INTERGALACTIC CUMM FACTORY
by Hertzan Chimera

Bert was no superstar. He should have been left alone. He didn't deserve cryptic column inches in the local rag; his unhappy, unshaven mug scraped through the media. He should not have been persecuted the way he was. Kids of his best friends shouldn't have hurled abuse and thrown stones at him in streets where he grew up. Bert was just an ordinary bloke. Well, he was until that fateful night.

"Enough, my late-night lovelies."

Lily of Green Gables, the albino barmaid of the Hip Swinger public house, got everyone's attention. She had a criminal lisp that just made you want her on her white knees in the honouring act sucking slurping eating you alive, that's how much these slavering acolytes worshipped her pneumatic prowess.

"Morgan of Orange Clogs here tells me there is a very beautiful spot nearby. Now it is a wonderful clear pre-dawn. I, for one, need to shag."

Lily of Green Gables tore off her black wig revealing a perfect snow capped peak of peroxide blond. Stripping to her Sunday morning lie-in best, she led her crew members at a fair canter out of the public house, her minge hairs were the brightest clever boy ginger, her labia and clitoris were pierced by a living chrome shard of life that maggoted around in the general area causing radiant beams to emanate from her seeping sex.

Naked white bottom after naked white bottom bounced up the steep incline in the crisp morning dew, clambered over the wooden style up the gravel track to the exposed hilltop of Ashurst Beacon. One lone, lanky bloke holding his privates followed on the heals of the main pack, wiggling his white arse as camp as Christmas shouting, "Wait for me! Wait for me, everybody!" There by the Ashurst Beacon Monument - a concrete pyramid on top of a concrete cube some twenty feet high in total - the raucous troupe gathered, bouncing up and down on their toes in the nipple hardening chill.

Albino barmaid Lily Veyne stood on the ledge of the monument like a being made of pure goose flesh, trying to get everyone's attention, "...are you game for a bit of an adventure??" Lily was charging up her crew.

"YEAH!!" they roared, throwing up fists, gawping lust hungry into each others' eyes, getting hard-ons stood there in close proximity to living sex machines of every persuasion.

Now, for the last few months, the Hip Swinger public house had been living up to its name. Every Wednesday, just to spice up the mid week doldrums, Landlord Fitzpatrick fresh out of Doncaster Prison for crimes against pussycat, had organised a key swapping night. Young men in turbo diesels and young women in their fat husbands' jags and mercs and rovers, mothers in family estates and space cruisers, fathers taking the bus (preaching the Don 't Drink & Drive Sermon as they leave the family home to fuck uniformed schoolgirls at some filthy pub out in the middle of nowhere) would turn up, exchange keys and drive each other off to secret location, where they would all take it in turns to watch each other fuck. Some times it would be on the treacherous roads of the quarry overlooking town or sometimes in the car park of the all night shopping centres that had opened up round here recently.

You could imagine the scenes, yeah? Faces pressed up against the steamed up interiors getting fucked from behind while some wanker smears his greased up cock all over the window, or with the side window down getting shagged from outside the car as she sucked off some fortunate young pup bleating like a lamb after its first milk of the day, gagging for it, or . you get the idea? Well, a fine time was always had by all. There was a regular by the name of Mister Moonshine (I think it was a made up surname) who brought his home made potcheen to the fray, fiery brew if understatement was your cup of tea - crazy psychomorphic properties if you got the mix just right. And Mister Moonshine ALWAYS got the mix just right. Tonight's was a special, on the orders of Lily of Green Gables, 'full whack and don't hold back on the ponies of transmutation'. To all intents and purposes, this was the Wednesday Night Fuck Club. At least that's what they all thought.

This is the story Lily hadn't told her regular fuck & suck partners, "Every tiny white dot that you see in the sky on clear autumn nights such as these is equal to the number of warring nations currently making a thorough bollocks-up of a war on the opposite side of your Galaxy. They need your help. Need your souls. The ammunition of your dreams. The compounds that your carbon bodies are made of. You are to be the weapon we need to gain an advantage in the game of stalemate we've been locked in for millennia. Like kamikaze heroes we will smash through their lines of defence. Taking their leaders with us as we. She would have made a great intergalactic speaker, a true leader with rousing stories like these, if only she ever worked up the courage to tell them the way things were off planet.

Suddenly, silhouetted against an early sun, Nikita of Cerise Prose, the beautiful lass hot off the estate. She could have been a model in anyone's books, balletically held aloft by Vini of Grey Signposts Heading East. Nikita of Cerise Prose was super flexible, more so than usual on this occasion, turned back on herself in mid-air, her ankles by her ears. Arms poured into both her genital orifices. Ten long, black-tipped tendrils popping from her mouth tickling and teasing Vini of Grey Signposts Heading East's hairy Greek body; like watching worms wriggle about on an old sweating toupee. An intrusive digit slips slithered up his rectum, releasing his inner soul for all the world to see; for the shit black colour that it was; making his body ooze tarmac. A boiling backlashing of asphalt and brakefluid. A black heart wreathed in black blood spewing its black influence over the packs of revellers about them as he spun faster and faster and faster on his heals until he and Nikita of Cerise Prose tumbled drunkenly to the floor in a big black gurgling twisting mass of degradation. His spluttering influence like a plague - the black dearth - contaminated all and sundry with its decadent dynamic of flesh and need.

Caught in the slathering treacle crossfire, Christian d'Alabama, the Crucified Meathacker of Margate; his murderous guilt eking its blunt revenge on him. Pushed the weapon of his gory trade out of him. He staggered about aimlessly in the orgiastic melee, every part of him protruding cattle spikes and brain bludgeons. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Jutting from his skull. Piercing his eyes, his cheekbones, chin, clavicles. Poking from every naked part. Front and back. Thwack, thwack, thwack like a hydraulic meat cleaver hacking a four-four military beat.

"Forgive, Forgive." he ranted, you could hear the big base drum under each stamping footstep, "Take what sad revenge you must, my maker. Mine is a sad and truculent dilemma." A cattle spike pierced his tongue, stunting his diatribe. A brain bludgeon swung down on his shattered cerebellum.

"lik-he thoo thla midpertrabte." he blethered on regardless to an autistic audience. Stumbled over an aged couple on the dewy grass, embedding himself in the back of a wrinkly old man known as Harry of High Witches as he rammed in and out of sme farting old hag under him. The impaled thruster juddered wildly, unloading his entire scrotum, both barrels into the old, cold girl. He spasmed like a dying fly, Christian d'Alabama behind him stuck to his leathery back. Locked into his spine and shoulders. Shouting, "These demented things are out to teach us severance." The oldster dropped to all fours and scampered off into the night like a startled hedgehog.

Harry of High Witches manic ravings, "Echoing! Echoing! The cheating spinemonger! Teeth be the work of Satan. The Chalice of Semantics all roaring and betraying their foes with these unbridled iconography! Ramble jamble tramplings" he rolled away into a low ambience of ground fog curving over the brow of the hill.

Ju Ni Poo, the fat old slattern left alone on her back in the damp grass was wearing a stern complexion. Her eyes and teeth as cold as ice crystals blown by an arctic storm. The blizzard behind her eyes like whipping flesh. Her shoulders jolted with the arctic rush. She clasped her hands together against the chill. A guttural revving cry rose from deer within her. The glee in her face like a headlamp, halogen full beam. Her hands and feet together whizzing, blurred like flywheels on reheat. Her limbs and chest gone haywire. She propped forward and in so doing kickstarted herself, her engine roaring.

Stewart Shelley of Monkwhips stumbled in on this metaphysical miracle. Mounted the big white motorbike: whooped and cried out as he revved her ears. Off they went, rodeo rider and bull dyke zipping past a brawling load of jock-strapless rugger boys. Two of the group of six were playing fisticuffs. The rest were cheering them on to even more extremes of violence. In their excitement their bulky bodies have filled out, overdosed on their frenzy-manufactured steroid derivatives of Mister Moonshine. Ligament of brass and musculature carved from radioactive granite combining to add a massive bulk to their beefed-up frames. Even their heads, affected by the rush, grew and swelled to nauseating proportions. The crackle of mutating bone like the sound of a spoilt brat squashing his packet of crisps so his mates won't want any. Human shapes swapped for more substantially mythological designs; the mighty Minotaur and the graceful Griffin. Another lumbered by a multi-horned Centaur.

Georgia (no surname for this aloof a fellow), took to his mind's ideal existence and sprouted huge eagles wings. His face splitting horizontally and crystallising to a crazy beak ready for gnawing out the Eye of Christ our saviour. Off into the dawn sky he winged; his ebony legs withering to mainly decorative tail feathers. Higher above the torrid scene he soared the stench of transmogrification rising with him like vertigo. From this elevation, he could see Lily on the concrete dais that surrounded the monument. The many grotesque and distorted abominations roaring deliriously below, stumbling through nightmares, fighting demons, running scared from unseen pursuers. The musky odours ripe even at this heady altitude.

Check this out, WPC Mavis BlitzKrieger like himself, was a bird of paradise. Two sets of batwings for this ornithologist's fantasy. Glossy and slick as cat fur. They met in a manic, beak-pecking embrace at the very zenith of their shared ascent. Then, as if in tacit agreement, both plummeted in each others many winged embrace. Swooping birds of prey on a crash course for a glowing mutated mass of animal parts and human memories that was struggling with its own creation; imagine a non-swimmer caught in the salty undertow on a desolate beach.

Lily watching on, tears of joy and tears of regret mixing on her cheeks, the morning sun raising up the substrata of veins and skin tattooes on her gooseflesh of design. Eyes like headlamps on a cold harsh Lake District bend scintillating. The birds of paradise hit the wet mass of flesh and bone and passion head-on. Bull's eye. The momentum of their crash like a drop into a standing pool propels unrecognisable shards of meat-hook fodder high into the petulant sunrise. These clods of human tissue as they descended reforming and rearranging rodental replicants. Their tiny bodies as they splashed back into the bubbling mound struck a flat note. Each musical slap a single motto. The whole ensemble as it splattered like faeces playing on the shores dimly seen through the mists of the deep where the foes haughty host in dread silence reposes.

The locals would call Bert a dirty lying filth monger and he would receive the modern day equivalent of being burnt at the stake for his heresy for years to come until he died of a fever, reliving that furtive night of strangeness as he stood in the bushes with his shrivelled dick in cold hands. His full name was Bert the Coach Driver, because that was his job. He drove coaches for a firm called Ogdens, a northern family firm that may or may not still be in service. He had quite innocently parked up on that fateful night, in a layby just down from the Hip Swinger - he had an early pickup of pensioners bound for their annual trip to the peepshows and porn palaces of Wigan Pier. He couldn't believe his luck when he saw the first of the naked party goers dashing past his darkened coach. He had even pulled out his pud when he saw the orange stain of Lily's vaghair glistening in his rear view mirror like church bells on a Sunday morning lie in. He had started to get going, pulling angrily on his useless little dick, getting the coach into a rocking frenzy when the rest of the troupe clambered by in the dark, bumping and scraping down the side of his precious coach. Bert had got out for a look-see. Wouldn't hurt anybody, just to get out and have a little peek at a raging Sabbat in full flow, thought he. Maybe the sight of naked lassies all bouncing round in the stiff breeze might make his balls explode for the first time in God knows how many moons.

Motorbike Ju Ni Poo and her hair-brained rider Harry of High Witches ripped round the concrete monument in fifth. Ploughed right into the mound of undulating flesh. Expelling more musical mottoes what is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep as it fitfully blows half conceals half discloses.

Lily of Green Gables was truly amazed at the extent of sheer magic her Mister Moonshine manufactured concoction had ripped loose. Suddenly, as if on cue, the millions of orange street lamps far below blinked out from the far horizon radially in. Like a ripple of deep black water running in reverse, the blackness engulfed household light and municipal lamp standard with equal vigour up the Ashurst Hill to its source the concrete monument known as Ashurst Beacon. A crucifixion wind had risen up the side of the hill and was tearing folks hair about. Shouting to be heard became the order of the day. Morgan of Orange Clogs staggered to Lily of Green Gable's side, panting awestruck fresh from a bout of blow-jobbing you wouldn't believe, his big fat belly full of the demon seed of Satan and all the Goatboys in Greece, "What the hell is happening?" he implored as a black car-shape came rocketing over the brow of the hill. Screaming BANSAI!! as it thumped into the lard globule. Expelling more music. Now it catches the gleam of the mornings first beam the black tide sweeps all the way to the summit of Ashurst Beacon. In one blinding surge of alien power the concrete monument exploded with a blue light, throwing Lily and Morgan headlong into the mountain of redesigned flesh before them.

Morgan screaming, Lily beaming; as their donation to the cause spewed out. In full glory reflected now shimmer at the stream tis the star spangled banner. The half hundred weight of human substance lifted sluggishly into the air. Its external surface baking egg-shell smooth. 0 long may it wave the levitating gargantuan splits into two - the cell division of a fertilised ova - with a hi-pitched cry of ecstasy. The halved amoeba quarters. Like four house-sized golf balls rolling about each other before subdividing to eight with a wild exclamation of glory. Initiating further subdivisions - the procreation of a truly magnificent war machine. A Homo Sapien Battle Cruiser. Each swift, howling halving revealing more and more glistening detail buffing up the specularity with the refinement of granularity of the living surface. Ferocious dislocations fuelled by the erotic desires of its 24 component parts. Its super human substructure. Shuddering with magnificent armoury and turrets, a castle in the sky. Amazing mind-boggling thrusters droning with pregnant potential; their pitch soaring readying for blast off. Tornadoes - tiny dust storms beneath the craft whipped up by the shifted volumes of air.

The Battle Cruiser turned lazily in the air, slowly developing portholes and landing gear which retracted mechanically into itself. Huge laser-guided bombs born to its underside. The human screams and groans of sheer physical and traumatic ecstasy now throbbing with raw, near climactic power. Tail fins, one either side, slide out like flesh razors. Gleaming iridescent in the blue column of light that emanates from the concrete Ashurst Monument stretching high into the night sky like a cobalt laser. Over in burning Liverpool a bright-blue column of light reaches for the stars. Over to the East and to the North and to the South bright blue columns of transmutatory energy stuck up in the sky like a National Contagion.

The cockpit of the Battle Cruiser blossomed like a flower afore of the vessel's armoury and, as the bewildered, wind swept coach-driver, Bert, rose from his seclusion, his hands to his ears, his little dick finally shooting forth the grey sperm of decay he was sure he saw the orange flanged female rise pneumatically into her seat behind the turtle shell canopy, mouthing instruction as the screams of agony reached a deafening intensity o'er the land of the free.

She flipped down the blast visor on her helmet, jabbed in some co-ordinates. And the gleaming Battle Cruiser entered the light, a genetic monolith blaring a magnificent melody of sound.

The chorus faded to a soft resonant heartbeat as the sun finally broke loose. There was one climatic ululation. A nuclear cry from the heart. And the whole enormous war machine ejaculated up inside the cobalt blue column with one deafening hypersonic bang. And the home of the brave lingered in Bert's hypersonically blasted ears.

*****