Warty Hugeman and The Dive Bar Somewhat Near the Beginning of the Universe (former)

"Bring me more of this swill!" the neoAustralian bellowed, banging his empty mug on the table. The chitinous plates making up his carapace rubbed together as he inhaled to yell again, sounding like a dozen paperbacks being ripped apart.

"Calm your being," Simon said. "The weight of your [empty drinking vessel] on table will trigger automatic refresh/refill/reload of contents."

"I was drinking here before your transport womb shat you out, Simon. I wanted the waitress to come over. I fucked her back when I had external genitalia and I wanted Hugeman to get a look at her." He scratched under the edge of a plate on his shoulder and flicked away a wriggling parasite.

Warty Hugeman was very drunk. He had no idea how long he had been at the sleaziest bar on Time Station Alpha-Prime-One. He stirred briefly at his name.

"Wake up, Hugeman, you depressing fuck," the neoAustralian said. When he touched Warty on the arm with a claw, the automatic defenses of the timesuit growled.

"I want more," Warty muttered.

"There is in front of your person, Warty Hugeman, a drink presently," Simon said. He spoke a rapid pidgin of machine code and the timesuit struggled to translate it. Vat-grown and gengineered to computational perfection to serve The Rainbow Podiarchs, Simon lived as a slave. Warty grabbed him after impregnating The Violet Queenarch with a powerful bomb and jumped them both to a faraway peak so they could watch the shockwave howling out of her vagina bring the entire arcology down. Warty had no idea how long either of them had been sitting with him.

Warty grabbed at his glass and brought the homeopathic screwdriver to his mouth with a practiced lethargy. The molecules of pure ethanol in the glass contained the memory of an orange and went down smooth. Warty had a sore-headed determination to drink as many glasses as years he had with her. He was reasonably sure that would kill him.

"Hugeman," the neoAustralian said. "I'll cheer you up. I got a new anus installed. That's six now. Any dumbass that tries to sneak up on me is getting hit with a shotgun of shit. You wanna see it? Excretory armaments are your favorite, Hugeman. You're always sayin."

"Leave him (designate Warty Hugeman in current frame of reference) alone. Designate Warty is experiencing emotional syndrome sadness/grief." Simon grinned at Warty in simulated sympathy. The effect was grotesque.

An alarm screamed through the receiver clamped to his left mastoid process. "Time incursion," the suit said over the alarm. "Level 5. Maximum emergency protocol." Warty pawed frantically as the wrist controls to stop the protocol, but it was too late. A powerful cocktail of ethanol antagonists, force oxygenators and meta-amphetamines flooded his bloodstream. After three agonizing seconds Warty was completely, horribly, and mercilessly sober. His enormous fist shattered the smartglass table when he slammed it down. The meta-amphetamines let him see every shard moving away at a snail's pace, backdropped by the vomitus spiral of the time incursion opening.

The neoAustralian spun on its multitudes of legs, readying his assal fusillade, and Simon let out a high pitched scream of metal tearing that Warty heard translated as "Approach forth breakers of the primate mother/female progenitor/eggbearer incest taboo!"

"We have to close the incursion! It will swallow the entire station!" Warty yelled over the wailing of the station's evacuation order.

Something like a human figure began to form in the center of the incursion, it was reaching toward them, pleading with vague fingers. Warty fired a micro-torpedo, but it stopped millimeters from the surface of the shrieking wound in reality and then settled to floor as a fine dust.

The neoAustralian shivered with a sharp crackling. He moaned, "It's times like this that wish I still had my penis."

THE END

The Marissa War, Part 7: Warty Hugeman vs. A Lack of Constructive Interpersonal Dialogue

Lurching and shambling, you might have mistaken them for merely drunk until you saw a part of them fall off or the wind turned the right way for you smell them. Some force animated them, a hunger. Slow and relentless they came.

"Hey, asshole… there's more coming down the street." He ducked his head out to see if she was lying. She wasn't. Five metaphors were headed straight for the storefront they were hiding in.

"Give me a weapon," she demanded for the twentieth time. She shook her time manacles at him.

"It took me years to get to you Marissa. I'm not about to let you go," he said.

He checked his ammo again. Twenty-five rounds. He thought about bullets as hard as he could: the shape, the feel, the smell, the weight—he built one from scratch in his mind and then a huge box of them, identical and beautiful. A single round materialized when he open his eyes and his hand shot out to catch it before it hit the ground. It was thought made real. He rolled it in between his fingers and then tossed it into the darkness at the back of the store. Only one and it wasn't even the right caliber. They were going to die.

"I told you to scrounge for ammo, idiot. There's probably even an extra gun in one of the crates."

"Shut up, woman, or I'll rape you something to bitch about."

He stalked off to the back of the store, unzipped his timesuit and began urinating on one of her precious crates. There were dozens of them. The only two he had managed to get open had been empty.

"If those metaphors get in here, they'll kill me too. You brought me here, asshole."

Shifting them into Fictional Space was the only way to get the manacles on her. She could plunge into the time stream without a suit, the wiring and circuitry carved into her nervous system by the TechnoPriests of 37th century. Marissa was rebuilt as a living time machine by the Matryoshka Brainarchy to root out and destroy the last pockets of resistance in its known downstream history. But she already had blocks in place to foil their conditioning. When they finished with her, she kicked the TechnoPope in his fashionably large genitals and disappeared. In a temporal pocket to protect her precious upgrades, she destroyed their recursive AI god when it was still dumb matter in the form of Jupiter’s moon, Callisto.

"I need to take a piss too, you know." She was smirking again. He thought about cutting off her lips to see what kind of face she'd make then. He kicked an empty can over to her.

"You're a real asshole, Hugeman. When I get away from this, I'm going to go back and cut off your dick when you're a baby and feed it to you."

"You are terrible at flirting, Marissa." She just screamed at him and struggled to break the manacles again.

"You'll never get out of them. I had to kidnap three alternate versions of the same genius to build those things. When we get out of Fictional Space, I'm going to have them rip all of the Brainarchy's muck out of you and strand you somewhere."

"Fuck you," she spat.

"Somewhere cold and lonely."

The new pack of metaphors started scratching and tugging at the boards and broken furniture he had piled in front of the door. It was six more hours until he would be able to shift them back to Real Space. Something boring about pulsar alignment. It wouldn't have mattered if he had brought them to some sanitized Historical Drama Zone or Romantic Comedy sub-strata. The only place worse than Allegorical Horror was one of the Cartoon unrealities where broken physics would kill anything Real in seconds. Now that the metaphors were close he could hear what they were all moaning over and over again" "Symbolism." Heavy handed nonsense, Warty thought.

"I could get us out of here right now," she taunted him. "I don't have the same restrictions as your janky old timesuit. Did you get that thing as a prize in a box of breakfast cereal?"

Ignoring her, he shot the first metaphor that managed to get its head through. It shrieked and slumped forward, blocked the hole it had made. Twenty-four rounds. At least he kept a mechanical gun with him when he traveled. Nothing on the suit worked, it was in a completely wrong sort of story.

"Hey, asshole," she said.

"Shut up."

"Warty, goddamn it, turn around."

When he did, he saw the back of the store was gone. A featureless grey wall of nothing was in its place. He walked toward it with his hand outstretched.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, asshole," she said. "No unless you want to wank with a hook for a hand from now on."

"What is this?" he asked, stepping back.

"Beats me," she said. "But I think we need to get out of here."

Warty pulled her to her feet by an arm and they both started dismantling the barricade, Marissa doing what she could with her chained hands. He stopped to shoot the remaining metaphors when they presented themselves. In the dim and eternal twilight, he saw the storefronts across the street were gone as well, replaced by grey.

When they stepped out, Marissa pretended to stumble against him. Face to face, she smiled and then bit him savagely on the cheek. She turned, spat a piece of his face into the street and began running away. He followed her, trying to stop the flow of blood from his wound.

Warty hadn't felt like this in years. He was falling in love.

END PART 7, FLIP CASSETTE OVER NOW

Warty Hugeman and The Outlaws of Rustler's Ravine

"Keep your head down," Warty Hugeman yelled over the echoing gunfire. Marissa dropped down beside him.

"I'm fine," she said. "There's a position on the other side of the ravine. We can catch them in a crossfire fire." She still had her timesuit set to look like a saloon whore, all bows and ruffles and cleavage. Warty wanted her, right there in the dust, bullets slapping at the rocks around them.

The Old West had been her idea; she wanted to solve the mystery of a silver mine that exploded in 1877. Marissa was convinced alien tech was to blame and wanted to steal it before the outlaws mining it destroyed it and themselves. She had been gathering information in the local saloon when the outlaws running the rogue mine got suspicious. They had to steal horses and run because Warty's timesuit was still going through a recharge cycle. Marissa's couldn't shift them both. He had urged her to go somewhen safe. Her only response had been to shoot the horse out from under one of their pursuers and grin wildly.

“We can’t work our way over there,” he said. She smiled and flickered like a bad splice in high school filmstrip. Gunfire erupted from the far side of the ravine.

“I’ve told you not to do that! It’s too dangerous!” Marissa had traveled to the opposite side of the ravine, and came back an instant after she left.

She leaned into him. “We win,” she said, her breath hot in his ear. “We kill them all. And you bend me over this boulder and fuck me.” She bit his earlobe lightly.

“You can’t be in the same place at the same time with yourself. I’ve seen the results. If you come in contact with yourself you’ll cease to exist!” Warty remembered throwing a Juniper multi-assassin at one of its own time-duplicates. When they met flesh-to-flesh they imploded to into a one dimensional point and evaporated.

"So I'll never get to fist myself in a 69?" she asked, with a mocking pout. The shots from the valley below suddenly stopped. Reloading. Warty stood, sighted out one of them and shot him through the back of the head.

"Only three left," Marissa said. The dust in her cleavage was streaked with rivulets of sweat. Warty wanted to bury his face in them. He wanted to shrink himself down and live in the warm caves between her breasts and between her legs forever. She brushed his erection lightly and his whole body shuddered. She kissed him quickly and rose to fire shots into the valley below. On the other side she did the same. Screaming men and horses.

"Only one, now," she said, squatting back down.

"I'll do it," Warty said. He went around the boulder. The last outlaw was spinning around, unsure of where he would be attacked. Warty whistled and when the man turned, he shot him in the throat.

Marissa. She had pranked him, stole from him, hated him, and hunted him. He pulled her to her feet and tore open her timesuit, the saloon whore dress configuration giving off a satisfying ripping sound.

Across the ravine, Marissa began masturbating furiously as she watched them.

THE END

Warty Hugeman and The Flames of Funtown

Funtown was burning. As flames consumed the time-worn wood and fading paint, he felt a crushing sense of loss. Warty Hugeman was born in Funtown, and died there too. He rolled over onto his back, his dorsal fin digging into the sand under him, and watched the smoke rise into the sky.

Wartimus Riesigmann and The Phantom Recursion: A Wartimus Riesigmann Teenage Adventure

Wartimus Riesigmann cut through the chain link fence as quietly as he could, but each time the bolt cutters snapped through aluminum wire it sounded like a rifle shot in the night. The others crowded behind him, whispering about what they would find once inside. He turned back to glare at them. Andrea put her hand on his back, her small, delicate hand, and his anger ebbed away. She had been his whole world since the kiln explosion that killed his father. He knew they would be together forever.

Wartimus finished cutting through the fence and crawled in first to help the others. Andrea came after him, her eyes filled with excitement. She was one of those mad, wonderful people who thought the world was filled with delight. Even in filthy utility overalls and a burglar's black sock cap she was devastatingly beautiful.

Helenique squeezed through next, the sharp edges of the fence plucking at her clothes. It was obvious to Wartimus that Andrea's childhood friend was both a lesbian and desperately in love with her. Andrea laughed the suggestion off, refusing to believe Helenique was so clueless to her own nature. And besides, Andrea was used to everyone that met her falling at least a little in love with her. Making up the rear, as always, were Andrea's cousin Sticky and his miserable dog, Max. Wartimus spent at least ten minutes of every day thinking up hilarious ways for Sticky to die. Wartimus hated hippies, and rich hippies doubly so. And the dog Max was just a low cur that whined piteously because Sticky would only feed him organic hippie garbage that cost more per pound than dry-aged steak.

Despite Andrea insisting that her friends were an asset, Wartimus spent more time keeping them alive than actually solving the mystery of his father's future diary. Professor Hieronymus Riesigmann's body had never been found. The police theorized that he had been vaporized in the blast. The diary had been given to Wartimus by his father's attorneys after he refused to hold a funeral for an empty casket; it turned out to be a detailed set of predictions for the next few years of Wartimus' life, years that would be a treasure hunt for seemingly random objects that were hinted to possess an immense power when brought together.

This was the last location in the diary, the parts warehouse for the Dentzel/Looff Carousel in Seaside Heights, New Jersey. Wartimus had crisscrossed the globe on the diary's instructions that was written in the machine-precise script of his father. The first entry, dated ten years previous, perfectly described the events of the day his father died. If his father knew of his death, why not avoid it? If he knew his son would spend four years and a sizable percentage of his inheritance chasing the artifacts described within, why hide them in the first place?

The diary said that Funtown would utterly deserted and even contained a hand-drawn diagram of the warehouse and where and how to breach its defenses. A cakewalk, it said. All the pages after the ones describing Wartimus and his team finding "the device" were blank. This was the end of the journey. The future would be an unknown from this point on, something for Andrea and Wartimus to make their very own.

Andrea jimmied the warehouse door while Wartimus kept an eye open for guards. The diary didn't mention everything. In Ghana, it hadn't told them that taking the microcircuit would set off a lethal response system that would half-bob Max's tail and burn a hole in Helenique's leg big enough to throw a nickel through before Wartimus could beat the robot to pieces with an office chair. Or that the elevator in the secure office tower of an advanced textiles manufacturer in Rangoon would trap them when it sensed too much weight for the security code that was entered. Wartimus had to pull a foot-long piece of frayed cable out of his biceps after the nine story climb in the dark shaft.

He shooed the others into the warehouse when the door was unlocked and shut it behind him. He used a penlight to read the dairy's floor schematic. What he wanted was on the far side of the warehouse, but this was the door the diary insisted they come through. They had all learned the harsh lessons of disobeying the book. He pointed the way, turned off the light and followed them.

The warehouse was filled with broken pieces of the carousel, picked out in pools of light from above. A shattered chariot squatted on a pallet and cracked pieces of horses where piled up haphazardly. Wartimus felt a strange unease and he hissed at the others to stop and be quiet. He could hear a dry, rubbing sound, like charcoal on a tombstone relief. The hairs on Wartimus' arms sprang erect. Horripilation, he thought. His father's lessons as a child never left him. The sound grew louder and he dropped into a defensive crouch.

Sticky was the first to die. His skull sheared off in perfect silence, like he had walked through an invisible wire. He fell backward before any could process what had happened, and a gout of blood from his sectioned brain drenched Helenique. Her scream shocked Wartimus into action. He tackled Andrea from behind and covered her with his body. Helenique's scream cut off as she crumbled to the ground, sliced as thinly as expensive ham from crown of her head to the soles of her feet. A wave of her blood washed over Wartimus and Andrea, who was locked in a silent scream. Max was barking, sounding almost hoarse from the volume. He scrambled back from the corpses and stood his ground. Something pink and grey and wet whipped out of the shadows and beheaded Max with a final, startled yip.

Wartimus sprang to his feet and began dragging Andrea toward the door. She was trying to get to her feet to run when a rotted tentacle shot out the shadows and latched onto her boot. Wartimus threw his arms around her torso and heaved with all his strength. The boot came off, Andrea's perfect, pale foot practically glowing in the dim light of the warehouse. She laughed with relief until the tentacle latched onto her foot and lower calf. Wartimus pulled again, hoping to break its hideous grip. The skin of Andrea's lower leg and foot came off like a loose sock.

Andrea fainted with shock, going limp in his arms. More tentacles snaked out, engulfing her lower body. Wartimus could feel her heart hammering away against her chest. He tried to pull her away. He strained, veins standing out on his forearms, and he let out a tremendous, thunderous fart. He couldn't break them. He was too weak. They finally ripped her away.

Wartimus fell to the cold concrete of the warehouse. Andrea was dead. He waited for them to come for him as well, wanting the end. Nothing, just the dry rubbing from before.

"Come on, you fuckers!" he growled.

A light began to grow on the far side of the warehouse. It became brighter and brighter, until it filled the place. It was blinding. Wartimus buried his face in his hands, the light too bright against his closed eyelids. No heat, no pressure, just light. He could see the bones of his hands before it finally just stopped.

"ANDREA!" he screamed

Warty Hugeman looked up at the smoke-darkened sky. He had travelled billions of years and trillions of miles, but he came back every subjective year on her birthday to where she had died. She would have been thirty on the day Warty found Funtown in flames.

What he discovered in the deserted warehouse was a small box containing a high-capacity portable drive. It was all the instructions needed to assemble his first timesuit and a detailed plan on how to rescue his father from the explosion in the last, thinnest whisper of time.

If his father was really dead or if his son, Wartimus Reigismann, now Warty Hugeman, would eventually rescue him was still unknown. Warty wasn't ready to forgive. There might not be enough time in all of time for him ever to forgive.

Wake-Up Call: A Wart Der Huge Interstitial Adventure

Wart Der Huge watched his younger self lying in the sand to watching Funtown burn. He was a sentimental fool then. Nothing was what he once thought it was and it was past time for Junior to wake up.

Wart Der Huge packed away the extra incendiary mortars he had used to set Funtown on fire and blinked out of existence.

Warty Hugeman TV Theme Song

Via the songsmith of the Axis, Pro Libertate

He would never say when he came from
Yesterday don't matter, when it's gone

While the sun is bright
Or in the darkest night
All people knows
He mounts those hoes

Huge guy, Warty Hugeman…
Who can bang a dame like you?
When he smiles with every new lay
He's never gonna miss you

Don't question why he fucks all of history
He'll tell you it's only path he sees

He just can't be chained
To a time where fucking's feigned
And fucking's soft
It makes him scoff

There's no time to lose,
I heard him say
Catch his prey before
They get away

Jumping all through time
Choose to scream
And he will eat your mind
Ain't time unkind?

Huge guy, Warty Hugeman…
Who can bang a dame like you?
When he smiles with every new lay
He's never gonna miss you

Warty Hugeman and The Fecund Clown of Rome

Warty Hugeman crouched against the fetid wall of the Roman catacombs, resting a moment to let the lactic acid scavengers in his blood do their work. He could hear the assassin breathing as the splashes of its footsteps died down. Some quirk in assassin clown ethics made it stop chasing him when he stopped running. Warty knew he could sleep for days and the clown would hold to the temporary truce, but the second he moved it would be after him. It was all in the email, a slickly-designed e-brochure for the clown’s services in an obscure language. “The Fecund Clown” was the best the timesuit could manage for what it was. It certainly looked like a clown, if monstrously fat and sporting half-meter fangs. The text went on for pages; phrases like “statistically successful induction of atavistic fear response” and “durable construction based on endergonic protein reinforcement” flitted by. tl;dr. He was dragging it to the recycle bin when the clown attacked.

Warty checked his weapons. The graviton laser was down to 10 percent. It had taken most of the charge to collapse the entrance of the catacombs behind him, but it had bought him a precious hour in order to retreat into the tunnels and initiate the repair systems to the timesuit. Two magazines of .45 ACP +P left. It seemed to do the most damage to the clown, but any chunks he blew away the clown just ate and they seemed to grow back. The rounds killed the scrabblers out-right, but there seemed to be an endless supply of them. The SmartCape was still online, even with half of it chewed, burnt, or abraded away. It wouldn’t offer too much more protection, but its weapon systems were functional, if almost depleted.

Warty listened to the clown breathe and he tried to slow his own. He wasn’t finding any weapons or ammunition as he ran, which meant either something was creating enough time interference to keep him from returning at a later date to plant them or The Fecund Clown will have killed him before he could return. The convulsing nature of meddled time meant that all the future Warties he’d met meant nothing about the likelihood of his survival on this night, in this time. He had dreamed of ending his life on his own terms, diving a starship into the heart of an exploding sun or lethal overgasm in the pleasure pits orbiting the burnt out husk of Mars. Anything but this.

His wristcom beeped. Repair to the timesuit was 70 percent complete. The main circuits had been fused at the muon-level by the clown’s first attack and the emergency timejump armband that would fling him one week in the past had foamed and fizzled, flowing to the ground and finally evaporating. Warty couldn’t conceive of a technology that could do that. The picobots in the suit were constructing a new time core by cannibalizing the old one. He had set them to leave the survival features and weapons of the suit untouched. They could eat the rest of the damn thing if that’s what it took to get out of this, he reasoned.

Warty looked in the direction of The Fecund Clown and flipped through the available image filters in his visual implants. The clown burned white in infrared, like staring into a coke furnace. The scrabblers around it were outlined in black, barely warmer than the ambient temperature. In ultraviolet, he saw the clown produce another from its body, a soft plop into the shallow liquid filth in the catacomb. In infrared, the tiny creature cooled quickly--a perfect replica of the clown in miniature--they would fight for their mother mass viciously, to be eaten and reabsorbed when they were killed. Warty had obliterated hundreds in the last few days, but the bulk of the clown seemed unchanged.

Warty dialed the graviton laser output so it would drain the battery in a single burst. He could discard the gun after that and the onboard anti-paradox generators would shiver it to dust. He checked and rechecked his remaining weapons. There was no sense in waiting any longer. Warty slaved the laser to his retinal implants and crosshairs were imposed over the infrared image of the clown. He aimed for the hottest part of the clown. It might be a reactor driving the insane thing, he thought.

Warty fired the laser, dropped it and launched himself into a run in one smooth movement. He could hear the howl of pain and anger coming from the clown as the stream of high-gravity photons slammed through its torso.

The SmartCape shed nanomines like vicious pollen as he ran. They were programmed to loiter and embed in organic tissue when they were picked up. He was listening for them to begin exploding when his wristcom beeped. He slapped it and it began to scroll text across the map of the catacombs projected by the visual implants. The picobots had salvaged what they could from the fused timecore. It was ready to be ejected. Warty smiled and deactivated the anti-paradox generators in the core.

Warty Hugeman stopped, turned and seeded the floor of the catacomb in front of him with the last pack of proximity grenades, keyed to the mass of the clown and fused for a mixture of thermal charges and diatomic acid delivery. Warty flooded the tunnel with light. He could see the clown coming toward him, sometimes running, sometimes undulating like a diseased snake.

The scrabblers were out front and went up first, blasted to a fine mist by the billions of nanomines that had saturated their pallid flesh. The clown faltered a bit, slowing as it realized all the pieces of itself it was using as scout were now a red, sparkling fog. Warty put an entire magazine from the .45 into the clown, hoping to distract it or enrage it to attack. It roared some alien gibberish and started toward Warty. The nanomines in its own skin didn't do very much damage, but millions of millimeter-wide smoking wounds made chewed meat and violet pus spray in every direction.

"Come on, you fucking cunt! I'm right here!" Warty yelled. The clown lurched a few meters closer. The grenades went off all at once, dousing the clown in acid and fire from a dozen directions. It howled again, charred and liquefied chucks of it raining down on the floor.

Warty stepped close enough to the suppurating, blistered mass and ejected the damaged timecore directly into the hole the graviton laser had carved out. The timebubble expanded around the entire clown and all movement inside it froze.

A fast sweep with nanometer radar confirmed no movement in the vicinity. Warty let himself collapse to the floor. The new core was 82% complete. Still enough time to take care of the clown. He communicated with the old core with a tightly focused beam of hyper-rotating neutrinos.

Time began to move inside the bubble. A second for a second, a minute for a second, a day for a second. The clown healed itself and then began beating on the walls of the timebubble, but it was sped up like bumbling cops in a silent movie. A month for a second of Warty's time, then a year a second. The clown stopped trashing and stood completely rigid, staring at Warty for objective decades, then centuries, then millennia. Eons passed within the bubble. The clown finally raised a fist and slammed it down on the wall of the bubble at normal speed to Warty's perception. It must have taken it billions of years of the tiniest movements to make that happen.

Warty looked at his wristcom, rivulets of sweat running down his face. The old timecore had maybe nine seconds left. The timebubble would vanish when it finally died, releasing the clown. Trillions of years flashed by within the bubble. Warty was down to a single grenade and a magazine of .45. He held them at the ready as the wristcom screeched an alarm as the timebubble evaporated. He waited for the clown to move. It looked the same-- leering, idiot grin with a nightmare of teeth, ragged motley.

It didn't move. Even its horrible breathing had stopped. Finally Warty edged forward and prodded it on its out-stretched fist with the barrel of the .45.

The Fecund Clown collapsed to dust. The hunt for whoever sent it began.

THE END

Warty Hugeman and the Mad Professor of Treisio Island

story idea by the delicious BakedPenguin

"Stay right where you are, Hugeman! I can destroy this entire island at the speed of thought!" Professor Frobisher gestured and banks of auto-guns slid out from recesses in all the walls of the laboratory. Warty pushed his tongue against his front teeth to activate the HUD in his visual implants. The time interference was back, like in Rome. He couldn't jump away, or slow time down to a crawl. The professor had him.

"Yes, Hugeman. You are trapped here," the professor said. His urbane speech and mild manner was in sharp contrast to the subtle whines and clicks of the guns staying on target as Warty leaned forward in a defensive posture.

"You were my father's friend, professor. You've known me since I was a child. Why are you doing this?" Warty asked.

"Because you are the last remaining vestige of his legacy and I intend for everyone to know what kind of man your father really was!" Frobisher laughed maniacally. Warty tried to keep from rolling his eyes.

"Is this because of the sex-change, Professor? It was just a college prank. My father told me they reattached your penis the next morning." Warty had heard the story half-a-hundred times from his father, who had even showed him pictures of the gaping mangina they carved into meat of Frobisher's pelvis, his frightened scrotum hunched below it like a chafed walnut.

"I am very comfortable with my sexuality, Hugeman!"

"Of course you are," Warty said. He held his hands up and dozens of laser sights blossomed all over his timesuit.

"Don't humor me, Hugeman! I'm going to unleash a plague upon this universe, a plague of you!"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm going to use this to clone an army of Warty Hugemen!" Frobisher held up a glass vial triumphantly. Warty could see a tiny scrap of skin in it and immediately knew what it was.

"No, Professor! If you use my foreskin to clone me, it will mean the death of everything! The timestream simply cannot withstand that level of rugged cockfucking! The walls of reality will be torn apart like a clingwrap condom!"

"You just watch me, Hugeman. Watch me splatter all of existence with the hot semen of my justice!" Frobisher slammed the vial home in the console beside him. Warty didn't know where the Professor had obtained a hyperwomb bioreactor, but he had seen the results of one being used on a future version of Earth. Utter devastation resulted as the bioreactor turned the entire planet into giant vagina that tried to impregnate itself with Venus.

"Too late, too late!" the professor screeched as he danced around the laboratory. The bioreactor shat out the first of the neuWarty Hugemen. It tore itself free of its incubator membrane and stood naked and dripping. Another and another came out, until a dozen Warty Hugemen stood around the giggling doctor.

"Go my Hugemen," Frobisher screamed. "Go forth and destroy!" The assembled gooey Hugemen did nothing.

"Go! I made you! Do my bidding!"

"I don't think so, Professor," they all said in unison, half-formed vocal cords croaking out the words, as they advanced on him.

"You shouldn't have used my foreskin, Frobisher," Warty said. "No human alive has ever had more conscious control over their penis than me; even the parts removed are still mine to direct."

"No!" Frobisher screamed.

Warty nodded at the Hugemen. They fell upon the doctor like a cockhungry starlet.

THE END