Strips
Tall Tank Tales
The Net
2033 wasn’t a good year. It wasn’t even an OK year. It sucked. Everything we had known came crashing down around us when the comet hit. Over time civilization returned, but only in drips and drabs. I’m Tank Girl, I fuck a gorgeous kangaroo-mutant and I like drabs just fine. In fact, I almost prefer the rustic enclaves I find as opposed to the masses who jumped up and rebuilt every fuckin’ thing the same as it always had been. What bores! But some of the rebuilt technology is kinda nifty.
I’m not one to gloat over technology or even use it to my advantage, but this Internet thing is just a good time. Cruising from hovel to hovel, in my tank, I can usually find some way to jack into the Net - as Internet geeks are fond of referring. And what do I find, you ask?
Well mostly it’s a wealth of filthy disturbing images of bizarre sexual behaviors and deviations. If you can imagine it, someone’s probably already done it and uploaded it to a web site somewhere. Recently I came across this whole e-commerce thing. What a surprise this was. I can order bullets in one window, download fisting lesbians in another and lure aging perverts into my clutches in a chat room. And my tale unfolds...
My online shopping cart was loaded (at fuckemup.com) with artillery needs when an e-mail appeared touting the elastic abilities of Vivacious Vera and her "disappearing" beer bottle. I closed out my purchase, paid with credit info I swiped from a local Governor (who mistook my slight of hand for his wallet as a sexual advance and quickly took off his pants - not very big...) and had it shipped to our next stop - a small town just a few miles from the shore. Booga was very excited about grilling on the beach - lame chef-wannabe that he is. But Vera. My lord. Goodness gracious...
What a waste of a beer, I thought. And this we had to see.
We lunged toward the shore with two thoughts in mind. One - the shore is always relaxing and two - anyone with enough beer on hand to be stuffing the empties in their snatch, is a likely mark for quenching our thirst. As it were, we were dry... again.
"Have you seen my pot-holders," Booga called from the galley below.
"I’m driving, you fool, get up here and navigate or something," I replied. "What a dope," I mumbled. "Besides, what do you need pot-holders for? You haven’t barely one pot. All you do is grill!"
"Then you’re in luck," he agreed, "I’m now free to navigate. Where are we going?"
Driving a tank is no small feat. There are levers, pedals and buttons all the fuck all over. Trying to persuade a kangaroo to drop his "Julia Child" act and be useful is hardly makes piloting a tank bearable.
"Take off that fucking apron. We’re fuckin’ driving, not baking."
"Were it not for my apron, dear, you’d hardly dine on the finest hot dogs ever grilled in these parts," Booga reported.
"You don’t even know where we are, you fruit!"
"It’s more important to know where you’ve been," he chided in his semi-annoying fashion.
"It’s more important that you don’t piss me off and wind up with a boot in yer arse!" I screamed.
Calming down a bit, I reminded myself of his charming qualities and reached to my waist to assure my gun was where is should be. It was my security blanket of sorts. As well it should be. It had save our lives on more than one occasion. Actually, Booga was more my security blanket - he’s always saved me be it from danger or myself... up to and including odd ventures to find sexually indiscriminant beer toting women. He was my partner in crime and passion... but a lousy cook.
As we cruised along the tank’s IR would pick up a flash fire here and there. Sometimes it was a weapon firing other times a disjointed electrical spasm that occurred fairly regularly as the infrastructure was slowly brought up to par - or at least brought a bit higher. Electricity had become something of a luxury in more rural parts.
Suddenly, a meter in my head went off. Not a sign of danger. Not cause to put Booga on the 50-cal mounted atop our ride, but an inner alarm telling me to stop. The tank rumbled to a halt as Booga recognized my expression and eagerly awaited my instinctual finding.
In the distance I could see a neon sign. On the scope I could see the orange flashing sign alternating between "Vivacious" and "Vera". We smiled at one another. Destiny awaits.
What kind of sexual deviant advertises with a neon sign, you ask? We wondered too, but first we wondered if the beer would be cold.
We parked the tank in front of Vera’s humble abode and gazed at the quaint little cottage that supported the huge neon sign upon its roof. The scene didn’t match but "what the hell" we concluded. That was our standard conclusion to most situations. I lit a cigarette and remembering our quest - thirst - I walked up the stairs, crossed the porch and rang the bell. Exhaling a cancer-inducing cloud of smoke the door popped open and there she was; Vera.
So what would you guess she looked like? Maybe a dumpy old broad a ways past her prime who did the bottle trick to add some spice to her dreary existence? Or perhaps a twit who was ill prepared to do much else? Yeah, these were our suspicions until that door opened and I saw her beautiful face through the cloud of smoke.
"There must be a fire nearby," she said in a chirpy matter-of-fact sort of way. "Come on in. You two must be tired to have arrived out here."
"You could say that." Booga agreed as he gave me a confused look.
"You must be here for the next show," Vera suggested.
Let’s take a moment here. Vera was beautiful. She was sexy. She was sweet. She was naked. Yes, naked. Not a stitch of clothing and it didn’t seem to bother her one bit. No surprise considering her purported source of income.
"Actually, we’re curious, but we’re HERE to pick up a package at the local Post tomorrow", I corrected. "But how about a beer?" I asked.
"Ahh... you ARE here for the show," She said through a smile. "I don’t get too many visitors in the flesh."
She sounded very excited.
"Um... yeah," I stuttered trying not to offend Vera. Booga and I exchanged our best what-the-fuck expressions and resigned to seeing a live show of prudent depravity.
Booga gave an approving smile and we both wondered what the "show" would entail. Whatever happened we all had cold beers - including Vera...
She began with a sexy dance as she delicately sipped from her bottle. Eagerly we watched as she gyrated and the bottle’s contents drained. We imagined that once empty that slick glass tube was going on an interesting journey unanticipated by most breweries. Although most savvy web surfers would probably see this as common and routine.
Vera’s tongue swirled around the neck of the bottle as she swallowed that last drop. She went down on her knees and began to run the bottle down her torso... from her neck... between her breasts... across her tummy... and.............
Shots rang out! The unmistakable sound of bullets ricocheting off our tank!!!
"Those fucking bastards," sweet Vera yelled. "Don’t worry yourselves. This happens now and again."
She disappeared from the stage, upon which Booga had sorely wanted to see the show’s conclusion, and appeared with an assault rifle and an RPG. Racing out the door - naked and well-armed - Vera showed a side of herself that was likely unknown to her fetish fans.
"Well, the show’s over," concluded Booga, "Shall we assist?"
"Are you done with your beer? Ok, lets go!"
WHOOSH! The first rocket soared from Vera’s shoulder mounted launcher, exploding a truck in the distance. Figures scattered from the debris as Vera’s machine gun tore up the area surrounding the truck. Seeing the situation was well in hand, Booga fumbled in his pockets for a lighter. I popped a smoke myself and gave my roo his lighter back as we watched Vera shooting. As the dust settled in the distant night sky, I observed that while Vera was competent she had neglected a key development. There were four more trucks and soldiers were pouring from them.
You might say that a live beer bottle penetration extravaganza would be a hard act to contain and masses of perverts would likely seek out such an event, but these folks fired first and likely didn’t come for the show. Their loss... and ours actually. Damn, we missed the show too!
I flipped away me cigarette and tapped Vera on the shoulder. I pointed to the other trucks and gave her a smile that might have said, "whoops," had I uttered anything aloud.
In a sad voice Vera acknowledged, "I’m all out of rockets."
"Don’t fret," I said patting her on the head. "The show must go on and we’ve only had one beer!"
"That’s Tank Girl, ya know," Booga added.
Vera and Booga watched as Tanky climbed the tank and nestled into the turret. She cinched down her helmet adjusting the vibrator she kept strapped to the side. Cracking her knuckles she pulled and pushed a few levers until the barrel of the tank spun and was aimed at the remaining trucks.
"How about another round of beers?" I called out.
"That sounds like a fine suggestion," Booga said motioning his agreement to Vera who promptly went back into her house.
The tank lunged after each shell fired on the distant trucks. This time there seemed to be no survivors to scurry about and cause more trouble. Defending one’s rights to beer and pornography seemed like a stately undertaking. We felt liberated and totally in the mood for more beer and Vivacious Vera’s disappearing bottle act.
"On with the show!" chirped Vera.