Tevun-Krus #46 - The Same Effing Story

You Don't Fuck the Meat: The Meat Fucks You.

Written by AngusEcrivain, MadMikeMarsbergen, OutrageousOllo, elveloy, jinnis, ChristopherArmstron8, eyeexeyeeye, & H-A-Spade.

Shielding his eyes as his F890 careened towards the Blue Giant, Aintree Rex was in no doubt whatsoever that he was closer to death than he had ever been and that, barring a miracle, his end was going to come rather sooner than he might have hoped, when his IG Class fighter was torn apart by that big-ass star.

Aintree shook his head, slowly... He would have killed for a cigarette.

He glanced through the reinforced Plexiglas dome towards the blown starboard engine, then to port, where that engine's twin used to be.

A thought struck him. If he could use his micro-teleportation unit and head back in time before the big-ass star had blown the engine, and before he'd run out of cigarettes, he could chain-smoke like a motherfucker and ensure his F890 never came close to the looming Blue Giant.

Aintree laughed hard, then started coughing up tarry black phlegm. He really needed to quit smoking so much. "No time like the present," he quipped as he spun his chair around and quick-tapped the micro-porter's glowing blue buttons, programming his destination. The device let out a ding and he stuck his head in.

Aintree hoped this stupid thing was made by intellectuals and not someone else, like an intellectual. The micro-teleportation unit beeped and hummed for a moment, before sucking him inside. Aintree felt his gut tighten and flip with all the defied physics, as his molecules and the MT unit were thrown back in time. Once the process was finished, it spat him back out again. He landed awkwardly, rolling across the ground and hitting his head against a rock.

There was a bestial roar. Perplexed, he looked up and into the jaws of a large T-Rex as it leaned over him, licking its chops and preparing to eat him for breakfast. Or perhaps lunch. It was hard to tell. Hot drool dripped onto his face, bringing him back to reality with an unpleasant jolt. Hastily he flung himself to one side, only just in time to dodge those massive jaws. Aintree scrambled to his feet and ran headlong through the foliage. He swore as he ran. This sure didn't look like how he remembered Flatula 9. Where the fuck was he? And perhaps more importantly, when was he?

He was certain he'd programmed the micro-teleportation unit to transport him back to the exact moment when he received the phone call for the present job. He'd been taking a dump and smoking a cigarette, two of his favourite things to do—even better when done at the same time.

The mission had been simple: Assassinate the Flatula-9ian dictator, Hazzmawt Rat'tul, while he delivered a deranged speech about building an enormous wall around the entire planet.

And Aintree had accomplished that. But then there was that pesky big-ass-star business while making his getaway.

So here he was. Somewhere. Some when.

Aintree stopped running. He no longer heard the T-Rex; he heard music. And he saw cannibals dancing with enthusiasm and a lot of whooping around a pole planted in the middle of a lawn that looked suspiciously like an air soccer field.

Aintree had to admit calling them cannibals might be biased. But the drummer of the merry band on the sideline used drumsticks that resembled human thighbones a tiny bit too much for his comfort.