The Gunzerker Chronicles Vol 01 Ch 02

Brüt Stallyn vs. The Vampire Space Bimbos from Outer Space

The Gunzerker Chronicles: Volume 1, Chapter 2

Disclaimer: This story is intended to be a humorous, absurd, completely over-the-top sci-fi parody drawing from B-movie/exploitation films and (un)intentionally terrible writing ala The Eye of Argon and Song of the Sorcelator, not a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am masturbatory read. I hope to post subsequent tales in the future with more risqué/taboo content. If you'd like to see something in particular explored in future (or revised) installments, drop me a message or an email. :)

Recipe for Schlock / ALLERGY WARNING: Mix 2 cups of blood with 1 cup gore. A dash of vulgarity. Season with ultraviolence. Add a heavy helping of boobs. Garnish with guns and monstergirls and stuff.

###

Chapter 2 -- A More Wretched Hive of Scum and Villainy

The settlement at the base of Olympus Mons was a dusty little one-horse town. Especially since its name was Dust and Bitchkicker was the only horse any of the residents of that backwater spaceport had seen in more than a generation.

Brüt passed a large, handpainted wooden sign announcing 'Welcome to Dust' and below that, in stencil, 'Friendliest City on Mars.' A dead dog was nailed to the sign with a railroad spike. It looked to be two or three days gone, or so the streaks of dried blood that stained the lower part of the sign seemed to suggest.

Brüt Stallyn spurred his stallion along the dusty road, past the crucified canine 'Welcome' sign and under the entry arch from which a smaller, fancier, burn-engraved sign swung. 'DUST,' it read.

The streets were bare as a whore's thighs. Matronly women popped out of front doors long enough to drag dirt-caked children back inside. Shopkeepers locked their doors, hastily flipped 'OPEN' signs to 'CLOSED,' and shut off the lights.

Brüt reined up Bitchkicker outside 'Harold Half-Hand's Haberdashery and Couture Coffin Construction Services.' The coffins propped against the exterior wall were all coiffed with handsome, if a bit foppish, handmade leather hats. Brüt had considered wearing a classic stetson, but decided against it since only pussies needed bitchin hats to make them look extremely badass. Brüt was über-extremely badass without a hat. To add a hat would potentially take his badassness to such extreme and heretofore unknown levels of supreme badassery that women would orgasm at the sight of him and men drop dead from unadulterated terror.

A stray tumbleweed rolled across the town's main (and only) road.

Brüt's highly attuned senses told him something wasn't right. As a matter of fact, something was very very unright. These backwater settlers were scared shitless, retreating into their homes like cockroaches exposed to the harsh light of dawn.

He rode on. Every shop and tavern read 'CLOSED.' Every home had the radiation door sealed and the curtains drawn. The only establishment that showed any signs of life at all was Olympus Mounds, a local burlesque club. Gaudy neon lights alternately flashed the words 'Olympus' and 'Mounds' and then flashed them both together twice before repeating the cycle. Underneath, in the same pyrography as Brüt judged to have been used on the official town sign, the one reading 'DUST,' not the one with a dog's corpse staked to it, was the outline of a quad-breasted cowgirl in a stetson hat and boots, complete with spurs. He clicked his tongue and steered Bitchkicker to the tie-post. The only thing tied to it at the moment was a workman's hovercycle caked top to bottom with red dust. One other hovercycle and a single landrover were parked nearby, untethered. He cinched his stallion to the tying post and dismounted.

Two other neon signs glowed in the windows of the Olympus Mounds tavern, burlesque, and brothel. The first cheerily declared, 'ALL NUDE REVUE' in bright pink bubble lettering. The second, a kitschy beer sign, showed a grinning cowgirl and flashed the words 'Coors Lite' followed by 'cuz Budweiser's piss' while the cowgirl winked and raised a neon yellow pint glass.

There was no 'CLOSED' sign on the swinging saloon doors. Country-Rap (CRAP) music buzzed and twanged from inside. Brüt slung Rack and Ruin across his back, holstered Pain and Punishment, and checked the cylinders of his hip-holster revolvers, Fear and Loathing. Both were still full. He left Slut-Shamer in his armory satchel, figuring the six guns he worse in plain view, along with an artfully hidden array of knives, grenades, poisons, razor blades, garrotes, nerve gas caplets, and a variety of less-common weaponry would be enough to grab a quick drink and a lap dance before catching a ride off-planet. After all, what use would he have for a six-barrel chain-fed hadron-collider-powered autocannon with triple katana bayonets and chrome-plated truck nuts hanging from the trigger guard when he was throwing back a few cans of Coors and fondling a stripper's thong-clad ass? He assumed none. But he assumed wrong. Dead wrong.

Brüt pushed through the saloon doors into a dusky, strobe-lit room. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dim light after the harsh glare of the unfiltered sun outside. There was a main stage, including a catwalk and four poles, the largest at center stage, one at the end of the catwalk nearest the bar, and one to either side of center. Smoke filled the room, adding to the dusky atmosphere. Tobacco, mostly, but also pot and a hint of Luxxorian redleaf, a favorite of the aristocracy given its high price tag and euphoria-inducing properties. Redleaf was eschewed by spacers and those whose jobs depended on sharp reflexes and quick thinking.

Brüt took in the lay of the room. There weren't many patrons this time of day. Two sitting close to center stage, both human from the look of them, a third Snortadellian given his height and the pronounced rondure of his skull plates. Not many dancers, either, for that matter. The Snortadellian was throwing credit chips at the feet of a half-human, half-Mewstifarian catgirl who had bright pink hair, a long auburn tail and ears, and six tiny tits, each covered with a gold-tassled pastie, none of them even enough for a handful. Sleek fur covered her long, reverse-jointed legs, but her stomach and snatch were a veritable fur palace, a total turn-off to Brüt, who preferred his whores smooth.

A tired-looking human woman with a sagging bosom, heavy shadows under her eyes, and a forced smile stood behind the bar and looked at him with an expectant, dazed expression.

"Not a lot of folk here this time of day," Brüt observed.

"Not a lot of folks here any day," said the dead-eyed woman. "You want a drink, mister?"

"Whiskey," said Brüt without looking at her. "Neat. Make it a triple. Been a rough day."

"Right away, mister," said the woman whose soul died long ago. She poured the drink with all the flair and enthusiasm of a sedated sloth and said, "That'll be eight credits."

Brüt scoffed and flashed his best, toothiest, charmingest smile. "You sure about that, miss?"

The bartender looked confused, then nodded and gave Brüt a soulless stare. "Uh, yeah, mister. It's eight credits. Not includin' tip."

On stage, the half-Mewstifarian stripped off her skimpy thong and bent at the waist, raising her tail and waggling her puckered pink butthole in the face of the hulking, hunchbacked Snortadellian. The patron snorted his approval and could hardly throw credit chips fast enough as the catlike dancer bent so far over that her smirking face appeared between her thighs, making eye-contact with the generous patron. The plate-head was obviously rubbing himself as he watched her and no one in the seedy saloon seemed to mind in the least. The Snortadellian's face turned from its usual ashy green to a much brighter shade of green reminiscent of grass in the early Spring as the dancer slid lithely down into a full split, then rolled onto her side, tail still raised, kicked one leg into the air, and dragged her pink tongue over her own exposed butthole. The Snortadellian grunted oafishly with carnal delight and began to shake and shudder in the throes of a self-induced climax.

Brüt grimaced and turned away, digging in his belt pouch for a handful of credits. He came out with eight exactly and set them on the bar. "Got any real girls in this backwater burg?"

The bartender scooped up the credits, scowled at the exact change, and said, "I dunno what you mean, mister big-tipper."

Brüt laughed masculinely. "Girls with curves? Shaped like women, not housepets?" He set down his empty glass.

"Oh, sure, mister. Daisy'll be performing next. You'll like her." She added in a surly tone that Brüt disliked, "She'd like you, too, if you tipped her better than you do for your drinks."

Brüt snorted and turned away. The catgirl was down on all fours, lapping up her client's 'cream' while he situated himself and tossed a final handful of credits onto the stage. She flashed the Snortadellian a wicked smile as he hefted his bulk out of the faux leather chair, pulled his trenchcoat around himself, and tromped toward the exit. As soon as he turned his back, the dancer scooped up the credits, tucked them away gods-knows-where, and strutted lithely backstage.

The music faded and a disembodied, robotic voice, came over the loudspeaker, "Give it up for Pussy Likker! Isn't she lovely?" Some light, obligatory applause from the two patrons. Brüt didn't bother to clap. The only thing that ridiculous cat-thing had tickled was his allergies.

Lights flashed overheard, spotlights criss-crossed the room and settled on center stage. "And NOW," the robotic announcer voice boomed, "give a warm welcome to the star of the stage, the belle of the ball, the one and only Daaaaaaaay-seeeeeeee!" Brüt leaned back against the bar and watched with mild curiosity as an ultra-busty Bovinian strutted out onto the stage in cowboy boots and a stetson hat. A gunbelt slung low around her waist and a pair of chaps temporarily hid her most intimate parts while a skimpy leather vest with a sheriff's star pinned to the lapel struggled to confine her four massive teats. Now this was a woman.

Daisy sashayed up to the mainstage pole and twirled around it once, twice. The two other patrons were sitting up now and digging credits out of their pockets. The cow-girl cowgirl's tail swished to and fro as she twirled and spun. She made finger guns at one of the nearby patrons, then the other. They both tossed a smattering of credit chips onto the stage. One of them wolf-whistled. Daisy was a classic Holstein milker, white with irregular brown spots, a quirky smile, and positively huge udders. Her rear end was nothing to write home about. For that, you needed a beefer, like a Black Angus or Wagyu breed. Brüt preferred milkers. Less moody, more playful, and they were used to having their teats fondled.

Daisy had just begun to unbutton the too-tight vest crushing her bulging bazongas against her chest when the saloon doors slammed open and he scuttled in. Ten feet tall if he was a foot, he wore nothing except for twin bandoliers of high-caliber slugs and not two, but four Magnetitech railgun revolvers. He walked upright on his hind legs, antennae twitching to scent the air. He smelled of stale walnuts and fresh-mown grass.

He ducked through the door, bumped up against the bulky but harmless Snortadellian who'd just shot his jollies all over the stage for some half-rate catgirl. The broad-bellied stegosaurus-like patron grunted some sort of an apology and pulled back, flattening himself against the wall as much as he reasonably could considering his immense girth and the two-foot bone plates protruding from his back and tail, tugging his trenchcoat tight.

The Mantis, a race of ruthless and intelligent insectoid creatures heralding from Earth That Was, put one of his thick, pincered arms out flat against the Snortadellian's chest and stood for a moment in silent stillness. Every eye in the joint was on the bug in that moment. He turned his head to look at the Snortadellian with his humongous glassy eyes, then chittered something in his weird bug language. The Snortadellian shook his head, fear darkening his features, then tried to say something, but it came out first as a rasp, then a scream, then a gurgle as the Mantis seized the hulking reptilian's squat, triangular head with its pincer-like upper legs, steadied his thrashing victim with his mandibles and half-cut, half-twisted the poor asshole's terrified face free of the trunk of his body. Blackish red blood spurted comically from the neck stump. The Mantis pushed the body out of his way. It fell twitching and bleeding onto the linoleum.

Brüt was impressed. The bug had a surly disposition and a bad feel about him, but he was one dangerous son of a bitch. Not as dangerous as Brüt, of course, but dangerous in his own right. Mantises typically were. Brüt liked him instantly.

He tossed the decapitated head aside with the same sort of dismissive disgust with which you might flick an errant cockroach from the sleeve of your jacket and sauntered up to the main stage. Daisy, the cowgirl performer, was clutching herself across those enormous udders. Even her black spots had turned pale. The Mantis seated himself in front of the main stage, chittered something in his unintelligible bug language and waved his foreleg in an 'on with it' gesture. Daisy slowly began to sway her hips, attempting to get back into the rhythm of the performance, but it took her the better part of ten seconds to drop that protective hug. The look of fear never left her round, dewy eyes.

The poor girl was 100% prey. She was right to be scared with two alpha predators lurking in the same room. Electro-pop-country-western-dubstep filled the room in a transparent attempt to recapture the mood of sordid sensuality. It didn't quite work. The two other patrons who had been delighted with Daisy's entrance now slipped quickly and quietly toward the exit, skirting far around the deadly newcomer. He paid them no mind. Daisy spied them leaving and her fearful, wet eyes widened even more.

The bartender let out a long, weary sigh. "Pleiades dammit, not again," she muttered as she fished a black garbage bag and a mop out from behind the bar, "Roy was one of my best cust'mers." She left the bar unattended and bustled across to bag up the head and mop up what she could of the blood. Brüt watched the bartender, Daisy, and the bug simultaneously.

The dancer went through the motions, rote, flying on autopilot without any feeling behind it. It was a sad display. Brüt wondered what her typical routine looked like. With udders like hers, it was possible she'd never needed to display any panache or style in her dancing, but the transformation between the sensual strut of her entrance and the trembling hesitance she displayed now suggested otherwise. Daisy tentatively unbuttoned the top button of her vest. Milky white cleavage spilled forth like a boiled lobster tail split down the middle. The Mantis chittered and tossed a few credit chips onto the stage. Daisy sniffed. Tears wet her eyes, but she forced an unconvincing smile and started on the second button, already strained to the breaking point.

For a moment, Brüt was amused that the dancer was so embarrassed and nervous. For grog's sake, she took off her clothes and jiggled her tiddly bits for a living. And she had great tiddlies. What was there to be ashamed of?

Then he smelled it. Pheromones. A thick, putrid musk that permeated the room and clung to the insides of his nostrils. Suddenly, the tears, the trembling, and the sniffing all made sense. That six-legged cannibalistic motherfucker hadn't come to observe. He meant to mate.

Brüt had seen the effects of Mantis breeding. The hermaphroditic bastards filled their victims with eggs then fertilized them with acidic, sap-like jizz from their spined cocks. Then, for good measure, they'd sometimes, if the mood struck them, tear the head off their chosen mate and have a little post-coital snack. And, of course, if the mating didn't kill the victim, they would explode from the inside like an overripe haggis once the eggs hatched. The youngling Mantises would then feed on the bloated corpse of their maternal incubator and begin seeking their own mates to fertilize.

The whole room filled with the reek of the bug's procreative intent. Brüt had never smelled anything like it. He knew bugs weren't the most civilized of creatures, but this went too far. He would have to step in. He couldn't stand idly by and watch something so grotesque violate something so boobilicious.

Daisy recoiled as the bug brushed her thighs with his antennae. It stood, towering over the stage, its twitching antennae nearly touching the ceiling. It chittered in its grotesque language and stepped up onto the stage. Daisy screamed and backpedaled away from the monstrous bug, but she bumped up against the dancer's pole and froze, unable to process an escape route. The Mantis darted forward and seized her in its powerful front legs, dragging her toward it. She kicked out with her stiletto heel, but he deflected her clumsy strike with a casual swat of one clawed hand.

Rack and Ruin appeared in Brüt's hands as if they had always been there. Unslinging the twin assault rifles came as easy to him as breathing. Firing them as natural as the beating of his own heart.

"Hold it right there, big guy," Brüt warned. He rarely gave warnings. Never more than one.

The Mantis cast a lightning-quick glance over its shoulder, turning its head 180 degrees to stare at him, then with one smooth motion, grabbed Daisy in a chokehold with one of its upper arms, crushing the dancer against his pheromone-drenched exoskeleton, and with the other, picked up and flung a table at Brüt. He didn't even have time to dodge.

The rattle of gunfire filled the dusky room, muzzle flashes from Rack and Ruin providing a secondary strobe to the primary stage lights. The machine guns decimated the wooden projectile, tearing through the thick wood of the tabletop like one-ply toilet paper on the hairy butthole of justice.

A spray of bullets thunked against the bug's chitinous exoskeleton, but didn't make so much as a dent. It whipped around, chittering at Brüt. He couldn't understand a damn word of what the thing was saying and he didn't care to. He got the sense of it, though. That was usually his way. The sense of things was so much more important than the specifics, especially when guns were already drawn and bullets had already been fired.

"I'm Brüt Stallyn," said Brüt Stallyn. "Leave the girl alone or they'll be scraping your innards off the walls of this place for a month."

The Mantis moved fast, though. Far faster than Brüt anticipated. It spun, putting Daisy between them like a human shield, and in that single pivoting motion, drew two of its four hand-cannon revolvers with its central thoraxial arms. They were.44 caliber, at least, and looked bigger. Some custom high-cal slug just for bigger hexapods like this green motherfucker. It squeezed off four rounds in quick succession. The Mantis might have been ugly and amoral, but he was a hell of a shot. The first two bullets passed within a quarter millimeter of Brüt's jaw, just skimming his neck and leaving a hot, bloody streak where the bullet grazed him. The third ripped through his upper right chest just below the clavicle and burst through just below his shoulder blade. The fourth round, however, was the real ace shot. The bullet tore straight down Rack's barrel, turning Brüt's beloved assault rifle into a twisted morass of titanium that reminded him of that time he'd jammed an incendiary device up that idiot doctor's urethra for calling him... what was it again? Oh, right, maladjusted. The doc sure was 'maladjusted' when his wiener exploded and left his manparts looking like an inside-out octopus.