I've had an absolutely marvellous time. I'll tell you about it sometime. But not now. I need a nice, boiling bath to scrub all this blood off my perfect body.
Don't worry. None of it's mine...
Thursday 10 August 2006 19:21 BST (GMT+1)
It's good to be back.
Actually, to be fair, when you're as heart-stoppingly beautiful, irresistibly attractive, unfathomably powerful, completely invulnerable and generally goddess-like as me, it's good to be anywhere. Of course, that's because I can always adapt/force my surroundings according to my whim, without any fear of consequences.
Anyway, I was still pleased to return to my residence after my brief absence. The place is really beginning to feel like a home to me. Some of the previous owner's décor is not at all to my taste and needs to be changed sooner rather than later, but the general feel of the building and its grounds is fine.
I'm taking my time sorting out the redecorations. There's no point me forcing a team of decorators to do the work for free using violence and intimidation if they then turn out to be substandard workmen. My plan is to seek out the very best in the business and then force them to do the work for free using violence and intimidation.
With that in mind, I've been touring around some of the best appointed homes in town, checking out the interior design with my X-ray vision or (where just seeing isn't enough) smashing my perfect body through walls and roofs to check out the finer details like texture. To be honest, crashing through a two-foot thick brick-reinforced-with-steel-bars wall requires very little extra effort on my part compared with merely looking. And it's fun watching stone crumbling and metal bending against my unstoppable, unblemishable, flawless skin.
Of course, smashing into a house that way does tend to ruin the high quality decorating job that attracted me in the first place, but it's not like I care. As long as I find the best for my home, I don't mind how many other people's residences are ruined in the process. And if any of the owners want to make a complaint, I'll be only too happy to shut them up...
Friday 11 August 2006 21:07 BST (GMT+1
I suppose advertising works because "ordinary" people's minds are as weak and pliable as their bodies.
For someone like me, or, in other words, the most powerful (not to mention sexy) being in existence, word of mouth is a far more appropriate means of judging the quality of goods and services. And, of course, word of mouth comes into its own for an all-conquering supergirl, because no-one would ever dare knowingly lie to me. It works a bit like this:
During my investigations around town, I found the best quality, most pleasing-to-my-eyes decor in a large suburban house. Naturally, I smashed through the back wall to take a closer look the night I first discovered it. Without trying to be artistic, I flew into the bricks at enormous speed, in a standing position, perpendicular to the ground, with my wonderful chest thrust out and my hands on my hips.
The result of my tremendous rapidity was that the wall was left largely intact, apart from a hole in the, fairly accurate, shape of my body. It looked like something from a cartoon. The inside of the room, however, was in a terrible state, strewn with debris, some pieces of which had been displaced with so much force they ended up embedded in the other walls. Ironically, I did pretty much ruin the decoration job I'd come to admire, but just about enough of it had survived for me to see that it had, indeed, been a very high-quality bit of work before I'd destroyed it.
Anyway, there was no-one at home at the time. I returned yesterday lunchtime, noticing from the air that the hole I'd made had already been concreted in (although it hasn't been painted over yet, and the my shape is clearly visible, even to the puniest creature's eye).
I swooped down in front of the house, flying and landing far too quickly for any lucky observers to have been able to follow and strolled up to the front door. My X-ray vision had already spotted and examined the middle-aged man sitting at a big desk in a back room before I courteously rang the door bell.
After the chimes had sounded, and during the boring thirty-second wait while the fellow got up from his chair and walked to the door, I amused myself by punching three-inch deep holes in the heavy oak panel by poking my extended index finger through the solid wood (much like you might poke your infinitely weaker finger through water, although it was probably less effort for me to penetrate oak than it is for you to penetrate water). I'd made a couple of dozen bores in the door by the time it was finally opened.
I'm used to the reaction, but the way a man's heart seems to pause for half a beat and then fly into overdrive when he first lays eyes on me from close range always amuses me. This one made no secret of his attraction to my superhuman figure, his eyes bulging as they strained to leave his skull to get closer to my breasts. He was in luck, I guess, because I happened to be wearing an exceptionally tight and rather low-cut T-shirt that displays much of my glorious cleavage and does nothing to disguise the perfect roundness of my bosoms, or indeed the shape of the large, harder-than-steel nipples that crown them.
He was standing in the doorway, more-or-less hypnotised by my feminine magnificence. Behind him, a huge entrance hallway, with doors on either side leading into the rest of the house. The room was more or less empty, making its size seem even more impressive. An expensive-looking rug covered much of the marble floor that stretched almost the whole depth of the house. The room was at least twenty feet wide and forty-five feet long and there was not a single obstacle between the man immediately in front of me and the back wall, fifteen yards away. I'd already decided how to exploit the space as he spoke.
"Er, can I... what um... what do you want?" he asked, his voice quavering as if he were a schoolboy. Needless to say, he did not make eye-contact with me when he spoke, nor while he was waiting for an answer.
My reply was unconventional. I pushed out my irresistible, pouty lips and very gently blew at him. The stream of my breath hit him and pushed him back half a step before the onrushing wall of wind got beneath his feet. I continued to exhale, very carefully, and let my warm, erotic breath simultaneously lift him off the ground and force him backwards through the air, tossing him across the huge hallway as though he were a dry autumn leaf in a storm.
His arms and legs flailed as he flew away from me. I kept on blowing, enjoying the total ease with which I produced the hurricane from my lungs. In fact the only actual effort I had to make was to ensure that I kept the force of my breath below a level that would have caused his body to be smashed to paste against the far wall. As always, however, I judged things to perfection and his back slammed against that wall some forty-five feet away just hard enough to hurt, but not break, him. His feet still had not touched the floor since his initial takeoff.
Not being anywhere near the limit of my lung-capacity, I continued to blow at him, my breath blasting over his face and the front of his body, pinning him against the wall with the soles of his shoes nearly a yard above the ground as my exhalation proved vastly more powerful than the force of gravity. Taking my time, with my hands resting comfortably on my hips, I strolled into the house, not letting up my exhaling, keeping the man pressed hard into the wall as I casually approached him.
His longish, but thinning, greying hair danced wildly as I got closer to him. I could see from the grimace on his features that my breath was pushing painfully against him, so I continued to blast him with the uninterrupted stream. When I got within ten paces, I just closed my lips and stopped blowing. I didn't need to draw any air in despite the vast quantities I'd forced out. (I seem to manage just fine without breathing).
Of course, without my wind holding him against the wall, he began to slide down towards the floor. I stepped in at superspeed, keeping my hands on my hips and pushing out my dramatic chest a little so that I could pin him once again, this time with my breasts. Now his feet were just a foot or so off the ground, but he was just as trapped. In fact, judging by his attempts at screaming (which failed, naturally, because my mounds were squeezing all the air from his body) I was hurting him more now than before. Despite that, I could feel a modest-sized erection pressing against my belly through the fabric of his trousers and that of my T-shirt. I suppose that was as big as he could get.
Smiling, I asked him in a tone of half-interest "If I keep pressing, what do you think will happen first - your orgasm or your death?" I leant in a little, saw his eyes nearly pop out of their sockets and his face turn purple, felt his ribs yielding slightly to my breasts and heard the bones creaking within his chest. "My guess would be you'll die before you cum," I speculated.
"Please! No!" he wheezed, the effort of spluttering out the words (at a volume barely above a whisper) clearly causing him new agonies. "I'll... do.... anything!"
"That's a good boy," I told him, suddenly stepping back and releasing him to fall in a heap to the ground. He started to get up again, rubbing his chest. I could see the bruises already appearing beneath his shirt. They were the kind that take months to heal.
"What... do... you... want?" he gasped, still having difficulty taking on board air, his voice full of fear.
"Did your decorator leave a business card?" I asked. He glanced at me in utter confusion. For a second, he seemed to panic.
"My... my... d... decorator?" he stammered.
"Did he leave a card, weakling?" I demanded, already losing patience.
"Er... yes! Yes!" he finally replied, clearly relieved that he could give the answer he assumed I wanted.
"Fetch it!" I ordered, "Or die." Still clutching his upper body, he ran breathlessly to his back office. I watched through the intervening walls as he tripped on the way out and fell against a low table, cutting his cheek, but he got up and kept running as the blood poured, clutching the small rectangular piece of card in his hand. He arrived, holding it out at arm's length towards me. I took it from him, read it, and placed it into the pocket of my shorts.
"You may live," I said, with a dismissive wave of my hand as I turned my back on him. Behind me, as I strolled away, I heard him slump, exhausted and in pain, to his knees. Over my shoulder, I called out "If you tell anyone about this, I'll kill them and you."
I didn't bother to shut the front door behind me. With my superhearing I could hear him softly crying as I walked calmly down the street. Spotting a quiet alley, I stepped into the shadows and took straight to the air, reaching several thousand feet in a few seconds. I couldn't go any faster without destroying my clothes and risking setting the little business card in my pocket on fire.
Fortunately, the card and my outfit made it home safe and sound. I think I'll give the fellow a call on Monday. I know he'll do exactly what I want. He's a man, after all...
Monday 14 August 2006 20:06 BST (GMT+1)
So, I’ve met the master decorator. It happened like this:
I checked out the address on the card given to me by a previous customer (see Friday’s entry for how I politely persuaded the man to share the decorator’s contacts). It wasn’t far from home (especially when you consider that I can get to the other side of the planet in under an hour if I want to… and if I don’t mind severely disrupting the Earth’s weather patterns in the process, which, frankly, I don’t.)
Anyway, it took just a minute to find the address from the air. Ten thousand feet above the streets, I spotted the decorator’s name painted on the side of a parked van (no mean feat of superhuman vision from that angle). I waited, passing the time by using my superbreath to push clouds across the sky at several thousand miles an hour, no doubt freaking out any cloud-watchers below.
Finally, a young, overweight man in white overalls walked down the street and started to unlock the driver’s door. I swooped down quickly, unseen, landing silently, crouched on my heels, out-of-sight behind the vehicle. With my X-ray abilities, I watched the painter.
He opened the door and climbed into the cab. He shut the door. He put the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine fired up. He put the van into gear, and depressed the accelerator. The engine roared. The van shook dramatically. The front wheels spun frantically. The air filled with smoke and the smell of burning rubber. The van stayed right where it was.
Perhaps I should mention at this point that whilst I crouched behind the vehicle I leisurely hooked a finger over the back of the chassis. That explains why the thing could not drive away. No engine on Earth is powerful enough to overpower one of my fingers. I barely even noticed the pull, to be honest.
Pretty soon, though, the decorator gave up trying. He stopped the engine, opened his door and climbed down. He must have realised that the van was caught on something. As he approached the rear of the vehicle, I stood up and emerged in all my tight tank-top glory.
I had to pretend to clear my throat “Ahem!” to get his attention, but I didn’t have to make any further effort to keep it. He gasped as he saw me, all but staggering back with the sheer shock of my physical beauty. I watched him as he waged an internal struggle, fighting with himself, trying so hard to not stare at the wonderful swell of my chest. Given the facts that a] my tank top was revealing even by my standards (showing huge portions of my breasts as well as much of the cleavage between them) and b] he’s only a man, it was a fight he was always going to lose.
He attempted to compensate for his inability to look away from my sexy perfection by shooting quick glances at my face, but he was clearly finding that an irresistible sight, too. It was left to me to initiate conversation: “I’ve chosen you to decorate my house. You start tomorrow morning.”
“Erm, I’m afraid it doesn’t quite work like that, you see we’re fully booked-“
I leant down, letting his gaze travel even further down the erotic valley between my breasts as I took hold on the bottom of the van once more. There were people on the other side of the street, so I couldn't just hoist the entire vehicle over my head with that one hand as I wanted to. Instead I settled for merely lifting the back half of it about a foot off the road and smiling to show how effortless it is for me to lift several tonnes.
"How... How?" he stuttered. (It's a question I hear a lot).
"Easy." I said, removing my hand so that the big vehicle crashed back down to the ground, shaking the pavement before momentarily bouncing back up and crashing down for good. Making sure he was watching, I used a small swing of my leg to kick one of the rear wheels, my bare foot more than strong enough to rip the whole wheel from its axis. The van lurched towards the suddenly unsupported corner as the wheel rolled across the street, crashing noisily into a parked car, leaving a big dent.
"Now, imagine what I could do to you if you don't do what I want!" I said with a mischievous grin. Casually, making it look as if I wasn’t consciously doing anything, I brought my arms in front of my body, crossing them under my chest so that my forearms lifted my breasts, making them even harder to look away from. "And imagine what I could do to you if you do." I added.
“Er, I… um… ah….” he stammered, turning bright red. I handed him a card with my address which he took with a trembling hand, glancing nervously at my extended arm, probably recalling the way the slender, feminine limb had lifted his van.
"Eight o'clock," I reminded him. "Or I'll throw you and your van into orbit."
Somehow, I don't think he'll be late.
Tuesday 15 August 2006 21:37 BST (GMT+1)
As I predicted, the decorator wasn't late this morning.
In fact, he drove up at 7:40, then sat waiting in his van for quarter of an hour before finally getting out and ringing the bell. Rather than going to all the bother of inviting him in, I grabbed him by the lapels of his overalls using just my left hand (keeping my right on my hip) and tossed him over my shoulder to land on a sofa at the other end of the entrance hall. He might be a tall and considerably overweight man, but he felt as light as a feather to me.
He sat up, panting, looking at me in confusion and terror. I approached him, my left palm now mirroring my right, stationed authoritatively on my hip. "I didn't say you could sit down," I chastised.
"Sorry, sorry," he huffed, standing up in haste.
"I didn't say you could speak either." I told him. Not surprisingly, there was no reply.
"Good," I commented, "Now we've established the ground rules we can move on. You are going to re-paper and paint this entire house according to my instructions. You will work day and night until the job is completed to my satisfaction. Any failure on your part to obey my wishes will result in great pain for you. Understand?"
He nodded. I went on to list the various stripping, painting and wallpapering requirements I wanted for the house. He grabbed a pad and a pencil from his pocket and beginning to take notes. When I was finished he looked at me for a moment. "I suppose you need to go and get supplies?" I asked. He nodded once more.
"You have one hour," I told him, "If you're not back, I will find you and then I will kill you." For a fat man, he actually ran pretty fast to his van. Once inside, he roared away at top speed.
He was back within fifty minutes. It took him eight journeys from his van to the entrance to unload all the paint and paper he'd brought. I could have lifted the van with everything inside (including the decorator himself) with a single finger, but it was more fun to watch him struggle with the carrying.
So far, he's managed about a quarter of the work. He looks tired, having been at it for over twelve hours without a break. He could probably also do with a meal. But, I'm in a hurry to have my house redecorated (no reason for the rush, I'm just a little impatient at times). Obviously my whim is much more important that any man's weariness or hunger so he won't be getting any breaks or food until he's done. At this rate, he should be finished some time Thursday evening.
Wednesday 16 August 2006 22:51 BST (GMT+1)
Watching my decorator at work, huffing and puffing his big, fat, sweaty, exhausted body around my house, was about as interesting as, well, watching paint dry.
So, I decided to go out and find myself a couple of much fitter (although just as laughably weak and fragile) and much better looking young men. I found two who could have passed for professional sportsmen, such was the peak physical condition of their bodies. Of course, all those big, manly muscles only look good. When it comes to strength, my slender, feminine arms are millions of times more powerful. They were helpless to resist as I dragged them into an abandoned café.
The place was secured with a large, heavy-duty, steel padlock which I sliced open with an effortless swipe of a fingernail. Once inside, I sealed the door shut by bending the metal frame slightly. There was a large wooden table in the centre of the darkened room and I threw both of the muscle-boys on it before leaping on top of them. Then, I rode them in turns until both of them were bruised, bloody and unconscious.
Once I'd partially satiated my appetite for sex, I left them to sleep it off and wandered out of the place, twisting the broken ends of padlock together to make sure the door was really secure. My temporary lovers would not be disturbed for a long, long while.
Back home, I went to check on the decorator's progress. I found him slumped in a corner, fast asleep, snoring loudly, a wet paintbrush in his hand. I kicked him awake, my bare foot striking him under the ribs, breaking a couple of them and lifting the fat painter's whole body a few feet off the floor. He crashed down again, landing painfully on top of a couple of paint tins, too winded to scream.
I started to walk towards him. Enjoying the panic in his eyes, I decided not to rush as I saw him reaching out for a large, almost full pot of white emulsion. He moved so slowly, I could have been halfway around the world by the time he finally lifted the tin and hurled it at me, but I saw no need for evasive action.
The lid of the pot must have been loose. It fell off, mid-flight, allowing the contents to spill out, like a huge wave about to break on the shore, headed straight for me. Nearly ten litres of white paint about to splash all over me and my clothes. Obviously, I couldn't let that happen.
I pouted and blew a short, sharp blast of ultra-cold superbreath at the onrushing paint. Instantly, my breath froze the white emulsion into a solid sculpture, turning it from flying liquid into an unmoving piece of art inside a tenth of a second. Moisture filled the air and the effects of the near-absolute zero burst were visible as icicles hanging from the ceiling and a frost-like coating over both the floor and the frozen paint-wave.
The brilliant white sculpture was four foot wide at its base on the ground, about six foot high at its tallest, up to four inches thick in parts (an inch thick at its thinnest) and utterly, completely solid all over. It was also exceptionally cold. Its centre was probably still minus two hundred centigrade. Its surface was still coated in frozen air, and the ambient temperature of the room had cooled rapidly, from warm Summer day to Alaskan winter.
Of course, I didn't feel so much as mild discomfort despite the extreme cold. I was wearing a tight, sleeveless white T-shirt and a pair of black lycra cycle-shorts. And nothing else. The freezing conditions didn't even make my nipples more erect, but, then again, their proud magnificence was quite evident enough, as were most of the splendid curves of my big, round breasts. I almost felt sorry for the decorator because the wall of solid paint totally obscured his view of me.
Unlike the unsighted fat man, I was able to use my X-ray vision to see right through the stunning sculpture as if it wasn't there at all. I could see the tiny icicles hanging from the decorator's eyebrows, earlobes nostrils and chin, the white powdery coating of his hair and the bluish tint of his face. I could also see that he was shivering violently. His features seemed locked in an expression of complete shock. My superhuman eyes could also, effortlessly, strip away his clothes and examine the flabby body under them. I could admire the massive, darkening-by-the-second bruise where I kicked him. I could even peer beneath that, under his skin, and see the ribs my foot had snapped.
All the while, the painter just stood there, trembling but otherwise not moving his limbs, staring at the white wall of frozen paint in front of him with that same confused, surprised, helpless male expression. I just couldn't help laughing at him. Actually, it's also making me laugh now, just thinking about it.
Anyway, once I'd finished laughing the first time, I calmly strolled around the paint-wall so that the decorator could see me (and see how perfect I looked so that he could appreciate how neither emulsion nor cold had touched me). If anything, he looked even more surprised by the sight of me.
I told him, matter-of-factly, that he could either clear up every last trace of the mess and finish his decorating job quickly or he could die slowly and in great agony. Then I walked off to a different part of the house. For ten minutes, I heard no activity. I suppose that's how long it took for him to thaw out enough to be able to move again. Then I heard him painfully begin to chisel away at the edges of the frozen paint. Then I tuned my superhearing out and forgot about him for a while.
Checking right now with X-ray vision, I'd say that half the emulsion-wall has been dismantled. It's getting easier and easier now though, as it finally begins to soften. I guess the room temperature is higher than freezing again because he's sweating quite badly as he works.
He'll need a clean up before he continues with the decorating. Now, that gives me an idea...
Thursday 17 August 2006 23:58 BST (GMT+1)
Not needing to sleep, I was able to keep checking up on the decorator as he worked through the night.
It's just as well I made frequent visits to see how he was doing and renew the various threats I'd made him. He was so exhausted, he definitely would have fallen asleep if I hadn't been around. As it was, he only completed the clear-up of the wall of frozen paint at around eleven o'clock this morning.
"Right," I announced, verifying that I was satisfied with the cleaning, "now you can get on with the job you're supposed to be doing for me." He said nothing, but I could see the pleading in his eyes, silently begging me to allow him some rest before I made him work again. Naturally, I ignored his wishes, merely informing him that "You can't decorate my house in that filthy state. You need a wash first."
He looked at me slightly confused.
"Come here," I ordered. He knew better than to hesitate in obeying and wearily shuffled meekly towards me. Without a word, I snatched him up with a hand on the back of his fat neck, lifting his feet clean off the floor. I strolled through the house, carrying the large man at arm's length like a sack of bad-smelling garbage. Having experienced enough of my power already, he made no attempt to resist as I took him through the games room and, from about ten yards away, tossed him into my swimming pool with an easy flick of my wrist.
He splashed about in the water for a bit, fighting his tiredness, looking up at me in fearful expectation whenever his clumsy attempts at treading water allowed.
"You're not getting clean," I observed impatiently. He started trying to pull his clothes off. A couple of times, particularly when he was wrestling with his trousers, he sunk below the surface for a few seconds. But, no doubt terrified of displeasing me, he persevered. Once he was naked, he started to scrub himself vigorously with his fingers.
"You're still not getting clean," I said. He glanced at me, as if to ask "What more can I do?" but obviously, he was too frightened to actually speak. So, it was left to me to make a suggestion.
"The water's not warm enough," was my verdict. "It needs to be much hotter." And with that, I unleashed a carefully controlled dose of my heat-vision, aiming the lasers from my eyes at the opposite end of the pool. The water on the surface where the beams touched boiled immediately, steam rising into the air in thick clouds.
Of course, the warmth spread quickly throughout the entire body of water. "Ouch! Ow! Ow!" cried the decorator, now splashing furiously. I blinked, cutting off the rays of pure heat energy that I had been firing into the pool. But by then, I'd already heated the entire contents to well beyond comfort levels for a fragile male. Personally, I've bathed in the fiery fury of the sun and not felt warm. But the painter was in agony in water that wasn't even boiling.
I certainly didn't notice any heat when I hovered over the surface of the pool, reached down with my right hand and pulled the fat man out by his throat. I set him down on the side of the pool. Every inch of his skin seemed to have turned bright red. Quite appropriately for a man who'd nearly been boiled alive, he was now the same colour as a lobster.
"That's better," I said. "Much cleaner."
The only response was a muted, pathetic whimper of pain.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" I asked. "Get back to work!"
He shot a quick, longing glance at his clothes which were still floating in the hot water, and then looked back at me.
"Now!" I prompted. Naked, and still an angry red all over, he rushed back through the house to take up his brush once again.
That was eight hours ago. Since then he's finished one room and started on the next. The redness has barely faded and he's clearly in quite a lot of pain as he works. The broken ribs I gave him yesterday can't be helping either. Still, he should be finished inside the next twenty-four hours or so...
Friday 18 August 2006 16:31 BST (GMT+1)
Well, my lovely home is nearly completely decorated.
It’s amazing what even a puny male can do if he has the right incentive. My painter has been at work for nearly four straight days now, and he’s only a few hours from finishing the job which is just as well, because, judging by his vital signs, he’s only a few hours from being finished himself. There’ve been no more paint “accidents” or bath-time frolics since yesterday. He’s obviously learnt that his best chance of survival lies with completing the work as efficiently as possible.
Here’s an email I received on the subject:
“Oh most wondrous, indescribable, and utterly beyond all measure or knowing.”
Is that the best you can do to address the most beautiful, powerful, desirable being in existence? I suppose it will have to suffice for now.
”I know that this has not escaped your knowledge, as your mind is so far superior to mine that words cannot find a suitable comparison...”
You’re right there.
”…are you aware that your decorator may well drop dead from thirst and exhaustion before he successfully completes his sacred duty to your will?”
That is always a risk with fragile males.
”Not that this should disturb you in the slightest, of course...”
It never has in the past.
”..but it might have a slightly negative effect on your decor if you are forced to acquire a second (inferior) decorator to replace the deceased male now working on your home.”
This is a good point. Let’s hope for the sake of the quality of my interior environment that the first decorator holds out until the job is finished!
The writer goes on to claim:
“Males absolutely require water at least once every three days (about 1/4 litre) and some form of nutritional food every week, although with less activity that can be stretched out to as much as ten days.”
Which is why they make such impractical pets and why I rarely keep one around long enough for it to become an issue.
“Without such amenities, the fragile male will weaken even further,…”
You should see the state of my painter now! He can barely stand up.
“...may be incapable of even holding a brush…”
Well, if he reaches that point, he’s no longer of use to me. If we’d drawn up a contract of employment, I’d terminate it. As we haven’t made any contract, I’d just have to terminate him.
“and will almost certainly expire even if you choose not to hasten his unworthy departure from this mortal coil.”
I think I’ve covered this point already. My experience with monitoring the heartbeats and breathing of wounded, exhausted and dying men leads me to think that my redecoration job will be completed without the need to bring in a second decorator. Once the job is finished, it’ll be up to me whether or not I choose to “hasten his unworthy departure”, depending on my mood at the time. Of course, even if I’m feeling generous and let him go when’s he’s done, it’s unlikely he will ever fully recover from the past few days.
But let’s not allow ourselves to be distracted from the important issue here: my home will look lovely.
Monday 21 August 2006 16:22 BST (GMT+1)
Perfect judgement is not often listed as a superpower.
True, superstrength is much more noticeable, invulnerability if far more remarkable and things like superbreath, heat-vision, superspeed, X-ray vision and supersenses are vastly more noticeable. But my uncanny ability to gauge things just right is one of my favourite powers.
Now, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying I don’t love being strong enough to smash a planet to dust with my fist. Or that I’m not delighted to be able to withstand a supernova at point-blank range without incurring a scratch. And I’m not for a moment saying that all my other fabulous powers aren’t wonderful. I’m just saying that superhuman-judgement is an often unfairly overlooked aspect of being this powerful.
For me, it’s fantastic that I can throw something at a half-inch-diameter target from several miles away with perfect accuracy. It’s just as great knowing I can precisely judge the force of superbreath required to rip a house from its foundations without damaging the adjacent properties. And how much fun it is knowing exactly how tightly I can squeeze a man against my magnificent chest before the pressure proves fatal!
It also seems that my perfect sense of judgement extends beyond the obvious physical element. Take for an example my home. Such a lovely building. The immaculate assessment I made when I decided to make it mine (regardless of its ownership and occupancy at the time) is obvious.
Then, look at the inside of the place. (I don’t mean that literally, of course. Can you imagine what I’d do to an “ordinary” sniffing round my property? Ha ha ha!) The place is beautifully and tastefully decorated. Once again, my perfect judgement shines through, not only in the way I selected the best decorator available but also in the orders I gave him which produced such wonderful results.
Now, it truly is my home. My beautiful, comfortable home. I think I’ll celebrate by going out and ruining someone else’s place.
Oh, and if anyone’s interested (I’m not), the decorator managed to finish the job without expiring. I don’t know how his recovery is going (or even if he is actually recovering), because as soon as he was done, I threw him out (literally, picking him up by the back of his belt and tossing him one handed out the door so that he slammed into the side of his van). Immediately after that, I flew off for some out-of-atmosphere sunbathing. When I returned, a few hours later, he and his van were gone.
Tuesday 22 August 2006 17:22 BST (GMT+1)
So, having got my home looking just the way I want, I now need to add the final touches.
With the walls freshly painted, the place looked just a little bit stark. I figured it would be nice to have a few pictures to hang. I glanced through a couple of catalogues of fine art (it takes me less than a minute to read and study a 1,000 page book) and decided which pictures I wanted. After that, all that was left was to make a list of the various galleries and private collections around the world where my chosen paintings were on display.
Getting them, of course, is easy. I don’t bother with all that nonsense of “putting in a bid” or “buying” artwork. And I don’t waste time with things like “opening hours” and “entrance doors”. Here’s the Blogger Guide to Acquiring Fine Art:
1) I smash feet-first through the roof or ceiling of the room my target picture is hung in.
2) I tear apart any glass or metal barriers that stand in my way with an effortless sweep of my hand.
3) In those galleries where the security personnel are quick enough to respond to my arrival, I simply get rid of them (usually with nothing more than the most casual puff of superbreath, as that’s more than enough to lift five or six big men off their feet and toss them the length of even the biggest exhibition rooms).
4) If the security people are armed, sometimes I let them take a couple of shots at me, purely for the fun of seeing their faces when they realise that bullets simply bounce off my stunning, perfect body. Then I blow them away with the easiest of exhalations, laughing as they eventually slam into the far walls.
5) Once I’ve cleared away the walls, barriers and people that stood between me and the painting of my choice, it’s a simple matter to help myself to it. Obviously, the weight of even the largest frame and canvass is as good as zero to me.
The only trouble is that I can’t fly home at anything like normal speed without completely ruining the artwork I’ve taken.
Because of the speed restriction, it’s going to take quite a while to build up my collection. So far I’ve accumulated nine paintings. I think I’ll need around thirty to fill my house meaning I need twenty-one more. At the present rate, that will take a couple more days. But at least I’m having fun in the process…
Wednesday 23 August 2006 17:22 BST (GMT+1)
“You can’t take that!” said the old man as I reached for the massive portrait hanging over the fireplace in the massive library of his sprawling country mansion.
It was an interesting statement, especially in the light of the previous twenty seconds during which I had walked right through the brick wall behind him, my body smashing through the stonework like a swinging wrecking-ball (but with less difficulty and much, much more class and poise). Moments after that a young man in a butler’s uniform had leapt at me from the side. I swung my arm casually, catching him in the midriff with my slim forearm. “Ooof!” was all he could say as the contact drove the air from him, lifted him off the ground and flung him through the air as far as the bookshelves behind him. He bounced off and landed in an unmoving heap.
I looked at the old man. “Why not?” I asked him, almost laughing.
“It’s been in my family for generations!” he exclaimed.
That time, I really did laugh. So much so I almost dropped the huge, ornately-framed painting. “You’re welcome to try and stop me,” I chuckled. I could tell he was far too scared to attempt anything. Such a shame. I do so love to watch a man breaking every bone in his hand trying to punch me.
As I walked past him on the way out, with the (supposedly) heavy portrait under my arm, I turned and winked at him. He started to tremble. Jokingly, I said “Boo!” He almost jumped out of his skin, turning white as a sheet.
I left him to his recovery, roaring with laughter as I took to the sky, carefully carrying my newest piece of art with me.
Thursday 24 August 2006 18:05 BST (GMT+1)
Having gathered some of the most loved paintings in the world for my private collection, it was time to hang them.
There’s no picture-rails in my house, so I had to use nails. I didn’t actually have any, so I improvised by stealing a steel railing from the local park. I just tore the metal bar free with an easy, quick twist of my wrist. At home, I worked the inch-diameter bar into a long, thin rod by stretching it in stages. All I did was grab it with two hands and slowly pull my arms apart, listening to the familiar sound of protesting steel as the rod stretched out like chewing gum.
Once I’d ensured the metal was the correct thickness, I started to break off two-inch lengths simply by pinching the rod between my thumb and forefinger. If the steel gave any resistance, I didn’t notice it. I’m far, far too strong to notice the resistance of mere steel.
Now I had my nails. All that was left was to “hammer” them into the wall. Of course, I don’t have a hammer. (There’s not much point owning a hammer when your fist is a billion times harder.) I could have pushed each nail into the solid brick wall with a finger tip. Instead, I inserted the nails just by throwing them, dart-style. I had to be careful not to throw too hard (if I had, the nails would have gone right through the walls and come out the other side), but as you would expect, my judgement was perfect and exactly half an inch of each nail was left protruding from the wall.
The final task before hanging the actual pictures was to bend the tip of each “nail” upwards to prevent the paintings falling off. I walked up to the wall and used a tiny flick of my tongue to shape each hook.
The whole task, from returning home with the railing to the hooks being ready took less than a half-a-minute. But then, I was taking my time.
Tuesday 29 August 2006 15:55 BST (GMT+1)
As you enter my house, you come into a huge entrance hall.
With its recent redecoration and several paintings from my newly-acquired collection on the walls, the hall looks much, much better than when I first took possession (literally!) of the place.
But there's still something not quite right about it. It's such a vast space, it has a tendency to feel a little empty. After thinking about it for a while, I decided that what's needed is a large sculpture of some kind. Such a big object would add to the grand feel of the room and detract from all that emptiness.
Once I'd made up my mind to get a sculpture, I had a new series of options. The first of these was: what kind of sculpture? Abstract art or maybe a statue? The idea of a statue appealed. Of course, there are thousands of them all around the world. It would be easy for me to steal any of them. A fifty foot tall, ten foot wide block of solid marble would be no challenge for me to lift, one- or two-handed. I could fly home from the other side of the planet, carrying a massive statue, without registering any effort.
Like I said, it would be nothing to take a statue from some park or palace. If it was fixed down with thick steel rods, I'd tear them like you'd tear a strand of semi-molten cheese on a pizza. But if I'm going to have a huge sculpture in my house, it might as well be a sculpture of someone interesting. Not to mention beautiful. And very, very powerful. Someone worthy of a statue being built in their honour. I mean, of course, me.
Naturally, I can't steal a custom sculpture. I'll need to have it made to order. So, if I'm starting from scratch, I get to chose the material used. Gold would've been nice, but I might attract some unwanted attention amassing the raw material needed. Both solid marble and solid bronze were attractive, practical options especially as weight is not an issue. (A twenty-foot cubed chunk of any substance on Earth would be just as easy for me to move around with a single finger.) In the end, I decided on marble.
Having decided on a marble statue of myself, I had to choose how I was going to have it made.
Option 1: I do it myself. It wouldn't be any kind of challenge for me to hew a huge piece of marble from some quarry with my bare hands and then fly it back home on my back. At home, the power of my heat-vision would make short work of shaping the stone. My amazing accuracy and perfect judgement, coupled with my superspeed, would allow me to "carve" a ten foot replica of myself from the solid marble inside ten minutes. The result would be better than any artist could manage, and the whole job would be comfortably completed within a single morning.
Option 2: I get someone else to do it. Obviously, I wouldn't pay for the work. A Goddess does not pay. I'm far too powerful and far too beautiful to pay for things. Threats, violence and intimidation are some of the "alternative" currencies I use. With virtually unlimited strength, complete invulnerability and a face and figure more desirable than those of any other woman on the planet, I can effortlessly turn any man I chose into my slave...
Option 2 would not be as quick as Option 1. It would take a team of six men with heavy machinery about a week to dig out the marble that I would have torn free with my hands in minutes. They'd need a crane and a special lorry to transport the stone to my house and another crane to unload it. The six men would then require a customised trolley to position the block. (Or I could do it with my little finger.)
After that, a top artist would spend weeks slowly chiselling away at the massive piece of stone, his steel sculpting tools and heavy hammer barely able to remove tiny pieces at a time. The final result would not be anything like as precise a likeness as the one I could achieve with my heat vision.
So, there was my choice: do the job quickly and effortlessly myself or force various men to do it for me, demanding unnecessary, exhausting efforts from them.
Regular readers will already know that (of course) I chose Option 2. As I always say: "If a job's worth doing, it's worth making a helpless male do it for you, just for the laugh."
Now, I just need to find a "project co-ordinator" or, to give the proper title, "statue-building slave number 1"...