At exactly 0500, Irma's alarm buzzed.

She catapulted awake with a loud HOOZYWUT! and flailed her arms blindly. Then she let out a loud, warbling moan as she let her alarm buzz a little more.

Good idea, buying three old cell phones and a set of jammies with pockets on the chest.

She groaned and fell back into bed, moaning softly as she let the buzzers run a little more.

God, what a fucking kinky dream.

So realistic, too.

It was just another boring day. She woke up to a warm buzz from her special alarm, spent five minutes lying still as she let them work their magic, listening to the coffee machine burble and smelling that wonderful smell.

Get up, splash some water on her face.

Exercise like every real woman is supposed to. Speed aerobics in shiny lycra, big fluffy leopard print warmers, shiny pink heels. None of that yoga crap, and if you're not willing to risk your ankles in practice, how you gonna trust yourself to pull it off when it really matters?

Shower. Well, she sat in the shower and cried a little because she got stood up again, then washed.

Stupid dating websites. Completely useless.

Ran her fingers over her snatch, still slick as a pearl from when she shaved last evening, save for the tuft she'd trimmed into a heart and dyed bright red.

Keep rubbing. Faster. Faster. Down on her knees. All fours. Hike that ass up, right up against the massaging showerhead.

She moaned about Alan Alda and let her unrequited love spatter out across the shower wall, then sighed and shuffled out to get ready.

She left her curtains open as she put on red stockings and garter, shiny red heels. Slunk back and forth across her big window, facing the alley and a blank brick wall.

She must have bounced and pranced a dozen times back and forth before giving up, peeling off the frillies, and getting her normal clothes on.

What the hell's a girl gotta do to get some action, get taken hostage by wackos? Fuck.

Frumpy big sweater, ankle length skirt, wool socks and clumpy orthopedics it is, then.

Again.

… Hope springs eternal. She stuffed the red frillies and her shiny red shoes in the back of her purse and slouched off to work.

October 25th, here we come. Fer fuck's sake be interestin'.

Hours of answering wrong calls, bad ad pitches, creepy breathers and Howard's horny grannie brigade sendin' love letters. Gawd.

That was when the screaming and the gunshots started.

She didn't know what to do, she just sat rigidly still as the screaming horde crashed past.

Everything was silent for a moment. Then there was yelling and sobbing and wet gurgly sounds and Howard sounding terrified and frantic.

That last part sounded great. Let's go check it out.

She peeked into the studio glass just in time to see Howard with his pants around his ankles, screaming in terror as some kinda twinkly Las Vegas prostitute lopped his dick off with a weird pointy little green shovel, then when he lurched forward to grab at the miniscule loss, drive it up through his throat and shovel his head cleeeeean off.

Gawd DAYM.

The cameras were rolling as the murdery glitterball and some big scary guy with a pair of shotguns started peeling all the clothes off… Becky, Barbi, Bambi, whuzzerface. The middle-age bitch with the fake hair, fake tits, and fake smile.

Neither were impressed when they peeled off her pushup bra and found her altogether kinda… Slack and droopy.

He was giving the weather girl's tiny but perky pair a rough knead when she decided to throw caution to the wind.

A flurry of flying clothes and a rummage through her desk drawers for that old kit and…

Bingo.

She bopped through the doors, prancing on her fancy heels, grinning like a loon as she kept her shoulders back and low, flaunting the big perky Ds she kept hidden under her slouch and flabby sweaters.

The big tough guy buttstroked Miss Plastic Fantastic across the jaw, she heard something crunch as the sobbing weathergirl went down. One naked old hag, one semi-conscious modeling kit, and a set of imported twins all blubbering and sobbing and looking just… Miserable.

"Fuckin' TRASH! Ain't onea youse that kin suck dick right?" howled the enraged glittery showgirl, spitting in the weather girl's face when the sobbing wretch spat her own teeth out.

That's her cue!

"OOOH! ME! ME! PICK ME!" Irma waved her hands high as she flounced her way onto the set, grinning huge and wriggling her shoulders to wave her tits in the air.

Dead silence filled the room. Everyone stared in disbelief.

Then the scary guy looked her up and down.

"… Huh. Not quite as put together as you, fuckrag." He slapped the Vegas girl across the ass, making her prance and squeal.

"But she's a fuck sight better than you trash!" He gave one of the twins a kick to the face. "There, now we can tell you apart."

The Vegas girl slunk over, bloody shovel in one hand as she took Irma's wrist.

Roughly at first, but then…

She saw something.

She held Irma's arm up high, made her turn around. Irma pirouetted her little heart out, arching and posing.

"… Fuck. For a freckly, buck-toothed nerd-face, she's got some legs on 'er. And a hell of an ass! And rack!" She leered close to Irma's face, grin impossibly wide, pupils constricted. "Dressed up right pretty for us, too. And gotcher warpaint on!" She gave Irma's cunt a firm slap, then looked shocked, both at Irma's lusty moan, and at what she felt.

"… Spread them legs, li'l bitch. Gotta see this good."

Irma grinned. All those cheerleader bitches from back in high school gonna be jealous.

She kicked one leg out to the side and up, rolled her hips and flexed her waist, pulling off a perfect vertical needle splits to flaunt her shiny-smooth snatch and the perfect red heart tuft.

"JAE-sus! Bitch you are SPOILIN' fer it, aincha?" the vegas girl said, honestly impressed as she fondled and stroked between Irma's thighs. Irma just moaned and giggled, didn't wobble even once. She just dribbled a little.

"Arright, bitch got some spunk in 'er! C'mon, Bitch, you wanna get s'more in ya?"

Irma let out an excited squeal and nodded frantically, starting to prance over.

That was when the weather girl made a break for it.

She didn't know why she did it. The dream was so surreal. And fuck it, if crazy dream sex is all she's getting, then let's be crazy.

As what's-her-name tried to run past, Irma pivoted, swung her hips, and brought her leg up to drive her knee HARD in the running girl's gut.

The fleeing girl just… Folded, and crumpled around her leg, puking violently across the lens of Camera 5. She dropped to the floor, eyes wide and mouth gaping, arms clutched to her gut as she trembled and made tiny sounds.

Irma kept her leg high for a few seconds, then slowly pivoted a little more, flaunting her naked cunt to the camera before bringing her leg down with a snap, standing strong and defiant over that ungrateful WHORE that said Prince was overrated.

Fuck yeah. Let's go CRAZY.

The two armed lunatics just gawked.

"… Bitch, you know how to keep her from runnin' again…?" the tough guy asked, his voice a bit quieter, genuinely impressed.

Irma didn't move her body or head, she just swiveled her eyes down, glaring past the rim of her owlish glasses.

She lifted her knee high, and stomped down viciously, driving the steel rod in her heel through the weathergirl's ankle.

She shrieked and pawed at the air, everywhere but where it might do her any good.

"Let's go CRAZY." Irma snarled defiantly, then raised her arms over her head and twisted her hips, kicking out again.

It did manage to both fling the screaming weathergirl back where she came from, and free up her heel without dislodging or breaking it.

It did, however, tear the weathergirl's foot clean off her ankle, sending it skittering out the door with a trail of blood.

Irma stomped her foot down again with a sharp CLACK.

"Let's get NUTS."

"… Holy fuck I love her."

–

God it was a blissful blur.

She got to prove her claim quick, perking her ass up high and waggling it for camera 2 while camera 1 focused on her face and tits, bending waaaay down low, the tough guy slapping both cheeks with his huge dick before she caught it in her painted lips.

She waggled her eyebrows up at him, then pushed in with a HUALPH, pressing her nose hard into his abs without even a flinch or a hitch as she throated him with ease.

"… Fuck I don't even gotta hold her hair…" he babbled as she did her utmost best, hands on her knees and flaunting herself, hauling back and bapping her face against his gut over and over, facefucking HERSELF on his dick, thick throatslime slinging off his cock and her lips.

She held herself down, gagging as she pushed the limits of her lungs. Her eyes watered and her makeup ran, then she popped up for a gasp just as her knees started to buckle, choking herself on his dick over and over.

Fuck you, Sarah Sanderson from eleventh grade. You puked after an inch of Steve Watson's tiny little cock, and now you're a knocked-up trailer mom! Look at me now!

She glared defiantly in the camera as he grunted and unloaded down her gullet, then defiantly batted his hands away as she went for round two. That one she took all over her face, glasses and tits.

She coughed, she panted, she spat a wad of cum and throatsnot in Barbi-Bambi-whatever's face.

"Howzat?"

"… Jaesus FAWK, gurl! You're mah FAV'RIT!" crowed the Vegas Psycho, smooching and licking some of the spunk off her face as she pranced and danced her around.

–

The tough guy was sick of the weather girl's sniveling. Busted foot or no, that kind of noise meant she was first to go.

Irma jumped at the chance, hopping on her back and grabbing two fistfuls of her hair.

She leered into the camera as she hammered the slut's face down over the tough's cock, holding the dazed dumpster's head down as she struggled, then turned blue and stopped twitching.

They 'recruited' a bunch of terrified techs, lining up the bag of bones between the two twins, her and the Vegas loon on the outsides to keep them corralled.

She earned her name, Crazy Bitch, when she broke one of the tech's knees open when he couldn't get hard, even with her ass grinding against his lap.

She went dirty, taking every last dick up her ass, good and hard, kneading and squeezing as they unloaded in her backside, then sending the filthy dicks straight to the Bag's mouth.

She snarled and critiqued the bag's technique. "She ain't openin' her mouth wide enough!"

The vegas loon showed her a trick. Irma held the bag's hair tight while the Vegas girl lined up her shovel-thing on the back of her head.

Then the tough guy kicked it.

It sliced clean through her skull with a crunch, slicing out through the corners of the bag's mouth. She tossed away most of the bag's head, but Irma could see a mass of bloody grey pulp inside a cup of bone there.

The tough guy passed the vegas chick a spoon he had been heating with a torch. Irma thought it would be drugs, but instead the vegas chick carefully cauterized two spots in the bag's severed head, plugging most of the blood loss.

The old bitch's jaw and tongue flapped and her throat gasped and gargled.

All the techs agreed she was much better at sucking cock now.

Irma squealed with glee as they made the sports team match the bag.

Then she climbed up on one well-hung tech, bouncing up and down on his cock, while the vegas chick proved the shovel trick worked going in through the mouth, too.

The tech bucked and thrust eagerly without most of his brain, and he unloaded round after round into her hungry snatch.

Fuuuuuuuck it was the greatest horny dream EVER.

The spoon trick worked great. She rode her new headless loverboy for nearly ten minutes, before he sputtered his last and sat still.

She giggled and wheezed and panted, catching her breath as the Vegas Chick snuggled up beside her.

"Hey, Crazy Bitch. Wanna learn one last lesson?"

"Wuzzat?" Irma asked, ready for more fun.

"The shovel trick works with shotguns, too."

BLA-

she couldn't really comprehend, but with the spoon trick, her half-headless corpse kept sucking and humping two horrified techs, spitroasting herself on their dicks for almost twelve minutes.

Vegas Bitch lost the over-under, so she got the chainsaw cumdumpster-to-worthless-skull, instead of skull-to-cunt.

–

At exactly 0500, Irma's alarm buzzed.

She catapulted awake with a loud HOOZYWUT! and flailed her arms blindly. Then she flopped back and had a bellowing orgasm, making one of her vibrating phones short out.

Fuuuuck.

What a dream.

Okay. Time to start….

October 25th.

Something's fucked up.

–

Work had her feilding exactly the same calls, the exact same junkmail.

But when the shooting and the fun were supposed to start, she just met a nice looking couple strolling in.

It was a nice chat, but they were oddly insistent that a 'nice girl like you should leave this mess and try something new!'

"After all, you have ENDLESS possibilities, now!" said the nice man.

The woman suddenly leered like a lunatic. "Innat roight, Crazy Bitch?"

She handed Irma a single silver-coloured feather, like the same kind the loony vegas chick was wearing in her hair.

Then the tough guy pulled a gun and blew Irma's head off.

–

At exactly 0500, Irma's alarm buzzed.

She catapulted awake with a loud HOOZYWUT! and flailed her arms blindly. She shuddered and moaned as she squirted across her bedsheets, her fine and trim body wrapped in red leather thigh boots, long red leather gloves with spiked knuckles, and a body harness that squeezed and shaped her *just so*, tugging just right at her crotch to keep her pussy spread open just a bit.

Holstered on her hips were two sawn-off double-barrel shotguns.

On the right, the gun was engraved "Playtime".

On her left hip rode 'Reset Button'.

On her nightstand was a tear-away notepad calendar, stained with blood.

Every sheet said "October 25th".

Irma grinned.

"Fuck you, Sarah Sanderson."

–

Reginald screamed through the gag in his mouth, trying to thrash, but the nails in his one remaining hand and the torn remains of his feet were agony to pull against.

The crazy bitch in red leather and nerd glasses backflipped over his head and landed square on his cock, throbbing and hard, slathered with throatslime and prepped to explode by the throat of his partially decapitated trophy wife.

This lunatic in leather had just… Hopped out of the sky onto his yacht, landing square on the chest of his trophy wife to be, detonating her torso in a fountain of gore and silicone.

She systematically destroyed every bit of security he had, like she knew every move they'd make.

Then she slaughtered everyone else in freakish sex-murder games, constantly berating everyone's performance.

The insane bitch ran her bloodied gloves up through her hair as she slewed and swiveled on him, moaning and groaning as her body squeezed and kneaded.

He had to admit, somewhere in his head. She had gorgeous tits.

As she bounced and flounced, she pulled the shotguns from her hips, flicked them open with a loud CLACK.

Crossing her arms over her chest, a particularly vigorous bounce tossed four shells from a strap in her cleavage. She caught them in the guns, in midair, and flicked them shut with a SNAP.

Viciously rolling her hips, drooling a bit with lunatic glee, Irma stuffed Playtime in Reginald's mouth.

"Don't yew wurray, Mistah Saynduhson!" she sneered, lifting Reset Button in her other hand.

"I been doin' lawtsa practicin'."

She tipped her head just so, and popped the muzzle in her own mouth.

BLA-