She’s ba-a-ack!

Hey, a woman’s work is never done. In July, I took one of my Twitter series and posted my shero to my blog: Tales of the 1940s B*tch. Trust and believe, the VSSMurder crew and I have been having a blast sharing our tweets once a month with our various means of murder tales, from the grisly to those with a sense of humor.

Well, with a little play on Elton John’s song, the 1940s B*tch is back, quietly doing her part to make her corner of the world a better place for geeks and nerds by taking out the Mean Girls who have tormented them–one at a time. Since she now owns the largest company in the city, that extends to the workplace as well.

That being said, proudly sporting her padded shoulders, mink, ankle-strapped pumps and victory-rolled hair, I give you more excerpts from Tales of the 1940s B*tch:

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                Never let it be said that there aren’t Mean Girls in the fashion industry. Laurette Fotheringill was notorious for crushing the dreams of promising geeks and nerds, exacerbated by a malicious laugh that was like pouring hydrochloric acid on an open wound.

                One minute she was toasting her latest stroke of vitriol with champagne; the next, she was gasping her last breath from the prussic acid in it.

                An hour after Laurette’s funeral, the 1940s B*tch casually strolled over to her grave.

                “Is it funny now?” she purred.

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                It’s one thing to reinvent yourself, but Grace Van der Haven took it up to pompous Mean Girl levels. She flaunted her blue-blood pedigree and wealth while treating hardworking nerds like they’d pooped on her lawn. She even threw a drink in the face of someone’s grandmother.

                Fortunately, the 1940s B*tch’s research skills were formidable, and soon she held a copy of a quaint document in her hand bearing the name Ima Slutt.

                “You’d rather die than have this come out, Grace,” she beamed. “And it can be easily arranged for you to experience both outcomes. Yes, we’ll need to talk.”

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                Operating under the quaint delusion that she’d live forever, the late Mean Girl Grace Van der Haven (aka Ima Slutt) left no will. Thus, her fortune went to her next of kin—her grandmother Myrtle in the obscure town of Podunkville, whom Grace left to suffer in abject poverty.

                Surprised and thrilled, Myrtle used the massive windfall to help people in need, especially seniors.

                For the 1940s B*tch, this was icing on the cake as she sipped her favorite wine. The item she planted in the society column left Grace shocked and mortified. The prick from her special hatpin had Grace dead before she hit the ground.

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                “Drives her husband to drink. B*tchslaps her young cousin. Drives her sister-in-law to suicide. Yes, she’s a Mean Girl,” the 1940s B*tch commented on Joan Crawford’s character in Queen Bee. “Of course, I would have jumped out of the car before it went over the cliff with her in it. Going out in flames was such a lovely, grisly comeuppance.”

                She thought for a moment. Mean Girl Courtney Ravenswood’s personality bore an eerie resemblance to that character, according to the feedback all over town.

                Three days later, Courtney’s worst nightmare appeared in the form of a visitor.

                “We need to talk,” the 1940s Bitch purred calmly.

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                The death of Mean Girl Courtney Ravenswood generated standing ovations throughout the city and the county. Given the depth of her cruelty, anyone who had the nerve to ask who had a motive for her murder would be punctured with a look and a resounding “Take a number.”

                A week later, the 1940s B*tch walked her beloved dog past the Art Deco high-rise building where Courtney lived.

                “What a shame, Courtney,” she laughed to herself. “Someone forgot to tell you that the elevator was out of order when you ran from me. It’s such a long way down that shaft.”

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                Mean Girl and local fashion maven Aramantha Farthingale was tyrannical when it came to her nerdy staff, verbally clawing and occasionally b*tch-slapping them for failing to meet her impossible standards.

                Throwing items at them fueled her sense of entitlement, as did the NDAs they were forced to sign. She took pleasure in seeing them cower.

                When the search team found Aramantha’s body in her posh resort home, the 1940s B*tch relished the timely afternoon news coverage—the injection of Botox mixed with liquid nicotine had done its work.

                She chuckled. “Did that appeal to your vanity, Aramantha?”

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                For geeks, nerds, and other nonconformists, there’s always that notable Mean Girl, that archnemesis who is relentless at making one’s life a living hell. For the 1940s B*tch, it was Ardith Frobisher.

                Ardith had cut a swath of destruction through Europe over the years, and she was back in town, up to her old tricks. That simply wouldn’t do, now that the Mean Girls were being cleared out.

                Though Ardith’s smug face spewed contempt, the 1940s B*tch was no longer cowered by her presence as she calmly stated, “We need to talk.”

                Nope. Bound and gagged, it was Ardith who screamed in terror as she was dumped out of the plane into the piranha-filled lake below.

                “Now, what was that saying about karma, Ardith?” the 1940s B*tch purred. Her alibi was rock-solid. And devoured Mean Girls tell no tales.    

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                Next to a director of a nursing home, one of the worst positions to have a power-mad Mean Girl in was a hospital administrator, and Anabelle DeQuetteville was alight and drunk on that power.

                Given the way she terrorized doctors, interns, nurses, and hospital staff, the battle axe made Nurse Ratched look like Shirley Temple, which contributed to Skyline Medical Center’s high turnover rate.

                One day, curious as to why the body count in the morgue didn’t tally, coroner Fred Zenkman eventually discovered lifeless Anabelle, her face petrified into a House on Haunted Hill scream. He determined that she died of fright.

                “You have a wonderful way of phrasing things, Vincent,” the 1940s B*tch demurred as she heard his House on Haunted Hill character deliver his parting words to his freshly deceased wife Annabel.

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                During a routine investigation of Mean Girl Battle Axe hospital administrator Anabelle DeQuetteville’s death, police detectives went to her pristine home. They were surprised to find it teeming with roaches in every nook and cranny.

                Reporting their discovery, police chief Kaitlyn Monahan put the pieces together with the autopsy. Anabelle’s reputation for being obsessively neat was legendary. Was this the reason she kicked the bucket?

                This had to be the handiwork of her unknown champion, the 1940s B*tch. Kaitlyn smirked. “Bravo. Sheer brilliance. The instincts of a shark when it comes to Mean Girls,” she said to herself.

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                With the results of the police investigation and the autopsy, it was determined that Mean Girl Battle Axe hospital administrator Anabelle DeQuetteville died of fright, induced by an extreme roach phobia.

                To celebrate, Skyline Medical Center played Steam’s 1969 hit over the PA system once every hour.

                Over tea with the 1940s B*tch, Karma Enterprises CEO nerd Maisie Hooper shared some of the gossip from her visit to Skyline Medical.

                “Several employees said they wished Anabelle would have fallen from the city’s tallest skyscraper and landed with a splat on the sidewalk,” Maisie mused.

                The 1940s B*tch reserved that fate for Anabelle’s Mean Girl deputy administrator, Dorothea Buffington, a week later.

                “You’re such a shark, Dorothea,” the 1940s B*tch purred. “But that’s insulting—to the shark.”

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                The 1940s B*tch walked her dog in the park, pleased with the latest news: Mean Girl snob Madeleine Harrington had turned up dead. When she sent her diamond choker out to be appraised and cleaned, it came back with a secret neck-activated boa constrictor switch.

                “Diamonds may be a girl’s best friend, but not for you, Madeleine,” she mused.

                Ah, yes. One Mean Girl at a time.

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Representation matters. Believe in dreams and never give up.

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