by Wol-vriey
There had to be a way to repulse the attacking machines.
He looked back at the beach. No new robots were landing. Those already in camp had rushed past he and Gala’s place of concealment and were attacking the mermaids.
A new group of mermaids arrived then from a far nook of the camp. They carried grenade launchers which they set up beside the North Pole, training them on isolated robots.
“Call your forces back,” Malone told Gala. “Regroup yourselves behind the North Pole here. With most of the robots in the camp now, you can pick them off at your leisure.”
“Except for the ones shelling us,” she replied grimly.
Malone considered her words. She was right—something had to be done about the huge bombardier robots with their rocket launchers. The MOMs smaller grenade launchers hadn’t the range to destroy them.
Gala flinched as several MOMs and their bikes were blown into sky-high fragments by a rocket.
She turned to Malone, anger and pain etched on her pallid face. In her anguish even her lips seemed drained of color. Her black hair was plastered to her cheeks and shoulders like a liquid shroud. “I can’t keep watching this. I’ve got to get out there and direct the action.”
Another fusillade of rockets hit the camp, filling the air with shrapnel.
A detachment of robots had meanwhile identified Malone and Gala’s position. Moments later bullets peppered the North Pole above their heads. They ducked to avoid being punctured by the ricochets.
“Fuck this! I need a bike!” Gala growled. She shook off Malone’s restraining hand and hopped off.
***
“Hey, wait!” Malone yelled, when Gala—now heavily laden with guns and ammo—zoomed past him a minute later.
“She didn’t hear you,” Glass Horse said.
Malone grunted. He knew that unless he did something fast Gala was riding to certain suicide.
He turned to Glass Horse. “Can you fly yet?”
“Yes. Time to leave?”
“Not yet, horse. Let’s help the MOMs.”
He climbed atop the horse. They rode over to the mermaids with the mortars. “Give me a case of grenades,” Malone said.
They nodded. One lifted a case of tortoise-shelled metal balls up to him.
She frowned. “How do you intend getting up there? Even our best riders are being pushed back downhill.”
Malone smiled coldly. “The horse has special talents.”
“Hold on.” Glass Horse galloped up into the air, to the amazed stares of the mermaids.
Unnoticed by either set of combatants, they flew over the breast hill to the right of that commandeered by the robot attackers. Malone was relieved to see that there were no robot reserves waiting behind the ring of breasts.
He wedged the grenade case between his thighs so it wouldn’t slip.
“Okay, horse, let’s hit ‘em.”
Grenades in hands, he poised himself while the horse dived-bombed the bombardier robot rearguard.
Malone flung the grenades amongst the robots, pulling their pins with his teeth and dispatching them in a blur of motion as Glass Horse flashed through their white metal ranks.
To a chorus of explosions and confused yells, Glass Horse swooped skyward again. It hung in mid-air while Malone surveyed the damage. Then it swooped again before the machines worked out what was going on.
Malone dropped more grenades. More of the giant robots exploded. Sparks and black smoke filled the air.
The robots began targeting them. “Take us up!” Malone yelled.
Glass Horse did so. From a safe distance overhead, Malone pelted grenades down on the robots.
Shortly, all the robot bombers lay as machine wreckage at the top of the pass. Several robots, having lost control of their limbs, rolled helplessly backward down the cleavage away from the MOM camp.
Malone had one grenade left. No matter, the job was done.
“Let’s go help the girls clean house,” he said. “Now they don’t need fear bombing again, they can take their time and wipe out the remainder of the robots.”
They flew out from behind the breast hills into the cleavage pass.
Malone was dismayed. The robots and MOMs had almost totally finished slaughtering themselves now. The pass was once again rendered impassable by piled mermaid corpses and mechanical wreckage.
***
Gala was still alive. She and a few other surviving MOMs were retreating down towards the camp, navigating the charnel piles like mountain bikers.
Several robots were climbing up over the corpse-piles to cut off the mermaids’ escape.
“Make for Gala!” Malone yelled in Glass Horse’s ear.
He glanced at the North Pole. Its base was now a makeshift fort. A group of mermaids had barricaded it with parts of the robots’ sailboats dragged up from the quay.
A robot spotted Malone and Glass Horse approaching. It signaled to its companions. Two of them retrieved a rocket launcher from the body of one of their larger, demolished colleagues. They awaited the unsuspecting pair of fliers.
Malone and Glass Horse swooped over the robots.
With a whoosh of flame, a rocket spurted after them. It cleared the distance between machines and horse and rider with the speed of ejaculate aimed at a porn starlet’s eye.
Suddenly sensing danger, Malone looked back. He sighted the rocket just before it hit them.
“Turn!” he yelled at Glass Horse, though knowing it was too late to do anything.
The rocket hit Glass Horse in the rump. Malone felt his mount blown out from beneath him.
His red right arm jerked upward by his side. He paid it no mind, too occupied by the strange sight of the transparent horse being borne skyward, a rocket stuck up its butt.
Then the rocket exploded and glass powder rained down on all and sundry.
Now Malone realized that he hadn’t fallen. He looked up.
His red arm had transformed into a parachute above him. It separated into red strips at his shoulder which bloomed into a twenty-feet-wide umbrella ten feet above him.
Lamenting Glass Horse’s death, Malone was borne by his parachute arm towards the North Pole.
***
The parachute draped itself over the North Pole like a condom. Dangling from the edge of its cap, Malone felt insignificant, like an un-wiped drop of ejaculate.
He looked around. This vantage point gave him an unparalleled view of the mermaid camp and its surroundings.
The Milk Sea extended in every direction except that from which he and Glass Horse had come. The peninsula was revealed as a penis-shaped land extension that could almost be the North Pole’s solid shadow at mid-evening.
Malone felt a major depression set over him. Now that Glass Horse was blown to bits, he looked to be trapped here for the foreseeable future.
***
Malone’s red arm shrunk to normal size again, leaving him clinging to a rung halfway up/down the North Pole.
He began climbing down, then stopped.
The carnage below him was unbelievable. Blown-apart mermaid bodies and busted metal humanoid shells lay everywhere. The flesh and metal corpses were so intertwined that it was impossible to tell which was which: The battleground seemed a single bleeding organism that was part woman, part fish, part human-appendaged machine.
Even at this height, the smell of fish-flesh frying in machine oil was sickening.
Below Malone, the robots and mermaids engaged in their last desperate confrontation. The battle was a massacre on both sides.
Malone was stunned by the doomed heroic violence with which the mermaids fought. The robots gave off the same air of manic purpose as the MOMs.
Malone felt oddly neglected. He was, after all, the bone of contention between them. But now, even the robots seemed to have forgotten all about him. Both sides in the conflict fought solely to see which could more thoroughly exterminate the other.
Using their larger, broken comrades as battering rams, the robots
abandoned caution and charged the makeshift MOM defenses.
With Gala yelling orders, the MOMs resisted the first and second robot charges, but on the third, the barricade of boat metal crumpled like bread crust.
Metal ants overwhelming a sugar cube, the robots poured in amongst the mermaids.
Hand to hand fighting commenced.
Though slightly outnumbered, the mermaids gave as good as they got. Both their numbers and the robots’ dwindled till there were a mere handful left on either side, and still they kept on fighting.
Malone got out his last grenade.
“Hey, up here, you metal louts!” he yelled.
There were four robots left. They had to exit the collapsed mermaid enclosure to see him, which was what Malone intended. Once the robots were in clear view, he pulled the grenade’s pin and tossed it amongst them. Then he climbed as fast as he could.
He looked down after the explosion.
Two sets of robot legs remained where the machines had been standing.
After waiting a couple of minutes more to ensure there weren’t any additional robots in hiding, Malone descended to the camp.
***
Malone’s decisive action to end the conflict had been too late. All the previous survivors were now dead.
He sighted Gala. She lay twitching, holding her intestines in with her hands.
He rushed over to her side.
Gala was expiring fast. Blood seeped over her fingers. She smiled at him. “We fought well, didn’t we? We taught those fucking machines a lesson in manners they won’t forget in a hundred years.”
She coughed. “You know, pain clears your mental ass of lots of unnecessary shit. I remember now how you’re supposed to make the . . . the North Pole cum.”
Malone sighed. “You can tell me that later. Where’d do you keep your medical supplies?”
“Shut up, Malone—I know I’m dying. Listen: Use your homosexual hand to jerk off the Pole—our lord and master. The legend says if you do that, you’ll be able to leave here. If you don’t . . .”
She coughed a huge gob of blood on him and was dead.
CHAPTER 66
Malone
Malone’s ‘homosexual hand’ clearly meant his ‘Gay Fist.’
After glumly considering his lack of options, Malone pressed the appropriate button on his red hand.
Both his hand and arm immediately began growing, expanding till they were the size of a two-story building. Despite their humongous size, however, Malone found he could still move both with ease. He reached out and gripped the North Pole.
Immediately his fingers closed around it—just as his ‘Hetero Fist’ had done with Blubber—his ‘Gay Fist’ took over control of his actions. It began jerking off the North Pole as though the monster meatstone phallus was Malone’s penis and he was masturbating.
Twice Malone found himself feeling almost empathic sexual pleasure with the North Pole.
He let his hand get on with it. He braced himself to be sucked into his arm again as had happened previously, and hoped he wouldn’t find himself back in Traven again. Or somewhere worse.
The North Pole’s handjob took an inordinate amount of time. Malone’s blood arm didn’t tire, never paused in its pumping, but he soon tired of watching it.
Seeing as it was automatic and his arm appeared able to stretch indefinitely, he turned away and walked around the camp while it worked.
***
Malone traversed the MOM camp in increasing anger. The scale of devastation Frank had catalyzed here utterly revolted him.
Malone had witnessed the dragons destroy Boston. Nightmare scenes from those days were burnt permanently into his psyche—unerasable strips of devastating mental celluloid. The carnage then had been total, inescapable, and unexplainable.
Barring that, this MOM camp massacre was the worst horror he’d ever witnessed.
***
The mass of carnage adorning the camp began moving, flowing together like it was rivers seeking an ocean. Malone jumped aside as Gala’s liquefied body flowed toward, then past him, only her head still intact.
Liquid motorcycles, liquid leather, liquid meat and bone; all met in the camp center. They swirled dizzily skyward like they were a drunken DNA helix, then collapsed into an oblong mass. Then they repeated the procedure, spiraling and collapsing once again.
Slowly, the liquid solidified, took on recognizable form.
It all built up into a monster vagina, one proportionate in size with the North Pole. Neatly ranked on its labia were the heads of all the dead MOMs. Gala’s head formed its clitoris.
The vagina had metal wheels like a train. Its plastic body—covered with placoid scales—looked like that of a decapitated monster shark. Furthering this impression was the massive dorsal fin along its top. Its body ended in a split caudal fin
Looking inside it, Malone saw metal gears whirl-ing.
Most odd, along its length was printed in six-foot-high white lettering: ‘Vagina Fish—Made in Taiwan.’
Malone was very bothered by this new development. Here was his hand, busy giving a hand job to a monster penis not his own, and now he also had a monster metal/flesh/plastic vagina to cope with.
He hoped it was friendly.
Vagina Fish rolled close to him. Its clitoris Gala-head peered down at him from twelve feet up.
He smiled sheepishly, pointed to his hand pumping up and down on the North Pole. As he did so, it paused in mid-stroke, clenched hard behind the glans, and twisted left and right semicircles as if the North Pole was a bottle it found hard to open.
“Great work, Malone,” Gala-clitoris said, in a languid voice reminiscent of Blubber’s. “It’s almost there now.” The MOM heads studding the labia nodded. Chloe’s head blew him a kiss.
The monster vagina yawned. “We’re off for a swim now—see you later, masturbator.”
Vagina Fish rolled off to the beach. Malone watched it disappear beneath the white waves, its dorsal and tail fins marking its passage out into the Milk Sea.
***
Malone felt the North Pole throbbing. He felt the rumbling in its testicle tripod. Feeling exalted, exhilarated, and disgusted with himself, suffused with gloriously delicious unwanted homosexual feelings, he brought the North Pole to its first climax for a thousand years.
CHAPTER 67
Malone
The North Pole came.
It was an ejaculation of nuclear proportions. Liquid translucence spurted from it in an endless vertical river, forming a burgeoning mushroom cloud above it. The sky darkened as the sun was obscured from giving light.
In the half-night, Malone’s Gay Fist kept pumping the meatstone cock. The North Pole kept spurting, all the while shuddering like it would explode, monster throbs that vibrated Malone’s teeth. He knew he’d need a dentist after this.
Then its violent throbbing subsided, its orgasm ended. Malone sighed with relief as his hand shrank back to normal size again. He watched the huge cum canopy in the sky with bemusement, with no idea what to expect next.
The semen mushroom broke up into fluffy white clouds. The sky lightened back into daylight. The majority of the cum clouds floated away, off across the Milk Sea. Some however, remained, hovering ominously over the now drooping glans.
It began raining.
“Shit!” Malone grumbled, dashing beneath the North Pole’s glans canopy for cover.
No way am I getting soaked in cum, he thought. And I’m still no closer to getting out of this place or/and finding Jefferson Lincoln’s damn liver.
It rained cum in torrents.
The semen transformed immediately it hit the ground, becoming polar bears, seals, and penguins. The animals milled restively as their numbers rose.
The density of animals began crowding Malone in his safe haven. The intensity of the cum rain was such that he didn’t dare stand outside of the protective shadow of the glans, so he endured the furry press of their bodies, keeping a safe distance from the polar
bears.
The penguins were annoying, pecking his legs.
Malone figured his best bet for departing the MOM camp was to climb the North Pole again and attempt a descent inside it, down through its pee hole. It certainly wouldn’t be clogged after ejaculating such a copious amount. At any rate he’d investigate where it led.
Looking up,—about to grip a rung and begin his climb—he noticed that several of the semen-clouds circling the monster penis-head were metamorphosing into airboats—flying yachts.
A number of the forming airboats hovered close enough to the Pole’s glans for Malone to leap onto if he was atop it. He gripped a rung, but let it go again when he saw that one of the airboats was descending.
It reached him and stopped.
The airboat was ten meters long, with two transparent sails and a large cabin amidships. It was solidly built of cum-wood planks, their translucent waxiness making it appear freshly polished.
A walrus poked its head over the side and looked around.
“Ye Malone, matey?” it addressed him. It voice was gruff, like its vocal cords had been cured with sea salt.
He nodded warily.
The walrus waved its flippers expansively. “I’se be Captain Gumdrop, matey. Ye is to come aboard. I’ve an order to pick ye up and drop ye off in Boston.”
It tossed a rope ladder over the side. Malone caught it and climbed up.
The airboat lifted away from the teeming polar animals.
As they rose, there was a loud commotion from the direction of the beach.
Malone looked down at the mass of feverishly milling creatures.
Vagina Fish had returned from its swim.
The wheeled, fish-bodied vagina was now eating the polar bears and seals, scooping them up in droves into metal power-shovels extruded from its sex opening.
Even at this distance Malone could hear the sounds of breaking bone and crunching meat coming from inside it.
