Rhombus  and  Cerebella
Darren  Subarton

To dismiss all rumors, this is the true story about the killing of Sir Marauder, and the end of the beginning of the free world, as told from the bastard son of an android prostitute, in his father’s voice:
Young and old Drugs alike, we were all sitting in a bunker in Saint Stawski, New Halifax, twenty-seven months after the Proton War. This was my third night in the bunker and the ambiance was already screaming out of the walls. Wildman was there with his double holstered six-shooters, along with Baddasski the shoplifter, the Himmelfarb sisters, and Jeff the Wife-beater, just to name a few. Everybody was enhammmered on Wild Irish Rose or some other liver-bubbling intoxicant. I looked at Wildman as he broke off a couple of rounds from his six-shooter, screaming at the sound coming from the hi-fi as everyone ducked for cover. We were all killing time and dying from radiation poisoning, losing our inhibitions one way or another.
I was sitting next to a courtesan, not the three hundred dollar type, but a courtesan with class. She was whispering in my ear those sweet-little somethings that only a derelict on scotch could enjoy. Don’t get me wrong, a courtesan is a courtesan, but this one had innovation. She had three breasts, double D each, hips like a jaguar, and lips that could swallow a cantaloupe. Her partner was on the other side of me, looking me up and down as if I were there for her amusement. Both of them had the finest bronze-tinted plastic skin I had ever seen, made from high-quality polymers, and velvety smooth.
"And what’s your name, little mama?" I asked the woman on my right.
"Ooohh, I like a man that speaks with authority. My name’s Rhombus…what’s yours?"
"Stanley Livingston, I presume. I was lost, baby, but I think I was just found."
Rhombus giggled, then spoke up. "He’s the one I was talking about, Cerebella…I told you he had that spark."
Her friend, Cerebella, seemed like she could make even a bull dyke whimper from a glimpse of her cold-hearted eyes. They were a striking shade of hazel, and they seemed deeper than any android’s eyes that I’d ever seen. She only had two breasts, but she had an ass that made up for a month, and it jiggled like saccharinated lime Jell-O.
"We were instructed to bring a healthy specimen back to our native land. So what can you tell us about yourself?" Cerebella inquired.
"Damn, my lady, you’ve got to be the most quite pre-propatorious woman in town. What’re you thinking about doing, baby?"
Wildman screamed out as a bottle smashed against the wall about three feet from our heads: "You’ve got to watch out for them courtesans, B…they’ll promise you the world then make you a slave to Vaginismus the Ripper! They’re bounty hunters, B."
Cerebella jumped up. "Why don’t you suck off, motherflipper, before I cut off your pee-shooter and stitch it in your mouth!"
"Language, language…c’mon now, we’re all searching for the same thing here. With radiation levels rising by .0048ths an hour, there’s no need to fight."
Baddasski the shoplifter spoke up: "But Wildman’s right, they come around to the bunkers and select mates for breeding the perfect specimen. They’ll take you back to the Sheaf and force you to copulate on command. Two weeks ago they got a hold of Jai Nadu and transformed him into a copulator. Don’t be taken in by their voluptuous bodies and endearing words."
"Silence!" Cerebella screamed, as she and Rhombus drew their ARK-26 Discomburfilators in unison. The music stopped and time stood still; no one dared to make a move. One blast from an ARK-26 Discomburfilator will not only put a clear five-inch hole through a human’s body, but it will also make your internal organs implode.
The entire bunker stood in silence as Rhombus had the room covered; Cerebella approached me with her weapon still drawn. "Okay, Mister Marauder, loosen the belt and drop your breeches to your ankles. I want to see this endowment that I’ve heard so many rumors about. Supposedly, you’re a superstar in this part of the galaxy, and your conquests carry the reputation of an epic."
With all eyes in the house on me, I undid my trousers and let them drop to my ankles. As I pulled my endowment out it hit the floor, making a heavy thud.
"Jesus Christ…Do you have a license for that thing!" some smartass in the crowd yelled out, breaking the tension in the room.
Once again there was music and laughter in the bunker as Rhombus and Cerebella lowered their guns and began examining my rather spacious peripheral being. It was almost as if nothing had happened, the way everyone started mingling again, but that’s life when you’re living in the bunkers. I picked up my drink and swallowed the mixture, watching the ladies amazement in self-enjoyment.
"It’s even larger than I imagined. Do you mind if I hold it in my metacarpus?" Rhombus asked.
"You’re the one with the ARK-26 Discomburfilator, not me, baby."
"You don’t understand, Mr. Marauder…or should I call you Stanley Livingston?" Rhombus asked. Cerebella stepped in front of her, taking control of the situation.
"Actually it’s Sir Marauder, but I’ll leave the choice up to you, my lady."
"Sir marauder suits you fine…you’re definitely a man of distinction, worth the quality of respect that you command. Please, I know that we are only common courtesans in your eyes, but won’t you make this exception just once? I only ask of you to allow us to feel the wrath of your phallicial-being. Though we are not worthy, all I can offer you is your freedom and a small sum of money," Cerebella pleaded, with Rhombus’ head-bobbing approval.
"Ladies, do you take me for a doxy? If I were to accept a settlement of money, that would most certainly make me a courtesan myself. I am Sir Marauder, heartbreaker, fart-maker, and lover extraordinaire! Just the thought of complying to such a distasteful proposition prompts me to lose the use of my faculties." I could tell by their wanton eyes that it would be my pleasure as Load Master First Class to give out to them, but I just wanted to see them sweat. It’s not too often a man of flesh can work android courtesans into such fervor.
"Please, I beg you Sir Marauder, stuff my orifice, molest my synthetic skin…copulate my being!" Cerebella cried.
"Oh please, Sir Marauder, do it to me too, but do it twice as hard, with twice the emotion, and twice the banghole-ation!" Rhombus pleaded.
"Perhaps I could make it with you android courtesans…maybe you can swallow your redemption for your crimes against actual flesh."
"We are worthy, Sir Marauder…worthy and ready to be sucked, fucked, and tit-clucked; give it to us good and raw!" they simultaneously pleaded.
With the air of a conquistador, yet the grace of a gentleman, I motioned them over to the dirty mattress in the corner.
"Rhombus, do you mind if I knock your teeth out…lubricated gums make the mouth feel like the real thing," I asked.
"What about me!" Cerebella exploded in a fit of jealous rage.
I turned to her and said: "I’ve got something special for you, my little dumping ground. Come closer to my anal sphere and stick your nose up my spectacle orifice."
She did so with the grace of a ballerina, as Rhombus stripped down to a leather thong. I churned my sphincter muscle with the might of a giant, releasing a vesuvius fart in Cerebella’s face. "Here comes the tootsie-roll," I said, flashing my pearly whites. She began inhaling the aroma as if she were a bloodhound on the trail of a fire hydrant’s squirt stain. Androids enjoyed a bizarre form of foreplay, and when they become aroused, they were better lovers than any woman of the flesh.
Now Rhombus was all over my body with hers, rubbing her sweet nectar on my lips; it tasted better than real, and changed flavors the more I prodded with my tongue. As Cerebella sniffed my vapors, playing with my endowment, I had my mouth on Rhombus’ middle breast, and my hands on her outer two. If only my comrades from the Communications Division could see me know, I would be their hero.
"My God, your human vapors smell so entrancing…I must have more!" Cerebella said, taking a breather from transcendent inhalation.
I looked around the bunker, noticing that not a soul was paying attention to us, well except for Jeff the Wife-beater, who was busy with his own self-copulation. I was almost ready to release when the front door was blown off its hinges. Everything stopped again, and Cerebella’s teeth snagged on the end of my penis.
"VAGINISMUS!" Rhombus shouted in sheer terror.
The stranger popped off two rounds from a laser-scoped pistol, making holes from the courtesans’ mouths clear down to their round-eyes.
"Why you filthy swine…I almost redeemed them!" I shouted. This man was of the bad-ass class; with a nose where his right eye should have been, a mouth where his right ear should have been, stockily built, seven foot something, and wearing a leather suit that smelled of dog’s ass…I finally realized who this was.
"Vaginismus the Ripper…we finally meet!"
"How dare you taint my meat! Those doxies were relatively disease-free, at least human-wise, and you had your dirty dick-beaters all over them!"
"Excuse me, Mister lower class, but if you are referring to my hands as dirty dick-beaters, then perhaps you have the wrong individual in mind. For, this rather impressive display of penis envy that my eyes have bared witness to is slightly unappeasing to say the least. I am Sir Marauder, defender of the free world…If you plan to communicate with my be—"
BANG! The laser-guided bullet went through my nose and out the back of my head, splattering my impressive lobe across the wall. As quickly as the Ripper entered, he left from the same point of origin without collecting his money.
While I lay there dying, I watched as the Drugs scavengered the courtesans’ bodies. The only Drugs that weren’t bastardizing my dying moments were Wildman, who was passed out cold, and Jeff the Wife-beater, who was still busy beating his wife at an impressive meter. With the sacrifice of my own life, I had saved the lives of all the other Drugs in that bunker; and my duties as Load Master First Class were carried out to the end, perhaps saving the plastic-fantastic souls of two hardliner courtesans. I had earned my sleep that evening.

Darren Subarton lives in Brooklyn, NY, with his Congo African Grey parrot, Simone, slinging do-dirty noir fiction and breaking hearts internationally with his poetry. His poems and short stories have been showcased in such magazines as Hardboiled, Blue Murder Magazine, Plots With Guns, The Mississippi Review Web, Aura Literary Arts Review, Fat Tuesday, New York Hangover, Global Tapestry Journal (UK), Futures, and 12-Gauge Review. Currently he writes bar reviews for 12-Gauge Review, and does various freelance assignments in the Internet technology market. He can be reached for questions or comments at sirdarren@hotmail.com