Word Count: 600
Specs: Original Fic
Pairings: Barbie/Ken, Barbie/Batman, Barbie/He-Man, Barbie/Skeletor, Barbie/Ugly Doll
Summary: All Barbara wants is a pleasant dinner and nice conversation. Is that too much to ask?
Let’s get one thing straight: I hate the name Barbie. It’s Barbara, all right, I’m like 53, way too old for a stupid cutesy nickname. I can deal with the plastic hair, no nipples, the tiny waist, the ridiculously-long legs, the holes in the bottom of my feet, but I cannot deal with Barbie.
So just don’t. Okay? Just don’t.
I wake up in the tub. This isn’t anything new. There’s a perfectly good bed in the bedroom, but it’s usually stacked with all of my clothes, since the closet isn’t exactly functional. At least today I wake up alone. Usually it’s pretty dusty in here, and those dust bunnies can get god-almighty big. Once I shared the tub with a spider – that was no fun at all, let me tell you. After a bit of a stretch, off comes the party dress from yesterday, and on goes an ensemble that I know portends bad, bad things: the tight pink sweater, the tight black skirt, the red pumps, the lime green scarf, the white-rimmed shades.
My date clothes.
A long, long time ago, probably decades ago, I went on dates with Ken. Those were lovely dates: staring into his blue eyes, his white smile as we chatted about this and that (What do you think of the weather today? It’s nice, it’s very nice. Yes, it is nice.), his hand carefully resting atop mine and nothing more. He would give me a chaste kiss after dropping me back at my door in his shiny black convertible, and I would lie on my bed and write in my diary afterwards.
But I never go on those kinds of dates anymore. I haven’t even seen Ken in ages. The last time I did, he was naked, and I think he may have been sacrificed in some kind of ritual. It was awful. I had nightmares for weeks.
No, these days, I have dates with a motley assortment of people, most of whom tower over me, though there’s a couple who have to really crane their neck back to be able to see my eyes. There’s Original Batman, who’s not too bad, though he doesn’t talk much. He-Man’s okay, too, although ever since he lost his arm, date conversation has tended to be pretty awkward. Skeletor’s the worst – ugly, mean, rude, and he never stops trying to catch a peek up my skirt.
Today it seems I’ll be going out with Ugly Doll, who, despite the acid burns on his face, is actually a pretty nice guy. Of course, his head by itself is almost as long as my entire body, and he wears some sort of strange romper-diaper thing, but he’s pretty sweet, really. I think he’s just so grateful for any companionship, let alone mine – and let’s face it, 53 years old or not, I’m still a pretty hot piece. It wouldn’t be a half-bad date if we could just sit at the bistro, or maybe take a ride in the convertible – multi-colored, now, and the rear bumper is broken, but the engine still runs plenty smooth.
But no. We can’t have dinner or go for a ride. We get to rappel down the front of the fireplace, tied to jump ropes. It’s humiliating. And of course Ugly Doll goes first, so he can see right up my skirt.
Distantly, I hear dark chortles of laughter, like thunder. I hate that little kid, I really do. “Oh, no, Barbie! What’s that? IT’S THE LAVA MONSTERS! THE ONLY ESCAPE IS TO MAKE OUT WITH UGLY DOLLLLLLLL!”
I really, really hate that little kid.