While R2D2-with-a-Boner chased the tittering bombshells about the pool, whirring and beeping, Barton retired to the bar to see if he could learn any new and stirring drink recipies from the tender. He was pleased to find that indeed he could. Despite years of culinary training in 16th Century Belgium, there was still a trick or two the chef did not know. Not only did he learn how to concoct the legendary Sandy Clam, which was like a nasty Sex on the Beach made with Clamato instead of pineapple juice (for the recipe, see Vex Magazine Issue #5), but Mr. Buttmarten also learned of the Shirley Temple of Doom, which was like a regular Shirley Temple made with Robitussin instead of grenadine.
Barton whistled happily, engaged in his favorite pastime, while he watched his robot buddy cavort with the bunnies. On the opposite side of the pool, the Chipmunks gangbanged a busty brunette: Alvin taking the vagina, Simon the mouth, and dirty Theodore, the poop-chute. A bluebird landed on Barton's shoulder and whistled Chopin. All seemed right with the world.
But that was just a bitter illusion. In reality, the world was completely fucked.
Suddenly, R2D2-with-a-Boner wheeled up to the chef, beeping madly. Following the droid, Buttmarten came upon a most peculiar sight. Three identical blonde beauties stood by a riverbank in a position reminiscent of the three monkeys who preferred to See, Hear, and Speak no Evil, respectively. But while one blonde covered her mouth, another hid her vagina, and the third her ass.
"What praytell by Jovius affects you three buxom lasses?" ejaculated Barton Buttmarten.
"Woe is hella us," cried the middle one, who held her vagina, "it's like totally terrible." And thereupon, she related the tale of how the triplets - Barbie, Barbi, and Barbee - had been pilfered respectively of mouth, vagina, and anus.
"A fie and scoundrelous deed, absent of all ruth!" pronounced Buttmarten, adjusting his dashing haberdashery. "But what devilish dastard could be devious enough to perpetrate such purloinery?"
"Please," wailed Barbee, "you must, like, help us get them totally back, or we'll be doomed to, like, totally live amongst the freaks in Fetishtown."
"Mmm-mrm m-mmmh," added Barbie.
"Fetishtown, you darest not say?" inquired Barton chewing on his dragoonsman's moustachiolos, "perhaps we should commence our sleuthinations therewith abouts."
"Be-beep," concurred R2D2-with-a-Boner, removing his phallus from Barbi's mouth.
And so, the two compatriots began the journey up the long and winding road to Fetishtown, imbroglio'd as it were in another adventure.
As the cuisinartisan and his trashcan-shaped companion came round a bend, they heard a vaguely familiar nasal voice instructing someone to, "put it back in your mouth, bitch." As they rounded the corner, Barton realized it was none other than Kermit the Frog, engaged in the facefucking of a young lass.
A nonplussed look passed over the girl's face, as the emaciated amphibian pressed her face all the way up to his green body. There was a terrible retching sound, and the lass unceremoniously vomited all over the frog. Kermit thrust into her mouth a couple more times and ejaculated a gob of green semen, which the girl spat out into the pool of puke - a scene that could only be described as hella revolting.
Kermit looked askance at the two sleuths and shrugged. "I hate myself for it," he said, "but I just can't seem to nutt unless they puke."
"Worry you not your sweet green head," admonished Buttmarten, "we have bigger fish to fry." He clued Kermit in on the case thus far, and asked if the frog would like to be of assistance.
Kermit pulled out a magnifying glass, and they were soon in Fetishtown.
Fetishtown was truly and indeed a strange place. In addition to your garden variety freaks, such as chicks-with-dicks, dudes with poons, women with three breasts, guys with two dicks, various and sundry permutations of hermaphrodite and siamese twin, etc., there were also stranger things, such as men with anuses where their mouth should be; women with no head or arms; and perhaps most strangely of all, heads with anuses for eyes, a penis for a nose, vagina for a mouth, and a single large flat foot on which they hopped about, tittering their queefy titters.
A shopkeeper came out from one of the buildings to chase some of the heads off with a broom, and Barton figured he'd ask if the man had heard anything about any missing orifices. Perhaps some of the freaks had been jealous of the triplets, and had decided to take revenge.
However, after a brief talk with Mr. Pansywinkle, who ran a salon for the denizens of Fetishtown, Barton had his doubts. The residents here were just as disdainful of those who lived in the valley below, as the triplets and their ilk were of the folk of Fetishtown.
Buttmarten made himself a Gin and Hair-Tonic while he waited for Kermit and R2D2-with-a-Boner to return, and observed Mr. Pansywinkle ply his trade. He watched with interest an ass-manicure on a woman who had fingers growing around her anus, followed by a wash-and-set on the calf-length braided ass-hair of a second customer.
"I got corn in my cornrows after a bad experience with some cheap Mexican food," the customer explained.
When Kermit returned, he was all in a huff. "I've found a clue!" he exclaimed, leading Barton across the street and handing him the magnifying glass. "Look at this."
But there was no need of magnification to see the glowing red paw print in the mud.
"Egads and egrets!" ejaculated Buttmarten, "'tis the footprint of the What-the-Hellhound! But what the hell is the What-the-Hellhound doing on the Planet of the Playboy Bunnies?"
"Maybe he's our culprit," suggested Kermit. "Maybe he stole our triplets orifices."
"Alack but no," argued Buttmarten, "for to quote the Lesser Key of Solomon: 'whomsoever the hell shall the What-the-Hellhound seek, s/he shall surely be hella decimated and shit.' If it had been the triplets that such a blasted creature were after, there would be not triplets for their orifices not to be on."
"Then who done dunnit?" Kermit asked.
Right then, R2D2-with-a-Boner rolled up, and it appeared he had the answer. The droid had run a check to see if anybody else had reported missing orifices, and indeed the triplets were not the only ones that had been stole on.
A hologram of all the incidents made it all too easy to see that the pilferations were centered around an all too familar locale: the Waffle-Iron Fortress of Screwtoons McFoolery.
"I should have known that old Screwtoons was behind this," muttered Barton Buttmarten, "seeing as how so many of the 'toons he loves so much to screw are lacking in the genitalia requisite for such fornicatery."
"Ba-boop?" asked R2D2-with-a-Boner.
"I'm afearful," replied the chef, "that the What-the-Hellhound has been sent in pursuit not of the triplets, but of myself, in revenge for my rescuement of Mickey Mouse from the dimension of All-Anal Action, where Screwtoons had imprisioned him."
"That's heroic as fuck," commented Kermit.
"Well," perused Barton, "it looks like our heroicity is called upon again. Gentlemen, it appears as if we have an appointment with Mr. McFoolery."
"Beep boop," remarked R2D2-with-a-Boner and set the coordinates.
(Next: Into the Waffle-Iron Fortress.)
0 comments:
Post a Comment