Warty had gone back into the deep past for one reason: caveman pussy. At The Eternal Time-Traveler Poker Game a neo-Australian, its scarred face aglow from the enormous pile of neutronium chips on the table, had assured Warty that the only cure for the unending torment of the wounds he received at the hands of the sentient Pornships of the Ejaculate Empire would be caveman pussy, and lots of it. When Warty asked it if it meant "cavewoman pussy," a shot rang out and the neo-Australian's face exploded.
"Gonna get me some caveman pussy," Warty hummed tunelessly. He was touching himself through the impervious material of his time-travel-proofed clothing. The touch and the sensation of being touched were so removed that Warty could pretend it was Marissa touching him. But Marissa was dead. Dead everywhere and everywhen.
Warty descended on the group of cavepeople, his SmartCape billowing out behind him like a big dumb cape. He landed beside their crude and smoky fire and struck a pose that had gotten him laid in numerous time periods. Even time periods that you have never even heard of. And long before those time periods got all popular and touristy.
"I am Warty Hugeman. I am here to have sex with you," Warty's voice boomed in the quiet Stone Age night.
Three subjective days later, Warty wiped away the tears as he centered the crosshairs of his Ultrarifle on the neo-Australian’s brain case. Thinking of Groocluck and Kuh, their dirt-streaked faces looking up at him pleadfully, Warty flexed his enormously over-muscled trigger finger.
THE END
You should be gettin' paid for this.
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