Paula's Tale
An original composition by James Gearing
Paula gazed out of the window, looking absent-mindedly on the world she had ruined.
The grass was dead, the buildings were rubble, street lights blinked on and off at random intervals, and copies of 'Straight Up' littered the pavement.
She had no idea her 2009 comeback would bring about the apocalypse, but looking back on it, she wouldn't have it any other way. It was her time to shine again, and she would NEVER let the fire inside of her go out. She was a star, even if there was no-one left in the world to care.
She turned away from the window, took a deep breath, and turned on the radio. The familiar chord progression of 'Opposites Attract' ran through her dormant appartment. It was all they played nowadays, since she set the local radio station on a loop. It was nice, thinking she was number 1 again. She was always number 1 though really, wasn't she? Paula was always number 1 to Paula. Paula loved Paula, it was a great performance.
A crackle reverberated through the room, causing Paula's already-twitching eye to spasm uncontrollably. The meds would only hold out for so long. The crackle was replaced by a shrill squeal, and then... No. It couldn't be. Words?!
'I'M CALLING YOU OUT, PAULA ABDUL! YOU MAY HAVE ENDED THE WORLD, BUT I'M STILL HERE!'
She couldn't believe it. DIOGUARDI. How did she survive? Probably her lean, lizard-like physique and habit for eating nothing but dust and drinking nothing but air. Bitch.
'I KNOW YOU ARE HERE PAULA ABDUL! COME OUT AND FACE ME YOU WHORE!'
Paula shrank back. Kara was never one to mince her words. And words like that hurt. Critics slinging mud at her was Paula's one vice, the one thing that broke her down day after day. She was used to the safety of the obliterated world; no-one to critique her, no one to care if she went out in lime green and pink, no-one to slam her for miming at a singing competition. But Kara's words hit her like a knife in the back. A sexy knife.
She slowly backed away from the window, suddenly very self conscious. But in doing so caught her feet on her full-length neon-yellow caftan and came crashing to the floor, bringing the entire contents of her stolen-award shelf to the ground with her.
'I HEAR YOU PAULA! DON'T THINK I CAN'T HEAR YOU!'
Damnit. Why did she choose to live next door to the radio station where she set up the broadcast?! Bad planning, Paula. BAD BAD PAULA.
The floor started to shake. Paula scrambled over to her bed, and grabbed one of many make-up smeared bedsheets. Now there was no-one to apply and remove for her, like in the 'Idol' days, a girl had to look after herself. And sometimes a girl forgot, and slept with a full face on. Such was the tragedy of post-apocalyptic Paula.
As she wrapped the greasy sheet around herself, she heard an almighty crash from down below. She rolled over to the window and peeked out. There she was. Dioguardi, riding the helm of an enormous yellow dump truck. She had come for vengeance, and she meant business.
'I SEE YOU PAULA. DON'T THINK I DON'T SEE YOU PEEKIN' YOU WHORE. YOU CAN'T HIDE BEHIND SIMON ANYMORE! YOU KILLED HIM PAULA ABDUL! YOU KILLED HIM WITH YOUR DELUDED DREAMS OF STARDOM! NOW NEITHER OF US CAN HAVE HIM!'
Paula shivered. There wasn't a moment that went by when she didn't think about Simon. His stout, flat hair, his pearly grin, his red red face. She loved him. She missed him. But she had to sacrifice him, for the good of her career. Hollywood was dog-eat-dog, and he was just another poodle on the menu. She gritted her teeth.
'Fuck you, Kara.'
'SPEAK UP YOU FAT WHORE!'
'I SAID FUCK YOU, YOU SLUT!'
'THAT'S MORE LIKE IT! FIGHTING TALK!'
Kara revved the digger and slammed it into the creaking timbers of Paula's building. Before she knew it, Abdul was flung out of the window and landed in a crumpled mess in the street. She lifted her head just in time to see Kara's limber frame towering above her, like a titty scarecrow. A diamonte unicorn glistened on her skinny-fit tee. She always dressed like a teen, so cool and snappy. But Paula knew the truth. She knew Dioguardi's secret. Every night, before the Idol boot-off finale, Kara would bathe in the blood of a previous top-ten finalist. It kept her young, svelte and perky.
It made Paula sick. The apocalypse was one thing, but sacrificing contestants was against competition rules. Dioguardi's foot was raised above her head now. Paula had no fight left, she would have to succumb to the blood-ritual-induced beast-woman. Her greasy bedsheet flapped in the wind. Her caftan was ripped all over, exposing wads of flabby flesh. Paula was in bad shape, now all of the world's food was up for grabs.
Suddenly, both women were lifted clean off the ground. An apocalyptic hurricane tore through the street, flinging the pair round and round. Claws ripped at each other's weaves, clothes and skin, sometimes out of rage, sometimes out of sheer fear at being so high up in the air in such strong winds. Both women were screaming at the top of the lungs (although Paula sounded more like a birthing hippo, after losing all tone and vocal ability over the apocalypse years). Kara's glistening unicorn tee was like a target, forcing Paula to carry on ripping and shredding and clawing, desperately trying to regain her place in the word.
SHE WOULD BE RELEVANT AGAIN.
Suddenly, it all went black. The women were slammmed into a massive, solid object. The HOLLYWOOD sign. Kara was impaled on a corner, the glitter of the unicorn being replaced by the dark, rosy pearl of blood. Lizard blood. Paula lay a broken woman at the foot of the 'W'. She looked up, and saw Dioguardi, dead and making a mess at the top of the 'O'.
'you gave... a great... performance.'
She panted, blinking away the dust.
'But I'm still.... number 1.'
And with that, Paula Abdul closed her eyes and died. A woman who had everything, had now caused the end of the world. And she was still number 1.
The familiar strains of 'Straight Up' echoed through the streets of LA from Paula FM, forever a reminder of a lost legend. She is at rest now.
An original composition by James Gearing
Paula gazed out of the window, looking absent-mindedly on the world she had ruined.
The grass was dead, the buildings were rubble, street lights blinked on and off at random intervals, and copies of 'Straight Up' littered the pavement.
She had no idea her 2009 comeback would bring about the apocalypse, but looking back on it, she wouldn't have it any other way. It was her time to shine again, and she would NEVER let the fire inside of her go out. She was a star, even if there was no-one left in the world to care.
She turned away from the window, took a deep breath, and turned on the radio. The familiar chord progression of 'Opposites Attract' ran through her dormant appartment. It was all they played nowadays, since she set the local radio station on a loop. It was nice, thinking she was number 1 again. She was always number 1 though really, wasn't she? Paula was always number 1 to Paula. Paula loved Paula, it was a great performance.
A crackle reverberated through the room, causing Paula's already-twitching eye to spasm uncontrollably. The meds would only hold out for so long. The crackle was replaced by a shrill squeal, and then... No. It couldn't be. Words?!
'I'M CALLING YOU OUT, PAULA ABDUL! YOU MAY HAVE ENDED THE WORLD, BUT I'M STILL HERE!'
She couldn't believe it. DIOGUARDI. How did she survive? Probably her lean, lizard-like physique and habit for eating nothing but dust and drinking nothing but air. Bitch.
'I KNOW YOU ARE HERE PAULA ABDUL! COME OUT AND FACE ME YOU WHORE!'
Paula shrank back. Kara was never one to mince her words. And words like that hurt. Critics slinging mud at her was Paula's one vice, the one thing that broke her down day after day. She was used to the safety of the obliterated world; no-one to critique her, no one to care if she went out in lime green and pink, no-one to slam her for miming at a singing competition. But Kara's words hit her like a knife in the back. A sexy knife.
She slowly backed away from the window, suddenly very self conscious. But in doing so caught her feet on her full-length neon-yellow caftan and came crashing to the floor, bringing the entire contents of her stolen-award shelf to the ground with her.
'I HEAR YOU PAULA! DON'T THINK I CAN'T HEAR YOU!'
Damnit. Why did she choose to live next door to the radio station where she set up the broadcast?! Bad planning, Paula. BAD BAD PAULA.
The floor started to shake. Paula scrambled over to her bed, and grabbed one of many make-up smeared bedsheets. Now there was no-one to apply and remove for her, like in the 'Idol' days, a girl had to look after herself. And sometimes a girl forgot, and slept with a full face on. Such was the tragedy of post-apocalyptic Paula.
As she wrapped the greasy sheet around herself, she heard an almighty crash from down below. She rolled over to the window and peeked out. There she was. Dioguardi, riding the helm of an enormous yellow dump truck. She had come for vengeance, and she meant business.
'I SEE YOU PAULA. DON'T THINK I DON'T SEE YOU PEEKIN' YOU WHORE. YOU CAN'T HIDE BEHIND SIMON ANYMORE! YOU KILLED HIM PAULA ABDUL! YOU KILLED HIM WITH YOUR DELUDED DREAMS OF STARDOM! NOW NEITHER OF US CAN HAVE HIM!'
Paula shivered. There wasn't a moment that went by when she didn't think about Simon. His stout, flat hair, his pearly grin, his red red face. She loved him. She missed him. But she had to sacrifice him, for the good of her career. Hollywood was dog-eat-dog, and he was just another poodle on the menu. She gritted her teeth.
'Fuck you, Kara.'
'SPEAK UP YOU FAT WHORE!'
'I SAID FUCK YOU, YOU SLUT!'
'THAT'S MORE LIKE IT! FIGHTING TALK!'
Kara revved the digger and slammed it into the creaking timbers of Paula's building. Before she knew it, Abdul was flung out of the window and landed in a crumpled mess in the street. She lifted her head just in time to see Kara's limber frame towering above her, like a titty scarecrow. A diamonte unicorn glistened on her skinny-fit tee. She always dressed like a teen, so cool and snappy. But Paula knew the truth. She knew Dioguardi's secret. Every night, before the Idol boot-off finale, Kara would bathe in the blood of a previous top-ten finalist. It kept her young, svelte and perky.
It made Paula sick. The apocalypse was one thing, but sacrificing contestants was against competition rules. Dioguardi's foot was raised above her head now. Paula had no fight left, she would have to succumb to the blood-ritual-induced beast-woman. Her greasy bedsheet flapped in the wind. Her caftan was ripped all over, exposing wads of flabby flesh. Paula was in bad shape, now all of the world's food was up for grabs.
Suddenly, both women were lifted clean off the ground. An apocalyptic hurricane tore through the street, flinging the pair round and round. Claws ripped at each other's weaves, clothes and skin, sometimes out of rage, sometimes out of sheer fear at being so high up in the air in such strong winds. Both women were screaming at the top of the lungs (although Paula sounded more like a birthing hippo, after losing all tone and vocal ability over the apocalypse years). Kara's glistening unicorn tee was like a target, forcing Paula to carry on ripping and shredding and clawing, desperately trying to regain her place in the word.
SHE WOULD BE RELEVANT AGAIN.
Suddenly, it all went black. The women were slammmed into a massive, solid object. The HOLLYWOOD sign. Kara was impaled on a corner, the glitter of the unicorn being replaced by the dark, rosy pearl of blood. Lizard blood. Paula lay a broken woman at the foot of the 'W'. She looked up, and saw Dioguardi, dead and making a mess at the top of the 'O'.
'you gave... a great... performance.'
She panted, blinking away the dust.
'But I'm still.... number 1.'
And with that, Paula Abdul closed her eyes and died. A woman who had everything, had now caused the end of the world. And she was still number 1.
The familiar strains of 'Straight Up' echoed through the streets of LA from Paula FM, forever a reminder of a lost legend. She is at rest now.
