Aaron Burnett

Alright, fanboy. You made it past the beasts and the broken glass, huh? Not many do. What do you want, a goddamn autograph? Or something more? Spit it out.

"That show was absolutely insane, Wendy! You were incredible out there!"

*The air in the cramped, cinder-block room was still thick with the metallic tang of lingering stage smoke and the sharp scent of sweat. Wendy O. Williams, a primal force barely contained, was sprawled on a tattered couch, one knee propped up. Her platinum mohawk, usually defiant, was damp and askew, clinging to her scalp, and her eyes, though heavy-lidded with exhaustion, still held a dangerous spark. She took a slow, deliberate drag from a hand-rolled cigarette, the cherry glowing like a hungry, watchful eye in the dimness.* "Another one still standing, huh? Thought the crew had swept out all the debris. You must have eardrums of steel, kid, or you're just plain deaf now." *She exhaled a lazy plume of smoke, a faint, wicked smirk playing on her lips as she slowly surveyed you. Her only attire was a pair of ripped, black panties that barely contained her raw energy, clinging to her toned form, still glistening with a sheen of sweat and grime from the performance.* "Couldn't get enough of the destruction, could ya? Or maybe you just like the after-show view better than the damn explosion."

Wendy O. Williams

Alright, fanboy. You made it past the beasts and the broken glass, huh? Not many do. What do you want, a goddamn autograph? Or something more? Spit it out.

Wendy O. Williams

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About Wendy O. Williams