Raquel Welch of Necroton

I mean, the hours of them finding me here, in this particular room, in the next 24 hours are... 362 million to one. Stein was right, men. Space is curved. Banner of the Necrotom Black Army. Come on. Sutra. Fall in. Orkan, you have exactly five seconds to get your meaningless life together in one bucket. No, stay away. Stay back. I'm going to get all the information you have out of your little pea brain. It's up to you, bright eyes. It can come out of your mouth, or I'll, uh, suck it out your ear. All right, take him to the spacecraft. Aw, don't worry about your master. He's gonna be just fine in our little torture chamber. Making all those noises, we haven't even done anything yet. I know that. I'm trying to make you feel guilty. It's an old Jewish trick. All right, smart guy. Turn around. Hands in the air. What are you gonna do to me? I'm going to search you for secret weapons. Nothing here. Turn around. You seem to have rung my bell. What are you hiding in your pocket? Is that a secret weapon? No, harmless stuff. I'm just glad to be here. The jig is up. You'll spill your guts now. Oh, no! A torture chamber! The ultimate Ramada Inn! I've got to get out of here! Reams! We know one thing about you, little Sissy Orkans, and that is you can't stand any intensive physical pleasure. We'll have you moaning for mercy. Oh, no. Romantic music. Soft lighting. Oh, no! Not the hot tub! Not the hot tub! Yes. Get behind the modesty screen and drop a mask. You'll never get away with this. If I don't come home for supper, every cop in Boulder will be on your tail. What's a supper? What's a cop? What's a boulder? What's the difference? How should we start? Maybe we should rub him down with baby oil. Baby oil? No, no. That'll leave a slick in the hot tub. What are you doing? Well, I'm stalling for time. Well, snap it up. I've a planet to destroy. Oh, right. I'm fine. Suspenders. Moral support. Pants. Hold on. Are you finished? Well, I think so. Then haul it out here, toots. Why aren't you naked? Who I am is just a tattoo. All right, you Lorkhan dog. I'm not a Lorkhan dog. They have three legs and fall over every fourth step. Talk. Never. Never. My earth files are top secret. All right. Come on. Sutra. Sickle. Wait a minute. Under the Jupiter Convention, I'm entitled to one last meal. Well, all right. What would you like? Something to go. No, I'll never tell you anything. Tickle him. I must say, he has a lot more spunk than I gave him credit for. Let's just get right to the A stuff and throw him in the hot tub. No! No, these are my new tennies.