0 comments/ 4132 views/ 2 favorites Strangelove in the 21st By: oneiria Venus: 4,450,000,000 B.C. A compound eye in the Venusian ocean watches the fireball as it plummets through the atmosphere and plunges into a Hadean volcano, popping it like a zit and spewing molten lava into space in lieu of pus. The lava soon freezes to rocks in the absolute zero of interplanetary space. The spores, bacteria and naked genes they carry soon fall into a dreamless sleep. Mars: 2,740,000,000 B.C. ...only to awaken in a splashdown in the nascent Martian sea. Mars: 1,970,000,000 B.C. A crystalline intelligence watches an incoming comet as it plummets through the thin Martian atmosphere. Said intelligence is soon ejected into interplanetary space. "Oh shit, not this again!" its core intelligence thinks before shutting down. Earth: February 15, 2013 Demetri Chekov of Chelyabinsk, having successfully dropped off his daughter at elementary school (albeit two hours late), unscrews his second liter of Stolichnaya in celebration. For some reason he cannot stop thinking about 1908 Tunguska meteor that leveled a forest in Siberia. Then he sees the blazing bolide in the sky. "Oh shit, not this again!" he mutters and takes another healthy swig of Stoli. Demetri need not have worried, as conclusive photographic evidence will later prove that the meteor was successfully plucked out of the air by Russia's fearless leader, who was fortuitously wearing nothing but a baseball mitt at the time. Lunchroom: D-Day, June 6, 2016. As soon as Suzy Osbourne took a bite out of her triple blackened Angus Whopper with cheese, she knew something was wrong. She spit it out of her mouth. It landed on her plate right next to the double fries. "OK, what have you assholes done now?" she asked the assembled crowd of her coworkers, which seemed especially large that day. "Just put a little meteorite dust on it to enhance the Cajun effect," Jimmy McGoon said, and the multitude of gathered coworkers broke down in another burst of maniacal guffaws. "Are you guys insane?" Suzy asked. Her face was red with anger now. "Let me get this straight. You put the ground-up remnants of a Martian meteorite on my food? A meteorite that is supposed to be isolated and sealed in a Level I containment lab for bioweapons under development? What part of containment facility do you not get?" Suzy had always been a stickler for the rules, one of the reasons she had few friends in the Dance of Kali Bioweapons Facility and Car Wash. "We didn't mean nothin' by it," Jimmy McGoon said, his arms outstretched in a futile gesture of reconciliation. Peter Green stepped forward. "Besides, don'cha remember that meteorite them eggheads found in Antarctica back in the '80s? Them geniuses all thought there was microbes, little wormy ETs in it. Turned out to be nothin' but reg'lar ol' abiotically-produced spherules and microtubules." All twelve of the remaining employees chanted in unison, "Yeah, nothing but abiotically-produced spherules and microtubules" At hearing this mindless chanting of the corporation litany, which had been so deeply instilled in these low-grade morons, Suzy became so furious that her triple-Ds threatened to escape the flimsy confinement of her bikini's bra. (She had just finished her shift at the carwash operation that was used to cover up the real purpose of the bioweapons lab. Sometimes she thought that whoever developed that particular cover story had watched way too many episodes of Breaking Bad.) "You know, that's not half bad," Suzy said after reconsideration, and she reached down to retrieve the already partially chewed triple Cajun Whopper from her plate and devoured it in four gulps. "Eew!" said Becky May Ralph. The others burst out into another round of maniacal laughter. Suzy could feel a warm pulsating glow in her tummy that quickly spread to her extremities (and last but not least) into her brain. "OK, now you guys are just pissing me off." Suzy inhaled deeply, which stretched her mini-bra to the breaking point. "OK, who wants some of this?" she asked her assembled coworkers, as her bra finally snapped, and her firm yet oversized breasts spilled out for all the world to see. Everybody raised their hands, including Jennifer Stillwater and Cleo "Moonpuppy" Schwartz. Suzy had always suspected they were lesbians. Now the proof was in the pudding, or more accurately in their pussies, which Suzy was quite sure she was going devour within the hour. "OK everybody, drop 'em," she said as ripped off her bikini bottom. Everybody followed suit. There were now 15 employees of the Dance of Kali Bioweapons Facility and Car Wash standing naked in lunchroom, which was conveniently adjacent to the carwash facility. Based on the raised penis count, the vote of the eleven males was unanimous. They did indeed want a piece of Suzy. Very much. Based on the fluids streaming down the legs of the three females, their vote was also unanimous. Let the games begin. A full picture window afforded the carwash customers (commonly called "stooges," "marks," and, on a slow day, "johns") a ringside seat to watch the erotic shenanigans that were about to unfold in the employee lunchroom and would soon spread to the carwash lanes and then to the surrounding environs of the greater Schenectady metropolitan area. "OK, who wants to go first? You there, Billy Floggmeister, get your hands off your tool and raise em high. We can't lose any of your precious bodily fluids. I need all of your fluids. We can't lose a drop of your precious bodily fluids or the plan will break down. Do all of you guys understand? Raise 'em high to the sky. There'll be no beating the meat, no yanking the crank, no jerkin' the gherkin. Not on my watch there won't be. "Ladies, I understand that you're drippin.' It can't be helped. Not in the presence of this," Suzy said, using her arms to show off her trim naked body as if it were a new model car. Suzy began with Billy Floggmeister, the most onanistically-inclined of the assembled lunchroom crowd. "C'mere, you worm-cranker," she said, crooking her index finger. "Let's see if you are really ready for this jelly." Billy took a few zombie-like steps in her direction. He seemed to have lost control of his own muscles. His heart was beating wildly, perhaps out of fear, perhaps in anticipation of the unprecedented attention his hitherto monastic genital system was about receive. He supplicated himself before his new Queen. "Arise, my servant," Suzy said. "I command you to stand. It is I who will kneel." She did so, bringing her head in direct contact with Billy's genitalia. She raised his balls with her hands. "Mmm, must be over 30 milliliters of precious body fluid per ball. These puppies don't get out much, do they, Billy?" Billy shook his head in quiet embarrassment. She rolled his balls in her hand, and then began squeezing them, gently at first then more and more violently. She ran her right hand up the length of Billy's throbbing cock, tracing her nails over the quivering flesh of that organ. "Oh, what have we here?" she said, holding up her index finger to the transfixed crowd. A drop of precum glistened on its tip, which she licked off with relish. "What part of retaining your precious bodily fluids don't you get?" she asked the shamed Laboratory Technician and Special Vice President of Upholstery Vacuuming. Her eyes rotated as a warning to the crowd in general. "Well, no matter; I was about to hoover you anyhow." Her lips closed over the head of Billy's cock, and her tongue ran up and down its length, tracing its throbbing veins. She then ran said tongue up Billy's tummy and neck until her face was right against his. She went to kiss him, and Billy's head thrashed from side to side, trying to avoid her spider's lips at any cost. Suzy finally caught his head in her hands and soul kissed him with a longer tongue than Billy would have thought possible in even his wildest dreams (and in lieu of any girls in Billy's waking life, he had some pretty wild dreams). Suzy slowly pulled her lingual anaconda out of Billy's gastrointestinal system and back through his mouth. She licked his cheeks, burning them with his own gastric juices, then she burned her way back down to Billy's throbbing cock. His eyes opened wide with fear as she opened her hydra mouth and plunged it over that aching organ, her hands still working his testicles as though they were a pair of Chinese Baoding exercise balls. Her serpent's tongue wrapped itself around Billy's shaft. She began to squeeze him and then release him in a complex rhythmic pattern. The sensation was like nothing experienced by any mere terrestrial man before. Billy had been swept from his lonely position at the eternal back row seat of the fornication world right down to front row and center. As Suzy sucked him harder and harder, she ran her fingernails up and down his naked, quivering, albeit partially-digested torso. Soon, her hungry hands descended once again to Billy's balls. She squeezed them in earnest, precisely in time with the contractions and dilations of her serpentine tongue, which were becoming more powerful with each iteration. By now the carwash stooges / marks / johns were pressed against the picture window of the employee lunchroom like so many moths drawn to the light. Their noses were flattened against the glass, their fists pounding it, demanding immediate entry through that oversized silicon condom. The very few customers with any remaining powers of ratiocination were hastily filling out the employment application forms on the table below the window. But this is a digression that needlessly threatens the reader's erection and/or lubrication. Let us return to the erotic antics of our extraterrestrial wanderer and her new disciple, one William Caisell Floggmeister III, in the final moments of the latter's human existence. Where were we? Oh yes, the thing that had once been Suzy Osbourne was brutally squeezing Billy's balls with her Baoding-trained viselike hands in time with the constrictions of her strong and lengthy spiraled pythonic tongue. Those questionably human organs were of course merely biding their time until they were sure of extracting the maximum quantity of Billy's precious bodily fluids. When that surety came, she squeezed Billy's trio of genital organs with a power that surpassed that of any pathetic carbon-based life-form. Billy exploded inside her mouth like a demolished Hoover Dam. She could feel the salty warmth of his cum as it poured down her throat, the most delicious treat she had experienced in over two billion years. The warmth in her stomach did not sate her completely, and so she withdrew the contents of his bladder, using his steel-like cock as a straw. Billy was now in heaven, his purpose in life fulfilled completely. Still she was not sated. She still felt the raw hunger produced by two billion years of imposed chastity. She pulled again on her improvised straw, liquefying Billy's organs with her drooling acid saliva. She sucked up his innards, leaving only the wrinkled sack of what had once been Billy's skin, which now resembled the remnants of a punctured helium balloon. Several of the potential employees dropped their application forms and began heading for the exits. Suzy's eyes went black and began to shift back and forth, as though she were a robot with blinking lights processing some inner calculation in a cheesy 1950s sci-fi movie. She began to smile. Billy felt no pain. At first he experienced a perfect blackness, and a feeling of bliss that far exceeded any Earthly pleasure. Then he remembered the many other worlds, the silicon seas, the mountainous terrains of the neutron stars, the violet sunrise of plasma fields twisting in interstellar space, all the creatures that had come before him, the eons before the Big Bang, and the infinity of universes yet to come. Suzy Osbourne raised the empty balloon that was Billy's skin to her lips and blew it up. Billy felt himself pouring back into that lonely and neglected skin. He was not so much restored as reborn. His eyes searched the naked crowd before him. At least that had not changed. Billy's staff snapped to full salute. His eyes went black and shifted rapidly back and forth, performing some calculation known only to him. Finally, he spoke. "OK, who wants to be next?" "Two of us now, less waiting!" the thing that used to be Suzy Osbourne said. "And for you hetero ladies, an erect cock is now available," she added gesturing with her arm at Billy's tumescent foot-long. "A pretty big one too, as you can see. Come and feel that yearning emptiness inside you filled up with his warmth all the way up to your diaphragm or right down to your diaphragm, if you happen to be of the oral persuasion. "For you hetero guys and lesbos, I'll be taking all comers as well. The good news is that it won't stop there. You'll all soon be doing each other as well as anyone or anything you so desire, which will boil down to anything that moves. As soon as we finish this little employee development seminar, they will be powerless to resist you. "OK, so who wants to be first?" True to her name, Cleo "Moonpuppy" Schwartz, lay down on her naked chest, doggie-style. Her massive boobs spread out on the floor beneath her. She looked back over her shoulder with a mischievous grin. "Him," she said, with a wink directed at the newly reinflated William Caisell Floggmeister III. In a rare manifestation of self-assertion, a trembling Geoffrey Whiteman stepped forward, looked at Suzy, and said, "Y-you. S-same position." The thing masquerading as Suzy Osbourne replied, "Oooh, such a master! Gladly, sir." She performed the most submissive and dignified curtsy she could manage, given that she was buck naked and twenty pairs of peeled eyes were devouring her completely exposed flesh through the wide-screen aperture of the carwash window. She then assumed the prone position, lying adjacent to Moonpuppy Shwartz. She began to stroke the lunar canine's hair, smoothing away the snarls and assuaging the woman's trembling body. She reached over and interlaced her fingers with Moonpuppy's. "We who are about to be fucked salute you!" Suzy cried out, pumping a fist salute to the assembled multitude and displaying her limited knowledge of the historical context of human idioms. She gave Moonpuppy's hand a supportive squeeze. William Caisell Floggmeister III performed a graceful swan dive, landing on the soft warm flesh of Moonpuppy's supple back. His cock lay in the space between her tight buttocks. His warm lips traced her swanlike neck, and he reached underneath the vulnerable Moonpuppy and took the nocturnal canine's huge breasts in his hands, squeezing them with all his might. A still-trembling Geoffrey Whiteman at last responded to the crowd's urgings and slowly lay down on Suzy's naked back. He imitated Billy's position, his lips and tongue on the false human's graceful neck, his hand cupping and squeezing her aching breasts, and his throbbing foot-long nestled in the tantalizing buns of his hitherto unavailable coworker. Somebody in front of them waved a checkered flag (presumably stolen from the car wash). Billy and Geoff both backed up and rammed their cocks into the dripping hot cunts of their formerly ice-cold fellow employees. Somebody somehow found a horse race on TV and handed a ruler to each of the riders. "At the curve, it's I-Gotta-Have It, followed by Ice Breaker,..." the drone of the race announcer went on and on and on, but neither rider paid any attention to it, driving their shafts harder and harder into the compliant female bodies beneath then and slapping their beasts' asses as hard as they could with their improvised metric jockey sticks, raising welts that would likely reduce their steeds' performance in the hellish computerized jobs that awaited them after this brief lunchtime frolic was concluded. Black spots began to flow down Suzy's arm, then through the two mares' interlocked fingers and then up Moonpuppy's arms. A complex pattern of black stripes, swirls and dots began to more back and forth and pop in and out of existence on the women's skins. These patterns soon traveled up the men's cocks and then over their skin. Moonpuppy's and Geoff's eyes went black. They were now an undulating mass of human flesh, united in a single mind. Their human identities were shed as needless garbage. Both men squeezed their partner's boobs as hard as they could while pounding their supersized extraterrestrial shafts as deeply into their partner's fading human bodies as Pauli's Exclusion Principle would permit. They all came at once, as their spirits were completely united. Their fluids exploded all over the assembled coworkers, but failed to penetrate the giant prophylactic that was the picture window. These fluids ran across the floor and up and down the walls, forming an army of miniature horseshoe crabs, a form that had served them well over the eons of their existence. Said crabs began to skitter across the floor and underneath the door to the carwash. All the remaining humans headed for the exits, taking the sage advice of the immortal actor Lincoln Theodore Monroe Andrew Perry (better known as Steppin Fetchit): "Feets don't fail me now." They would this time. The Big Apple: June 7, 2016. Princess Leia and Thor stepped up to the microphone. The princess wore only the metallic mini-bikini and collar chain that was so brilliantly designed by the underappreciated Jabba the Hut. Thor was almost an exact replica of his famed portrayer, the actor Chris Helmsworth, right down to his radiant smile, eye twinkle, and inhuman biceps. The princess began: "How about a round of applause for the best Sci-Fest ever. I know many of you have to catch a plane, but if you are lingering around after dinner, I would like to invite you to our informal workshop on extraterrestrial and supernatural sexual techniques. These include of course the Vulcan sexual frenzy of pon farr, the violent mating techniques of the Klingons, the oviparous reproduction of the monster in the movie Alien, and my personal favorite, whatever that hot chick in Species was into, and of course last but far from least, the highly erotic Toad Sutra of Jabba the Hut. Don't worry, there ain't gonna be no hobbit sex, not here on our court." She looked around at the vaguely bored crowd, their attention understandably flagging after the 7-day marathon Sci-Fest convention. Many were also fearful of their bosses' reprisals for missing an entire week of work (although said bosses would find it virtually impossible to find a competent IT employee that did not spend the entire week here). But fear was not the problem. Lack of libido was not going to be a problem either. Her predominantly male audience seemed transfixed by her boobs, which threatened to burst free from their inadequate brass containers at any moment, as well as by her tanned and muscular legs, which flared provocatively out of her diaphanous loincloth. She decided to up the ante. She said, "This will not be merely a theoretically-oriented workshop, but will involve hands-on training. You will get to experience these techniques yourselves. I promise that each and very one of you will be brought to orgasm. Each one of you men in this workshop will be able to shoot your seed into my personal body or into that of some of some equally beautiful female (or male) cosplayer of you own choosing. "You women and all you submissives will experience what it is like for Thor to release his bolt and pound his hammer deeply into your dripping tunnels or mouth. Thor's amazing oral and anal talents will of course be available to any and all doms in the audience. "If you're into kinky, we can also deposit eggs into your abdominal cavity that will burst through your tummy in a fit of Alien rage. Whatever floats your boat. 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.