OooooWEEEEOOOOOOOO….(that’s my literary approximation of creepy alien music)
[Genegineer BrrkkkStree.] my fellow Alien Gray and Boss Zorbot telepathically beams to me. [Have you prepped the dissection tools? It is time to see what has come of the fetid experiment known as ‘Kent Wayne.’]
[All of our quantum scalpels have been re-zeroed and re-amplified.] I reply. [Our omniphilic pharmaceuticals have been primed; electroweak detectors indicate they are fully operational and at 5x potency.]
Our third crewmember—SnnrrkRound—jumps in, pumping his waxy gray fists up and down. [Ooh! Ooh! Is this a probing mission? I love stuffing techno-organic larvae up the humans’ rectums!]
Zorbot claps SnnrrkRound amiably on the shoulder. [Have no fear, Snnrrk—I’ve got plenty of butt-stuffing planned, and this heinous half-ape Kent Wayne will receive the lion’s share of it. Our metaphorical arms are gonna be so far up his starfish that we’ll be able to work his mouth like a puppet. Between Kent and the rest of the half-apes, we’ll be able to re-enact every episode of the Muppet Show.]
SnnrrkRound claps his hands in glee. [All five seasons???]
Zorbot nods. [The eight movies, as well.]
SnnrrkRound pumps his fist. [YEEEESSSSS!!!!!]
We touch down in Kent’s yard—oooooWEEEEOOOOOOOO—and cut the electrogravitic thrusters. Our ramp sections out and clunks against the soft loam. Zorbot telekinetically lockpicks Kent’s door and we walk into his disgusting hovel. Everywhere I look, there’s pyramids of mountain dew cans, as well as sculptures of pop-culture icons—Jedis, Bigfoots, velociraptors—made out of used pizza boxes. What an idiot.
We loom over the sleeping form of Kent Wayne. His personal psychosphere indicates he’s deep in the throes of a Cheeba Chew dream, and that not even extensive trauma will be capable of breaking it. The only one we have to watch out for is Bitefighter—his Buddy For Life and 10 lb. Terrier Extraordinaire—who’s currently nowhere to be seen.
[Right.] Zorbot rubs his hands briskly together, then looks at me and SnnrrkRound. [You guys ready to inject this fool with an ass-full of nanobiotics?]
SnnrrkRound raises his arms like he’s a rabid fan at a Five-Galaxy InterBowl. [LET’S DO THIS!!!!]
Zorbot hooks his fingers into Kent’s booty shorts and pulls ’em down. His giant black eyes narrow in puzzlement.
[What the hell is that?] He points to Kent’s crotch, where the penis appears to be concealed under some kind of glowing harness.
I trace a square in the air with my right fingertip, instantiating a multiversal data-puter. I click on its surface, directing its processing capabilities across a three-universe consciousness. After it telepathically beams the info into my large gray head, I swipe the air, causing it to disappear, and look at Zorbot. [It’s a quantum harness that restrains his genitals. Apparently, they’re a super-intelligent life form in and of their own right. Far more intelligent than their host, as a matter of fact.]
Zorbot nods. [So we’ll make sure the harness stays on.] He turns to SnnrrkRound. [Prep the ass-probe.]
SnnrrkRound’s eyes light up with glee. But before he can follow the order, Kent Wayne’s little Terrier Bitefighter dashes into the room and noses open Kent’s eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Suddenly, Kent’s penis rips through its harness and rears six feet into the air, screaming in fury. Holy fuck! It’s like some kind of phallic Tyrannosaurus R—
And then it zips toward SnnrrkRound, blattering him over the head with its basketball-sized glans. Snnrrk goes down like he’s been shot by a sniper. Zorbot turns to run, but the cock whirls around his legs and yanks him off his feet. It all happens so fast—Zorbot rolls over with outstretched hands, telepathically screaming a plea at the dick.
[PLEASE!] he wails as the shadow of Kent’s cock stretches across his face. [DON’T DO THI—]
And then the cock comes down, pulping Zorbot’s face under a foot-long frenulum.
I scrabble to my feet and make a run for the door. I bust outside and sprint into our saucer, activating our thrusters and levitating off the earth. A few seconds later I’m a thousand feet up. Did I make it? Dear Rao in Krypton, please tell me I—
The craft lurches, stalling in the air. On the exterior cams, I see coils of Kent’s cock wrapped tightly around the hull. The craft’s computerized sentience telepathically informs me that in a matter of seconds, the hull will suffer a breach and the craft will explode.
I drop to my knees, damning Gray Directive 42-Alpha, the one that decrees that all Grays must meet an annual quota for human anal probes. Damn you, Intergalactic Federation!!! Damn you for—
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