I hate fucking orcs. Not the female variety, mind you, I love fucking them. I've had quite a few of those emerald beauties in my long life and let me tell you, they are just as vivacious and sensual as any other female. No, I can't stand their male countercocks. Those overly-muscled, limited-brained, snaggle-toothed Troglodytes. And that's an affront to perfectly respectable Troglodytes who pay their Trog taxes and try to raise their little Trog babies right.
To say that male orcs are a bit slow-witted would be a gross understatement. Brawn was more prized than brains back when their race was raping and pillaging centuries ago but that less than stellar breeding program has left most modern male orcs at a disadvantage technologically speaking. Most don't even have a cellphone, let alone know how to use one. They prefer confronting their enemies face to face instead of over strongly worded text messages in all caps and emojis like everyone else. That's how I came be standing wingtip to sandal with a green behemoth from Greenwich in the middle of a Saturday night.
It had started, as most beefs do, over a woman selecting a different cut of beef. Maynard Rawtooth had just found out that his succubus wife had sucked more than my 'bus recently and was about to pound me to a pulp for the impropriety. I tried to explain to the jealous jughead that it was he who had married a member of the succubae and that seduction was just their schtick. I wasn't about to tell him that it was I who had done the propositioning, nor about the videos of her acquiescence on Snapchat. No sense upsetting the not-so-jolly green giant any more than he already was.
"Little man cheat with Peggy," he growled, his tusked jowls salivating with contempt. I bristled at the crack about my stature. At six foot one, a good two twenty and well-muscled from hours spent at my local Planet Fitness, I consider myself a pretty big guy (down there as well). So, to be accused of being tiny gets my hackles up. But when confronted by a seven-foot five green mountain of a man -- orc -- one can see why the phrase might seem appropriate.
"Now, Maynard," I was saying, holding my hands up in a defensive posture like it would fucking matter anyway, "I don't want to say anything about your beautiful wife but, come on, you know how it is with their kind. They can't help themselves.
My insinuation that poor old Maynard's pretty Peggy couldn't help spreading her shapely legs for every Tom, Dick and more Dick did not sit well with the coal-eyed slab of green beefcake. He raised his picnic ham-sized fists above his head to deliver a one-two wonk to my poor noggin.
"Crush little man!" he roared. Now I abhor violence and try to avoid it whenever possible. Unless we're talking BDSM, that's another story. But while whips and chains may leave me with stains, one thing I don't take kindly to is getting my skull caved in. Granted I'm a fast healer but damn it, it still hurts like a motherfucker. And I was in too good a mood to let some orcish lover boy have his comeuppance no matter how much it may be justified.
You know what they say about the bigger they are? Well, they don't make them much bigger as far as orcs go than Maynard Rawtooth. I'm not above playing dirty, especially when one or more of my heads is involved. I brought my leg up like I was going for a two-point conversion, my shin slamming into a pair of grapefruit-sized gonads. Maynard whimpered, grabbed his loincloth covered groin and dropped to his knees. My knee came up like a cancan girl and clocked him on his oversized chin. His eyes rolled back and he crumpled to the ground like the quarter ton of bricks he is.
"Fuck!" I cried, hopping on one foot and rubbing my sore knee. It felt like I had tried to high-knee a cinder block and I could already feel the joint swelling. Maynard lay sprawled on his back. His loincloth had ridden up, exposing his green grapes and vine. I did the dude a solid and covered his shame. I guess what they say about shoe size doesn't translate well into orcish. Maybe that's the reason for his wife's wandering vajayjay.
As I stood up from my attempt at furthering masculine solidarity, I saw a blue-green flash at the corners of my vision. An instant later, something connected with the base of my skull and the last thing my eyes perceived was a tartan loincloth rushing at my face.
The first thing I noticed upon regaining consciousness was that I wasn't laying on warm orc dong but cold, hard concrete. My head was pounding and not in the good way. It felt like it had been detached and screwed back on wrong. And I should know, it's happened before. I could taste blood, apparently, I had had a side of cheek with my cement entree.
When the world settled in to only a light spin cycle, I rolled onto my back and instantly regretted the decision. A blazing sun overhead made me shield my eyes against the sudden change in luminosity. My peepers finally adjusted and I realized it wasn't the sun but a streetlamp. It was still nighttime. I lay under that cone of light, my head still thrumming like the drummer at a Motley Crue concert. I sat up and winced as he started in on another solo.
I checked myself over. I had a goose egg on the back of my head that would have left the bird that laid it with a bleeding asshole. I could feel the gash already starting to stitch itself back together. It'd be a while before I could wear a ballcap again but hey, at least it was the harder of my two heads to take a hit. I'd hate to have to take a sabbatical from my favorite horizontal sport.
Maynard was nowhere to be seen. I guess he figured that he'd given me a sound enough thrashing and had wandered off after his well-deserved nap. I checked for my billfold and found it still there and still sufficiently thick with cash. So at least it hadn't been a slug and mug job.
The thought occurred to me that perhaps one of the players at the poker game where I had won the cash from had been the perpetrator. Accusations of cheating had been thrown out as easily as the hips on a geriatric porn star.
I sat there going over the list of suspects as I wished my healing spell would hurry up with the hemorrhaging. Let's see, there was a demon with the ironic nickname of St. John, a miserly troll named Hansen and a Wendigo named Duke who liked to chew on lady fingers as he played (the cookie, not actual fingers). I had assured everyone present that I wasn't cheating out of deference to our illustrious host for the evening, Hal Greenwood. Hal's a good guy and all, even if he has been dead for fifty years. Our ghost host with the most had been housed in a nice little piece of ass named Tandy for the game. It was Hal's predilection to possess a succulent shell in hopes of distracting his rivals and Tandy had been a real find. Large, firm breasts, hair the color of fresh cut wheat, legs for days. Yeah, she was boner material through and through. Even the big brown stogie she puffed added to the appeal, the phallic innuendo not lost on anyone, even those without them. Unlike what I am sure is normally the case, though, the only downside had been when she had opened her mouth.
"Read'em and weep boys!" Hal's gravelly voice poured from Tandy's lush mouth as he laid down a pair of jacks and tens.
"Not so fast, Ghostboy," I gloated as I slapped down a Broadway straight (which seemed fitting, given we were only a few blocks from there). That caused some growls and snarls as I scooped up the pot. While I'm not above conjuring cards to secure a win, I had to abstain this time because Hal has a ghost nose for my particular brand of poker prestidigitation. Apparently, The Fates had found favor with this fool for a change of pace.
"Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me," I said, pocketing the cash, "I've got a hot date with a cute little pixie named Sheila. Or was it a Sheila named Pixie? Ah, who the hell cares. As long as she's got a pretty face and gives good head."
I felt multiple pairs of monstrous eyes on my back as I left the room.
"Hey, pal. You alright?"
I looked up at the beat cop suddenly standing over me. There was something about him that didn't sit right with me. I've dealt with NYPD enough to know what patrolman usually wear and this portly fellow with the waffle-iron face was no poster boy. He had on a heavy wool, dark blue tunic with large brass buttons. A heavy leather belt around the middle barely contained his thick gut and he twirled a wooden truncheon on a leather lanyard in one hand. I stood up on shaky legs as a second, younger cop walked up in a similar get up, minus the gut.
As I leaned against the post to wait for my brain to descend from the stratosphere, I looked around and realized that these two Po-Po weren't the only things that seemed out of place. I noticed that signs had changed. The Starbucks where that cute ass barista with the nice tits worked was now just a generic drug store. Cars parked on the street were now all older style sedans and Studebakers. The crowds were dressed differently too. I saw a pixie in a poodle skirt, bobby socks and saddle shoes. A Cthulhu in a zoot suit. There were even a couple of greaser gremlins in leather jackets down the street trying to pilfer a Pontiac. A sudden realization fried my brain.
"Date?" I eked out.
"You had a date?" the younger cop asked.
