Sylvia Plath took her own life on the morning of February 11, 1963. Leaving out bread and milk, she completely sealed the rooms between herself and her sleeping children with "wet towels and cloths." She then placed her head in the oven while the gas was turned on....or did she?
No! At the moment of her death, she was secretly rescued by a secret organization of time-travelers. Her body was revived with 41st century science, and a simulacrum -- exact in every detail -- was substituted in her place.
Upon waking, Plath was told that she had been selected to join the August Principia of Chronal Transmigration, a scholarly and monastic order dedicated to the preservation and repair of the timestream. Having been given a new lease on life, she would begin a career of of study, cataloging and filing reports. With the medical advancements of the 4th millennium, she could easily expect to live for several hundred years.
Free from her troubles for the first time, and facing an eternity of bureaucratic servitude, Neonate Plath promptly said "Fuck this noise" and stole a Chronal Calibrator. Not knowing how to operate it properly, it sent her hurtling across time and space.
Lost in time, but free from society's grasp, the normally reserved Sylvia Plath became the ravenous libertine that lurked beneath her repressed exterior. Armed with fantastic devices and an exhaustive knowledge of history, she has become an agent of chaos, cutting a swath of debauchery across the 4th dimension as she fights and fucks through time and space.
A poet no longer, she is....
Sylvia Plath: Warlord of the Steppes
She was surveying the horizon while while sitting on the naked, saddled body of Genghis Khan doing a horsie impression. "No cheek from you, Ghengy, or it's off to be gelded!" she laughed, merrily tugging on the rough hemp rope that was tied around his scrotum.
Sylvia Plath: Sacker of Rome
"Jesus Christ, you bore me, Julie," she snarled, tossing a plate of figs at the former Caesar. He tried to dodge, but the wires ties to his pierced nipples were firmly attached to anchors sunk deep into the marble. "At least your girlfriend here will entertain me," she said, turning to French kiss Cleopatra.
Sylvia Plath: Agent of Biting Social Commentary
"Where's my money, BITCH?" she roared, still high on Everclear and Crystal Meth, as she pimpslapped Archduke Ferdinand backwards into his carriage. "I swear to God, you little weasel, if you don't pay off your bets I'm going to have a filthy little Serb shoot you in the neck."
Stay tuned for more exciting titles in the Sylvia Plath: Libertine series!