BMF: Black Magic [email protected]#%ery

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Putty men. Also known as the Putty Patrollers. Evil, devious little bastards they are. They exist for one reason and only one reason: to be massive tits. They aren’t strong. They don’t do much, but what they do they have perfected and made into an art form. They are both the most annoying being you could ever meet as well as the biggest jobbers you shall ever encounter. The sounds they make, as well, are pure blood boiling.

Mel stirred from his slumber, ready to answer the call many need in the morning. He eased himself free of his succubus cocoon, grumbling but thankfully still very much asleep, and stumbled to the restroom, already loosing his sash when, wouldn’t you know it, one of those putty bastards was stationed before the porcelain throne. It mocked and jeered as it danced in place, waving its papier-mache dagger. Mel knew this day would come, that he would be denied access to the pot by an underpaid schlub off the streets, so that’s why he kept a bathroom gun. He turned to the left, opened the linen closet nestled by the shower there.

And another putty man sprung forth.

This one he didn’t give more than a single warbling jeer before he punched it in the throat. It writhed on the ground, gagging, clutching at its neck for dear life while its other clawed at the air. It had dropped its dagger in its fit of trying to live, diving straight through its chest cavity, making a lovely blood fountain as Mel retrieved his gun, a double-barrel, as well as a case of solid slugs. Not a box, no... an entire suitcase, lined from top to bottom, four cotton layers sewn in, all packed cozily to the brim with ease of access.

Mel loaded the gun with the single box inside the closet, then dropped it, empty, onto the putty man’s head. Its writhing, its clash with life was coming to an end, so Mel gave it a merciful end by putting one straight through the box and through its head. The putty men jerked only once and was finally at peace; Mel turned to the first putty men, still dancing before the John, though its movements had gotten nervous, stilted. Even more as Mel approached him. His finger was on the second trigger, not enough to squeeze if he stepped wrong but comfortable enough that if he had intent it would give, and aimed that double-barrel right at the putty man.

“You have-” He began, but already squeezed the trigger. The putty men was flung back, splattering against the wall above the loo. It fell off, leaving a lovely Rorschach painting of two dogs, chihuahuas specifically, making out before an exploding star (or maybe it was his mother’s vagina; whatever the psychologist wanted to hear and what their fetish was) and landed with a nasty splat before his goal. Mel groaned, stomping on the twitching extra, and finally let loose his answer to Nature’s call.

At first it bubbled into the basin, but then he noticed it started to hit something... solid. He looked from that ink-blot and saw that another putty man resided in the bowl, dancing and squabbling in a higher pitch. It was tiny, barely larger than the average loaf that would be pinched off by morning bakers to the Superbowl. Seeing it bob in the churning waters, though, Mel could not tell the difference. He aimed for its legs, kept it knocked over, gurgling and gargling without any hope of getting footing in the basin. There was nothing it could grab a hold of in the bowl; Mel always believed a toilet should be completely clean, a habit his mother had that he religiously followed.

As the last bit of his mighty spray became little more than a dribble of spit in the wind, Mel gave himself three firm shakes before he tucked back into his robes and readied the putty man’s fate. He grabbed the handle, his thumb held out; the putty man was watching, shaking his head, begging, pleading in his loathsome tongue, quickly taken away as Mel gave it the thumbs down. Its warbling shrills were dulled by the thunder rumbling into the basin, taking with it the water down the drain. It spun down, down into the U-bend; the putty men clawed at the basin, but it was for naught. It uttered one final warble and vanished, another victory for Mel.

He hummed a song of victory, grunting as he pulled his sash firm. He rocked on his heels, the putty man under him crunching away to the beat of his lyric until it was finished with one, last, hard jerk. He strolled off the putty man and to the sink, turning on the hot water-

And another mini putty man plopped out of the spigot.

Mel stared down at it, watched as it tried to crawl from the scalding torrent that followed after its descent. It was already in so much pain, its body red and quickly being overtaken by blisters, giving it a grotesque, yellowed look. It wheezed in pain, in agony, but even those sounds brought so much hate.

SO... how could Mel resist the temptation? How could he not pull the spigot free and make it into the sprayer? Oh, the putty man probably begged him not to, pleaded to its God to end its life swiftly if only for it to escape languishing under the onslaught of nigh-molten water, but there was no God there. There would be no divine intervention, no hand to stay Mel’s, dousing that putty man into oblivion, and he didn’t stop until there wasn’t even a streak of pus or red on the marble basin. Then and only then did he cool the water down and wash his hands at last.

Mel would think himself the monster for what he was doing. He would feel some sympathy, but why? They were quite literally worth less than paper, and quickly just as replaced. They didn’t have goals or dreams or higher aspirations of any sort. It was a question if they even had any form of higher cognitive ability, so it would be like feeling sympathy for the microbes in the air he breathed or the little swimmers he will lose later that day. They meant nothing... well, hopefully the latter would be nothing.

He turned off the water, dried off his hands, retrieved and prepared the next two shells in the chambers then returned to the bedroom. Brin and Saliim had woke in his time in the bathroom; two shots from a double-barrel would have that affect. Brin was sitting up, her arms and legs crossed, and looked to be chewing on her words, readying to continue the fight- no, the war she and Saliim were now engaged in. Saliim, meanwhile, was all squirmy. She was trying so hard to keep her legs shut, but Mel could smell it as clear as day. That smelly smell that... smells... He stormed up to the bed and aimed the shotgun between her legs.

“Open up.” He commanded, a song forming in the back of his mind.

“N-no,” Brin said, shaking her head hard. Her voice couldn’t keep a steady tone, either, quivering just as much as her arms, wreathed in goosebumps. “N...not l-like this. Not l-l-like this!”

Mel reached for her left leg, shotgun still aimed true, and she yelped, trying to kick at him. Her yelp was distorted by a moan, her leg wanting to be held by him, but she managed to dig her sole into his palm, knocking him back a step. But Mel would not be denied. Not now. Not when he knew that smell, not when each waft of that... sulfur made the song louder in his head.

Saliim opened her mouth at last, and it turned out it wasn’t words she was mulling over. A river of white putty men simply flowed out and onto the carpet, quickly growing to full size. They charged at him, four at a time, and they were blown away. Four at a time. He was backed into the bathroom, where his suitcase was waiting, and he popped it open, loading shell after shell, pumped into that wall of white and turned it into a fine red mist. There didn’t seem to be an end in sight, but, as he got to the second row of shells, he saw he was taking steps back into the room, no longer backed to the throne.

He looked to the left, to the mirror there, and smirked as he donned a pair of bright neon green shades, finally humming the song that had become a booming anthem in his mind.

“Take me home!” He roared, pumping another two shots into the doorway. “Country roads. To the place. I BELONG!!!”

He made it back into the room, singing at full volume, making the stone quake more than his gun. However, all was cut off as Brin exclaimed. The putty men vanished, giving a clear view of the succubus on the bed. Her eyes had rolled back, her back arched as she continued her moan. Most importantly, though, her legs were finally spread. From them, the biggest, baddest mother emerged. What roof the faeries managed to put together was sheared away in its rise, standing easily forty feet with its horns adding another fifteen. They spanned further than the entirety of the tower, and held demonic eyes in their sixty-six racks. It had two bead red eyes on either side of its rotting leathery snout, showing pale, jagged bone and sparking wires underneath its shabby hide. Its chest was bare, allowing its giant breasts to be seen by all as well as its four six-foot long schlongs, a bouquet above a ball sack as big as a moped. It stood on a pair of ebon hooves, and, though its arms were normal, its right was replaced up to the elbow with a chain gun, loaded with even more putty men.

The beast glared at him, and unleashed an otherworldly bellow, charging at him.

“Bring it on! E1M1 motherfucker!” Mel bellowed back, meeting its charge.

But, sadly, he had to actually wake up.

Mel groaned, blinking away the fog, and gasped as he saw a putty man standing above him. It wasn’t all a dream! But he wasn’t in his room; he was in an actual bed instead of on his futon. Desperate times called for desperate measures, so he manifested a single-barrel hand-cannon and fired an aether round at the would-be annoyance. The putty man squeaked and shrilled as it flew into the air... but... as Mel cleared his vision better, thanks to the fire that erupted from the aether bullet, he could see that it wasn’t actually a putty man. In fact, it was no type of man to begin with. Instead, Penelope finished her flight to the top of the room, where the aether round fizzled out, and promptly fell back onto his bed in Professor Klan’s medicine and fun emporium.

The good doctor rushed over, swearing in her (fake) German accent, and checked on the would-be annoyance, only finding surface burns. Though that didn’t remove the hurt from the girl’s eyes, the confusion and indignation.

“What the hell?” Penelope cried out. “What was that for?”

“I thought you were a minion of evil that exists for the sole purpose to job,” Mel said, and tossed his hand-cannon aside, fading away. He wiped his hands clean of the aetherdust that was left behind, soiling Professor Klan’s sheets as he did –and speaking of her. “What am I doing here?”

“I brought you in with the others,” Professor Klan grumbled. “Make sure you were all right... Aside moderate fatigue, you are well. Now, if you are rested enough, I must ask you to leave. Even if you aren’t, I request that you do. We cannot have you shooting off willy-nilly.”

“It wasn’t ‘willy-nilly’. It was at Penelope the putty man... I take it my robes are in the trunk?”

She nodded, and he hopped out of bed, right over Penelope and landed before the trunk.

“Are you even wondering why I’m here?” Putelope said.


“Well... I’m sorry, okay? I... I came here to say I’m sorry... I didn’t realize you had so much stress placed on you at the moment.”

“How could you not know? You were in the office when we were originally told we- I was a prime target.” That was one good thing that came from his most recent exciting turn: he figured out that it was him and him alone... and all those other people, but wouldn’t it have gone after Puttynelope first if it had any want? Maybe it saw her just as much as a hindrance; heartburn? Indigestion? “Anyways, it’s whatever. I’ve got to hurry and get to my room.”

“Actually, my real reason was to bring you to your grandpa’s-”

“He can wait. I need my gun!”

“Y... your what, now?”

“My gun. My gun! It’s putty hunting season!”

“I woke up to him screaming about guns,” Saliim grumbled from the bed across. Brin also stirred, but was wearing a bright, confused smile instead of the smoldering inquisitive look of a Spanish conquistador looking for answers. “Master Mel... On second thought, I don’t want to know.”

But Mel already looked a bit depressed. After all, a river of putty men didn’t come dribbling out of her mouth... This had better pick up by the time they get to the room. Or, even better, that demon springs from between Brin’s legs again... first, gun.

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