The Gunzerker Chronicles Vol. 01 Ch. 03

Brüt Stallyn vs. The Vampire Space Bimbos from Outer Space

The Gunzerker Chronicles: Volume 1, Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Is funny. Is not serious. Is not sexsexsex but hopefully sexy in its own weird, twisted way. Feedback and requests appreciated. :)

ALLERGY WARNING: Action, explosions, blood, guns, boobs, spaceships, catgirls, incomprehensible stupidity, and other weird shit.

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Chapter 3 -- To Boldly Cum Where No Man Has Cummed Before

She stood on a raised platform, all sleek curves, sass, and seduction. Her smooth skin shone like bronze beneath the Martian sun. Her belly as flat and hard as steel. She had everything Brüt loved: a killer set of turrets; a tight little docking port; long, shapely thrust boosters; and a huge, round badonkadonk. A SpaceForce Pussygrabber 9000 X'Treme D'Lux, the premiere luxury cruiser of the final days of the American Empire. A real cherry ride.

He ran his hand along the gold-plated exterior of the SFPG9kXD and let out a long, appreciative whistle. Bitchkicker whinnied and stomped his front foot, jealous of the attention Brüt was giving to this other mode of transport. He took a few steps back and ruffled the horse's mane. "Oh, this'll do. This'll do nicely."

The catgirl, Kitty or Pussy or something like that, stood on the loading ramp. "Get away from my ship, you dense doucheshit."

Brüt led Bitchkicker by the bit toward the ramp. The catgirl stared at them with obvious appreciation bordering on devotion. Thank you for saving me, her eyes said. I owe you a lifedebt, Master Stallyn.

"Get the bleeding hell off my ship," her mouth said. Brüt knew it was only posturing, though. Everything else about her screamed 'I love you. I want you. Take me. Ravage me!' Unfortunately for her, she was totally not his type. Skinny, athletic, furry, bitchy, and lacking the voluptuous curvature of a real woman.

He smirked at her and brushed past her on his way into the ship's storage hold.

She appeared in front him, a hand against his chest, glowering. "What are you doing? For fuck's sake, leave me alone!"

He flashed his toothy smile and brushed her hand away. If he didn't know better, he might think she wanted him to leave. "You're welcome."

She shut her eyes tight and took a few deep breaths. "Okay, asshole. What do you want from me? Are you high? Because I can give you some stardust or enough credits to score some down at whatever's left of the club."

Brüt furrowed his brow. "You and me, we're not so different, kitten." He slipped an arm around her thin shoulders.

"It's Kitty," she muttered, pulling away from his touch.

He gestured grandly, looking off into the distance in the most contemplative and badass way possible. "We're both hunters. Killers. Loners. Outlaws. Moving from place-to-place in pursuit of excitement, the thrill of the kill, the taste of gunsmoke, the smell of charred flesh, the feel of cold hard steel in our hands. Looking to cash in bounties for über-dangerous missions."

She sighed as Brüt stood on the deck of her cargo hold, striking an overconfident, macho pose and completely ignoring her. "Whatever. Tell you what, I can give you a lift as far as the nearest Imperial outpost, but then I'm cashing in this bounty and I'm gone. Got it? We are not friends. We are not partners. And you are most definitely NOT my 'Master.'"

He winked at her and cracked his knuckles. "That's Master Brüt to you, kitten."

She sighed and shook her head. "Fine. Is this everything? The horse and the guns?"

Brüt chuckled. "That's all I need, baby."

"Good," she said, not even waiting for him to finish before she hit the 'door close' button. She scampered up the hanging ladder through the main hatch, yanked up the ladder and slammed the hatch down, sealing it tight.

Brüt clicked his tongue and looked around the empty cargo hold while the ship's engines roared to life.

She took off without warning, blasting upward with such G-force that Brüt was flattened against the floor. Bitchkicker whinnied and tossed his head in protest. As soon as they broke atmosphere, however, the acceleration-induced gravity gave way to relative weightlessness. Brüt cracked his neck and eyed the sealed entry hatch. That ditzy catgirl forgot to let him into the cabin. He pounded on the wall, then used the ruined remains of Rack to bang on the hatch.

The intercom crackled to life. "Please stop hitting my ship," said the catgirl, her voice abnormally loud over the speakers. The SFPG9kXD had a top-of-the-line sound system. Brüt expected no less.

"I tried to warn you," she said, "and I really hate to do you like this, but I've got a schedule to keep and you just won't listen, so.... Well, you get the idea."

Yellow lights began flashing and a low, buzzing alarm blared as the cargo ramp groaned open. The hydraulics were old and the door moaned and creaked as it forced its mouth wider, from a smirk to a grin and on toward the gaping maw of a hungry sandworm. The air rushed out of the hold along with a few stray pieces of scrap metal and a wrench that had been forgotten somewhere in the cavernous metal underbelly of the ship. Bitchkicker strained against the pull of the infinite vacuum of space, but without gravity to ground him to the floor of the hold, he was racing against the inevitable. Brüt kicked his heels together and activated his antigrav boots on reverse polarity, anchoring him to the floor. He grabbed Bitchkicker's hoof as the horse spun past, kicking helplessly at the floor and the air. "Hold your breath, Kicker!" he shouted, then pinched his own nose with his free hand. Bitchkicker whinnied, then clamped his own equine nostrils shut.

The lack of air and the incessant pull of nothingness were far from the only issue, though. Space was cold. Damn cold. Just a few degrees above absolute zero, the point at which all life, all movement, all energy ceases to be. Absolute zero is the point at which nothing... not even light... can survive. Compared to a perfect summer day of 75 degrees Fahrenheit, the vacuum of space was a solid 500 degrees colder than Brüt preferred. And about 450 degrees below the freezing point of water. In those temperatures, a man's blood would freeze solid in his veins. His skin would crystallize upon contact causing instantaneous tissue death. His eyeballs would glass over inside his head and his cerebral fluid would freeze so hard and so fast that the expansion of that fluid would burst his skull like a piss-filled water balloon dropped from the top of the Empire State Building.

But Brüt was no mere man. He'd faced worse. The sudden subzero chill and instantaneous death of space was nothing compared to a Siberian gulag in mid-winter. He breathed on his hand to keep it warm while he pinched his nose shut to keep from inhaling. The warmth of his breath kept his hand from freezing. He channeled his ch'i and drew upon the thin trickle of heat from his trapped breath, distributing it evenly through his body to keep himself alive. Bitchkicker jerked and kicked out. Frost appeared on his mane and a rime lined his lips. Brüt pushed himself even harder and extended his ch'i to the black stallion. The more he extended his ch'i, the lower his own body temperature, particularly his extremities. He felt his hold on the horse's leg slipping.

Summoning all his strength, he lowered his body temperature to within one one-hundredth of a degree above forty, the lowest he could allow himself to drop before instantaneous hypothermia followed shortly by necrosis and death.

"Thank Bast that's over," crackled the intercom. "Breathe, Kitty. Breathe. You still have time to get to Proxima Centauri, cash in the bounty, pay back Fekov, and get the hell out of Imperial space. You can do this."

The hold door let out an angry metallic groan as it eased closed. The hermetic seal engaged with a clank and a hiss and air rushed back into the hold as the vents reopened. Bitchkicker gasped for breath, taking great, gulping swallows of air. Brüt cracked his neck, then his knuckles, and pulled his laser-guided, gasoline-powered survivalist multitool from his belt. He punched in the code for the plasma saw, climbed up on top of a storage crate, and cut through the hatch door. Eighty pounds of solid steel hit the storage bay floor like a mortar round. Brüt Stallyn pulled himself up through the smoking hole in the ceiling and into the main cabin.

The intercom crackled to life yet again, "What the hell?" Static followed, then silence.

Kitty appeared in the doorway of the cockpit, staring open-mouthed at Brüt as he found his feet and tucked his multitool back into his belt.

"The f--?"

Brüt stared hard at her. "You forgot me in the hold," he growled.

Kitty Meow-Meow took a half-step back, fear glinting in her wide, yellow eyes. "Y-you. H-h-how did you--? You were-- I-- You should be--"

He frowned and cracked his knuckles. "You could have killed me."

She shook her head almost imperceptibly, afraid to take her eyes off him. "How did you survive? No man could survive that. No living thing could. Wh-what are you?"

Brüt Stallyn smirked and lifted his chin, staring down the bridge of his nose at the pink-haired catgirl who was so thoroughly awed by his impressive badassness. "I'm Brüt Stallyn, baby."

She blinked at him, then cleared her throat and squeaked, "I'll just drop you at the Imperial Outpost on Alpha Centauri, then, shall I?"

He chuckled dryly. "I'm no longer welcome on Alpha Centauri, kitten. But that's a story for another time. It sounded to me like you were aiming for Proxima. I have a friend there who usually has a job or two for me. Good pay. What do you say? One more adventure for old time's sake?" He flashed his brilliant white smile.

The catgirl tilted her head, eyes narrowing, and stared at him for a bit. "We... don't have any old times. Are--are you talking about how you nearly got me killed on Mars? Literally fifteen minutes ago?" Confusion caused her nose to scrunch up just so. It was almost cute. It would have been a lot cuter if she'd had some plunging cleavage to go with the attractive face. Idly, Brüt wondered what became of that Bovinian dancer, Daisy. Now that was a tender piece of meat right there.

"That's the spirit," he said, still thinking about Daisy and her swollen udders. He lead the way into the cockpit, sat down in the pilot's chair and moved a few levers around, punched half a dozen buttons. "Onward to adventure!" he shouted as Kitty scampered in behind him and began moving levers and pressing buttons of her own. A lot of them were the same ones Brüt had just activated. Clearly the girl had a lot to learn. But he would teach her. He was, after all, an accredited professor of befuckening with a doctorate in micromolecular murderfication from Hogtits School of Necromancy and Coprophilia in addition to being a certified master gunzerker and a sixth level sexomancer.

The catgirl looked stressed, her ears laying back flat against her head and her tail bristling as she slid into the navigator's seat and pulled up a starmap, setting coordinates for the Centauri system. Brüt put his hand on the hyperspeed lever, the BIG one, and prepared to launch them into quantumspace, but she grabbed his hand. "It's still charting. Bast's ass, you must have some sort of serious deathwish. We could end up anywhere or blast our way through the center of a bloody star for Anubis' sake."

Brüt rolled his eyes and pulled the lever anyway.

The ship flashed through hyperspace, the very fabric of the universe bending and twisting at the whim of their quantumdrive hyperengine. He could hear Kitty shrieking and hissing in a hundred thousand different timelines, a veritable white noise of feline fury. And when they came out the far side every hair on her body stood straight on end. She looked as though she'd just jumped into a full bathtub, clawed her way out, and shaken herself dry. Her expression changed from one of frozen terror to a more relatable, existential sort of dawning dread.

"This... isn't Centauri."

Brüt peered through the viewfield. "Looks familiar."

"Oh, shit," Kitty muttered. She lunged across Brüt and began pulling levers and punching buttons in a frantic flurry of activity.

The viewscreen flashed blue, then a straight-faced imperial enforcement captain appeared, dressed in his black and white uniform. "Spacecraft K1T7Y-QT, you are in violation of Imperial airspace control. Please proceed to docking station 0-S-H-1-T and await further instructions."

Kitty's wide, wild eyes glanced over at Brüt, then back at the screen, then back to Brüt as she grabbed the quantumspace lever and pushed it forward to maximum hyperspeed. With no coordinates set, there was no telling where they would end up. In uncharted space or even in the center of a star or a black hole. The craft lurched forward, but nothing happened.

The dry imperial voice came over the viewscreen again, this time without the accompanying image. "Our graviton beams have locked you in orbit. Proceed to docking station 0-S-H-1-T and await further instructions."

Kitty's paws shook as she slumped back in her seat. "Bloody fucking hell," she whispered.

On the viewscreen, the starcharts updated and displayed their current location: 2.31 km above the surface of Labia Majora, largest planet in the Vulva system. They'd overshot Centauri by hundreds of lightyears and plunged deep into the darkest crevice of Imperial space.

Paws shaking, Kitty took the controls and steered the ship toward the specified docking platform, repeating under her breath all the while, "Fuck me, fuck me, I'm so dead. Fuck me."

Brüt considered it. They had enough time, but he wasn't sure he could get over her boyish figure. Not to mention the tail. He opted to ignore her requests for sexification and instead helped by punching buttons.

"What are you doing?!" she yelled.

The viewscreen flashed on, the imperial captain from before appeared on screen, his index finger buried knuckle-deep in his nose.

"Yo. Dude," Brüt barked. "What gives?"

The captain jerked toward the viewscreen, hand darting down to his side.

"How did you--?" He glared through screen and squinted at them. "How can I help you, sir?"

"My apprentice and me got a bit lost. Hiccup with the quantumblasters, we think. So what say you cut us loose and we head on our way back to Proxima Centauri? Thanks, bud."

The captain cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I can't do that, sir. You are harboring a known fugitive and piloting a stolen ship."

Brüt glanced sideways at Kitty who bit her lower lip and shrugged. As he turned back to the viewscreen, he heard her mutter, "So fucked."

"Look, guy, I get that you've got a job to do and all that official shit, but we overshot our destination due to a fuck-up in navigation. We aren't here to cause trouble. So cut the graviton and we'll be on our way. Thanks." He reached to cut the feed.

"If only I could," the captain said, his expression cold and bemused.

Brüt furrowed his brow. Was this bureaucratic little dipshit telling him 'No?' "You can, though. You turned it on, so fucking turn if off."

Kitty stared at him and shook her head violently in a tight, tense negation.

"I do not think you're hearing me clearly, sir. Perhaps a week in an Imperial holding cell will change your attitude, Mister...?"

"Brüt," said Brüt. "Brüt Stallyn. And this is the last time I'm going to tell you, fuckwad. Cut the graviton beam and we'll zip on back to Centauri or I'm personally going to hunt you down, rip your head off, piss down the ragged stump of your neck, and force your swine of a wife to suck out every drop while I fuck her with your limp, castrated cock duct taped to the barrel of my assault rifle. Do you hear ME, motherfucker?"

The captain's face turned pink, then red, and he turned abruptly away, barking orders to subordinates. "Cut the feed. Order a full strike team to the docking bay. I want th--" Static followed.

Kitty pounced on Brüt, grabbing him by the neck and throttling him. "You bloody idiot! What did you DO? They're not just going to throw us in jail, they're going to torture us! You bloody fucking idiot!" Tears stood out in her wide, shimmering eyes.

Brüt laughed and grit his teeth as he gently pushed his apprentice off him and stood, striking a manly pose. "I'd like to see them try." Without even looking at Kitty, he said, "Gear up. We've got work to do."

Ignoring her protests, Brüt headed back to the cargo hold where he checked, loaded and holstered Pain and Punishment, then slung Ruin over his shoulder. His other shoulder felt empty, strangely naked without Rack's well-oiled gunstrap pressed against it. He clipped four thermonuclear megafrag grenades to his belt and, last of all, fed a new belt of ammunition into Slut-Shamer. Armed and ready, he shouted up through the porthole, "Bring us in, Kitty! And as soon as we set down, open the cargo bay doors and we'll unleash unholy hell on these Imperial pussies!"

The intercom crackled and Kitty sighed. "We really need to work on your tact. And your word-choice. But, what the hell, it isn't as though I've any other choice at this point."

The ship glided into the docking bay and set down with a firm klunk. Before Kitty even cut the boosters, magneticlamps were locked onto the ship's docking legs and a deafeningly loud voice broadcast over some incredibly boss speakers. "Kitty Meow-Meow and Brüt Stallyn, you are hereby under arrest. Exit the ship quickly and quietly with your hands raised over your heads. A full Imperial strike team stands ready to open fire at the first sign of hostility. I repeat, you are under arrest. Exit the ship quickly and quie--"

The cargo ramp began to groan its way open. Brüt didn't wait for the slow, mechanized door to complete it's decent. He charged toward the opening and leapt through the gap, landing squarely on both feet in front of a fully armed and body-armored battalion of Imperial soldiers. Each one of them held an assault rifle equivalent to Rack and Ruin in their gauntleted hands. Their commander yelled "Fire!"

Brüt swept Slut-Shamer in a long, wide arc across the clustered row of soldiers. Thirty-three quadrillion rounds shattered state-of-the-art Securitek armor, tore clean, blistering holes through the flesh of more than twenty men, and reduced an entire squad of trained soldiers to a smoldering pile of smoking flesh and ruined body armor in less than half a galactic second.

A lone survivor crawled out from the wreckage and threw her gun at Brüt's feet. The sole female member of the squad had armor custom-fit to contain her heaving bosom. She tore her helmet off and looked up at Brüt, full lips parted in awe, azure eyes alight with admiration. "Please," she begged, her voice husky with fear, "don't kill me? I would do anything."

Brüt knew better than to believe the promise of a woman. He remembered La'Slutika and her sweet words dipped in poison. But killing men made him horny.

He unsheathed his meat sword and put her claim to the test, thrusting between her sweet lips, her huge tits, and finally filling her plump ass with his manseed. "Take me with you," she begged, crawling toward his dripping member on hands and knees, eager for more.

"Sorry, babe, but Brüt Stallyn works alone."

"Honestly, you are the worst." Kitty stood behind him in the mouth of the cargo hold, Bitchkicker heeled up beside her like a large pup.

The buxom soldier slut looked at Kitty, then Brüt, and her face fell. "Who is she?"

Kitty rolled her eyes, grabbed Brüt by the arm, and dragged him toward the exit, Bitchkicker tagging along beside. "We don't have time for this. They've grounded the ship and there's a warrant out for our arrest. And since you threatened to fuck the Captain's wife and blew up an entire squadron of elite infantry, I'm guessing they won't care if we're brought in dead or alive. We need to move. And fast. I--may know someone who can help, but finding a way off-world is going to be tough. Maybe impossible."