Upon waking up in a cellar full of dead Nevadan natives and zero recollection of her previous life, Sweet Ann stocks up on Colt Army guns and pilfers a Cadillac coupé, with a sudden impulse to go gambling! When she encounters Big Al at the casino, will he be her heartthrob or a foregone nightmare? One-shot.
Sweet Ann was born in a cellar with bright, light fixtures. She seemed to be on a gurney, or operating table, either one would have been imaginable. When she stepped away from the cramped seating accommodation — a large, orange foot slapped the wheels of a surgeon’s stool. The rolling pedestal crashed into the corpse of a white coat, laying on his girth, a stomach that pillowed like a vehicular air bag bellow him.
Nearly crashing into a steel desk, she swipes her large, meaty mitts through a stack of papers with a red, confidential seal stamped on the folders. The first folder contained a memo that detailed the lengthy procedure of stapling Georg Rydeberg’s preserved head onto the body of a decapitated linebacker. There is a back and white photo of a hulking man in a dress, holding up a placard that says, “Sweet Ann,” like in a mug shot.
The newly awoken patient furrows their brows and says in a pre-programmed, Southern twang: “Boy, golly! Is that there person the ugliest I’ve ever seen, and I don’t remember a gosh darn thing! Oh, howdy, do I want to know what in tarnation I’m doing in this basement—this place scares the living daylights out of me!”
Sweet Ann tumbles away from the documents that are written about her, not knowing that she is the Frankenstein experiment in the dossier! Almost gutting herself on a porcelain sink, Ann catches a glimpse of her own reflection in a mirror with cobwebbed cracks! An audio gasp, and then she screws her eyes together and stares in further to examine herself, saying, “Holy mackerel, is this what I look like? Before I woke up, I had a dream that I was a slender gal with bright, porcelain skin. I had a nice, peach basket hat with dressin’ atop! I had hair as vibrant as a yellow-bellied rooster, and a nice little, upturned nose. My eyes were like sapphires in the ocean sky, now I look like one of them hooded raccoons! I had a nice lil’ ol’ vintage corset and a swanky white dress, but this tacky red thing doesn’t even fit ’round my bosom, and it’s not because I’m busty neither! It’s because I have the torso of a man!”
Ann’s large, spray-tanned hand swallows of bundle of her crispy “Q”s and when she tosses them behind her, it’s like a racquet batting back a bouncing shuttlecock. The texture of her hair is impossibly dry and the feel of her permed corkscrew-curls is like a sheath of crinkle-cut fries. Her skin is burnt orange, like her body had been died in a bath of American cheese slices! Her mouth was big, like the gaping maw of a Great White shark and her hooded irises were like two canaries peeping out of a dark, coal mine.
Her shoulders were brawny and she felt as though they were more than three of her head-widths! Her lips were singed and thin, like the ravine in a bag of potato chips. Her fire engine, red nail polish is about one of the only things that they got right on her person! Sweet Ann, stared at her bobble-headed skull, and she exclaims as femininely as can be, “Why, I never!”
There are a pair of heeled stilettos that are blazing red, like a flame, and Ann is surprised that any size of shoe could fit her mammoth-sized trotters! There is a wall full of firearms in the next room, and Sweet Ann grabs a a few of the Colt Army models with her King Kong paws and walks with one leg other, next the exit of the underground facility, reaching the top of the stairway, she barrels out into a little country, ranch house.
A stack of postcards on the starch tablecloth that read: Welcome to Nevada. Not knowing how to carry all of her metal shooters, she places them on the seat of an antiquated upholstered chair, and finding a bag of potatoes in the kitchen, she dumps them out on the dining room table and the gleaming china plates clatter, and she gathers her guns up in the burlap sack.
A gust of sand greets the Herculean creation of man and she spots an old Cadillac, coupé with the keys still sitting in the ignition. Boy howdy, was it Ann’s luck day! She can’t fit the seatbelt around her musculature, so she just shrugs and curses in Southern slang, after completely dismantling the harness from the holster. Knowing how to drive a car, like how someone would inherently know how to position themselves on a bike, Sweet Ann blasts off into the white, noonday light.
Her glossy, long nails click back the stick shift and she stops by a nearby gas station. Something about the signboard that talked about purchasing lotto ticket struck something deep in Sweet Ann’s psyche! Like a wolf drawn the smell of blood in winter, Ann nearly crashes through the shop window in her fervency. Her Cadillac has coasted several feet onto the pavement, and near the coolers of ice bags, and the southern belle has to duck to fit through the minuscule walkway!
“H-Hello there,” the prepubescent-looking cashier looks, with pasty skin and a pock-marked face, “m-m-m’an-m?”
“Name’s Sweet Ann,” Ann herself says coquettishly, but the boy nearly squirted a ribbon of neon-yellow nacho paste all over himself upon hearing her roaring timbre, “I came for those there lottery thing-a-ma-jigs!”
“Okay,” the terrified cashier punches a few buttons with sweaty palms, “that, uh, will be either five bucks, ten, or twenty for today. We are sold out of the fifty dollar packages.”
Ann rams her fists into the table and it puts a dint in it, she thunders like an Olympian god, “I have to pay money? For paper?”
“Uh,” the squeamish worm explains through bottle-rimmed glasses, “well, you see, paper for more paper is the currency of gambling. There’s a huge Casino in the city that does the same thing, except you can play games for cash.”
The nerd was doing anything he could to get her off his back, he was supposed to be the dungeon master at the campaign this week. He was the only one of his friends capable of leading the guild in the right direction. Tim had never expected a walking embodiment of an orc to demand lotto tickets! This woman was more ripped than Kenshiro from Fist of the North Star, and she could probably pack a deadlier punch, too!
Readjusting his wiggling frames, ill-fitted on his small, rat face… since he hadn’t asked his Dad if he could use the screwdriver in the shed to tighten them back up, Timothy Johnson drew a small map on a scroll of receipt paper. His misaligned, yellow-sheeted teeth shone through, as he attempted to place all of his charisma points on wooing this terrifying customer, “Ahem, so you take that intersection and you’ll end up in the middle of town. The casino is gigantic, you can’t miss it.”
Sweet Ann clapped her meat hooks together in adoration, staring at his nameplate, and cooed in gratitude, “Timothy, you are the best, if I don’t find my Mr. Right, lets you and I go on a date sometime!”
Timmy visibly cringed, he was a kiss-less virgin, but even he had standards! Ann turned a heel and as she was walking out of the store, for a splintering second, Timothy could have sworn that he saw one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, in the reflection of the glass. The supermodel Swede winked at him, before turning back into an ogre, a blush turned his face a searing red and he said to himself, “Man, I would throw out all the figures and dakimakuras of my anime waifu that I had, if she was my girlfriend!”
Following the directions to a “T” —Ann bunkered up on the back of a factory fresh Lamborghini. She daintily hopped down from the passenger’s seat, despite having crushed someone’s brand-new automobile! She had her burlap sack with her and she hurled it over her shoulder, like a homeless Santa Claus, and entered the ostentatious, entry hall. Across from the parlor, she experienced a sudden, déjà vu encounter. Her heart murmured, after breaking loose in her robust chest. This man was as strangely cartoonish as she was and had a head like the Woody character from “Toy Story” that was animate and hung back, like a marionette perpetually being hung on several strings!
“Al?” Sweet Ann murmurs, but to the populace it comes out as a feral howl, “Big Al? Is that you?”
In an expressionless desperation, he sweeps his poker chips off the green baize and runs in the opposite direction. The monster of a woman gallops at the speed of a startled stead, and he turns around and starts emptying ammo at her in the open crowd. Sweet Ann suddenly remembers the man! Big Al was the one who decapitated her, he had chopped off her head with a meat cleaver, back then! Her blue eyes glowed red with rage, catching up with him in an athletic stride, Sweet Ann growls, “Wait, just a minute there, Mr. Fancy-Pants! You don’t mess with a woman’s beauty, and get away with it, free of charge!”
She pulls a Colt out of the gunny, and cocks it with her titanium-plated veneers. Before she can shoot, she attempts to bash in his head with the firearm, but he shields himself with his shooter, like a fencing sword. Similar to her french fry curls, his hair was dehydrated and flakey, like the meat on a fast food burger! They were cut from the same cloth, those two! Big Al releases a mechanical laugh, blaring through the corridor, he says, “How many times do I have to kill you, for you to stay dead, Sweet Ann?”
“If you cut off my limbs, I’ll grow ’em back bigger and stronger,” Ann says, her foot rested on the lever of a slot machine, “You cannot defeat Sweet Ann, never ever! And if you keep deleting me and everthin’ I’ve worked for, I’ll just be more a bother to you. I’ll just keep grown’ bigger and better, everything you delete, I’ll rewrite… over and over again! Like a cockroach, I’ll come back as more of a pest, so the best thing to do is just leave me be, Big Al. Or every asset that you ever earn will be plundered and in my pocket. Don’t go messin’ with me! Never, ever!”
Sweet Ann unties a rope that she had used to tie the burlap sack, and ties it into a noose. Swirling it around in a spinning hurricane, Ann lassoes into the poker chips with unreal precision, and makes them jingle in her bag full of goods. The Hulk-like woman then glides down the wooden railing of the stairway, and her heels cause the wood chips to soar through the air, like a welder makes spark fly! Deescalating, she mounts her car crash like a rodeo bull, and as cop car sirens blare in the distance, Sweet Ann whirls out of the city. Her rusty, old Cadillac surpasses the limits of the speedometer. Ann must be accelerating at over five hundred miles an hour!
The lines of reality blur, and Sweet Ann’s turgid persona is spun and stretched into a wormhole of penciled-in lines. She had become A-ha’s “Take on Me” music video, her vehicle spins into the void. Sweet Ann has gone so fast that she’s turned into a character from one of those Japanese animations, and a pretty one at that, like the peach hat-wearer from dreams past. And then, the legend of Sweet Ann ended, the gunslinging mishmash of a person was never seen in our version of reality. Ever again.
After Donald Trump has since be dispelled from his self-imposed, God-like stature… a new messiah has become the American icon, and that is Sweet Ann. Her vanishing act in the desert caused the barren land to bloom with crystal roses, shaped like hexagonal rubies. Blossoming out of every cactus dome, the rise of the fellowship of Sweet Ann grew, like the preceding cult icons in the United States.
Except, Sweet Ann, a force of nature, didn’t ask to be loved or hated. She just merely existed to win big at the casino and give Big Al, out yonder, his comeuppance for murdering her once before. Perhaps, he had many times. Her blinded followers with big, red shrouds over their skulls, give anyone who questions their religion a clementine and asks them to repent.
And thus, the legend of Sweet Ann began.