The way the heat from the nuclear explosion flash-fried his flesh before the blastwave tore it all off and blew it away was excruciating and horrifying but also, in a way, quite funny, especially as he’d boasted that he would ‘bang out’ any nuke that came anywhere near him.
Her claws scratched across and through his face, rending his diseased, decaying flesh and tearing off a strip which she threw over her shoulder for her raven familiar to feast upon before fouling itself as it died.
She spammed him and, to her delight, his brow exploded in a shower of pus, blood and Botox, her hand sticking to the wet, ragged mess for a moment before she pulled it away and made space for the robotic fist to punch straight through his face and out of the back of his head in one devastating thrust.
She clawed at his back in rage, expecting to draw a little blood at most but instead yanking out a large chunk of rotting flesh. As he span to look at her and retaliate, his right leg came free at the hip joint and he fell, his head making a muffled thump on the floor and rolling away as blood seeped lazily from his neck out onto the shit-smeared linoleum.
She rubbed the warm, squidgy gallbladder all over his cheeks and tried to stuff it into his mouth, leering at him and making taunting noises. He pursed his lips tightly but still tried to smile, reminding himself that all interviews were getting harder and focusing on the fact that he’d be taking home nearly twice as much as in his current job, albeit his cleaning costs would be higher.
At the appearance of dawn’s first rays, the soaring cumulus clouds reflected a brilliant pink radiance. Janet gazed outside for a long moment before turning to him, nodding and tossing the pie right into the middle of the room, and he swung his aluminium bat with pinpoint accuracy, beautifully splattering the tasty treat against the French windows and curtains and festooning them with chunks of kidney and pastry.
She rent open his ballbag, hoping that spunk would simply gush forth into the bowl, but instead finding nothing but blood and agonised screams.
Julie was on the prowl. She was looking for meat. But she had had a steak already, so what gave? Ah, yes – she was looking for the kind of meat that fills the other ‘stomach’, i.e. the vaginal tract.
He had stumbled upon her dragline, and, little aware of the power of pheromones, found himself coyly entreated to follow it until he espied her in the distance, busily emitting a silken web from her abdominal spinneret. He began to strum the thread, and she declined even to turn and face him, instead violently shaking the web to ward him off. But he had one purpose, borne of an instinct stronger than survival, and he plunged across the quivering web toward her. He could feel that he was handling the awkwardness of his progress masterfully, and that she was becoming receptive owing to his obvious skill. He primed his pedipalps with sperm, ready to place it on a little bit of web so that she would only be waiting a second or two. He tenderly levered open the scape on her priapic outgrowth to ease open her genital aperture and grant himself access to her copulatory ducts. His issue flowed eagerly unto her seminal receptacles, there to remain while she fattened her body on flies and aphids over the following months. His task completed most satisfactorily for them both, it made more sense for him to be used as meat, and she towered over him for a moment before chomping down hard and consuming his whole cephalothorax in one bite.
She tore open his flesh excitedly, holding him down and thrusting her face in to guzzle away at the blood and blubber as he roared in agony.