Petunia flopped face down, jellylike, still pulsing in the aftermath of innumerable orgasms. Innumerable to her, at least. It had actually been 37.
“Gah, I’m dying,” she croaked, as a rivulet of saliva escaped the corner of her mouth.
“Nonsense,” said the Inspector from the other side of the room. He was already gathering his boots, a gesture that would have signaled, if Petunia hadn’t been too preoccupied to notice, that he definitely wasn’t planning to stay the night. “Those are just the aftereffects of the Thrustening.”
Petunia was drowning in a puddle of miscellaneous bodily fluids. She grasped for purchase on the slick vinyl surface of her waterbed but found none. She floundered for a moment and collapsed, defeated.
The Inspector pulled up his trousers and looked on in amusement while he buttoned them at a leisurely pace.
“Well,” he began, businesslike, “it’s time I popped off in search of my destiny. I must say, it has been a pleasure -”
“Mffff!” Petunia heaved into her plastic prison. “Hfffmmffhh!”
“How can I leave?” the Inspector repeated back. Fortunately for her, his phone booth telepathically translated any form of communication he encountered and delivered the result directly to the language centers of his brain. This included Drownish. “By stepping into this phone box,” he answered, matter-of-factly. “My entire life has been spent in preparation for this moment. The droid drills. holo-edging. I’m a lean mean thrusting machine and I have a galaxy to fuck.”
“Hrgnrfgggbbbb!” Petunia bubbled.
“You won’t become pregnant.” He had stopped gathering his things and faced her, wielding his Aural Lens as if he had suddenly required protection. “It’s not possible.”
“Hrfnn?” she fizzed.
“No, you don’t understand. You would be able to tell because the implantation is immediate and violent,” he preached, punctuating each key word with a shake of his Aural Lens. “It is no matter. While we’re obviously physically compatible, our genotypes are too dissimilar to -”
Petunia began to quiver, which was not unnatural for a body asphyxiating in an aquamattress valley of spooge. However, her limbs began to contort from her torso outward, each joint fixed at a right angle to the previous one, until she resembled a flesh pretzel.
“Oh no,” the Inspector said, deadpan, his even tone betrayed by his dilated pupils. “This is most improbable.”
He raised his knee high and thrust the heel of his boot into the mildewed trampoline of death Petunia called a bed, springing her from the awkward rubber tomb. Her face detached from the surface with an audible smack and she gasped, raspy and raw as air exploded into her lungs. She landed, still twisted but unharmed, in what looked to be three weeks worth of dirty clothes piled between her bed and the wall.
“Gaahhhh!” She wheezed, panting. “My hero,” she said, not too distressed to be sarcastic.
The Inspector marched towards her. His lens whirred and shined as he ran it over the length of her body and stared into it deeply.
“Great Bordok’s arse!” he cried. He took a step back, stumbled over at least four pairs of mismatched Chucks, and danced, marionette-like, until he found his footing. He pointed at her. “You? You! Did you know? Did you know that you’re half…” he paused, unsure of how to categorize this new specimen, “half Space Princess!?”
“Does this mean I’m having a baby?” Petunia asked. She was surprisingly chipper for a person who had been suffocating in love leavings not two minutes prior. “It all happened so fast! Is it going to pop out in a minute, like Aliens? Are my arms and legs going to stay like this?”
“Stop asking me questions!” shouted the Inspector. “You have to let me think. Now, let’s see.” He paced the room, this time deftly navigating Petunia’s wardrobe detritus. “No, you won’t stay twisted like that,” he began. “The process should end any minute now. Yes, you are pregnant. Regrettably, inexplicably pregnant, but you are pregnant, and NO, it’s not going to pop out. It won’t pop out for, well…” he paused and looked up as he completed a mental calculation, “a thousand of your years.”
“A thousand!?” she cried. “I won’t live for a thousand years! How will I have my space baby? I’ll be a mummy.” She began to weep, bitterly. “A mummy mommy!”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” said the Inspector, “which I do.”
He extended his lens-free right hand to Petunia and adopted a false baritone. “Come with me if you want to live.”
She narrowed her eyes and frowned.
He laughed. “I’ve always wanted to say that. But seriously, come fly the horny skies with me. We’ll figure this thing out together, you and I. Thrusting through space and time, like Darmok and Jalad!”
“Nothing you say makes sense,” Petunia answered as a smile crept along her still-encrusted face.
“That’s okay, baby,” he replied with swagger. He snapped his fingers and the doors of the phone box flew open. “Nothing has to make sense when you fuck like a champion.”
The Inspector swept Petunia, still naked and pretzeled, into his arms, and strode through the doors of the phone box. A Moog-like warble fit for Emerson, Lake, and Palmer filled the air, and the box became transparent. It disappeared with a crack of thunder and a magnetic pulse, which yanked every thumbtack out of Petunia’s bedroom walls. Dozens of posters and magazine pages shuffled to the floor in a rain of paper rock stars.
There was silence then. It was the sweet stillness of night, except for a goddamned mockingbird that wouldn’t shut the fuck up, be-bopping his hell-crooning from the tree outside Petunia’s bedroom window. Why isn’t it legal to murder you, you warbling, sleep-destroying, flea-ridden sack of crap? Why do babies die of cancer but, still, you live? What sort of nightmare, sewage-flooded, stranded Carnival Cruise Line universe is this?
Click here for the next adventure.