JunkDNA Fiction

Purchase MEDIA WHORES Online!

Sat, 09 May 2009 11:18:00 +0900

Deep beneath the seething, zombie-infested landscape of Nippon, the city of New Tokioh has sunk itself thermometer-like into the sphincter of the Earth. At its heart, a media-maven who plays the cultural libido of a city-state desperate for stimulus in their otherwise boring lives.

A man, a woman, the yakuza, and zombie sex, all part of an original bizarro microfiction short story first serialized on Twitter and then touted across the blogosphere like so much chainletter spam mail.

Don’t miss your chance to purchase, download, and read the world’s first fully-realized Twitter novella! Click here or the image above!

About JunkDNA Fiction

Sat, 09 May 2009 11:17:00 +0900

About: Serialized, short and flash fiction blog of Made in DNA. Feel free to tumble my work. Click the title of the entry you wish to read. Looking to connect with other fiction/fiction-related Tumblr blogs.

Tags: cyberpunk, bizarro, alternate universe, science fiction, erotica, dark fiction, noir, hardboiled, sexpunk, extreme, sex-fi

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Pandemic Danny

Sat, 09 May 2009 11:16:00 +0900

Danny sat quietly, a sporadic jerk the only thing punctuating his otherwise silent countenance. His left eye had gone milky white with cataract, his skin was a mottled yellow and sickly, and despite the fair temperature of the room on a fine spring morning, whispery rivulets of sweat snuck their way down his hot brow passed his earlobe until they found a hiding spot under his jaw.

Tiffany rolled the dice over the game board and took her turn, landing on a penalty space. She groaned while Kent snickered. “Stop laughing, Kent,” she gave him a mean look.

“I wouldn’t laugh if you weren’t such a stupid player,” he stuck his tongue out.

Tiffany did her best to ignore him and passed the dice to Danny. Or tried to anyway… for the umpteenth time.

“Danny if you don’t roll, Kent will win,” she cajoled half-heartedly. “You know you are the only one who can beat him,” she smiled, but it was a hard sell. Danny wasn’t looking so good. Maybe he was sick.

“Ah forget him!” Erica grabbed the dice from Tiffany’s outstretched hand. “Besides… he smells.” The third-grader was trying to hold her breath while playing but it was impossible as the bedroom window was open and Danny was closest to it. The otherwise soft breeze coming through it brought with it a putrid smell of something like the egg Ms Bircham had brought to class for a science experiment and let rot on purpose.

“He always smells!” chirped Louis, the fat kid from down the block with thick glasses.

“Stop it you guys! That’s not nice. Danny has is our friend!” Tiffany demonstrated.

Erica rolled ignoring the outburst; the only thing she was interested in was finishing the game. Her mother had promised she could go home after it was over. Why she even had to be here was beyond her. Today was piano lessons and she preferred them over playing stupid games with the other neighborhood kids. But she knew it was going to be a long game as she watched one of the dice bounce off the board and careened haphazardly under Danny’s pant leg. The look on her face went from one of haughtiness to open disgust.

“BWHAHAAA!” Kent began to laugh obnoxiously, a common and annoying habit of his.

Erica balled his fists and was ready to punch Kent in the nose when Tiffany stopped her. “It’s okay. I’ll get it,” with a smile.

But that just ticked Erica off more. She didn’t want to seem like a chicken in front of the others and Tiffany’s smug smile was too much.

As she reached forward stretching to reach the piece without getting too close, Danny’s breathing suddenly intensified. His breath hit her in the face like a brick wall—heavy and sickly sweet like her hospitalized Great-Grandmother Denyi who also smelled, like, well…

“Groooss!” Erica screeched and recoiled as drool dripped down from Danny’s open mouth onto the back of her hand. “I don’t wanna play no more! MOM!!!” She began to tear up.

The words were barely out of Erica’s mouth when Danny finally became animated. His head whipped in the direction of the young girl’s pleas for her mother to come get her and a deep, undeniable hunger took control…

Downstairs in the living room of Mrs Henders the screams could be clearly heard via the baby monitor she had hid under her daughter Tiffany’s bed.

The other mothers in the room with her all turned their attention toward it as well. Then came the unmistakable growling they had half-expected, half-feared, and the sound of running feet across the ceiling which ended in a desperate banging on the door at the top of the stairs leading to the second floor.

“Did you lock the door?” Carol, Louis’ mother asked her eyes somewhat bovine in complacency and worry.

“Of course,” Mrs Henders smiled, and reached for the nice China cup before her friend, “More tea?”

“Thank you, yes,” a relieved look crossed the woman’s face.

Erica’s mother spoke next, “I don’t mind this party ladies… in fact, I really appreciate it.” She looked down at the coffee table situated between them as if the words she sought might crystallize there before her, “I guess i just have my concerns.”

“Oh Fawn,” Mrs Lechenko reassured, “It’s no big deal. I took Danny to the dentist yesterday and had all his incisors capped so that while he’ll break the skin when he bites the other kids, he’ll just infect them, not eat.”

A smile and understanding giggling broke out among the ladies.

“I guess I’m just being silly. It really is such a relief to have this taken care of. I hear catching The Pandemic can be deadly in adults.”

“It can be,” Mrs Lechenko pointed out. “My own mother brought me to one of these parties when I was a young girl.”

Fawn fidgeted slightly and then laughed all over again, “By the way Jenny, this cake is absolutely fantastic.”

“Thank you, actually I got the recipe off Cake Net. They have all kinds of afternoon cakes.”

“Oh do you have the URL?” Carol quickly asked, not wanting to miss out.

“Just a moment, I think I have it here…” and she whipped out her PDA thumbing through her bookmarked sites to the children’s panicked screams.

—

Inspired by the insanity that are Pox Parties.

Slug Orgy

Tue, 21 Apr 2009 22:23:00 +0900

It was the year I turned seventeen; late summer, sometime at the end of August. The night air under a moonlit sky had that heavy, intoxicating smell of festivals, high spirits and the onset of fall. Officially the obon season was finished and school activities had begun once again, yet there was a pervasive recklessness in the season that would not be contained and regulated to next year; as if our ancestors were still drunk from all the sake offerings left at family alters and gravesides.

Being a weeknight, I was on my way home from cram school, still dressed in my summer school attire, one of the retro sailor uniforms in powder blue and white so popular until near the end of the century when blazers came into fashion. In a fit of youthful flirtatiousness and rebellion, I had rolled the waist of my skirt up into several folds so that the hem of my skirt teased my slender, fair thighs and more than a few of the boys practicing baseball on the school fields earlier that day.

I walked through the dead of the business district to a large park, where upon reaching the opposite side, I would catch a bus home. The city was quiet as I approached the park and the interior still quieter. I often enjoyed my silent walks through the park despite my mother’s worried warnings of perverts. It was true that there had been an incident or two every year, but volunteer patrols of older men in the neighborhood had reportedly brought those numbers down. I was hardly worried.

With plenty of time before my bus, I walked along one of the many whimsically winding, narrow concrete paths through the tree-laden park. Despite the heavy presence of their sprawling limbs, the moonlight through the branches was as bright as any of the thinly scattered lamps along the path. It would have created a very stirring effect for lovers. I walked on in the calm of the evening relaxing me after two hours of cram study.

With the entrance to the park well behind me, streets and tall buildings around me obscured, I spied, some meters ahead, a shimmering stream of silver. It lay across the path, with a width almost that of the walkway itself, and disappeared into the tall grass hemming the trees on the other side.

Curious, I stepped closer to inspect it. Two steps, three. Nothing; I still could not make it out. The shimmering, which I could see now was an effect, distorted something almost intangible below. Four, five, six—I felt like a little girl playing hopscotch, my steps becoming great bounds. Until then… a great gust blew through the park forcing me to close tight my eyes and hold down the front of my skirt and blouse; a feat not easily accomplished.

When it had passed, I dusted myself off, stopped at the edge of the stream—the tips of my sneakers dipping into the waters—and squat down to examine it. Behind my fashion glasses my eyes widened, and an amazed gasp softly voiced that which only can be described in a gasp… slugs. Hundreds, no, thousands! of slugs sliming their way across the park path. Where on earth had so many come from? And where were they all going? Were slugs migratory, and did they migrate in such numbers? It seemed that the only answer was undulating across the path in front of me.

To say that I had never been a fan of any kind of insect in my life was an understatement. By all normal accounts, I should have leapt up right then and there and screamed the girlish, scatterbrained, bloodcurdling epitaph any young woman had right to. But I did not. No. I wanted those slugs. Wanted? Yes… wanted.

I am positive as to what possessed me now, however at the time, it was not even an inkling in my mind; I was simply quite satisfied to be engaged by the stream of slugs. So much that, in fact, I straddled it and reached out to touch the wriggling little creatures in their struggle to cross what must have been a vast cement expanse of lifelessness for them.

Their sluggish skin was transparent yet would have been course if it had not been for the thick excretion pouring out of their bodies enabling their mode of transportation. I did not see the silver-metal reflective touch that had drawn me to them initially. Rather, since I was now blocking the light of the moon above, I could see within them bizarre skeins of red, blue, and green like threaded needlework set afire. I held my breath in excited fear, as if the sound of my breathing might frighten them away.

As they wriggled under my poised fingertips, they gave off a great warmth!—a bath warmth, or the heat of a lover’s skin after sex. Delightful! I swept my hand over them again and again desperate for the sensation of them on my flesh.

Pressing my hands down upon them against the cement, a shudder ran through my spine as they squished and popped under my weight. I grabbed a handful and the goo ejected from between my long fingers like dollops of gel. Undeterred, more slugs took the place of their mashed comrades as the silver river continued its mad race to places unknown.

Under me, despite the loss of direct moonlight, their glow returned and strengthened a hundred fold until they illuminated all from the sweet flesh of my thighs up to the curves of my vulva—which had become swollen and now threatened to burst from the light cotton panties I wore. The heated curves of the entrance to my pussy begged to be free, their outline clear in the silvery glow.

Slamming my hands down again, I squashed more and more slugs, pounding against the ground like a petulant child who knows she cannot have her way. In response, the illumination intensified and a heat rose up from them.

My head began to spin as the heat consumed me. Yet though I felt faint, my balance was rock-steady. I closed my eyes and raised my head slightly to soak it in. The heat rippled up my legs to my thighs and finally to my pussy where it redoubled. Sexually agitated, I feel back onto my firm ass splattering more slugs, staining and wetting my buttocks in a creamy flow. I wriggled my ass in quick, short bursts that made me laugh.

When I could stand it no longer, I reached down with my slime-encrusted hand to masturbate myself to oblivion when I discovered the truth of the intense heat and pleasure. The slugs had made their way up and now covered the whole of my lower body; wriggling and sliming over me as if I were part of the natural course of their former path.

My hand plunged into my school bag and pulled out the pair of scissors. They slashed my panties, shredding them along with several more slugs which popped over my hands and face. They had completely engulfed my pussy and were working a magic that was indescribably orgasmic. Instead of aiding them, instinct tossed my hands and head back behind me to enjoy their lecherous intentions.

My breathing increased until it was a frenzied panic on the edge of destroying my sanity when the visage of a large silvery outline the size of a large dog began to take form in the trees in front of me. My very breath strengthened its form with each desperate pant until it was as solid as the oaks behind it.

The slugs had incensed my engorged, pink clitoris to an insensitive level from which there was neither relief of orgasm or anticlimax of falter. Quite literally my hips and abdomen quivered in a permanently agitated state. Could I have ended it myself, with the flip of a switch, either way, I do not know that I would have; I would have happily spent eternity in pre-orgasmic limbo.

But my fate was not to be such as the form slithered out of the darkness and over the river of its children, revealed as the god of slugs. This knowledge came to me via the orgasmic rhythm channeling through my body, which connected me to a non-space beyond dimension, a realm of gods and devils, ghosts, goblins and saviors. By straddling the river, I had crossed a boundary that humans are not allowed to do so without consequence. Such were the things that the slug-god whispered in my mind along with sweet desires, ideas and understandings.

I resisted not as it slimed up my body, its weight heavy, yet not impeding or unpleasant. It was a weight that spoke of ability and intension. I blushed with the recognition of our intertwined desires.

The buttons on my blouse burst and my bra too was negated from the equation as if it had never existed. Its heat raced up my torso and lit fires in my petite breasts, to which my nipples flared like beacons to lost ships lost on the sea of lust. Bullet hard, they became the slug-god’s toys as it finished mounting me, reaching out with tentacle extensions of its body to play with them. Likewise it slithered a tentacle into my mouth and another under my head to cradle it.

Slipping under my firm buttocks it began to knead them with expert attention. My mouth filled, I could barely voice my pleasure, or eschewed a scream if I had needed. The slug-god held complete power over me. Had it wanted to destroy me, I could not have resisted. So I rode the wave of slime which poured over and in me, filling my mouth until it overflowed and dripped off my cheeks where it spit and sizzled like cold water splattered on a hot surface.

Then, finally, nay, expectantly, it favored me with a hot, firm tentacle that shot straight into my aching pussy with a controlled force no man could dream of. My body convulsed tautly upward like the bows we practice with in archery club. A muffled mewling was all I could manage. Tears of ecstasy mingled with the rhythm of its rock-hard, pulsating member.

I exploded.

…and would have fainted from the sensation, if not for slug-god’s channeled energy through the gel-slime it excreted into my mouth. It undulated ocean-like over me, fornicating with both my body and mind. It followed me soon after; shooting its first load deep inside me, the resulting smack of its wad bombarding my womb, sending me into retaliatory clutchgasms. We synchronized; slipped in and out of time and that non-space until I was integrated into the silver aura which was realm to that which humans cannot understand.

Somewhere in that tangible light, consciousness was lost to me.

I awoke cradled in deep, soft grass just the other side of the light woods off the path where I had discovered the river of slugs. There was no testament to the existence of the god or its children save for a faint silver glow along the path. It was dark and very late. I remembered my bus and panic-stricken, wiped my dripping pussy with a pack of pocket tissues, removed and stuffed my scissored panties away into my school bag, and straightened my clothes as best as possible.

An anxious glance at my watch revealed I still had six minutes to make the last bus. With a sigh of relief, I started off toward the stop with all due haste.

If this had been the end of my sexploitatious adventure, perhaps I would have never chronicled it, relegating it to the tricks gods play. But I hadn’t made it very far when a squeal pierced the cooling night air. Instinctively I slipped behind a thick tree directing the flow of concrete around its great trunk.

Human voices. Peeking out from behind cover, I spied a couple just barely visible in the shadows speaking in hushed, excited tones. I smiled at myself for being so silly. However my relief was short lived, as I froze in the next instant as the woman began to moan. Straining my eyes to see them, their silhouettes came into focus against the remaining moonlight. The larger male leaned over his receptive woman, his hand sliding lasciviously up her dress. She murmured a half-hearted admonishment decidedly meant to encourage his lecherous behavior.

My legs quivered as a phantorgasm of the slug-god’s memory clutched my groin. Deep within me an ache built once more as I watched them work themselves into a slow, yet passionate liaison.

If I could only just reach out my hand to touch myself…

There was a shiver of heat still radiating from my youthful mound of flesh as my fingers teased just the curve of it. Ready to engage in pleasing myself in the couple’s pleasure, I slid a finger between the folds of my labia, working the sweet wetness I found there over every part of my pussy. Yet in doing so, I was suddenly struck with the unreasonable, yet overwhelming sensation that if I continued, I would cease to be; exploding into the air like pollen blown from a spring cedar.

Trying to pull my hand away, I found I could not. A force I cannot describe kept it there, furthermore enlisting it in betraying me! In panicked desperation, I strained to restrain myself, but my hand continued unabated and I whimpered in horrified desire that threatened to turn into a fit of giggling. Giggling!? Was I going insane!?

On the other side of the tree, the couple was well into foreplay and the woman’s lusty breathing whored its devices in my mind. My breathing increased as I snuck a peek at them. My knees buckled and they took on a sinister aura faintly familiar, yet not, as if it had been corrupted. And though I could not possibly have seen it from that distance, I shivered under the man’s piercing gaze—a butterfly in his pinned and mounted collection of specimens—as his hands found purchase between his lover’s legs.

No, I can’t let them; I mustn’t allow them; They cannot do this to me, fevered, my brain cried. I threw the tree between us, desperate to escape them. No use; deep inside I could feel a power that was and was not my orgasm intensifying; leeching onto my rhythm like a parasite. Faster and faster I rubbed myself. An image of the slug-god keened through my mind like an ear-piercing bolt of lightening. It called me, pulling me into its world, desiring me to do its unfathomable bidding. It has impregnated me with the seeds of my own destruction. But why!? Why love and then destroy me?

Behind me, the woman’s moans grew louder, synchronizing with mine like in an orchestra of death. My index and middle fingers slid inside me. I tittered uncontrollably and with increased madness. Tears streaked my face as I pushed a third finger in and a fourth. The end would come with my fist, for I would then be sucked into myself until the vortex of the spell the crossing over into the non-space had spun within me, had expended me, scattering my physical atoms over space and time.

My fifth finger… my fist—

“Hey! You two over there! What are you doing?” There was a painful snap in my brain and I pitched violently forward on the cement scraping the palm of my left hand which I managed to thrust forward at the last second to brake my fall. I don’t recall how long I lay there, too frightened to move, but the next sensation I felt was that of someone picking me up.

He was a young man with a serious sense of duty that only comes with being fresh out of the police academy. He took me to his police box where he called my parents to come retrieve me. I was in tears the whole time and spoke not a word I could remember. He cleaned and bound my scraped palm, placed a blanket around my shoulders, and prepared tea for me to calm my nerves. All the while, he spoke in soothing tones, yet I could not return the words of gratitude I had for him.

When my parents arrived, he asked them not to scold me for I had done nothing wrong. He explained that he believed I had been the victim of proxy sexual harassment. He considered it a serious crime and would gladly conduct an investigation if my parents wanted to press charges against the couple, whom, while had fled, he had seen the faces of and would easily recognize if met again.

My parents refused, more embarrassed by the situation than anything else. They hurriedly thanked the officer for his assistance and bundled me off into the family car. Dutiful to the last, the officer followed us out, bowed to my parents and spoke a few last soothing words to me through the semi-open backseat window.

And as we drove off, he bowed and stood dutifully, watching us leave. Stepping into the darkness outside the pool of light that lit the front of his small station of calm in the turbulent night, his form took on an unmistakable silver aura.

Professional Pride

Mon, 23 Mar 2009 15:35:47 +0900

“Do you really never fail to complete a contract?” the gray man asked, his voice weary but hopeful.

I gave him a reassuring smile, “Never sir. Professional pride. Once the money has been paid, I pull the the trigger.”

The gray man nodded and lightened a little as if a great burden had been lifted from his soul. “The man I want you to kill is at this address.”

I took the proffered piece of paper, memorized the address and destroyed the note. Forty-five minutes later, I was walking through the halls of a shabby tenament held up only by the sheer will of the souls who existed there for lack of any other place to do so. I’d visited a million places like it; would use such a place to hole up in after this job.

Approaching the door, I tested it. Locked. I rang the bell. No answer. But then, people in places like this don’t answer; they know who’s coming to dinner. I picked the lock and threw myself into the room, gun ready.

Nothing. No one. Completely empty of furniture… except the mirror.

I stood staring at my reflection and knew I was in the right place, facing the right man. My bowels stirred uneasily as the gray man’s words echoed in my head: “Do you really never fail to complete a contract?”

“No sir, I don’t. Professional pride,” I said aloud.

Son of a bitch.

I pulled the trigger.

Chinese Death Squad Organ Donor Bus (two senryu poems)

Fri, 27 Feb 2009 10:59:00 +0900

©2009, Made in DNA

bullet to my head
paid by my dad
liver’s gone to some bright lad

—-

bullet to my brain
country’s in pain
recycle. reduce. reuse.

—-

Originally posted at http://www.twitter.com/mopedronin

Chinese Death Squad Organ Donor Bus senryu poetry brought to you by the number four and “China’s Death Buses Deliver Executions, Organ Harvesting On the Go”

The Assassins Mashup Project Tales of sextreme violence, gore...

Mon, 23 Feb 2009 14:00:00 +0900

The Assassins Mashup Project Tales of sextreme violence, gore and assassins. Six authors, five countries, six works of fiction/poetry. Gratis. Adults only. Click to download.

The Path to Salvation

Thu, 07 Aug 2008 21:21:00 +0900

The late autumn evening air filled the monk’s lungs with a chill the fire around which he sat was unable to dissipate. The heavy-handed presence of evil he had experienced since entering the woods surrounding this mountain village had not bothered to conceal itself from him.

“The hellspawn has devoured four of the village’s young women in the past two weeks, leaving their desiccated bodies to drip from trees. It feasted on their innards, rend the meat from their bones…”

The village elder lost himself in his recollection, revisiting the horror through his mind’s eye. Trapped by what he had seen. Not wishing to relive it, yet unable to let it go. Horrified and fascinated simultaneously. A vision beyond all imagined nightmares so horrible one must look upon for the brain to comprehend the reality of the situation.

There was no doubt in the monk’s mind of the demon’s origin. It was a Rasetsu. A devourer of human beings. A powerful demon that reveled in the kill. The flesh of humans was as sweet as any fruit to it.

The old man returned from his unspeakable vision and spoke once more to his guest the monk, a holy man called from a revered temple in the next province. “We turned to you for two reasons-you are a holy man and a samurai.”

“I was a samurai,” corrected the monk. “I left the path of the samurai when I joined the temple.”

“But you will forever retain your skills. You have the strength and cunning of samurai, and the wisdom and ways of a monk. We are doubly blessed by your decision to come.”

While there was truth in the words, the grim shadow of hallowed expectation darkened the room a shade. It was not his place to argue with the village elder. Furthermore, one way or another, the village would need taking care of. He could not allow this demon Rasetsu to continue to devour the flesh of innocents. Who knew what vile violations it visited upon their souls once they tried to escape its power for the safety of Heaven.

The last of the elder’s words rang in his ears before he slept that evening… “We wish you to save us from this monster.”

He had, of course, agreed.

The next morning the monk began rigorous rituals that included incantations, meditation, the studying of script scrolls, and collecting a tiny memento from each villager-of which there were nearly forty. The job they were asking would take every ounce of power he held in both the heavenly and earthly realms to defeat this eater of men and violator of souls.

For two nights and days he prepared himself for the single most taxing task of his career as either warrior or holy man. When it was through, he spoke once more with the village elder.

“I am ready.”

“Is there anything we can do to aide you?”

The monk’s face went grim with determination, “There is.”

The old man was immediately attentive.

“No matter what hellish screams are heard. No matter what horrors might be imagined. No villager must leave his or her home. In fact, I insist every villager bed early to get the best rest possible.”

“This is all?”

The monk’s voice was deeply earnest, “This is the path to salvation for the village. If I should be disturbed at any point during my task, then you are all doomed to a hell of Rasetsu tortures for eternity.”

Nodding his understanding, the elder quickly rounded up the heads of each household, and relayed the instructions of the monk. They all agreed to obey without question.

That evening, as the deep night held the village in its cold embrace, the once-samurai now-monk said a final prayer before he entered the home of each village family to send them directly to Heaven by slitting their throats as they slept.

"Assassins on the Rag"

Fri, 25 Apr 2008 14:38:00 +0900

Ana is a cold, hard bitch
doubly so today

she has a scar
that dances it’s way
up from her pouty lips
down to her deep-set
azure eyes

she is genocide-thin
a utility belt hugging
her tiny waist
like some lecherous old man
phallic blades all around

and smelling my blood
she hunts me down in minuets
flaying my disposable guards
before I can even
so much as draw

her slaughter is poetic

she kills with an enthusiasm
rarely seen
by the eyes
of the living

and even in death
I love her for that

…

‘08

—

This poem inspired the Assassins Mash-up Project, a sextremely hyper-violent short fiction collection with cover work by Pink Dog artist Jerem Morrow. In PDF format. Gratis.

Training Day (580 words)

Thu, 24 Apr 2008 10:15:00 +0900

Master Sergeant Baker, ram-rod stiff, scowl on his face, walked up and down the beleaguered recruits that had been his misfortune to be training.

“Without a doubt, you slags only have the most rudimentary understanding of the enemy we face!” The amplification of his voice in the virtual-environment training simulator noticeably startled several of the recruits. “Positively half of you stood there and simply stared at the enemy as they cut your teammates in half with las-fire!

“For four weeks now, I’ve been watching you get cockier and cockier. Oh yes, I’ve seen the look in your eyes. So today’s little exercise was to take you down a few notches!”

“Wake up kiddies! The Razellians have a special all-female ‘Mother-Earth’ battalion they absolutely love using against our troops. Designed make you all drool, they have perfectly genegineered triple-E breasts that defy gravity and normal physics!”

“Aguilar!” He stopped in front of a muscular female avatar. “How do you feel about your fellow recruits ogling at a bunch of large-breasted bimbos coming over the ridge to slaughter you!?” The sound of his voice had her complete attention, but all she could do was stare at him with wide-eyed wonder complete with slight ‘O’ upon her lips.

He stepped through the recruits to the next row, “Jonesy! I knew you were a titty man! And I nearly shot you myself when you ran up to try and breastfeed from that alien whore!”

Jonesy stuck a couple of fingers in his mouth to suck on them, the recruit to his left drooled—a long, slobbery string connected her chin to her thigh, and still another had a pained look on his face for several moments until a rather unabashed bleat emanated from behind him.

The master sergeant pretended none of it happened.

“Master Sergeant,” the voice of the training base commander, Colonel Yamamoto, called god-like from the sky. “How is this crèche of recruits coming along?”

Baker saluted as the colonel appeared next to him. “As well as can be expected sir.”

The colonel sniffed the air. “Did someone shit them self?”

“Sorry sir, these recruits are still wet behind the ears. Happens quite a bit.”

“Well, I suppose that’s to be expected. Be sure to take care of it.” And disappeared into virtual mist.

“Yes sir.”

Master Sergeant Baker sighed, “Recruits dismissed!” and mentally activated the program that would ease them out of the virtual training program.

Removing his virtual plug, Baker walked into the real-world physical room where the new recruits awaited him.

“Okay, you babies! Someone obviously needs a diaper change. Now who is it!?” He gave a steely-eyed look to each recruit. No one said a word, and Baker pondered his options until the sound of a raspberry from the back caught his attention.

“Androv!” he barked and picked up a Trooper Prep Kit from the wall. Making his way through the other recruits, he picked up the pre-toddler named Androv, removed the child’s virtual visor, and lifted him above his head to sniff at the diaper Androv was wearing.

Baker’s nose crinkled. “No surprise there.” The boy made a face as if to cry.

“I’ll have none of that crying,” admonishing the baby with a petulant look. Turning toward the room-computer, Baker ordered, “Play ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’. The soft melody immediately soothed the boy’s feelings. Baker smiled and gently lay the baby down to change the trooper’s soiled diaper.

System File

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 13:45:00 +0900

© 2008, Made in DNA

cd minor/major/labia/vagina/g-spot/orgasm.exe

Hard Wired

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 13:05:00 +0900

© 2008, Made in DNA

{if @$$=10
then hit.it=+1}

NannyBot

Thu, 21 Feb 2008 14:00:00 +0900

Baby began to cry. It wasn’t unusual or new; after all he was just six months. But Mistress was out and it was NannyBot’s job to care for him.

Rolling over to him, easily avoiding the toys the young one had thrown from his seated position in his plush Highchair, NannyBot bleeped a soft command to which Highchair replied to by lowering itself.

NannyBot’s long turtle-like neck extended and craned toward Baby’s face. Blinking its opticals twice, it then cocked its head to the left and then right. It had learned that sometimes this was enough to get Baby laughing again.

Unfortunately Baby continued to cry. NannyBot looked down at the heaved toys—scattered ruthlessly as if bomb-struck—picked one up, gave it a quick, cleansing blast of air from an inset nozzle in its tummy where its belly button would be if it had one, and offered it to Baby.

Baby continued to cry.

NannyBot tried each toy in succession until there was a mountain of toys on Highchair’s table. Baby disapprovingly flung them to the floor once more. Both NannyBot and Highchair took reflexive steps backward.

Running through a subloop of IF-cry.loop of possibilities, NannyBot squawked at Highchair once more and the second bot once more obeyed by turning to face NannyBot directly and elevating itself. With Baby’s crotch in its sensor array, NannyBot collected air particles, analyzing them.

Nothing. Baby continued to cry.

NannyBot went to the refrigerator and ordered up some flavored mush.

Baby made a face and ignored NannyBot’s attempts to feed him.

NannyBot offered a drink in a nippled baby cup. Baby dumped it on the floor with his toys.

NannyBot checked for a fever. None.

NannyBot tried Peek-a-Boo. Nothing doing.

NannyBot sung a lullaby. Baby cried louder.

NannyBot danced. Tears welled in Baby’s eyes.

NannyBot having unsuccessfully completed its IF-cry.loop spun in a circle bleeping, clearly flustered.

Highchair, now also flustered with Nannybot’s failure, admonished its fellow bot with a series of wheeps and whirps for not fulfilling its programming.

Desperate, NannyBot scanned Baby’s face—for which it received an admonishing look of knitted eyebrows—searched its programming and reviewed thousands of parenting video files for matching facial patterns, and came up with a 0. Nothing seemed to match the profile of the crying child in its care.

Fit to scrap itself, it began bobbing and whizzing around the room bleating like an electric sheep. Highchair was sure were not in NannyBot’s programming. Something odd was afoot, and Highchair was worried Baby would be left in its care.

In a last ditch effort, it zipped up to a tear-streaked Baby, and placed a light, loving kiss on his cheek…

Baby lit up with rainbow delight.

BATH DADDY (v.2)

Mon, 04 Feb 2008 14:00:00 +0900

“Bath Daddy! Bath Daddy!” The toddler jumped up and down in joy at the prospect of bath time once more.

Daddy chuckled, pleased the little boy enjoyed bath time with him. It was, after all, the only time he ever got to see his beloved.

After his mother had undressed him, the little boy bound into the room that was a combination shower and bath. Swirls of lazy steam whirled dizzily in the boy’s wake.

Daddy had prepared two plastic stools on which the pair sat down and began washing each other. Daddy took particular fatherly care to wash behind the child’s ears, under his armpits and all the spots a boy the age of three himself would miss.

After rinsing well, the pair jumped into the waiting hot water of the tub with its flotilla of multicolored monkeys, whales, dogs and associated animal shape outlines of plastic.

They sang songs and talked of the boy’s day. It was a good bath, as all baths are meant to be, but not all are everyday. On a scale of one to ten, Daddy rated this a ten. Bliss.

When the time was appropriate, Daddy pressed the Call button on the bath tub controls and the boy’s mother came with towel to bundle the boy off to his jammies waiting in the other room.

Daddy stepped back into the water, sat and waited.

Half an hour later, when the boy’s mother returned, his was there for her. And he was there for her.

With a sigh of contentment, the boy’s mother stepped from the bath, kissed Daddy, and pressed the Drain button on the bath controls.

Gurgling contentedly the bath finally slipped away, Daddy lay down in it, and closed his eyes.

The boy’s mother pulled the slide-top over the bath up to Daddy’s neck. “Goodnight Bath Daddy. And thank you again.”

Bath Daddy opened his eyes and replied, “This Bath Daddy is pleased to serve.”

A smile fell on her lips as she pulled the cover over the top fully and pressed the Clean button.

Satisfied the boy was asleep and the house was locked down for the night, House Mommy stepped into her own recharging alcove and placed herself in Sleep mode.

BATH DADDY

Sun, 27 Jan 2008 13:19:00 +0900

© 2008, Made in DNA

“Bath Daddy! Bath Daddy!” The toddler jumped up and down in joy at the prospect of bath time once more.

Daddy chuckled, pleased the little boy enjoyed bath time with him. It was, after all, the only time he ever got to see his beloved.

After his mother had undressed him, the little boy bound into the room that was a combination shower and bath. Swirls of lazy steam whirled dizzily in the boy’s wake.

After rinsing well, the pair jumped into the waiting hot water of the tub with its flotilla of multicolored monkeys, whales, dogs and associated animal shape outlines of plastic.

They sang songs and talked of the boy’s day. It was a good bath, as all baths are meant to be, but not all are everyday. On a scale of one to ten, Daddy rated this a ten. Bliss.

When the time was appropriate, Daddy pressed the Call button on the bath tub controls and the boy’s mother came with towel to bundle the boy off to his jammies waiting in the other room.

Daddy stepped back into the water, sat and waited.

Half an hour later, when the boy’s mother returned, his was there for her. And he was there for her.

With a sigh of contentment, the boy’s mother stepped from the bath, kissed Daddy, and pressed the Drain button on the bath controls.

Gurgling contentedly the bath finally slipped away, Daddy lay down in it, and closed his eyes.

The boy’s mother pulled the slide-top over the bath up to Daddy’s neck. “Goodnight Bath Daddy. And thank you again.”

Bath Daddy opened his eyes and replied, “This Bath Daddy is pleased to serve you Ma’am. May you have a pleasant tomorrow.”

A smile fell on her lips, she pulled the cover over the top fully, and pressed the Clean button.

The War Machine

Thu, 03 Jan 2008 14:00:00 +0900

Its reserves low, the great machine signals a mated geosynchronous minisat for the location of the nearest village within radius of its patrol. Squirt-spat, squirt-spat, squee-waaah, blip-confirm and it continues on rumbling through the night of the lightly jungled planet, rerouted. Its clean-fuel source grumbles hungrily but must be patient; it is still several hours out. It switches to conservation mode and processes the remains of its last resupply with the utmost efficiency.

Hundreds like it — squat, half-tanks with enough firepower to easily obliterate even the largest modern FedSphere archologies — have been deployed across the biosphere to root out the enemy invaders who have so callously dropped on the planet a year ago. Claiming to be liberators, they terrorized the FS citizens and settlers of this precious world. The machine will protect. It’s programming is clear: recognize, engage, refuel, redeploy.

The machine has been programmed by FS military to recognize the vital refueling components it needs, and each village and town has been generously supplied by that same complex. Unrecognized by the enemy invaders, as long as the machine can wrest control of the habitat from them, it shall be able to redeploy quickly seeking new targets.

Several hours later, it is sitting just inside the village perimeter, thermoptic camouflage engaged. In a village of approximately forty, it has recognized another twenty invaders, most of who are heavily armed.

Waiting until they have congregated to eat their evening meal, the machine unleashes hellfire, spitting hard-light bullets and splintered bits of the cabin through the invaders at light-speed velocities. Those that are not disintegrated instantaneously, flop like ragdolls in a vicious windstorm until finally, their savagely mutilated bodies whet the earth with their blood and the chunks of flesh that are all that remain of them.

Silence blankets the village. The machine stills knowing it must be patient. After the carnage, it knows that the people will not trust it. So it will wait for them to recognize the FedSphere markings on it while it broadcasts friendly overtones on all FedSphere comm-channels the villagers may be tuned to.

Several hushed minutes pass before the first of the curious peek out. Random calls and clipped conversation explode from seemingly nowhere and yet all-around: questions, confirmations, puzzlement, fear, excitement, disbelief… and finally, a guarded call to approach.

The first men approach, armed with crude weapons that could not harm the great machine in any fashion. Cautious, they prod the machine, first to see if it will react to them, then to see if it is alive, and finally to see if they can provoke it. The machine is patient. The villagers need time. It has plenty of time to give.

Once they have called back to the other men, who also approach with crude weapons, it begins to flash lights and bleep softly at them. Some jump, others try to bash it. It cares not. It opens a small hatch and offers up a small gift of cooking fuel common on the biosphere. The men recognize it, yet puzzle over it none the less. It then offers up soap and other small sundries it knows they can use. They are amazed, then fascinated. It flashes more lights and offers up more gifts. Soon adults and children both are gratefully running out to accept them.

The village begins to laugh and cheer their savoir. Finally they are free! Their thanks is hardy and robust. They kiss the great machine as if it were one of them and not made of gears. Oldsters ingratiate themselves to it, and young men hug young women who hold their small offspring. There is talk of a grand celebration for the evening. This is well. Very well, for this talk has brought all the most agile adults and children within four meters.

Just as suddenly as it had begun its assault on the invaders, the great machine discharges a paralyzing static bubble that engulfs them all. With practiced precision it carefully picks each one up and tenderly places them into a spiraling blackhole maw revealed by sliding panel, where their atoms are spaghettified and distributed to the power and ammunition plants.

Confirming that its power sources have been fully refueled, and that there are no leftover supplies, it signals its mated minisat, and once more starts off on a path that will lead it to the next invader hotbed.

Conformity Bullet

Thu, 01 Nov 2007 13:00:00 +0900

© 2007, Made in DNA

The sun had barely deemed it necessary to grace the shanty town outside the limits of the glistening towers of City Proper until well late into the day when its beams of orange washed out all other colors. Perhaps that was for the best. It was, after all, the only washing the refuse living and breathing the orange-sparked air from their hidey-holes behind grime-dusted building-leftovers would ever get.

The street, though lively, would never be enough to support the few shops that clawed out an existence there. And the shop, said to be one of the best noodle places either in or out of City Proper, was not above ‘substituting’ ingredients now and then. That was life. At least if one wanted to continue living it.

The woman was dressed in cracked leather boots, jeans, and hooded duster, all of which had apparently acquired some of the shanty town’s dinge on her way to the noodle shop. The blunt pistol on her hip was simultaneously monstrously comic and cruel. Tucked comfortably away though was the only part of her that seemed impossibly impervious to the ever-angry elements of the unincorporated district.

Ducking, she held up a section of the sadly faded red banner that hung down over a third of the entrance. Her eyes readjusted to the dimly lit afterthought of a room and considered the six battered crates crowded around the L-shaped counter. All but one complained of the boniness flop-ass treatment they were currently being subjected to with each new mouth.

“Welcome,” the owner’s voice was clear and attentive, yet there was a distinct distance in the older man’s eyes as she sat down on the only free crate. None of the other customers paid her mind. Their heads were buried in their bowls, slurping greedily while their crusty chopsticks bounce-dip bounce-dipped in an intricate dance to shovel noodles into gaunt, unshaven cheeks.

Just above her head, five wooden slats, graying and faded, hung like lifeless corpses nailed to their fate. Their sins were coded in an archaic language that spoke to the customers of noodle variations and prices. The woman ordered a bowl of sliced pork miso noodles, and fondle-counted the number of cockroaches stuck in the aged grease under her counter seat to pass the time.

The noodles were good. She sipped them with an admiration she thought impossible before now. So she questioned the owner.

“Business very good?”

“Good? Not much could be called ‘good’ these days.”

As if to allow him to continue, she lifted the cracked porcelain bowl entrusted with the care of her noodles to her lips and sipped. He did just that.

“These times aren’t just ‘troubled’ they’re downright adverse. It’s been almost fifteen years since the war, and still, we languish here like refugees… refugees in our own country, mind you.”

One of the other customers finished his bowl and slapped the money down with a something that resembled a word of thanks to the owner. As if on cue, another man rushed the door and jumped into the seat before the first was even out the door. The second man didn’t even look at the menu slats, he just ordered.

She took chewed a bit of pork as her eyes flickered over the new customer. “You don’t seem to be doing too badly.”

“No, not as ‘badly’ as others. But not so’s you could tell.”

“Shouldn’t you be grateful?”

He looked at her as if she had leaned over the counter and spit in his pot of constantly boiling water. “It’s one thing to live, it’s another to be alive. The men in their slick towers of power have us by the balls. And they mean to keep us this way. cold and cowering. by any means. it’s the only way to keep us all divided and their coffers full.”

When she offered nothing in retort or reply, he caved to her interest of his opinion.

He carried on for several minutes more, carefully orating his points, and backing them with clear-headed, intelligent reasoning. There was a power in his words, and every one of them was dead correct. Customers automatically bleated agreement or indignation like Pavlov’s Dogs from their ass-numbing positions as they ate. He was a fantastic orator, dignified, powerful. In the right time, right place… a possible leader of men. He had courage and dignity.

All the while she listened, nodded and replied with her own non-committal grunts. As the old man spoke, the scoff-gulps of his customers were replaced with vocally sympathetic vibrations. Their cheers called to still others who crowded their heads into the small room through the door, just to hear the man speak. As the last of his words on the topic died away, she pulled a homemade toothpick from a dispenser and picked out a stubborn piece of meat.

Yes, indeed. Her contact had been correct. This was the man she was seeking. An idealist. A man who could lift the poor wretches of shanty town into a rolling storm that would send electrified shockwaves through City Proper. “Damn fine speech,” she commented.

His laugh was part whimper, part frustration, and all irony. “I would like to think so. But the fate of all good men and their ideas is conformity.”

She cocked her head at this and pursed her lips. “Not always.”

“Missy, from your clothing, I assume that you are a traveler who has seen at least a little of this world. What makes you think that my ideas will change anything?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What are you saying then?”

“That your fate is not conformity,” with that, she stood, and with practiced skill put a fist-sized hole in his face with her pistol. The back of his skull decorated a yawning pantry, and his flailing arm came down into the large boiling pot of water upsetting it over what was left of him.

Several customers exploded off their seats, two reached downward toward their belts. The woman punched a hole through the top of the first’s head. She’d caught him, or at least she thought she had, looking down as he reached for his weapon. In fact, he’d just pissed himself and was reaching to cover the spot with both hands.

The second man had reached for a gun. And had succeeded in drawing it on her. It was an antique that the woman almost didn’t recognize as dangerous until the customer next to her, who was so desperately trying to become part of the wall, got a helping of iron in his diet of noodles.

That man’s chest evaporated in a cruel red Rorschach on the wall behind him. The sound of the ringing in her ears was the only one in the room. No one moved. When the woman was positive all the trouble to be had in the room had been had, she holstered her gun, reached into her pocket and placed the price of the bowl of noodles on the counter.

“From The Man’s coffers,’ she added, and bled out into the deepening crimson of the last light.

Headshots

Tue, 23 Oct 2007 13:00:00 +0900

Never one to pass up a freebie, the man — a cheapass prick at heart — walked into the shop and inquired.

The girl behind the counter asked the man to fill out an application with a minimum of personal information, yet assured him he’d never be contacted or his information sold to third parties.

The camera rig in the small unusually brown-red painted room was digital. State of the art.

She smiled, asked a few questions to make him feel at ease while she fiddled with the rig.

He chuckled, answered as charmingly as he could while taking advantage of the proffered cleavage as she bent over now and again.

When she was finally ready, she gave him her pearly whites and he wanted to give her a pearl necklace.

The bullet that disintegrated his brain pan was caught in super high-speed gore-imagery from hole-popping head jerk to wall-splattering explorgasm.

Perfect, she purred, and continued to pop off more photos as his body limp-dicked slowly down the wall.

The buyer of the photos helped carry the body out to the garage to a hidden vat of acid for a small discount.

DIRTY NURSERY RHYME: Lil’ Jack Horny

Mon, 22 Oct 2007 13:00:00 +0900

© 2007, Made in DNA

Lil’ Jack Horny,
Cornered Kate Forni,
With thoughts of her glistening wet pie,
Stuck a big thumb straight up her bum,
And declared “Ooo, Bitter chocolate, oh my!”

Edo Nights

Sat, 14 Jul 2007 13:00:00 +0900

© 2007, Made in DNA

Five original, stand-alone, fiction-bursts (in less than 140 characters each) of sex, blood and death, set in Fuedal Japan. Posted @ http://www.twitter.com/junkdnafiction

==========

Poison grips my heart as explosion bursts from my loins. Whore-assassin shadow-smiles atop me. In the deep night heat, ravens cackle.

        ***

Walk in the shadows that run deep in blood and the only light to be seen, is the moonlight glint from thy enemy’s blade-strike.

        ***

Sweltering August heat. The sing-song of cicadas. The sway of the ocean. Piked, bloating corpses basking lazily under the summer sun.

        ***

Darkness falls. Shadows move among the silk. Sheath. Dagger. Fright-gasp. Vicious stabbing. Blood. Moans. Fallen bodies. Virgin-assassin.

        ***

Lotus flower of holy conviction; spreads its petals for the godhead.