other side of the fence with the marvelously flamboyent erotic dancer from the Netherlands, whom the world knew by just one name.......Nimh-phet.



(oh man, I'm good)

But now, as Donatella, Ivana and Amelie awoke from their chloroform haze, it became increasingly clear that the fun days of strip-spying were over.

It was an awkward reunion for the girls, who hadn't seen each other for months. Fluff-Anon only deployed Fox Force Five for the most critical situations, such as neutralizing aspiring Republican presidential candidates. Now, here they were, strapped to gurneys in the bowels of Fluff's archrival organization, Paranoid Rightwingers International (Cheney's Killjoys).

The sound of slapping leather got their attention. A dark figure in one corner of the room slowly stepped out of the shadows. Ivana instantly recognized the craggy face of their nemesis. It was the one woman who knew exactly how to make them talk. The head of P.R.I.C.K.'s interrogation unit and former headmistress of Donatella's boarding school, the infamous Yusta Twirlim.

Yusta looked at the frightened expressions on their faces, then her gaze drifted down to their exposed torsos, bound by leather straps to the examining tables. She cracked her retractable whip and cackled madly. Oh yes, she thought, this will be a most amusing diversion.

The FFF girls shivered.

Somewhere, far, far away, a driver sat in his limo, masturbating.

Amalie saw her slim chance, using her special secret talent, which all the Fox Force Five team had, she employed her hypovox......a means to momentarily lull anyone into compliance, but for just a moment.

Uh...excuse me, madame, could you please turn down the air conditioner in here? It's making us shiver.

Hmmm...? Oh, yes, of course. Yusta turned to the thermostate on the cells wall to turn the temperature up to a more comfortable 75 farenheit.

Using this opportunity, Amalie thrust her hips forward, dislodging the hidden tube of Astroglide, aiming it in the direction of Donatella.

Donatella lost no time. Opening her mouth wide, she expertly caught the 9 inch tube in her mouth, and quickly swirled off the cap with her tounge.

Now, if she could just manage to squirt this slipperiest substance know to man on her writst, she'd be able to easily slip out of her shackles.

Fun was fun, but it was time to get to work.

Igor thought about the stripper he'd murdered earlier this evening. He sat in his run-down apartment looking at the fat carcass of a rat that lay on it's side, slowly rotting in a corner of the filthy living room. He began to talk to it. "Stupid bitch got what she deserved. Loving up on a goddammed filthy pole. Sickening. Right, Mein Fuhrer?"

Hitler had been telepathically sending Igor messages through the dead rat ever since its slow, painful death in the glue trap. As always, the rat lay on its bloated left side looking up at Igor intensely through dull black eyes.

I meant people from Poland, dumkopff! came the long-dead dictator's angry reply.

Meanwhile, Lacy struggled awake, her impossibly gorgeous blue eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. Her cell was mainly featureless but she noticed a small rag for cleaning herself, hanging on a hook. She removed it and sniffed: baby oil.

Expertly, she cleansed herself deep down in the crotchless panty area and replaced the rag on the hook. This tripped a hidden switch, and suddenly the wall swung around to the other side. It was another cell, but there was another hook and rag. That way clearly led somewhere. Anywhere was better than here. She stepped through the half-opened wall and wondered aloud who would be helping her.

She was startled when a voice from the darkness answered.

The recorded voice came from a speaker mounted on the wall of the hidden cell.

"You have passed the first test. Should you decide to continue, remove the rag hanging near the sink and follow the passageway to the three doors. Choose one of them and enter. Choose wisely!" (click)

Lacy stood there in the cell in silence. She had recognized the voice in that recording. It was her professor, Ben Dover. What kind of deprogramming center was this, she wondered. And how was Prof. Dover involved?

Finally, she took a deep breath and pulled the rag from its hook. A doorway opened behind her into a passageway illuminated with red lights. At the end of the walkway, Lacy found herself standing in front of three doors...one blue, one green and one purple.

However, Lucy could not have known the colors of the doors, as they were all illuminated by the red lights. Each was simply a shade that could only be discribed as a "pukey color".

If she had been able to distinguish one color from another, she would have seen that the rag she held in her hand was the exact same shade of blue as her eyes, and incidently, matched the blue door.

Not knowing that, Lacy unwisely opened and and approached what lay "Behind the Green Door"*










*
(for all you innocents and stinky organutans out there, who may not be old enough to remember, "Behind the Green Door" was a porn flick starring Marilyn Chambers, the girl who posed for the Ivory Snow soap box)

(Very good, Chai! You remembered! It was the first widely distributed porn flick in America...1972, the year I graduated from highschool. Several of us made a clandestine visit to the theater on the "wrong side of the tracks" one night...)

Yusta Twirlim turned from the thermostat saying, "Now, Ms. Nobody, you are going to tell me everything I want to know about Professor Dover."

She froze in shock at the sight of Donatella writhing free of her restraints. Donatella seized the moment and squirted the Astroglide in Yusta's face. "My eyes!" Yusta cried.

Yusta's piercing scream brought queries from the guards outside the door.

"Nobody! Nobody has blinded me!" Yusta shouted in reply.

Igor had cried and begged for forgiveness from Hitler for a long time after he'd been informed of his mistake, until finally he'd fallen asleep right there, curled up in the fetal position on his jelly- and blood-stained couch. Hitler, being a fat dead rotting rat carcass, never moved.

After a few hours, Igor woke up and dragged his stocky frame to the kitchen for a sandwich. Peanut butter, jelly, and his special ingredient, "Bobo." Bobo had been his neighbor's noisy and rambunctious poodle until recently. Bobo had gotten loose one night a few days ago and nobody had seen him since. That, is, nobody but Igor.

Igor had been slicing poor little Bobo up into perfectly square, quarter-inch thick bread-sized slices and eating him with different combinations of lunch meats, condiments, and spreads. After he'd carefully skinned and broiled him, of course. He'd had slabs of Bobo with brie and avacado; he'd tried Bobo with lettuce, a fat slice of mozzarrella and honey mustard; he'd even tried to recreate his favorite sandwich, corned beef on rye, using little Bobo as the beef.

He lifted the newly created peanut butter, jelly and Bobo sandwich to his mouth, and as his teeth came down upon it to bite off a big piece, the rat began to speak again. "Dummkopf! I need you to do sahm-zeeng for me! Dummkopf!

Igor chewed quickly and swallowed another little piece of poor delicious little Bobo. He ran into the living room, still holding the sandwich in his meaty hand, and kneeled down on the floor in front of the large dead rodent, leaning in so close that his own little sprouts of ear hair actually touched the wire-like whiskers around Hitler's little nose. Pleadingly, gratefully, he whispered to the dead rat, "Yes...yes, mein führer...mein leben...what is it that I should do?"

Meanwhile, Betcha settled back in the limo. Teddy moved as close to her as his pounding heart would allow him.

The sky overhead was black and vast like a troubled mind. Up and down Love Canal Street, people drifted pointlessly out of one suggestive door only to enter another. The limo glided quietly through the confusion, the noise and the unsettling garishness of the gaudy lights, and came to a stop.

Betcha stepped out of the limo and smiled. She pushed open the big, pink door of the Cock & Doodle Club, with Teddy following behind her. This is where it had all begun for her. This is where she had risen to national fame as the country's most sizzling stripper.

"Betcha!! Is that you??" Nick Chianti, the owner of the club, took Betcha's hand. "Damn, it's good to see you!!" Drawing her closer, he whispered hotly in her ear, "You know, I always liked you, Betcha……real bad…"

But as he glanced over her shoulder, Nick became aware of an odd looking man, who was making his way backstage.

"Hey!," Nick shouted. "Whaddya think you're doin? Youse can't go back there!! Not during showtime!!!"

Igor, having pried his instructions from Hitler's tiny mouth, had entered the club from a side door, and hoped he wouldn't be noticed. Now he came to a stand still and faced Nick with wavering confidence.

"I….I…have a message for ……uh….one of the….um....ladies," he stammered. Then, raising his voice louder, he asked, "Is Amanda Huginkiss here? I'm looking for Amanda Huginkiss!!"

Nick laughed. Betcha and Teddy laughed. Everyone at the bar laughed. Igor felt his face grow hot and red.

"If you want Amanda Huginkiss, you need to go across the street to Ben Dover's place", replied Betcha, after she'd stopped laughing.

Igor flashed back to his last conversation with Hitler the rat.

"You can start by giving that sandwich to a starving stripper."

Igor was nonplussed. This was a strange request. He quickly recovered. "And, and what else?"

"And get your hair cut. You look like a slob."

"Hair cut, check."

"And color it."

"Really, mein führer?"

"On second thought, just highlights. And then ..."

"And then ...?"

The dead rat's psychic commands were interrupted by a loud knock on the door. Damn, thought Igor. Reluctantly, he got up to answer it, but it was kicked in before he got there. "Herr Knightley!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, Igor, it's me. Now get to the S.W.I.V.E.L.I.N.G. H.I.P.S. on the double. I've got a job for you."

"But, but."

"But what? Oh, lunch. Give me that." Knightley grabbed the sandwich and took a large bite out of it. "That's the worst ham I've ever tasted. Now, about the ..."

"Herr Knightley!" interrupted Igor. "I have to get a haircut!"

That stopped Knightley, who chewed for a moment. "Really? It's pretty short already." It was a crewcut. "But highlights. Maybe highlights."

Igor's jaw dropped. "It is you! Mein führer!" He fell to his knees, then remembered the sandwich and offered it in supplication.

"Sheesh. Get up, you freaky Odessan. And what's with the German accent? Damn, good help is so hard to come by."

"The job?"

"Oh yes, yes, the job." Knightley ignored the proferred sandwich. "It involves a certain trollop."

"The author?"

"No, not Anthony Trollope. A lady of the evening. You know. First you'll be going to Love Canal Street. ..."

Meanwhile, Lacy had closed the green door behind her. In front of her was a large mirror or what looked like a mirror. She started to check her teeth when she realized her reflection wasn't following her. "What kind of a crazy mirror is this?" she exclaimed.

"No mirror, my sister."

"Sister? I'm an only child."

"No, you're not. I thought I was, too, but we were separated at birth. You don't know who I am, you haven't guessed. Pity." The other woman yawned a little.

"I have a twin sister? What the --?"

"Oh, I'll make it easy for you. Just because you're Ivy League doesn't mean you can't be dumb as a stripper pole sometimes. See, I've been watching you for a long time and I've come to the conclusion that you might've been admitted under a Strippers' Affirmative Action program. But I digress."

"Whatever. Who the heck are you?"

"I am Iliketa."

Lacy fainted.

This is a story about strippers, Kicky, not your autobiography.