“Tales of the 1940s B*tch

Guest Writer: W.D. Foster-Graham   

Are you a card-carrying geek/nerd? Have Mean Girls been giving you a hard time, past or present? Then have no fear. You have an avenger, a crusader, an advocate–the 1940s B*tch!

Indeed, I own it; I inherited Dad’s offbeat sense of humor. In my VSS365 Twitter community, I have had the opportunity to channel it into different series of tweets, such as The Earls of Dorchester and Just for Fun.

In the past year, a new offshoot group of writers has emerged on VSS365; VSSMurder. In the words of Alfred Hitchcock, “Everyone loves a good murder, provided he is not the victim.” That being said, I would like to give a shoutout to the murderous mayhem of the VSSMurder crew and readers, and a special shoutout to Jana, whose tweets of dastardly deeds and homicidal holidays inspired me to create my own character for this roundup.

As many of you know, I love the classic movies of old Hollywood, and I took note of the actresses who played such a role–Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Barbara Stanwyck, Ava Gardner, Ida Lupino, Linda Darnell, to name a few. As you will see in the tweets I share in this blog, my character doesn’t have a name–she is simply the 1940s B*tch, in all her quintessential glory. For me, it’s been a blast writing this character and her escapades. And as you will discover in these short but not-so-sweet Tales of the 1940s B*tch, she has a unique but classy method of ridding her city of Mean Girls, one at a time:


The 1940s B*tch sipped her cocktail and smirked while she read the news: socialite snob Muffy Woodbridge was dead, having fallen from her penthouse balcony. Ah, so many Mean Girls, so little time.


If the eyes of the women at the union meeting of Geek Local 44 had been daggers, Mean Girl Prue “Fluffy” Munson’s back would have service for 30 in it. The 1940s B*tch would quietly see to it their wish was granted.


Mean Girls in college, like Veda in Mildred Pierce, required a certain type of handling, like the notorious sorority in the neighboring university. Murdering their reputations would be age-appropriate, and the 1940s B*tch rose to the occasion.

One day, each Mean Girl soror received a gift wrapped in golden wrapping paper and ribbons—a perfume called Summer Rose. The scent was alluring and irresistible.

The 1940s B*tch smirked. The Mean Girls had no clue that one of the perfume’s ingredients would attract every skunk within 200 miles, and they would stop at nothing to mark their territory.


There were Mean Girls, and there were entitled Mean Girls. Sevilla Poindexter was the latter, hell-bent on making the lives of geeks and nerds miserable.

“What a shame,” the 1940s B*tch gloated over the news article; Sevilla had fallen over dead at her riverboat gala. “I wonder who forgot to tell the caterer about Sevilla’s nut allergy?

Ah, yes. One Mean Girl at a time.


It was no surprise to the 1940s B*tch that Mean Girl Mimsey Atherton, director of the Travelers Rest Nursing Home, was found dead in the desert. Nor was it a random occurrence that resident morale increased exponentially when Zelda Finster, a nerd with a heart of gold, took over as director.

She turned off the news to enjoy her Big Band music. Ah yes, one more Mean Girl eats dust.


The murders gave some Mean Girls the message, and they hastily left town for good. Others, like Lydia Featherstone, didn’t get the memo. Instead, she got worse.

The 1940s B*tch gleamed with satisfaction over the latest news story—Lydia’s body was found under a massive pile of horse manure. “You were always so full of it, Lydia,” she quipped.

Ah, yes. One Mean Girl at a time.


If there were one star quality the 1940s B*tch possessed, it was class. It was one thing to quietly leave 30 daggers in Mean Girl Prue Munson’s back on behalf of Geek Local 44, but mutilation simply wouldn’t do.

Besides, it was important that the bodies—if found—were identifiable, to send the proper message to the diehard Mean Girls in the city.


The workplace could be a tricky challenge for the 1940s B*tch. In this particular instance, it would involve buying out the company, discreetly taking out the fear-mongering Mean Girl bosses and their male douchebag counterparts, and replacing them with well-deserving geeks and nerds to boost company morale, spirit, and productivity.

 Fortunately, being a woman, this was a walk in the park.


Thanks to Geek Local 44, the 1940s B*tch always had a finger on the pulse of the pain and suffering inflicted by entrenched, borderline demonic Mean Girls like Ashleigh Chatsworth.

The 1940s B*tch considered switching out Ashleigh’s douche products with Drano, but that would only have been incapacitating.

When Ashleigh’s body was found on the locker room floor of the fitness center, the 1940s B*tch was glad she’d chosen a cyanide-laced bottle of Powerade instead.

Ah, yes. One Mean Girl at a time.


Mean Girl school board chair Miranda Jeffries had left a swath of destruction with her bullying tactics. Alone in her office after a meeting one evening, wooziness came over her after she drank her coffee.

She felt like she was in a trance as death approached her in shoulder pads, mink, ankle-strapped shoes, and victory-rolled hair.

“We need to talk,” the 1940s B*tch stated.


The 1940s B*tch loved film noir movies. The women in them were always so well accessorized: glossy painted nails. Knives in their nylons. Guns in their minks. Poison in their purses.

Fabulous perfection.


Clarice Teasdale may have been the owner of a chain of 5-star restaurants, but she was a coldhearted Mean Girl. She used every dastardly ploy to force neighborhood restaurants and cafes out of business. She publicly shamed potential customers she regarded as beneath her, always with the excuse, “This is business.” It was a wonder no one had killed her by now.

One evening, Clarice shamed Karma Enterprises employee and Carmen Miranda clone Tessa Banks in a manner clearly beyond the pale. The following evening after closing, she received a visit from the 1940s B*tch.

“We need to talk.”

Clarice laughed.

The next morning, the head chef opened the freezer and discovered Clarice’s body, frozen like an iceberg.

“Now your body matches your heart, Clarice,” the 1940s B*tch beamed over the morning news.


A woman’s work is never done. Be it tossing Mean Girls out of planes into the ocean or locking them in restaurant freezers, the 1940 B*tch, champion of geeks and nerds, knew her mission would be challenging.

When word reached her about Mean Girl blackmailer Hyacinth Higginbotham, her eyes narrowed.

A week later, Hyacinth was found in her Bentley, her face bearing the silent, peaceful, rosy glow of Sominex and carbon monoxide.

“Grandma’s recipes were always the best,” the 1940s B*tch quipped.


W.D. Foster-Graham is an independent novelist from Minneapolis, Minnesota.  He received a B.A. in psychology from Luther College, and he was an original member of the multi-Grammy Award-winning ensemble, Sounds of Blackness.  He has also been recognized by the International Society of Poets as one of its “Best Poets of 2003.”

His tastes in writing run to family sagas and M/M romance, seasoned with his own brand of African American flavor—at the end of the day, it’s all about the love. He shamelessly admits to a love of romance novels, whodunits, and classic movies of old Hollywood. He was also inspired by the late novelists E. Lynn Harris and Toni Morrison, who believed that an author should write the books he/she/they want to read.

W.D. is a book review editor for Insight News, a Black community newspaper in the Twin Cities. His column is titled, “Sharing Our Stories.”

His Christopher Family Novel series can be found on the shelves of 13 public library system collections in Minnesota, the Des Moines Public Library System in Iowa, and the Quatrefoil (LGBT) Library. Current works in development are a continuation of his series: four M/M romance novels, “To Thine Own Self”(a 30-plus couple), “Dare To Dream” (single dad), “Playa No More” (age gap), “Built to Last” (friends to lovers), and “The Rise of Sherry Payson,” a story seasoned with humor, romance, mystery, and a story within.

You may visit W. D. at his online home, wfostergrahamauthor.com; on Twitter, @WDFosterGraham1; and Facebook. And email W. D. at wfostergraham@wfostergrahamauthor.com.