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Then, just as Planet Earth was about to blow up, in stepped Super Phoebe, with her group of assorted renegades and Riot Grrrls, to save the world. They defused the mega bomb and went after Vern the Villain with vengeance in their hearts, and violence on their minds.
Following his trail of gingernut cookie crumbs and governmental red tape, they soon came upon Vern, playing a game of dirty word Scrabble with a couple of buxom blondes. As thy stood outside the not-very-well-hidden hide out, Super Phoebe and her friends smoked a few joints, cleaned out their belly button rings and discussed their next move.
“I say we annihilate him” said Sweet Violet, hefting her cudgel
“Castrate the bastard” was Mary Jane’s suggestion, shouted amid the oestrogen pumped cheers.
“Defenestrate him” yelled Sarah Blackburn. Everyone fell silent.
“Don’t you think that’s going too far?” said Aryan Jungfrau, a Euro-babe who was only in this for the excitement and the free E.
“No, I like it” said Super Phoebe. “Let’s do it.” Raising her Glock, she burst through the door, interrupting Vern’s horizontal folk dancing. “I’m sorry sistas” she said to the scantily clad blondes, “but Vern will be performing for me today”.
Putting the bimbos under the charge of Lacey L, (and also fulfilling all of Lacey’s homo-erotic fantasies). Phoebe gestured Vern to stand in front of the window. “Well Vern, you’ve pissed off a lot of people, including me. Now baby, I’m afraid you’re going to have to pay.” Phoebe emptied her Glock into Vern, and then shoved him out the window, counting the seconds before he hit the ground.
Licking the blood off her fingers, she went to have a coffee.
Super Phoebe was bored. Not for many days had a villain crossed her, and her group were becoming restless. They had had to resort to finger-knitting and masturbation to while away the hours.
What they needed was a man. Preferably several. Phoebe scanned the classifieds, searching for suitably desperate men, who were willing to be used just for sex.
She had circled a few likely joes, when one advert caught her eye:
A-ha!! Just what the gynaecologist ordered. Phoebe phoned immediately.
Naturally, the renegades and riot grrrls were a tad put out. Why should Phoebe have all the fun? But Phoebe used the pizza money to buy them all tickets to Manpower, and so they were satisfied.
Upon first sight of Kyadn, Phoebe was immediately gratified. Here was a male who would keep up and keep going all night. So she let her fingers do the walking and her body do the talking.
They finally had to give up, when the bed springs collapsed. Immensely satiated Super Phoebe went home...
Super Phoebe was bored. The incredible sex she had received from Kyadn wouldn’t leave her thoughts. Her budget couldn’t handle the cost of batteries for her vibrator. So enlisting a few of her most trusted gal-pals, she went off in search of the elusive Kyadn.
After many enjoyable weeks, doing over any male who even slightly resembled Kyadn, they found the man himself, drinking himself into oblivion at a grotty downtown dive.
The grrrls quickly determined their attack plan. Like most males, if Kyadn was fronted with the threat of commitment, he would run, so this manoeuvre had to be done carefully, without causing undue alarm.
Or they could just rope him, and take them home.
Phoebe quite enjoyed the struggle that Kyadn put up, and they had marvellous fun with the ropes when they returned to her place.
The next day, her vibrator was put away for good.
No. No!! NOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Super Phoebe clutched at a nearby chair with one hand, whilst staring in disbelief at a letter held in the other.
This was a fate worse than death. This promised to be hell upon earth. This was Phoebe’s worse nightmare, this was.....indescribably bad.
Her folks were coming to visit.
Super Phoebe looked around at her grimy, cruddy, grotty, filthy, dirty, grubby, mucky, dingy, squalid squat.
“Shit. I’d better do some cleaning”
Being the slothful wench that she was, she called upon the renegades and riot grrrls for assistance.
“Nope, sorry - bit pro-anarchy march that night”
“Can’t, table-top dancing appointment that night”
“I’d love to help you Phoebe, but unfortunately I’m flying to Peru last night”
Well, you had to give it to them for creative excuses. And as Phoebe surveyed her slovenly habitat, she felt very sure that when she met up with the renegades and riot grrrls again, she certainly would give it to them.
Still, the biggest trials we face, are the ones we face alone. Phoebe donned her gas mask, and surgical gloves (a smart girl is a well protected girl), and entered the maison de la décharge.
Six hours later, she emerged for a Tim Tam. Her attempts at order had resulted in some amazing archaeological finds. Unwashed Wonderbras, cigarette butts, the odd carpet python, and the curry from dinner last night, all mixed in with various other dingsbums and doo-dahs.
Scoffing down her delectable chocolate treat, and grabbing another (one is never enough), Phoebe eagerly resumed her digging. She still hadn’t located her personally signed Chippendale g-string........
Next thing she knew, there was a rat-a-tat-tat on the door, and her mother's voice calling out:
“Foobles, are you home?”
“I am not named Foobles!!!!!!!!” Phoebe said as she opened the door, dishcloth in one hand, garbage bag in the other.
“Ah, then dear, what is your name?”
“Definitely not Foobles”
“What are you doing right now?”
“I’m tidying up, what do you think?”
“Oh, excuse us then dear, I think we have the wrong building.” With that, Phoebe’s parents turned and left.
Super Phoebe was bemused, but hey - if the olds turned and left, who was she to bitch about it?
As her parents left the building, they were commenting upon the girl who had opened the door. She was the spitting image of their Phoebe, yet Phoebe would rather drink drain cleaner, before doing any housework. It couldn’t possibly be Phoebe, could it?