Coco woke feeling incredibly warm and a little sweaty.

When she tried to touch her face, she found she could not move her arms at all. She opened her eyes, and more blackness greeted her, the sight of which set panic aflame.

Coco began to breathe heavily and her mouth filled with the slick texture and flavor of plastic. She exhaled. The heat and condensation from her breath lingered around her face. She concentrated on moving her arm, and managed to stretch the cocoon and wriggle her hand free. Coco immediately poked a hole through the plastic over her mouth with a long, polished, acrylic fingernail. She took a deep breath while she stripped off her wrapping.

The stench of hot garbage blasted Coco. She freed her right hand, and with both hands she managed to tear away the layers covering her face and neck. She sat up, feet and legs still bound, and glared out into the bright sunlight.

“The fucking dump?!” she shouted to no one.

Looking around, only able to see as far as her head could turn, Coco was shocked to find herself laying on a bed of discarded potato chip bags, egg shells, cheeseburger wrappers, soda and beer bottles, and who-knew-what-else beneath. It all smelled terrible. And something smelled vaguely singed.

Singed. Burned. Electrified.

It all came back to her; the slickness of the chrome, Chastity’s obnoxious smirk as she exited the stage, and flying into the DJ booth.

“That miserable whore!” shouted Coco with enough force that she toppled over and rolled down the small garbage hill. She sat up and unwound the plastic binding around her feet, knees and thighs, only to realize that underneath the layers of trash bags she wore only her silver g-string. That was when it dawned on her: “Those bastards. They just…threw me away?”

Coco stood and assessed her situation. No matter which direction she looked, all she could see was more trash—an outwardly endless expanse of waste all around her. Flies gathered and landed before departing again. They hopped from one pile of trash to another. The buzzing in the air sounded like faint whispers.

There was no way she could clamber through the landfill in her stilettos. She looked down at them and realized that the buckle of one was burned into the flesh of her ankle. She screamed and swore as she yanked the embedded metal from her skin.

She tore squares of cardboard from a nearby box and wrapped her feet with the strips of the leftover plastic that she had torn away from her legs. Coco looked down at her handiwork and decided that although not as fashionable as her heels, they would be much more functional. Nothing about her current ensemble was fashionable. It was made entirely of trash bags.

After peeling away the layers of plastic from her face and legs, what remained was a strapless number, knotted in the middle, and ending above her knees, paired with plastic-wrapped cardboard-soled shoes.

Coco sighed deeply, “Well, I guess there’s no one out here to impress, anyway.”

She picked a direction, figuring that no matter where she walked, she’d eventually come to the end of the landfill. From there she could convince some stupid man to drive her home where she would press charges against Arnie and Chastity.

Assholes.