I. Cosmic Fistfuck
Every day was the same: cigarette smoke and movies. Cheap vodka and even cheaper pornography. Andy Oswald was nearing forty years old and his life hadn’t changed for ten years. It was like an eternal bad day.
At times he felt like someone was watching him and that maybe his life was only an experiment performed by a higher power be it God, a group of gods, or some sort of abstract energy force that held up the universe. He didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse but it was something to think about. Pretending to be a philosopher gave him a distraction from being late on his rent or not having gotten laid in three years.
He wasn’t completely alone, though. His friend Potter was an occasional companion but they mostly just saw movies together and that prevented any real conversation. That was okay with Andy. He didn’t like to talk much anyway.
So Andy woke up on that Wednesday morning and began his day like any other. He smoked. He drank. He drearily jerked off to porn. Another bad day in a long line of bad days. By the afternoon he was tired as hell and fell into bed, expecting to experience nothing but drunken dreams. He would be unpleasantly surprised.
As his head hit the pillow, Andy felt his body go limp. He thought maybe he had drunk too much vodka and spent too much of his semen into his crusty handkerchief. Maybe his body was giving up for the night. He stared at the wall, watching the neon lights from across the street flicker into shapes resembling fishhooks, mushrooms, and cigars.
Yeah, he had drunk too much vodka. His head was on fire and his body was sinking into the bed. The neon shapes intensified until they covered his room. They combined with dark red tendrils and crept up the walls.
Soon he felt like a fish in a tank. His walls were shimmering glass and the air around him became thick fluid. He still couldn’t move his body but he continued to blame it on the vodka. Andy learned a long time ago to always blame his problems on alcohol and this time he decided he was justified in doing so.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
II. Captive Flesh Unlimited
(Incoming Transmission)
Andrew Oswald lives in a large glass terrarium. He is a productive, well-hung adult human of about forty years. He shares his cage with five females: two pure bred humans, two sub-terrestrials, and an android Oswald refers to as ‘the body beneath’. He prefers his native flesh or metal but will reproduce with any member of his harem without coercion.
He only kisses ‘the body beneath’.
He only beats the blond haired human. She is tall and lanky and resembles a past mate from his adolescent years.
He builds small, complex pieces of art with the spare time allowed to him, and hoards these pieces from the rest of the subjects.
He is a fascinating study.
***
Everything about them hinted at an ageless and twisted biology. They wore few clothes, displaying their odd deformities with pride. They clanked and slurped at the unbreakable glass of Oswald's cage, phallic eyes bulging when he fucked the women they threw at him. The women were ghastly ones, females with no attributes of beauty but still: Oswald fucked them.
He learned to tolerate his new life as a sort of oversexed lab rat. He could tolerate a lot… just not their watching him. That was close to unbearable.
His finished beating Sarah and walked across the terrarium to his bombs. It was still surprising to him how a culture as advanced as the Valdrott couldn't even recognize a simple cluster bomb. The body beneath, the Lifeless One, had let him borrow her parts, and he would miss her the most.
***
We will continue to study the groups of collected humans over the next several life cycles. In roughly five years we will introduce a stronger male into Oswald's group which will establish----
(Transmission Error)
III. Silent Glass and Bilocation
Large, bulbous sacs of blue milk grew on the walls of
Every day was the same: cigarette smoke and movies. Cheap vodka and even cheaper pornography. Andy Oswald was nearing forty years old and his life hadn’t changed for ten years. It was like an eternal bad day.
At times he felt like someone was watching him and that maybe his life was only an experiment performed by a higher power be it God, a group of gods, or some sort of abstract energy force that held up the universe. He didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse but it was something to think about. Pretending to be a philosopher gave him a distraction from being late on his rent or not having gotten laid in three years.
He wasn’t completely alone, though. His friend Potter was an occasional companion but they mostly just saw movies together and that prevented any real conversation. That was okay with Andy. He didn’t like to talk much anyway.
So Andy woke up on that Wednesday morning and began his day like any other. He smoked. He drank. He drearily jerked off to porn. Another bad day in a long line of bad days. By the afternoon he was tired as hell and fell into bed, expecting to experience nothing but drunken dreams. He would be unpleasantly surprised.
As his head hit the pillow, Andy felt his body go limp. He thought maybe he had drunk too much vodka and spent too much of his semen into his crusty handkerchief. Maybe his body was giving up for the night. He stared at the wall, watching the neon lights from across the street flicker into shapes resembling fishhooks, mushrooms, and cigars.
Yeah, he had drunk too much vodka. His head was on fire and his body was sinking into the bed. The neon shapes intensified until they covered his room. They combined with dark red tendrils and crept up the walls.
Soon he felt like a fish in a tank. His walls were shimmering glass and the air around him became thick fluid. He still couldn’t move his body but he continued to blame it on the vodka. Andy learned a long time ago to always blame his problems on alcohol and this time he decided he was justified in doing so.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
II. Captive Flesh Unlimited
(Incoming Transmission)
Andrew Oswald lives in a large glass terrarium. He is a productive, well-hung adult human of about forty years. He shares his cage with five females: two pure bred humans, two sub-terrestrials, and an android Oswald refers to as ‘the body beneath’. He prefers his native flesh or metal but will reproduce with any member of his harem without coercion.
He only kisses ‘the body beneath’.
He only beats the blond haired human. She is tall and lanky and resembles a past mate from his adolescent years.
He builds small, complex pieces of art with the spare time allowed to him, and hoards these pieces from the rest of the subjects.
He is a fascinating study.
***
Everything about them hinted at an ageless and twisted biology. They wore few clothes, displaying their odd deformities with pride. They clanked and slurped at the unbreakable glass of Oswald's cage, phallic eyes bulging when he fucked the women they threw at him. The women were ghastly ones, females with no attributes of beauty but still: Oswald fucked them.
He learned to tolerate his new life as a sort of oversexed lab rat. He could tolerate a lot… just not their watching him. That was close to unbearable.
His finished beating Sarah and walked across the terrarium to his bombs. It was still surprising to him how a culture as advanced as the Valdrott couldn't even recognize a simple cluster bomb. The body beneath, the Lifeless One, had let him borrow her parts, and he would miss her the most.
***
We will continue to study the groups of collected humans over the next several life cycles. In roughly five years we will introduce a stronger male into Oswald's group which will establish----
(Transmission Error)
III. Silent Glass and Bilocation
Large, bulbous sacs of blue milk grew on the walls of
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