Divine retribution

Picking through the crowd, Bambi spotted a couple at the bar. Chatting. To each other. Not paying attention to her. 

In eight bars of pumping music’s time, she would reach the finale of her number. Fugly apes couldn’t even tear their eyes off each other – their dull two-dimensional flirtation somehow more interesting than her outrageous display of colour and celestial wonder. 

Fuck them. Everyone else’s eyes were on her. 

It was genius. Her performance. She had brought an ‘80s pop classic right up to date. Perfectly. She was the very pulsing intersectional heart of the zeitgeist given form. 

She had started quiet, reserved. The lights had risen slowly on her kneeling form. Her heavy red cape and hood draped from her shoulders and spilled out across the floor. Her head, covered in a wide-brimmed white bonnet, tilted gracefully, mournfully downwards. 

As the music began to swell through the choral intro, she rose to her feet. Just before the beat kicked in, she flashed the crowd the smallest, most wicked of smiles.

A solo voice in the crowd hooted. He knew something special was about to happen. And it did. With a single riff the song exploded gloriously, at which point Bambi burst like a supermodel at the height of her career. 

She thrust her cape open revealing the most scandalous killer heels and milk white body all but  naked, bar the skimpiest black negligee. 

Negligee which barely framed her huge pregnant belly.

The crowd went feral. As she strutted from punter to punter – their eyes wide with drunken adoration – she felt the very embodiment of feminine power. From Madonna to Handmaid to Bambi, this bitch was fierce. And everyone knew it.

Except the love birds at the bar. 

So engrossed in each other's pallid importance, they were pointedly ignoring the siren call that she was issuing forth. It wouldn’t do. 

Without so much as a blink of a heavily-eyelashed lid, Bambi turned full bodied towards the couple. She marched towards them; a panther making its final swift strides before launching on its prey. 

Her fingers immediately prepared the latch on the underside of her swollen papier mache stomach. She reached her destination. The music dipped to absolute silence. All eyes had followed in her wake. 

In one fluid motion, the couple broke each other’s eyelines. Their heads swivelled in unison towards the goddess who stood before them – a goddess who proceeded to release a hatch a few inches above her crotch, releasing a spray of red fluid in their direction. 

Triumphantly, Bambi reached inside the now paint splattered dome of her faux belly and hoisted a grotesque rubber imitation of a baby out into the world. Spinning on her stilettos she faced the crowd and thrust the newborn high into the air. 

With that the music burst back into action. The crowd, momentarily agog at the schlocky horror show they had just witnessed, exploded in incandescent joy. 

Bambi strode back to the stage. Bloody Mother Nature. Goddess of Thunder. Ignore her at your peril.