“You know: nobody’s perfect. Not their hair, not their teeth, not their nose. Not perfect. Pretty damn close? Maybe some people… some of the time. Still, like everything in life, it’s always give n’ take… You’ll think that one thing is important, only to find out you were wrong to ignore another all along…”

Miss Valentine sat straight in her chair, despite appearing completely relaxed. Her hair, obviously a wig, was cut bluntly at her jawline with a striking angle. Arguably blonde it somehow also gave the impression at times that it was holographic. The upper half of her face was veiled by something of a high-tech amber screen – almost like a helmet visor without a helmet – yet somehow her green eyes were still piercing through with every word.

“We all make mistakes along our way.” She finished, smiling deviously.

“Miss, I’m sorry, but what does that have to do with the question?” The interviewer asked after a long pause when it was obvious V. had nothing more to add.

“Everything darling, it ALL has to do with everything.” Miss Valentine replied, reclining. She seemed very amused to be so outside of her usual element.

With the young reporter obviously perplexed, she couldn’t possibly take it easy on him now. Though, the thought might have crossed her mind if he hadn’t opened his trap. The shmuck, “what would you like to tell our lady friends at home? In particular, I’m sure they’re curious about how you always manage to have the perfect sexy look despite your hectic celebrity schedule! What do you say Miss Valentine? Help the girls out.”

She grimaced a smile thinking about it before continuing: “how did you think that I was going to respond to that question? You or whoever wrote that think I’m sexy?! Really, sir, is that your way of hitting on me for your viewers? Well buddy, just so you know, simultaneously undermining and insulting my gender while presupposing that my attractiveness signals my willingness to mate won’t get you anywhere with me. Toss the damn cue cards and ask me some real questions. If you dare.”

Miss V. moved while she talked, posturing her long body with her shoulders back against the oddly deep chair, arms and legs open – she looked like an animal at times, like now – in contrast to being incredibly elegant and fantastic. Even her white bodysuit was tailored with subtle yet powerful geometric risks; pointed shoulder cuffs and a deep plunging v-neckline atop boxy pant legs, slit all the way up her freckled thighs. Of course, she donned her signature dirty combat boots too.

Her intoxicating and confusing presence was juxtaposed nicely by the now obviously meek, safely mass-produced culture whore in the chair opposite. I’m sure it wasn’t his fault, the pressure to conform must be insufferable on a show this large. He doesn’t have a chance trying to get V. to play along though.

“It’s alright dear.” V. leaned forward again and reached toward the visibly shaken reporter to stop his incessant shuffling. “I know you didn’t write that question, so – here, lets have a looksie -” he seemed to be begging and pleading with someone in our invisible audience, his eyes glazing over, looking out into the bright studio lights. No one did anything to stop V., so she went ahead and snatched the cue cards right from his hands:

“If you could dine with any former celebrity, dead or…fuuuck no – uh… here we go:” She tossed all but one of the cards to the ground in a momentary frenzy, and then handed it back to the shocked man.

“George, may I call you George?” She continued, knowing full well that she was talking to Steve McDowell on his popular celebrity segment for an successful international network.

Steve clutched at the cue in his hands, looking down before nodding.

“George, are you sure you want to ask me that question?” Miss Valentine smiled, waiting for him to look her in the eye again.

He coughed and sat up, the blood had returned to his face and he began to glistin with excitement. He leaned forward toward her in his chair, looking at her again and again, then back down to the card – and finally cleared his throat:  “Miss V., what’s your biggest secret?”

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