The Crimson Fang tumbled aimlessly through the dodgy temporal wormhole. The Daemon-Shihtz corvette was critically damaged and vented an assortment of gases. Monster Mash by Bobby "Boris" Pickett & the Crypt-Kickers, echoed faintly from the ship's intercom, the stereo system was damaged and kept replaying the song from the mess hall's boom box. Only 13 of the original 117 crew were alive. They were scattered throughout the ship.
The majority of the crew died during the engagement with the Federation skiff. Quantum vacuum energy beam blasts from the skiff, pierced the hull causing multiple decks to decompress, farting most of the crew into the void. Others perished from fires, suffocated, froze or boiled from compromised life support.
The flight deck was intact but with numerous burned out or flickering computer screens. Most of the viewing windows were cracked and were close to shattering. The blue light for 'Blue Alert' filled the darkened flight deck with an eerie, well, blue light.
Three crew members, a Bush, a Milla and a Milkoo, stood while they manned functioning control consoles.
"Fun'n ell kunns," roared the Bush, "Me can't get anytin work'n."
"Da big fun'n rocket still work'n," said the Milla, "But da puny thrusters aren't talk'n to it."
"We must ensure the trans-holographic fusion thrusters reconnect to the hyper-relativistic rocket engine's nav-com," added the Milkoo, "we need to regain control of the Crimson Fang as we traverse this temporal wormhole. If we collide with the negative mass material which comprises the sides of the tunnel, then we run the risk of collapsing the entire wormhole's hyperdimensional superstructure."
"Fun'n guinea piggy ship," complained the Milla, "Tiny ship pack big punch."
"Yeah," added the Bush, "But doze kunns are good eat'n, if yah can get past der fancy fun'n tek."
"Do be quiet and maintain your concentration – you fluffed up ignoramus!" bellowed the Milkoo, "focus on reconnecting the trans-holographic fusion thrusters to the hyper-relativistic rocket engine's nav-com!"
A communication box appeared on the Milla's console; it was a video chat feed from somewhere on the corvette. A large round and menacing face filled the screen. It had brown and orange fur; teddy bear/tigerlike with a row of teeth that would easily emasculate a megalodon.
It closely resembled a monster from a prominent children's book about some tiny, tyrannical turd who probably had ADHD and then sculled a bottle of undiluted red cordial … who then ran away to a tropical island inside his imagination … hanging out with other monsters, who made him their king.
"I'm fun'n hungry," said the face, "Can't find sheet ta fun'n eat down 'ere."
"Is that a Koors?" smiled the Milkoo, he suddenly had a solution, a sadistic idea.
"Yeah," replied the Milla, "He said he's fun'n hungwee."
"Well, tell the moronic gastropod to stop thinking about his five stomachs for a second and focus on finding a large blue box with sparks on it."
"Wha?" asked the Koors from the Milla's screen."
"Milkoo say finda big blue box wid sparks and shihz on it."
"Big blue box got food den?"
"No, you behemoth imbecile with excrement instead of a central nervous system," stated the Milkoo, "the boxes are scattered throughout the ship so you should be able to find one. Open the big blue box and rip out the little green wire."
"Why?"
"Just do it, you overgrown and mentally deficient, gene-spliced tiger-bear!" roared the Milkoo.
"Wha?"
"Milkoo say just do it," added the Milla.
"Waza inna fa me?"
"You won't die with the rest of us when the Crimson Fang collides with the sides of this temporal wormhole, causing it to collapse into a state of nonexistence, crushing, pulverising and annihilating all of our subatomic particles with the entire fudging mass of the pan cosmos!"
"Milkoo yarn'n big brain sheet again," commented the Bush.
"Awe yeah," paused the Koors, his eyes going cross eyed for a moment, "Milkoo sheet."
"Just find one of the blue boxes you mentally deficient fluff-tard," grumbled the Milkoo.
"Ahhh, ummm, yeah," added the Milla, "Milkoo say just find da…"
"Ya I erd 'im."
"Good," said the Milkoo, "oh and Koors…"
"Ya, Milkoo?"
"Do make sure that you tear off your left arm, prior to tearing out the green wire … just in case."
"No worries Milkoo, me always want annardar Koors to call me bro."
The Koors' mug disappeared from the Milla's screen.
"Hey Milkoo," asked the Milla, "What's da little green wire do in the da big blue box wid sparks on it?"
"It will override the autopilot which has malfunctioned," replied the Milkoo, "this will allow manual override so we can regain control of the trans-holographic fusion thrusters."
"You brainy guys are pretty brainy hey?" added the Bush.
"Well fortunately so," agreed the Milkoo, "For without the Milkoo arm-line, the rest of our intellectually impaired lines of gene-spliced cloned fluff-tards would have entered the pan cosmic fossil record a long time ago."
"Ahhh," replied the Milla and the Bush.
Clearly, they had no idea what the Milkoo was talking about … big words made their brains hurt.
Meanwhile the Koors made his way through darkened corridors. The feline elements of his gene spliced genome allowed him to somewhat see in the darkness. He was lucky (or unlucky) and eventually came across a big blue box with sparks on it. It was illuminated by a small light on the wall above. Without hesitation, he tore off his left arm and dropped it to the floor. A spurt of blue blood sprayed across the walls before the blue bloodied shoulder stump clogged and coagulated to prevent further blood loss.
The Koors used his remaining right arm to tear off the door to the blue box. He found the green wire and tore it out…
And was promptly electrocuted. The Koors dropped to the ground in a sizzling heap of charcoaled fur which stunk like a deep-fried octopus.
Meanwhile the severed left arm, spared from the electrocution, grew blue mycelium tendrils towards the fried corpse. It infested and fed off the sizzling biomass, regrowing the body of a brand new Koors.
"Mudafun'n robopilot thingy now dead," said the Milla.
"Good," replied the Milkoo, "Bush, you now have manual control of the Crimson Fang, keep us steady and maintain trajectory down the central temporal wormhole tunnel."
"Wha?"
"Just keep the ship flying straight you cerebrally challenged fluff-nut."
"Got it."
"Why we keep straight?" asked the Milla, "so many tunnels here and dere," he pointed up, down, left and right at the views from the flight deck windows. He pointed towards endless openings to endless tunnels as the Crimson Fang flew by, "Where da all deez fun'n holes go to den?"
"Everywhere in time and space," replied the Milkoo, "some will even lead to realms beyond the Blokesverse."
"Where we going?" asked the Bush.
"Just keep the ship straight and maintain course. We're travelling above the Australian continent on Primordial Earth but descending back in time by a few decades."
The Crimson Fang continued to traverse the temporal wormhole tunnel until the tunnel opened up into dark skies and clouds. The wormhole collapsed behind the corvette as the Milkoo activated the ship's cloaking field. The three Daemon-Shihtz could see a full moon in the sky and through gaps in the clouds, the lights of a small coastal city below.
"Where we now?" asked the Milla.
"When and also where," replied the Milkoo, "would be the correct combination of conjunctions. We are at some time in the mid to late 1990's – Primordial Earth timeline. Do you see those lights down below?"
"Yes," replied the Milla and the Bush, eyes gleaming in hungry savagery.
"The Primordial Earth humans called this place, Mackay."
"MackAy," parroted Milla.
"The inhabitants pronounce it Muckai, not MackAy."
"Oh."
"Mmmm… lots of meat," the three said together.
The Milkoo pointed towards the coastline, "The lack of lights over there, appears to indicate a secluded beach."
The wedgetail eagle genes in the Daemon-Shihtz genome, allowed the Milkoo to discern a bonfire blazing on the beach and what appeared to be a group of leather clad humans, sitting around the fire, drinking alcoholic spirits.
Loud and incompetent mechanical horses were parked just off the beach on a dirt track … obviously the human's method of transportation.
"Purrrfect," purred the Milkoo, "Bush, land the Crimson Fang just off the shoreline on the sea floor. We shall assemble what's left of the crew and then swim to the shore … and after a ravenous feast, we shapeshift and then scuttle the ship from a safe distance."
"Attention all surviving brothers," said the Milkoo across the ship's PA system, "kindly proceed to the hanger bay. DAEMON-SHIHTZ RULE!" roared the Milkoo while performing the ritual fist pump with the left arm.
"DAEMON-SHIHTZ RULE!" replied the Bush and the Milla as they also performed the ritual fist pump, repeating the chant 12 times. Similar chants echoed across the ship.
Meanwhile on the beach, 12 bikers surrounded a bonfire. They were busy laughing, smoking and boozing away. One of them stood up from the sand, wobbled over to the flames, turned and dropped his jeans and the hairs on his fuzzed-up peach sizzled, dropped an epic fart. The rest of the bikers broke into hysterical laughing as for a few seconds, a flame thrower appeared to blast from the biker's backside. In pain and with his pants literally on fire, the biker rubbed out the flames by wiping his arse across the sand – wiping like a dog using the lawn like toilet paper. The other bikers pointed and laughed. They rolled around the sand, gasping for air and clutching their bellies in hysterics.
While such shenanigans carried on, the Milkoo, Milla and Bush met up with the recently spawned Koors. The four made their way down to the hanger bay. Upon arrival they found eight of their brethren standing in a circle.
The Milkoo scanned the members of the circle, there was an Azaahee, distinguishable with his more curved and catlike eyes, along with a soft-spoken voice, red and black fur and subtle facial features from the human components of its genome – the original genetic sample taken from the corpse of a prominent entertainer from the late 20th century.
A Zingtoe, round and fat with black and white fur – attributed to panda genes. The Kaarlsbog, with a greenish tinge to its fur and oxlike horns protruding from each side of its inverted, rugby ball shaped head. The Bintong stood there scratching its ginormous and furry arse. Its fur was reddish with white stripes. A Fodstaz, blue with grey stripes, along with a Trollpizz, a darker tinge of green than the Kaarlsbog, slightly taller and slender, but equally equipped with a set of oxlike horns. Vee Bee was almost lost in the crowd, its brown fur dispersed with patches of lime green fur, especially its roundish abdomen. The Vee Bee was shorter than the other arm lines but was stocky due to the Staffordshire terrier DNA in its unique genome. Last was the Budzwhizzle, large and loud. Its mouth was huge, stretching from one ear to the other. Its dull red fur came with a collection of white stripes.
Purrrfect, thought the Milkoo. All 12 arm lines are present, no broken links in the chain. But what were they forming a circle around? Pondered the Milkoo. Ahhh, that's right, it chuckled to itself as it saw the mangled mess on the hanger bay floor.
It was a Milkoo. In the battle with the Federation skiff, a bulkhead collapsed from the ceiling, crushing him. The Milkoo was severed at the waist, grey guts and thick blue blood pooled on the floor.
"Wha happen'd wid dis kun?" asked the Zingtoe.
"He squash'd yah dum kun," replied the Vee Bee.
"Mmmm," said the Azaahee, its five stomachs rumbling in unison, "he guts look yummy."
"Yeah," agreed the Bush and he pushed a space into the circle.
"Dis kun gunna kark it anyway," added the Bintong, "might as well gobble up da kun."
The Milkoo from the flight deck squatted down towards the horrendously injured Milkoo, "Oh my," he smiled, the tips of teeth protruding, "it didn't work out like you planned … did it?"
The injured Milkoo looked up at the other Milkoo is anger, hissed a weak hiss and a faint growl, before slowly looking down at the pile of guts and thickening puddle of his blue blood, "I created you!" it managed to bark out with a spatter of blood, "if not for me, you would not be."
"Yes," agreed the Milkoo from flight deck, standing his feet. His gaze not leaving the injured Milkoo. A sober expression of disgust filled its face, "during the height of the battle, you tore off your left arm and dumped it on the flight deck, right next to the meat dispensary. You then fled to the hanger bay, to flee in a shuttle.
"You are me," the injured Milkoo replied, "you would do the same."
The Milkoo from flight deck giggled a hiss before slowly standing up, his gaze not leaving the injured Milkoo, "Yes, of course," he agreed, "free will is but a pipe dream. But there you are and here I am," he continued to gaze down, "what do you say boys, a light snack before we go for a swim?"
They made short work of what was left of the injured Milkoo. As it hissed in anger and howled in agony, the hanger bay was smeared in chunks of blue blood. Soon after the hanger bay downs opened. As the water gushed in, flooding the hanger bay and then every corridor and room inside the Crimson Fang, the 12 Daemon-Shihtz stepped down the ramp to the sea bed. They walked slowly towards the shoreline beneath the shallow sea. Gills protruded from the sides of their neck, which the Daemon-Shihtz used to breathe underwater or in poorly oxygenated atmospheres.
A massive hammerhead shark strayed too close to the Koors and was promptly snatched, torn apart and devoured. The Kaarlsbog which was walking behind the Koors at the time, walked through the burgundy cloud of blood. It grabbed the free floating spiral valved intestines and gobbled them up.
The bikers on the beach were too preoccupied with laughing, burping and igniting their farts with flames from the bonfire to notice the 12 monstrous figures as they rose from the waters and stealthily trudged up the beach towards them. Wolves by Sam Tinnesz, Silverberg, played from a cheap TEAC stereo. It would be decades before the song was actually recorded but let's just roll with it for dramatic effect.
By the time the first biker noticed them and let out a blood curdling cry of sheer horror, it was too late. The Daemon-Shihtz had them surrounded. The rest of the bikers looked around, saw what could only be described as nine-foot tall, blubbery, heavily muscled bipedal tiger-bears with massive mouths filled with sharklike teeth. Jaws rattling like the arses of rattlesnakes. Teeth vibrating like chainsaws.
What followed was truly goriffic. The film Bone Tomahawk had nothing on the sheer eruption of blood, bone and guts that followed. When the savage act was done, the 12 Daemon-Shihtz turned and strolled away from the bonfire, back down towards the shoreline.
As they looked out across the moonlit waters, each underwent metamorphosis – transforming into the bikers they devoured, assuming their forms. The process took less than a minute. Where 12 monsters of nightmares had stood by the shoreline, now stood 12 middle aged bikers – stark naked in the moonlight.
The Milkoo stepped forward. He now looked like a man in his late 50's with crystal blue eyes, long wavy white hair and neatly trimmed grey beard, peppered with streaks of fading black. He looked out across the waters…
A huge explosion occurred beneath, causing a mound of water to rise to form a dome from the shockwaves, before flattening out as volleys of small but fast-moving waves that struck the shoreline.
"Brothers," said the Milkoo, "the Crimson Fang is no more."
"Why yah blow it up for?" asked the Budzwhizzle.
The Milkoo smiled, "Hernán Cortés, was a Spanish conquistador. After sailing from Spain to Mexico, he ordered the burning of his ships."
"Fun'n who?" asked the VeeBee.
The Milkoo let out a long and frustrated sigh. It was hard to endure the ignorance and stupidity of the other arm lines. Little conversation could be found amongst the brain cell they shared between them. As for other Milkoo, it was in their nature to be competitive, jealous, conniving, conspiring and treacherous. Few Milkoo could spend much time in each other's company before one of them met an untimely end.
"A primordial Earth human from several centuries ago. He burned his ships because there was no turning back – it was either conquest or death."
The Milkoo turned and walked up towards the bushland facing the beach. The others followed. They soon found the Harley Davidson motorcycles.
As each sat on the back of a Harley, the Milkoo remarked, "Observe these Primordial Earth humans closely my brothers, there isn't much difference between them and the humans of the Commonwealth of Human Posterity, but still, after four and a half million years, there will be some subtle differences. The first thing we must do, is assume new names. I, will be known as Mike."
It was then that the Milkoo, I mean Mike, noticed the hammerhead shark sitting on the Harley, "For fudge sake Koors!" he barked, "why are you a fudging shark!"
The Koors looked around at the others and then he looked at his body. This was rather difficult, considering his eyes were now positioned on each far side of his head, "Oh," he said, "my bad."
With some effort, the Koors transformed into a fat old biker in his 40's with a keg for a belly, long brown hair and a beard.
Mike the Milkoo's eyes narrowed. A slight look of disgust and disappointment on his face. The realisation was akin to taking a photocopy of one's arse. The first copy is great. But the copy of the copy is slightly less great. Eventually after making hundreds of thousands of copies of copies, that once glorious image of an arse, just looks like a low res finger painting of a turd. In other words, after a few million years, the 12 arm lines of clones of the Daemon-Shihtz were degrading. For the first time in a few million years of existence, in order to survive, the Daemon-Shihtz would be forced to do the most disturbingly unthinkable … making the uneasy switch from asexual to sexual reproduction.
"Brothers, we ride these loud and incompetent mechanical horses to Mackay."
"Yeah," agreed the rest of the Daemon-Shihtz.
"We find the biker's club house."
"Yeah boss," they all agreed.
"We hunt."
"Yeah!"
"We eat!"
"Oh yeah!"
"And then we breed; with their women."
"Wa, ah, ummm."
The bikers looked at each other in confusion.
"But, ah, der, ummm," pondered the Trollpizz, "but we don't have—"
"Look down brothers," smiled Mike, "you do now."
The bikers looked down, but all they saw were their bellies.
"Trust me brothers," said Mike, "they're there."
They started up their Harleys, following Mike, their Sargent of Arms. The bikers disappeared down the dirt track, leaving the bonfire to burn out as the tide crept in, erasing all evidence of their arrival and the massacre that followed.