U. F. O.'s (Unidentified Floating Objects)
U. F. O.’s (Unidentified Floating Objects)
(Note: This is a short follow-up to “Control 5: The Beach”, which was a story about revenge inflation. This is what happened after Michael and Suzie began to actually enjoy their day at the beach. So…you might want to read that first….if you haven’t already)
George was living the dream that many in the world were truly envious of.
As a youth, he had worked at the Warner Brothers’ studios in Burbank, starting as a gopher (Go for coffee, go for food, etcetera). As the years progressed, he received on-the-job training and learned how to handle motion picture camera and sound-recording equipment, working on the sets with all of the Hollywood legends. He was often found running errands for Marilyn Monroe or Cary Grant, and secretly he lusted after voluptuous on-set vixens such as Jane Mansfield or Jane Russell. He worked behind the camera for some of Russ Meyer’s breast-obsessed movies in the 1960’s and 70’s. Eventually he worked his way up to directing and producing, becoming a Tinsel Town legend of his own caliber.
Now, well into his retirement years, he was on the top of the heap. A mansion in the Hollywood Hills area was his lasting legacy, situated on prime real estate on the slope of Mount Lee, just below the greenery of Griffith Park (with its famous observatory), overlooking stretching expanse of the most expense and sought-after land in the world. From his garden, his guests could look up and see the white towering letters of the infamous ‘Hollywood’ sign. George could swim in his backyard pool, or be found entertaining many of movie industry’s elites as the lights eliminated the well-known landmark as the sun set in the west. What more could he ask for?
It was on a warm Saturday afternoon, while sitting in the shade of some tall palm trees next to his pool, that George’s peaceful day was interrupted. His wife, Myrna (his fourth wife, after three divorces and one death under suspicious circumstances), was enjoying a tall glass of iced tea in her floral-print bathing suit while sitting poolside dipping her toes into the water. George sat in his cushioned chaise lounge chair, reading a book, feeling a light breeze ruffle his thinning hair as it blew in from the ocean to the west.
He watched his wife as she lightly kicked her feet through the water, sending surface ripples across the pool. With all of the plastic surgery he had paid for, her tummy-tucks, facelifts, and breast implants, Myrna looked like the voluptuous vixens he had drooled over in his youth, appearing twenty years younger than she actually was. And with that illusion of youth, Myrna brought the youthful energy into their bedroom, which, at seventy-seven years old, he couldn’t keep up with her without the help of weekly testosterone shots and a perpetual prescription of his old pal Viagra. Today, George thought that his wife looked rather ravishing in her flower-adorned one-piece swimsuit, and soon was wondering where he left his bottle of little blue pills for use later.
It was at this point that he first heard the noise. With all the trees surrounds so many of the mansions of the right and famous in the area, even the sounds of the distant highways and freeways that crisscrossed the Los Angeles valley were kept to a minimum. So what the couple heard at first, a high-pitched squeal that seemed to come from above them, was not immediately noticed or recognized. When Myrna heard it again, she thought it was the cry of a wandering seagull. But as the sound got closer, the sound morphed away from the call of a bird into what was more like the panicked screams of a woman.
Confused, both George and Myrna jumped to their feet, their eyes searching the expanse of the mansion grounds for the source of the cries but finding nothing. George reached for his cell phone on the outdoor table next to his chair to call the police, when Myrna yelled, “Look!”
There, twenty feet above them, was a source of the screaming. A woman, her lithe, youthful body clad only in what looked like a blue bikini bottom, was drifting eastward with the afternoon breeze. They could see raven-black hair billowing around bare well-tanned shoulders, and her mocha-colored arms and legs flailed around angrily in the air. Her back was turned to them as she drifted closer, so she hadn’t seen the couple yet. As George squinted at the curious sight, he noticed that she looked like she was suspended under two light brown oversized balloons that looked like they were attached to her chest.
“Help me!” she screamed again, followed by a string of curses in Spanish. Kicking her legs about wildly, she slowly twisted around in the air, twirling herself in a lazy circle as she floated by. That was when the earth-bound couple saw that she wasn’t actually attached to a matching set of beachball-sized balloons.
“Holy shit!” Myrna exclaimed, pointing. “Those are her tits!”
The Latina heard the woman below her, turned her head away from her boob-balloons, and bellowed, “Hey, I need some help!”
“What can we do?” George yelled back.
The blue-clad woman had drifted half-way across the yard, and was almost directly above them. “Do you have a rope or anything like that? Or maybe something that you can through to me to at least weigh me down so I don’t float away?”
George and Myrna quickly scanned the poolside area. All that was there were full planter pots and heavy outdoor furniture. Nothing that they could toss that high up to her to assist her descent back to solid ground. The woman was floating higher than their trees, so she couldn’t reach and anchor herself on them either. “Sorry, but I don’t think we have anything that could help you,” Myrna apologized.
“I can’t believe it!” the Latina screamed. “You stupid people don’t have anything that…”
“Oh, shut up, Esparanza!” came another voice. George turned slightly right, and found another curious sight. A blonde woman, this one with the remnants of a torn red one-piece swimsuit hanging off of her hips, was also floating above them, some thirty feet behind the other one, pushed by the same breeze in parallel course. She too dangled below a pair of flesh-toned blimps protruding from her chest, her aureoles stretched and dark against her pale skin, pointing resolutely skyward above her. “This is all your fault.”
“How is this my fault?” the first asked the second, folding her arms defiantly under her chest balloons.
“Because the lady who gave us that breast enhancement lotion told you not to use too much of it on yourself, and you didn’t listen,” Blondie shot back.
“Amanda, when we get down on the ground, I’m am going to kick your ass!” Esparanza yelled. “If you are so smart, how did you get to be blown up with a pair of tit-blimps just like me?”
“Because I was stupid enough to follow your example,” Amanda countered. “You just had to insult her, after almost denting their car, and then you took that lotion from her, and all because you wanted bigger tits…”
The airborne argument continued on as the pair drifted over the treetops at the edge of the property. The two women were still screaming at each other as they caught a slight updraft and rose up the hill, floating close to the Hollywood sign and beyond. George and Myrna continued their confused vigil, watching the inflated women drift up above the treetops of the Santa Monica Hills until they were just specks in the distance.
“Well, that was unexpected,” Myrna just blinked, stunned, her iced tea slowing melting in her hand.
“They sure had big tits,” was all George could think of saying. He sat back down, opened up his book, and began reading again, as if nothing had happened. “That’s Hollywood for ya.”