Inspector Why and the Shroud of the Swamp Thwacker

Part one is here.


The Inspector leaned back against the heavily scuffed headboard of Petunia’s waterbed and lifted his Aural Lens to his mouth. He appeared to suck on the stem, briefly, before exhaling a cloud of wispy, white vapor.

Petunia, who had been basking in his glory, looked up, incredulous.

“Is that magic magnifying glass of yours also some sort of bong?”

“Uh, no,” he said with singsongy sarcasm. “It doubles as a vape pen. It’s what all the cool kids are doing in the future.”

“Huh.” Petunia digested this for a moment. “Is it better for your lungs or something?” she asked as she twirled her fingers through her freshly mussed bed head which, if phrenologically divined by a soothsaying cosmetologist, would have revealed the winding, epic tale of the greatest fuck ever delivered this side of Arcturus in no less than twelve distinct volumes.

“Pfft! Of course not,” said the Inspector. “It kills people in 1/10th the time! Just wait until the Great Suffocation of 2018 hits and everyone goes back to smoking unfiltered Camels.”

He noticed Petunia’s worried, cowlike gaze. “Oh. It can’t harm me,” he assured her. “I’m a Prince of Space.”

“The Space Prince?” she said as a smile crept across her face. Petunia might have been a solid D+ student but even she appreciated the gravity of the situation, considering alien royalty had just smashed her IUD with his intergalactic scepter and left a dwindling deposit of cosmos custard lingering in her lady hole. She stared, her face fixed and determined, as if she were trying to psychically bore through the posters of bushy haired men with bulging codpieces on the adjacent wall. She imagined herself donning a crown of constellations and swimming in hulking hoards of intergalactic loot.

“Not the Space Prince,” the Inspector replied, “a Prince of Space. More specifically, the heir to the throne of your particular galaxy, which, by the way, is known to our people as Mummer’s Bung. I’ve traveled here to reclaim the throne from my cousin, the dastardly Magister. I was raised by my uncle, the Prince Regent, after my parents were brutally murdered by an unknown assailant. My cousin and I spent many Standard Time Units together, hidden away on his father’s Pube Farm. On the evening of my seventh birthday, which was a week after my cousin’s, as luck would have it, the Regent sat me down by the plasma hearth and shocked me with the tale of how he had found the King and Queen asslocked by an Anal Vortex Manipulator. The Queen’s last breath, before she was rent asunder by a gravity wave that pulled her inside-out through the King’s asshole and vice-versa, was spent imploring him to ‘find Tad’, which was a reference to her nickname for me, her ‘little Tadpole’.”

“Oh how sad. How sweet,” Petunia cooed, frowning. After a beat she popped a smile and exclaimed, “There’s nothing little about Tad now!” while bobbing her head from side to side.

The Inspector paused and narrowed his eyes as if considering something, then seemed to think better of it. He blinked, gave his head a quick shake, and continued.

“My uncle rushed to my nursery just in time to see a man in a purple biosuit attempting to override the fail safe on an Autocircumciser. They struggled briefly until the assassin’s faceplate flipped open to reveal a visage so familiar that my uncle found himself frozen in terror. The villain fled in the confusion and my uncle ran to my crib and swept me aside just before the Autocircumciser reached critical mass and blasted a hole through the mattress and the floor beneath.

“So, I lived on the Pube Farm with my cousin and learned to stump-back Swamp Thwackers. As I began to develop into the devastatingly sultry specimen of manhood you see bulging before you, my cousin grew jealous that I, not he, would inherit the galaxy after I had graduated from Turgid Academy and experienced the Thrustening. He was ashamed that his father, who had become my friend and trusted adviser, would so willingly relinquish power to the son of a King who had been crushed to death by a butt singularity.

“During our senior year at academy he started referring to himself as ‘the Magister’, and he hatched his master plan: to travel back in time and kill my parents before I was ever conceived, which, if successful, would have put my uncle and, subsequently, himself in line to inherit the throne. Luckily, for me, he’d never paid attention in Quantum Chromatography Lab and, as a result, incorrectly measured the coolant pH in his Overthruster’s Flux Capacitor. What an oaf! He arrived shortly AFTER my birth instead and ended up being the actual murderer of my parents. It was the first and last original thing he ever did. My uncle was always suspicious about his strange ‘twin’ but he didn’t figure out that the doppleganger was his own son until it was too late. The Prince Regent was a strong, honest man, but when it came to wits he was all cock and no cunning.”

Petunia looked on, agape, as if she had just witnessed a train wreck, or had at least read about one in a few shitty, overlong paragraphs of science fiction exposition.

“I have so many questions,” She said. “Like, why pubes, and what’s a ‘stump-back’?”

“Well,” he began, “the aluminum-based pubic hair of the Eridanian Swamp Thwacker is the best natural insulation a spacefarer will come across without stooping to business with the Talaxian Corporation-State. Plus, it just sounds kinky. As for stump-backing,” he said, throwing her a wink and a knowing glance, “I can demonstrate but it will require a stump and a willing participant.”

Something stirred beneath the comforter.

“And the thrusting, I mean, ‘the Thrustening’?” she inquired, expectantly.

“Oh, we just did that,” said the Inspector as he nodded towards the growing duvet tent between his legs, “but it’s about to happen again.”


Part three is here.