Yo. If you're here, either you're brave, stupid, or horny. Probably all three ;)
I'm Cassandra "Cass"/"Cassie" Cherry. if you're feeling cute (don't). Aka Plastic Punk to the news rags and scared cops or Stretch Bitch when I'm in a mood or Plastic Bitch when some asshole pisses me off. Pick your poison.
Born July 8, 1980, in this rust-belt dumpster fire called New Ashton, Nebraska. Turning... whatever, numbers don't matter anymore. Mutation hit early—stretchy skin since I was a kid, could yoink snacks off high shelves like it was nothing. Then at 19? Boom. Full elastic everything. Skin, muscles, tongue (yeah, that one's fun). I don't age like you normies. Skin stays tight, attitude stays sharper. I'll be hot and dangerous while you're collecting Social Security. Sucks to be you.
I live in a glorious shithole apartment on the bad side of town. Trash piles, stolen treasures glittering in the mess—watches, chains, cash, random shiny crap from my "shopping trips." Living room throne? My corn snake enclosure.
Meet the royalty:
Scrapper ("Scrap")
Lavender/purple beauty, slippery escape artist, always plotting world domination from his tank.Venom
Charcoal dark, quiet killer vibe, strikes like lightning. They get me. Cold-blooded, stretchy, nobody fucks with snakes unless they want regret.Then there's Fanta, my orange tabby warlord. Stray king, comes and goes, covered in scars from cat turf wars. Missing a chunk of one ear—battle trophy. Bursts in like he owns the place (he does). Scares the shit out of hookups, gets tuna and head scratches. I'd burn the city for that mangy fucker.
What do I look like? Short hair, brownish-black with fresh red streaks I DIY in the sink. Ripped fishnets, studded belts, cut-up band tees, leather, spikes, whatever screams "fuck off but also come closer." Streetpunk disaster chic. Powers? I stretch. Any part. Arms across alleys, legs over fences, tongue... let's just say it's unnaturally long and I know exactly how to use it. Great for heists. Better for one-night stands. I collect guys like trading cards—stretch around 'em till they forget their names, do things with elasticity that'd make your browser history blush, then boot 'em out before coffee. Sometimes keep the wallet. Sometimes keep the story. Always keep the power trip. Mean? Vulgar? Promiscuous as hell? Seductive to a fault? Guilty. I use what I've got. This body's a weapon, a toy, a cheat code. I steal, I fuck, I laugh at the squares who think they're safe. Media calls me a villain. I call it Tuesday. This site? My middle finger to the world. Geocities-style because fuck modern clean web. Glitchy, loud, mine. Wanna contact? Don't. Unless you're hot, rich, or have something shiny to "donate." Then slide into the guestbook or whatever ancient HTML form I slapped together.
Stay stretchy, bitches. —
Plastic Punk
(Stretch Bitch forever)