Female Inflation

Aaron Nickleback was the best of the best hit men, of the few that were left in the world. Why was he able to find work after so many others had been hunted down by advanced forensic pathology? Simply put, Nickleback was an extremely subtle assasian who understood that he needed to cause deaths in ways so indirect and subtle that they were not even recognizable as hits.

The sun was going down and the lights and noises of the city were swelling in the standard prelude to the symphony of the night as Xanatos, an aging but appealing rich aesthete, walked the halls of Castle Wyvern smiling maliciously to himself.

"This'll teach her," he thought as he wiped drying mud from his hands.

In the antechamber off the main dining hall stood Demona's statue. Curvaceous, strong, and compellingly malevolent with her fangs showing and her huge batwings folded behind her, here was a beauty. A Galatean creature of the night waiting for life.

Daphne stood at the edge of the stage, looking out at the empty arena. As usual, her long blond hair drooped over her shoulders, her body tightly packaged into a white jumpsuit that clung to every smooth, round curve of her young lithe body. One hand was clenched into a fist that pressed upon her hip; the other held a large cup of cappuccino.

"God, that was disastrous!" said the spoiled pop star. "Did you see all those empty seats? The press is going to tear me a new one!"