Chapter I


"Bloody bitch!" Ginger Spice yelled as she leaped through the air.

Her intended target, a slightly startled but nonetheless prepared Scary Spice dashed sideways as her feral adversary landed next to her. It was not exactly an uncommon occurrence for two members of the Spice Girls to be fighting each other in a profanity-filled brawl, but until this moment it was usually Ginger and Posh Spice who had gotten into heated arguments which resulted in scars that only layers of expensive makeup could cover. Who could ever forget the incident in Bangkok when Posh suggested that Ginger had nicknamed the area after her favorite pastime and all the locals just kept on calling it Bangkok? Or the time that the group had completed a tour of America's malls, only to have Ginger suggest that the Victoria's Secret stores littering the shopping plazas were named after the secret procedure performed on Posh that involved some saline, a pair of surgical scissors, a lot of anesthesia, and a hefty bill that included a no-questions-asked clause?

Ah, the memories. Both girls wore scars of those incidents proudly day in and day out. Well, then again, it wasn't really pride that caused the scars to be so readily displayed. Rather, it was the constant rending of flesh that tore the scars open again and again, so that one could not help but notice them. It seemed the two would never learn.

But then, one day, this day, something unexpected happened. For once, Ginger was not at odds with Posh… well, not at the moment anyway.

* * *

The Girls had started the day quite normally.

For Baby Spice, a team of men in white lab coats had released the bonds holding her to the laboratory table the night before. She continued to baffle scientists across the globe, despite extensive tests. The best neurologists from England, America, France, and Germany had gathered in one place to study this mystery of science: truly the first person found to be alive and yet have no functional brain at all. As the men in the white lab coats led her off the table, she giggled enthusiastically, not aware that through all scientific facts, she should have never existed.

"Miss Bunton?" Baby was vaguely aware of one of the older doctors speaking to her as she stood up.

"Duh?" she replied.

"Miss Bunton, how old are you?"

"Tee hee!" she giggled.

"Emma?" A younger doctor to her left spoke up. He held a clipboard in his hand. "May I call you Emma?"

"Tee hee hee!" she chortled.

The doctors exchanged glances.

"Miss Bunton, do you know how to spell your name?" the first doctor asked.

"Duh!" A small sparkle on her lower lip indicated that a string of drool was forming.

Both doctors sighed. "Emma, we're going to do one more test, then you can leave for the day." It was the younger doctor speaking again. "Is that okay?"

"Tee hee!" she tittered. "Duh!"

The doctors exchanged glances again. "Is that a yes?" the older doctor asked.

"Damned if I know," the younger doctor replied. "Let's do it anyway."

"Right," the older doctor agreed. "Nurse, proceed with Experiment Fourteen!" he called to a nurse waiting patiently behind a desk.

She clicked a button on an intercom on the desk. "Send in Test Subject No. 1," she said. Her voice resonated throughout the room and adjoining hallway.

An orderly led a high school aged boy into the room. He had a bemused look on his face. "Hey man, what's going on here? Why am I…" His voice trailed off as he noticed Baby standing across the room, giggling and smiling at him. His eyes widened, and he smiled sheepishly. "Oh man! Is she looking at me? She's looking at me!" he said to the orderly. "God damn, she's hot!"

"Thank you," said the older doctor, scribbling some notes on a piece of paper. "Next."

Test Subject No. 1 was led out of the room. "I'll call you!" he yelled back to Baby.

"Send in Test Subject No. 2," the nurse said into the intercom.

A different orderly led a much more angry-looking seventeen-year-old boy into the room. "Yo, I'd better get paid for this shit," he said. "Bitches keep me waiting for hours…" He stopped speaking as soon as he saw Baby, giggling and smiling at him from across the room. "Well now, what have we here?" he said, changing his tone from agitated to suave instantly. "Hey babe, how's about you and me hookin' up?" He snapped his fingers and pointed at Baby for emphasis.

"That'll do," said the older doctor, after writing on his paper. "Next?"

"Hey dog, what the fuck?" the boy asked as the orderly grabbed his arm and led him out of the room. "Yo, you best be gettin' your hands off of me, bitch! I wants me some o' that hottie in there!" He continued cursing and protesting as he was led back to the hallway.

The doctors looked at each other again and raised their eyebrows.

"Send in Test Subject No. 3," the nurse announced.

A third teenage boy entered the room with an orderly at his side. He looked around, then noticed Baby, giggling and smiling at him from across the room. Without a word or hesitation, his eyes lit up, his jaw dropped, and he charged across the room like a dog in heat. The nurse pressed a red button on her desk, and two orderlies carrying metal poles entered the room from the sides and moved to block the hormone-charged boy from reaching Baby. The cattle prods screeched with electricity as the boy fell to the ground stunned. The orderly who originally led him into the room rushed over to drag his whimpering body out of the room.

"Amazing," the older doctor commented.

"Indeed," the younger doctor agreed. "It's a good thing we've had those cattle prods since last week's test."

"Well, I'm baffled. How about you?"

"Stumped. I can't explain the attraction… or why she functions, for that matter. What do you think, nurse?"

The nurse at the desk glanced up from her copy of the National Enquirer. "I think that if she wasn't famous, we should decapitate her, stuff her body into a large plastic bag, and burn it, in order to keep her from reproducing."

"Hmmm…" the younger doctor mused.

"Hmmm…" the older doctor replied. "Oh well." He turned and walked out of the room, surveying his notes. The younger doctor followed.

Baby's driver, waiting outside the lab, noticed the two doctors leaving, walked into the lab, and led her with a flashlight to a car waiting for her in the hospital parking lot.

* * *

Scary Spice woke up with a pounding headache next to her husband, Jimmy Gulzar. As she sat up in bed, she held her hands to her throbbing temples. "Ugh," she said to no one, "I'll never mix tequila with cocaine and wood varnish again." Next to her, Jimmy stirred. She glanced at him, then shook her head again. "Better get rid of the Clorox too."

Jimmy rolled over. "Oh baby," he murmured. "I had this horrible dream." He kept his eyes closed dreamily, reaching his hand over to touch Scary's upright body. "There were these five girls, and one of them had this really nice rack, and I shagged the hell out of her." His hand rubbed along Scary's arm. "Then I found out she was a crack fiend, and that her hair had the consistency of steel wool." His hand moved up to caress her cheek. "And before I knew it, she had shit out a kid, so I had to marry her to make it look good, but she gave our poor kid a name that didn't mean what she thought it meant." His hand worked its way up to touch the tip of a strand of her unkempt, steel wool hair, and his eyes flew wide open. "Oh, fuck."

Scary was visibly furious. Between the headache and the hangover quality of the rambling she had just heard from the man she had lusted after for all of ten minutes, she felt like a volcano ready to explode.

"That does it!" she screamed. "I want you out of my house! I don't ever want to see you again, unless it's to show up at my doorstep to hand me a check for alimony!"

Gulzar sat up with a puzzled look on his face. "But it's MY hou…" he began.

"OUT!" Scary yelled. She reached over to her dresser, grabbed the crackpipe that had been laying on the dusty mirror on her nightstand, and thrust it into Jimmy's right thigh. A rose petal of blood began to trickle through the white linen bedsheets, and yet the look on Jimmy's face was not one of pain or agony, but one of mixed confusion and euphoria. Scary probably should have wiped the white powder from the pipe before using it to cause a flesh wound.

With Jimmy's bloodstream enjoying a high it hadn't felt in about nine hours, Scary pushed Gulzar out of the bed. He landed on the floor with a dull thud and a soft whimper, still attached to the sheets by a crackpipe wedged into his femur. Scary leaped off the bed, grabbed a corner of the sheets, and dragged Jimmy's body through the hallway, down the stairs, and out the front door. She left him on the sidewalk, and turned once to yell back, "Don't come back until you have enough money to pay my child support!" before slamming the door and going upstairs to get dressed. Her manager had something planned today, and it was of the utmost importance that she was prepared for the day. One or two more lines should cover it, she thought.

* * *

On the other side of town, Sporty Spice awoke from what was perhaps once of the greatest dreams she could remember. Yes, she thought as she climbed out of bed, those C-cups on Jennifer Love Hewitt were one of the greatest wonders of the modern world. She rubbed her eyes, glancing thoughtfully at the Shania Twain poster adorning her wall. Oddly enough, Sporty didn't like country music at all; go figure. She stood up, yawned, stretched, scratched her left buttcheek, and stumbled into the bathroom. Lifting the toilet seat up, she went about her business for the morning. The phone rang, startling her. She shook a couple times (those extra couple of shakes are a real embarrassment-saver), pulled her pajama bottoms up, and dashed for the phone.

"Hello?" she asked.

"Yes, is the lady of the house in?" the voice on the other end came back.

Realizing her mistake, Sporty raised her voice to its feminine pitch and spoke again. "Um, this is she."

"Melanie! I'm sorry, I didn't recognize the voice. It's me, your faceless, heartless manager. Do you have a sore throat or something?"

"No. My… uh… there was a frog in my throat."

"Oh, okay then." He paused, and Sporty heard the sound of rustling papers on the other end. "Listen, you and the other girls have to do a little bit of promotion today. You see, ever since Spice World came out, Roger Ebert has been demanding that you all publicly apologize for ruining modern cinema. Oh, and the remaining Beatles would like an apology as well."

"The Beatles? What the bloody hell for?"

"According to George Harrison's spokesman, 'For crimes against humanity.'"

"Oh, not that again." She rolled her eyes. "Look, I'd rather stay home and watch Bound again. I rented it for a week, and I damn well want my money's worth!"

The paper rustling resumed on the other side again. "Oh, and it says here that a bunch of supermodels want to pose with you for the cover of Squat magazine," he lied. "Something about bringing nothing but a can of whipped cream and a smile."

"And what time will we be leaving?" Sporty asked, her tone indicating her newly found unbridled enthusiasm.

"We'll send a car for you in a couple hours. Be ready." He chuckled as he hung up.

Wow, Sporty thought, I hope Cindy's there.

* * *

In the meantime, Ginger Spice awoke in a seedy hotel room, somewhere outside of London. Well, "awoke" may not be the best term, since Ginger had done everything but sleep that night. From the bathroom, she could hear the past night's employer gargling with some Listerine. Judging from the lingering taste in her mouth, she guessed that she probably needed it more than Mr. I-Don't-Want-to-Pull-Out in there. What was his name anyway? Paul? Sal? Arnold? She couldn't remember. Another night, another payment on the side. Hell, at the rate she was going, who needed a record contract?

The phone rang. "Hey slut, get the phone! My mouth still tastes like week-old tuna!" came the commanding voice from in the bathroom. What an asshole, she thought. Besides, that box had guaranteed a strawberry flavor.

"Hello?" she said as she picked up the phone.

"Ginger, it's your manager." He sounded slightly perturbed. "I thought I'd find you there. Get some clothes on and get downstairs. There's a car waiting for you."

Ginger sighed. "Yeah, fine. I'll be down in a minute." She looked at the £1 note sitting on the table next to the bed, snatched it, and stuffed it into her bra.

"And don't forget, I get forty percent!" He hung up.

Ginger dashed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. The man in the bathroom stuck his head out the door, revealing himself to be none other than Stephen Gately of Boyzone fame. He looked at the table, and saw his £1 missing. "Aw, shit! That bitch forgot to give me change!" He resumed brushing his teeth. "She was a lousy lay anyway," he muttered to himself. "I'll never sleep with a woman again."

* * *

And finally, in the richest possible section of the city that isn't related to royalty, Posh Spice awoke to the sound of heavy snoring. She opened her eyes, turned her head, and saw the familiar artificial blonde shape lying on his back next to her, his mouth wide open, his snores equivalent to a large truck downshifting.

She got up as carefully as she could so as not to disturb her current money leech. Still, Posh's careful was not quite careful enough, and David Beckham's snoring stopped suddenly. He blinked his eyes open and looked at Posh.
"Where… shag… lady… going?" he inquired in his slow, guttural, caveman voice.

Posh sighed. "I have important things to do today, David. The Girls and I have some sort of deal to work out with a bunch of disgruntled people."

"Oh," he grumbled. "Poshy… be… back… for… shag… later?"

"Of course, my walking pile of money," she smiled.

"Heh… heh… Beckham… like… when… Posh… talk… dirty," he said with a toothy grin.

Posh rubbed her temples. "David… honey…" she began. "Can't you at least call me by my real name when we're… you know… intimate?"

David's sloping brow furrowed. "What… Posh… want… me… to… call… her?"

Posh looked visibly angry. "Victoria!" she yelled. "My name is Victoria! Can't you remember that?"

Beckham looked confused. "Why… Posh… want… Beckham… call… her… Vi… Victo…" He struggled to pronounce the name.

"Victoria! Victoria, you idiot!" She raised her arms in frustration. "It's my name! 'Posh' is just a stage name! Call me Victoria when we're intimate, please!"

"What… mean… intimate?"

Posh gave up. "That's it. We're through, David. I can't stand you anymore."

Beckham looked mightily confused. "No… more… shag… Posh?"

"No!" She stormed to the closet to pick an outfit for the day.

"Awww…" David looked genuinely hurt. "Beckham… have… to… spend… extra… cash… on… other… women... then."

If Posh's ears could perk up, they would have at that moment. "Extra cash? What extra cash?" There was a pause from Beckham. Posh leaped through the air, landed on the bed, grabbed David's shoulders, and shook him furiously. "What extra cash, you Neanderthal screw?"

"Soccer… people… pay… Beckham… lots… of… money… for… co… commer…" He struggled with his words again.

"Commercials?" she finished. "They're giving you a contract for advertising?"

Beckham's head nodded slowly. "Me… think… that… was… word… they… used."

Posh sat still, thinking about the possibilities. All that extra money. Why, when her singing career inevitably ended, she could leech off of Beckham for the rest of her life and still be financially secure.

"David… I may have been a bit hasty earlier. You can call me whatever you want as long as you'll take me back."

"Beckham… shag… Posh… again… this… morning?"

"Oh, fine." The phone began ringing impatiently. Her manager could wait for a few more minutes, she thought. She slipped back under the covers with David and began doing what she did best.

* * *

By the time each Spice Girl had been picked up and driven to the airport, it was two in the afternoon. A pudgy, sweaty man approached Posh as she stepped out of her taxi, the last one to arrive.

"Victoria!" he yelled, with a slight amount of relief mixed with exasperation. "The rest of them have been waiting for about an hour. Thank goodness you're here! We were worried something might have happened to you."

Posh surveyed the little man. "And just who the bloody hell are you?"

The man looked taken aback. "Why… I'm Mark." Posh's face remained expressionless. "Your manager?"

She seemed genuinely startled at that. "Manager? What happened to Jim?"

"You fired him last week!" Scary said.

"Oh… well, what about Alex?"

"You told him his voice was too feminine, so you fired him too," added Sporty.

"I did?" Posh thought for a moment. "Well… then why isn't Paul here?"

"Because you fired him the week before Alex, saying that the birthmark on his left cheek was too distracting!" Ginger snapped. "Stupid, forgetful bitch."

"Hey, watch it you insufferable cow!"

"Now, ladies," Mark said, trying to calm down the two women, "There's no need to fight." He turned to Posh. "Thank God you're safe, Victoria. We were so worried that something had happened to you, and…"

"Umm… listen…" Posh began. "Mark, is it?"

"Yes," he said hesitantly.

"I don't think I like your attitude. Why don't you piss off?"

The stocky man looked flabbergasted. "But… but I…"

"Well, what are you standing around for? Shoo! Go away! You're fired!"

He shuffled away, a shocked look etched on his face. From his right, a taller, balding man walked in front of the Spice Girls and stood exactly where Mark had been standing. "Right this way, ladies," he said, pointing his arm in the direction of the small, private jet that was parked on the tarmac.

"Uh… who are you?" Sporty asked meekly.

"I'm Lorenzo, your new manager," the man replied.

"What? New manager? What happened to Mark?" Posh asked.

"You just fired him, you fucking whore!" Scary screamed.

Baby giggled at Scary's words.

Posh looked startled. "I did? But he seemed so nice…"

"You idiot! How stupid can you possibly be?!" Scary screamed. "You did it about one and a half minutes ago!"

"Excuse me, Miss, but I don't think I like your attitude. Why don't you piss off?"

Scary glared at Posh. "Because you can't fire me, you dumb whore! Who do you think you are? Roseanne? I'm part of the damned band! You can't fire any of us!"

Sporty chuckled, then leaned over to Ginger. "Man, looks like Mel's got that PMS thing going again. Guess I'll have to try and snog someone else for the next few days."

Ginger's eyes widened in horror. "Please, just stay away from me."

Lorenzo looked at his watch. "Ladies? We have a schedule to abide by. Time is of the essence." He motioned toward the jet, then raised his eyebrows and smiled.

Posh said, "I don't think I like your…" As she spoke, a medium-built man with a crop of red hair walked up behind Lorenzo.

"Not now, Stan," Lorenzo whispered, "She hasn't fired me yet." The red-haired man mouthed an "Oops!" and stepped away.

"…don't you piss…" Posh was saying.

Lorenzo, realizing what the rest of the sentence was going to be, quickly added, "Time is money, ladies!" and motioned once more for the plane.

Posh stopped speaking as her eyes lit up in dollar signs. "Oh. Right. Good thinking. Let's go, shall we girls?"

Ginger and Scary both began muttering under their breaths, Scary because it was looking like a truly bad day (and someone had cut her coke with powdered milk… probably that bastard Jimmy), and Ginger because… well… she hated Posh. Only Baby, in her oblivious and brainless manner, seemed truly happy on this day as she giggled and skipped up the aircraft's steps. Sporty attempted a few quick glances up her skirt as they boarded, but stopped as she noticed Lorenzo cocking an eyebrow at her.

Lorenzo followed the girls after they were all aboard the jet. He heard a shriek from the seating area and rushed over quickly. "What's the matter?" he asked as he ran through the curtains.

Posh was quivering and holding her hand to her mouth, pointing at the person sitting in one of the seats. "There's… there's… there's a demon in one of the seats!"

The person in question was a rather stoned-looking Marilyn Manson. He flipped off Posh, then resumed reading the copy of War and Peace he was holding.

"No, no, Victoria," Lorenzo began. "That's just Marilyn. He'll be flying with you, since other people in the states have demanded a public apology. He was on tour here when the news broke. While you go to see Mr. Ebert, Marilyn here will be apologizing to a… uh…" He flipped through an itinerary. "'Mr. Cooper.' It's all in the states, so we figured we'd save a little gas money by carpooling everyone."

"And this isn't just some elaborate trick to screw us over by killing us?" Ginger asked.

Lorenzo flinched. "Why… uh…" he hesitated. "No!"

Ginger brightened. "All right then." She turned to Manson. "Well, Mr. Manson, it looks like we'll be jet buddies for the next several hours."

"Alice Cooper can lick my asshole," he commented. He flipped to another page of his book.

Lorenzo smiled, said goodbye to the girls and Marilyn (who politely told him to engage in anal intercourse with himself), and stepped off the plane. The door closed, the engines started, and soon the jet was in the air, on its way across the Atlantic.

To say that there was an awkward silence on the flight would be an understatement. Indeed, it wasn't until the east coast of the United States was in view that anyone spoke up.

Surprisingly, it was Manson who broke the silence as he finished the last page of his book. "Man, Tolstoy was a fag."

"Who?" Ginger asked.

Manson merely gave her the finger.

"You know… Marilyn…" Sporty said. "There's a bed in the back. Maybe we could… uh… you know…"

Marilyn looked her over from his seat. Sporty was wearing the same sort of grin she had used when she tried to pick up one of the girls from All Saints; well, actually, ALL of the girls from All Saints. Her hands were intertwined in front of her in an anticipatory position, and her eyebrows were raised. The other Spice Girls, for their parts, were all wearing looks of genuine surprise at Sporty's sudden change in preference.

"Nah, fuck off," he finally said.

Sporty looked disappointed. "But… Marilyn… Ms. Manson…"

Manson's eyes widened. The other Spice Girls realized what had happened and started trying to hold in their laughter. "Excuse me?" Manson asked.

"Er… you don't like being called 'Ms. Manson?'" she asked.

"Fuck no! I'm a man, you thick bitch."

Sporty looked confused. Finally, unable to restrain her laughter, Scary let out a roar of a chortle. "What? What's so funny?" Sporty demanded. Scary leaned over and whispered into her ear. Sporty's eyes widened, and she did a double take at Manson's body suit. "But… but… they look so real!" she said at last, blushing.

"I'm going in the back to see if these fuckers left me a copy of Pére Goriot," Manson announced as he stood up. "You five can go fuck yourselves." He walked to the back of the plane, leaving the five girls alone. Baby giggled.

"So, I'm thinking about asking David to marry me," Posh said.

Scary grimaced, thinking of her morning with Jimmy. "Men suck."

"Yeah!" Sporty yelled.

"Yeah!" Ginger agreed, but for an entirely different reason and along an entirely different train of thought than Sporty's.

"Well," Posh replied, "He's apparently getting some kind of advertising deal, and since our music careers are going nowhere fast, I thought it would be best to introduce a bit more financial stability into my life."

"Yes, that's something that's been bothering me lately," Ginger added. "We seem to have lost a little popularity. We need some sort of gimmick to get back into the spotlight so that the public doesn't forget us."

"Well, I have an idea," Posh said to Ginger. "Why don't you go and pose naked again? That seemed to do wonders for your popularity."

"Hey!" she protested. "I was young, and I needed the di… I mean, the money!"

"I could always get breast implants," Scary mused.

"And I could get a few more tattoos, dye my hair blonde, then cut the living shit out of it," added Sporty.

Ginger spoke up again. "Now, now, you should only do such drastic things when it's obvious that we're REALLY dying out." There was a long pause. "We could always go on and do some solo stuff."

"No, I prefer it when we do things as a group," Sporty countered. The other girls looked at her with wide eyes. "What? What did I say now?"

Scary looked over at Baby. "What about you, Baby? Any ideas?"

At that moment, the plane veered through a dark thunderhead. A single bolt of lightning struck through the roof of the jet, slicing downwards through the passenger section. It struck Baby's head and continued down until it had passed through the bottom of the aircraft.

"Actually," Baby began, "It might be a prudent idea to make ourselves known in the headlines by having something cataclysmic yet marketable happen to our group. Perhaps if we were to oust one among us, we could proceed to release an EP, then release various solo projects on the side, all the while hyping our teenage fan base with talk of an upcoming group album amidst various physical and social changes revolving around the group members themselves."

As she finished, a crackle of electricity swirled around her head, and the effect of the lightning wore off. The four other girls sat in stunned silence, staring at Baby.

Finally, Scary spoke up. "Baby… WHAT did you just say?"

Baby's eyes simply stared at the floor as she spoke: "Duhhhh…"

"She had a point," Posh said. "If we get rid of one member, we'll be in all the music headlines. Then, we can get on with various marketable aspects of our lives, make solo recordings, and stay in the spotlight far past our fifteen-minute limit."

"Yes… but who do we get rid of?" Sporty asked.

Posh grimaced and put a finger to her forehead in thought. "Hmm…"

Scary, however, did not hesitate. "Let's get rid of the slut." The remaining girls simply stared blankly at Scary before looking down at themselves, then at each other. "I meant Ginger!" she snapped.

Ginger gasped. "Excuse me?"

Posh was smiling. "You know, I'm not complaining, but I'm wondering why you want her to go?"

"It's quite simple," Scary said. "Ginger's our lynchpin. She keeps us on schedule writing, performing, lip-synching, and all that crap. If we get rid of her, we don't have to put up with any of that work bullshit. We can be as lazy as possible and not have to worry about spending weeks in a studio!"

"Hello?" Ginger said in a sarcastic tone. "If you don't have a facilitator, the new album might get pushed back by a year or two! Not to mention that a couple of you might get knocked up." She glanced at Sporty, who was shrugging, and Baby, who was fascinated with the metal clasp on her seatbelt. "Well, Posh and Scary anyway."

"Well, I say we take a vote," said Posh. "If it's unanimous, we throw her off the plane." She smiled at Ginger. "Now, let's see… how shall I vote? How shall I vote?" She made a face that looked like she was in deep thought about the decision. "I say we get rid of the bitch."

"I can't believe this!" Ginger yelled.

"Yeah, I vote we kick her out," added Sporty. "She never put out." Everyone fell silent and looked at Sporty. "What? Now what?"

"Go to Hell!" Ginger screamed. "Besides, Baby can't vote! Her brain stem doesn't support normal human speech."

Posh leaned over and spoke to Baby. "Emma, dear? Would you like Ginger out of our group?"

"Duh!" Baby replied. A string of saliva followed the words out of her mouth.

"That was a yes!" Posh rejoiced.

"What?" Ginger countered. "That wasn't a yes! That wasn't even intelligible!"

Sporty spoke up again. "I don't know. That sounded like an affirmative to me!"

"Bloody whores, both of you! Well, it's not unanimous yet. Scary still has to vote, and I'm confident that she's still my mate!"

Without hesitation, Scary replied, "Like hell I am. I vote that you get the hell out of here."

Ginger looked stunned.

"Oh, don't be so surprised," Scary said. "I'm lazy and greedy. If I have to sacrifice a bimbo like you to get more cash and a long vacation from the recording studio, I'll sign on the dotted line."

And this, faithful reader, brings us full circle, with Ginger Spice flying through the air, narrowly missing Scary Spice, and screaming, "Bloody bitch!" at the top of her lungs.

"Quick!" Posh yelled. "Grab her!"

"With pleasure," Sporty said, and ran for Ginger. Posh jumped from her seat as well, paused, glanced at her nails to ensure that they were freshly filed, and resumed her charge towards Ginger. Baby, in the meantime, leapt from her own seat, then tumbled to the ground and began rolling on her back like a puppy, giggling all the while.

Ginger, after missing her target, had landed face down on the ground.

Scary, after darting sideways to avoid the flying Spice Girl, had regained her balance, and began kicking the downed Ginger in the ribs with her heel. "Victoria, this is fun! Why didn't you ever tell me what a treat it is to kick the crap out of her?"

Posh merely laughed. Then, she looked at Sporty and pointed to the door of the plane. "Oh, right," said Sporty.

She walked a couple of steps to the door, then, with all of her strength, she pulled the door off and set it aside. Of course, as any sane person will say, this was not exactly a good idea. No sooner had the door been torn from its hinges than the entire aircraft began to decompress. Manson's copy of War and Peace flew from its resting-place on one of the tables, while other various objects not held down by anything began their flights into the oblivion of thirty thousand feet above the ground.

Sporty, for her part, had managed to grab onto a handrail directly next to the door. Baby, despite the fact that she made algae look intelligent by comparison, had actually clasped her seat belt together during her brief preoccupation with its shiny, metal quality (by accident of course), and was not moving anywhere.

The other girls were not quite so lucky. Scary, Posh, and Ginger all made frantic attempts to find something steady to hold onto. Ginger managed to catch Sporty's heel as she flew out the door. Scary managed to grab onto Ginger's feet as she flew even farther out the door. And Posh, plummeting past both Ginger and Scary, made a last-ditch successful grab for Scary's feet. A three-linked chain of Spice Girls dangled from the plane as it roared over the East Coast.

"Must… climb… up…" Posh croaked as she struggled against the wind. "Too… rich… to… die…" She stopped, realizing what she was saying. "Damn… now… I'm… talking… like… Beckham… with… this… damned… wind… in… my… face…"

"Climb up!" Ginger yelled from above. "Use our bodies like ladders!"

"I'd… rather… use… yours… as… a… sombrero… in… a… Mexican… hat… dance…" Posh countered. Despite her intense hatred of Ginger, she dug her claws into Scary's legs and began climbing. Upon reaching the top, her heel caught Ginger in the eye, though no one could say if it was intentional or not.

Scary soon followed Posh, climbing up Ginger by grasping her various rolls and curves.

After they were safely aboard, Ginger began to crawl back into the cabin. Unfortunately, her hand slipped, and she was left dangling from the floor by one hand, completely helpless. "Help… me…" she cried weakly.

In that moment, Posh's heart turned from a cold, shriveled, black mass into a cold, shriveled, black mass with a small amount of compassion for a fellow human being. Bravely, she tore a strip of polyester off of her dress, tied one end to the handrail Sporty was holding, anchored her legs, and tied the other end around Ginger's hand. At that moment, Ginger slipped, but the fabric was resilient. She fell five feet before being saved by the polyester rope. With the cabin pressure slowly reaching equilibrium, it was getting much easier to stand, so Posh reached for the strip of fabric and hoisted Ginger back into the plane and the arms of safety.

By that point, everyone was out of breath and panting, except for Baby, who had remained safe throughout the entire ordeal, and merely giggled at nothing.

"Huff… huff…" Sporty wheezed. "Remind me never to do that again."

Posh stood up and dusted herself off, examining the damage to her clothing. "Damn. And this dress cost David a lot of money too."

Ginger stood up as well, and ran to Posh, encircling her arms around her neck. "Oh Posh!" she screamed, elated. "You saved my life! Thank you! Let's never fight again!"

Posh, however, realized that Ginger's hands were hugging the wrong place. "My hair!" she snapped. She grabbed Ginger's arms, untangled them from around her neck and head, and held her by the wrists. "Don't you EVER touch my hair again!" With violent force, she raised her right leg and kicked Ginger square in her gut.

Ginger tumbled backwards, fell onto the floor, and rolled out the airplane door. "You biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch!" she yelled as she fell through the air.

"Oh darn," said Posh. "Now we're going to end up hating each other again."

Scary came to her senses. "You know, I really don't see the big deal. We were planning to throw her out anyway. You just did us a favor by making it look a lot more accidental."

"Well, I suppose," Posh mused. "Do you think she's mad at me again?"

"No, I doubt it, considering no one survives a fall like that."

Sporty glanced out of the open doorway one last time before replacing the door properly. "Damn," she said to herself, "What a waste of a good shag." She turned around to notice everyone looking at her. "Err… or so I've heard," she corrected.

"She might still be alive," Posh said, returning to the subject at hand. "She was always going on with that 'Girl Power' rubbish by making us all say it."

"I'd like to see Girl Power protect her from a thirty thou…"

Scary was interrupted by Marilyn Manson stumbling back into the passenger area. "Holy shit, it's cold as fuck in here," he commented. "Did you stupid bitches tear off the fucking door or something?" He looked around the room at the girls, then counted on his fingers. "Wait, weren't there five of you fuckers before?"

"Ginger… um… had an accident," Scary explained.

Manson sat down, then began laughing hysterically. "Oh, that's a good one," he said in between laughs. "An 'accident.'" He motioned quotation marks with his fingers as he said the words. "I've got to remember to use that one every time I perform a Satanic ritual on someone's pet and they ask me where it went. 'Accident.' That's fucking priceless!" He laughed again.

"Mr. Manson," Posh said matter-of-factly. "I don't think I like your attitude. Why don't you piss off?"

Manson stopped laughing. "Hey, dumb whore. We're miles above the fucking earth. Where exactly would you like me to piss off to?"

Posh stood with her mouth open, not used to anyone disobeying her order to piss off.

"And that reminds me," Manson continued, "where's the dipshit pilot flying this fucking heap? I was reading Balzac in the can, and this fucking plane goes through a storm cloud, and a lightning bolt nearly burns my dick off."

The stunned Posh began to speak again, this time in a much more grave tone. "Mr. Manson, I don't think I like your atti…"

Scary cut her off. "Um, we're going to go see the pilot now, as a matter of fact!" She led Posh towards the cockpit, whispering to her, "This is for your own good. If you piss off that weirdo, he's liable to sacrifice you to his god or something."

"Fuck you!" Manson yelled as they left the passenger section.

They reached the forward cabin and knocked on the door. "Hello? Mr. Pilot?" Scary asked gently.

They waited. "I don't think he's answering," commented Posh. "Let's just go in."

Posh reached for the door handle, jiggled it a few times, and gave up. It wouldn't budge. "I think it's locked."

"Not a problem," Scary said, opening her mouth and sticking her fingers in it.

"What are you doing?" Posh asked, somewhat disgusted.

Scary's fingers reemerged from her mouth holding a small lockpick. She looked at Posh. "What, you thought the tongue piercing was ornamental?"

"But… why?"

"You've never been busted for possession, have you?"

Posh thought for a moment. "Possession? I've possessed lots of things. Possession of what exactly?"

Scary threw her arms in the air. "Never mind," she said, and began to work at the cockpit door's lock. Within a few seconds, the door was unlocked, and Posh and Scary opened it and stepped through.

Taped to the seat was a small piece of paper with a note written on it. It read:

Dear Spice Girls,

I decided that I hated Virgin Records and everything they've produced. So instead of landing this plane in New York as planned, I've set the plane to continue onward to the Virgin Records Megastore in Ontario. Upon reaching the province, the aircraft will begin a quick descent towards the store that will destroy both the jet and a city block. I have parachuted out of the plane, and have replaced all of the emergency parachutes with inflatable female sex dolls as a cruel joke. Please give my apologies to Mr. Manson for killing him.

May you burn in Hell,
Earl the pilot

"Damn!" Scary cursed. "He's not here!"

"Maybe he's in the back taking a piss?" Posh asked.

"No, I don't know where he is." She looked around. "But for some reason, he's disappeared and been replaced by this small piece of paper with these funny lines and curves drawn all over it."

"What do you suppose it means?"

"I don't know, but maybe we should tell the others."

They walked back to the passenger section of the plane. Sporty was leafing through the magazine rack. Marilyn was teasing Baby like a man teases a dog with a stick; he was dangling a silver pendant in front of her face, which he would pull back the second she grabbed for it. He looked up at Scary and Posh as they got back. "Hey, your stupid-as-shit friend here is pretty funny." He put the pendant in his pocket. "So where's the fucking pilot?"

Posh held out the note. "It's terrible! For some strange reason, he's been transformed into this little piece of paper with funny drawings on it!"

Manson's eyes widened. "Give me that!" he yelled, and snatched the note from Posh's hand. He looked it over. "You stupid fuck! These aren't funny fucking drawings! They're fucking WORDS!"

Posh and Scary's eyebrows raised. "So that's what those things look like," Posh commented.

Manson read the note aloud to everyone. Everyone was dead silent by the time he finished. "Oh heavens!" Scary cried. "What are we going to do?"

Manson took charge of the situation. "Right, first things first. We need a fucking ETA. Look out the window, and tell me what you see."

Sporty, Scary, and Posh rushed to the plane's windows and looked out. They were silent for a bit. "Um… what are we looking for?" Sporty finally asked.

"Look at the ground below us. Is it gray, filthy, and covered in a layer of shit, or is it clean, healthy, and green?"

"Umm…" Scary said, squinting. "It's clean, healthy, and green."

"Fuck!" Manson yelled. "That means we've passed the United States and are already in Canada!" He kicked at a seat. "It's too late! We're fucking doomed!"

Pandemonium erupted in the passenger section. Baby squealed loudly at the bad news. Scary searched desperately through the various compartments for something that resembled a prescription or illegal drug. Posh tore through her luggage hoping to find a nice suit to wear for when the paramedics found her. Manson grabbed a towel, wiped the makeup off of his face, fished a Bible out of one of the compartments, and began reading while he sobbed like a little girl. Sporty went on a desperate search for an air pump and the emergency parachutes.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the Virgin Records Megastore in Ontario, Canada, a chubby young girl walked into the store. The cashier's eyes shot open when she saw the new customer, and before she could duck behind her desk so as not to be seen, the little girl saw her and walked over to the counter. The girl stood silently for a few seconds, then opened her mouth to speak: "WHERE'S THE FUCKEN NEW SPICE GIRLS ALBUM?"

The cashier sighed. Every Tuesday, this exact same ritual went on. This girl, who the cashier had decided long ago must be the result of married siblings, would barge into the store and harass customers and employees alike, demanding to know where the new Spice Girls album was, despite the fact that the Spice Girls had not released a new album since Spice World. And so, each week, the girl would stand by the counter shouting out various profanities until it was time for the store to close. Not once did she take no for an answer.

"Katie," the cashier said between sighs, "I told you last week… and the week before… there is no new Spice Girls CD."


The cashier rolled her eyes. "Katie, first of all, I am a woman." She placed emphasis on her gender when she spoke. "'Fag' isn't even the right term to describe a homosexual woman, which I am not." She paused, letting it sink into Katie's head. "And furthermore, just because there isn't a new album out doesn't mean I hate the Spice Girls."


"Listen to me, you little imp," the cashier replied, trying not to lose her temper. "First of all, I am married with two children. I am not a lesbian. Second, I don't have Internet access, and therefore no one online knows who I am. And besides that, you can't report anyone for his or her opinions!" Then, she added: "Which still doesn't change the fact that there is no new Spice Girls album!" She was out of breath by the end of her speech.


The cashier threw up her arms in surrender. She was on the verge of quitting her job thanks to this particular annoyance, but as long as she was still employed by the Virgin Records Megastore in Ontario, she had to maintain a level of quiet respect, even for annoying customers.

A middle-aged gentleman walked up to the counter with a CD in his hand. He smiled in acknowledgement of Katie, who was standing next to the counter watching him, along with all of the other customers. He handed the CD to the cashier and took out his wallet.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU BUYING?" Katie asked him.

He was startled at the girl's vulgarity, but assumed it was merely a teenybopper trend of some sort.

"I'm buying a CD of one of my favorite groups," the man replied with a half smile. Gosh, kids say the darndest things.


He smiled thinly at what he thought was the innocence of youth. "No," he said, "it's by a band called The Rolling Stones. They've been one of my fav…"

Here it comes, thought the cashier as she scanned the price of the CD.


The man looked shocked. "What? Spice Girls? I never said…"


The cashier handed the man his change. He turned to her and commented, "What a lovely child," sarcastically, and left the store in a hurry.

"HE'S A FUCKEN CHICKEN, ISN'T HE, MISS LESBO?" Katie asked the cashier. "I'M SO COOL."

As she was about to protest to Katie once more, her phone rang. She picked it up. "Hello?" She listened for a moment. "Here? This store?" she asked in a worried voice. More listening. "Holy God! I'll get everyone out right away!" She hung up.

Pushing her chair up to the counter, she used it as a stepladder and climbed onto the counter. She yelled for the store to hear, "Everyone, I must ask you to evacuate the store calmly and quickly. It is absolutely imperative that everyone leaves right at this very moment." People began filing out of the store.


The cashier opened her mouth to warn Katie, then leaned over and smiled. "You got us Katie. You win. I guess you're just too clever for us."

Katie smiled triumphantly. "FUCKEN RIGHT I AM. I'M REALLY COOL."

"That's right," the cashier said with a fake smile on her face. "And since you're so cool, everyone in the store is rushing out to find you a copy of the latest Spice Girls CD. That person that called was the Virgin Records president, and he told me, 'Get everyone out of that store now and find Katie a copy of the new CD.'"

Katie's eyes were wide, and a string of drool was forming on her bottom lip. "REALLY? YOU WOULDN'T LIE TO ME, WOULD YOU, YOU FUCKEN LESBIAN?"

"Oh, no," lied the cashier. "In fact, I have to get going now too, so I can help everyone find your CD." She gave Katie one last smile, turned, and ran out the door. She got into her car, turned the key, and screeched out of the parking lot as fast as possible.

Katie was merely left sitting by the counter of the Virgin Records Megastore in Ontario. "I'M SO FUCKEN COOL," Katie commented to herself, as she waited patiently for the fucken homos to bring her the new Spice Girls CD.

* * *

Up above, a private jet screamed through the skies, its intended target a large store in Canada owned by an international conglomerate. Aboard it, five souls braced for the impact that would surely cost them their lives. Marilyn Manson was sobbing uncontrollably, partially because of his impending death, and partially because poor Lot's wife had just been turned into salt. Baby had passed out from a lack of oxygen. Posh was busily choosing between the tan dress and the beige dress. Scary was lying in her seat with a hypodermic needle sticking out of her arm. And Sporty was huffing and puffing as fast as she possibly could to inflate the sex dolls and make some use of them before she died.

The plane shot downward through the sky at a forty-five degree angle. The hull of the small aircraft screeched and moaned as it plummeted for the ground. Marilyn put down his Bible and ran for the cockpit. "Evil Rocker Stares Death in the Face Moments Before Disaster," the headlines would read. Yes, he could see it now. This was how he wanted to go: messily and bloodily. Wait, was "bloodily" even a word? He didn't care. He would forever remain in infamy, dying in an extremely messy collision between a large, metal flying machine and the cold, unfeeling Earth. This would be his final performance, his last show, his…

Manson looked down and noticed that his pants were wet with urine. As he realized with horror what the headlines would say now --Glam Rocker Pisses Himself Before Croaking-- he allowed himself to mutter, "Oh fuck," before the plane hit the ground.

At the same time, in the Virgin Records store, Katie sat patiently, pondering how cool she was simply because she liked the Spice Girls. Above her, there was a slight whistling noise that was gradually getting louder, sort of like when the coyote fell off the cliff in those Road Runner cartoons, or sort of like the whistling noise her toothless cousin made when climaxing during sex with her. Katie got up from the floor and opened the door cautiously. She looked left. No one there. She looked right. No one there either. Wow, all those fags must have gone home, she thought. Then, hearing the whistling noise for the last time in her life, she looked up at the sky and stared directly into the nose of the two-ton aircraft bearing down on the spot she was standing. "FUCKEN SHIT," she managed to croak before the plane crashed into her.

On to Chapter II: Revenge.

Trademark and copyright 1999, CloudVader Productions. Do not reproduce without giving the author, Cloud Volpe, due credit.