All existing and future Warty Hugeman stories will be henceforth available at The Warty Hugeman blog.
Showing posts with label Warty Hugeman Time Travel Adventures. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Warty Hugeman Time Travel Adventures. Show all posts
Monday, July 22, 2013
Monday, July 15, 2013
The Ripper Paranundrum: A Warty Hugeman Time Travel Adventure
Warty Hugeman hated Victorian England. There was soot everywhere, the whores were particularly scabby, and the whole place smelled like disemboweled horse. But this is where his prey was to be found, and Warty Hugeman always got his man. Or woman. Or sexually ambiguous alien.
“Where the hell is he?” Warty muttered to himself. This was the most thoroughly documented murder by Jack the Ripper and Warty meant to have him. He already had a place in the Menagerie picked out, right between Peter Kürten, The Vampire of Düsseldorf, and Jurgen Metzler, The Mad Butcher of Milwaukee. Ed Gein was once housed in the case, but Warty had gotten sick of his constant demands for salted vulvas and let him loose in Hitler’s bunker, after he watched Warty take Eva Braun’s anal virginity. Hitler’s bunker was such a time travel cliché, Warty hoped Gein would kill some of his rivals. The Forstock twins kept going back the day before he stole Charlemagne’s crown and stealing it first. He’d also seen those little bald fuckers sulking around Golgotha as well. Poseurs. He’d seen the Jew die a hundred times before they were even born, or would have been born if he hadn’t kicked their mother to death. They were loose in the timestream now. If they ever returned to their place in the skein, they’d dissolve into fetal goo in seconds, erased from history. Warty had masturbated into a supervolcano on Pangea after that victory, his manly juices steaming into the primordial sky.
Warty saw movement in the alley across from his vantage point. Pressure on his right incisor activated his infrared implant. The figure that was revealed was huge, tall and broad. It stepped out into the feeble gaslight. It was himself. Warty waved himself over. He was taller and more muscular. An biomechanical webbing covered most of his face.
“What are you doing here?” Warty asked himself.
“You don’t get him on the first try,” himself said to he. “I’m going to make sure you do it right this time.”
“What went wrong last time?”
“I distracted you, but that’s not going to happen his time.”
And even larger figure stepped up behind him. Warty went down in a defensive crouch as a large silvered hand dropped on Warty’s shoulder.
“Yes, you do distract him,” Warty said to hisselves. He was covered in a silver coating from head to toe. He looked like an enormous, monstrously sexy mannequin.
“So when should I not be distracted?” Warty asked Warty.
“In about three Earth minutes,” Warty said.
“So, um, how’s it going?” Warty asked.
“I can’t tell you, you know that,” they said, slightly out of sync like a cheap stereo.
Warty sized up the two. “Do I just keep getting bigger and bigger? Cause you are huge, dude.”
“Yes,” they both said.
“So I’m definitely going to get him, right? You two cancel each other out?” Warty asked the Warties.
Before they could answer, a gigantic shadow detached itself from the gloom of the alley and towered over them. “No,” it said. “They both distract you when they start making out.”
“Well, that’s just fucking great.” Warty couldn’t even make out the Warty swaddled in light-swallowing black, but he could hear his breathing, rumbling like distant thunder. How much bigger can I get, he thought? A small surge of blood flooded his penis. The giant shadow laughed knowingly.
“OK, here he comes,” said one of the Warties. Warty could see a lithe figure coming toward them. The familiar cape, the doctor’s bag, a flash of white teeth.
“Get him!” Warty yelled. He tackled the figure and they wrestled briefly. Jack the Ripper was nothing to rippling bulk of the smallest Warty. The others cheered him on.
Warty ripped away the hood of the subdued figure. It was his face, sickly, thin and grooved with pain.
“I came back to stop you,” wheezed the small Warty. “You cannot take Jack The Ripper from the timestream! Dire events unfold from this night. Dire!” He coughed feebly.
Warty stood up and brushed the Victorian filth from his elegant clothes. He backed away from the assembled Warties.
“You know what? Fuck this shit, I’m going home.” He flashed out of existence as the others ran toward him.
THE END
“Where the hell is he?” Warty muttered to himself. This was the most thoroughly documented murder by Jack the Ripper and Warty meant to have him. He already had a place in the Menagerie picked out, right between Peter Kürten, The Vampire of Düsseldorf, and Jurgen Metzler, The Mad Butcher of Milwaukee. Ed Gein was once housed in the case, but Warty had gotten sick of his constant demands for salted vulvas and let him loose in Hitler’s bunker, after he watched Warty take Eva Braun’s anal virginity. Hitler’s bunker was such a time travel cliché, Warty hoped Gein would kill some of his rivals. The Forstock twins kept going back the day before he stole Charlemagne’s crown and stealing it first. He’d also seen those little bald fuckers sulking around Golgotha as well. Poseurs. He’d seen the Jew die a hundred times before they were even born, or would have been born if he hadn’t kicked their mother to death. They were loose in the timestream now. If they ever returned to their place in the skein, they’d dissolve into fetal goo in seconds, erased from history. Warty had masturbated into a supervolcano on Pangea after that victory, his manly juices steaming into the primordial sky.
Warty saw movement in the alley across from his vantage point. Pressure on his right incisor activated his infrared implant. The figure that was revealed was huge, tall and broad. It stepped out into the feeble gaslight. It was himself. Warty waved himself over. He was taller and more muscular. An biomechanical webbing covered most of his face.
“What are you doing here?” Warty asked himself.
“You don’t get him on the first try,” himself said to he. “I’m going to make sure you do it right this time.”
“What went wrong last time?”
“I distracted you, but that’s not going to happen his time.”
And even larger figure stepped up behind him. Warty went down in a defensive crouch as a large silvered hand dropped on Warty’s shoulder.
“Yes, you do distract him,” Warty said to hisselves. He was covered in a silver coating from head to toe. He looked like an enormous, monstrously sexy mannequin.
“So when should I not be distracted?” Warty asked Warty.
“In about three Earth minutes,” Warty said.
“So, um, how’s it going?” Warty asked.
“I can’t tell you, you know that,” they said, slightly out of sync like a cheap stereo.
Warty sized up the two. “Do I just keep getting bigger and bigger? Cause you are huge, dude.”
“Yes,” they both said.
“So I’m definitely going to get him, right? You two cancel each other out?” Warty asked the Warties.
Before they could answer, a gigantic shadow detached itself from the gloom of the alley and towered over them. “No,” it said. “They both distract you when they start making out.”
“Well, that’s just fucking great.” Warty couldn’t even make out the Warty swaddled in light-swallowing black, but he could hear his breathing, rumbling like distant thunder. How much bigger can I get, he thought? A small surge of blood flooded his penis. The giant shadow laughed knowingly.
“OK, here he comes,” said one of the Warties. Warty could see a lithe figure coming toward them. The familiar cape, the doctor’s bag, a flash of white teeth.
“Get him!” Warty yelled. He tackled the figure and they wrestled briefly. Jack the Ripper was nothing to rippling bulk of the smallest Warty. The others cheered him on.
Warty ripped away the hood of the subdued figure. It was his face, sickly, thin and grooved with pain.
“I came back to stop you,” wheezed the small Warty. “You cannot take Jack The Ripper from the timestream! Dire events unfold from this night. Dire!” He coughed feebly.
Warty stood up and brushed the Victorian filth from his elegant clothes. He backed away from the assembled Warties.
“You know what? Fuck this shit, I’m going home.” He flashed out of existence as the others ran toward him.
THE END
Monday, June 17, 2013
The Disappointing Cave of Neolithic Over-Intimacy: A Warty Hugeman Time Travel Adventure
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
Monday, May 13, 2013
Watery Shits Future-Boy: A Warty Hugeman Time Travel Adventure
"I just bought these shoes, you little fuck," Warty bellowed. He bellowed everything he said while in the future. Future humans had evolved to have numerous tiny eardrums all over their nipples. Men and women both wore soundproof bras.The boy from the future looked at Warty blankly. He was dumbly chewing on a mouthful of future bugs that might have also come from outer space or something when Warty arrived from 2236, the most fashionable all years in all of human existence. Even more fashionable than the 2480s, when humans were beautiful floating bearopotami that wore space gowns of space silk woven by space arachnids from beyond Pluto's misshapen moon. When Warty materialized in front of him, the boy from the future had let out a stream of watery shit in his fright.
Warty backhanded the boy from the future and said, "I'm going to call you Watery Shits Future-Boy and name the future novel I will write about you in the past the same thing." The boy shit some more and ran away.
Warty returned to his underwater tomb in the past and began writing.
THE END
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