ENCROACHING TORRENTS: OF ERRANT BUTCHERS, ALIEN BUSTERS, AND INTIMATE BRUSHES
By Quillon42
Pretty much entirely to the surprise of the short-order-entrepreneurs-cum-special-operative-exterminators that were Gordon and Karla, the horrific otherworldly creature that would be confronted would not be extraterrestrials in the vast reaches of outer space, nor even aliens at the American border with Mexico.
No, this time the maniacal inhuman meddler would be met at the line where the Land of Opportunity intersected with the World Next Door.
It was at the town of Calais in the state of Maine that the hell-expelled horror would be happened upon in fact. Again contrary to initial expectations, the New England encounter in question was not one sprung from the mind of a terrifying literary master (yet also a Twittering liberal moron) by the cognomen of King, but rather one which was human on the exterior…yet to be certain was also an utterly unholy anathema on the inside.
Kismet coordinated matters so that, after draining the evilest of eyeballed brains out of existence, the saviors in spandex that were the Alien Busters had splashed down in their troposphere-tripping taxicab into the section of Atlantic Ocean not far from Calais in fact, about twenty miles away from crossing into New Brunswick. Gor and Kar had noted disconcertedly that their fellow soldier Scooter had absconded from the craft a bit early; it was the case in fact that the robot roustabout had ejected early in order to singlehandedly take on the Armed Reserves menacing Mexico with tear gas and other such detestable types of "defense" against hungry and exhausted incomers.
Because of this, it would be the catsup and dijonnaise that were the cherry- and canary-costumed compatriots who would on their own have to…relish…(herp derp)…their battle with the bruiser at the northern border who they were about to acquaint themselves with most unpleasantly.
"What is that…uncouth abomination?!" cried Karla, she trembling a mite bit upon viewing the vicious individual clomping toward them, the beastly diabolical brute brandishing blades of all kinds.
As far as the lady in lemon was concerned, both she and her garnet-garbed G had witnessed all kinds of retch-reckoning interplanetary phantasmagoria. This parsecs-pacing parade of horribles included warty-witch-facey fuckers flinging lightning, gigantic floating flesh carrots replete with rows of perilous peepers, and long-necked lubbers who time and again threatened to bite down on a benevolent bastard and spit him across the screen of a given arena most unusual.
Yet this…this murderous mockery of a person plodding towards the two right now…even these troopers who slung themselves down from the ether of the Almighty to this very junction, even they failed to fathom how he/it could possibly pass the dividing line between Maple Leaf and MAGA Chief. And now this thing was aiming at Gordon a throwing knife, a shank that was sharpened upon the splintered skull of a Canadian whose time here was ended way too quickly and viciously.
Before Gordo could gawk at the piercing projectile any longer, the miserable main gauche was grilled out of the air by the fire blaster of the femme in flaxen fabric. In response the wretched ghoul had gaped back with ghastly goggle eyes, he unsheathing a sword now, he raring to wreak the length of steel upon the woman who wiped out his blade with her flame.
Regretfully the rancid jackass could not perpetrate another step before his rue-inspiring rapier was raped from him by a spark from Gordon's electric-blasting cannon. Even as the sword skittered away down the Mainer lane, though, the demon of a derelict whipped out the worst amongst his atrocious arsenal: nothing less than a bloody chainsaw lethal enough to make Leatherface leer in envy.
In the time that it took for the Canada-exiting kobold to rev up his toothy tool, however, he was already set upon by the tandem team of the she-devil in saffron and the brick shithouse in barn/scarlet. One twist to the right, and Karla let loose her machinegun into his torso and a grenade into his face. Another turn to the left, and Gord gave him his pistol in the kisser and his bazooka in the manboobs. When the two were through,
[BLAZZZZZAAAAASSSSSHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM]
what was arguably the greatest threat to world peace, as well as of course national security, had been thoroughly eradicated, blasted away by the Busters.
But now it was time for the pair to set such unnerving anxieties aside as they lay in one another's arms inside their old familiar food truck, Scooter having sprinted to them from Arizona in order to collect up the cosmic cab and bring up the duo's reliable ride home. The cheeseburger chariot chugged along the interstate as the primo padre and first lady of campy-critter-crushing commenced to copulate most completely.
Every fucking time that Gordon glanced at Karla clapped up in that chintzy crimson vest, all while they were hawking hot dogs to slavering droves in the city…every time that the girl in turn eyed the guy in his sleek sleeveless tee…each had imagined said threads taken forcefully from the torso and strewn upon the filthy floor. For far too many privates-stifling trices in fact, all that either could garner was a stray blink in the direction of the other as he or she was changing into the standard-issue alien-eliminating apparel.
Now, though, while their technological third wheel was out on an inventory errand…it was the goony Gordon who divested the vixen Karla of her vermilion vest, he who had shucked off the buttoned shirt underneath to expose to that employees-only alcove the most un-alien bust he had ever beheld. He shivered now, this man who had headed into the most slithery of sanctums, as the intelligence-gathering craft of his cranium was brought to dock upon the pulsating planets of his paramilitary mistress's breasts, the riveted rovers of his hands caressing the ravishing regolith of her heavenly body's blessed belly, the probe of his thumb descending into the cushy crater of her denuded navel. It was a diplomacy most desirous as the launchpads of the man's legs intertwined with the tenderest trestles of the woman's thighs; as the sweltering shuttles of their arms nestled parallel to one another in the course of their interstellar wanton warp into intimacy; as both the ruby ruffian's rocket boosters as well as his enormous external tank became entrenched in the sexual celestials of first the incalculable depths of Heranus, then between the most natural of satellites of Jugpiter, then the most magnificent Mound of Venus that was the topaz temptress's Plutendum in fact.
(Yes, Pluto still counted in this reality…especially as this was back in 1990).
And he would cry "Karla!" and she would call back "Gordon!"
And he would cry "Karen!" and she would call back "Garth!"
And all of this was okay, given that their names were different depending upon the region in which their exploits were experienced.
Gordon was especially cool with it…just as long as Karla never said "Slammer" in the course of their most carnal of congresses.