“Reclamation can be tricky,” Maggie half-joked, “so don’t fall behind on your payments, fellas.”
The guests chuckled nervously.
“Let’s get this party started,” she said with a smile.
Paula was all PAID for. You’re such a liar, Maggie!
She ignored me. “It’s time to bring out the new models!”
The men applauded and started filing into the grand ballroom for the main event, and Chrissy appeared to clean up my shattered phone. When she bent over, her see-through white panties flashed all the lingering men. As she swept, her hiked-up tits nearly popped out from her plunging neckline. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to run away, but run to where exactly?
Wayne escorted me back into the ballroom and whispered, “Stay and watch.”
Yeah, I know. There’s nowhere else to go.
Maggie took the stage, grabbed a microphone from the stand, and dramatically announced, “Welcome to the castle, everyone. We’re thrilled to have you at our twentieth quarterly release party!”
The men raised their glasses and together cheered, “Here, here.”
“Gentlemen, you are the cream of the crop.”
Electric candelabras flickered along with a recorded harpsichord track, and all of the men formed a reception line. Then Maggie pointed to the red velvet curtain upstage, and the first new artificial woman stepped into the spotlight.
Oh, my God! She looks exactly like me.
Wayne squeezed my hand.
“We are pleased to begin this evening’s festivities with our signature model…” Maggie announced, “The Juliet.”
My doppelgänger glided down the runway, twirled to show off her glamorous pink ballgown, then sashayed down the steps to start a line across from the men on the dance floor. No kidding, that woman could’ve been my twin.
“Juliets are well-rounded romantic beauties. Our most popular model. All colors of eyes available,” Maggie pitched. “We can switch them out for you in five minutes.”
I couldn’t stop staring at my clone, even her mannerisms were mine. Then one by one, over a dozen more women appeared from behind the red curtain—all variations of the same Juliet theme. They were mostly young Caucasian women in their early twenties. Various shades of artificial tan colored their skin, but most were very pale with pretty makeup. Almost all of them were blond, and only a few had reddish or dark hair. Body-wise, they were different heights but all hourglass shaped, mostly with ample breasts.
“The Juliet is everyone’s type,” Maggie told the crowd.
I think I’m going to puke.
After the Juliets, ten more women strutted out from behind the red curtain. These models wore push-up corsets and miniskirts that flaunted their goodies in tight packaging. Heavy makeup and messy hair completed their trashy look. There was something in the way they moved that was just—slutty.
“We offer the Sasha,” Maggie suggested, “for those of you who like to push the limits in the boudoir.”
One by one, the Sashas flounced down the catwalk, spun like strippers without a pole, then joined the line of ladies on the dance floor. Six eager buyers, one of them Viktor Orlov, approached the men already lined up across from the loose women, and the negotiations began.
“Next we have the Bettys,” Maggie announced, “For those of you who want a girl just like the girl who married dear old dad.”
Six full-figured ladies in black evening gowns took to the runway. The classic beauties had kind faces, enormous breasts, thick waists, and big asses. One of the redheads looked an awful lot like Rita.
No wait, that IS Rita.
Wayne whispered in my ear, “She asked for a chance to try again.”
“With a new fiancé?”
Wayne nodded as the six Bettys joined the line of ladies on the dance floor. The men rearranged themselves yet again, with a lot less shuffling and vying for position this time. After it was all said and done, one poor fellow was left with no dance partner.
“But there’s more,” Maggie declared with great showmanship, “we have a special surprise for you tonight. Wayne, please come up and make the big announcement.”
He left me to take the stage with Maggie.
“Wayne, please introduce your latest creation.”
He took the microphone. “Tonight, the castle is pleased to present for the first time ever, thanks to popular demand—the China Doll!”
All the men turned away from the women they had just chosen and gravitated toward the stage. Then a petite Asian beauty dressed like a geisha took tiny stutter steps all the way down the runway. When she finally got to the end, she pressed her palms together and bowed demurely. Before she could even get to the stairs, all the men rushed the stage to help her down to the dance floor.
Maggie laughed, “Who says chivalry’s dead?”
All the snubbed women waited patiently in line, none of them seeming to take the rejection personally. Meanwhile, the scramble for China Doll turned into a shoving match. Soon Viktor Orlov punched Mark Green in the face, and a scuffle broke out on the dance floor. Nelson Newman grabbed the new Asian model by the wrist and tried to pull her away from the mob.
“Her name is China Doll,” Yoshi objected, “but geishas are Japanese.”
“So what?” Mr. Newman replied, “Look at her!”
“Yes.” Yoshi nodded as he tugged her other arm. “She is beautiful.”
Maggie swiped the microphone and feedback screeched through the sound system, making all the skirmishing men pause to take notice. “Do not damage the merchandise,” she scolded, “now, line up like gentlemen or leave!”
The men reluctantly obeyed. None of them wanted to get kicked out of this creepy cotillion. Nobody wanted to go home empty-handed, so they stopped fighting to get back in line across from their original choices. Even the Russian who sparked all this aggression by throwing the first punch offered Mark Green a hand and helped him up. The two rivals feigned smiles and unconvincingly patted each other on the back, all while looking over their shoulders at Maggie.
Once everyone was back in place, Wayne escorted China Doll to the end of the line and offered her to the last man who had no partner.
Then Maggie said, “That concludes our presentation.”
The Blue Danube played, and the line of men bowed at the line of curtseying women. Everyone stepped forward to meet their partners in the middle. Wayne asked for my hand, and we danced. Flirting glances turned into lusty gazes, as women glided in circles around their men. Before the waltz ended, Viktor Orlov dropped to one knee and offered a gigantic chocolate diamond to his trashy brunette Sasha.
“Stop the music,” Maggie boomed into the mic, “we have a proposal!”
Silence fell over the ballroom as all the new models froze in place like statues.
The Russian gazed up at the Sasha and said, “My name Viktor Orlov. Marry me.”
“It would be my pleasure, sir,” she said, “you can call me whatever you like.”
“Anastasia.” Viktor kissed the back of her hand, slid the gorgeous brown diamond onto her ring finger, and wiggled it up and down. “You say yes.”
And she did. She said yes.
Everyone applauded.
Wayne hustled over to the happy couple with a big fake smile and asked Viktor, “How will you be paying for her tonight?”
“Cash. In full.” The Russian slipped two rolled wads of hundred-dollar bills into Wayne’s jacket pocket.
“Excellent, Mr. Orlov.” Wayne turned to his creation and said, “Congratulations, Anastasia. May I see your beautiful new ring?” After she held out her hand, Wayne thumbed the diamond and said, “Install Elope 2.5.”
Anastasia automatically asked, “Are you sure? Please confirm.”
“Confirm elope.” Wayne kissed her forehead. “Install Elope 2.5 and reboot.”
Anastasia froze in place, her eyes rolled back into her head, and her eyelashes fluttered.
Wayne faked a smile as he whispered a warning to Viktor, “I have heard all about your—violent proclivities—and I do not want you sending her back for rectal repairs.”
“I pay well,” the Russian laughed as he smacked Wayne on the back, “you no complain.”
Some of the more ambivalent guests used the proposal as an opportunity to back out at the last minute. Sadly, almost all the leftovers were big girls, and Rita was one of them. Mark Green turned out to be the only man to commit to a plus-sized Betty. And that sleezeball, Nelson Newman slapped a cheap ring on my doppelgänger’s finger and named her Bertha. He could’ve chosen a petite girl that weighed less than a hundred pounds. There were a few here. But instead, he was going to torture my poor twin about her weight. I just knew it.
And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, traditional Japanese shamisen music started playing through the speakers. Then Wayne escorted the new artificial Asian woman onto the stage, held her hand in the air, and let the geisha prance circles around him to the plunky banjo music. No longer reluctant, the remaining unattached men rushed the stage and shook fistfuls of money in the air. They drooled over her like horny idiots. One guy pounded the stage and dropped fivers like he was in a strip club. I heard shouts of, “Here, here! Take my money,” and, “I’ll pay double,” then, “I’ll pay triple!”
Then Maggie spoke into the mic, “Let’s start the bidding at a thousand dollars.”
Yoshi’s hand shot up in the air.
“Two thousand,” another man shouted behind him.
The Japanese businessman countered, “Five!”
And so it went.
Suddenly, my chest got so tight that I couldn’t breathe. My anxiety was back again. Then came a rush of adrenaline. I was on the fast track to a panic attack.
HELP! Someone? Anyone?
But nobody came to my rescue.
Screw this shit! This is hell. I’m in HELL! I want to jump out of my skin and set this whole castle on fire. Where’s the closest exit? I can’t take it anymore—I’m going to bolt. Let me out of here!
But Maggie commanded:
You () {
stay (here);
}
And I puked all over the dance floor.
Because that was all I could do.