Chapter 10 – My Squad Atricious (page 2 of 10)
“Come on Tek,” said Dahm, stepping across the threshold into our control deck, “If we blast off now your girlfriend will be killed for sure.”
Dahm was a handsome man and a grand swashbuckler of a galactic hero, the sort of person you’d have thought I’d have mentioned before now in my book, but times get busy and some things just can’t be helped. No less, his point was valid and the mention of his character was overdue. I committed to rehear what he’d said as well as explain who he was.
Dahm was an incredible soldier, born as a conjoined octuplet, recombined to a single soul shortly thereafter. Though he was the first and only successful rejoinder of his sort in the history of his universe, the accidental introduction of gamma rays and a bite from a random irradiated spider in recovery lent him super-sub-human healing abilities. Though it took him the first half of his life and a thousand pounds of assorted pills and suppositories to pull him through it, he emerged with the strength of four men and the vengeful fury of four women.
Also he had no less than three genders and all the reproductive parts to knock himself higher than an ultrajumbo volleyball upon hypersteroidal enhanced superspiked serve. His offspring were all infertile and typically just played the banjo while eating applesauce through a straw, but if you’ve got all the junk to jiggle it up in solo-gangbang style, you’d sure as hell have to give it a shot, wouldn’t you?
But Dahm wasn’t just a unique specimen in the whole of the universe’s history, but he was a fantastivicious killing apparatus of a soldier who would stop at nothing to bleedingly pulpify an unlimited number of enemies, alleged enemies or civilians who could later be justified as enemies by one of the sixteen lobes of his ever-active and appropriately augmented superhuman brain.
That guy loved to get his kill on, but he wasn’t perfect. He had at least a handful of female genitalia parts, the generally recognized limit to what approaches the “anything more is a waste” horizon, but none of his rarely scrubbed genitalia were anything more than vomitous to any but the most reluctant of super-seasoned gynaproctobestiaquasihumanogenitaliologist who would still surely barf out foods from even previous lives merely upon hearing about it.
I apologize if it’s had the same affect on you.
Dahm’s elaborate combat costume was comprised of strips of eel skin bound by patches of double-plucked ostrich with more pouches and pockets than a drug smuggling wallaby. Though a thorough search might not convince you of this truth, he had more weapons in there than an anarchist’s battle chest, everything from poison to knives to blasters to gerat wire to a lute which he could play so poorly as to make most anyone surrender. It’s not that he was a cold, calculated killer, but a warm one, more mammal than lizard no matter who you’d ask. He had a good heart in there somewhere, not like Burggl whose heart was forever compromising our missions.
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