"Is that really necessary?"
Kelly sighed listlessly.
In her reflection she saw herself applying a dash of deep, black lipstick around her lips with meticulous detail. The rest of her face had already been seen too, with heavy eyeshadow circling her eyes, as well as thick mascara slathered to even thicker fake eyelashes, and pale, almost vampiric, blush applied to her nose and cheeks to give her an almost ethereal sense of regality.
This wasn't the sole deviation from Kelly's usual macabre, don't-give-two-f*cks skater goth chic. For one her trademark bobble hat was discarded, tossed away into some lost property box by the local Oxfam for some other dreary soul to express themselves with. That meant her hair, normally an unkempt bramble bush of dark locks, was given the freedom to fall freely into an almost robotically perfect accurate fringe, one that perfectly framed her soft features, albeit after an hour or two of religious straightening.
Gone too were her skull-emblazoned jumper, hooped leggings and clunky brown army boots. Now, all that covered her slender form was a simple short dress, dark as the night and elegant in its simplicity, and a pair of lacy embroidered heels, over which she'd pulled on a short, blood red leather jacket that peaked just over her midriff. Scattered around the rest of her were other various eccentric accessories, some of which included a delicate silk scarf, a bulky skull ring with edgy flame motifs edged onto its surface, a whole set of metal piercings lodged in her earlobes, and an alarmingly cute cat collar necklace. The whole ensemble seemed to have been carefully coordinated, giving her equal measures of innocent and alluring.
"Oh, but it is of the utmost importance, Kels," purred a familiar voice as Kelly's lips smacked emphatically.
The voice, though unmistakably Kelly's, was gruff and sonorous, ripe with a cocky twang that the introverted Chinese lesbian would never have been able to muster. The voice giggled again, soft and airy yet all the more menacing, "How are we going to get any b*tches with you looking like a depressed teenage boy?"
Kelly rolled her eyes from the reflection in the mirror opposite her now otherwise occupied body. "I thought you'd prefer that, you being a fifty-year-old bloke and all."
"Forty-seven," Barry Henderson, formerly Megan's biological father and the current occupant of one Kelly Wong, corrected her sternly, "But f*ck me, ain't no f*cking way I'm gonna bother keeping that god-awful number rattling around inside this dome of mine anymore. I am dead after all, remember?"
Kelly sighed once more.
She'd tried to purge the memory of her last performance on stage the week prior. Her and her bandmates, best mates Lindsey and Megan, were performing to a couple seniors at their local community centre as part of their outfit, the Punkopaths, eponymously named after an antihero of the same name from a comic-book about 'sticking the middle finger to the patriarchy' that Megan absolutely gushed over, metaphorically and physically.
Anyways, during their second set covering the aptly named 'Orgasm Addict' by the Buzzcocks (you can imagine how that went down), one of the speakers at the side of the stage blew.
The Punkopaths always dependable manager, Barry (the same man currently piloting Kelly's body) moved over to fix it. Had he known that a rogue lightning storm would choose that specific moment to give the centre's generator some of Zeus' wrath, hitting it with such force that the ensuing electrical energy would shoot through the opened insides of the speaker and electrocute Barry with enough energy to give him a heart attack by proxy, would he have done the same thing?
Judging by the coy smile stretched across his painted lips Kelly could guess the answer would be 'f*ck yes'.
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