Cherry’s phone was buzzing again. Taking it from her hip, she looked at the screen and saw the familiar photo she’d taken of Beatrix Kiddo some months back. Once upon a time, it was an image she’d looked upon fondly, a reminder of happier days when Cherry and Trixie (as Cherry liked to call her) would go bowling or miniature golfing. Sometimes, they’d stay in and watch Flavor of Love or The Hills marathons on a lazy Saturday, still dressed in their PJs from the night before.

These days, though, that picture just meant that it was yet another call from “The Bride.” Whining. Self-centered. Easily upset. Cherry could barely stand the thought of hanging with her former BFF, much less stomach the idea of calling her “The Bride,” something Beatrix had insisted upon ever since Bill and the DVAS had turned on her. So annoying.

Cherry rejected the call yet again. It seemed like the 50^th time she’d done so in the last week, but it was in fact just the 8^th. Still, she wished nothing more than to just have Trixie out of her life for good. Trixie, meanwhile, was lonely and scared that her lone friend in the world was ditching her as well. It was time to escalate the situation.

Trixie hopped in the Pussy Wagon and headed for the Pussy Ranch (Cherry’s house of employment). No dice though, as the diminutive dancer was nowhere to be found. So she roamed, hitting up every burger joint, dive bar and drive-in in a three county radius. Still nothing. Searching for hours, she couldn’t help that she had cooled down some by now, her fire and growing ire towards Cherry waning. It was time to head home, and possibly pick up this fight another day.

But there the bitch was. Trixie didn’t notice her at first - how could she? But there Cherry was, in front of a Dairy Queen, riding the mechanical toy horse (and El Wray as well). The nerve of those two – that thing’s for kids, yet here they were defiling it, all for the low, low price of two bits while downing their Peanut Buster Parfaits and Butterfinger Blizzards.

The P Wagon came to a screeching halt as Trixie practically flew out of it and onto the DQ parking lot.

“Bitch!” she screamed at Cherry. “Why have you forsaken me like all the others, and for toy horses and desserts, no less?”

“What pipe are you smokin’, Trixie?” Cherry snarled. “Just ‘cause I’m on a date with my man doesn’t mean I’m ‘forsaking you.’ Could you be a bigger drama queen?”

“Enough lies!” The Bride screamed, tears nearly bursting forth. “You don’t answer my calls or text messages, my emails get returned with that annoying MAILER DAEMON thing, and did I get even a thank you for the singing telegram? You’re gonna tell me a hippo belting out ‘Happy Birthday’ wasn’t the shiznit? How dare you treat me like this!”

“Uh, creepy,” Cherry said, as she inched away from Beatrix.

“What’s creepy about friendship?” blurted the Bride.

At this point, tears were streaming from Beatrix’s face, her makeup turning her into a Tammy Faye clone. Cherry couldn’t take much more of this. The toy horse was bothering her as well, so she promptly hopped off and confronted her former friend.

“Look, Bea, I know you’ve gone through some tough times, but I just don’t think we should see each other anymore. It’s not you, though, it’s me.”

“You’re using the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ routine?!? I invented ‘it’s not you, it’s me!’” shouted the Bride.

“There you go again with the drama queen business. You’re a bald-faced liar. Everyone knows George Costanza invented that line – I was just trying to spare your feelings. You know what, though – fine, it’s me. I – me – just can’t stand you anymore.”

Beatrix fell to the ground, a crumpled mess and a shell of her former self. Despite her blubbering, she managed to make a half-assed attempt at lunging towards Cherry with her Hanzo, but her emotional state had left her impotent in her assassinly ways. Cherry, being the hunter that she was, knew a wounded animal when she saw one, though, and sought to put her old friend out of her misery.

“Who brings a knife to a gun fight, anyway,” she mustered, as she put the Bride down with a single shot to the head.

“Say hi to Budd for me. I always liked that crazy Texan.”

——————-

The Bride was riding on Kyra’s dead body as they were both falling down her apartment building. As they were approaching the ground, Beatrix jumped off and while Kyra’s body landed with a wet THUD, The Bride landed on her feet.

Beatrix caught her breath and started to head back up when she saw that guy Jason walking out, holding a cell phone. He was covered in blood.

“It’s for you,” Jason said.

“What happened to you?” Beatrix asked.

“That Riddick guy came out and I asked him to spell a five letter word. One thing led to another and his head exploded.”

“Oh,” was all The Bride could say as she took the cell phone. “Beatrix Kiddo.”

“Hey, uh, it’s me. Q. We, uh, have a…situation here. We need your help.”

“I’m on my way.”

Beatrix hung up the phone.

“I gotta go. Good luck with your story,” Beatrix said, as she headed to her super cool car.

“Thanks. I’m gonna need it.”

Twenty minutes later, Beatrix arrived and she heard a whole lot of screaming and shooting. Beatrix got out of her car and headed towards the chaos. She saw “Q” and some Mexican fellow she remembers meeting once or twice. They were backing away from some black-haired chick missing a leg and-is this right?-in place of the missing leg was a machine gun?

“Cool”, Beatrix said.

“WHY DIDN’T MY MOVIE DO BETTER!” the machine gun legged chick was screaming out, as she shot some more people around her.

“I don’t know,” said the Mexican man, with fear in his eyes and voice.

“Look, if you just settle down-”

“What’s going on here?” Beatrix asked. Everyone, including the machine gun legged chick, looked at her.

“Oh thank God!” Q yelled out.

“WHAT IS SHE DOING HERE?!”

“She saw that our movie didn’t do so good, so she just went NUTS!” explained the Mexican fellow.

“I WANT YOU OUT OF HERE!!” the machine gun legged chick screamed as she aimed her leg-gun at Beatrix. Before the first 30 or so shots were fired, Beatrix jumped out of the way.

Beatrix landed nearby and ran for cover.

“Cherry, no!” said Q.

“Cherry?” Beatrix asked. “The hell kinda name is Cherry?”

“She’s a stripper. With a special talent,” the Mexican fellow said.

“And a, uh, machine gun for a leg,” Q added.

“Nice characteristic,” Beatrix added, pulling out her sword.

Cherry finally ran out of bullets and she hobbled over to where Beatrix was, who stood up with the sword.

“I don’t want you around!” Cherry bellowed.

“You’re just jealous that my movieSSS did better than yours!”

“You bitch!”

“Well, it’s not my fault your movie was directed by the guy who gave us ‘Sharkboy and Lavagirl’”.

“Yeah well…your guy…produced Hostel! And Hostel Part 2!”

“Ooh, that wasn’t necessary.”

Beatrix raised her sword and chopped off Cherry’s left arm, who looked at it, not at horror but with glee.

“Oh good! I can put a bazooka there!”

Cherry kicked her machine gun leg and kicked Beatrix in the side with it, causing her to fall. Cherry grabbed the sword and looked at it.

“Or this will do instead!” Cherry said, who then went and shoved the sword into the bloody stump. Cherry then made it move around.

“Nice.”

“You better, uh, run!” Q yelled out.

Beatrix got up and started running, with Cherry doing a sort of a half run-half stomp towards her. Beatrix thought and thought as she looked around. Then she saw the one thing that’ll take care of this deformed bitch.

Right in front of her was the Killer Car from “Death Proof,” with the skull painted on the hood and everything. Cherry stopped as Beatrix got in.

“Hold on to your remaining limbs,” Beatrix said, while she revved up the car. Cherry turned around and started running the other way. Beatrix continued revving the engine until it was nice and ready. Before Cherry could make it out the door, Beatrix put the death car into drive and immediately was going about damn near 80 MPH.

She was slowly catching up to Cherry, who was praying for more bullets to magically appear in her leg gun but it wasn’t happening. Beatrix then swerved off to the right and headed for a ramp that was suddenly there. She jumped the ramp and the car flew into the air, heading towards Cherry. Before Cherry knew it, the car landed right on top of her, crushing her entire body. Beatrix, for good measure, ran over the little stump that remained of Cherry, before getting out.

“That’s what I call a race car in the red.”

Asami, intrigued by the apparent gullibility of Americans after her recent trip to Texas, returns to the United States and this time visits Texas to find it a wasteland and finds herself meeting with a woman named Cherry who has survived whatever catastrophe has struck the state.

Asami is respectful and reserved in the Japanese fashion and earns Cherry’s trust. Eventually, she offers to take Cherry to Japan and offer her lodging until she can get on her feet there, away from all of the mess that is now Texas. Cherry gladly accepts and the two board a JAL flight to Tokyo, first class.

Upon arrival they take a taxi to Asami’s apartment (her victims are carefully hidden in sound-proofed trunks and other, assorted small, but effective devices, leaving outside observers completely ignorant of the horrible torture chamber which they have entered.

Cherry, calmed by the incredible kindness and graciousness of her hostess, calms herself with some tea and sits on the tatami mats which cover the floor of Asami’s apartment. Asami suggests they have some tea and Cherry, calmed by the consideration and care of her hostess, has built up enough trust to allow herself to consume some tea and so she gladly accepts.

Asami, as many may guess has a syringe of GHB hidden in her clothing, suspecting that her new guest may want to switch glasses to assuage whatever left over paranoia she has. She brings out and presents the tea and, just as Asami expected she would, asks for Asami’s cup of tea in exchange for the cup offered to her. Asami feigns slight offense, but acquiesces to the request and waits for an opportunity to pull out her syringe and squirt the GHB into the cup Cherry has accepted.

Unused to unsweetened tea, Cherry requests some sugar and Asami tells her it is in the kitchen on the counter. When Cherry leaves, Asami squirts the GHB into Cherry’s tea quickly and then uses the syringe to quickly stir it in (though since it’s colorless, odorless and tasteless, this may not even be necessary). Cherry returns and the two enjoy their tea until Cherry begins to feel tired and asks to be shown where she will sleep.

Asami brings her to her guest room, pulls out the traditional futon and bed linens and Cherry lies down and falls asleep.

Creeping into the room after the GHB has taken its effect, Asami injects Cherry with a strong sedative that is long-lasting and paralyzes her muscles, but leaves her nerve endings and consciousness in full awareness.

Asami uses the time with the GHB to restrain Cherry on a table with an elaborate series of ropes fashioned from barbed wire, which she tightens enough to leave ligature marks on Cherry. Cherry is now completely immobile and even if she somehow moves, it will only cause her greater pain by the barbed wire digging into her flesh.

Asami prepares her instruments and awaits Cherry’s awakening. After several hours this occurs and Cherry, confused and terrified, exclaims to Asami that there must be an intruder in the apartment and that she must help her!

Asami tells her in a soothing, but malevolent voice that there is no intruder; in fact, she has fallen into an elaborate trap and will now suffer what can only be described as death, literally by torture. “There will be no quick death for you,” she says, “and you will not simply be modified and stored like my slaves; instead I will simply torture you until you pass out from the pain, wait for you to awaken and repeat the process until you are dead.”

The first of the torture devices Asami brings removes the skin from Cherry’s feet, ankles and calves in what can only be described as a peeling and tearing fashion. Cherry screams in agony as the muscle, tendons and bone of her lower legs and feet is exposed to the air. Asami then brings out her belt sander and beginning with the bottoms of Cherry’s feet, begins to sand through the flesh of her feet, removing millimeter by millimeter the raw, exposed flesh until she
reaches Cherry’s knees.

Noting the blood loss, Asami brings in an IV filled with a blood type universally accepted by humans of all types and injects this while using a blowtorch every once in a while to seal off the bleeding areas and ensure not too much blood is lost that Cherry will die. Once the sanders reaches Cherry’s knees, she is long since passed out from the pain, so Asami bides her time and applies tourniquets to the portion of the leg above the knee to prevent any more loss of blood.

When Cherry awakens, Asami says she has always wanted to experiment with her tools in ways that would be too damaging or fatal to her slaves, so she will try them on Cherry instead.

She applies a water-based gelled lubricant to Cherry’s lips, nose and eyes and eyelids and tells her, “Do you know what happens when lye reacts with water?” The movie Fight Club long since engraining this into pop culture knowledge, Cherry is terrified beyond belief and begins praying for death.

Meanwhile, Asami applies enough lye to cover each of the gelled spots while wearing heavy gloves and the horror of chemical burns to some of the most moist and sensitive parts of Cherry’s body begins. Screaming in abject terror Cherry begins to resemble something from Tales from the Crypt or even the tar man from Return of Living Dead, lost without a nose or lips to cover her teeth, she looks like a living, breathing skull.

It is obvious when the lye reaction reaches the eyes and at this point the pain is so unbearable Cherry lets out her most fervent cry for help. The walls of the apartment being thoroughly sound-proofed, this accomplishes nothing and Cherry pours a liquid lye onto the eyeballs, waiting for them to burst open and cause a massive chemical burn which will drill through the eyes, their sockets, the nerves and into the brain matter. While this is happening she decides that she might as well begin getting rid of the evidence, so she douses Cherry with water and then applies vigorous amounts of powdered lye all over the body, which sticks to the water and begins to burn away the flesh.

Screaming and writhing as her eyeballs burst the plan goes into action, Cherry can’t help but wonder if her life would’ve been better off had she died in Texas. She fades on that memory as the lye covering her body produces an unimaginable pain and the lye in her eyes finally reaches into her brain causing her to fall unconscious and when it reaches the brain stem, dead.

Asami reviews her work and then raises the walls of the custom-built table to which Cherry is attached, adding waterproof and corrosion-resistant corners to provide a bathtub of sorts. She fills it with an acid and waits for the remains of this petulant Texan to dissolve. After that, Cherry’s body will be cast away by simply being flushed down the toilet and ending up at one of Tokyo’s many waste treatment plants where the workers think nothing of organic matter and lye flowing into their treatment pits.

Cherry is gone in life and body and Asami has claimed another victim in her sadistic adventures through the world of horror and pain the likes of which have not been seen since the Marquis de Sade’s ventures in France.

————–

Asami thought she had found her next perfect target…

Having grown bored with tending to malformed, tongueless troglodytes in potato sacks, she’d made the decision to take a vacation. Money wasn’t a problem, but boredom was, and America is nothing if not a cure for boredom. So off she went – first Seattle, then San Francisco, San Diego and so on, making her way south and east across the United States. Sure, there were killings here and there (someone’s gotta pay the bills, right?), but it had all grown so mundane.

Traversing across Texas, she was famished, and this was a hunger no vomit could cure. Stopping at a local, podunk truck stop, she found the man she just might have been looking for all these years. Short, dark-haired, troubled and taking nothing from no one, El Wray was, in many ways, just like her. In her broken English, she asked him to pass the hot sauce – after catching the glimmer in his eyes as he passed the Tabasco, they both knew that love was on the menu. The only problem? It was written in English. This proved a minor obstacle as they both soon dove headfirst into Rosetta Stone tapes all about the International Language…

Unfortunately, there was no translation for “another woman” in that language. As they rested after a rousing roll in the hay, El Wray searched for the right way to tell this pixie that his heart already belonged to another. As it turned out, that glimmer in Wray’s eye was just hot sauce.

Asami sat there, broken into a million pieces for the thousandth time. She was emotionally paralyzed, though she knew that that motionless feeling would soon be transferred to someone else. She let Wray leave…for now.

It didn’t take long for her to track him, or to ascertain to whom his heart belonged. A uni-legged stripper. Perfect – half the work was already done for Asami. She knew that the best way to inflict pain on Wray (before turning the screws to him) was to knock that stump-legged stripper down a few pegs.

Cherry was working at a lesbian burlesque bar these days, so Asami strolled in one day to pay a visit to her favorite dancer. Fortunately, having lots of money and speaking little was a winning combination for Asami, as this only made the dancers more curious and interested. Cherry wanted those Benjamins bad (machine gun legs tend to cause a lot of stump infections, leading to numerous doctor visits), so she did her best to draw Asami out of her shell while emptying her coin purse. She had the bartender bring them over some drinks –

Big mistake, and just the one Asami was waiting for. Going straight to her wheelhouse, she slipped a sedative into Cherry’s drink, and in no time had dragged her into a ladies’ room stall for some “aggressive counseling.” She first sliced off three of Cherry’s fingers and her nose. Then a breast. Flush. A couple toes here, an ear there. Flush. Just one problem – over the years, Cherry had built up an immunity to iocane powder. Pained as she was, she awoke and kicked the scrawny Asami clean off her, knocking her out in the process. In no shape to battle and fearful that Asami would wake, she tore out of the bar and headed for her car and home.

It was there that Wray saw what a monster Asami had turned Cherry into. However, where some might have seen a monster, El Wray only saw beauty and opportunity. As Cherry passed out, Wray tended to her wounds…

It was only when Cherry awoke that she realized the genius that was El Wray. Sure, she knew of his philandering ways, but only a brilliant mastermind could take a one-legged, no-nosed, one-eared, one-breasted, seven-fingered, eight-toed beast of a woman and turn her into a machine-gun legged, dagger-fingered, grenade-eared, dynamite-breasted, brass-knuckle-toed superkiller.

Asami didn’t stand a chance…

Seeing an opportunity to do something more unique, I decided to forgo the traditional narrative. Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez are frequent collaborators, as each has not only worked on one another’s films, but have worked in unison on films such as Four Rooms and Grindhouse. As such, I used several of my connections within the film industry to finagle an interview with not just one, but both of them, with the goal of finding out from the creators of the characters themselves (Cherry Darling of Grindhouse’s Planet Terror and O-Ren Ishii of Kill Bill) just who would win a battle between the two of them. Would it be my little Cherry, or Piper’s darling O-Ren? I flew out to Rodriguez’s Austin compound to meet the two and get the answer…

Dylan Fields: Gentleman, first off let me say that it’s a great honor to meet you both. I’ve loved your films over the years, and look forward to many more.

Quentin Tarantino: Thanks, man…I mean, like, it’s so great to hear that from fans. I mean, that’s what me and Robby are in this business to hear – to get that personal love from folks just like you.

Robert Rodriguez: I couldn’t agree more. I don’t like to call myself just a director or writer or producer, but a storyteller, spinning yarns for not only my kids, but to the kids from all over the world.

DF: Glad to say it. Anyway, the reason I wanted to bring you guys together was to help settle a debate. You see, there’s this little movie blog site I’m a part of (called the LAMB), and we’re having an event called The Sirens of the LAMBs, where we’re pitting foxy ladies from a number of films against each other to see which femme fatale would come out on top. One of my fine chicas, Cherry Darling, is up against O-Ren Ishii, and I wanted to see who you guys thought might win.

RR: Hmm…that’s a great idea but a tough question. On the one hand –

QT: Sorry to interrupt, Bob, but I have to say that that’s a tremendous idea. It reminds me of an episode I’d written of Fox Force Five, where Raven McCoy found out that Sommerset O’Neal was sleeping with her man and challenged her to a battle to the death. I mean, it woulda been fanf*ckingtastic, but obviously, I had to keep them from battling, because then it would have ended up being the Fox Force Four at best, and that just doesn’t sound as cool as Fox Force Five if you know what I mean (laughs).

RR: Anyway, back to his question. Let’s consider the strengths and weaknesses of each character. With Cherry, you obviously have her powers of seduction, being a former stripper and all, and then she shows tremendous intestinal fortitude after losing her leg, and to top it all off, ends up with an M4 attached to replace her pirate-like wooden stump.

QT: But with O-Ren, I mean, you’re talking about a trained assassin who excels in swordplay. Unlike some midget stripper – no offense to Rose McGowan, of course, but she’s tiny – O-Ren is a bad ass with a capital B and a capital A, if you know what I mean.

DF: Indeed I do. Now you guys see the conundrum that not only I, but the voters of the Sirens event, have to contend with. We’re talking about two tough ladies –

QT: But really, I mean, like, how could anyone consider Cherry a formidable opponent against a kickass ninja b*tch like O-Ren? I mean, when I first came up with the idea for her –

RR: What do you mean “when you first came up with the idea?” I gave you the idea for not only O-Ren, but all of the Fox Force Five after we watched Shadow Killers Tiger Force at my house in 1992!

QT: What are you talking about?!? I wrote the screenplay for Kill Bill when I was working at Video Archives long before I even met you!

RR: You’re crazy, man. I want proof of this supposed screenplay.

QT: I don’t have to give you proof of sh*t, maaan! I know what I wrote and when I wrote it. Just because you know Cherry would get her butt smacked all the way to Cleveland doesn’t mean you gots to start making up stories here.

DF: Guys, let’s try to get focused on the battle. Quentin, if this were to go down, how do you think it would unfold? Let’s get all the background out of the way and say these two just meet up in an alley – what happens next?

RR: Now wait just a second. [To Tarantino] Don’t give me this b.s. about making up stories. That’s rich coming from the guy that’s been copping mine for the past 15 years.

QT: What?!? I don’t need to quote-unquote [makes finger quotes] copy your crappy stories about Shark-Head and Magma-Boy or anything like that. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been doing pretty damn good for myself. Ever heard of a little film called Pulp Fiction, buddy? If I recall, it set all kinds of records for independent film box office – what’s your biggest earner?

RR: ¡Dios mio! What a pendejo. Your little tale wouldn’t have seen the light of day if it weren’t for El Mariachi, friend. Remember that one? And while we’re at it, you wouldn’t have had a clue how to do all those special effects for your Billy movies if I hadn’t let you use my hardware here.

DF: Guys?

QT: Sh*tcan it, Darren. You know, I’ve had about as much as I can take from my supposed amigo here. I mean, like, he’s been piggybacking off my success for how long now?

RR: Me piggybacking you?!? Please – what’s to piggyback? You make the same movie over and over again. Shit, if it weren’t for this nice guy here, I’d slap you upside the head.

QT: Go for it, brother. I’ll show you that not only would O-Ren dice Cherry up into 50 itty bitty pieces, but that I’d do the same to you.

DF: Thanks for your time, guys – I’m just gonna head out now.

[They proceed to start b*tch-slapping each other.]

Well, so much for that idea. Suffice it to say that I got what I needed, as the flight back home gave me plenty of time to think about the battle between the two ladies. And you know what? It was really simple after all. I didn’t need to go to Austin to talk to those two yahoos or anything to figure out that not only is the pen mightier than the sword, but the M4 carbine with an M203 grenade launcher is one helluva lot mightier than the sword.

Cherry wins.

—————-

A thick cloud of smoke made the bar a constant overcast as a large man with long, curly-black hair took the stage. “How’s everyone doing tonight” he asked. A few audience members randomly answered. “Welcome to open mic night at Lobos” said the man. “First up is Cherry Darling. Don’t forget to tip your help and try the chicken fingers, they were freshly frozen three days ago.” The chubby, dark-haired man walked off the stage as the lights dimmed. A single spotlight appeared and shined brightly on the microphone. There were a few claps as the one machine-gun-legged redhead took the stage. It didn’t seem like much, but tonight was everything for Cherry. All the toxic zombies had been killed, civilization had been restored, and Cherry was able to move on and pursue something she had always wanted: stand-up comedy. A machine-gun-legged woman was not so amazing to the people who had lived through the toxic zombies, but one thing was for sure: they all needed a really good laugh.

Cherry greeted her audience. Her voice shook a bit as she looked over the 30 or so people in the crowd. All looked up at her, waiting. So Cherry began.

Cherry: “I asked my gym instructor if he could teach me to do the splits. He asked how flexible I was. I said that any day of the week is good except Tuesdays.”

Nothing. No response. Cherry’s voice quivered a bit more as she started the next joke.

Cherry: “A guy walks up to me at the bar and says ‘you remind me of Hot Sauce’. And I said ‘I’ll take that as a condiment.’”

You could hear the clock ticking in the building across the street, it was so quiet. There was nothing.

Cherry: “Why didn’t the skeleton cross the road? Because he had no guts.”

Again, there was nothing. It was awful. Everyone had told her she was hilarious. That she should be a stand-up comedian. But they were wrong. They were all wrong. Cherry had never felt like this before. Not all the toxic zombies in the world could make her feel this terrible. What Cherry didn’t know was that O-Ren Ishii had paid everyone in the bar $1,000 each not to laugh at anything. O-Ren was watching Cherry die on stage and it required no effort at all. Hayley Stark was easy, but shit this was proving to be her easiest kill ever. Who could have foreseen this level of brutality. O-Ren, of course. And unfortunately for Cherry, it was only the beginning.

Cherry stood there fumbling for words. A single tear strolled down her face. No one was saying anything. So Cherry tried again with another joke.

Cherry: “A priest, a rabbi, and a vicar walk into a bar. The barman says, ‘Is this some kind of joke?’”

There was a cough in the audience but nothing else. Then the spotlight moved off of Cherry and across the room to reveal Jamie Farr, Arte Johnson, and Rip Taylor. They were all tackling each other to try to reach a large gong that hung from the ceiling. Rip was able to pull himself from the pile, grab the mallet, and, with all the force in the world, bang the gong. The ringing shook the walls. The audience applauded this.

The spotlight moved again across the room to reveal a panel of Olympic Judges from all over the world. They sat with stern faces as they presented their scores. The Chinese judge held up a card that read the number 1. The French judge held up a card that read the number 1. The US judge held up a number 1. And the German judge held up a 0 because, well, he’s a douche. Cherry wanted to fall to her knees, but the machine gun leg prohibited her from doing so. O-Ren laughed so hard that Diet Pepsi almost shot from her nose.

The spotlight moved once again all around the room, searching and searching until it landed on Richard Dawson. He walked up to the hottest woman in the bar, asked her to stand, planted a kiss on her that lasted three seconds too long and then asked her a question… “name one thing that sucks.” The woman thought about it for a few seconds and then yelled out “Cherry Darling.” Again, the audience applauded this. Richard Dawson repeated the question… “one thing that sucks.” He turned to a large Family Feud Board and then yelled “survey says?” The one answer flipped over and revealed the name Cherry Darling. The audience laughed and cheered and Richard Dawson leaned in for another uncomfortable kiss.

Cherry was unable to speak now. She only let out whimpers. She was ready to leave the stage when she heard a voice from the back of the room “you’re not too bad for a stripper.” The crowd quieted down. Cherry protected her eyes from the blazing spotlight that was now back on her. She couldn’t see anyone.

Cherry answered “I’m not a stripper.”

The voice said, “and you’re not a comedian either.” The audience broke out into laughter and Rip Torn couldn’t be contained with giddiness. Even the German judge laughed, and, you know, he’s a douche.

Finally, the spotlight left Cherry again and panned the crowd to the back of the room to reveal O-Ren Ishii. She stood there in a white Kimono, her Target blingy flip flops, and was holding a basket of half-eaten Chicken Fingers that were freshly frozen three days ago. This time she had her Hanzo sword at her side, but Lobos had a strict No Hanzo Swordplay Policy, so she was able to have the Hanzo, but she just wasn’t able to swing it around, and what the crap was that all about?

Once Cherry spotted O-Ren, all her sorrow turned to anger. Cherry yelled, “you bitch, you’re responsible for all this.”

O-Ren stood cool as a cucumber and responded, “of course.”

I can hear you already.

You’re saying something along the lines of “How could a trained assassin possibly lose any sort of battle to a one-legged (albeit strapped) stripper?” But a look beneath the surface might just alter your perception. Let’s have a gander…

So here we have Aeon, freedom fighter in a doomed, dystopian society. She’s armed with a regiment of acrobatics, some magical balls that she whispers sweet nothings to, and some guns. She has some funky short hair, cropped close to her head and so black that it’s almost blue and definitely dyed, and she scamps around in tight black leather.

In the other corner, we have little Cherry Darling. Cherry’s not been having a good day — she quits her job, gets into a car accident, and loses one of her legs. Obviously, she’s more pissed than that crybaby Aeon could be — after all, what would you rather have: a domineering, totalitarian government or two legs? On top of all that, a chemical leak/accident/incident nearby has left a number of Cherry’s fellow townspeople feeling a bit… zombie-ish. They’re out to kill/eat anyone in sight. Lucky for Cherry, she has a secret weapon. Her ex-boy toy, El Wray, is handy with “tools” and replaces her pirate stump with a modified stockles-M4 carbine with an M203 grenade launcher (thanks to Wikipedia for that incredibly detailed gun listing; I would have just said “machine gun”).

Now, I’m not sure how and why Aeon and Cherry would be battling, but let’s just suppose that Ms. Flux lives in the same town as Cherry. Aeon’s just been going about her day assassinating people and helping those that can’t help themselves, but it’s getting late. She calls it quits and heads home, only to find her refrigerator shockingly bare. She has her heart set on having a salad with her grilled chicken (helps keep her trim), but alas — no lettuce. Bummer.

So she’s at the grocery store minding her business, getting some salad dressing and croutons and such. She heads to the checkout line when all of a sudden, Cherry pops in line in front of her. What injustice! Feeling slighted (and taking offense for the little people out there that get cut in front of every day but can do nothing about it), Flux challenges Cherry to a battle to the death. Cherry, meanwhile, maintains that Aeon was dilly-dallying right in front of the checkout line, reading the headlines of the Enquirer and US Weekly. Cherry had no time to wait to see what this meandering soul was going to do next, so she saw her place in line and took it.

The grocery store staff can’t make up their minds on who was right and who was wrong (the cashiers are almost uniformly pro-Aeon, but the baggers are siding with Cherry). Since they’re no help, the whole gang heads out to the parking lot to see the score settled.

Right off the bat, it’s clear that Aeon has the edge. Despite lacking her gear and weapons, she’s too fast for the gimpy Darling and hits her upside the head a few times. Bouncing around like a frog on Nodoz, Cherry can’t seem to get a hit in, much less have time to get in the right position to take advantage of her greatest asset. However…

…perhaps that M4 isn’t her greatest asset. The former go-go dancer, despite her ire and her strength, at least gets knocked down by Flux. The cashiers go wild in anticipation of the kill by willowy Flux. But just as she’s about to strike, she notices the position that the curvy Darling is sprawled out in on the ground. It’s too much for her to take; she can’t help but take pause for a moment to stare with wide-eyes wonder at the possibility of partnering up with Cherry. And just like that… boom! Flux has stalled for too long, giving the head-packing Darling more than enough time to regain her composure and blast Flux to smithereens.

The baggers go wild.