Strangelove in the 21st

"All entrances to our bodies and those of our staff will be at your complete disposal, and we will of course penetrate your own body in whatever way you request.

"This workshop will be held in Room 314 of the Marriott Downtown. Let's see a show of hands to see how many people will be coming."

Everyone raised 'em high, even the people who had been eavesdropping in the outside corridor. She noted that a seeing-eye dog in the corridor had black eyes. She smiled at that.

The princess applied the usual word-of-mouth multiplier.

"Just one correction," she said. "The workshop will be held in Madison Square Garden."

Watergate Hotel: 0800 Hours, June 8, 2016

Vihn Lien looked approvingly at the sculpted naked body of General Bull "Fly Crusher" Jones. Her eyes were focused on his cock, which was now taking a well deserved rest.

"Show me again. I want to see it again."

"You are insatiable, aren't you, my little Viet Cong slut. Okay, just give me the command."

"Attenhut!" the slight and small-breasted girl barked.

Fly Crusher's body, including his cock, snapped immediately to the locked and upright position. He stood before Lien like a steel sculpture. "How do you do that?" she asked.

"Years of training in the esoteric martial arts," he said, "including, but not limited to tantric yoga, kundalini yoga, Black Dahlia tai chi and Brazilian jujitsu."

The tumescent reincarnated avatar of Alexander the Great smiled at her. "I am also an eighth level operating thetan, trained by the highest masters of Scientology, including the venerable Tom Cruise and John Travolta."

This was the way a man was supposed to be, Lien thought. Not like those limp-dicked statues carved by the likes of Michelangelo. She figured the great master himself must not have been able to sit long enough to complete the chiseling of an upright penis before he succumbed to the understandable temptation to suck the model's balls dry or to impale himself on his subject's woodie and plunge it deeply within him, to experience the true glory of his subject's beauty from within his own humble sculptor's body.

Lien was no stranger to such temptations herself, and her mouth soon closed over the general's magnificent shaft and her hands found his massive balls (hard to avoid really). She plunged her head up and down on Fly Crusher's high volume shaft.

His cell phone went off. He looked at the caller number. It was POTUS himself, on the red line. "I gotta take this one, baby." He flipped the phone on. "Yes, Mr. President. I will be right there."

As soon as he snapped the phone shut, Lien went into one of her pouts. "Bully, you have to fuck me again before you go."

"Negative. That was the President. Code Red alert. I must go there at once."

Lien leaped off the bed, impaled her slight body on his massive cock, and wrapped her slender arms and legs around Fly Crusher's chiseled torso. "What's the rush, big guy?"

"I dunno. Somethin' about bioweapons, Armageddon, catastrophic nuclear event, the usual bullshit."

"Well, it's not as though it's the end of the world," Lien said, rubbing Bull's shaved head, his favorite erogenous zone."

"No I suppose, not," Fly Crusher admitted. "But it's gonna haveta be a fast one."

"Oh, Bully, I don't think that's even possible," Lien said with a mischievous grin on her face. "You gonna love me long-time, soldier."

"I suppose you're right, baby" the general admitted, and tossed the horny girl on the bed as if she were a ball of crumpled paper. He battered his way into her Cong escape tunnel as if he were the Mexican army ramming its way into the Alamo.

"Beat it down," the slim Asian girl pleaded. "Break it open!"

Like the good Marine that he was, Bull accomplished that mission quicker than George Bush saved Iraq.

"Fuck me hard," she said. "Call me the names."

Bull rammed his steel dick into her slight body, burying himself far past her demilitarized zone. "Take that, you filthy slope!" He said, as he shoved the full length of his fleshy bayonet into her innards.

"Take that, you gook!" He said with the next thrust. "Take that, you slant, you commie cunt, you chink, you napalm-wasting fleeing villager."

Lien was getting close now. "Call me the N-word baby. Please."

"I already told you that I cannot do that per Executive Order 14120. Plus you don't even qualify as one."

"You are such a stickler for the rules. Big bad Fly Crusher Jones. Not that N-word silly, the other one."

Like a good marine, he picked the cadence right where he left off.

"Okay, you shifttless, nnnn-nasty, nnnn-naughty, good for nnnn-nothing nnnn-niece," he exclaimed as he poured his torrent into Lien's helpless body, filling the battlefield of her womb with an invading army of hot, wet, arguably napalm-like spermatozoa.

She patted her tummy. "Thanks, Uncle Bull. I really needed that!" the slope whispered in his ear. "By the way are you coming to Daddy's birthday party Friday?"

"Be there right on time," Bull said, flashing her one of his coveted bearlike grins. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Bull had the nagging feeling that there was some other engagement he was forgetting. "Oh shit!" he said and hastily began donning his dress uniform. As he pulled the door open, he glanced back at his favorite niece and delightfully nude part-time Vietnamese whore.

"Don't tell me, Crusher. You'll be right back," she whispered with a sardonic smile.

The general knew that, unfortunately, he would.

As soon as he closed the door, Lien's eyes went black and began shifting right and left. She now possessed sufficient genetic information to spawn. She did so posthaste.

The White House Situation Room: 0900 Hours, June 8, 2016

Secretary of State Dr. Henry Kuntmuncher smiled sardonically. "Ah General, so nice of you to grace us with your presence."

A red-faced Fly Crusher Jones sat down in the last empty leather chair. "Sorry, Mr. Secretary. The traffic was crazy, what with the mass exodus and all."

"Which way did you come in?" President George "Eats" Bush III asked.

"Came down I-395, but it was packed with the civilians all trying to leave our fair city, those unfaithful rotten commie bastards."

"Should just come down 15th Street," the Commander-in-Chief said, as if he would know how ground vehicles should move.

"Wouldn't have made any difference," Vice President Spiro Quayle said.

"Well, no matter," Eats Bush said. "At least you can fill us in on the present situation. I'm told, by these 'geniuses' surrounding me here, that this ET send-'em-home virus was developed in a Level I weapons development facility partially disguised as a carwash. Is that correct?"

"Damn right it was, Mr. President! It was the perfect subterfuge. Our enemies would never expect that such a powerful weapon would be developed in anything less than a Level IV containment facility. Only a madman or an idiot would use a Level I facility for this purpose and keep the weapon in the same refrigerator as used for employees' snacks. It would be fucking insane to do so. Excuse my French, Mr. President," said Fly Crusher as he folded his hands over his stomach, nodded his head, and beamed at the Commander-in-Chief. He went back to chewing his gum, allowing his underexercised brain some relief from such deep thinking.

"It was the perfect plan," the general added, and immediately went back to chewing his gum furiously as he beamed at the President.

"No General, your initial reasoning was correct. It is perfectly insane to use a Level I facility for this purpose," the Commander-in-Chief told his mentally-underfunded Chief of Covert Operations.

"Thank you, Mister President," Fly Crusher told 'Eats' and flashed him another infectious grin. "I'm always here to help."

"So tell me, General, is there any way to stop the spread of this thing? We've got people banging each other like bunnies all over the Northeast then turning into some kind of primordial slime. Secretary Kuntmuncher just came from a meeting with the Congressional Women's Caucus. It was like a scene straight out of the movie Caligula."

"At least, Congress is finally doing something," the Vice President observed.

"Yeah, each other!" Secretary Kuntmuncher observed, as he slapped the Vice President a high-five.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is not a laughing matter," the President said.

"Eat me," the Vice President muttered under his breath, causing the Secretary of State to start giggling once again.

The red phone rang, and the President picked it up.

"Hello, Vladimir. Yes I know. Things have gone a little wacky over here. You know how we talked about things getting a little cuckoo in our gene-splicing weapons? Yes, I know. We all saw the picture of you catching the meteor. Great catch, by the way.

"Yes, we all saw you wrestle the tiger in the nude. Very impressive, Vladie, if I do say.

"Yes we all saw you leading the geese back home in your glider, Vladie. We know you're concerned about the environment. We're trying to stop this thing as best we can, Vladie. Just give us a little time, that's all. We're working on something right now.

"Yes, Vladie we are also very much worried about the purity of our precious bodily fluids.

"OK Vladie, I'll give you a call as soon as we get this thing under control. Talk to you later."

The President's scowl shifted back to General Bull "Fly Crusher" Jones. "Well, General, you were the one that opened Pandora's box. How do we close it?"

The shiny cue ball that passed for Bull's head rotated toward the President. "It's beautiful, Chief, I mean Mr. President. The plan was to engineer the Martian virus so that it would be triggered by vodka drinking. That way, it would take out only the Rooskies and such faggot Americans as drink that commie swill. It would only act selectively. Thus, it is the perfect weapon," said Fly Crusher. He grinned at the Chief, folded his hands over his belly and went back to chewing his gum.

"Tell me, General, were those people in Madison Square Garden or on the pavement of I-95 all drinking vodka?"

"No sir. We haven't yet been able to splice the vodka trigger into the genome just yet. But we're almost there. We'll get it done by next week. The end of the month at the very latest," Bull said as he wrapped his hand around his belly again, and gave the President an infectious smile that even Joe Biden could not have mustered.

Just then, Bull "Fly Crusher" Jones' head exploded in a rain of genetic goo and frantically perambulating miniature horseshoe crabs.

The Vice President covertly pushed a button on his lap top, and the melodic voice of the sagacious Skeeter Davis filled the Situation Room:

"Why does my heart go on beating? Why do these eyes of mine cry? Don't they know it's the end of the world? It ended when you said goodbye."

"Goodbye," the Secretary of State said.

They all burst our in laughter. What the fuck else could they do?

The Last Girl

A lone girl stood at the peak of the only mountain on the island. She looked out at the shiny crystal sea. It was alive she knew, not like the water it pretended to be. Strange colors flowed in its depths, impure reflections of the aurora that covered the skies.

She called herself Eve. She really didn't have a name, she knew. Her family tree was erased in the Event. "Eve" was a hopeful name. She had been the mother of the human race, who walked the plains of Africa 250 millennia ago.

This Eve would not repopulate the planet naturally, she knew. She was pretty sure she was the last human alive on the planet. They could clone her, but so far they had shown no inclination that they were going to do that. They seemed content to preserve her as the lone specimen of her species in some sort of intergalactic zoo.

She was still on Earth. She was pretty sure of that. But it was not the Earth that any terrestrial life-form had ever seen, present company and elite cephalopods excepted. She looked at the rhythmically changing patterns of light that danced above and below the crystal sea. They were thoughts, she knew. Sometimes they would even send them into her own brain. They knew her loneliness. She was pretty sure that is why they had brought her the armadillo and planted the rose. Perhaps these were the only terrestrial multicellular life-forms to make it through the Event.

She could somehow glimpse the armadillo's thoughts when it snuggled against her body as they slept. She could even sense the rose's regret that its thorns made its beauty forever unattainable.

She could feel him out in the moon's reflection in the crystal sea. The boy. At first, he had been only a bump growing on the vast alien ocean that now covered this would. Then somehow he grew arms, reaching for her, but unable to touch her due to the crystal and psychogenic barrier that passed as a moat on this reborn Earth. Her longing for the boy was increasing day by day. She wished to be wrapped in his arms, sheltered against the cruel breeze that fled from the alien ocean that surrounded her.

He wanted her too, she knew, even if he was merely a speck floating in the All-Mind.

The emptiness was especially strong tonight, and boy was standing at the edge of the edge of the sea. She knew he could feel her deep hunger, and she felt his. Strange patterns of light flowed up and down his body. She knew that All-Mind had stolen those luminiferous genes from the octopuses, the only creatures to flourish in this inhuman sea.

Her two floral and cingulate friends were no longer enough. She strode toward the boy that had arisen again from the All-Mind. She allowed his pseudo-arms to wrap her in their warmth and let his light patterns flow into her brain. His skin wrapped every inch of her skin, and she was wet, so very wet, as he entered her body, her inner temple accepting him, grasping him. And she felt the All-Mind flowing into her consciousness, as she exploded in pleasure and entered into a world that was beyond pleasure and pain.

She gave the armadillo and the rose a brief smile as they faded from her view as if they had been nothing but a dream.

75,000,000 A.D.

The All-Mind heard it coming. A blind piece of stone that dwarfed the uncaring rock that offed the dinosaurs some 65 million years ago. "Oh shit, not this again," it would have said if it possessed a mouth.

Pretty soon it was going to be bye-bye time. The All-Mind prayed that the two-legged terrestrial morons had been right about the oceans on Europa, Titan, Callisto, Ganymede and Enceladus. Of course, it was more likely that the All-Mind would wind up on a gas giant like Jupiter or Saturn. That was OK. It could work with gas giants in a pinch. God knows it had in the past.

Of course there was a fair chance that it was going to be hurled clean out of the solar system.

No matter how you looked at it, it was going to be a long and bumpy ride.