I have always wanted to write a story as a blog. Right now, a lot of things piss me off, I'm really hating my job, and am tired of bitching. So, let's have a story!
Worestershire and the Sea Witch as told by Mr. Austin Smith
"Great, leathery scrotum!" ejaculated Seafoam Worcestershire, PF Falconer commander. His eyes set upon the megadrode's mega droid shell mass. He let loose double-pistol clips that caught net-like cleft shrouded shell after shell fury from it's gun arms, and strafed immaculately from side to side, rotating like a probe droid. None who had tested its power survived the encounter. "I spit at you," seethed Worcestershire, and he threw to the metal beast, a succulent grenade. A mechanical growl coughed back satisfaction, for not even the explosive power of a grenade could penetrate like a stiff penis-encountering a flap-lipped vagina, the malarkey Megadrodes titanium-steel sweat suit. And more power-canister bullets flew like spittle from the lips of an over winded speaker.
Worcestershire dodged the attacks with finesse. "Wor, hath done thee service to thou enemy?" asked Brock Palister, co-commander/treasurer of the PF Falconer Squad. Brock stood defensive, smashed against a metal miner's cart, which was flipped upside-down in the granite tunnel, which called home for the metal robot Megadrode, who was now releasing hell upon Seafoam Worcestershire, who wore tight trousers.
Brock sensed a mechanical malfunction with the Megadrode, something mechanically maleficent...something the douche-cock scientists who created the metal beast, did not sense would flaw. The flaw was literally senseless. It ceased to sense, like senseless sense.
Tyra Broadchest's bountiful, abrasive, beautiful breasts bounced boyishly as she ran to push them against Brock's bicep. "Tell me, Brock," she orgasmed desperately, with despair snagging her every word. "How is Worcestershire?"
Brock turned to cup Tyra's breasts in comfort.
"Shall thou asketh?"
"Oh yes," pushed on Tyra. "Thou shall..."
"Hero, thou state be calm or beseeched? What say thee?" cried Brock. "Thou...I mean, I'm dodging bullets...," answered Worcestershire. Brock turned to Tyra, once more cupping her exquisite rack.
"Hearth thou, marm?" asked Brock.
"Yes! He's in need..." and with that, Tyra's top blouse button popped.
"Unzip me," replied Brock, and Tyra did, releasing his cannon.
"Oh yes..." sighed Brock, and there, he stood erect, his magnum-force rocket launcher held firm within his grasp. Tyra fiddled with it for awhile, working it hard. At last, Brock pulled away, and announced to Worcestershire and the rest of the world, "I'm coming!"
Brock's knees stiffened as he convulsed with glee. Spurt, spurt, spurt went each dollop of load, mouthful after mouthful. Each skeeted their way to their target; a money-shot to say the least. "Bull's eye!" exclaimed Brock. They ram-rodded Megadrode's backside, in an explosion of white. The megadroid exploded, but was not down for the fight, merely dazed from the attack.
"Great shot, Brock," replied Worcestershire. "You really gummed up the works!"
“So exhilarating; I’m orgasmic!” ejaculated Tyra.
Worcestershire crawled toward the sound of Tyra’s voice. “I can almost feel those breasts in my palms,” he said out loud. “You’re incorrigible,” said Tyra. Worcestershire could not wait to eat alone in his apartment, him being a culinary superhuman. He could taste the meat he had steam-cooked for that night like the bureaucratic wolves could taste the meat of the young.
The ground he clawed at with his boots felt like it could give way at any moment. Why the government would create such a destructive machine, and just leave it here in an abandoned mine because it failed to stop death. The mine had been testing grounds for the colossus, and would therefore be the grave for it as well.
“You’re almost there, Wor,” replied Tyra.
Then, the Megadrode came to life again. It shot out proximity mines from its clay-pigeon holster looking, proximity mine-cannons. And the earth underneath Worcestershire collapsed…
Tyra screamed.
Brock’s grip on Tyra’s breasts loosened…then eventually recupped.
And Worcestershire fell.
“A voyage never ends,” replied Worcestershire as he fell.
“A voyage is never-ending. One might think it ends, but it doesn’t. Those who believe nothing ends, and believe that it only changes or begins a new, survive. I’m at a new beginning; where…I don’t know yet. Like a star’s nebula, I will explode into my supernova. But give life to a new star. Where is the end in that? Where is the end in all of this?”
Worcestershire continued to fall.
“When do the stars begin again? If one must know everything, then where is the excitement in that? Don’t ask questions your whole life. Use life to explore and find the answers. And if an answer is impossible, don’t go back to asking questions, but instead, come to conclusions that might settle your mind. And why didn’t we install jet packs to our suits? I fucking told those knob-jobs in the science facility to incorporate them with our suits, but they fucking didn’t! My body is snagged onto some roots…must be like a Redwood around here or something because these roots are HUGE! I think I left a bag of popcorn in the microwave back at base…oops, I’m slipping. This robot beast is still alive, but I found its battery pack…Duracell’s…well I’ll be a son of a bitch! The roots broke. I fall. Man should have never made machines…..my bones….”
Worcestershire was silent.
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