Making the Breast of It
©2005 The Angst Guy (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Daria and associated characters are ©2005 MTV Networks
Feedback (good, bad, indifferent, just want to bother me, whatever) is appreciated. Please write to: email@example.com
Synopsis: A ficlet about an alternate-universe superheroine with two big problems.
Author’s Notes: This story first appeared on PPMB in July 2005 in the thread, “Scenes No Daria Fic Should Ever Have: What Have We Created?”
Acknowledgements: Thanks to WacoKid for the astounding Power Girl pic he located on the Internet. Just like Brittany! Loved it!
Brittany Taylor, also known as the
super-powered Cheerleader, sighed as she inspected herself in her bedroom
mirror. No matter what she did, the top of her superhero costume always
billowed out and exposed her breasts whenever she flew at speeds exceeding 30
mph. Normal blouses and bras could not stand up to the punishment that a
fast-flying, crime-fighting life could dish out. Even turtlenecks swiftly stretched
out of shape and had to be discarded. It wasn’t fair that all the other
superheroes got skintight costumes made from unstable molecules that did
whatever those heroes wanted their costumes to do. Why was she always on the waiting list for an unstable-molecule suit?
With a sigh, she picked up the most recent letter she had gotten from Feisty Love’s Ultra-Feminine Fabrics, informing her that her request for a new costume had been put on the backburner due to a shortage of unstable molecules, and was about to throw it away when she noticed the list of company board members at the bottom of the page. All of the board members were Ruttheimers, every man in the family.
And the president of the board was millionaire
playboy Charles Ruttheimer III, also known as Upchuck—her nemesis.
Brittany hissed so sharply that every canine in Lawndale ran and hid under the nearest couch. She flung open a window and rocketed out at top speed, heading for the company’s headquarters in Brest, France, heedless of what the acceleration did to her outfit. She had to throw away her blouse when she arrived, but that worked to her advantage.
The headline of the Lawndale Sun-Herald on the following morning was lurid and bold: SUPERCOSTUME EXECUTIVES FOUND SUFFOCATED IN THEIR OFFICES; FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED!
Brittany lowered the newspaper and smiled down at her oversized cleavage, now nicely tucked into a classy blouse made from unstable molecules, with a neckline that wouldn’t billow open even during a 100,000 mph atmospheric reentry followed by a spinning corkscrew into the ocean, head down.
One should always be careful with one’s murder weapons, she thought, giving herself a jiggle. It had been murder, true, but on the good side, the Ruttheimer men had died happy.