Pixy Slayton (Excerpt)

She was practical in every way but one and that was her boots.  Her current pair had stiletto heels of about six inches, which, despite their neck-breaking awesomeness, didn’t really do much for her since she barely hit the five foot mark as it was.  But it wasn’t just the heel that made these things impractical as hell; these boots were so covered over in metal spikes that it might have been more accurate to call them hedgehogs, except hedgehogs didn’t exist and these boots, no matter how hideous and extravagant, somehow did.  With huge silver zippers running up the backs and a pink corset lacing decorating the font, these boots were everything she thought she had ever wanted in fine footwear.  They were perfect in their ugliness and made it difficult to walk and impossible to run.  But she wasn’t concerned with running, which was an oddity about her.  In a world as crazy as the one Pixy Slayton had been born into, it was a safe bet that any girl with working parts and a half decent face would find herself running for her life at some point or another.

“That’s the place.  See it across the street?” The cab driver spoke through a little intercom while he remained safe within his bulletproof glass bubble that separated the front from the back.  “Credit slot is located on the door.  Pay up and run on over there.”

“Nifty.  But I don’t run,” she said.  The half-face gas mask, worn and weathered as the rest of her, distorted her voice, made it sound even manlier than usual.  After running her credit card through the little magnetic reader - which was the only way to activate the lock release on the door - she stepped out into the blistering sunlight and illustrated her point by strutting ever so slowly from the taxi to the Winthrop Machinist Shoppe where she planned to make her arrest. 

She wore a frilled and unbuttoned coat dress over a netted camisole which was transparent enough to damn near show her organs, let alone her breasts.   For bottoms she had on a pair of spandex shorts and a series of dark brown petticoats.  It was a lot of fluff, but she needed it.  Hidden beneath it all was a world of hurt.  On one hip was a rapid recharge stunner gun; on the other was a six shot revolver. 

“Amazing ain’t it?  We come up with all these creative and horrible ways to kill ourselves and in the end we always resort back to good old guns,” Pixy said to no one as she examined her beefed up 686.  After the big war, most companies went out of business, had to be reformed and renamed, christened into a new age, but not guns.   She didn’t know just how long ago Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson had died, but she did know that their guns were still high in demand an d being popped out of factories all over the world.  This one of her wasn’t one of the newer models, this one she’d found in an old Pawn Shoppe, same place she found her boots.  Some rich yuppie twat had keeled over from some designer drug or other that all rich yuppie twats were taking these days and all her belongings had been sold off to pay for her incineration.  Pixy couldn’t have been happier at this turn of events.  She was one sexy pair of boots up, and the world was one bimbo down. 

Practical, as mentioned before, was Pixy’s way. 

When the owner of the Winthrop Machinist Shoppe saw her, he looked at her boots first and then at her chest, going from one extreme to the other in a matter of seconds.  Her tits were not huge, but they didn’t have to be huge to get attention if they weren’t hiding beneath more than a skimpy layer of ‘I’m easy, come an’ touch me.’  It was all part of the look she was going for.  It was more practical for her to entice her prey than chase it.  When cornered on this subject in the past she was quick to say that it wasn’t because of the boots, that it was because she didn’t like picking fights she couldn’t win and if her bounty took off, then it meant she’d already lost.   But it damn sure had nothing to do with the boots. 

Making her way to the front desk she gave a little curtsy.  Smiles weren’t part of human communication these days.  They had the pollutants in the air to thank for that and if they wanted to get really technical, they had the good old U.S of A. to thank.  But no one ever got technical, because there was no U.S. of A. anymore, just a big planet of places, the anti-Pangaea.