ElectroBabe and DynaChick 3
Disclaimer, copyright info.
Opening credits w/ theme song.
1
In the usual supervillain lair, Lord Belveduke, Colonel Sanders by way of Jackie Gleason in his black-string tie and white suit, reveals his latest scheme to Sweet Puss, a groupie for supervillains. Belveduke's plan: He will lovingly cook ElectroBabe and DynaChick using Old-South grilling techniques!
LB: Sweet Puss, mark this day in your calendar, for I, sir, shall this day see the demise of my arch-neme-sluts, ElectroBabe and DynaChick!
SW: Oh, Lord Belveduke. You know you make me blush when you talk like that.
LB: I can almost smell their delicious juices! First I'm agonna dry rub them to perfection with my secret herbs and spices, and then we gonna cook them two spandex spank dreams just like...big birds or something...hell, I dunno. If my hunch is right, their ElectroSuits are designed to hold in their body heat. They'll stew in their own tights, Lord help me JESUS! I say, I say I think I'm gonna be sending them onto they's makers, mark my words. Happy hickory smoke!
SW: But it all sounds so icky, Lord Belveduke.
LB: I'm afraid it has to be, my little Dixie cup. If a gentleman is agonna make it in this world, he has to have a gimmick. And mine just happens to be foodstuffs.
He delineates this using (inserts of) a storyboard, with the girls' stick figures cooked and devoured in absurdly speculative detail.
LB (V.O.): This "rightchere" is a what you might call a storyboard. There's ElectroBabe and DynaChick. Or vice versa, I guess, it doesn't really matter. And that's supposed to be an automatic de-boner and de-nuder, but it looks more like a...you know, you really must forgive my rather crude drawings. All of this looked better last night. Hmmmm, I think that one's just a doodle that I forgot to erase. And that's....(putting away storyboard)...aw, let's never mind the technical blueprints and suchlike, darling. You know what I could really go for right now? A mint julep.
SP: Oh, BVD. How can you think of imbibing when ElectroBabe and DynaChick could put us behind bars at any moment?
LB: You just never mind, little girl, about them two. I'm not the only one who's planning to put them on his dinnerplate. Hey, they might even be in some deathtrap as we speak.
Cut to EBDC, close-ups on their faces. They're sweating and groaning. Are they already ensnared by some other fiend? No. They're doing aerobics.
EB: And bend and stretch, and lift and gouge and stretch and bend and whoopsy daisy.
DC: Do you think Norman likes me?
EB: Keep your buns straight, DynaChick. Norman? Is he old enough to notice girls?
DC: He's in high school. I would think so.
EB: But he's kind of a....freak.
DC: They're called geeks, ElectroBabe.
EB: Well, I wouldn't tease him too much, DynaChick. We need his computer support to power our power pants and give us the superhuman strength we need to overcome our fiendish adversaries. Now let's do some squat thrust leg lift butt pumps.
DC: Betcha I can do more than you!
EB: You're on!
DC: You are so weak!
EB: No, you are! C'mon! Explode!
DC: You wanna be...just like me!
EB: You ho!
After reaching muscle failure, they collapse on the mat.
DC: You passed out first!
EB: Oh my god, DynaChick!
DC: What? What's wrong?!
EB: I totally spaced our champagne reception at the old abandoned lunchmeat factory. We'd better get going. We've been voted Sheroes of the Year by the Hollywood Celebrity Association.
DC: I'm not crazy about that title. Why do we have to be "sheroes"? Why can't we be heroines? Or just heroes, for that matter?
EB: Because the media like to think they can go one better than the dictionary, DynaChick. And "heroes" are guys, and heroin is something bad people do. I'll tell you more about that when you're older.
A buzzer sounds.
EBDC in unison: Norman!
EBDC have been interrupted by their geeky sidekick, Norman, who communicates with them from his basement crime lab.
N: Hi, ElectroBabe. How's it going, DynaChick?
DC: Hey.
N: I just called to say that Lord Belveduke has been spotted around town, and don't forget that you guys are due at the Sheroes of the Year luncheon at the old abandoned lunchmeat factory.
EB: Luncheon?! What happened to the champagne reception?
N: Times are tight.
EB: Cheap bastards!
EBDC buckle their seatbelts and zoom off in their ElectroCar.
EB: Buckle up and belt it down, DynaChick!
DC: Turbo thrusts just eat our dust, ElectroBabe!
EB: Wheeeedawgie!
DC: ElectroBabe, can I ask you a question? A girl question?
EB: Well, I forgot that you're about that age, DynaChick. Go ahead.
DC: How do you kiss a guy?
EB: Well, there are several techniques....
DC: But how do you personally kiss a guy?
EB: Hmmmm. Well, I like to start slow. And then work in a little tongue action. Swirl it a bit like you're licking ice cream, and then start alternating short and long thrusts. Oh. And moan a little and tickle his ribs if he starts to let you go. There's an art to that, but you'll have to wait until you're older to learn it.
EBDC take the elevator to the floor indicated by a crude sign affixed to
its doors: Sheroes Champagne Reception Luncheon: Krofft
Room, Basement.
Once inside, EBDC find themselves trapped as the elevator slowly fills with steam. Or is it something else?!
DC: Maybe we should have used the stairs, ElectroBabe. Smoke!
EB: That's not smoke, DynaChick. That's...something else.
DC: It's up to our boot-tops, ElectroBabe; we'd better get out of here.
EB: The door seems to be stuck!
DC: What a nightmare.
Lord Belveduke's voice appears over the elevator's speaker.
BVD: Good evening, you sleazy yankee sluts!
EB: Who are you? What are you doing to us?
BVD: That's gas, babes. As in deadly gas. My yes, but judgment day is nigh, sir, yes, judgment day is "rightchere." (sound of his hand thumping a desk for emphasis on those last two syllables)
EB: But why?
BVD: Yours is not to reason why, yours is but to...die!
SP: Oh, that's so poetic, Lord Belveduke!
DC: Lord Belveduke!? Is that you?
BVD: Oh all right. Yes, it's me. And thanks for giving me away, Sweet Puss. Damn! I could have played that out.... (giggles like Roscoe P. Coltrane)
EB: Lord Belveduke! We should have known! We walked right into his trap!
DC: Lord Belveduke? The crazed southern gourmet?! But shouldn't he be in prison, for trying to murder us last month? Could he be out already? Do attempts on the life of a superhero really mean so little to the criminal justice system? What happened to equal protection under the law?!
BVD: I could discuss legal matters all day, damsels in distress, but there's dying to be done. Sleep tight, babes in tights!
DC: Gulp! Looks like in this elevator you can only go down, ElectroBabe!
EB: Wait a minute, DynaChick!
DC: We haven't got a minute, ElectroBabe! It's up to my boobs!
EB: Does this gas smell familiar to you?
DC (sniffing): Is that hickory?
EBDC in unison: Lord Belveduke Brand Smoked Hickory Smoke!
EB: Yes! Knockout gas flavored with secret herbs and spices! But why?
DC: Now I know how a cigarette feels!
EB: Huh?
DC: We're being smoked!
EB: Don't be silly....that sounds so silly, Dyna...Chick....
The girls collapse in a heap. And then the door opens and yellow unitard-wearing BananaMen (the default henchmen for all super-villains in this series, just as Sweet Puss is the default henchchick) enter the elevator, scoop up the girls, and cart them off.
EBDC are tied up and gagged in the back of a van, and transported to Lord Belveduke's lair. Upon waking, they exchange worried glances and wonder where they're being taken.
EB: Muflflfluflflfflllhmmmm.
DC: Muffluflflfhhhmmmm.
The girls are tied down and subjected to a dry rub with salts and seasoning, just like a t-bone or really juicy porterhouse, under the supervision of Lord Belveduke. Microwave heating elements above them will cook them slowly, juicily.
BVD: Be sure to rub them down real good, BananaMen. The recipe for that dry rub has been handed down through six generations of Belvedukes.
SP: What does it do, Lord Belveduke?
BVD: The dry rub technique is a simple one, Sweet Puss. It contains three primary ingredients: salt, sugar, and seasoning. I can't tell you exactly which seasonings, of course, because then I'd have to kill you. Anyway, as the meat cooks, the salt draws out the moisture and sucks in the seasoning. The sugar carmelizes and forms a delicious skin, sealing in the juices.
SP: How are you going to cook them?
BVD: Ah, the joys of microwave technology, my dear. You will notice, just above them, industrial strength heating elements. These elements will cook them thoroughly with microwave radiation. And best of all, no grill to clean!
SP: What a good idea!
BVD: Good? It's perfect!
EB: You fiends!
BVD: Sticks and stones, sticks and stones! Okay, BananaMen. That's enough sugar and spice. These girls aren't that nice. Comfortable, ladies?
DC: ElectroBabe, can you see anyway out of this?
EB: I can't, DynaChick. I really can't. These ropes are so strong, and I'm growing weaker with each passing minute.
BVD: Like I said, those are really hot heating elements. And they're only set for half power. That's to give you time to simmer just right. Wouldn't want to rush a good thing!
SP: Ooooh, I'm getting hungry, BVD.
BVD: Well, I must admit that my own appetite has been aroused with all of this tasty preparation. What say you we head to The Cracker Barrel, darling? It's not quite home cooking, but it'll do.
SP: Oh, BVD, you know just how to treat a lady.
BVD (tilting his head toward EBDC): Oh yeah, I know just how to treat a lady. With secret herbs and spices and a lot of love, yes sir, a lot of love. Ta ta girls! BananaMen, I trust you will remain in attendance until the meal is fully cooked. You know where we keep the meat thermometer, and where you can stick it. Come along now, Sweet Puss.
Lord Belveduke and Sweet Puss exit, while the BananaMen stand at parade rest like soldiers.
DC: ElectroBabe, is there nothing we can do? We're stewing in our own juices.
EB: This looks like the end, DynaChick.
EBDC struggle at length while the heating elements glow. Finally....
EB: DynaChick, are you wearing your experimental wrist radio?
DC: You mean the one we tested last week? Sure!
EB: Well, don't you think you should contact Norman and ask him to send us enough power to power our power pants?
DC: But I don't want him to think that I like him.
EB: DynaChick, I understand your wanting to play hard to get. However, I am strongly urging you to....
DC: Okay, okay. Here goes.
DynaChick's wrist radio generates modem dial up noise, crackling and beeping. In Norman's basement laboratory, his computer suddenly leaps to life.
N: ElectroBabe and DynaChick! I was kind of hoping you would call. Hi, DynaChick!
EB: Norman! We're in kind of a sticky situation. Can you trigger a turbo change? We could really use the juice.
N: Gee, I don't know ElectroBabe. The power units could stand recharging. I'd hate to burn out a perfectly good backup battery. Can't you run through the usual power-up procedure?
DC: We're kind of helpless at the minute, Norman.
N: Well, if you don't mind burning out a perfectly good 9-volt battery....
EB: Norman, our relationship has always been built on mutual trust and respect. And I could never ask you to intentionally destroy a perfectly good piece of hardware. However, I am strongly urging you....
N: Okay, I'll see what I can do.
Norman's mother (from offscreen): Norman! When are you going to take out the trash?!
Norman slaps his hand over his microphone.
N: Uh, a little privacy, mom.
Mom: That trash isn't going to take out itself.
N: Please! You never let me have a minute alone!
Mom mutters something unintelligible, but fades away.
N: Okay, ladies. Here goes.
The girls' costumes turn metallic with a bolt of lightning, and they instantly pop up, unbound and ready for action.
EB: Now it's time to take out the trash, DynaChick.
DC: You said it, partner!
With the superstrength provided by their newly energized suits, EBDC combat the BananaMen. The fight scene is coarse, and the girls fight dirty, like bar-room brawlers. The BananaMen's protective cups are sorely tested by the girls' constant kicks and punches to the groin. Flash forward to EBDC standing alongside a captured Sweet Puss and Lord Belveduke.
EB: Guess you know now that your half-baked ideas are insufficient for cooking our goose, Lord Belveduke!
DC: And that crime doesn't pay, and all that!
BVD: Huh. I'd have made it if not for your insipid meddling, you beauty college rejects, you!
DC: Not to mention the help of special guest star William Shatner.
EB: Bill's looking pretty good these days. Wish he could have stuck around for the wrap-up.
DC: Hollywood celebrities. Always on the go, ElectroBabe!
EB: Right on, soul sister!
EBDC smile and offer thumbs up in unison. DC at first offers a "thumbs down," then immediately corrects herself to match EB. They both laugh like total cheeseballs while Lord Belveduke and Sweet Puss spit at them.
2
Static close-up of a transistor radio, a la Blood Feast.
Radio: And in related news, a witness who would speak only on the condition of anonymity, Mark Pudding of 1616 Scuttlebutt Lane, said that ElectroBabe and DynaChick were repeatedly tortured, fondled, gripped, groped and steam-heated by the nefarious Lord Belveduke and his backup group, The BananaMen, while the rest of the hostages watched.
Norman's hand enters the frame and clicks off the radio.
N: I wonder how somebody applies to be a BananaMan. (long pause, or "beat") Lucky bastards.
Norman contacts EBDC.
N: ElectroBabe! DynaChick! Are you there?
EB: Yes, Norman. What's wrong?
N: Nothing. Must there be something wrong for me to give you a ring? Can't a guy just call to say "Hi" once in a while?
DC: We just thought that you might have news about a prison escape or nuclear threat, that's all.
N: Actually, I wanted to know if you wanted to go to Pop's Malt Shop. Uh, you too, ElectroBabe.
EB: Oh, I see. (winks at DynaChick) DynaChick, if you'd like to go out with Norman, I could take care of things by myself. Really.
DC (silently kicking or wrestling EB): You know that I'd love to, ElectroBabe, but I've got to file the patent for our new impermeable ElectroSuits.
EB: Oh, that's no problem, DynaChick. I can do that through the Internet with the patent office's new submission form. Really.
DC: We'll call you back, Norman. (to ElectroBabe) Thanks. Thanks a lot.
EB: No problem, saucy sidekick. I've got you out of plenty of tight jams in the past, and I'm always happy to be of service.
DC: Whatta pal. You do realize that poor sap is lovesick for yours truly, don't you? And that it's sad and maybe even sadistic to tease somebody in that condition?
EB: You should take him up on that date. How many guys do you know willing to ask out a girl with her own ElectroSuit? It can be a little intimidating.
DC: Why don't you take care of your own love life? And leave mine alone, okay?
EB: Whatever. I'm going to my paintball class. (exits)
DC: Oooooh. That ElectroBabe! She makes me so mad sometimes!
In Norman's lab, the poor lad sits and stares at his computer display. It reveals a photomanipulation screensaver of DC and himself, scanned into a family picture motif. (And if I have to buy a picture frame to get the perfect picture, so be it. Sacrifices must be made in the name of art!)
Narrator: Gee, what's wrong, Norman? Growing pains for a high school computer programming wizard?
N: I don't understand it. DynaChick and I are meant for each other. I'm nice. She's nice. I fight crime. She fights crime. I love Nintendo. She loves Nintendo. We both love Nintendo together!
Narrator: You know, Norman, chicks only say they like nice guys. They usually end up with complete and total jerks.
N: I've heard that, but I don't believe it.
Narrator: Oh, it is so true. I'll give you an example. I was going out with a girl for the better part of a year, and I was pretty sure she admired my Jacoby and Myers wardrobe and solid, reliable, Steady Eddy ways, but I turn my back for one second, and BAM! She's off on the back of a motorcycle to Sturgis with some guy named Snake. Nothing's fair in love, Norman.
N: Well, then. It's time to play dirty.
Narrator: And what's that supposed to mean?
N: It means that if I can't win DynaChick through a straight-up approach, I'll conquer her through stealth, that's what I mean. As their computer-geek sidekick, I could very easily set DynaChick up for a trap. I know where they are at all times, and where they're going.
Narrator: A trap? Wouldn't that be dangerous?
N: I'm talking about non-lethal traps. I put on a little mask, rig a little snare, use them like a couple of human sex dolls, and then, when all hope seems lost, I take off my mask and leap in as good old Norman to save the day! That'll show 'em! I'll have my cake and eat it, too!
Narrator: Why don't you just try a little trick I always use: Introduce some subject you know will tick DynaChick off, and then do something really nice for her or give her a little present. Or whatever. She'll still be hot, but directing that heat in the right way, if you know what I mean. But booby traps? You're flirting with madness there, kid. And you know what they say: Once you go wack, you never go back!
N: I'll take that chance. Now to think of a name and disguise....
Narrator: And don't forget. You'll need henchmen.
N: I'll hire a couple of BananaMen through Manpower. Temporary help is all I can afford at this point. And I'm going to have to sell my old Playstation just to pay for that. Aw well, she's worth it.
Norman's mother (from offscreen, as always): Norman! Do these dishes!
N: Mom!
DynaChick, alone at home, receives a call from Norman.
N: ElectroBabe! DynaChick!
DC: Hey, Norman. What is it this time? Did you want to go to the movies or something? (makes a face at the camera)
N: This is strictly business, DynaChick. The Purple Scoundrel's been spotted at the old abandoned Thighmaster factory.
DC: Oh, that poor Suzanne Somers. The Purple Scoundrel, huh?
N: The one and only. Are you going to wait for ElectroBabe before going on this routine patrol, or are you woman enough to handle him on your own?
DC: I can fight my own battles, thank you very much. (hangs up) Oh, that Norman. He makes me so mad sometimes!
N (to the camera): The fool. She fell for my crafty scheme!
Norman suddenly stumbles over something.
Narrator: What clumsiness, would-be-fiend fans! Norman has tripped over his own dirty laundry!
N: Ouch! My head!
Narrator: Norman? Are you okay?
N: Who said that? Who are you? And why are you calling me "Norman"?
Narrator: I should ask you the same thing.
N: Why, I'm The Stickler!
Narrator: The Stickler!
N: That's right. A stickler for detail, I lovingly recreate famous deathtraps.
Narrator: Horrors, ElectroFans! I don't think he's faking it! And isn't this how King Tut got started?
N: Who's King Tut?
Mom (offscreen): Norman! Who the hell are you talking to?
DynaChick heads to the warehouse as directed, and is met by Norman, thinly disguised by a hat and mask combination like the Green Hornet's or some other flimsy guise....
DC: ElectroBabe, this is me, DynaChick, calling on the official Electro-Frequency. I'm doing a little research. No reason to worry about me. I hope that your paintball class goes well. Don't let anyone sneak up behind you! Over and out!
DynaChick is quickly knocked out from behind with chloroform. It's Norman dressed as The Stickler!
N: Good advice, DynaChick. Over and out, indeed!
ElectroBabe arrives home to discover DynaChick gone.
EB: That's not like her. DynaChick left a whole sink of dishes.
The ElectroBuzzer buzzes.
EB: Norman? Is that you?
N: Your ElectroNetwork is easier to crack than a walnut. You can call me The Stickler if you like. Norman will be a little preoccupied for a while.
EB: You fiend! What have you done to that poor boy? And where is DynaChick?
N: Stay tuned, ElectroBabe. Stay tuned!
ElectroBabe taps a few buttons on a keyboard.
EB (to herself): Star...6... 9.
ElectroBabe races off in the ElectroCar. She tries to contact Norman, but to no avail. Hmmmm.
EB: That's funny. Norman's not answering on his home phone, either. This Stickler guy is really thorough. But so's my ElectroComp's tracking beam!
A passing motorist hits ElectroBabe in the head with a bottle.
Motorist: Cell phones cause car wrecks, you #%$&^#@!
Meanwhile, The Stickler taunts the captive DynaChick.
N: You know, DynaChick, you're really turning into a fine young woman. Blooming and blossoming in all the right ways. And places.
DC: Are you for real?
N: Let me ask you something. If I weren't a supervillain, would you, you know, really go for a guy like me?
DC: I think I would rather eat my own vomit.
N: We'll see if I can't change your mind. We have ways of adjusting attitudes like yours.
ElectroBabe arrives and sneaks up on them both, but is overtaken when she slips on a banana peel, knocking herself out.
Narrator: Oh no! Not the old banana peel trick!
ElectroBabe and DynaChick are flanked by two BananaMen each.
DC: Golly, ElectroBabe. I think the BananaMan standing on my right feels a little ripe, if you follow my meaning.
EB: Tell me about it, DynaChick. (to a BananaMan) Hey, Buster Parfait. Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?
N: Ah, yes, ElectroBabe. Thanks for reminding me. As a tribute to that immortal gourmet, Lord Belveduke, I've prepared a very special dessert to top off tonight's party. Ha ha ha....
We next find ElectroBabe and DynaChick being tied to a conveyor belt by the BananaMen.
EB: A conveyor belt! Talk about old hat!
N: Ah, but with a creamy twist. This conveyor belt leads to a giant vat of freshly churned chocolate. You'll be its sweetest ingredient.
DC: Oh, really, Stickler. Don't you realize that this exact same deathtrap was used by Lord Belveduke last summer? What did he call it? Oh yeah. The ElectroSplit.
N: Bullseye, DynaChick. But where he failed, I will succeed. And with an obsessive attention for detail. I'm a stickler for detail. Pretty catchy way to get an alias, don't you think? Ah well. BananaMen! Throw the switch!
The BananaMen stick bananas between the girls' mid-thighs (their legs are bound together) as they travel helplessly along the conveyor's path, and after whipped cream, cherries and pineapple bits fall on them like bird droppings, EBDC finally plop down into the vat of chocolate.
DC: Maybe if we hold still, we can float for a while.
EB: Not a chance, DynaChick. This chocolate is ten times worse than quicksand. It's going to suck us down slowly. Unless....
DC: Unless what?
EB: Unless The Stickler is as cheap as his fashion sense, and this is chocolatey goo rather than chocolate goo.
DC: ElectroCocoaConcoctions! What's the difference?
EB: The difference, dear girl, is that the fake stuff is semi-toxic and ultimately corrosive. And that combination can eat its way through ordinary rope. Try to pry loose from your bonds, but don't move too much or you'll sink beneath the surface.
DC: Good thing we wore our impermeable ElectroSuits.
EB: Yeah. It'll make for a quick clean-up. (breaks free) There!
After a presumably quick clean-up, they dash in on The Stickler, who sits at a computer, playing solitaire; EBDC2 plays on a t.v. in the corner.
EB: So much for dessert, Stickler. Now it's time for you to get fudged!
N: One! Two! Three! Get 'em men!
The BananaMen arrive, and a fight scene ensues. The BananaMen are knocked unconscious. EBDC stand with arms akimbo.
N: I will admit that you two really know how to fight. I don't know how you do it.
DC: That's easy. Our power pants give us our superhuman strength!
EB: I normally wouldn't approve of you giving away our secrets, DynaChick, but I expect Warden Jack will keep this goon in solitary for a long while.
DC: Yeah, Stickler. You'll have plenty of time to play Solitaire in solitary.
As they gloat and boast, the BananaMen awake, and yank off EBDC's power pants with the skill and enthusiasm of frat boys at a panty raid. EBDC are powerless!
N: You were saying?
EBDC are strapped X-fashion to two spinning wheels, much like those used by knife throwers at the circus. Norman stands beside them. Their briefs dangle from wires, out of reach.
N: Pinned like bugs to cardboard. Spinnin' wheels, spinnin' 'round. And as you spin, you will get really woozy.
EB: And then an automatic knife-throwing machine will throw knives at us, right?
N: (to himself) Oh, that would be so cool! (to his captives) Actually, you'll, uh, be turned inside out by the force, yeah....
DC: But that's physically impossible. Newton-John's first rule of applied centrifugal physiology says that a body in motion tends to explode rather than implode.
N: Yeah...that's it. Your bones will be ripped from your body. These things spin so fast! Whooo boy, I'd hate to be in your boots. Especially with those 5" heels! Have you any last words before I spin my little merry-go-rounds?
EB: Only this, Stickler. Evil sometimes triumphs temporarily, but rarely succeeds.
N: Yeah, that makes a lot of sense. What about you, DynaChick? Any last regrets? Is there anyone that you really wish you'd have gone out with, but didn't get the chance? Any special guys in your life?
DC: Well, there was one, but he's in Sturgis at a biker rally.
N: Fine. Great! Well, that's all I need to know. BananaMen, throw the switch.
The girls start spinning.
N: Ta ta, ElectroHotties. I'd love to stick around, but that would be like sitting in the front row of a Gallagher show, what with your guts flying all over the place and all.
He exits.
DC: ElectroBabe! What can we do? Is this copycat fiend going to succeed where all others have failed?
EB: I don't know, DynaChick, but try not to throw up all over the place like you did at King's Island last summer.
DC: You have to keep bringing that up, don't you?!
After steady acceleration of the spinning wheels and much doom-foretelling by The Narrator, sparks fly from the backs of the wheels. They come to a halt, and the girls miraculously find themselves falling free of their bonds.
DC: That was so close. We're really lucky that the armature driving these turbines shorted out.
EB: Luck had nothing to do with it, DynaChick.
DC: You mean it was...a higher power?
EB: Yes. There was a little residual energy left in my leotard, and I directed that through the fingertips of my ElectroGloves to short out the armature. Now let's take it to Mach 2.
EBDC (in unison): Time to turbo change!
EBDC run through a couple of high school cheerleader moves as lightning flashes, and voila: They've turbo changed. They now wear their metallic costumes.
DC (pointing): Look, ElectroBabe! BananaMen!
EB: Let's show them how to fight like girls!
EBDC punch out their lights.
The girls sneak up on The Stickler in BananaMen outfits, and he fails to notice their womanly curves through the yellow spandex unitards.
N: Oh good. I was wondering where you'd gotten to. I'm going to need some information for the IRS, so if you could bring in your pay stubs from your last temp position, that would be a big help, okay?
They manhandle The Stickler.
N: Hey! Not so hard! What are you doing?
EBDC pull off their BananaMen masks and their hair tumbles down.
EB: You'll have plenty of time to falsify tax forms where you're going, Stickler.
N: I'd have made it if not for your meddling, voltage vixens.
EBDC (in unison, thumbs up, big grin for the camera): Like they all say, "Crime doesn't pay!"
Roll end credits.
A Public Service Announcement.
EB: Hey kids! ElectroBabe and DynaChick here with another important message about safety and playing it smart.
DC: Right on, ElectroBabe. You know, people sometimes confuse us with our characters. I hate that. Don't you, ElectroBabe?
EB: Affirmative, DynaChick.
DC: Don't you people realize we have lives too, you know? Anyway, what really freaks us out a little bit is when somebody tries to copy one of our stunts. Hey. Guess what. This is real life. And real life can hurt. So get over it.
EB: Yeah. That really pisses off DynaChick and me!
DC: So anyway, don't do these stunts at home. We're trained professionals and best friends. (sees someone coming over) Hey, Bob!
Bob enters frame. He's wearing a BananaMan costume, w/ mask.
EB: Tell our at-home viewers what it takes to be a stuntman.
Bob pulls off his mask to reveal a blackened eye, broken tooth, bloody nose....
Bob: Oh, yeah. Safety first. Always!
EB: Yeah, thanks, Bob. Well, these costumes are getting hot, so we've gotta go, kids.
DC: So stay smart and don't do angel dust!
EB: And always remember....
EBDC (in unison): Crime never pays!
The girls assume a typical super-pose, and we freeze on it, then fade out.
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