A Not-So-Brief Avenging Encounter

by Rodin1

The next in the A Brief Encouter series, this time things get out of hand... To catch up from the beginning, consult the Series Index. [Ed.]

Part One:  “Gathering Storm”

            The sleek olive-green Lotus Esprit with black-and-white rally stripes skidded to an abrupt halt upon the gravel of a semi-circular drive abutting a blossoming and well-groomed courtyard of an Edwardian suburban mansion.    For the passenger, the journey seemed to span decades as well as distance.  Their spirited romp down country back roads from a demure and secluded Lakes District cottage to this very impressive Bayswater safe-house reawakened more than her external senses:  crisp cool Spring air rushing past aged patrician cheeks and tousled flowing gray-streaked  chestnut tresses (now barely contained inside a paisley kerchief-bandanna) roused her still-physically-fit body.  The urgent message prompting their hasty journey had jump-started  Mrs. Emma Peel’s soul… and her long-dormant spirit for adventure.

            The pair of stereotypical English gentlemen descending marble entry stairs to greet them was at once distinguished and incorrigible.   Sir John Steed swept open Emma’s passenger door with a flourish and embraced his partner-in-crime-fighting    with an impeccable kiss upon her rosy cheek.  Commander James Bond, however, was more restrained in his welcome of the car’s driver.  With a half-halted sweeping bow, he stepped aside just in time to miss having his shins struck as Amanda Peel opened the wide convertible door. “Welcome to Connersmoore, M’lady”, he intones.  "It is certainly a pure delight to see… er- meet you at last".  Sculpted legs swung wide from the Lotus cockpit and three-inch spike heels planted into the gravel drive.  A picture-perfect hourglass figure straightened to its full 5’10” height, encased in sheer suntan stockings and a clingy aquamarine deep-cleft cocktail dress.  Bond’s breath is taken away for one hesitant moment while meeting a ravishing Ms. Peel’s blue-eyed gaze.  There he saw expressed a mix of brash intelligence, worldliness and coquetry upon the twenty-something's distinct elegant facial features-- framed by cropped shoulder length chestnut hair.  Retired agent 007 considered how closely Amanda resembled her mother some forty years before.  Steel-bright eyes and impish grin responding to the aging British Secret Service hero’s suave greeting hinted at her secret paternity.

       Today's MI-6 and Scotland Yard administrators and operatives seemed not up to this task.  Inside the oversized brass-and-mahogany appointed library, Emma and Amanda reviewed several dossiers pertaining to the case as it had developed so far.  Six women now turned abruptly into plastic mannequins- including an American Police officer- in Hyde Park nearby Shades nightclub…  a journalist transformed into a wax dummy and deposited into Madame Tussaud’s Museum.  “Somebody’s got a wicked keen sense of ironic humor,” commented Mrs. Peel through tight ruby lips while sipping Darjeeling from an ornate Wedgewood cup.    One  physics professor from the University of Glasgow murdered: an unknown impostor taking his place and infiltrating the ongoing investigation.  “Walter Windsor” hadn’t been seen for 3 days… not since 'downing pints' at Shades with James Bond’s lovely  niece Barbara. 

      Her uncle’s hushed investigation into his strikingly-beautiful own personal protégé's disappearance had dead-ended after a thorough search of her upscale city apartment.  Clear signs of a rendezvous and encounter in Barbara’s bedroom had not alarmed 007 greatly- given dozens of spur-of-the-moment trysts he himself notched on bedposts over his career- yet three discarded bits of Styrofoam peanut packaging material discovered in a floor-level fold of her disheveled bedspread disquieted him. 

      Immigration Control in Berlin had acknowledged his niece’s re-scheduled arrival at Brandenburg airport (although the Berlin Customs officer’s specific memory of the beauty’s entry was mysteriously cloudy and confused.  She couldn’t recall Barbara’s lovely face… only her bizarre throwback white thigh-high boots, miniskirt and fur-collared coat).  The sort of get-up any sophisticated and fashionable Bond relation wouldn’t be caught dead in! After disembarkation it was as if Barbara had fallen off the face of the earth. 

     Amanda had already agreed to go to Germany and investigate the questionable circumstances.  Given details of 009’s assigned mission, these were truly alarming developments.   All four crime-fighters regarded photos of stilled victims in dismay.

     The mostly-nude Lt. Brenda Taggart, frozen in mid-step with a countenance mixing astonishment and delight, haunted Mrs. Peel particularly.  There was a troubling resemblance between her daughter and this lady-dummy dressed only in lingerie and heels. 

      Meanwhile, “M” had received a message this very morning that the impostor “Windsor” was cautiously requesting a surreptitious meeting at the British Museum off Trafalgar Square within 24 hours. Windsor’s cover story (that he’d narrowly escaped mannequinization at the hands of some mind-controlling cross-dresser) was simply too incredible to be believed. 

      MI-6’s first inclination was to cast a combined agent and Bobby dragnet that would tighten round the 13:00 Rosetta Stone meeting and capture this unknown variable in the Medusa Killer equation.  Yet “M’s” old colleague, John Steed, had talked him out of this- instead arranging for a meeting with the suspect (accompanied by his dearest friend and ally Emma, of course!) solely on their own.


Part Two: “Shock and Awe” 

            German Immigration and Customs hadn’t been much help… as expected.  A citizen from one EU country passing into another essentially became a non-event some fifteen years before.  All Barbara needed do was flash her open Brit passport past view of a “green-liner” sitting behind bullet-proof glass and she was through.  

     Yet in her particular case (traveling brazenly upon assignment as her Uncle once did using her given name, rather than with a cover personality), outlandish attire had indeed caught the attention and recollection of the female official on duty.  So when security tapes were reviewed from that Thursday afternoon, “Barbara” stuck out like a sore thumb in her 60’s style shiny boots and overdone permed hairdo.  Young Amanda Peel’s eyes went wide in shock as she compared the freeze-frame video image to a fashion-model-style portfolio portrait Commander Bond had provided.  The customs officer couldn’t reconcile huge differences in appearance between the UK passport photo and woman holding it… she only recalled feeling light-headed. 

     It took twenty minutes at the taxi stand, along with a few well-placed Euros, to discover the driver from three days ago.

     “She waz a strange vun… Yahh  zat ees a fact”, commented the driver in his broken English.  “Aber sehr… talkative und persuasive.  I took her to the Hotel Metropole… and- don’t ask me why- agreed to her suggestion to wait for her off zee meter until she could check in und get zettled”.   When zis passenger came back downstairs, she was dressed… like a man… suit, trousers, trenchcoat, hat.  Maybe she’s one of zose… how you say…goes both vays”??  Vee vent to zome avant-garde gallery in Hackesche Höfe over by zee red-light district.  Neighborhood is sehr Modisch, yet more than a bit sleazy, as you say."

     On Amanda’s request, the driver took her to the Metropole for double-fare, retracing the route.  This was something of a relief , since the taximan couldn’t ever seem to recall collecting any money from his mysterious fare three days ago.  She had just ‘suggested’ a free ride and he said OK.

     A quick check with the hotel concierge and his telephone exchange records identified the name and address of an exotic art gallery which faux “Barbara” had repeatedly visited during her overnight stay in Berlin.  Unfortunately, its business hours were from 11:00-16:00 hours, and it was too late today to pay the owner a formal call.  So Ms. Amanda Peel checked into her own room and settled in for the evening.  The first order of business would be a relaxing hot bath.  Stripping off a hunter pants suit from her curvaceous frame as she headed into the modern-style louvre to run water for the tub in lacy lingerie, she was interrupted by a telephone ring.  “Uncle” Steed and “Mum” were calling to check in on mission progress and convey a bit of news. 

     Steel-blue eyes flickering as she dutifully made her report:  Amanda cautioned her elder teammates that a throwback to the 1960’s had been waltzing around masquerading as Ms. Barbara Bond… and the real Barbara’s whereabouts were still clouded in mystery.   Next came the congratulations from London:  MI-5 had formally promoted Ms. Peel from “assistant” to full investigator… an apparently trivial difference; yet one which put her on par with Sir John and Emma.  She was a real Secret Agent now!!  The next generation of Avengers. 

    “As our welcoming present, Darling, I’ve sneaked a bit of nostalgia into your luggage.  It was most difficult to persuade snoots in Langley VA to part with it, but it’s yours now”, cooed Emma to her daughter.   Soaking in warm tub suds just minutes later, Amanda basked in the glow of new-found MI-5 status.  But a voracious curiosity got the better of her momentarily,  and her nude glistening dripping-wet fantastic form is seen wriggling seductively toward an unopened two-suiter.  Tiny puddles emerge on the coral carpeting… coagulations from delightful peaks and crevices- as well as tantalizing soaked brown hairs- as the beauty emits a peal of surprised delight. 

     Her mother’s famous leather judo suit lies neatly folded beneath her wide-eyed gaze!  Toweling off delicious curves to try the 38-year-old attire on for size, Amanda finds the garment to cling so closely to her svelte body (in such a sexy and flattering manner!) even undergarments are superfluous and distracting.

     Prettily prancing in front of a full-length hotel mirror, she decides to bring all of her feminine wiles and weapons to bear during her gallery visit and inquiries tomorrow.  And these dynamite togs are just the package to showcase them in, she muses flirtatiously.


At 10:45 a.m. the next morning…

         Amanda Peel quite literally cuts a swath through pedestrian traffic in her black leather skintight judo suit from the Brandenburg Gate to the banks of River Spree,  feeling like something of a cross between a Sports Illustrated cover swimsuit model and the Pied Piper of Hamelin.  Teutonic goggle-eyes and slackened jaws surround every stiletto click-clack of dynamite knee-high spiked boots hitting the cobblestones.

       Climbing steep entryway stairs to the second-floor art gallery Standbildhaft, even its late- 40’s owner-curator casts few lingering-longing glances down among Ms. Peel’s well-packed 36CC cleavage, displayed via a tantalizing 1/3 lowered metal zipper of her skin-tight outfit’s torso. 

     Yet none of these ego-bolstering scenarios or consequential bloom of feminine self-confidence prepares her for what poses perfectly still beneath soft spotlights in the gallery’s premiere display.  She flicks chestnut bangs back from a deep-furrowed brow, repeatedly blinking to be sure the explicit tableau of sexual ecstasy laid before her was real.  

      Perched atop a four-foot-tall clear acrylic bowl-pedestal (which left nothing to hide of clenched-tight shapely buns) lay an eggshell-sheened artwork of suspended desire.  Arms and legs wrapped seductively about a now-absent lover, the stiffened figure of agent Barbara Bond clung to an everlasting instant of naked nirvana.  Up until this very moment, the gravity of the Medusa Killer’s crimes had been in the abstract to our neophyte investigator; yet now confronting end-product of the villain’s diabolical talents from point-blank  range (across gallery ropes, actually) brought all the extreme risks and dangers of Amanda’s current assignment truly home to the young MI-5 agent. 

     She was engulfed with several emotions at once: simultaneously repulsed and irresistibly drawn toward an erotic once-living statue.  An empathic sadness for charming “Uncle” James swept over her, as she realized the disastrous report she must soon take back home.   But this would be nothing to compare with the voluptuous-yet-humiliating circumstances of Bond’s amazingly-transformed niece. 

     Two dozen in a swelling crowd of awed appreciative onlookers (restrained by red velvet ropes from touching Agent 009’s paralyzed and plasticized flesh) chattered and cooed in bewilderment and sexual excitement at presentation of this X-rated avant-garde creation, while sipping Rhine wine.  Anger rose quickly in her breast.

Flashing her MI-5 identity card, Ms. Peel attempted to close the display as a crime scene.  Yet snobby gallery owner --one Herr Wilhelm Langer-- would have none of it:

     “Nein, Fraulein!  You haf no authority here.  See, here iss my bill of sale from the artist.  I paid 75,000 euros cash for zis schoenes standbild.  Bidding at open auction begins within zee hour… und starting at 100,000!  Thees eez clearly a Kunstfigur… a piece of solid plastic.  Yaah!”, he confirmed as he wrapped firmly (with a hollow THUNK!) upon Barbara’s well-defined abs, sculpted muscles now tightened --like the rest of her-- amid a rictus of stilled pleasure. 

     Our animated English beauty couldn’t help but imagine herself swapped in place with the inanimate one:  to be reduced from flesh-and-blood young woman in full command and control of all her surroundings (including any man she desired at the drop of a handkerchief!) to a drool-inducing sex object on display… nipples hard and vagina plastered split apart and moist… shocked Amanda as if being hit by a freight train.   She considered shiny Ms. Bond’s arched back, trim waist, fixed limbs… her thrown-back head with eyes half-closed in orgasmic bliss… and wondered exactly HOW the expertly-trained MI-6 agent (licensed to kill!) could allow this to happen to herself?  She guessed at what thoughts --if any-- lingered behind those solid parted lips and glassy eyes. 

      As our chestnut-haired awed beauty in skintight leather looked on helplessly, the gallery curator combed and straightened Barbara-statue’s dark silky-synthetic hairs and placed an appropriate placard against the bottom of her pedestal:  “Ekstatisch”.  Eventually, Ms. Peel’s  investigative abilities overtook her deep sexual reveries, and she removes a small photograph of the impostor “Walter Windsor” from an interior jacket pocket.  The gallery curator’s eyebrows rise slightly in surprised recognition, and --realizing she can do no more at present for this mannequinized colleague-- races downstairs into the street.


Part Three: “Artifacts”

            The well-dressed --if somewhat effeminate-- man standing adjacent to the Elgin Marbles display entrance eyed his surroundings cautiously.  Wary of police or MI-5 stakeouts (he had sensed something was wrong ever since Barbara Bond returned from taking a telephone call in Shades’ powder room)… was his ongoing professorial impersonation now discovered?  He pulled his upturned collar of a double-breasted Burberry’s higher and yanked the brim of a Fedora downward across the forehead. “Windsor” knew that expert spy surveillance teams could blend seamlessly into this after-lunchtime crowd inside the British Museum.  Yet his ongoing contact with the rarefied-air circles of the UK Government was a calculated risk he simply had to take.  One the one hand, his ultimate goal of #10 -and even Buckingham- residence strongly depended upon the national fame and acclaim from “cracking” this nearly- unbelievable criminal case. 


     At this very moment, though, our fashionably disguised enigma was in damage-control mode.  Everybody who might well have guessed his strategies and ultimate intentions must be dealt with… just as he had succeeded in silencing two of MI-6’s most determined and ingenious masterminds at a hastily- arranged morning meet at 221-B Baker Street.  Who would be next? 

     He scrutinizes a distinguished elderly couple hovering a few feet away from the Rosetta Stone.  Our villain considers whether these over-the-hill fossils could possibly be representatives of the government sent to safely bring him back into the fold?

      A scheming evil mind plots and whirls as he closes distance to greet these unlikely intermediaries. The 70-something English gentlemen tips his black bowler with aid from his ever-present furled umbrella in amiable salutation while burnishing a boisterous, almost impish grin:

“Cheerio, Old Man… Good to see that you escaped the vile clutches of that bloody Medusa fiend!…  but- tell me-- what of the brave and beautiful Miz Bond”??

“Alas! I greatly fear that she didn’t make it,” the faux professor replied, “last I saw of her, she was bracing for an extended stay in Berlin… mentioned something about  a terrorist biochemical lab over there…”

“What’s all the cloak-and-dagger shenanigans about then?” interrupted an annoyed Mrs. Peel, turning away from her inspection of the ancient artifact.  “Did you get a good look at this petrifying monster or not?  I heard that you described him as a cross-dresser…  and with mind controlling powers?”

     Instantly the villain knew that this couple had been fully briefed by "M" and Scotland Yard… yet he couldn't quite place their faces.  Old memories from news-clippings and TV interviews some years before stirred recollections, but…   "I say! Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing, anyway?" the 'professor' inquired.

"Oh, I DO beg your pardon!!  Where are my manners?  I am Sir John Steed and this is my partner, Mrs. Emma Peel.  This early-60's avant-garde female intrigued "Windsor" especially.  She was clearly once incredibly beautiful, and --even now with the 'bloom off of the rose'-- Emma's elegance and sex appeal were still palpably present.  "We are also quite good friends with Commander Bond," Emma offered by way of further explanation.

"Say no more," the disguised villain intoned in hushed confidential overtones.  And he meant it, word-for-word.  Not only was he trying to befriend and becalm this world-famous crime-fighting duo (their names had easily jogged his memory into recognition of their exploits together some 30-40 years ago), but he truly needed nothing further. Walter would soon know everything possible from the enticing Mrs. Peel's psyche and mentality.

     Ignoring the harsh inquisitive probing glances directed at him by the Avengers, he attempted to divert attention away from himself.  He glanced at the Rosetta Stone.  "Mind-Boggling, isn't it?  Just think that, until Syrian excavators unearthed this fragment of old rock during construction of a building, modern man had absolutely no clue at all how to read Egyptian hieroglyphics."

     Steed was annoyed at the pedantic history lesson, and turned away to consider gigantic pillars carved in the images of Ra and Isis at the far gallery entryway.  Emma on the other hand, following the suggestion, closely examined the Greek, Arabic and Egyptian symbols inscribed in three separate sections upon the 4' x 5' block.  Thus neither agent noticed when our villain slipped his trench coat to the museum floor and removed his Fedora. 

     Shiny white boots, the fur-lined collar of a tacky top-coat over a 1960's tye-dye mini-skirted dress went briefly unnoticed- as did overly-curly dark-brown locks.  Yet it was enough time for the Medusa Killer to gather his/her powers and focus them upon the caught-off-guard duo.  "It's truly amazing how an inscrutable mystery can become instantly crystal-clear by advent of proper physical evidence.   Like the Stone… or this case"? 

     Steed and Emma began to whirl into defensive positions in hasty recognition of their perilous circumstances.    But too late.  The bizarrely-dressed adversary stared briefly into both surprised sets of eyes…  deeply… controlling… and said, "I trust you two now find all of this fascinating. . ."

      The word echoed and struck into combat-trained consciousness like a numbing thunderbolt. 

      Steed was the more-strongly affected, as "Windsor" continued to affix a fierce gaze upon him.  Caught in the act of removing an epee-foil weapon concealed in his umbrella, hands and arms went limp while a half-removed saber clattered to the marble tile floor.  Steely eyes went dull and saucer-wide, while his mouth gaped open- tongue lolling out its bottom left corner.  Emma, too, seemed entranced:  she stood stock-still in rapt attention at the cryptic hieroglyphics dancing before her eyes.  It was as if all knowledge she possessed hung suspended between such indecipherable symbols and dozens of years of formal schooling had turned instantly into mush.  Her brain  screeched to an abrupt halt.  Helpless --still-- she lashed out against this mental prison that suddenly held her stuck fast.

      A triumphant soliloquy from 'Windsor' commenced:  "How DARE the authorities send such feeble foes to try to ensnare me!  The mighty Avengers…    HAH!  Look at them now.   You're nothing but old relics of bye-gone days.   You truly belong in this museum:  A testament to archaic British colonial wealth, aristocracy and arrogance!  Now…   $#%OWww! "

Angered, Emma Peel managed to break free from her mentally-suspended static state, and had landed a ferocious karate kick between the Medusa Killer's legs, as well as a perfectly-placed coordinated judo chop to the back of the neck which sent him/her sprawling.

Her sardonic smile and comment of, "I'd never hit a Lady, but I do think you've just proved you don't qualify… attire notwithstanding", were short-lived victories. 

     The overly-permed brown head shook off the unconsciousness attempting to steal over it,  raising himself up painfully on hands and knees from the museum floor.  Emma endured a revolting glimpse of smooth-shaven men's legs and fire-engine red panties beneath the short skirt:  a color now in almost-perfect match to their owner's furious expression-complexion.


      "YOU'RE  ONE  CLEVER  LITTLE  BITCH!!!" he screamed at her.

      Mrs. Peel's consideration of this rather crude remark would be the very last coherent thought entertained inside her pretty head for quite considerable time to come.  She first shrugged off the insult; after all she had been called much worse by a host and variety of super-villains for many prior decades.  Suddenly, she realized more fully with whom she now was dealing…. that this was NOT a mere insult, but a command!

     Whereas the brief mental entrapment of moments ago had been mere paralysis of all her thoughts and free will, this was a permanent draining of her gray matter.  Emotions, lessons learned, life experiences…  whirled past Emma's mind's eye as they exited from her skull and deposited into that of her adversary.  Out went the Cybernauts and the time-traveling villains, enemy agents and moles… those double-entendre verbal jousts with Steed (one time they had even actually acted upon their flirtatious words!)… all her spirited adventures with MI-5, as well as the peaceful, pleasurable rewards of retirement and motherhood- lost.

     As evil payback to her escape attempt, all "Walter Windsor" left her were sub-human instincts and base stimuli-responses:  hunger, thirst, pain, loyalty and obedience.  Without any further ado, the elegantly-dressed secret agent dropped down onto all fours --panting expectantly-- toward her new master. 

     As he patted her gently upon the head, scratching behind her left ear, Emma realized first with shock, denial and then acceptance:  I'm a Dog…  Then all went essentially blank to her, except for an overwhelming desire to please and obey.

     "Perhaps we should rename you from  Mrs. Peel to "Mrs. Heel'", our escapee from the Mod Generation taunted.  A brand-new pet licked his/her boot in feeble reply as he thought about how to deal with the other member of the famed Avengers.

    Visitors and employees near the front door of the British Museum at 1:15 pm Monday afternoon witnessed a curious sight.  A glassy-eyed John Steed (sans his ubiquitous umbrella), accompanied by a female in white boots and Mrs. Emma Peel scrambling behind upon hands and knees while growling and barking at the crowd, departed the venerable historical collection of artifacts, heading off in the direction of Trafalgar Square.


Part Four:  "Send in the Clowns"

            It is about as quiet as one would expect in the St. James District Mortuary on a late Monday morning.  Six plasticized and one waxen figurine give striking visual contrast to multiple rows and banks of 3-foot-square refrigeration unit doors which populate both sides of the 50-foot-long central storage room.  Life-sized replicas of what were once coeds, prostitutes, homeless lost waifs and other feminine question marks in our harsh capitalist society stand apparently unconcerned with their chilly stark surroundings.  Each mannequin has an expression of surprised bliss cemented over their attractive facial features-- hinting at inter-connectedness as to cause of their weird solidification. 

      Without any warning whatsoever, a shrill mechanical droning sound invades the hushed room, followed by somewhat of a slow-motion, elongated WHOOOOSH!! as an early 20th century London telephone call box materializes out of thin air two dozen feet away from shiny-waxed knockout ginger-blonde Victoria Plumm. 

      After a few seconds, the call box door slowly opens and a tall eccentric man steps forth.  Dressed in heavy tweed floor length overcoat (inappropriate to the warming Spring season) and multi-colored striped ten-foot-long woolen scarf draped several times about his neck, the mopsey-brown-haired middle-aged humanoid slowly and carefully proceeds down the row of frozen beauty with a sad, knowing look etched upon his furrowed brow.   ‘Scientifically’ tracing contours of one cute victim’s cheek, he firmly wraps his knuckles on her forehead to produce a distinct artificial-hollow THWACK!! 

      Addressing a still-open telephone booth door he shouts, "AHAH…  just as I suspected!  An Eternal has returned to plagiarize some Scottish professor's dubious biochemical experiments in matter conversion.  He or she is trying to get themselves re-written into Earth's history books in a way that makes Jack the Ripper look like Mother Theresa.  But this sort of pscyho-bionic energy transference has GOT to leave its traceable signature on Tardis control monitors!  Leela, set temporal coordinates for the next known Medusa event and…"

      This strange bookish man engaged in deep technical conversation with an apparently-empty call box suddenly notes the eyes-wide astounded faces of M.E. Jasper Bignall and Chief Inspector Claymoore of Scotland Yard, who have quietly entered the mortuary only seconds before. 

     Slowly raising a service revolver to point squarely between a break in The Doctor's bushy eyebrows, the  lawman begins, "I truly don't know how you got in here --or what in the devil you think you're doing to all these poor statuefied girls-- but in my mind you've just become our criminal suspect A-1 in this Medusa case.  Place your hands in the air".

     "Don't be a daft IDIOT, man!",  counters The Doctor.  "I'm simply here to try and…"

      He was interrupted by an insistent electronic ringing noise from Bignall's cell phone. The coke-bottle-thick glasses atop the bridge of the forensic specialist's nose fogged up a bit as he took in horrific information being provided to him.  His and the Chief Inspector's eyes met as Jasper announced, "We've got an emergency at that Sherlock Holmes replica.  And Bobbys report suspicious characters nearby the British Mus…"

      The bizarre whining drone accompanying swift departure of the Tardis interrupts their conversation.   Soon two bumbling Police administrators were standing alone-with beautiful exception of frozen-stiff plastic and wax victims of the Medusa Killer.


Part Five: "Cut to the Chase"

        By her reckoning, James' silver Aston-Martin DB-5 averaged in the vicinity of 115 MPH  during its 25-minute hurtle from Gatwick to Westminster Circle.  Amanda coolly regarded the oversized dark metal Winston Churchill statue glowering down at her as she whizzed past Parliament toward Whitehall Lane and Trafalgar Square at its East end. 

      Nearby she knew "Mum" and her partner held an appointment with the man who'd hand-delivered and accepted payment for an X-rated Barbara Bond statue.  Commander Bond showed very little outward reaction to news of his niece's suspended, science-fiction-like state; only grim determination to bring the villain to justice now revealed in a firm set of his jaw as he zig-zagged at high speed past Downing Street.

"I just wish we'd time to visit MI-6 Headquarters and see "Q"…. says he's developed some sort of 'alpha wave inhibitor' gadget that may deflect this Medusa's mind assaults…"

      The young Avenger and retired 007 were still 150 yards away from the massive 90-foot-tall monument to Admiral Horatio Nelson's victory over the Spanish Armada which dominated the Square as a convergence of various sing-song police siren notes and flashing blue lights strongly hinted to the pair that they were too late.  Athletic Ms. Peel didn't even wait for Bond to pull over, but rather hopped over the sill of his sports car as it slowed amid intertwining traffic.  A quick 75-yard dash, and she was beside them at the column.   Bobbys on the scene tried to push her back until she produced MI-5 credentials, and asserted her close relationship to the famous duo standing atop the monument base.

     After parading the mind-controlled Mrs. Peel several hundred feet in the role of a dumb animal (in vindictive amusement) "Professor Windsor" had permitted her to regain some --yet not all-- of her dignity as his own hot temper cooled.  Emma was no longer consigned to a four-legged fate, but rather stood proudly with interlocked arms beside her equally motionless MI-5 companion of nearly a half-century.

    The original Avengers were mounted --literally-- on the 5-foot-tall outer perimeter base of Admiral Nelson's  War Memorial column, seven feet from an oversized gray-white stone lion statue.  Thus two 20th-century English heroes presided (with huge smiles cemented across their faces) over the day-to-day bureaucracy transpiring up and down Whitehall. 

    Using his mental powers, the Medusa Killer had guided suggestible do-gooders into a magnificent pose and then finished them off:   As now-flawlessly detailed replicas of their former selves.  Yet via clever expansion of supernatural powers, the villain had head-to-toe transmuted his latest victims to almost-perfectly match monumental surroundings.  This appropriately named Medusa had left the stiff-as-statue Avengers rooted to this famous spot… turned to stone!!  

     Agog and crushed, Amanda shed tears as she regarded a granite "Mum"… now truly permanent part of a Central London landmark.  Then she overheard the rude sniggering from a nearby pedestrian onlooker.  Following his amused gaze, she now realized that their super-villain had taken his twisted sense of humor (first displayed with Miz Plumm at Tussaud's) to the next level.  Emma's posed free hand --the one she hadn't taken her partner's proffered arm with-- poised conspicuously exploring down through Sir John's unzipped Saville Row suit trousers' front.  In return, Steed's speckled gray sleeve snaked behind to uplift Mrs. Peel's cemented hemline and cop a feel of her exposed stony bottom's right cheek!  Two helpless Secret Agents teetered, frozen into statues, amid a pose giving credence to rumors of a torrid romance 3½ decades ago.  Of course, Amanda already knew the rumors were true… she herself was direct by-product from the relationship.  This made her parents' public disgrace at the hands of the Medusa Killer even more burdensome and painful. 

     As if to add insult to the injury of their stony situation, one of the ubiquitous Trafalgar Square pigeons took the moment to perch atop Steed's granite-gray bowler and deposit a first (of many to come) "souvenir" as welcome onto new artworks. 

     Suddenly, she saw him!!

     Sprung to life from Berlin Airport video… shiny boots, fur collar coat, 60's miniskirt and hairdo… "Windsor" stood gloating over his latest masterpiece not 45 feet away. 

    Amanda Peel took a sharp inhalation at sudden sight of her enemy that nearly burst forth her ample cleavage from the partly-zippered judo suit top.  She moved toward him, steadily yet stealthily, her steel-blue eyes blazing with vengeance.  Self-defence training techniques and tactical alternatives swum through her lovely head as both fists closed into weapons of retribution.  She scanned the crowd for James Bond. 

     In this case, though, her own striking physical attributes betrayed her.  She just looked too darn much like her now-fossilized "Mum", as well as the trademark skintight leather outfit itself was world famous (even appearing in a recent final Jeopardy question!).  Our faux professor put 2+2 together quickly and made his escape by hailing a Checker. 

     But the pretty young Ms. Peel was stranded at curbside for only a few seconds, as James' Aston screeched to a halt beside her.  And the chase was on! --- speeding NW past  Madame Tussaud's and careening right down Baker Street. 

     Here the villain now abandoned his taxi and attempted escape on foot.  Bond stopped for a moment to query the driver, next noticing a commotion immediately adjacent to the halted cab in residence #221-B. Hand waves from a crestfallen, grim-faced Inspector Claymoore coaxed retired Agent 007 past fresh "crime scene" police tape criss-crossing the front door.  While his eyes adjusted to dim interior illumination, James Bond fought back shock.

     More victims of the immobilizing villain lay before the HMSS Commander in sardonic tableaux vivant (or perhaps tableaux parafinee?).  His former boss "M" had been cast as  wax dummy stand-in for Conan-Doyle's Dr. John Watson, attired in late-1800's red silk vest, cravat and turncoat.   A polished facial sheen and artificial gloss to his gray hair, beard and moustache demonstrated the MI-6 coordinator wouldn't be ordering anybody around in trademark condescending tones anytime soon.  Even more surprisingly, "Q" stood stock-still beside him, violin & bow dangling from his left hand while drawing deeply from a wide-bowl Meerschaum in his right.   Laying atop a Queen Anne drawing room table beside this ersatz "Holmes" was his stereotypical hounds-tooth cap, which Bond then sadly and resignedly lifted into place over his  entrapped colleague's waxen brow.  "Elementary, my dear 'Q'… what the devil?"  007 blurted as he notes the unusual weight of the headgear.  Inside the hat was a high-tech metal and wire skullcap, adorned with various adjustment dials and blinking lights.  Would this have been their salvation if "Q" could have used it??  Bond took the gadgeteer's ‘alpha-wave inhibitor’ and pocketed it inside his coat. 

     Giving details to Claymoore for an APB broadcast on the bizarrely-attired “Windsor”, Bond then headed for the door of 221-B, intending to catch the intrepid Ms. Peel.  Then he saw Jasper Bignall examining Medusa's third victim.  Across the foyer in the kitchen, a different "Mrs. Hudson" bent over… frozen peering inside her antique cast-iron stove to check progress of the evening's roast pig dinner:  Moneypenney!! 

    Elaborately and heavily clothed in an old scullery woman's multiple dark layers, only the petite, attractive turn of a shiny-wax perfect ankle was visible to her would-be-lover from the neck down.  007 passed one hand straight in front of her vacant thousand-yard stare, confirming a solidified immobilized state.  Then, with a sigh, Bond pulled back the 19th century cook's bonnet and placed a sympathetic --almost loving-- kiss upon a slightly-soft cheek.  An open-mouthed Moneypenney dummy could make no audible reply;  yet transformation had been cruelly-slow and wasn't yet quite complete.  Her panicked mind raced on:

James, darling…DO something to change us back!, she mentally groans.  Must I stay ridiculously bent over staring into a pig’s mouth for all eternity?  That bastard Windsor tricked us into coming here, then stole our power of movement… he stripped us naked and threw our clothes in the fire… placed us into these costumes… We’re DISPLAY PIECES!!

     Seething with a melting pot of anger, horror, sympathy and vengeance, Bond now departs the Sherlock Holmes, flat pursuing the shapely derriere of Ms. Peel, Chief Inspector in tow.

     For her own part, the last-remaining Avenger had not found it difficult to follow a fleeing Medusa Killer through the busy streets.  A spellbound Bobby teetering amid a villain-induced stupor at the mouth of the Bleeker Street Underground stop was an obvious clue.  Amanda did not take the time to examine this mind-control victim as he brainlessly repeated an unending chant of “fascinating… fascinating…  fascinating…” within his cross-eyed predicament. 

     She hurtled down deep entrance steps into the subway system. The policeman’s partner --who had been more successful in her pursuit-- making it all the way to the Tube departure platform) was even-more deeply transfixed: abruptly halted amid a dead-out sprint.  A gleaming blue-uniformed late-twenties ponytailed blonde female statue lies toppled and wobbling on its side in metallic mid-stride, a look of intrepid determination frozen on facial features catching and reflecting the Underground fluorescent lighting. 

     Constable Eleanor Partridge --or what was left of her-- helplessly directs an opaque brown-gold stare (nightstick still clenched within an outstretched shiny left hand) at a commuter train as it gathers pace pulling away from the station.  Her immobile entrapment accomplished only seconds earlier, an outer metallic shell had formed, yet her brain and accompanying sensory skills still lingered on inside.  Eleanor’s dwindling mind had trouble coming to terms with her turn of events of the past minute: she’d met Medusa’s gaze and experienced sudden motionlessness and imbalance (she’d clattered to platform with an unsettling CLANG!!).  The meaning of a villain’s double-entendre taunt sunk into a solidifying consciousness that raced to join a once-vivacious and athletic physique already confined within its bizarre --if beautiful-- solitary prison.  His mocking words to her, “You can’t catch me, Copper!” looped and rattled through her emptying head until… obliteration. 

     Leaping over Medusa’s latest female victim, Amanda Peel manages to catch the rear car and pry its doors far enough apart to engage the departing vehicle’s emergency system auto-stop.  Using powerful weight-trained biceps, she opens the Underground train car’s double-door fully and steps inside. Several cars to the front, faux “Walter Windsor” watches all these heroics while smirking. Come into my parlor, said the Spider to the Fly passes through his/her scheming mind. 

     Meanwhile, a fully-out-of-breath Avenger composes herself:  flicking chestnut bangs back from a glistening forehead with a sub-conscious jerk of her neck, pull-straightening  rumpled creases and folds of her form-hugging judo suit… adjusting a center zipper since it is now showing a bit too much heaving cleavage, attracting lascivious stares.  She searches for heartless prey.

      Passengers of the subway train hurdle noisily out under the Thames, leaving behind a horrific trail of hapless (hopeless?) victims who now contemplate defeat in statuesque silence.


Conclusion: “Back to the Future”

     Brompton Road in Knightsbridge was the very next stop.  Calmly brushing aside unwanted advances from body-pierced, red, green and blue spiky-haired teens named “Pug” and “Killer”, the pursuing heroine exited her train and followed (by at 50 yards lag) an overdone dark-brown hairdo and fur-collared coat as they made their way slowly through a sea of humanity back up toward the streets.  She didn’t quite make it when “Windsor” ducked into the subterranean entrance to Harrod’s world-famous food court, which interconnected with this subway station. 

     Past long glass counters and displays of elaborately presented Smoked Salmon Almondine and Egg and Sevruga Caviar Mousse (yeeacchh!! thinks Amanda) among others, our leather-togged Avenger creeps ever-closer to her quarry.  For a minute or two she loses him  as prey and pursuer slip through a packed ogling throng in the Estate Jewelry area.  Poised for a moment in her skintight black judo suit, our svelte beauty automatically now assumes the classic defensive pose taught by “Mum”:  one knee-bent leg forward with back and spine fully straightened, arms bent at the elbows parallel to the floor with hands outstretched in karate chop pre-positioning. 

     Amanda considers with  amusement how she has sub-consciously lapsed into one-half of her parents’ classic “Avengers Pose”  If I’m not very careful, Medusa will sneak up and leave me standing just like this forever!!, she worries.  Wavy chestnut tresses brush on smooth leathered shoulders as head and steel-blue-eyes scan a cavernous department store interior.  There he goes!!

      Casually riding the escalator with mini-skirted hip cocked out to the left, the faux professor is heading straight for Harrod’s Women’s Fashion area on Street level.  As our heroine pounces after in hot pursuit, shivers run down her spine. Unexpectedly, the effeminate-yet-dominant features turn to stare directly into Ms. Peel’s eyes. 

     All at once it feels as if she has been slapped hard across the face and plunked down at the bottom of a twenty-foot pool filled with molasses.  Dizzy and disoriented by this initial visual parry-and-thrust, Amanda struggles ahead as if in slow-motion.  The element of surprise is lost… has Medusa known about her continuing chase all along??  A sharp wolf-whistle emerges from a brazen customer who ogles bouncing-juggling cleavage trying to burst free from half-zippered leather encasement as she sprints up the elaborate Georgian main marble stairwell.   Ms. Peel “accidentally” lets a well-placed elbow slip into the offender’s bread basket as she passes, knocking the wind out of his sails. Yet all the time she’s ponders, Who’s the Cat and who’s the Mouse here?

     Amanda emerges into a sensory-overloading panorama of clothes designer heaven:  Versace, Hugo Boss, Yves-St. Laurent, Givenchy …top-end Calvin Klein and DKNY haute coiutures… --even some Mackie’s preserved like museum pieces behind glass-- surround and bedazzle the feminine imagination inside Britain’s most lavish and extravagant Women’s Department.  Everything from headless dress forms to living freeze models are used to display five-figure gowns and accessories to maximum marketable effect. 

     A rather dried-up middle aged employee in perfectly-coordinated flowing ensemble swoops toward our heroine.  Eyeing her leather judo suit with a suspicious disdain, she mutters “Quite” and keeps on walking.  Amanda giggles at this condescending treatment until her roving gaze spies a perfect hiding place for her outlandishly costumed prey:  A Retro 1960’s Go-Go dancing nightclub diorama at the Brompton Street display window! 

      Nearly two dozen male and female mannequins stand elegantly posed amid hedonistic glee inside a large glass bay at the front of the store.  Here’s a  breath-taking stylish testimonial to the most exciting decade of the 20th century… whose crazy designs were now making a gangbusters comeback and spreading like wildfire across Europe and America.

     That’s the best place for Windsor to blend in and camouflage himself in the entire store, a courageous do-gooder reasons.  With confident, undulating measured strides of her knockout leather-encased gams, she approaches mannequins of dancing couples showing off brightly-colored bellbottoms, micro-miniskirts, tanks and tees.  Leather and leopard-skin, fur and felt, tye-dyes and swirling multi-stripes are illuminated in rapidly-revolving colored lights colliding to combine and present  a somewhat blinding --almost hypnotic-- kaleidoscopic effect to sidewalk passersby.


      A distinctly dizzying feeling of unreality swept over Ms. Peel as she stepped among the mannequins of this multi-tiered display.  Several couples are perched on 2 or 3-foot pedestals, raised in special prominence to be more visible to pedestrians.  There are even a few 8-ft. tall “bird cages” fashionable at the time, inside of which hover scantily-attired Go-Go Girl mannequins enticing viewers with costumes cut so low as to challenge any decency ordinance. 

     Strangely, Amanda (herself clothed in her “Mum’s” fetching judo suit costume, originating from this very era) begins more and more to feel “at home” within this exhibit.  Caught amid blinding criss-cross lights and snappy a pop-tune version of “London Bridge is Falling Down” background music, she felt ever-more queasy: as if suddenly thrown back outside time and space to be swallowed up in pure fantasy.  

     Whoever had constructed this 1960’s display had paid attention to detail.  She noted all the men and women surrounding her were frozen inside various gyrating dance moves of the decade: The Duck, Hang Ten, The Twist, Monkey Swing, The Swim… all were here, built into energetic yet static angular orientations of wildly-clad dummies on  her left and right.  That’s when whispers began in her head. 

     The first was relatively harmless:  a suggestion to seize the “psychedelic” mushroom-style brimmed cap off a tall redheaded mannequin next to her.  Our Avenger considers favorably this spur-of-the-moment whim and plops the hat atop her chestnut hair with a gleeful guffaw.  Just as she appreciates perfect fit of this newly-acquired ‘Mod’ headgear, something truly extraordinary begins to occur. 

     Actual Harrod’s customers and employees in the surrounding department start to move increasingly-slowly over the course of 5-10 seconds, then seem to grind to a complete halt!   And corresponding to this amazing temporal anomaly, every occupant of this nightclub diorama starts to move and dance.

     That soothing voice in the back of her mind tells her not to panic, so Amanda coolly contemplates her rapidly-changing surroundings.  It was as if this Nightclub had now become her reality and the Department Store was no longer of any consequence or consideration.  Hypnotic lights swirl over her face and leather-wrapped body more brightly… music that seemed to grow in volume and intensity to her hearing.  She was soon tapping her foot in time to the beat… then suddenly swaying a sexy hourglass figure back and forth… finally dropping her self-control entirely to wriggle seductively toward the most handsome of the mannequins come-to-life.  Our crime-fighter was quickly forgetting herself… lost amid pleasures and freedom of an illusory moment.

     An irresistible contentment swelled inside her as Amanda Peel gave in to the kinetic energy and sheer fun of her circumstances.  Most of her life had been spent in such rigidly-disciplined environments as Miss Hovey’s Finishing School for Girls in Chatham, or directly under her “Mum’s” tutelage.  Occasions such as this where the young beauty would really ‘let her hair down’ had been few and far between. 

     She could not realize that a mind-invading Medusa Killer was at that very moment fully discerning and exploiting this weakness in our heroine’s psyche to make her forget about her heretofore-relentless pursuit of England’s most diabolical criminal. And yet this was only the beginning.  Smiling coyly yet coquettishly at her inexplicably-animated cute plastic dancing partner, a voice inside her head turned the Avenger’s attention in the direction of an unoccupied “bird cage” quite close to the Brompton Street window.  This vacant space seemed to call to her… tease her, and now a silly thought of her wriggling and writhing like a Go-Go sex kitten took fuller shape as a vision blossoming in her mind.  

     The chestnut-haired crime-fighter laughed out loud at this idea, even as her spiky leather boots danced ever-closer toward the gilded metal contraption.  Pleasure from gleeful abandonment triggered by her frenetic fun-filled environment now notched up to encompass an erotic edge and overtone.  Warmth and a delightful yearning spread outward from between leather-coated thighs… aureoles grew more sensitive, while pink-brown nipples puckered. With quick rise in her eyebrows and lascivious smile, she surrendered to that insistent suggestion and leapt into the cage.    

…is falling down…. falling down… My Fair Lady!

     Gyrating and hopping to the persistent Pop beat, the young woman falls further and further into an implanted Go-Go Girl character.  Running hands through gold-brown wavy tresses while shaking and shimmying with her rendition of 'The Swim', all ten animated fingers float lower and lower against her skintight leather costume.  A self- massage of her magnificent mammaries commences.  Unnmmmhhh…. Oh yeahhh!! she mentally mumbles from inside her blissful prison as our heroine experiences the delicious -almost electric- sensations of supple leather caressing engorged nipples.   Feedback effects spread to her clit and labia sending additional pulses and charges of pure bliss coursing through her fabulous frame… her hands descend slowly along outer edges of her hourglass figure (perfectly presented in classic 60's leather togs!)  to squeeze firmly against her wiggling fanny and thighs. 

     Almost completely lost in a near-nirvana of kinetic excitement and sudden self-arousal, warning bells sound in Amanda's dazed mind as one of the dancers within the Harrod's scene walks in shiny white boots to stand directly in front of her. 

     Placing one hand upon a jauntily-cocked left hip and the other under his/her chin in pensive consideration of this work-in-progress, the Medusa Killer eyes a befuddled gyrating Avenger with bemused satisfaction.  Triumphantly he crows, "Back in Trafalgar Square, my pretty plaything, you and your leather suit stuck out like a sore thumb…  yet it now looks like you've found yourself a home".  He allows our heroine to embrace the hopelessness of her plight; watching her body wriggle and writhe out of control while trying on a nearby mannequin’s sheepskin pillbox hat with faux gray fur band… only to decide it clashes with her flashy jacket.

    As their gazes lock, it seems to Amanda that intensity and energy of the encounter has redoubled, and she almost faints among a peculiar mix of dense dreading fear and rapt sensual anticipation.  In an apotheosis of full understanding, she now realizes how easy it must have been for Barbara Bond to succumb to a super-villain with such overwhelming mental powers.  He's controlling me like a puppet on strings… I'm next… she bemoans.   She could deny him absolutely nothing now.  

     He wasn't done toying with her yet.             Behind the bizarrely-dressed villain, even the pedestrians along the sidewalk had halted in mid-stride.  All was totally still except for the maniacal bouncing-prancing of participants in the Nightclub scene.  Within her assaulted mind, Amanda's world had been reduced down to a tunnel-vision perspective of an inverse instant in time.

     She felt last defensive vestiges of her free will tumble down a dark well as he spoke:  "You're truly a tantalizing sight, my dear… We'll christen you with the classic stage name Bubbles.  The Club manager’s just declared this establishment topless, Luv".    

     Try as she might to battle and fight off this insidious imperative, her weakened will could not stay her right hand in its steady progress toward zipper-ring at the judo suit's upper-torso.   Seconds later "Walter Windsor" laughs uncontrollably at sight of his puppet;  her costume front yanked open to the navel and gorgeous peach globes dangling deliciously and bobbing-bouncing free for his private show. The heroine's heart and mind sink with onset of this humiliating defeat; her defenses dropped more.  Sensing this, Medusa let loose another mind-control onslaught, wherein complete and total acceptance of  imagined circumstances swept over her, along with a strong sense of sheer delight to be so put onto display! 

     Here she was in a department store window… showing off her beautiful bod as part of a dynamite dancing scene to any and all onlookers and passersby…  Why NOT??, Amanda Peel abruptly thought as her willpower snapped.  Finally came freedom and release from troubles and cares that years of arduous, highly-disciplined crime-fighting training had brought her.  Why not, INDEED!

     "Bubbles" spun and writhed completely in time and rhythm to the musical beat, turning her delectable back on the modern world outside the bay window and embracing wholeheartedly her '60's Retro destiny.  Thrusting left arm up into the air and plugging her nose with right thumb and index finger, our topless Go-Go Girl began classic derriere-wriggling "drowning man" descent of The Swim. 

      Just as she approaches bottom of her plunge- knees deeply bent and proffered round fanny straining against black leather-the Medusa Killer smiles broadly as the proper moment now arrives.  "I insist, Bubbles, that you can look even more ravishing… still".

      Like a stone thrown into a full-length mirror, all temporal illusions created by the villain came crashing to the ground in an instant.  Pedestrians and occupants of the venerable department store re-animated and proceeded about their business with nary a notice; but mannequins inside the Nightclub diorama were all restored into their original frozen poses and stances (save for the cap that remained on our heroine's head, as well as the Go-Go dancer removed from her cage and cast aside among perimeter curtains).  Amanda Peel proudly stood in among them as a topless replacement, paralyzed into utter rigidity.  Waves of excited glee resulting from her seductive “Swim” routine reverberated inside a suddenly-stiffened body, then ebbed toward oblivion. 

     Noting a numb tingling amid ten toes inside spiked boots, her well-trained still-reasoning analytical mind guessed (correctly!) than the plasticizing process had begun.  Once more a soothing voice in Ms. Peel’s head assured that conditions and circumstances are perfectly appropriate:  I'm becoming a  mannequin… a sexy model on display… admired, envied, secretly lusted by….  She was powerless to resist.  

     Still the sadistic villain was not finished with her.  "It's now time, my Dear, for you to live up to your surname… allow me to assist"

     Reaching around the backward-facing lovely statue, he found the front of her costume's connecting zipper, which adjoined top and bottom of her judo suit at the waist.  And without the slightest hesitation, "Windsor" unzipped and separated these two pieces.  He then unceremoniously peeled down-away Amanda's skin-hugging black leather pants (accompanied by delicious soft suction sounds) until deposited as a crumpled mass about crooks of the squatting heroine's knees. 

     Stepping back with unconcealed satisfaction, he stares with delight as an unyielding mannequinization effect sweeps upward across freshly-exposed glutes.  What was already a breath-taking backside is now fast becoming plastic-pink posterior perfection: every pore and tiny dimpled anomaly smoothed to eggshell-sheened feminine curvatures and crevices worthy of immortalization.  Neatly-trimmed pubic hairs assume a glossy artificial texture, now a tantalizing chestnut veil atop intricate sinuous plasticized treasures at the base of a frozen full moon.  Our bent beauty mentally gasps in stark recognition of her own impending fate as humiliatingly-similar to that of her colleague discovered in Berlin.

     Medusa advances upon his soon-to-be-masterpiece as she reaches this intellectual apex of understanding and emotional distress, committing to kidnap her mind.


     As the chilling petrifaction nears pronounced small of her back (and the brain-draining transfer proceeds unabated) our cross-dressing villain now completes his intended  posing of the last Avenger.  Swiveling her head around into pretty profile for Brompton Street pedestrians, he also twists Amanda's hourglass waist some 30 degrees to the right to bring ample cleavage more fully into view.  Twin effeminate hands caress and massage the helpless woman's gorgeous globes for one prolonged moment, then elevate the right breast to produce a gravity-defying, energetically-bouncing visual effect quite consistent with her new role of Bubbles the Go-Go Girl.

    The plastification engulfs our heroine's pleasingly-positioned plump melons at just this moment, freezing them forever in dangling mid-juggle.  Nipples and aureoles harden, but fade to lose their distinct brownish coloration as the mannequinization ascends. 

     Suddenly, the Medusa Killer is nearly done in by his own enthusiasm.  As with Barbara Bond's solidification, "Windsor" has allowed himself to be caught up in this evil transformation to  point of actually coming in contact with plastic parts of an intended victim.  In so doing, he has run the risk of becoming interconnected and so intertwined (irrevocably) within the process himself.  Quickly removing both hands from their massage of Ms. Peel's inspiring chest --a process which not only perfected a kinetic "Swim" dummy's gyrations; but also ignited slow-motion erotic fireworks endlessly looping as feedback between ecstatic nipples and the roiling volcano between her thighs-- the faux professor notes in panic that his own fingers have frozen into plastic rigidity! 


     Recoiling a few steps in surprised horror at this turn of events, it takes all of his supernatural mental abilities to reverse this unexpected process and bring life fully back into his own hands.  Lost deep amid this procedure (and in depositing into our heroine's ever-more-sluggish pretty pink head one final mental compulsion of proud pleasure to be granted such unique immortality as erotic statuary,)  our preoccupied super-villain does not notice Tardis materializing right outside the bay window!

     The Doctor's insistent wrapping upon glass just inches away makes him/her jump.

    "Enough  of this, Eurayle… or Medusa… or whoever you are.  History banks aboard my ship report you're to be captured today… here and now.  So release that girl with the beautiful bum and come quietly!   Or must we do it the HARD way?" he asks.

     Briefly taken aback by such sudden appearance of an unexpected adversary, a weird impersonator of Professor Walter Windsor regains his composure by shrugging his fur-covered shoulders and straightening wrinkles in his tie-dye miniskirt. 

     Stepping out of the Tardis time-space-traveling contraption at that exact moment --as if to offer  physical reinforcement to the Doctor's words-- was a muscular, loincloth-clad lovely.  Leela had been a companion to this Eternal’s journeys for some time now, and so she had grown accustomed to unusual --if not downright inexplicable-- situations and circumstances.   The 6-foot-tall tawny Amazon-like brunette beauty was thus able to write off bizarre sight of this cross-dressing villain ogling her from behind Harrod's front window glass (although sight of Amanda's peeled plastic-pink bottom caused  raised eyebrows) and assume an offensive stance:  legs spread apart shoulder-width, broad hunting knife unsheathed and held out menacingly before her… head and strong shoulders hunched slightly forward prepared for a headlong rush to assault the enemy without any hint of fear.  This dauntless dedicated protector of the Doctor suddenly felt dizzy and disoriented as she leered with "battle face" toward Medusa.  Ongoing shifting of her knife between left and right hands betrayed uneasy nerves.

       The mind-controlling super-villain slowly took in the appreciative sight of attractive Leela: from her bare-footed toes to loose-flowing waist-length locks cascading over a buckskin-bikini-clad torso and powerful defined limbs.  Staring intently into a pair of rich chocolate Amazonian eyes for several long seconds, he finally made his reply:

     "Come now, Sir… I'd think that even a casually-informed foe would know I prefer everything hard!  And I believe that your beautiful bodyguard will agree with me".

     The Doctor considers Leela out corner of his eye.  She'd stopped back-forth tossing of her hunting knife, an expression of determined ferocity now replaced by a look of surprised satisfaction… almost bliss.  Had this moment been a little less terse and contentious, he might have realized Leela's countenance very recently had assumed a quite-similar appearance to that of the R-rated Go-Go Girl inside the store.  The gaze of this minimally-clad huntress yet remained more life-like than that of our plasticized Avenger.  Steel-blue eyes of the plunging dancer had been fully extinguished of their usual bright fire: reduced to a glassy astonished stare through birdcage bars off into the nothingness of the Women's Department ceiling tiles. 

     The Doctor stood confused and uncertain. His companion feminine warrior seemed to thoroughly enjoy posing stock-still…  "You're trying my patience man…  I am a Time Lord, and so invulnerable to such mind tricks," the Doctor explained.  He regarded his pocket-watch irritably.  "And I'm already late back in the 23rd Century for an Altarian intergalactic conference of …"

     He had just now noticed the irrepressible wave of pale alabaster perfection moving steadily up muscular legs of his companion-- already passing her knees to encompass solid thighs.  The Doctor waved his hand and snapped his fingers mere inches ahead of Leela's fixed contented stare… a stare that hadn't budged since meeting Medusa's minutes before. 

     Frozen helplessly amid her combat-ready stance, she could not so much as twitch --or even bat an eyelash-- as unanticipated, cold cruel petrifaction engulfed her lithe frame.  Leela felt powerless and suspended: it was as if she'd been stuck with one of her own home planet's Janus Thorns!  Yet mere paralysis rapidly gave way to a mineral-like hardness and rigidity. 

     The Doctor's tired worn face blazed with sudden anger, his mind whirling amid recalculated stratagems.

     As the evil Medusa Killer laughed heartily at yet another adversary so easily defeated into statuesque immobility (and desirable feminine characteristics captured for his/her diabolical purposes,) a metallic Aston-Martin DB-5 hurtled to a tire-squealing halt across the Brompton Street curb. 

     Chief Inspector Claymoore stumbled out of the passenger side and attempted to draw a bead on curly-brown-permed "Windsor" with his service revolver between marbleizing Leela and the hot-tempered Doctor.  James Bond --although well into his 60's-- decided to take a more straightforward course.  Leaping across the sidewalk pavement while donning "Q's" clever 'alpha-wave inhibitor' headgear, he threw himself headlong (with both arms raised in front of his face for protection) into Harrod's storefront bay window.  Amid a deafening CRASSSHH!! and shower of glass shards, he completed his rugby tackle.


…To Be Continued.

1 Hearty thanks to ‘Nicky’, Dmuk, and DL for earlier development of key characters, basic plot and UK backdrop. Hope I’ve done their original stories justice, and would welcome any continuation which ignores my (forthcoming) epilogue wrap-up.   -R.  

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