SCUL mission Hapto's prom-party:
The stars were certainly out last night at a gala birthday party that
rocked the fashion world and several local hotspots. SCUL's fashion
elite demonstrated once again that satin, leather, sequins, feathers,
battery-powered lights and yes, fish and metal helmets can be used to
shattering effect, oh so chic.
As the guests arrived at the fort, (the hip hideaway of Skunk, Pecan,
and Ehawk, notorious SCUL party hosts), the mood was electric. Where
would the evening's mysterious ride take them? Would their eyeliner
stay set? Who had the tool kit? Were those heels exactly the right
shade of tarnish?
Veal lounged picturesquely on the sofa, proving once again that basic
black should never be underestimated. His dress was simple, almost
severe with a square cut neck that set of his beard with dash. Beside
him, in a tasteful salmon top sprinkled with bicycles, Kung Fool kept an
eye on things, acting as chaperon.
Pecan floated in and out, arrayed in a devastating flounced black whirl
of taffeta undercut by stunning black and tangerine striped stockings, a
brilliant touch, taking the outfit from nouvelle Goth to urban pirate
Grimlocke wore a wicked black concoction, with crimson slash marks
dramatically punctuating the look. Violent, yet playful.
Skunk appeared in a daringly short mini he toned down by choosing a
demure shade of blue and opting for flats with socks, the whole edgy
ensemble, set off by his signature electric hat, effortlessly achieving
a deceptively casual look.
Ehawk was a confection of pink froth and white. A Ballerina prom
princess straight out of one of those French films about charming mad
Flamboyantly stylish in a suit of a truly ferocious purple, Retard
completed her ensemble with a dashing silver belt. "I'm channeling my
inner superhero" she explained. And she'd need to, riding that
notoriously naughty chopper USB Annihilation.
Eventually, with only one or two people bitten by Nemo, the ever
opportunistic parrot, the party moved down to level 0, a cozy private
den in the basement, done in post modern grubby, where last minute
adjustments to costume and choppers were being made. The air was thick
with the screeching of metal, cursing of pilots driven to the edge of
despair and suffocating clouds of hairspray. The fort fairly buzzed
with excitement. Would it rain again, with hail this time? Would the
radio work? Which way were they going? And where was Hapto anyway?
Samurai was mysterious and very Parisienne with notes of dangerous
intent and a lot of gleaming hair.
Axeman was almost incomprehensible in a baffling assortment of skirts
and bandannas. Maggots were modest, understated.
Outside, the tone was cool. Smoke wafted in everyone's faces, thick as
a woolly rug. StarHustler glided up, piloted by Threespeed managing to
look both dashing and bitter, wearing two fiercely combative patterns of
plaid (one of them with spikes) and an edgy blue sequin bowtie. MsMoon,
perched on the copilot seat in a bewildering clash of fuchsia,
chartreuse and teal ruffles dripping (and rattling) with orange beads
and clanking gold coins...
But all eyes turned with astonishment and awe, to stare at the elegant
yet so now gown Pywaket wore. A rich cascade of mauve satin falling in
folds that swept the sidewalk, with a bold cutout back. Pywaket chose
strappy pumps of plum with plenty of sparkle (which he hung alluringly
from his handlebars while riding).
At last, Hapto sailed in, a renaissance demon, fashionably late, in a
bristling stand-out flame colored skirt offset by a brilliant satin
jacket printed with upside down faces in black and white. A sort of
explosion on wheels. As hostess, Ms. Hapto arrived with a petit
arsenal of sprays and last minute accessories. Wasting no time the
fashionista stuck a bright pink wig on Frenchy, (which instantly took
his outfit from curbside chic to lunatic-gauche). With ruthless
abandon, she flung scarves and paints, rescuing the 'not quite there
yet' at lightning speed. "Turn around" she ordered, uncapping and
shaking a large can at Scurvy (attractively dressed in delicately faded
plaid flannel and a flared skirt) who with supreme confidence, put his
hair in the path of the spray can, only venturing a moment later:
"What color is it?"
All was ready. The sonic disruptor smashed into SCULs theme-song, and the
20 promsters flung themselves out into the quiet streets where the
unsuspecting public was about to discover the true meaning of SCULstyle.
(Not all of them liked it).
"Show everything but mercy" seems to have been the slogan of the hour.
The food: to-die-of cake, 'Purple octopus with wings in flames'
decadently gooey and potentially lethal. The drink: an eclectic
assortment of beer, warm water and ominously colored mystery bottles
that caused more than a few people to drape themselves luxuriously (and
with tremendous dignity) on various patches of tarmac, concrete, and in
one case a large puddle. (but that was much later),
The decor: Moon, large, round and yellow. The city: damp, but
pleasant, with lots of bridges, curving roads and gentle (usually)
slopes. Parking-lots, lit by streetlight, moonlight, and Scul-light,
became glittering ballroom/arenas for dancing and/or battle. (Usually
not at the same time).
The games: Deadly Dodge ball Derby. There were rules, but nobody
seemed to know what they were. Some people managed to lose their
clothing temporarily. And for awhile, a sporty shopping cart crashed
about in an alarming and random manner, adding even more confusion to
The Art: Ehawk-chalkworks (intrepid bunnies mostly) bloomed on the
parking lot, which was impressive considering the artist was in constant
danger of being squashed as she crawled about on her rapidly expanding
masterpieces almost under the wheels of the rest of the fleet..
The Dance: Truly inspired. The music ricocheting wildly from
molten-angry to mindlessly-jolly to soppy was irresistible.
The Fans: Wardrobe wannabes reeled back in awe. Sidewalks erupted with
shrieks of delight, cries of dismay, and screams of outrage. High 5's
were so enthusiastic they nearly unseated a couple of the less sturdy
pilots, while the thuggish burbled brutish and inarticulate protests.
The fight scenes: well, almost. Maybe. OK, none. But some of the
stunning (literally) and provocative fashion statements unleashed by
SCUL may have caused several faints, walking-backward-into-walls
incidents, and certainly more than a few nightmares. The fashion world
may never be the same.
The Triumphs: Threespeed trash-picked an enormous metal object which
Retard instantly recognized as a part of an air-system. Amazingly, it
was quickly transformed into a fabulous and adorable hat. Everyone will
be wearing them by fall. Rush to your favorite dumpster, they'll be
snapped up fast.
The Tears: At the after-party, in a glamorous parking lot where SCUL
met to hold its closing ceremonies and awards, emotion ran all over the
place. Soppy and heroic speeches were made. Everyone who could still
figure out how to do it clapped wildly. Skunk managed to climb onto
cloud-tower for the last time, and the fleet vanished silently into the
night, like a sparkling, spiky dream.
|eHawk||Schadenfreude||814.127||Rear Admiral, Lower Half|
|Fleet Admiral Skunk||Cloudbuster||981.043|
|Frenchy||El Guapo||228.559||Lieutenant Commander|
|KungFool||Dr. Love||400.807||Petty Officer 1st Class|
|MsMoon||Star Hustler (Bombardier)||294.407||Petty Officer 1st Class|
|Texas||Summer||450.521||Petty Officer 1st Class|
|Veal||Pale Horse||331.985||Chief Petty Officer|
|MRC Officer||Fleet Admiral Skunk|
|Print Jockey||Fleet Admiral Skunk|
|Skynet Operator (pre-mission)||eHawk|
|Still Cam||Fleet Admiral Skunk|