Chapter III


"Once again, cult rocker Marilyn Manson and an inbred little bitch from Canada have died in a plane crash. Sources say that no one gives a flying shit. Back to you, Tom."

The deep voice of the local anchorman brought Posh out of her dreamless slumber. The television in her room was broadcasting the evening news. She blinked a few times, letting her eyes adjust to the soft white of the hospital lights above her. My God, she thought, I haven't felt this feint since I saw Demi Moore with the same dress as me. She rubbed her temples and moaned. Then, she opened her eyes again, sat up, turned off the TV, and had a look around the room.

Lying on the bed next to her was Scary Spice, whose reason for staring blankly at the ceiling probably had something to do with the morphine-administering button her left hand was tightly clutched around.

Off on the end of the hospital room, Baby Spice was pressed up against a window, presumably being distracted by moving vehicles or small animals outside.

There was no sign of Sporty, which was probably a good thing, considering that the last time they were all in the hospital together, Sporty had attempted to give everyone else a sponge bath. There was also no sign of that bitch that she threw out of the plane.

The room itself was sparsely decorated. It was, after all, a hospital room. Still, Posh wondered where the designer curtains were, where the private bathroom was, why the bedsheets weren't silk, and for that matter, why she wasn't in her own private room.

A doctor walked into the room a moment later carrying Posh's chart. He smiled. "Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling, Ms. Adams?"

"My head hurts," she replied. "But even worse, I'm nauseous that I'm stuck in such a horrid little room. What floor are we on anyway?"

"Well, we had you in a nice, private room on the second floor, but security was a little loose," he said. "We caught three teenagers trying to replace your I.V. with bacon grease on three separate occasions. Not to mention the various bouquets of nightshade you've been sent. So, we had to move the lot of you to the top floor."

Posh grimaced. "So where's Sporty? Is she dead?"

"Oh no, far from it. She's been in surgery for the past few hours. It seems that somehow she became attached to an inflatable sex doll when the plane crashed. She just wouldn't let go of the damned thing. Medics had to use the Jaws of Life to get her out." He smiled.

Sex dolls, Posh thought. Great, Sporty had actually managed to inflate the damn things enough to provide for a cushion when the moment of impact arrived. She had saved their lives, and knowing her, she'd try to collect "payment" as soon as possible.

Suddenly, from down the hallway, a loud crash sounded, as well as a few screams from nurses and orderlies. Someone called for security. David Beckham flew into the room moments later, his fists clenched and his sloping brow indicating that he was quite mad at something.

He looked at the doctor. "You… try… to… hurt… Posh?" he asked.

"Hurt?" replied the doctor, dumbfounded. "Why no, actually, I'm one of the doctors who…" In that instant, Beckham cracked his fist along the doctor's jaw, and with an audible snap, he fell to the floor unconscious.

He stepped over the body and stood next to Posh's bed. "He… not… hurt… Posh… any… more."

Posh was gleaming. "Oh, David," she said lovingly, "you beat up a middle-aged man who saved my life, just because you thought he was trying to hurt me!"

"Want… shag… now?"

"That's the nicest thing," she continued, "that anyone has ever done for me." She widened her eyes and smiled at Beckham. "David, I think we should get married!"

"When… Posh… want… shag… Beckham?"

"Don't you see?" she went on. "We were obviously made for each other. You love me, and I love your mon… I mean, you! It only makes sense that we get married!"

"Posh… put… balls… in… mouth… again?"

"We could have a beautiful wedding," she said. "No, better yet, we could have a wedding that would put royalty to shame! We could sell the rights to all sorts of magazines, and we could bask in the glow of the media frenzy!"

"Posh… want… shag… yet?"

"Oh, just think of it! Instead of asking for wedding gifts, we could just have everyone give us money! We'll be rolling in it! And we could get someone famous to sing at the wedding! And we could hold it in a huge castle!"

"Grrr…" he grumbled. "Beckham… losing… stiffie."

"Think about it, David! We could make the sacred vows of marriage look like a circus attraction! And we could make piles of money from it, not to mention free publicity!" She was positively glowing at this point. She looked at Beckham, whose mind was still simply on one thing, and one thing only. "Well, what do you say?"

"Shag… now?"

"Just say yes, David."

"Yes," he grumbled. "Now… shag?"

A nurse walked into the room at that point, holding a pile of papers. "Good news, Ms. Adams!" she exclaimed. "We ran a few tests on you after the accident, and we found out that you're pregnant! Congra…" Beckham's fist interrupted her, sending her sprawling to the ground.

"No… hurt… Posh," he said to the unconscious nurse. "Me… want… action. No… hurt."

Posh and David embraced.

On to Chapter IV: Reckoning.

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