There’s positive things about sexual dry streaks: you don’t have to clean, you can fart all you want, and you can let your boosh grow into an unkempt jungle. Speaking of which…I lift up my blanket and examine the thicket. As long as there aren’t any bitey little bugs—
A reptilian head pokes out, glances cagily around, and screams, “Ruh-KAWK!” before darting back into the cheesy forest.
What the fuck? I part the wilds, searching for intruders. I’ve heard of crabs, but DICK LIZARDS??? I don’t see anything, so I leap out of bed, grab a magnifying glass, and inspect my junk.
Whoa—this is amazing! My nuts have been colonized by prehistoric fauna! T-rexes, brachiosaurs, pterodactyls…
I’m gonna leave them be and see comes of it.
MONTHS LATER, AFTER A MINI-CIVILIZATION HAS FLOURISHED ON MY COCK AND MY BALLS…
A booted foot kicks in the door, followed by a stream of gun-toting operators.
“Hey!” I yell. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The lead guy, a bloodless goon who resembles Agent Smith, strides up to me and flashes a badge. “Your pubes has been annexed by the federal government.”
“What?” I sputter. “They’re MY pubes, fuckface! You don’t get a say in—”
Agent Smith turns to the side. “Hawkins, prep for reduction.” One of his minions unsnaps a briefcase and powers up a hologram-ringed platform. “We’re going to make contact,” he informs me. “Our team will sample flora and fauna, and attempt to liaise with the local authorities.” He signals the operators, four of whom surround me and sight in on my noggin. “Interfere with our op, and these men will liquidate you.”
Hawkins says, “We’re ready, sir.”
The agent nods, cuing the rest of his goons to file onto the platform. One by one, they shrink down into itty bitty specks. Hawkins collects them on a petri dish, shakes them onto my nuts, then types a command onto the platform’s interface, bringing up an image of the shrunken team.
“Jesus Christ.” A soldier curls his lip in outright disgust. “Smells like a hunk of rotten limburger.”
“Can it, Johnson,” the squad leader snaps. “Form up and start walking.”
They begin patrolling toward my wiener. It’s clear they’re jumpy; their posture is hunched and they keep sighting in, as if they’re afraid something is gonna pounce. Suddenly, the point man shoots up a hand. Everyone takes a knee and faces outboard.
The squad leader shuffles to the front of the column. “What is it, Miller?” he whispers.
“I don’t know,” the point man whispers back. “I thought I saw—”
Someone in the middle yells, “Holy fucking SHIT!” and cuts loose with his rifle. A flurry of shouts erupt from the speakers: “Contact left! Contact right! Game over, man—game fucking over! Mary mother of God, they’re fucking EVERYWHERE—” accompanied by the lively chatter of 5.56. My guards look back and forth between my futon and the hologram. “We need to get in there!” the nearest one yells. “We need to—”
The hologram fritzes, resolving into an image of a cheese-formed humanoid, then it lapses into a mess of snowy static.
Agent Smith throws on a vest and racks the slide on his pistol, checking to ensure there’s a round in the chamber. “We’re going in. Hawkins, stay enlarged and run the holo.”
Seconds later, Smith and his guys are on my balls, standing above the remains of their decimated team. “God DAMMIT!” Smith hisses. “This is a total and utter clusterfu—”
He’s cut off by shouts, screams and gunfire. The holo displays another cheese-person; it’s holding Smith by the hair, brandishing his bloody face for the miniaturized camera.
“Do not come back. Do not attempt rescue. This man is our slave.”
The holo goes dark.
“Fuck!” I scream. “FUCK!” I turn to Hawkins. “What do we do?”
“I’m just a tech!” he mewls. “I don’t know!”
Fuck it. No options left. So I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
“Someone call fer me?” Chuck Norris steps through the door, putting his fists on his hips. He’s clad head to toe in eighties-tight denim: jeans and a vest with cut-off sleeves.
Hawkins explains the situation in a trembly voice. Chuck nods and says, “Shrink me down, four-eyes! Put me on his goddamn pecker!”
Hawkins grabs his hair with both hands. “Are you INSANE? I just told you that—”
Chuck throws a roundhouse kick, stopping short of the scientist’s face. Despite the fact that he pulled the kick, it’s so damn strong that the wind from its passage sends Hawkins stumbling. “Spared yer life, nancy-boy! Now put me on that hog! Ain’t no problem that karate can’t solve!” (he pronounces it super American: kuh-RATty). Chuck gives me a knowing look. “Yer people taught me that.”
My brow wrinkles in puzzlement. “ ‘My people?’ Korean-Americans?”
“You know what I mean!” he snaps. “Stop trynna mess with my damn intellectual!”
“Uh…” I raise a half-bent hand. “You got anything besides karate? Maybe some grappling, like jiu-jitsu or wrestling?”
“That’s heathen talk—ain’t no reason for a man to lay on top of another man’s body! All you need is a goddamn roundhouse!” He starts hopping in place, throwing roundhouse kicks, accompanying each one with a violent exclamation: “Hyah! Hyah! Fuck your mother in the ass! Then in the mouth!”
Me and Hawkins exchange a look, followed by a what-the-hell shrug. Might as well.
Minutes later, Chuck is walking through my forest of pubes. Howls erupt all around him, but he remains unfazed. He postures sideways in an eighties-martial arts stance—left hand close and high, right hand out and low—and screams, “Come and get some, ya filthy cheese-people!”
Much to my astonishment, Chuck mows through the legion of cheese-anoids, blasting them apart with a stunning variety of flying kicks. Splits-kicks, tornado kicks, triple-twist roundhouses…holy fuck, this guy is a one-man army!
A short while later, Chuck stares in the camera, an unconscious Agent Smith draped onto his shoulder. “Get me outta here, you science-brained pussy! I’m thirstin’ for a cold one!”
After Chuck is enlarged, he drops Smith and dusts off his hands. “Karate saves the day!” He shoots me a pistol-finger. “You and yer people are a shitfire godsend!”
I tilt my head in a puzzled squint. “Um…thanks?”
He puts his fists on his hips, giving me and Hawkins a steely-eyed once-over. “How ’bout we down a couple brews, then do a buncha bicep curls while staring at our nekkid glistening bodies in a full-length mirror?”
We shake our heads, muttering, “No thanks,” and, “Maybe next time.”
Chuck snorts in derision. “Figures! Pair a’ communist pussies, that’s what you are!” He runs out the door, humming an out-of-tune rendition of the A-team score: “”DAH de-dah-daah, dah dah DAAAH…”
Me and Hawkins exchange another glance, wordlessly communicating the exact same thing:
Weirdest day of my fucking life.
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