I remember that night, while working Hollywood and Vine, when I got the call on my subatomic wrist radio. “Marlowe… come in, Marlowe… Space Homos on the loose at the Dinwiddie again… wait for backup and THAT’S AN ORDER!” It was my boss, Captain Svenk Tor, down at the precinct station. The guy was such a giant sphincter boy. The way he bent over for the intergalactic Homo Lobby, he must have had a big butthole for real.
By then, I’d worked the stinking flesh-pots of greater San Angeles for years as a lead detective in the “Crimes Against Sentient Beings” bureau and believe you me, I’ve seen more than enough of THE SPACE HOMO problem.
Here they are, cavorting around, all dolled up in flashy aluminum space outfits; engaging in rude public sex acts using spacecraft refueling nozzles; coming down with utterly grotesque Alien skin lesions from across the galaxy; shacking up with escaped laboratory Super Chimps and getting their brains bashed in when the apes finally go ape. Yep, the Space Homos are way, WAY out-of-control, alright.
And I sure as hell investigated far too many disgusting crime scenes after all those huge underground Ass-Gerbiling orgies they like to host in abandoned Walmart and Target department stores. I ask you in all seriousness: How can a man possibly forget the grisly sight of hundreds, maybe thousands, of crushed and crap-covered dead bodies of cute little kiddie pets underfoot? All sacrificed to satisfy the sick and nasty anal perversions of THE SPACE HOMOS!
When I got the call, my unmarked anti-gravity cruiser was sputtering away, hovering next to the donut shop like countless cops and gumshoes down the centuries. I took my time and leisurely finished my artificial java juice — mandatory decaf, of course — since I can’t stand responding to Space Homo calls, anymore.
After tugging down my retro brown fedora, I eased my cruiser out into the proper vertical axis for the AI grid. The auto pilot snapped on, still set at normal warp speed. I knew I had to first sneak up on the sodomites and scope out just how bad things were getting before taking any action and drawing attention to myself. No telling what disgusting sight might soon await me.
When I arrived at the Hotel Dinwiddie, I could see lots of the usual atmospheric vehicles favored by Space Homos parked in bays on every level. The fudge-packers were here in force and up to something big tonight!
My cruiser dropped into a standard automatic parking spiral and the generic she-male AI voice blandly intoned “landing approach vector five by five,” as my head’s up display showed a rotating orange rectangle blinking downwards to an open ground floor bay.
Sitting there for a minute, I finished puffing my illegal stogie and checked to see if my 5 gigawatt plasma Colt sidearm was fully charged. Last time I needed to use it, I had to blast nearly a thousand hopped-up Hottentots — attacking me in midget negro human wave assaults after my cruiser’s graviton amplifier broke down just outside of the Pasadena Redoubts. Took me months to finish all the forms explaining, even though the bosses had plenty of recorded 3-d vids. Bureaucracy never ends, does it?
Right as I exited my cruiser and started crossing the landing bay, a squadron of hugely fat Botswanna Broads on reinforced motorized tricycles with balloon tires nearly ran me down. The Nigerian Muzzie cult all wore matching, tent-like black burkas — the only thing you could see were the giant white chicken chompers and bulging, bloodshot eyeballs peering out from the inky depths. The last big boon giggled something rude at me in street swahili as she rode by.
Already before entering the place, I could hear the homos singing that ancient song from a long-dead Space Homo named David Bowie — their unofficial anthem, I’ve been told. They all drunkenly sang out in chorus:
“…this is Major Tom to Ground Control… I’m stepping through the door… and I’m floating in a most a-pe-cu-liar waaay… and the stars look very different to-day-haaay!”
I could easily tell the rump rangers were now completely zonked out on illegal Venusian vodka, butthole ecstasy poppers and God knows what else they stick up there.
It was then I heard the enormous roar of some kind of large animal back behind the Dinwiddie, where they still had an old style macadam parking lot for internal combustion, ground-based vehicles. I quietly worked my way around back to see WTF it was.
I was completely shocked with what I saw. Before me was an astoundingly huge Woolley Mammoth — cloned and brought back from extinction by mad scientists in the early decades of the century. Herds now roamed Siberia, Alaska and some crazy rich guy’s ranch in Montana. How the faggots got their grubby paws on one and managed to get him to San Angeles, I don’t know.
The poor beast was firmly held down in place by a crackling, electric purple Brownian stasis or force field; his haunches raised up and rear legs spread wide open, fully exposing his huge hairy testicles and yawning anus. Leading up to all this, at least fifteen metres up in the air, were a pair of old-fashioned steel steps like the ones once used at airports during the early days of ancient airplane travel.
At the base of the steps stood Space Homo Rabbis, come down to the planet’s surface from the Jew-only “Hashem’s World” — a space colony in the shape of the Star of David stationed 500 nautical miles in orbit directly above that giant scorched black spot on the planet’s surface once known as Israel — turned into melted glass decades ago when practically every country on the planet finally had enough of the bastards and took turns thermo-nuking the place.
I was told these devious rats were once again involved in the Space Homo problem, but couldn’t believe it until I saw it with my own eyes!
Standing in line nearby were a half-dozen or so naked Space Homos, wearing skin-tight black nano-tex head covers, oxygen tubes and fashionable green glass goggles — each sporting a big woody and lathered head-to-toe with B-4 — that synthetic moly lithium goop they love so much.
(ED NOTE: B-4 is an industrial lubricant designed for use on the fullerene spider wire cables guiding space elevators in geosynchronous orbit around the equator. Space Homos had taken a real shine to the stuff because it made them look baby face pale and was just caustic enough to burn off skin hair, pubes and disgusting gayboy lesions — though they had to wear nerdy lab goggles to keep it out of their eyes. Fags loved bathing and rolling around in it together on nano plastic sheeting and stole big 55 gallon drums of the crap from spaceports every chance they got.)
I assumed — in error, it turned out — that those lubed-up homos, standing there waiting with full-on chubbies, were new initiates into the Space Homo cult. How could anyone tell just who the freaks were, covered from the neck up in nano-tex and wearing B-4 goggles?
A construction crane lowered down a gurney contraption, in which the Rabbis put one of the homos and to great fanfare, hoisted him up to the Mammoth’s big old nasty bunghole. As Space Homos off to the sides chanted lines from an ancient homo Goddess named Bette Midler, other Rabbis stationed at the top of the stairs forcefully slid the new ass ranger straight into the Mammoth’s rectal cavity — head friggin’ first!
The only thing that would end up sticking out was the Space Homo’s feet, with a rainbow braided rope tied around his ankles — just in case the beast’s sphincter muscles seized up and they had to hurriedly call out for a contingent of homos to pull him free before he suffocated deep inside the animal’s bowels.
But the absolute biggest worry was the Mammoth farting, which would blast the homo hundreds of metres through the air, flying ass-backwards like a circus cannon act gone wildly awry — meaning probable death to him and possibly any innocent civilians accidentally struck by the lubed-up, feces-smeared faggot projectile. San Angeles EMT’s would later tell me dozens of horror stories they responded to in recent months.
Finding myself in a perfect site for observing the Space Homo’s totally bizarre religious festival, or whatever the hell they called it, I soon spotted the Brownian control pod, powering the electronic stasis field holding the huge-ass Mammoth in place.
Only the day before, I had my tech guy modify my sidearm blaster to have the ability to fire a perfectly silent, millisecond burst in a wavelength non-visible to the human eye. You wouldn’t even notice a thing — unless you were on the receiving end. It was the perfect opportunity to test it all out!
Taking careful aim from my hidden position, I fired the silent, invisible shot at the control pod. I couldn’t stand seeing the creature suffer so much and had to free the Mammoth from any more rectal violations from these crazed, out-of-control homos. Little did I realize what would happen. Or maybe I did.
My aim must have been perfect, because at that very instant the stasis field went down. The abused Mammoth immediately gave out a loud roar, raised up on his haunches and crushed to death the Space Homo stuck deep in his ass — just like he was a hairless, but not so innocent, big Gerbil wearing goggles.
I didn’t see him in there before firing, I swear.
Rapidly spinning around (amazing how fast such a large animal could move), the Mammoth turned on any nearby Rabbis and Space Homos and squashed them flat as a pancake, while at the same time skewering a screaming Rabbi on one tusk and a hysterically sobbing Space Homo on the other. With a couple of wild shakes of it’s massive, hairy head, the beast flung both off to bloody piles metres away.
Now that’s what I’m talking about!
All hell had broken loose. Space Homos were running around everywhere, yelling at the top of their lungs, while the enraged Mammoth was bellowing and stomping at any fleeing faggots underfoot. Before it was all over, scores of them lay crushed dead, just in the hotel parking lot alone. The whole affair soon became known in the popular press simply as “The Dinwiddie Disaster,” since everybody thought it was only a technical glitch that caused the “tragic accident” — having zero idea about me and my specially modified blaster.
And yes, I did conveniently “forget” to mention a few “minor details” in my official police report. Of course, you now know the truth.
I found out later it wasn’t brand new Space Homos going head first into the Mammoth’s ass, but actually even more Rabbis from “Hashem’s World,” believe it or not. They were taking part in a freaky new ritual for the High Sanhedrin called “Ba’al Pe’or,” or some such Hebrew jibber-jabber; all of which was necessary to do on the planet’s surface for acceptance by his YAHWEH-ness — according to the ever-rewritten Talmud. Jerusalem was way, way too radioactive and homos once again provided perfect cover for Jewry’s insane anal fixations.
Guess I killed a lot of crap birds with that one incredibly silent blaster shot, huh?
And the Woolley Mammoth? After going on a wild rampage through the streets, they finally cornered him right on the steps of the La Brea Tar Pit museum — ironically enough. San Angeles SWAT teams had to put the poor beast down using laser cannons. When they discovered the crushed Butt Rabbi’s feet sticking out the dead Mammoth’s bunghole, they merely assumed the animal had sat down on some “sweet and innocent” gayboy standing on a street corner waiting for a date.
Well, at least that’s what they told the public. God, people are stupid.
— Phillip Marlowe