Orcus, there is a wonderful tiding heading your way.
Oh, wishes and washes!
Somewhere in the wastelands of Tal-Shawah, a dworf with robotic hands twitches himself awake. His dense body convulses, disgusting undulations ripe with revelations. Pee squirts out of his dickhole, joining piss comrades in the stained undergarments. Brothers in urine: Loincloth highway.
You make the hurt so long and pro...
Moping.
Moving.
Morbid creature.
The sun has reached full waking, casting a hateful glare directly into Duncan's hungover eyeballs. Red hot pain slithers through his peepers, directly into his brain. Bones ache, mechanical arms creak. Duncan attempts to rise. He fails, slipping on sand and piss. Like an infant fresh out the cunt, he flails around in pain, alive and screaming.
You deserve to rot here, Orcus.
Go back to sleep, this time, forever.
Vexation?
There is a theory forming,
you won't like it Blondie.
I don't like anything,
including the thing glaring from burnt sand!
Brace yourself then,
know that I warned you!
Out with it,
I'm called to the torture!
You're sober.
Duncan rolls over, the agony of revelations hitting him in the gut, punching his sanity, thrashing his willpower. His own body is suing him for damages, the retribution is at hand.
Disbelief,
disgust,
distortion.
He writhes himself into a knot, trying to force himself standing. Things are not working out, giving up looks sweeter than ever. Candy wrapped relief, inside is void.
It's what we deserve.
I mean, look at yourself.
Give up alrea-
Quiet.
Teeth gnashing, Duncan rises once again. The pain in his head threatens to split him open like overripe fruit. His own legs try to rebel against him, the full brunt of the hangover searing his soul well done.
No!
Please, let there be peace at last...
Let us go to the Gulf,
and spare the world of our-
Duncan slaps himself with robotic claws. Streaks of blue run down his exposed cheek. He looks around for his raspirator, hoping it wasn't taken by scavengers. He wobbles around for a bit, the irony of looking like a drunk while hungover threatening to floor him once again. A few steps later, he spots a tarnished little rebreather mask with old, funky rune-filters. His raspirator, half-buried in grit, a collapsed bike a few paces beyond that, upside down with its belly exposed. As he puts the raspirator back on his bearded face, he ponders his raw luck.
Scavs on sick leave?
Sick means dead out here.
Peace is a rarity in the wasteland...
"Let's get you up." He lifts the bike, flipping it so it stands on its wheels. Popping the anchor legs, he can now sit against it! This is a luxury he doesn't pass up, PLOP he goes against the bike.
The problem remains.
Stone cold sober, memories flooding in.
This sucks.
Major suckage.
Duncan sits for what feels like hours. His thoughts are a spiral of shame, rage, and a little bit of arousal. I don't have enough fingers to count how long he sits there, so long is his sojourn into the depths of his rage-tainted mind.
Until...
'I want to go home-' she says right before they cut her fucking legs off.
Those are some impressive lungs.
Look at her go!
Stop.
And off go the arms!
A true nugget!
For fuck's sake...
This is horrible!
But what can we do?
It's already too much,
the stain on our soul runs deep.
Duncan tries to ignore his own wild hunt flaring up like a bad rash. It's hard, when coupled with the hangover, a powerful cocktail of impulses overtakes him.
Now, this is good.
Oh?
They're roasting her on a spit...
...or rather, her torso.
Is that right?
They're not even hungry.
Love of the game, right there.
Duncan's frenzy threatens to overtake him, a vengeful sensation barely kept in check by his abjuration.
No, don't!
We don't know, not really.
What if she asked?
What if she's into-
Hark to a remnant...
...impotent rage that has nowhere to go...
...it smells sour, oh so sour...
...like acid rain, corrosive and harsh.
Orcus, don't go rash.
You'll make worse.
Good.
Duncan rises to his feet, plants himself on his bike, and rides towards the place where the venge needs. His wild hunt is like a bloodhound, pointing to the luxurious vengeance he can have.
The journey is shorter than Duncan's fuse. He absolutely rips it across the wasteland, arriving at the scene of the crime within minutes. The group of scags look at him as he arrives at full speed, confused and a little worried.
"He sure is in a rush!" says Taelor, pointing at Duncan in awe, her dirty hair billowing in the zaturated breeze.
"Someone might do something!" Ruebblex comments, not breaking eye contact with the faces in his palm. I hate writing his name, so I hope he dies first.
"I'm busy, these juices won't trap themselves!" says Skitch, rotating the spit, getting that perfect roast.
That leaves one more, the most anxious member of this quartet, a hand wringing man called Brizz. Duncan is closer, details starting a render of his furrowed brow. It's now or never, Brizz!
"Bravery is trending!" The fourth of the quartet steps forth to face an incoming bike. Details are now fully rendered. Warning: The brow is very furrowed!
"Halt!" Brizz shouts. He is confident that Duncan will stop. Never before in his life has there ever been such a well-spring of confidence. He is ready to be the defender of his friends, and their delicious prize. Perhaps Taelor will even rub his belly, hold hands with him...even be his girlfriend?! The possibilities swim inside his skull like a fever dream, his eyes spinning with salacious fantasy. That self-assurance doesn't last long, in fact...it erodes faster than flesh against super acid when Duncan doesn't slow down. In a desperate attempt, Brizz tries again.
"Cease and de-SHIT!" Duncan's bike collides with Brizz's body at excessive velocity, turning the tyling into a twisted mess of broken bones and shattered day dreams. Duncan falls off on impact, rolling in the sand several times. Unlike the contorted bag of meat (once known as Brizz) next to the bike, Duncan suffers a few bruises here and there. Taelor, Ruebblex and Skitch turn their alarmed attention towards the carnage, and are not pleased in the slightest. First impressions are somewhere between taking a shit on their lawn, and doing the same but as a nithehewer.
"Snap that stunty!" The quartet (now a trio) open fire with their blasters. Duncan is already charging towards them, his feet were moving before that angry bark ever rang out.
You'd think shooting an advancing target would be easy. Just lead it, and BANG. Not so, Duncan closes the one hundred metron gap between him and his prey in eight seconds. In a twisted irony, Brizz was the best shot out of all of them, but chose to yell at his target instead.
By the time two of the trio (now a duo) have processed that Skitch has been disembowelled by Duncan's sawblade axe, the dworf is already half a second away from doing the same to Ruebblex. In pure desperation, he blocks the strike with his rifle. The axe cuts through the gun, and into the man's chest. Collapse, THUNK, and Duncan keeps going, dragging the spinning blade from chest to groin. Now with Ruebblex dead, I can finally stop writing his stupid name.
Duncan looks at Taelor, his pupilless eyes smouldering like searing brass. Panic overwhelms her when met with that furrowed brow. She drops her gun and tries to flee towards one of the cars parked a few metrons away.
Brizz was going to ask her out after they ate her.
Cute.
Rub her belly.
It's what Brizz would've wanted.
Duncan leaps like a rocket, landing on Taelor's back, a non-consensual piggy back! The dworf's density causes the tyling woman to face plant, her screaming mouth receiving sand upon impact with the ground.
How are you going to rub her belly now?
Duncan looks at the sharp claws of his mechanical fingers.
( •᷄ᯅ•᷅ )
( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Duncan rips the struggling woman's clothes off, and shoves his fingers directly into her back, where the stomach should be. His hand advances, Taelor paralyzed with shock, until the object of Duncan's quest is finally within reach...the stomach. He rips it out, and starts rubbing it like a pet, even starts singing to it. Taelor succumbs to shock and dies shortly after.
The venge is satiated.
Duncan feels his tummy growling. "Grawr!" demands the rumbling belly! He looks around for potential food, inspecting his recent kills. It isn't looking good.
Barely good enough to eat.
Sand mixed with gore.
Grody.
Are we stooping?
Ask later.
Duncan's eyes fall on a dismembered corpse that was, until just recently, alive and uncooked. With no one to rotate the metal spike, the humanoid torso hangs still and spitroasted. He estimates that it was a tyling like the dead quartet, whose names I've already forgotten and I'm too lazy to scroll up.
"Now there's a yummy looking nugget..." Duncan approaches the torso, heart beating through his bulging eyes, mouth breeding a deluge. His raspirator can barely keep up with the loss of fluids. The hangover still threatens to push him into a coma, the promise of succulent flesh all that keeps him conscious.
"Hark at ya, all sweet and tender..." he touches the slab of cooked tyling, caressing it like a long lost lover. "Crispy on the outside and..." He stabs his robotic finger into the flesh, all the way down to the metal pole. Savoury juices linger on the metallic claw as he pulls it out, satisfaction gleaming through him as surely as the sun above him.
"Mid Well done...my uppahald."
Remembering the dangers of the world, Duncan skips over to his bruised bike, rips the thrumball out of the slut, and throws it up in the air with a spin. It stays airborne, glowing and spinning, the activation ritual complete.
"Scan for zaturation, raduzone: three kloms."
The thrumball flies higher and higher, stopping roughly a kilometer above the carnage. Bolts of harmless golden lightning strike directly beneath the sphere, spreading outwards in a circular pattern, stopping at the three kilometer mark. The radius scan is complete, and the thrumball flies down to deliver a report.
+++ General zaturation average +++
Armed with that assurance, off goes that pesky raspirator, and CHOMP go the teeth on that piece of meat! He rips a chunk off, starts chewing with deliberate slowness, letting the juices touch his tongue. His eyes widen in shock, lips tremble with disbelief. The results are beyond what he could ever imagine.
"Magna matara..."
Swallowing the lump of gourmet, tears roll down Duncan's jaded cheeks, seasoning the experience with medium rare joy.
We are undeserving.
Duncan paces around the spitroast, unsure how to proceed. He looks around, thinking that this is a trap laid by some clever wyrlock, or perhaps a tricksy dretch. He brandishes his sawblade axe, revs it to drive out any vermin hiding beneath the sands. When nothing happens, he looks back at the cooked torso with ravenous desire.
Counterpoint: Yum.
"This is-"
"I-"
"Hwa-"
Duncan rips off pieces of juicy meat, and devours them as slowly as his feeding frenzy allows. Once the beast in his stomach goes quiet, a considerable chunk is gone. He grabs a net and wraps it around the torso, strapping it to his bike.
Sav'er for later.
He summons the hovering thrumball, and shoves it into the slut on his dash, where it belongs. Duncan drives towards the mountains in the distance, armed with a smile and a shitty bike. When the sun has reached the peak of waking, otherwise known as high noon, he has lunch. It's somehow even better than breakfast. The meat is somehow still a delectable piece of gourmet even when its grown ambient temperature warm. The perfect piece of meat.
When the sun's wake starts drooping, and the evening threatens to arrive, Duncan takes stock of his situation, activating the thrumball on his bike. The weather report isn't looking good.
Chance of syrigg.
Shit...
There's a cave, few metrons back.
So sayeth the ball, at least.
Harken to balls...man's folly, amirite?
Duncan turns around, down the foothills and into the cave mentioned by his wild hunt. He sets up a neat little camp inside, and takes his time to enjoy dinner. Savouring the taste, the feel of the juices squeezing out of the flesh between his teeth. His eyes glaze over, he rubs his belly, drawing a bit of blue blood. Lying down, satiated, he falls asleep the moment his head hits the bedroll.
Time for dreams, Blondie.
A'yep.
Ylva could work wonders with this meat.
Already cooked real goody tho.
Imagine what a food wizard like her could do.
...
Incoming wet dream...
...
...
...
...
"I've arrived."
You stand before the lust of your life, covered in the blood of those that would keep you apart.
June sits on her throne, her brown hair billowing dramatically at your savage entrance.
Her sexy smile is fuel for your murderous vengeance, the muscles in your fleshy arms ravening for violent retribution.
"Orcus!" June shouts.
High octane joy flies into your ear holes.
Aroused and violent.
The idiotic, dumb smelly suitors stand there, jaws agape.
You are ready to rip them from asshole to skull.
SLAM
RIP
CRUSH
EXCESSIVE CARNAGE
Man, you fucked them right up.
Look at them quivering in their own blood and piss.
June scrambles down the stairs, climbs the pile of corpses, and embraces you in an erotic hug.
Oh man, that's some fondling right there.
"Fuck me into this pile of corpses, until I can feel the dirt beneath the marble!"
Okay, we'll speak again when the wet dream is over.
...
THRUST THRUST THRUST
...
THRUST THRUST THRUST
...
THRUST THRUST THRUST
...
THRUST THRUST THRUST
...
THRUST THRUST CLI-FUCKING-MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAX
...
...
...
...
THRUST THRUST THRU-
Nibble...
Nibble...
Nibble...
Duncan’s eyes snap awake, kicking his feet violently.
Canine yelp, sounds like a-
"Skellogs?!" Duncan exclaims, jumping into a combat stance, a reflex honed through centuries of shenanigans. The beast is a canine all right, a dog with black and white fur. The white of the fur is in a skeletal pattern, an evolved scare tactic. Duncan snarls. The skellog he kicked makes itself look bigger by puffing the fur. He doesn't care, and looks to protect his nugget of flesh...
...where is it?
His eyes track a trail of delicious juices towards the corner of the cave where a group of canine skelly dogs are feasting...and they're just about done. Duncan blinks, the reality of what has happened sinking into his gut in the span of a few seconds.
"You...sons of bitches!" Duncan's furious scream vibrates the cave. The pack of skellogs doesn't back down, their animal instinct telling them to surround the lone prey. Duncan punches, kicks and sometimes bites...but never enough to kill. He can't bring himself to kill them, no matter how much their jaws hurt. The scuffle eventually carries him to the edge of the cavern entrance, the acid downpour in full swing outside. At that moment, a revelation penetrates Duncan's thick skull.
Skellogs hiding from a syrigg?
That would take flesh-melting pH.
Duncan faces the skellogs. They form a perimeter, slowly advancing towards the dworf. Licking their lips, their intent is clear. Looking at the rain outside, then back at the hungry pack of dogs, Duncan smirks, his choice is made!
"You want a piece of me, curs?"
In response, they bark. In approval, excitement, or simply because they're dogs, it doesn't matter.
"Well..." Duncan leaps backwards, both hands extended as he flies out into the acid rain "FUCK YOOOOUUUUUU!"
The dogs can do little but watch helplessly as their next meal escapes their jaws. Duncan disintegrates in seconds.
Only his robotic arms remain, middle fingers extended.
