by Wol-vriey
Blondie yelped in pain. She stood panting a while, examining the damage. Blood squirted from the rip and trickled down over her feathers.
“You fool,” she said, “I’m going to make you sew me up again.”
Malone was too preoccupied with Stacy to reply. She’d now replaced her chokehold around his throat with her fingers and was trying to throttle him into submission.
Letting go of his throat for a moment, Stacy jerked Malone’s shirt out of his trousers. She inserted her erection beneath it and began dry-humping him. She ground her cock and balls against his back whilst resuming her chokehold.
Malone was disgusted beyond belief.
She’s actually getting off on this shit, he thought.
This was more of a scrap than he’d bargained for. Stacy was disproportionately strong for her slight stature. He suspected the same to be the case with Blondie.
He realized that if both weren’t so cautious of the Masher he was holding, he’d be in huge trouble.
Malone didn’t want to hurt either woman if he could help it. He just wanted out of their lives.
Blondie jumped at him again, her fingers flexed into claws.
Malone raised his hand to protect his eyes. She slashed his arm instead, then growling, she gripped his wrist, chopping at it to make him drop the Masher.
Stacy ejaculated on Malone’s back. She gave a little yelp, stiffened, went slightly limp, and then stiffened again, tightening her stranglehold on his throat.
Malone hardly felt her cum trickling down his back into his butt-crack. He was becoming groggy—Stacy’s grip was cutting off the blood supply to his brain. Thankfully, she was no expert at strangulation—he doubted she’d ever attempted it before, she had no idea of how to compress his larynx—but she’d accidentally gotten her fingers positioned just right to incapacitate him if she maintained the pressure for too long.
He began staggering drunkenly around the room.
“I got your ass now,” Stacy said.
“He’s fading, he’s fading!” Blondie said.
“Screw you both, I’m not,” Malone gasped.
But it was true, he was fading. His thoughts were clouding and there were black spots in his vision.
In desperation he head-butted Blondie in the face. She let go of his wrist and reeled back.
She smiled evilly at him. Blood dribbled from her nostrils. It made her look like a demoness. She licked some of the red from her lips. “I think you just broke my nose, darling. So you want to fight dirty, uh? Well, let’s get it on, you delicious prick!”
She pulled down her pants and pulled out her penis—a long thin organ. Malone groaned on seeing she was fully erect, having been aroused by the violence..
Leering at him, Blondie smeared blood from her nose over her ‘womanhood’ and masturbated herself a few strokes.
“Get ready, Malone,” she said. “You’re going to suck this cock afterwards, blood and all. You’re gonna suck it till I fill your belly with my cum.”
“Stop jerking off, Blondie! Get a fucking knife!”
Blondie stopped masturbating and nodded.
Oh no, you don’t! Malone thought. This stops here and now.
He pointed the Masher at Blondie and pressed the red button. He’d held off doing so for as long as he reasonably could.
There was no sound. The weapon simply ‘mashed’ Blondie into the wall behind her.
Malone had the barest impression of Blondie ‘separating’ in a whoosh of invisible force that streaked across the room too fast for the eye to track. Then there was a human-shaped brown and pink splotch on the wall.
The wall now looked like someone had painted it with paint made from body parts. Bones, nerves, eyes, hair, penis, testicles, feathers, breast implants, nipples—all occupied their relative places in a human soup that while nauseating to view, had a disgusting naturalness to it.
The human paint dripped down the wall to pool on the rug. As it dripped, it spoke: “Ouch, Malone, that hurt,” it said.
Malone felt close to losing his mind. He felt sickened by what he’d just done.
“Get off me or I’ll shoot you too,” he told Stacy coldly, “go be romantic with your worman or something.”
Stacy let go of him and fled the living room, wings bobbing behind her like ducks on a pond.
Malone walked over to stare at the puddle Blondie had become. “Sorry, Blondie,” he said. “I just want to leave.” He paused. “I really think your tits and ass are terrific,” he added lamely. “I’m just not into cocks—”
Blondie’s mouth had now dripped to the floor. “Oh, cut the crap, Malone,” it gurgled. “You’re such a—” Her hair dripped over her mouth, pushing it into the body-part soup.
Malone turned to leave. Then he remembered Stacy. His instinct for self-preservation made him check on what she was doing. He padded silently to the bedroom, listened through the ajar door.
Stacy was on the phone, weeping and whispering harshly into the mouthpiece. “Listen, you cheap law-enforcement excuse for plastic surgery, I’m not joking. Some human loony perv just burst into my apartment, ogled our worman, and shot my co-husband with the Masher . . . what the fuck do you mean, which Masher? How many Mashers are there?
“Yeah I agree: IT IS AN EMERGENCY!!! How did he get hold of it? . . . Fuck this—you’re supposed to be a police officer, protecting innocent civilians like myself. A human loony loose with the Trangel Masher and you’re asking how he got it? HE OBVIOUSLY MUST HAVE STOLEN IT, YOU STOOOOPID BITCH!!!!! JUST GET YOUR RETARDED OVERFUCKED COP ANUSES OVER HERE. The address? Apartment three sev…”
Oops, just got framed. Malone turned and padded off.
He spent a long moment staring at the flesh puddle on the floor which had recently been Blondie, then walked over to the center table and dropped the Masher. Potent as it was, it wasn’t the kind of weapon he ever wanted to handle again.
He left.
CHAPTER 54
Stacy
Stacy slammed the phone down.
The noise woke up Herbie Stanton.
The worman looked around the room, his face worried.
“What’s happening, Stacy?”
Stacy rushed over to the bed and cradled Herbie’s head between her breasts.
“Oh, honey pie,” she said. “An evil man just killed Blondie!”
Herbie’s eyes widened. “Killed? I’m scared, Stacy.”
“Stacy rocked Herbie’s head like it was a baby, his neck dangling between her legs like a length of hose. “Don’t be, darling. The cops will be here soon and they’ll kill him too.”
“I’m still scared, Stacy.” Stacy felt the worman’s extended body shivering in fear. She was instantly alarmed. This was bad, Herbie could break his eggs this way. And likely they’d be her eggs, not Blondie’s.
Oh, Blondie, she thought suddenly, tears filling her eyes, her heart going out to her dead partner. That son-of-a-bitch Malone deserves every bit of pain that’s coming to him.
She returned her attention to her shivering worman.
“It’s alright, Herbie darling,” she said softly. “I’m still here with you. I’ll never leave you.”
She freed her left nipple and pushed it into Herbie’s mouth. “Have some milk, honey pie.”
While her worman suckled on her nipple, Stacy cooed to him, muttering sweet nonsense till she felt Herbie’s anaconda-long body relax. “Everything’s going to be alright, darling,” she said, faking confidence that she didn’t feel.
Stacy was traumatized by what had just happened to Blondie, but she realized that she couldn’t freak out. She had to be strong, strong for both herself and for Herbie.
She was also concerned. The cops would arrive soon. She needed a clear head, so she wouldn’t trip herself up in the sequence of lies she planned on telling them about how Malone had broken in and threatened Blondie and herself with the Trangel Masher.
CHAPTER 55
Malone
While he navigated
Traven’s glossy black corridors, Malone’s brain was navigated by blacker thoughts.
Okay, he thought, this shit’s gone much too far enough already. Frank, where the fuck are you so I can break your neck?
He made a cautious passage down a brightly-lit stairway. He wished he could simply open a door and his quest be over. Better still, find himself back in his office with this day not even existing on the calendar.
He turned a corner and ran straight into a contingent of heavily-armed white robots stepping out of an elevator.
Shit.
The robots said nothing. They raised their guns and began firing, heading for Malone with purpose-filled strides.
Malone turned and ran. Gunshot noise filled the corridor.
Alerted by the noise, trangels began poking their heads out of their apartment doors.
All remained watching once they saw the fleeing Malone and his mechanical pursuers. Thinking he was fleeing a new arm of the Traven Police, several girls whistled as he sped past them.
One grabbed his buttocks as he passed her, digging her nails deep into the meat of his gluteal muscles.
She didn’t let go; Malone found himself running on the spot.
He resisted the urge to knock her pretty face in. “Let the hell go of me, will you?”
She laughed at him, blue eyes twinkling “Trying to escape becoming a worman, cutie pie?”
Thankfully, the white robots weren’t shooting any longer as they headed for Malone.
“Let go of me, dammit!”
The Trangel shook her head. “No, cutie pie. I’ll petition the council for you. You can be my worman if you don’t like who you’re already with.”
Malone was disgusted at how strong she was, with her skinny body and blue wings. Her finger grip on his buttocks was sheer agony, as painful as if she was ass-raping him, only doing it via a myriad of wrong apertures all at once.
Malone looked at the approaching robots. They were raising shotguns and taking aim at him.
He turned back to the angel holding onto him.
She giggled. “Ooh, cutie pie, you’re going to love sucking my cock.”
Malone hit her, a HARD sock to the jaw. She went down like he’d poleaxed her, to a chorus of admiring oohs and aahs from the other ladies watching. A number of their hands fell to grip swelling crotches.
Malone groaned. What is it with trangels and violence?
He ran on.
He turned the corridor corner and ran smack-dab into an oncoming contingent of four Forks. Four of them—two silver, two plastic.
Now this is odd, he thought. He understood the robot presence here—they were clearly after him. But the Forks? What the hell are they doing in Traven?
Malone put his concerns aside. He ran up to the cutlery contingent. Out of breath, he stopped in front of a silver female Fork with large lustrous breasts.
“My name’s Bud Malone,” he gasped. “I’m working for Lady Yaz and Lord Tav.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Those machines are pains in my ass.”
“We are dragon supervisors,” the female Fork replied him. “The Lord Tav and Lady Yaz are our overlords. Therefore we will help you.”
Like Malone, the robots had reached them now. The mechanicals pointed their weapons at the Forks.
A large model with black sergeant stripes stepped forward.
“Hand Malone over,” it said. “Frank wants him.”
“No,” the female Fork replied. “Malone here is working for us. You machines will turn around and leave peacefully.”
A plastic fork addressed Malone. “You may leave. We will handle this.”
“He isn’t going anywhere!” the robot sergeant yelled. “Attack, robots, attack!!!”
The robots fired on the Forks. The sound of gunfire reverberated in the corridor like Traven was a shooting range.
Two trangels opened their front doors to investigate the commotion. Both doors immediately slammed shut again, one occupant nursing a bullet-shredded wing. Malone could visualize her running to the phone and alerting the Traven cops to his whereabouts.
The gunfire continued. Malone realized none of it had hit either he or the Forks.
“We tire of this,” the silver female Fork said. “Okay, machines, have it your way.”
The Forks suddenly glowed a combination of silver streaked with plastic white. A beam of intertwined forces pulsed from them at the robots.
Malone watched while the force beam pulled the robots apart like they were children’s toys. There was beauty to their deconstruction: it looked like a 3-D animation explaining their inner workings—a totally natural uncoupling of their parts.
Similarly their guns were also deconstructed.
Soon the robots were piles of neatly stacked arms, legs, heads, and torso shells, beside piles of spilt inner components and wires.
The white glow in the corridor subsided.
“You may proceed on your job for our lord and lady,” the female Fork told Malone. “Inform them on our behalf that everything is going as planned here.”
Malone nodded at the Forks. “Thanks. I’m lost. How do I leave here? The Trangel—” He stopped short of saying ‘police.’ He was wary of the Forks now the immediate danger was past.
“You will find a free elevator at the end of the corridor two turns to the left behind us.”
The group of cutlery beings floated off, levitating over the demolished robots.
Malone nodded after them, then set off to find the described elevator.
CHAPTER 56
Malone
Malone entered the elevator. He was about to hit ‘Basement,’ when he remembered the cops. They’d likely be coming up from below.
He punched for six floors up instead; the first thing was to work out exactly where he was. To do that he needed a vantage point.
The elevator rose rapidly then stopped.
Malone opened the door, took a step forward, and fell downwards face first.
He sailed down past several metal railings, then lashed out with his blood hand and caught hold of one of them. His shoulder wrenched like it was being severed all over again, but his fall was broken.
Dangling like a length of string, he worked out where he was. He’d fallen through the door of a train carriage, and was currently hanging from the rear of an aisle seat.
(He was making the discovery that his blood arm both didn’t feel pain and was surpassingly strong.)
He worked out what had happened.
This train was a beetle’s forelimb. Its left uppermost. Far off, he could see its right companion. He was in the first carriage. Below this there would usually be six or seven more.
The train hung downwards, so he’d fallen from the elevator when it opened, rather than walked from it.
He thought it odd that he hadn’t sensed the ninety degree change in orientation during transit.
He swore—this was a dead end. Had the damn Forks been trying to make him break his neck? And what the hell did they mean they were ‘dragon supervisors?’ In Traven? Were they postnatal doctors to the Trangel’s wormen?
This got more fucked-up by the fucked-up minute.
Malone simmered down somewhat, finally realizing that despite being short of time, his fall into this train-limb was to his advantage.
First, he pulled himself up so his feet found firm purchase on the seat two below the one he was gripping, then, using the chair-arms like steps, he climbed down to the carriage exit. There, he let himself down into the next carriage, and repeated the process. He kept going through six more carriages till he was in the second-to-last one, then he lay down on a seat-back to rest and think.
CHAPTER 57
Malone
He was in probably the largest skyscraper-beetle in existence. From his vantage point, the creature extended forever, both downwards and sideways.
(The far-off ‘right’ limb he’d noticed earlier seemed rather to be embedded in the middle of the beetle’s body. If even that distant p
lace was its middle.)
The general belief that apartments on the converted floors of an insect building were uninhabitable was wrong, Malone discovered now.
The train-leg dangled twenty feet from Traven’s walls, giving Malone a clear view into the closest apartment windows.
Lights blazed in bedrooms. He watched a pair of transsexual angel husbands servicing their worman wife. It was a strange type of sex: both husbands lay side by side on their backs and essentially masturbated themselves with the man-worm’s mouth and anus. Occasionally the trangels kissed, occasionally they exchanged ends of their sextoyperson. Occasionally they masturbated each other with their worman’s orifices.
In another bedroom, one Trangel fucked another doggy-style while their worman watched.
In the window to his left, a pair of trangels hovered over their bed, wings beating furiously. Even more furiously, they fucked the worman dangling between them like a live skipping rope with egg-lumps in it.
The trio’s screams carried clearly to Malone through their window, through the night air. The worman sounded like it was in horrendous pain. Brown fluid dripped from both its ends over the legs of its lovers.
Memory of his recent encounter with Stacy and Blondie filled Malone. He was disgusted, both with what he was watching, and with himself for watching it. He felt like vomiting.
The transsexual angels climaxed simultaneously, then crumpled onto their bed like discarded tissue paper, opposing violent sexual armies tented in wings. Their worman lay between them—a used kitchen rag—slime dribbling from between its lips.
It had a blonde moustache. Its tiny eyes blinked in Malone’s direction.
He saw it was smiling dreamily. It curled back and began fellating the penis closest to it.
***
Malone heard the scraping then.
It was coming from below him, seemingly from inside the train.