Friday, March 7, 2014

The Doomcock of Doom: Chapter Two

Warty was almost drunk when The Parade of Curiosities began.

Sven was in the second hour of recounting his sexual exploits through time to the various creatures sitting at their table. Highlights so far included urinating in the cavernous vagina of Pope Joan and titty-fucking General Kei-Ong before her defeat at The Groomsbridge Massacre.

The Forstock Twins huddled together in a single chair, passing a glass of something that looked like curdled red wine back and forth. An enormous gengineered panda absently stripped narcotic bamboo as it listened, nodding at Sven's litany of famous names he had sexed up on throughout history. There was even a amorphous blob of glitter with them that claimed to be a post-real intelligence from "otherways in time." Warty suspected it was just some asshole with a holoprojecter taking the piss, but it was happy to gamble poorly with credit chips it claimed to be willing into existence, so Warty didn't run a backscatter defense protocol through his suit's countermeasure suite.

Sven broke off when the first exhibit of The Parade got close.

"Hoogemoan, what is this thing?"

Warty turned in his chair to see a disembodied brain on a floating platter, crackling vines of electricity running through the folds and channels of its surface.

"The Pretender Brainiarch of 2458, a corrupted clone of a renegade Brainarch that it sent back to blah blah blah. Stealing a planet or something," Warty told him.

"Not much of a capture," the panda said, its voice deep and melodic. "I've heard it's not much smarter than an Aquaculture Technician Grade 2."

The Forstock Twins tittered at this. Warty could never tell the weird little bald fuckers apart and he was far too drunk to remember the panda's name. It had a number in it. Maybe.

"How does it have sex?" Sven wondered.

"Who cares, Sven? It's got to shit out of something... won't be good enough for you?" Warty said. Sven's roar of laughter spit beer all over The Forstock Twins.

"A velociraptor? What is this, amateur night?" the panda scoffed. A ring of short robots herded the brightly plumed dinosaur through the hall. When it got too close to a herder, a crackle of electricity could be heard over the quiet laughter of the crowd.

"It looks like an evil chicken," Warty said. Dinosaur hunts only interested him if they were bare-handed and afforded him ample opportunity to trample as many butterflies as possible.

As the velociraptor pinballed between the robots, a savory smell of cooked flesh wafted over to Warty. His erections were immediate save for Node 7, a small error light blinked in the lower left of his visual field. Even with the lavish spokesman money, he was going to make those dipshits at Futurecock fix the Hydra model or he was going to break off each of the seven shafts in the orifices of corporate officers. He was mentally composing a threatening t-mail when the velociraptor screeched.

"You fucking assholes! I'm not really a dinosaur!" it growled in passable Relativistic Time Creole. It drew out its esses like a cartoon reptile.

"Ah, I see. An extreme genoretrotype like myself," the panda said. "But cruder." The panda squirmed with smug dismissal.

"Looking in the central database of the parade," Forstock Left said.

"I and we see that it is one of the first of your clade." Forstock Right finished.

The panda's eyes drifted to the ceiling as it read the entry on an implanted display.

"Ah. That is impressive then. The first experiments on that scale were so secret the details were lost. All the subjects and scientists were killed by some fringe don't-play-god types and the research destroyed. I'm going to kick Ned Ludd in the balls the next time I run into him. And I'm going to use my claws."

It wouldn't change anything, Warty thought glumly. Stupidity will always out, even if it comes in under a different name.

"I wonder where it learned RTC?" the glittercloud asked in a tinny voice as it floated up to the table, throwing in what Warty considered unnecessary static and bleeps and bloops. It had been away at the bar for such a long time getting the next round that Warty had hoped it was gone for good.

"I'm off to take a piss," Warty announced.

"I shall join you, Hoogemoan," Sven said. As he struggled to stand, he slipped and his head cracked loudly on the hard stone floor. He was out cold.

"Can someone roll Sven over into the recovery position?" Warty asked as he left.

He dodged a merwolfman being wheeled around in a grandly appointed aquarium, sidestepped a stampede of modular AI components all shouting in binary at one another, and shoved aside the gleaming chrome skeleton of a tripedal whale that was chatting up a smoothly gorgeous strain of Herpes Simplex 798--lovely in an evening gown the way only a sentient dick sore can be.

At least the bathroom itself was largely deserted. It was normous due to all the various facilities it had to offer for the assorted post-humans, transaliens, cisaliens, cyborgs, glitterclouds, insubstantials, mutants, post-mutants, cishumans, reverts, retrotypals and other sorts of sentients in attendance--and all their pets.

He stepped up to a normal-enough looking urinal and unzipped. The Furturecock Hydra had barely begun calculating urine flight paths when he heard the familiar crackle of an electromagnetic pulse grenade and everything went black.

When Warty Hugeman came to on the no-slip surface of the bathroom floor, he realized immediately that his penis had been stolen.

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