Re: The Clyde Allison/0008 Bodycount Thread
Posted: Tue Jan 23, 2024 11:58 am
Sorry I've been inactive for so long! I recently got another art commission adapting a 0008 death scene...this one is based on the opening scene in "Nautipuss" where 0008 shoots a nude Parisian nightclub singer and inadvertently kills the line of back-up showgirls behind her. Here's the copy-pasted excerpt of the scene that Drizzt kindly provided earlier:
For this comic adaptation, I condensed the scene a bit...instead of the whole routine of Agent 0008 applying a glow-in-the-dark "target" to Monique's belly during the act, I simply had her wearing a jewel in her navel and using that as a target. And since drawing a line of twenty women would have been inconsiderate to ask of an artist, my summary of the scene only said "a line of chorus girls," and left it up to him how many to actually show in the artwork. I love the way the scene turned out! (Though I'm not entirely sure why the artist chose to draw 0008 with a mustache this time around...)"The audience cheered, in sophisticated fashion.
“You dig that, huh?” said Monique (in French).”You wanna see more of Monique? Take a look.”
A stage hand dashed into the spotlight, unzipped the back of her short, black, skin—tight gown, whipped it off, retired quickly. Monique, revealed in a revealing black lace bikini, smiled at the audience—and sang an even raunchier song.
About the things she liked to eat. The audience cheered. Even the American tourists who didn’t understand French cheered—Monique’s gestures and lip smacking and tongue twisting made her meaning clear.
Also, she was built. Like a brick Eiffel Tower, Monique was built. More cheers.
Monique grabbed a portable hand mike, began to saunter among the tables, singing suggestive lyrics to the male customers at point-blank range.
She reached my table, pressed against the tabletop, thrusting her bare belly and her ninety-nine per cent bared breasts right at me while she sang. I smiled at her, reached forward and playfully poked her in the stomach.
At least, that’s what Monique and the audience thought. Actually I’d discretely pressed a dime-sized piece of gummed paper to her belly, just below her navel. The piece of paper was flesh colored and went unnoticed by the audience—and Monique.
She sauntered on her way, then ended her song in the middle of the stage. She bowed to the audience; smiled, snapped her fingers—and a stagehand quickly dashed up, removed her black lace bra.
She sang another song. More cheers. She winked at the audience. Snapped her fingers again. Another stagehand ran up, unfastened her bikini pants, whipped them free—and as Monique bared herself brazenly to the audience—all the lights went out.
As Research had told me they would.
The Wild Bronco was swathed in total darkness. Save for one tiny glowing circle the size of a dime. The flesh colored bit of paper I’d gummed to Monique’s belly.
I sighed. Time to stop relaxing—and start working. I whipped out my Walther PPK with the bulbous, efficient silencer, aimed carefully at the glowing spot that indicated Monique’s soft belly—pulled the trigger several times.
The gun made no more noise than a champagne cork popping.
“What a swinging joint this is,” I heard an American tourist’s voice say in the darkness. “I just heard three champagne corks pop, one right after the other.”
Then the lights went up.
A few yards from me Monique was swaying on her world—famous feet, an expression of annoyed distaste on her face. Grouped neatly on her belly were three red holes. Then her eyes rolled back in her head—and she fell backward, gracefully and erotically.
She was dead, of course. My Walther was loaded with dum-dums, and the hollow nose of each bullet was filled with concentrated cyanide. A handy if expensive extra—even a flesh wound was fatal within a second or two.
Monique wasn’t the only girl who toppled slowly backward, however. Behind her, the entire line of can-can girls—now fetchingly dressed in garters, bracelets and rhinestone neck chokers—toppled backward together.
Curses. Research had neglected to tell me that Monique’s number ended with the chorus girls lined up right behind her, belly to buttocks.
My super—powerful Walther slugs had not only drilled through Monique’s naked belly—but through the naked bellies of the twenty girls behind her.
What an unfortunate goof.
All twenty-one chicks fell backward with a meaty thud, just as if they’d been playing tug of war and somebody had cut the rope. The audience clapped.