Cockmaster moans in ecstasy. “Remember the emperor’s motto, boys.”
“Don’t ask,” starts Jamie.
Jody finishes, “don’t tell.”
“And eat more meat,” Cockmaster laughs, trailing his fingers down his mens’ chests. “It looks like it’s about that time, let’s suit up and head down to the planet.”
The closet door slides open, the three chicken men freeze. Swansea steps through the threshold, eyes blazing. “I thought I might find you in the closet again Cockmaster General! I’ve been calling you for—wait, what are the three of you doing in here?” He looks around at the discarded clothing and coughs. A musky smell wafts through the air. “The pudding of malevolence is greatly disturbed… Very, very, disturbed. I’ll… Deal with this indiscretion later.” He slowly steps back, the door closes behind him.
∆ ∆ ∆
The heavy, steel door bangs open; Hairdo and Splendora exit.
“So,” Hairdo inquires sheepishly, “that doesn’t make me gay…does it?” He looks down at the device harnessed to Splendora’s pelvis.
“My male-adapter?” She flops the attachment back and forth for a while and thinks. “If anything, that would make you more of a male lesbian, for I am a woman and you are just my little bitch.” She sighs exasperated at Hairdo’s shame and naivety. “But I don’t like labels… besides its perfectly popular and naturally normal amongst more enlightened minds.” She hits her right stiletto with her wrapped whip weary of pep talks and coddling. “Now heel girl.”
Hairdo falls to his knees, raises his arms wrists bent and wiggles his rump. Tongue out he pants, then woofs and whines like a dog. His companions stare at him dumbfounded and at least a little intrigued.
“What the hell are you doing?” Dale asks, walking over to help the space hero to his feet. Hairdo follows her lead, away from Splendora and brushes himself off.
“I’m doing what all great space explorers do, immersing myself in their culture.” He holds a fist to his mouth and coughs deeply. “This is their…uhh…way of…showing respect? Anyway! That doesn’t matter! After long…er…negotiations? I have convinced our new friend to lend her assistance to our mission.”
“That’s great news!” Botchit bounds in joy.
“That assistance comes in exchange for us helping her reclaim the throne of Syrus. We now must face the forces of Lord Ironfist.”
∆ ∆ ∆
The chicken guards, Bruce and Earl, kneel at the feet of the behemoth Ironfist. Finally, Bruce musters the courage to speak. “What are your intentions with us?” His words are shaky and fearful. Ironfist smiles wide, behind his polished iron mask, gesturing to the woman behind him. A plater of fruit is brought before Ironfist. He grabs a melon from the spread. At first, he just holds it there, weighing it.
“How is he going to eat that?” Earl asks looking at the female guards then his companion. Then he turns back to Ironfist. “How are you going to eat that?”
Juice spews forth, splashing on the chicken guard’s suits. What was once a melon is now a pile of mush seeping from between Lord Ironfist’s clenched fingers. He tilts his head back and his goopy hand disappears under his mask. He brings his head back down and his hand descends relatively clean besides residual saliva twinkling in the ambient light.
Bruce dry heaves. Earl audibly draws breath. “Ugh. I was not expecting that. I thought we left the disgusto feeder scene behind us with our last despot.”
“Silence!” one of the iron guards screams out, lunging forward with her spear. “Lord Ironfist has not permitted you to speak.”
Another female warrior steps forward. “Irritate him further and you may just discover how he earned the name Ironfist.” Her spear juts in front of the two men.
“I don’t know,” Earl scoffs, “it can’t be because he literally has an iron fist, can it?”
Ironfist’s guards all laugh in unison. “The torments in store for you are indescribable—”
“Silence, my ravishing Iron Guards!” Lord Ironfist rises from his throne. “Enough of this idle chatter. Prepare our prisoners for the festivities.”
“I’ll get the shackles!” calls an enthusiastic young iron guard, running off. Another iron guard looks equally exuberant, “And I’ll get the lubricant!”
The chicken guards whimper. They look at each other in concern and grasp hands.
∆ ∆ ∆
Buck Aldrin lies in a sweaty, drugged-out stupor. He dreams of the glory days, traveling through the cosmos in search of moons and other satellites. But more importantly at the landing after each completed mission bringing on the fame, parties and loads indiscriminate sex. He smiles knowing that he has just barely touched the great expanse of space. He dreams of his stellar reputation and encounters with less-than-reputable women. Soon his dream takes a swift turn for the worse. Space closes in around him and transforms into a dreary, broken down command center in an ancient war-torn vessel. The walls are broken in and the exit door has been kicked out. From where he lies, the unfiltered light of the outside world shines upon him.
“Where am I?” He rises slowly, pressing a hand to his throbbing head. Groggy, he stumbles through, the open door. He emerges into a beautifully un-tamed world. “Cool dream. This all looks so real,” he whispers, taking in the sights. “Let’s see.” He makes his way over to a large bush and unzips his pants, his mouth falls agape, “Where is it?” After a few moments of fumbling, he relaxes, finally finding himself. He releases a steady stream of urine accompanied by his usual morning farts. “This feels real.” Buck zips up his pants contented and turns to begin his exploration, only to find his path blocked on all sides by a group of fuzzy creatures.
“Well, never mind then…” He resigns himself to his come down fever dream or perhaps post-impact concussion. The fuzzy balls begin to fart excitedly, jumping up and down. “Ridiculous! Of all the aliens… Not four breasted green women with lust in their eyes… I’m disappointed in you brain.” Buck begins walking away. The fuzzies converge on the lone astronaut. “Not a dream! Not a dream!” Buck screams too hungover from his binge to give much resistance. They lift and ferry him into the forest.
∆ ∆ ∆
The sky lights up with a ball of fire. The beak of The Rooster’s Crow breaches Syrus’ atmosphere. The ship’s rooster head shape is revealed through layers of fluffy sherbet clouds as it screams towards the violet terrain. In the cockpit, Cockmaster has donned his most dignified apparel. First impressions are everything with indigenous people, after all.
∆ ∆ ∆
“Whoo, that is bright!” Hairdo shields his eyes from the glaring light as he steps out of Splendora’s cave. The rest of the group exits following behind him. Queen Splendora is the last to exit, surrounded by her loyal minions.
“On your feet. We travel westward, to the idol of the tyrant usurper. Once there, we’ll be a short distance from the Swamp of Agony and beyond that is his fortress.”
Hairdo perks up ready for some adventuring. “Sounds kinky… Let’s ride.”
Dale facepalms and grumbles disgruntledly. “Now we have to cross a planet by foot, so that we can ultimately stage an insurrection. I can’t believe this.”
Botchit nods in agreement. “I still can’t believe we managed to escape those fuzzy balls.”
“Yours are the only fuzzy balls I desire,” Jerkoff purrs lustfully.
“I still don’t follow you Jerkoff, but no matter we will always have science.”
“Yes science… But I want more!” Jerkoff’s eyes smolder drinking all of Bochit in. His arm extends to grasp at Botchit but falls short as the group begins to move. Heavy-hearted, the dejected scientist tags behind.
In a stroke of good luck their path leads them near the crash site. “Hey gang, wouldn’t it be prudent to go down and search the wreckage for supplies? We were in a hurry when we left after all and there could be something useful for the danger to come.”
Though the queen hates it she begrudgingly acquiesc
es to the wench. She can’t deny that even with Hairdo’s company in tow, she still lacks the firepower necessary for a definitive victory over Ironfist. After some time, walking, they emerge at the top of a hill, overlooking the smoking wreckage. Upon cresting the hill, the group observes the chicken guards’ intact space cruiser and Cockmaster’s vessel settled next to their wreckage.
“You’ve tricked me!” Splendora shrieks, pointing towards the three figures climbing through the wreckage. She turns ready to lash out at the first person she sees but is quickly interrupted by Dale.
“That’s the man who shot us down! Cockmaster!”
“If I wanted an answer from you, I would have licked it out of you!”
“What did you say?!” Dale cocks a fist and scowls, slowly approaching Splendora, “Listen here you male gaze seeking- “
“Stop!” Botchit steps between the two. “This is no time for bickering.”
Splendora scoffs and turns to Hairdo. “Bitch, who is that man?”
Hairdo’s leg twitches, then his body straightens. “General cock and his chicken patrol.”
There’s some throat-clearing while Splendora rubs behind Hairdo’s ears. Then, the interaction unceremoniously comes to a complete halt. She glares irritated, at the good doctor just as he is poised to suggest a course of action. “It might be best to avoid them,” Botchit says slowly as though still debating the worth of his suggestion. He switches focus from Splendora, to over the hill at Cockmaster General and his two accomplices. To Botchit’s surprise, Splendora nods quietly.
“You’re lucky you said something useful, or I might have punished you.” A sharp forked tongue emerges from between her lips, strokes her mouth’s corner and quickly slides back in. “We’ll head down this path,” she says, pointing and taking the first step in the indicated direction. “Move carefully. These paths are tight and treacherous.”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” Hairdo whispers lustfully as he frolics behind Splendora. One by one, the party makes their way down a small pathway cut into the side of the rock face. They easily crouch behind its cover and approach the crash site while remaining undetected. Every so often, they pause to get a look at how much progress Cockmaster has made with his search of the crash site. The party always makes sure to keep a steady pace, never stopping or slowing for too long. Prolonged exposure increases the risk of their discovery.
Even in this dire situation Jerkoff can hold his feelings back no longer. “Botchit,” he whispers from behind. “There’s something you need to know.”
“What is it?” Botchit keeps his attention on the slope of the path and Cockmaster’s group. The Chicken guards seem to be searching without any visible pattern or strategy.
“I’ve had this feeling for some time now.”
“Yeah?” Botchit ducks closer to the ground and straddles the top of the trench for support.
“Perhaps it’s best if I show you.”
Jerkoff reaches out a trembling arm. His hand caresses Botchit, who feels the gentle strokes on his shoulder and shudders. Botchit pivots to face his fellow scientist, head cocked peculiarly. His leg shifts on the ground and suddenly, everything begins to fall. A section of rock breaks away from the path and tumbles down the decline. Botchit’s footing is lost.
Botchit reaches out to grasp at anything but comes up short. The group watches in shock as he plummets down the steepest part of the cliff.
“Botchit! Nooo… I love you!” Jerkoff cries. Botchit replies, his voice is garbled by each impact as he tumbles down, “I—stil-ugh don-t… ouch… fall-ugh ow yough, Jerrkoff—”, all culminating in a thud, then silence.
The group ducks behind the trench wall. They carefully listen for signs that their friend might have survived the fall. Instead, they hear Cockmaster commanding his soldiers to open fire on the small cloud of dust surrounding the collapsed Botchit. Jerkoff rises and attempts to hurl himself over the edge. Scrambling to find a way down, he is desperate to get back to Bochit. It’s only Dale’s incredible reflexes that manage to hold him back, preventing him from making a bad situation far worse.
“We can’t afford to go down there unarmed, we need to get the hell out of here!”
“Up there!” a voice calls from below.
“Everyone run!” Dale tugs at Jerkoff’s arm forcing him to flee despite his best efforts to return to Botchit’s defense.
Chapter 5
Leather, Lace and Iron
Earl runs his fingers across the smooth surface of Lord Ironfist’s glove. Bruce follows up, he pours a fresh line of lubricant across the gauntlet from tip to base. Ironfist watches them work in ecstasy, edging closer to release with every lubed-up stroke.
“Yes, that’s right. Rub it all in. Get it in all the crevasses, now.”
“Ugh, my hands are cramping up.” Earl complains.
“How much longer do I have to massage this glove?” Bruce whines.
Ironfist only glares.
“Can we at least take a break? A few minutes?”
Reveling in their misery, Ironfist bellows in laughter, “Not until I reach satisfaction!”
∆ ∆ ∆
Cackles reverberate across the science lab. “Oh, I can’t wait! I can’t wait!” Swansea lets out a girlish, high-pitched squeal of happiness. Finally freed from his bonds, after years of servitude, his spirits are lifted. Technicolor Bomb in hand, he spins in his own a solo waltz of victory. “Finally, I am the true Lord of Evil! Oh, I love you!” He drops his arms to cradle the device and kisses it. Then gazes at it like a mother with her newborn.
He puts the device in a mount, hooking it up to a complicated series of monitors and control mechanisms. "The custard of curiosity has peaked. A decision must be made. Satiate,” he raises one hand as if weighing his options, “or show restraint?” His hands trade places.
A belch interjects from the corner, drawing Swansea's gaze. The Emperor sits, trapped in a feeding station. His chair has collapsed under his ever-expanding blubber. The once mighty emperor now sits in a mess of his own creation. His body has expanded three times its original size, swelling more with each swallow. The tube streams goo into his eager maw. His fat sausage fingers grasp a controller, granting him control over the tubes' ebb and flow. Hearing Swansea’s soliloquy, he stops the flow for a moment and attempts to respond. He only manages to gurgle approval of his meal, before the hunger seizes him. Unable to resist the call of sustenance, he resumes gulping down the slop.
“You’ve become so agreeable in these last few hours.” Swansea approaches with a smile. Leaning against the encumbered emperor, he snatches the remote. “Perhaps it would be best if we test out our new toy?” The flow of food slows.
“Mmmm!”
“Oh, we think so alike these days!” Swansea squees. “Of course, testing the device should commence on something relatively unimportant.”
“Mmm! Mmm!”
“Yes! Like that planet, those foolish earth 'heroes' crash landed on. Syrus, a primitive world without merit. No one would miss it. Plus, it removes a few thorns from my side, a few anchovies off my pizza, a few sprinkles from my chocolate cupcake—”
“Mmmm! Nuh!” The emperor becomes frantic, struggling to shake himself into motion, but to no avail. The ball of lard formerly known as Emperor Elephantine is utterly immobile.
“What was that? You’re ready for a bigger serving?” Swansea chuckles. He approaches the emperor, remote in hand, orbiting around the mass. “Here you go, you poor thing.” He makes the necessary adjustments on the machine, which chugs with more force than ever. Then Swansea switches the controller to maximum flow. He nods in approval as the emperor gulps down the swill. After a few gallons, the emperor begins to look uneasy. His swollen meaty digits attempt to dislodge the tube with ever-increasing vigor. Elephantine’s eyes grow wide with fear as the tube refuses to budge. Spillage spews from the corners of the emperor's lips. A protuberance rises out from below the emperor’s sternum, stretching the skin taut. His skin ri
pples. Unnatural movement displacing fat and organs elicits a gurgle of pain from Elephantine. Then with a slither and a pop the bulge sinks back under his fleshy folds.
Swansea watches him with a sinister smile, making one final adjustment to the machine. The thrumming decreases and while the emperor looks more comfortable, his face displays a mix of confusion and concern. At this, Swansea is overjoyed, “Won’t be much longer now, will it?”
∆ ∆ ∆
Botchit sits up, rubs his eyes and shakes the weariness from his head. His bleary gaze surveys his surroundings. He sits in a pit surrounded by boulders and low growing shrubs of whimsical colors and configuration. Blue curlicue reeds grow next to deep purple zigzag crabgrasses. Bochit makes note for future sampling. Pulling free from the white, gooey substance, he climbs to his feet. He stretches and yawns. Unfamiliar sights surround him, but what isn’t unfamiliar about this new world?
The scientist scratches the back of his head. A wave of nausea hits him like a tsunami. Confused, his hand pulls away sticky, coated in chunky white gunk. He looks down at the pillow he’s been resting on and can only draw one conclusion. “Didn’t think we’d find indigenous marshmallows on this planet.” He pulls a sizeable chunk from the pillowy mass and places it on his tongue. Rancid flavors assault his taste buds, he cringes. Botchit spits, wiping his mouth out with his shirt. “Must be unsweetened, unsalted and seasoned for ‘supertasters’,” Botchit concludes.
Although lost and clueless as to how find his way back to the others, Doctor Lemme Botchit remains confident. In his estimation, a step in any direction is better than none. Half sinking, half crawling he works his way out of the mallow-fluff pit.
A few yards from his present position, Botchit glimpses the blur of a creature. It darts behind a nearby alien stone structure. Startled, Botchit finds cover behind an adjacent rock. Crouching, he leans out to observe the other side. Small squeaks emit from behind the other rock. “What could it be?”
Captain Hairdo- Conquers the Cosmos Page 10
