Barbie vs the Zombie Clones
Barbie had planned for glitter, not guts. The Halloween party invite had promised neon cocktails, pumpkin chandeliers, and a DJ who only spun darkwave remixes. She’d spent hours perfecting her look: a goth gown blacker than a tax audit, eyeliner sharp enough to file patents with. She was ready to own the night.
Instead, her car coughed, sputtered, and died on a lonely backroad with all the commitment of a fair-weather friend, and then it began to rain. The only nearby landmark was a hulking cathedral, its spires clawing the sky like a bad manicure. Barbie muttered, “Of course. A gothic roadside cathedral. Because the universe knows subtlety is overrated.”
She pushed open the cathedral doors, heels clicking like an ominous metronome. The place smelled of mildew, candle wax, and something sour. And then she heard it: the scrape of a dozen heels on stone.
They came lurching from the shadows—zombie Barbie clones. Undead porcelain smiles fractured across their cracked faces, gowns shredded like bootleg knockoffs of her own. The sight made her snarl. “Really? You couldn’t even be original in death?”
One staggered forward, a parody of her walk, like a cover band that can’t hit the high notes. Barbie whipped her dagger free, lightning dancing along the blade. “Imitation isn’t flattery when it looks this cheap, sweetheart.”
The horde hissed and lunged. Barbie twirled, skirts flaring, blades sparking arcs of blue fire. She sliced through copy after copy, the thunder of her laugh bouncing off the cathedral walls. “This is what happens when you plagiarize the wrong bitch!” she shouted, stabbing another clone through the chest.
At last, the final Barbie zombie crawled toward her, half a face missing, eyes glowing faint. Barbie leaned down, voice syrupy sweet. “You tried, sugarplum. You failed. Nothing personal—it’s just that I don’t share the spotlight.”
Lightning roared. Silence followed.
Barbie stood amid heaps of shattered plastic smiles and broken gowns. She wiped her blade on a corpse’s ruined skirt, snapped her compact mirror open, and checked her eyeliner. Still perfect.
“Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery,” she purred, “but it’s also the quickest way to die of embarrassment.”
She strode out into the night, sparks still dripping from her hands like jewelry. Somewhere there was a Halloween party—and when Barbie arrived, she’d have a hell of a story, and no legion of cheap imitations could take that crown from her.
“Hope the DJ likes requests,” she muttered, smirking. “Because I’m about to dedicate a track to all my dead fans.”
Instead, her car coughed, sputtered, and died on a lonely backroad with all the commitment of a fair-weather friend, and then it began to rain. The only nearby landmark was a hulking cathedral, its spires clawing the sky like a bad manicure. Barbie muttered, “Of course. A gothic roadside cathedral. Because the universe knows subtlety is overrated.”
She pushed open the cathedral doors, heels clicking like an ominous metronome. The place smelled of mildew, candle wax, and something sour. And then she heard it: the scrape of a dozen heels on stone.
They came lurching from the shadows—zombie Barbie clones. Undead porcelain smiles fractured across their cracked faces, gowns shredded like bootleg knockoffs of her own. The sight made her snarl. “Really? You couldn’t even be original in death?”
One staggered forward, a parody of her walk, like a cover band that can’t hit the high notes. Barbie whipped her dagger free, lightning dancing along the blade. “Imitation isn’t flattery when it looks this cheap, sweetheart.”
The horde hissed and lunged. Barbie twirled, skirts flaring, blades sparking arcs of blue fire. She sliced through copy after copy, the thunder of her laugh bouncing off the cathedral walls. “This is what happens when you plagiarize the wrong bitch!” she shouted, stabbing another clone through the chest.
At last, the final Barbie zombie crawled toward her, half a face missing, eyes glowing faint. Barbie leaned down, voice syrupy sweet. “You tried, sugarplum. You failed. Nothing personal—it’s just that I don’t share the spotlight.”
Lightning roared. Silence followed.
Barbie stood amid heaps of shattered plastic smiles and broken gowns. She wiped her blade on a corpse’s ruined skirt, snapped her compact mirror open, and checked her eyeliner. Still perfect.
“Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery,” she purred, “but it’s also the quickest way to die of embarrassment.”
She strode out into the night, sparks still dripping from her hands like jewelry. Somewhere there was a Halloween party—and when Barbie arrived, she’d have a hell of a story, and no legion of cheap imitations could take that crown from her.
“Hope the DJ likes requests,” she muttered, smirking. “Because I’m about to dedicate a track to all my dead fans.”
