by Andrew J. Stone
I always knew it was only a matter of time before the transsexual meth addicts with marshmallow eyes would resurrect a queen and descend to exact their revenge. A decade ago we traveled to Mars X to claim the planet. And once we discovered there was alien life on it—transsexual meth addicts with marshmallow eyes—we knew what was best: To exterminate those motherfucking drug-abusing savages. The last of our fleet died moments from victory, but not before killing their queen, and we have been waiting for return of the bizarre creatures ever since.
Our technology has advanced further than science would ever have predicted. We transformed our lazerzap guns into something more capable of killing the transsexual meth addicts with marshmallow eyes. As legend has it, after Jarro exploded, his body had turned into a giant ball of flaming, sentient robot dicks, which were able to fuck anything to death, even the trannies from Mars X. Our scientists figured out how Jarro’s body had transformed. And now our guns fire giant flaming robot dicks.
What we didn’t account for was that the transsexual meth addicts with marshmallow eyes would have evolved too.
The timing of their attack had us totally fucked.
We were in the middle of Modern Mass, Pope Lexander the Fabulous’s mandatory weekly meetings where we learned about the underground homosexuality of our savior and partook in cummunion—similar to communion except we partook in our savior’s semen, a practice considered much less cannibalistic than drinking his blood.
I had just put the sacred cup to my lips when the doors to the cathedral exploded and the transsexual meth addicts with marshmallow eyes interrupted the service. “Holy fuck,” Sergeant Lester T. Jackson said, “They’ve grown.”
He was right. The transsexual meth addicts with marshmallow eyes had doubled in size since humans had last been to Mars X. Worse, their assholes look much looser, probably on account of their cocks tripling in width.
At first, we did a decent job fighting off the aliens. The giant flaming robot dicks easily slid up the enlarged anal gapes of the transsexual meth addicts with marshmallow eyes and raped them to death from within. We didn’t know it was working at first until we saw their bellies burn with semen fire. The skin on their stomachs charred and then crumbled as they fell to their knees drowning in death. A few of our men lost their lives to the vacuuming power of the aliens’ anal gapes. When we finally pushed them out the front doors of the cathedral, we heard Pope Lexander the Fabulous shouting a violent prayer to our savior. At least I think it was a prayer, even though it sounded a hell of a lot like a curse. We all turned immediately just to see the queen of the transsexual meth addicts with marshmallow eyes disappear through the back door she bulldozed with her body, and we followed her outside.
“Earthlings,” she said in a high-pitched, scruffy squeal, “I have come to revenge our deceased queen and will now take your ruler, just as you took ours a decade ago.” A squeaky and simultaneously deep laugh reverberated from her anal gape, like she’d been studying up on the art of B-Movie horror to torment us with our own tribute to films of monster triumph.
All our men stopped fighting the average-sized transsexual meth addicts with marshmallow eyes to focus on their queen. We all fired at her but it was useless. She’d already stuck Pope Lexander the Fabulous between her DDD breasts and squeezed his brain to pulp. She yanked the body loose from the head and shoved what remained of the Pope up her anal gape. Our flaming robot dick bullets caught up with her seconds after Pope Lexander the Fabulous was swallowed by her backside, but by then she had slammed her cheeks shut so strongly that the flaming robot dicks failed to penetrate. Instead, they slithered to the ground limp as a snake.
Warning: It gets worse for Team Earth.
While our soldiers stood mesmerized by the death of our Pope, the remaining transsexual meth addicts with marshmallow eyes made good use of their marshmallow powers. They shot white, gooey eye boogers out that froze people into a marshmallow statue once struck. By the time I’d realized what was going on, just about everyone had been frozen. The only two left were Sergeant Jackson and I. Sergeant Jackson was still too sad to look away from the pulpit, remembering previous sermons and cummunions, I assume. Before I could say, “Holy Hell, Sergeant Lester T. Jackson the transsexual meth addicts with marshmallow eyes are going to freeze you with their marshmallow eyes,” he was already frozen by their marshmallow eyes.
I entered Rambo Mode, a mental state usually forbidden on Earth, but I figured I’d be excused given the circumstances. It’s something my friends and I in the army would always joke about doing when we just didn’t give a shit—when we wanted the transsexual meth addicts with marshmallow eyes to attack Earth so we could go ham on their tranny asses. I went ham on their tranny asses. I killed what, fifteen, twenty transsexual meth addicts with marshmallow eyes before their booger bullets froze me. The last thing I saw before my vision went white was the queen approaching the statue that used to be Sergeant Lester T. Jackson and wrapping her man hands around the gooey marshmallow, mounting and spearing the Sergeant straight through the ass with her glistening cock. I clenched my cheeks as tight as I could, balled my hands into fists, and waited for the queen of the transsexual meth addicts with marshmallow eyes to have her way with me.
Andrew J. Stone was a planned miscarriage. Unfortunately, the plan didn’t work out. Now he’s here to drink any alcohol in sight and root on the Canucks along the way. His work has appeared in Hobart, Gutter Eloquence, The Molotov Cocktail, and DOGZPLOT, among other places. He’s currently a student at Seattle Pacific University and maintains a graveyard at http://andrewjstone.blogspot.com/
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