The next two Spartacist victims were numbers 19, which is to say Lady Dragon, and 23, which is to say Madame Lycra. This brace of matrons shared certain habits, both being participant in the orientalist stretching mumbo jumbo purveyed by Ageing Hippus the yoga god, as well as the fine-dining which was to be experienced in various establishments dotted around St Nicks Market and the Harbourside, and were therefore much in each other's company. —
Lady Dragon, The Harbourside, Spartacist, Ageing Hippus, St Nicks Market
The most striking, indeed the salient, difference between them was with regard to their girths. Not to put too fine a point on it, Lady Dragon filled a considerably larger portion of the universe than did Madame Lycra. I rather think that the station which each occupied in life may have had something to do with this. Lady Dragon was the first, and the now rejected, spouse of a warlord in the Fergana Valley. Their union having been blessed with the requisite heir and several spares, Lady Dragon now lived out the autumn of her years, not on the whole unhappily, on an enormous stipend derived from her quondam lord’s successful participation in the wholesale China White business. She very much preferred gorging herself in the afore-mentioned painfully expensive restaurants over the guru ‘n’ grope nonsense which Madame Lycra forced upon her during their sojourns in Pex ‘n’ Quads. This, I feel, goes a long way towards explaining her disgusting obesity, although I acknowledge that there may be a whiff or je ne sais quoi of chicken-and-egg about this prognosis. —
Madame Lycra
At length, the thin matron and the fat matron being entreated gently to step into Charybdis, this they did. And a great woe was upon us, and the dirge of the Chorus was louder than usual and eke more drear, for we knew not what would become of us, once Petra Mountjoy had administered the coup de grace. We in respectful and fearful silence witnessed the dolours of Lady Dragon and Madame Lycra, as the napalm or dioxin prepared by Colloid’s nematode or nominee flayed them. Lady Dragon took longer than Madame Lycra, being as there was so much more of her for the bitterness to consume. This time, no one left before their time was up, even though the goons of John Virgil Haruspex were not suffered to bar the doors to the Spa Elysium, for the feeling prevailed among us all, even the yobs from the basement who should have been immune to such considerations, that it was right that we all stay and see. And when the grisly business was accomplished, and only a few scraps of human tissue remained, swirling round and round and round in the lunatic gyrations of the jets of that jacuzzi, we trooped out silently, not scrupling even to avoid the latest poo left by the Phantom Crapper, but rather smearing it with all our footsteps and scrapings all the way down the stairwell to the Reception area, still guarded by those fearsome Cerberidae, the fat serious one and the fatter armpit farter. —
Charybdis (Pex ‘n’ Quads)
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