Mon aéroglisseur est plein des anguilles

Warty Hugeman materialized in one of the filthy alleys of Paris, crackling snakes of lightning writhing all over the circuitry of his timesuit. Orgone reserves were running low. He had maybe three timejumps left before he would have to recharge the suit with massive amounts of 31st century megaporn. Megaporn always left Warty depleted and depressed, but it was the only fuel he knew of for the timesuit since his tame black hole finally evaporated in a barely observable cascade of Hawking radiation. Hawking had warned him, but he hadn’t listened; Warty had been too busy watching the fleshmound of barely legal poon Stephen used as transport when only his friends were about.  He had offered Warty use of one of the young women, but she kept trying to talk to him about difficulties with her dissertation adviser and it turned him off.

Warty checked his time coordinates: 1793 July 13. Perfect. He planned on filming Charlotte Corday assassinating Jean-Paul Marat and getting some holographic hyperphotos of her hair. There was a researcher in the 27th century that was so desperate to prove his theory that Corday wasn't a natural blond that he had agreed to help Warty build a timeship. Hugeman Industries needed cargo space in order for Warty to loot and fuck his way across all of time with any efficiency.

"Timesuit," Warty said into his wristcom. "Configure language for Middle French, Retard Level 3." Warty eyed the filthy peasants moving past him on the street. They saw a man in immaculate period clothes, clothes so expensive they avoided eye contact with him. The camouflage hologram saved him thousands of costume changes over the years. "Belay that last, Timesuit. Retard Level 4."

"Yes, Master Hugeman," the suit said. It fed audio directly into his mastoid bones and was currently programmed to sound like the first woman he ever ruined for all other men with his enormous, prehensile futurecock.

Warty would eventually invent the futurecock technology in 3136, after 27 years of subjective travel, but that wasn't a reason he had to live without it until then. Warty brought himself the first custom production model the day after he had begun to time travel. It was magnificent; he could crush a cinder block with his new futurecock and it played its own theme music at cervix rattling volume. He was very impressed with himself and had placed a note in his sidereal-locked perpetua-calendar to invent it on the right day he will have had done so. Can't go mucking about when it came to cocktech, after all. A thousand futurecock-pleasured women or defined-female equivalent sentients would be shit out of the timestream if he didn't. Those women and "women" depended on him.

Warty stopped the first man he saw that looked vaguely literate to ask him directions.

"Do you know the way to Mssr. Marat's place of residence?" he whispered in to the microphone of the timesuit.

"J'ai l'intention d'irriguer votre côlon avec mon jus de pénis," the timesuit told the man, in a carefully cultured accent. He gentleman's eyes widened and he stalked off in a cloud of grumbles and curses.

"Asshole," Warty mumbled. He thought about going after him, but let it drop. If he killed every rude person he met, the future would be depopulated.

He stopped another man in the street, a young man reading a book and stumbling on the rough stone of the street.

"Please, sir. My name is Warty Hugeman. I looking for directions to Jean-Paul Marat's residence," he said.

"S'il vous plaît, monsieur. Je suis un grand homme et nous aurions pu faire la fête à nouveau pour la baise," the timesuit said.

The young man looked up from his book and eyed Warty warily.

"Nous ne pouvons pas parler de ces choses dans la rue. Venez avec moi," he said, in a low voice.

"I would have you here in the street, but I assume your penis is a withered twig," the timesuit told Warty.

"What did you say to me?" Warty thundered. He grabbed the young man by his lapels and lifted him off his feet. The timesuit let out a shriek of offended French: "Je vais exploser vos lapins avec mes seins!"

People were beginning to stop and stare as Warty shook him like a ragdoll. The timesuit augmented his already enormous physical strength, and he had made it even more powerful during his year-long fist-fight with the Alien Sex Messiah during the invasion of 2248. He threw the young man into the mud before the gathering crowd.

"Look, you frog shitheads… Just tell me how to get to Jean-Paul Marat's house and no one gets hurt."

At maximum volume the speakers of the timesuit screamed: "J'AIME TOUCHER LES CHUTES DE MERDE DE DÉFICIENTS MENTAUX. EMMENEZ-MOI À VOS DÉFICIENTS MENTAUX LES PLUS ATTRACTIFS!"

As the crowd howled with laughter, Warty's wristcom beeped. He seethed with rage as he read the words scrolling on the tiny screen: "Have fun in Paris, dumbass."

Marissa. She had tampered with the translation circuits. Damn that woman. He could kill her a thousand times and it would never be enough.

THE END

Hey, kids. Can you spot Warty Hugeman in the illustration to this article?