A Brief Story for Jane

It was the third day when the army of fetid hostesses breeched our defenses. After throwing wave upon wave of undying versions of Tyra Banks against our defenses, the conquering juggernaut of sculpted flesh had finally reached our inner stronghold.

“Turn your shoulder to your man, move your face down, and use a sound effect, a little hmmmmmmmmm,” the hundredth Banks said, smashing her bloody fist through the crude barrier we had erected. More and more were arriving each day, throwing themselves bodily against the parked cars that formed the base of our defense.

Anther smashed herself face-first through an upper window of our compound, flopping on the floor like a wounded trout, her mouth biting at the ankles of anyone who came near.

“For a ‘surprise’ smile, don’t smile like the surprise is real,” slurred the Banks through a mouthful of broken teeth. “It’s not ‘OMG, are you serious?’ It’s a hand to the cheek, and a gasp.”

Too late, I felt the sharp jaws of the dissected early arrival on the back of my right thigh. Her autopsy wound hung open like a grotesque puppet theater, and I didn’t feel the least bit stupid about not checking to see if she was dead earlier. After all, at that time we had thought she was *the* Tyra Banks, the victim of some senseless accident.

It wasn’t until the next day that they arrived by the hundreds in our city, and by the thousands of others. We had watched the News, where Ms. Banks herself held a press conference.

“Believe me when I say I am more baffled and horrified by this than any of you can imagine,” she stated. “I do not know the origin of these duplicates of myself, nor do I share any knowledge of their plans or desires, save one.”

The camera zoomed in on her face as she said quietly, “They crave flesh.”

Already I felt the change take hold, I was becoming bolder, sassier, and I knew the rest of the squad could feel the change happen. They stood, rifles at the ready, letting me live my last minutes as their grizzled sergeant before I became just another Tyra.

It proved to be their undoing, as their attention to my developing body left them vulnerable to the horde that poured in through the broken windows, lacerating their arms as they entered. Cold blood rained down on the men as the multiple Tyras cried out in one voice.

“Put the left foot forward, and turn your head ahead as if there’s wind whipping you that way,” they hissed, cleaving the men’s arms from their bodies with subtle sweeps of their manicured nails. “Smile with your hand on your head and parted teeth.”

I turned to my second-in-command, and felt a small flirtatious smile grace my lips as I beheld his hand gripping his ancient service revolver. His arm was shaking, and I had the distinct feeling he was shaking too badly to pull the trigger. He wanted me. Any fool could see that.

“Dip that booty to the right,” I said, jaw working on its own accord as I advanced on them, their bullets passing through my body without an visible effect. “Cock your head to one side and let your face say ‘Okay, okay, okay, uh-huh.'”

I no longer contained one shred of mercy.

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About paulgude

Paul Gude writes small books, makes stupid music, draws silly pictures, and does weird things on stage.
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