“Love in Bedlam” Character Bios: The Gals

Olivia Phillipart

Olivia can’t come to the page right now, so you’ll have to deal with me for a while.  I know a lot more than she does, anyway.  I’m the voice behind her eyes that keeps her safe.  She calls me “8,000”.  Or maybe that’s the name I gave myself.  That’s the thing with crazy folk: everything’s twisted and plugged in where they should be horny.  Be turned off.  Why exactly I’m 8,000 is something you’ll have to find out somewhere not here.  I’m supposed to protect her, remember?  And I barely know you.  But you’re here, so I should tell you something.
You can’t sneeze and have an orgasm at the same time.  If you look inside yourself, you’re cut open.  “Eleven plus two” and “twelve plus one” both equal 13, have 13 letters, and share the same letters.  I’m guessing these things you don’t wanna know.  Well, I don’t know what else to tell you.  My–  Our galpal Mercy Havoc is a bitch.  All of Olivia’s issues don’t lead to Mercy… but they get a lot of help from Mercy.  Olivia never listens to me when it cums on her.  Comes to her.  Olivia also has the delight of being sexually repressed with sensitive nips and girly bits.  I mean, really repressed.  REALLY repressed.  I blame parenting since, well, I can see that it’s because of parenting.  It’s right over there next to that thing that reminds her to breathe.  I had to sign us up for that TeRoMa thing because it’s gotten so out of control.  If only you could see how she mops…
Well, she’s waking up now.  Love and sparkling labias.

Lilee Niagra

In a funeral parlor in Munster, IN, an undertaker’s assistant, our Lilee, put the finishing touches on a corpse for the next day’s morbid festivus in a stainless steel room.  The corpse was once a middle-aged man.  Stabbed protecting his wife from a robber.  Of course, he hasn’t been caught yet.  Such is the problem with destitutes: they all look the same.  Incredibly hard to find in a non-fascist state.  Luckily, he was stabbed in the torso, so it was easy to make him look pretty on his last day above ground.
Our Lilee put in his glass eyeballs and did all the important face stuff earlier in the day.  The first few times she had to put the eyes in, she broke them.  Mrs. Hapnerkik was understanding, they’re a bit slick, but the families are charged for each eye that’s broken.  “I doubt they’d enjoy hearing their recently pallid has a few more bills on their tab.”  After practicing at home with marbles and a doll, she got eyes down to a science.  Mr. Hapnerkik used to help Lilee with everything but since she’s been at Eternal Sunset for a few months, she’s been left alone to tend to the boring stuff.
As she took out the corpse’s suit, she started to feel a familiar tingle between her legs.  A tingle that is quickly followed by a moisture.  She takes off her clothes almost unconsciously.  As she slides off her boring orange panties, she remembers that she already has a red moisture waiting for her.  She also remembers that there’re baby wipes in one of the drawers… the one by the door.  What self-respecting gal wants a widow smelling her menses?
The erection that follows death has long since deflated, but Lilee was never interested in that.  If she was, she’d go out and fuck the living.  An adult female can get off on the strangest things, from pillows to dryers with a few gym shoes bumping around.  It’s all about clitoral stimulation, and a flaccid penis can do the job if humped the right way.  She’s an old pro so she knows what moves her little button likes.
Lilee’s grateful that it’s not a heavy flow day as she gets into her perfect motion.  It used to creep her out when the corpses’ mouths opened in the middle of things, so she started her sessions after she sewed them shut.  As she undulates and hears her toenails tap the steel bed, she thinks about when she left high school.  Those late nights she used to spend with friends, bouncing from house to house until dawn.  Basements full of old rock and empty beer cans.  Her mind drifts to those rides to nowhere in particular with her old gang.  Just them and the road and her beater: a yellow 1982 Mustang.  One time, they ended up in two towns north of Detroit.  On the way there, they saw a tunnel to Canada and made jokes about stealing all their maple syrup.
When she snaps back to reality, she notices a puddle on the corpse’s chest borne from her eyes.  She stares at the salty water and uncontrollably bawls for her past.  She beats the corpse’s chest as images of yesterlife flash.  When she stops half an hour later, stops because she’s exhausted and not because the flashing subsided, the corpse’s chest is decimated.  Two very different, but equally important, thoughts rush her mind: her past and her present.
As she scours the parlor naked and dripping from her intimate mouth for something to build a makeshift chest, she can’t shut off the memories.  Not when she finds a garbage can, or when she tapes half of it to the corpse’s chest.  Not when she puts the corpse’s clothes on, or when she scrubs clean where she left a garnet trail.  Not when she put her clothes on, or when she left the parlor.  Only when she looked up and saw a billboard for TeRoMa did the silence come.

Hannah Jacobs

A scar can be many things.  A reminder.  A warning.  An accident.  Fresh.  Faded.  But whatever a scar could be, it always is one thing: there.  The result of something damaging being sealed away before it destroys more of the area.  But a scar doesn’t always do its job.  Sometimes pain still lingers.  Sometimes the trauma is much worse than its beacon.  Sometimes a person would do anything to get away from the echo, even causing greater pain.  Such is the contradictory nature of humans, and the agony of a mistake.  Hannah wants to be rid of her anguish, but her scar runs deep and she has become her trauma.  She hopes she can let go in TeRoMa.  She hopes she can love again.

Patricia Kell

That BITCH!  Look at her sticking out her tooch… why not ask him to FUCK YOU?!  Fuck, you can practically see the ingrown hairs from that wax job she got last week.  That’s why you don’t get a Brazilian wax from a Korean, ya dumb bitch!  Ugh…  Hi.  I’m Patricia.  Call me “Patti”, but only if you add “The Delicious” before it.  Or after it.  It’s whatevs.  If you can’t tell from the CUNT dry-HUMPING the CAMERA, I’m at a photo-shoot.  The theme is “Candy-Coated Emotion” and I’m a marshmallow storm cloud.  No, really.  My ass is a fucking smore lightning bolt.
I don’t know why I take these fucking jobs.  I’m supposed to be fucking in fucking London by now, not Bufu-fucking-Illinois.  Two years of sucking cock, munching rug, and posing for the softer side of Sears.  Two.  Years.  I should’ve been getting MY rug fucking munched by now.  Instead, I gotta wait for my turn in front of the camera while GRETA THE FUCKING GUMMY SNOWFLAKE wipes her smegma on the set.  Fuck, since Kiki took her yeast-infected ass up there before her, I should have a fucking grilled cheese sandwich waiting for me by the time I get there.  Ew, why the fuck did I think that?
FUCK me, how long does it take to–  WHAT.  THE FUCK?!  Greta just walked to the back with the photographer!  That’s it, I’m going home.  They can keep their diabetic weather.  This is SO going in my autobiography.  What stuff’s on the bulletin board… “TeRoMa”?  What the fuck’s a love fool?  Wait.  Wait the fuck wait.  Hospitals have doctors.  Doctors have money.  I could sign up for this shit and get my way into a FAT fucking wallet and throw out this modeling shit.  In fact…


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