The creature continues its bouncing and three additional creatures leap from the log.
“Oh, Science. Everyone run!” Jerkoff pulls up his pants and darts from sight. Together, the four fluffy creatures produce a collective fart, creating a dense, visible cloud of fetor and gaseous death. Realizing the terror before them, the rest of the group follows Jerkoff into the unknown.
∆ ∆ ∆
“Bring me food, I hunger!” The emperor beckons.
“Yes. Hunger. I’m sure by now you have discovered my evil plan.”
“To starve me into submission?”
Swansea laughs dismissively. “There is not enough time in the entire cosmos for that to happen. No, rather the drudgery of duty and the squandering of supremacy forced my hand in creating the muffins of malevolence. But you shall know more soon enough…”
“Yes! Muffins! Muffins! Bring me muffins!”
Swansea sneers but turns to retrieve the last muffin on the platter. “Yes, and within these muffins rest the eggs of the deadly Vambinto Parasite. I’ve been waiting, biding my time until your insatiable gorging provides it with the nutrients it needs to mature and free itself from your corpulent prison.” He sets the muffin down in front of the Emperor with a straight face. “You will provide this parasite with nourishment and, in time, it will provide me with a throne.”
“Were you saying something?” Elephantine asks as he shoves the whole muffin into his mouth.
Swansea ignores the question. “Monitor, on. Cockmaster General, report.”
Cockmaster stumbles into frame, coughs several times and wipes his face. He salutes then proceeds with the report. “We managed to shoot down their ship. They crash landed on a nearby planet, but we are unable to determine whether there were survivors of the impact.”
“Which planet is this?”
“Syrus Six, sir.”
Swansea strokes his chin and his triumphant expression falls to worry. “I am not pleased with your report, Cockmaster. I think it is finally time for the crepe of calamity to call you into its fold.”
“No, you can’t mean—”
“Oh, but I do!” Swansea extends his arm towards the screen again, shaping his hand in a strangling pantomime.
Cockmaster sighs, “Phew. You had me scared for a minute there, but it’s just that. What exactly am I supposed to be feeling right now?”
Swansea shrieks as he tightens his grip, “You shall discover an answer to that question soon enough, ignorant fool.”
“I think you might have said something like this last time… Can we just move past this? Do you have any orders? Or do you just want to hang out and LARP? Either way it’s your call, but I think this campaign is getting stale.”
“The truth is almost upon you!” Veins in the Swansea’s neck and hand begin to bulge as his skin cycles through various hues of suffocation. Then, he suddenly stops. He looks up to Cockmaster, disappointed in his failure and proclaims in monotone, “I need fresh trousers.”
“You’ve gone and soiled yourself again, haven’t you?” Cockmaster shakes his head.
“The mousse of misery has been unleashed, I can feel it’s the putrescence trickling down my leg!” squirming, “Why does this always happen?!”
“Mousse!” Elephantine fidgets in his seat, struggling to stand. His belly jiggles with the effort. “Sounds delightful!”
“Is that the emperor?” Cockmaster peers deeper into the monitor.
“No.” Swansea looks around nervously. “None of your concern, communications off!”
∆ ∆ ∆
The screen flashes off and Cockmaster stands with several chicken guards in the Space Station Tiramisu’s Command Center. The men of a poultry persuasion stand dumbstruck at the event they just witnessed; having never seen a superior compromised to such an exhaustive and presumably odious degree. Being a good-natured fellow, Cockmaster is generally averse to indulgencing in schadenfreude at his colleague’s expense; but Swansea’s disposition and overreaching makes it hard to suppress a chuckle at the ne’re-do-well’s misfortune.
A slender Chicken guard holding a peacock plume asks, “What should we do commander?”
“Continue as you were. As for you two,” pointing to a different pair of chicken guards, “Bruce, Earl, proceed to the planet and destroy what remains of the Confederation’s people. We’ll join you on the surface in… in a few… hours.” He sinks into his seat and watches the dismissed men exit the room. He waits until the footsteps in the hallway completely fade before a smile slides cross his lips. He turns his attention back to his boy toys, arms wrapping around their shoulders. “You boys familiar with ménage à trois?” Jamie and Jody chirp excitedly in response.
∆ ∆ ∆
“Everyone in here!” Dale directs, leading the group to a cave cut into a mountainside. “Quickly, quickly!”
From the recesses of the cave, they watch quietly as a massive wave of the fuzzy spheroids roll across the ground, straight past the cave entrance, trumpeting as they go.
“If we keep a cork in it, we’ll give them the slip,” Dale whispers, moving further back into the cave. The group follows, no one else daring to make a sound. Even Hairdo isn’t his usual raucous self. He skulks about, checking his surroundings cautiously. Dale notices and speaks again, “It’s quiet in here…”
“Mhm,” Hairdo nods. “Too quiet.”
“Wait!” Dale becomes frantic. “Where’s Buck?” The group pauses and silently looks around. The creatures have just passed, so no one feels safe enough to launch a proper search.
Startling the group, a small sphere bursts forth from the depths of the cave. It rolls directly towards them and expertly lands in the midst of where they crouch. Cringing they mistake it for one of the creatures, but upon further inspection the object’s crystalline composition becomes apparent. It emits a radiating, pulsating glow and elicits a strange and foreboding aura.
“By Science!” Jerkoff cries out as the glowing sphere explodes.
Smoke and blinding light fill the room. The heroes cough uncontrollably, gagging and grabbing at their throats. They struggle to find a path to safety. Their struggles don’t get them far before their path is impeded. Hairdo reaches the obstacle first, walking headlong into a fleshy mound. “We’re not alone!” he warns, turning in the other direction.
Crack.
A terrible sound echoes through the cavern.
Crack.
Everyone freezes.
The silhouette of a figure wielding a whip becomes visible.
“Who dares to violate the sanctum of Bondage Queen Splendora of Syrus Six?” the figure, now clearly a statuesque, buxom woman, demands, snapping her whip once more.
Hairdo trembles.
“Speak, curs!”
“We seek asylum,” Botchit blurts out, just as shaky as Hairdo. “There are these strange hairy ball creatures chasing us. We thought this place would be safe.”
“Oh!” Splendora cackles as the haze clears. Splendora is a domineering, stately, woman sporting a deep purple high ponytail and a full leather dominatrix outfit that clings to every substantial curve and demands both attention and feelings of inferiority. Groveling is only a natural reaction to her stilettos and whip. Lust is a natural response to her supernatural levels of sex appeal. At her heals are her gimp companions in full bondage gear. Flanking her, two secure the entrance with her and two provide extra security in the depths of the cave. Long, dark aubergine, lacquered nails stroke a leather-clad chin, the gimp purrs blissfully. “Now who in their right mind would want to escape from hairy balls?” She raises her other hand to trail her fingers across the other gimp’s chest. The two other gimp guards gaze at the affectionate scene longingly.
“Who in their right mind wouldn’t?” Dale interjects.
The bondage queen hisses at the woman and sneers. “You are not who you say you are!”
“But we didn’t—”
“Silence! You were sent by Lord Ironfist to spy on me, were
you not?”
“Just a minute now.” Jerkoff finally manages to regain his composure. “Who exactly is this Lord Ironfist?”
“Don’t play dumb, or my loyal Gimps will make short work of you.”
“Gimps?” the group asked at once, examining the members of Splendora’s entourage.
Encouraged by the attention, one of the Gimps approaches Jerkoff and wraps himself around his leg. Without so much as a warning, he begins to rapidly thrust like a mad dog.
“Ah! – get off of me, stop that!” Jerkoff hops and kicks his leg, but the Gimp keeps a tight clutch, thrusting with increasing vigor. When Jerkoff fails to disentangle himself from the pest, he sighs and resigns to the strange liaison, “Oh alright, just hurry up and finish.”
Hairdo steps forward. “I assure you, the molestation of my man here is unwarranted. I can also assure you, Madam, in the name of the Interstellar Confederacy of United Planets, that we mean you no harm. As a peace offering, I’d like to commend you on your fabulous tatas.”
Not even echoes stir in the cavern. Dale’s head falls into her palm. “You didn’t really just say that, did you?”
“Silence, girl! You – the big one. Come with me. I enjoy your candor.”
“Well then,” Hairdo smiles broadly, saluting at Spleadora. “Yes mam, Captain Hairdo, up and ready for duty.” He looks to each of his companions, flashing his teeth and arranging his hair. “I’ll be back shortly… but not if I can help it.”
Splendora swings her hips lazily on approach and grasps Hairdo’s hand. The hero’s grin never faulters as he is escorted into the darkness. They disappear behind a metal door which opens from the rock façade.
“Wow what craftsmanship!” Bochit moves to the door as the Gimp pulls it shut. “It is absolutely seamless…” he runs a finger down the position where the door and the wall meet.
From the other side of the steel door the footsteps stop. “One moment,” comes Hairdo’s voice. “A quick question, you don’t have a penis, do you?”
“What!?” Splendora demands in a domineering voice, shortly followed by the crack of her celadon hand across Hairdo’s face.
Hairdo cradles his face. “Sorry, I had to ask.”
∆ ∆ ∆
The craft’s reverse thrusters engage, slowing its descent. After much deliberation about the safety of their mission, a chicken helmet pops out of the newly unsealed aperture. Leaning out Earl peers around the landing site. He slowly begins tilting, then leaning further until his whole body is at a 45-degree angle. With a thud and a bounce, he falls out of the vessel. As the squat chicken guard plummets headfirst, a second rangy chicken guard follows in rapid descent holding onto the first guard’s ankles. Falling they scream their goodbyes and express the true feelings that can only be revealed in the most perilous situations -- then they hit the ground. Untangling himself from the pile of tangled limbs and shame, Bruce stands and approaches the spacecraft’s airstairs. He pushes a control button on the stair handrail: the clamshell door whizzes, descending as four steps click then fold sliding up, all neatly seal into the ship. In an effort to perpetuate a pretense of normalcy they resume their mission and begin their appraisal of the crashed ship site. Not far into their search, they stumble upon a strange fuzzy ball, stationary on the ground. The chicken guards are perplexed by the furry thing at their feet, but when the ball opens its eyes and reveals a living creature, they become awestruck. Both guards are entranced with their discovery, they lean in to get a better view. Then it farts. Disgusted, Earl impulsively cocks his leg back and launches the creature across the crash site.
“Scared of a little hair?” Bruce asks.
“Only on balls,” Earl snorts.
“I think we both know that’s not true.” The two men share a chuckle and resume their search. They turn to the west and freeze, all progress halts. An army of fuzzy creatures stand before them, gurgling and displaying aggressive postures. The chicken guards waste no time and assume, punting stances.
A wave of fuzz-balls rush forward. They bounce off each other boosting momentum and serpentine to disguises individuals’ locations thus confusing predators. The chicken guardsmen are outflanked outnumbered and overwhelmed. Despite their advanced weaponry, they can’t scope viable targets due to their opponents’ evasive maneuvers. They exhaust most of their energy just trying to keep from being pinned down. The fuzz balls come at them in full force, anus first. Both chicken guards hear a suction-cup squeak as the pliable anuses latch onto their helmets.
“Anal suction!” Earl screams, throwing his arms to the sky. Bruce sweeps his pistol without aim. They manage to swat away a few of the creatures, but not before feeling the same suction afflict the rest of their bodies.
“We can’t win this!” Bruce shouts, stumbling backwards. Earl is barely able to see through the mass of fuzz-balls. With his shorter stature, a greater number of fuzzies attach to his helmet, he hobbles in pursuit. Earl strips away creatures as he runs. The creatures in pursuit dwindle as Bruce and Earl retreat from the battle ground.
With a final burst of energy, the guards escape their pursuers and pull the last of the fuzzies from their bodies. “Just a bit further, we just need to put a little more distance between us and those little dingleberries.” Exhausted, they stop to catch their breath, hysterically laughing and clutching each other in joyous bouts.
“I thought we were doomed!” sighs Bruce, rubbing Earl’s back gently. They roll to the floor, struggling to catch their breath. Exhausted, both men sprawl out on the dusty plain they ignore the dry hard pact surface and rough pokey texture of the grass. In time, Earl cautiously takes note of the environment.
“Um…where are we?”
Bruce sits up and cocks his head. Scanning his surroundings, he is as clueless as his partner. “I can’t say. But look at this.” He slowly approaches a curious door that they somehow managed to miss in their frenzy.
“What in the world…?” The partners look up to a massive structure jutting out from a rock wall, leather black, resplendent with spikes and studs.
“Reminds me of that one outfit you have,” Bruce teases despite his anxious expression. “Should we see what’s inside?”
“I don’t know if that’s s-s-such a…a…”
“What is it? Out with it, man!” Bruce latches onto Earl’s shoulders shaking him for an answer. Earl’s eyes are wide with fear.
“I… I think you should turn around.”
Bruce does as suggested and finds the door to the structure wide open. A tall, muscular, armored woman stands in the entryway. Smaller women in similar outfits emerge across the rock face and behind the chicken guards surrounding them. Each woman wields a large iron spear with a weighty closed fist on the butt. Slowly, the warriors converge on the chicken guards. The gargantuan woman in the doorway cracks a wicked grin. She eyes the guards with a look that coveys either a passing malice or excitement over snack time. The warrior women move in closer, cackling and moaning absurdly.
“You think we’re in trouble?” Earl whispers to his partner.
“I think so,” Bruce gulps.
It’s a long walk through dark corridors. The blindfolded chicken guards can only hear continuous lewd comments from the women soldiers escorting them through what the big woman called Ironfist Keep. They assume that she is Ironfist, but neither of the guards feel brave enough to ask her.
It turns out that their supposition is only wishful thinking. The large warrior strips Bruce and Earl of their blindfolds, then pushes them forward. They squint feebly against blinding light. As their vision clears, they see a throne room with heavy polished stone walls adorned with iron panels. Iron struts starburst from the top of the walls to the ceiling, stretching across the room and meeting in the middle interlocking to form a foundation that holds the chain of an imposing yet graceful candelabra. Rich tapestries in dark muted jewel tones just shy of black, frame a dais that holds a throne. The substantial throne is composed of a jet-like stone that seems to abso
rb light yet has a few magenta sparkles and a slight shift sheen. The throne tapers down at the bottom and sits on shiny chrome stilettos. Settled on the throne menacing in a bored, passive manner is the largest man that either of the chicken guards has ever seen. He raises a tightly clenched gauntleted fist, commanding the soldiers to bring the two intruders forth. Prodded by spears, Bruce and Earl stumble forward to be addressed by the ruler of Ironfist Keep.
∆ ∆ ∆
Swansea finishes buckling Emperor Elephantine into the final industrial restraint. The emperor has doubled in size from his intense binge eating. He claws at the air, whining unintelligibly. Swansea understands the babbling as pleas for more food. He keeps a large stash of cupcakes at the ready for periodical feeding times. Once Swansea is confident in the security of the straps, he shoves a feeding tube into Elephantine’s mouth. The emperor suckles happily, Swansea sighs.
“Are you satiated for now Elephantine? I have some matters to attend.” Swansea pulls the tube out of Elephantine’s mouth.
Elephantine’s lips pucker and he continues suckling at the air. “Uhh! Uhh!” Elephantine lets out a disappointed mewling sound.
“Seriously, you’re not done?” Swansea tisks and looks at the counter on the feeding tube. “Fine, I’ll just set the mixer to auto pour. Would that make you happy?!” He queries nodding.
Elephantine’s face lights up. He slaps his belly in delight. Swansea puts the tube back into Elephantine’s mouth and recalibrates the feeding machine. “Here you go, happy now?” Elephantine exerts himself tremendously just to nod in agreement. “Sheesh.” Swansea steps away. “Communicator on. Cockmaster, report!”
The monitor comes to life, but no one appears onscreen.
“Cockmaster, report!” Swansea calls again, agitated. “Cockmaster General?” Swansea switches to the kitchen screen, but still finds no one to greet him. “Of all the times! Where the hell is he?”
∆ ∆ ∆
Locked away in a dusty broom closet, Cockmaster, Jody and Jamie lay together. A guard lies on each side of the general. His arms wrapped around their shoulders as they both press cigarettes to the bills of their masks, light up and smoke.
Captain Hairdo- Conquers the Cosmos Page 9
