Andrew Hilbert

Post image for Andrew Hilbert

by Horror Sleaze Trash on February 20, 2011


“I want to be flown in with an army of well-armed paratroopers…” Colonel Washingbone hunched over his desk. He was tapping his fingers nervously over a city map of Compton. “At least fifty, no! One hundred! One hundred well-armed paratroopers to get that sonofabitch!”

“I’ll put the order in, sir!” Mueller stood erect and saluted.

“Order some god damn raincoats, too. It’s going to get slippery out there.”

Agent 2345 walked into Mac’s Liquor. His eyes stared at the floor.

“Hey, man! What you need?!”

“I… I…,” 2345’s synthetic chin quivered, his eyes welled up with gasoline, “I… I… just wanted a viable pod to spread my seed…”

“Man, what you talking about!? You gotta lay off them drugs, man.”

“Drugs? There is no finer drug than watching your little killing machine grow.”

“Man, here,” the store clerk passed him a 40, “So your little lady left you, takes your kid, you never see him again but you gotta pay up for his diapers and shit. Steel Reserve, man. Takes the edge off.”

“You do not understand. I have not yet even met my viable pod! I have not yet experienced the emotions you call love or passion; only rage. Violent rage and a hard-on.”

“Man, you a faggot?!”

Agent 2345’s dick steadily rose above his sweatpants’ waistband. The clerk recoiled out of prison habit.

“Hey, man! I’m not gay, okay?! That’s cool! That’s cool! Take what you want!” the clerk backed himself into his porn magazine rack and fell to the ground. Agent 2345’s dick’s shadow covered the clerk’s face as he cowered in fear.

The bells on the barred liquor store door jingled. A woman and her daughter had entered.

“Mommy! Mommy! Can I get that water gun!?”

Agent 2345’s erection slowly retreated from above his elastic band. He burst into tears.

“Mommy! Mommy! Why is that ugly man crying?!”

The chopping sound of at least fifteen helicopters hovered above Mac’s Liquor.

“It’s them damn ghetto birds again. Somebody must’a been robbed. The world ain’t getting any better,” the mother looked to her daughter.

“Agent 2345! My son!” Washingbone’s voice boomed from above.

“Father?!” 2345 whispered to himself in response. “I have a father?”

“A father always knows his son’s whereabouts with the help of the GPS chip I embedded onto your mushroom tip! I’ll be down in a second.”

Washingbone signaled to his paratrooper army to jump and surround the place on his count.

“One, two, three,” he said and they all jumped out in unison.

As soon as Washingbone’s cowboy boots hit the parking lot gravel, the alcoholic bums hanging around outside scattered. Washingbone dropped his cigarette and put it out with his heel. He motioned for the paratroopers to cover the exits.

Washingbone looked around; the parking lot was empty. Tall cans of Bud Light blew from parking space to parking space with the wind. He lit himself another cigarette and slowly marched into Mac’s Liquor.

“What is it you need, son?” Washingbone took off his cowboy hat and rested it on the counter as he walked in.

“I need to complete my original mission. I need a viable pod that will birth my child.”

“Oh?” Washingbone smiled coyly, “Here’s one,” Washingbone grabbed the mother and pushed her toward 2345. Her daughter started to cry.

“Don’t hurt my mommy!”

“Listen, kid. Your mommy will die with honor! For her country! How many terrorists will be killed because of her sacrifice!? You’re too stupid to understand anything of worth, sprite.” Washingbone blew smoke in her face. She kept crying and yelling and screaming with snot flying all over the place.

Agent 2345 was familiar with this emotion. In fact, he had just emptied himself of all his gasoline tears because of his own sadness.

“If this woman is to be a pod, why is this child crying so much?” 2345 pointed to the kid.

“Listen, you ingrate! I gave you life! I commanded you to be synthesized into the killing machine you are! If you don’t want to fuck this pod, that’s fine! But you’re still coming with me to Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan and North Korea to wreak the kind of havoc you wrought on Long Beach!” Washingbone threw his cigarette on the floor.

The whole goddamn Mac’s Liquor lit up like a glow in the dark vibrator.

“Now get up, son! Leave the peasants where they are. We’re going to go kill for our country!” Washingbone’s eyes were rabid.

Agent 2345’s dick quivered a little bit but it did not go into full-kill mode.

The girl kept crying, the mother was on the floor crying, the clerk was crying. Washingbone, he was cracking up. The paratroopers stormed in.

Agent 2345 caught a glimpse of the latest Hustler behind the crying clerk. He picked it up and browsed.

Blondes with tattoos… dick quiver, blacks with tattoos… dick quiver, lesbians… quiver, genital piercings… HARD ROCK MUSIC, FLASHING LIGHTS, BONER AT MAXIMUM CAPACITY!

Agent 2345’s dick put a face sized hole right through clerk’s face. Agent 2345’s pole vaulted himself to behind the counter.

“If I cannot find a suitable pod, I will kill you all!”

Washingbone pulled out his .44 magnum and started blasting away. Sure, the bullets lodged themselves into 2345’s bazooka dick but it only made him stronger. 2345 stroked real hard and a cum scud missile took out at least ten paratroopers. The mother and child ran to a corner, seeking the shelter of liter bottles of Pepsi as the fire and cum war raged.

“Look at your potential! Your potential!” Washingbone yelled, “You’ll end this war in one fell orgasm!”

“I want to create, not destroy!”

“You just decapitated an innocent man with that thing! You’re no creator! I am! I am the Creator!” Washingbone lit another cigarette and smoked the whole thing with one drag. He grabbed the woman and used her as a human shield to get close to 2345.

“I know your weakness, son,” Washingbone said, “You can’t stand to see the sight of a woman crying.”

“It is not the woman I feel circuitry vibrations for, it is for her child.”

2345 stroked again. At least ten more paratroopers met their creamy deaths. The rest were running away.

“You pussies!” Washingbone yelled. “It’s just me and you, son.”

Agent 2345 grabbed Washingbone by the neck and lifted him away from the mother. With one hand tightening its grip around Washingbone, 2345 used his other hand to position his military grade dick right into Washingbone’s eyehole.

“Say goodbye, Colonel Cumeye,” 2345 said.


It was anti-climactic, that’s for sure. But thanks to government budget cuts, there was only a limited amount of weapons-grade semen that could be allotted for a prototype weapon.

Washingbone giggled. “It tickles!” he declared.

2345 vigorously stroked to no avail. He yelled to the mother and child, “Leave! Leave! You are someone else’s pod! Save yourselves!”

Washingbone, quickly losing air, looked down at his son, “What are you going to do? Kill us both? Some hero.”

Agent 2345 broke Washingbone in half over his still erect weapon and threw him into the fire.

He watched his Creator burn. Gasoline tears falling from his face fueled the fire. Agent 2345 grabbed a stack of dirty mags and walked to the frozen food section. He inserted himself into the freezer thinking it would protect him from the pain of burning. He thumbed through the magazines and enjoyed looking at all the positions he could have tried with a viable pod.

He was alone and he was cold and his erection was useless at this point but Washingbone was dead.


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