“We need to talk.” OhmygoditsKyle (OmGiK for short) was admiring his profile in the rear-view mirror of his pink polka dot Ferrari. He was doing his best at multitasking as he sped through the Misty Mountain countryside, the lights of his car struggling to cut through the ominously dark and, at times, almost impenetrable mist. He knew the bucketeers’ only chance of saving his darling princess Pandemonia would be to contact their elusive supplier Leeloo Multipass. Notoriously difficult to reach, but if you wanted something done and you wanted it done quick... as in 4 days ago, Leeloo was your man. Obviously speed meant massively illegal, but in these dire times, something as trivial as the law didn’t really matter.
“Ok, meet us at Misty’s in 30 minutes… And bring supplies!” His mobile phone snapped close as he absentmindedly dropped it on the passenger’s seat. How did they find us? How?
6 years earlier (28 February 2001 to be precise)
Warner Music’s executives sat silently around a large and a particularly shiny boardroom table. Their worried faces could be seen reflected in the mirror-like surface. Suddenly the door opened and a nervous looking man in a lab coat strutted in. “I have found a solution. We can clone her…”
Far above the gloomy chambers where Princess P was cuffed (with very kinky fluffy cuffs) to a hot pink wall, feathers mercilessly wiggled beneath her feet by the stone-faced Japanese fashionistas… a dark figure, dressed in an abnormally melodramatic Vivienne Westwood ball gown, emerged from behind the curtains… followed promptly by a curvy girl with an impressively impressive afro. The figure stopped momentarily to re-adjust her Gucci sunglasses. “Perfect! Perfect damnit! Why couldn’t they see it? Why?” she muttered barely audible. For a moment a mad glint in her eyes shone quite brightly… but just as sudden it disappeared with a sweep of her platinum blond hair.
“Gwen Stefani died in a car crash tonight… what do you mean we can clone her?” the one executive mumbled. “Surely this is not possible!”
“It is possible and the necessary calls have already been made” the man in the coat said as he sat down at the table. “I have organised that two clones will be made. Nobody will ever now that the real Gwen has been replaced.”
“Stef?” the afro girl poked the blond nemesis with a shaky finger. “Stef?” still no reaction… “Stef Gwenani! If you don’t stop remembering expositional details that explain the plot PREMATURELY and cause our readers to loose interest in this blog, I will have to hurt you! Do you hear me, Stef?” Afro girl was obviously quite agitated by now.
“I hear you” a glum Stef muttered. “No need to shout!” a set of long talon-like crimson nails traced the intricate pattern on the upholstered armrests of her exquisite throne. “I didn’t even get to the part where I am shunted by the executives for not being the perfect clone only to escape in the middle of the night and…”
“For fuck sakes, shut your fucking pie-hole! Afro girl slapped Stef 5 times. “Shut” SLAP “the” SLAP “fuck” SLAP “up” SLAP… and another SLAP simply because she was having way too much fun.
Stef swiftly rose from her seat and repaid the slaps. “You ignorant little girl! Don’t you see the bold parts in this blog entry are necessary narrative devices without which our readers will become confused and ultimately bored out of their minds? You shut the fuck up!” Afro girl looked hurt and slightly confused by the use of the words ‘narrative devices’. “So if I would be to reveal that your Zombie Nazi soldiers have set a trap for my dear idiot of a brother, OhmygoditsKyle, then it would be considered another narrative device?”
“Indeed it would… indeed my dear, sweet Ohmygodi’mFoxy*”
*O’Foxy for short.