biting commentary: help me finish this fic!

Hello, readers. It's !!$#$ Monday and I am at @#$%!! work. Not that I shall let that stop me from having some fun. Even though the blogger is &()()_!!%%(_)(&)**(& SLOW today!

Below you will find an adventure of Enid Mare, my favorite voluptuous vampire. It is not a finished story. I want your ideas. Then I'll finish the tale and post the whole thing.

Happy &)&)()*_) @#$% reading. (PS: Thanks to my dad for the "biting commentary" bit). ;)

* the !@#$%^ things are classy ways of saying things like "shit" and "fuck" (or very, very occasionally, "Sod off you cacker" re: the Dictionary of English Slang). I hope that my uncharacteristic classiness hasn't caused much confusion.

Enid looked at the women around her and felt her mouth turn down into a sour sort of snarl. It was only her second visit to the GetFit Body Center, but she already regretted paying a mandatory six-month fee. She doubted that even her frugal tendencies – or her concern about her diet regimen – could induce her to return to this hole.
Enid had never been particularly vulnerable to the medieval strains of theological thought, but she began to believe in Hell as she looked around the women’s dressing room.
The dressing room was a glorified version of what might be found in any public high school. Enid knew. She had worked as a guidance counselor for about eight months in the early nineties (nineteen nineties – though she had been alive for two and a quarter millennia, now).
Guidance counseling had been a very productive gig – being anointed as shepherd for a flock of plump and emotionally wayward teens. Enid sighed from the memory of better days.
At GetFit, the lines of mirrors, lockers, and shower stalls were dressed up with pale rose carpeting. It did make the room a bit less depressing (despite the sound of some waif vomiting in one of the two toilets), but carpeting was not a great idea in a gym.
The smell of sweaty feet had been steamed into the fabric by the line of eternally-running showers. The passive-aggressive scents of deodorant, shampoo and talc could not compete with a healthy olfactory ego like that of foot-induced mold.
Now another naked waif was parading down the isle of benches. Enid leaned back as if afraid she would be hit by a swaying breast. She scowled and took a sharp mental note of which locker that woman used. One-seventeen – Enid would remember that. The skinny bitch was just asking for it, and Enid had a sense of fair play.
Not that the waif’s naked sashay was unusual in the GetFit context. The thinnest women never wore a stitch in the dressing room. The ones who were worried about this or that patch of cellulite would wrap the offending area in a towel. The women who actually needed a gym in the first place never changed clothes in the open. They generally stayed in the toilet stalls (except when they were needed for vomiting, of course). Everyone’s status was established by the one and only thing that mattered – the very first glance.
This left Enid’s aforementioned sense of fair play considerably rumpled. She herself was at her peak when she could wrap herself in black leather and purple silk – tastefully accentuated by heels and French-tipped nails. What animal couldn’t strut around naked? The beauty regimen sets one apart.
The locker room culture of these health-crazed times just made Enid shake her head. It was a throw-back. It was savagery. She could remember a time when people understood that status was best flaunted by a wide girth and shockingly overdone clothes. Anyone could fucking-well sweat.
Enid shook her head again and got up from her bench. She had to stop this bitching. She had joined the gym of her own free will. She had been overdoing it in the food department. She considered it stress-eating.
Sign of success or not, Enid herself was unhappy with how wide her girth had become. So here she was. She had paid the dues. It was time to put her mouth where her money was.
She headed toward the door – right behind the woman whom she now thought of as “naked tit parade lady” – “tit lady” for short. She eyed locker one-seventeen and considered going through it now.
No. Too soon. She would follow tit-lady to the gym and watch her a while. She may as well use one of the damned machines. She had paid enough for the privilege.
The room that tit-lady walked into was full of treadmills, stationary bikes, and elliptical machines. A muted television flashed headlines from CNN. There was a vase of lilies in one corner – next to a stack of towels. The beautiful flowers were so out of place, it was mildly offensive.
Enid shuddered as she looked around. The room stank of sweat and roared with the sounds of grinding gears and wheels. Worse, still -- every wall was covered with a giant, gleaming mirror.
Enid cringed and let her gaze rest on tit-lady’s back. She hated mirrors. She had forgotten how bad it was in here. The dressing room glasses were all cloaked by steam.
There was an empty bike behind tit-lady’s back. Enid jumped up on it. The handlebars were sweaty and she was so repulsed, she almost gave up entirely. Yet she was made of tougher stuff than this. She grit her teeth and started to peddle.
Tit-lady was chatting up the steroid-ripped guy on the Bowflex next to hers. The few snatches of the conversation that floated back to Enid involved “two hours a day,” “free-weights,” and “South Beach.” The homicidal rush of adrenaline that this gave Enid made her bike go up to 3 miles per hour. Briefly.
Enid looked at her feet in their black-and-pink Nikes. She had thought they looked good in the store. On her feet, they looked like total shit. She was not made for this sort of nonsense. Every aspect of it was degrading.
She hopped off the bike. Her sneakers gave her something to look at as she felt her way out of the room – trying to avoid all those damnable mirrors. She passed through a rose-colored labyrinth of hallways before diving into the relative comfort of the dressing room.
She never would have considered this sort of smelly cave to be her refuge, but Enid was more than a little grateful to enter the darkness of the steam. She walked to locker one-seventeen and ripped it open with a vengeance.

...your turn! :)