Chapter 1 - The Awakening

The lights come on suddenly in the HyperSleep vault. Hypersleep pods are arranged in a circle in the centre of the room, and with the soft, hissing sound of escaping gas the lids open. Groggily, BumSpud sits up. He yawns, rubs the sleep from his eyes, and gets out of the pod. One by one the other Regs wake and leave their pods, stretching. DarkQueen is having one FUCK of a bad hair day, and Stoppa is scratching himself again.

H.C. Trouble gets into his uniform, carefully folding his silk jammys.

"What time is it, anyway?" he enquires.

BumSpud looks at his watch. "2597 A.D.", he replies.

"No wonder I'm so fucking hungry".

Mentis lights up a ciggy, and Freud takes his evening primrose capsules with a swig of synthetic coffee. The Regs change into their work fatigues, and make their way to the Mess Hall.

The crew of the Internet commercial starship Brawlstromo are seated around a table.

Evil Blood speaks.

"Some of you may have figured out that we're nowhere near home. I've logged on to D.A.N.G.E.R., the ship's computer, and it appears we were woken before our arrival because she's received what appears to be an intermittent transmission from quadrant points QBR 157, 052... Planet Proboard. Something's gone down there, and we're going to take a look."

The others are not happy with this decision. They've just raided another forum, and have a fresh crop of tardlings in the holding cells. They were looking forward to getting back to Planet BH.

They voice their opinions, which are immediately dashed by Evil Blood.

"We don't have a choice. Our contract states that we have to investigate any unknown contact - especially if there's a possibility that it's a distress beacon".

Chapter 2 - Situation Normal (All Fucked Up)

The crew strap themselves to their seats as the Brawlstromo moves within range of the planet. It's engines screaming, it begins it's descent. On the planet below, night flows across its surface.

The Brawlstromo fires its retroboosters as it nears the surface, and brilliant floodlights switch on to cut through the dense, foggy atmosphere.

The ship begins to shake uncontrollably as it is buffeted by the endless dust storms near the surface of the planet.

Lady Ice, manning the radio console, broadcasts a shrill cry of "Buckle yourself in, people, we've got a spot of turbulence!" which interrupts the Distillers medley she was torturing the fuck out of everyone with.

The entire crew begin to rock in their seats due to the sudden, extreme turbulence. Fumunda Cheeze (sat on his backside in the engine room) mutters to his workmate Outcold (sat on Fumunda Cheeze in the engine room), "Fuck. It looks like everything's overloading. Put the fucking kettle on, luv, and make us a brew".

The turbulence continues unabated, the good ship Brawlstromo thrown mercilessly at the whim of the dust storms ravaging the planet. The immense starcraft continues its inexorable descent towards the unforgiving rock surface of the planet.

The ship slams down, rocking heavily on its massive shock absorbers.

On the bridge, the lights on the consoles flicker and die. In the engine room, an electrical fire breaks out on three control panels. Flash fires whip along the empty, oil-stained corridors.

Fumanda sees the pandemonium and flips the secondary generator switch, resulting in the explosion of a pressure valve and the loss of all on-board lighting.

In short, folks, it's a clusterfuck.

Chapter 3 - Damage Control

Outside the grounded ship, the wind continues to howl. The dust storms boil around the craft, which is only distinguishable from the darkness by a few glittering lights and a neon Budweiser sign.

Evil Blood radios Fumunda in the engine room.

"What the fuck happened?"

"Electrical fire, EB. And a goddam HUGE one, too."

"What's the damage?"

"I think we'll get most systems back online in about ten minutes... but we have another problem."

"What?"

"Well it seems that the pool table in the bar is completely out of order - we've lost several balls, including the nine. And several of the beer pumps have been damaged beyond repair."

"Shit. Do we have spares?"

"Nope."

"Thanks, Fumunda."

The other regs on the bridge look at Evil Blood with hopeful expectancy (apart from DarkQueen, who is busy telling everyone within earshot that she WON'T show them her tits).

"It's bad folks, real fucking bad. Life support's offline - we've lost the pool table and several pumps".

A look of shocked dismay crept over the faces of the Regs.

Freud, the ship's psychiatrist, said "We've always got the bottled non-alcoholic stuff..."

"Say that fucking word again and I'll rip your spleen out of your back."

The crew have a meeting in the mess to try and think their way out of their dire predicament. It is eventually decided that a scout party will be sent to the source of the distress beacon (taking along a handful of recruited tards to act as a convenient sub-human shield). The downed craft emitting the signals could well have a fully-stocked bar, with the added possibility of recovering a few copies of Razzle. BumSpud, HC Trouble and ladr are nominated for the looting party. They get into their high-tech suits (whereas the recruited tards are only given a thin protective layer of bubble-wrap) and venture out of the airlock, into the harsh, malevolent atmosphere of the unexplored Planet Proboard.

Chapter 4 - Discovery Of The Space Dildo

Sunrise.

The darkness slowly bleeds out of the sky.

The silhouette of the Brawlstromo is dimly visible, straddled across barren rock. The floodlights automatically shut off. Slowly the outer airlock hatch slides open. Clouds of dirt, grit and flying shit billow before the emerging figures.

Slowly, ponderously, the party begins to make their way to the source of the transmission, the handcuffed, sedated retards shivering inside their bubble-wrap. The wind and dust drives down upon them in dark, foggy sheets.

Upon scaling a towering rock formation, the plucky Regs see a vast shape squatting upon the landscape. The transmission is deafening within their helmet speakers.

It is a gargantuan construction, clearly extraterrestrial in origin, jutting from the lava rock.

The voice of Doomsday, who is watching the video cameras integrated into the helmets, crackles into the helmet speakers.

"What the fuck is that?"

"It looks like an alien ship."

"It looks more like a colossal dildo turned on it's side!"

"We'll tell you more when we get closer."

The party fights their way through the dust storms and landslides until they are within spitting distance of the craft, an approximation which they test extensively (winner = ladr - 12.57m). It does indeed look like a twat-rattler that God himself could prod his prostate with. Stamped in hot pink on the bell-end were alien symbols that seemed to writhe in the dim, blood-red sunlight.

ƒ??m? ???mþ$

Doomsday's rich, fruity baritone cuts into the helmet speakers again.

"Whatever the transmission is, it's inside that. Our scanners can't tell us what's inside there, and the helmet-cam uplink won't work because of the radiation levels coming from that thing - once you boys go in, you're on your own. God Bless you all, and bring us back some beer pumps. If you can appropriate any of the escape pods, could you bring one back? Lady Ice says that judging on the overall design of the ship, she may be able to find a use for one."

"Roger that Double D. We're going in."

They enter the vessel through the escape hatch cunningly disguised as a japseye, dragging the chained tards behind them.

Chapter 5 - Enter the Japseye

The salvage party moves into an immense domed chamber. The walls are covered with strange sculptures made from the protein-based mucus which glistens from every surface. Shadows dance in the harsh light of the Regs' helmet lamps. At the far end of the chamber is a small, circular opening. HC Trouble unclips a lamp from his dashing headgear and shines it through the opening.

"It just goes down. I can't see the bottom, the light won't reach."

"OK." BumSpud looks around at the unsuspecting tards, then points to one at random.

"You, Senor Ramirez. Get the fuck over here."

Ramirez shuffles over, his bubble-wrap popping with every movement of his greasy body. BumSpud unlocks the fluffy pink love-cuffs binding his hands together, and clips the tard to his belt winch.

"We have reason to believe that the ship's boozer is at the bottom of this orifice. You are to go down and fetch us at least three beer pumps as well as a full complement of pool balls. Keep yourself attached to the cable, and don't be any longer than ten minutes."

"But Senor..."

BumSpud picks the tard up by his hairnet, and forcefully hurls him into the hole.

Ladr looks concerned.

"But BumSpud, what if he doesn't come back?"

BumSpud gestures to the group of captured mongoloids gripping each other in fear, their bubble-wrap garments popping like a Rice Krispies symphony in E flat.

"Doesn't matter. We've got spares."

Chapter 6 - Vas Deferens

Ramirez braces his tattered open-toe sandals against the wall of the shaft, slowly paying out the line and descending down into darkness. Looking up, he can see the entrance glowing like a tiny speck of light. Out of the corner of his eye, Ramirez sees something tiny shimmer.

"Hey! A fockeeng quarter!"

Ramirez releases the line and leans forward to scrabble at the source - which was just another glob of congealed mucus. Ramirez, with no purchase on the walls of the shaft, plummets downward at breakneck speed.

The sweating Mexican hurtles out of the tunnel and finds himself in a dark, cavernous space. He curses under his breath, then observes his surroundings. The cavern has a large walkway down the centre, leading to two large shadow-shrouded apertures. Either side of the walkway, the sunken floor is covered by row upon row of leathery ovoid shapes, upon which a thick layer of vapour lays like a blanket.

The river nigger picks up his sombrero and lovingly wipes the gelatinous scum from it, pausing only to sniff his fingers. He places it back on his deformed head, and proceeds to edge down the walkway.

There is a gaudy San Miguel poster above the left opening, as well as a plaque with the mysterious title "The Blue Oyster" inscribed upon it. Ramirez takes a slug of tequila from his hip flask for courage, and enters.

The shadows swallow him as he advances.

Chapter 7 - The Blue Oyster And The Leg-Hugger

Ramirez steps slowly into the brilliant lights of the alien bar. Village People posters line the walls, apparently stuck on with more of the mucus which seems to coat everything in the wounded spacecraft. The jukebox is playing "I'm Too Sexy" by Right Said Fred on repeat, sending subliminal messages of homosexuality to the lardy Spic.

He walks behind the bar and disconnects three of the pumps, carefully placing them in his day-glo Powerpuff Girls rucksack. He then gently removes the baize from the oversized pool table, before carefully folding it and placing it in the rucksack. Hefting it back onto his shoulder, Ramirez looks back, wondering what this place looked like in full swing. The blood in his small, stiffening penis seems to pulse in time with the croonings of Richard Fairbrass... Ramirez shakes his head, breaking the mental fugue, and exits the delapidated Blue Oyster.

Ramirez shuffles back down the walkway, his eyes dreamy and glazed other with thoughts of butt-fucking. He does not see the scummy puddle in front of him until he has already slipped in it, falling arse over teakettle into one of the sunken floor sections. Dragging himself to his feet, he stands face to face with one of the leathery ovoids. He taps on it's soft shell.

"Hola! Fuckin' HOLA!"

The shell peels open with a soft, sibilant hiss, and a small head emerges from it. Grey in colour, fucking ugly, and wearing a tie and blazer, the little shit makes a high pitched screech before speeding forwards and wrapping it's bony legs around Ramirez' tubby thigh. Ramirez screams like a schoolgirl, scrabbling at the ungodly thing with his hands, but nothing can stop the creature's relentless pelvic thrusts.

"O Madre De Dios... eeeeeeeeeeeeeekk!"

Ramirez faints.

BumSpud hears the thin, girlish wail. The regs pull on the cable, and eventually the unconscious Senor Ramirez comes tumbling through the hole.

"Holy shit", mutters ladr, "what the fuck is that on his leg?"

"Don't touch it" warns HC Trouble as he pulls the limp form of the sweating Mexican through the duct.

Chapter 8 - Brawlstromo Revisited

The atmosphere is the colour of fresh blood as the sun slowly sinks behind the horizon. The ring of floodlights on the Brawlstromo flicker into life, attempting to combat the oncoming darkness and airborne dust. A group of figures lean against the harsh, biting winds as they struggle their way towards the ship.

"We've got them", says Doomsday, staring at the monitor. "They're back on the screens, and coming this way".

Evil Blood presses the transmitter.

"BumSpud, HC, Ladr. Can you read me?"

"We hear you. We're coming back... we've got an injured tard. We'll need some help getting him in."

Evil Blood stares at the screen.

"I'll go," says Doomsday. He leaves the bridge, while Evil Blood remains seated at his console.

Once on board, the slumbering, drooling form of Ramirez is dragged to the infirmary and strapped to a table, the small, huddled organism still weakly humping at his leg.

Stoppa is the ship's gynaecologist, so he's the nearest thing the Regs have to a doctor. He carefully cuts the spic's chinos and the surrounding layer of bubble-wrap with a laser cutter and removes the tattered fabric. He hesitates, then puts his hand on the small, thrusting creature and attempts to pull it free. He is unsuccessful - the organism remains firmly anchored to Ramirez' flabby upper leg.

He then takes a pair of pliers to the nape of the thing's neck and leans backward. Blood starts to flow.

"Jesus. I ain't gonna get that lil fucker off without tearing me off a big ol' Mexican drumstick!"

He turns on the life support machines, and takes a scan of the leg.

"Sheeeeyit you guys, you better look at this".

Stoppa holds up the scan photo - a complicated maze of biology. "It appears that the creature has extruded a small, thin tube right into the femoral artery, and it currently appears to be pumping some kinda viscuous fluid right into the goddamn bloodstream."

Gdog looks up.

"I say we cut the fucking thing to pieces."

Chapter 9 - Surgery

Stoppa takes a surgical laser blade from the medical case, and carefully passes it to the visibly excited Gdog. He swings the blade round a few times, making lightsaber noises.

"Ahem... the leg-hugger?"

Gdog remembers where he is, and advances on the prostrate form of Ramirez. He touches the scalpel to one of the pulsing creature's bony legs, and the electronic blade slices effortlessly down. Suddenly, a white fluid spatters from the wound. Some of it lands on the bunk bed, where it begins to hiss and sizzle as it begins to eat through the metal frame.

Several droplets land on DarkQueen's hand, and in an act of instinctive quick thinking, she licks it off before it can burn the skin.

"Hmmmmm... tastes kinda like pineapple..."

Stoppa examines some of the substance under the micro scope. He then steps back in shock, and turns to face the crew.

"Everyone, it appears that this creature has concentrated semen for blood".

DarkQueen bends over double and begins to retch.

"I don't think we should try to remove the life-form. It's just too dangerous. Besides, I didn't give a fuck about Ramirez anyway".

The others mutter their agreement, then head off to the bar with the loot to begin repairs.

Chapter 10 - Ramirez Awakens

Early the next morning, the regs are stirred out of their hangovers by an intercom message from Doomsday.

"Regs, get to the infirmary. There have been some interesting developments."

They arrive in a matter of hours - Freud couldn't remember where he put his plastic hip and BumSpud insisted upon a full English breakfast before he could be cajoled back into his uniform. Doomsday stood, looking into the infirmary through one of the perspex windows.

"The creature. It's gone."

The regs storm into the room, ready to kick the fuck out of anything wearing a blazer, and find the organism huddled in a corner, spent and as dead as dog shit. Gdog kicks the fucking thing anyway. Ramirez appears to be breathing, and Stoppa begins to run tests on his recumbent form. He flashes the results up to a widescreen monitor on the wall which is normally reserved for cartoons and sporting events.

A small, dark stain pulses slowly in Ramirez' colon. It seems to be steadily growing in size.

"Is he going to make it?" enquires Evil Blood.

"He's running a fever, and still unconscious. The machines will help bring his temperature down. His vital signs are surprisingly strong... who knows, the fucker might live".

Ramirez opens his eyes.

"...hola...", he stammers in a shrill, pathetic voice. "....hongry...neeed... encheeladas...".

Back on the bridge, Evil Blood makes final preparations for take off now that the necessary repairs have been completed. He pushes the big, shiny, red button. The Brawlstromo hovers above the rocky landscape, buffeted by the storms that continue to ravage the planet. The landing struts begin to fold as the Brawlstromo slowly ascends.

Chapter 11 - The Ass-Burster

In the Mess, Ramirez hungrily chows down on his seventeenth taco like a man possessed, salsa sauce glistening on his undulating chins.

"Fockeeng goood", he utters around another immense mouthful. The Regs stand around him, watching in disgusted fascination as the food disappears and the spittle flies.

Cramming handful after handful of spicy food into his cavernous cakehole, Ramirez manages to wear more of the culinary delights than he eats.

Someone throws him a bottle of tequila. Ramirez snatches it deftly out of the air. He unscrews the top, tips back his head, and pours a healthy slug of the foul-smelling liquid into his gullet.

Ramirez screams, a ululating sound of pain, agony, and suffering. The tequila bottle drops from his hand to smash upon the tiled floor as the Mexican bends over double. He starts to spasm and thrash around wildly. The Regs rush him and pin him to the table, before he breaks the coffee machine with his spasmodic flailing. Ramirez bucks on the table like a newly caught fish.

Stoppa's eyes grow wide.

"What in the holy name of FUCK is that?"

Following his outstretched finger, the occupants of the room have their attention drawn to the vast seat of the spic's chinos, where a large bulge has suddenly sprouted.

Ramirez's abused rectum bursts in an explosion of blood and sphincter muscle, staining the cream fabric with a dark crimson. The bulge suddenly rips through the restraining apparel.

A small, yellowish creature looks out from the ruined crater of Mexican man-ass. It's short, spindly arms jerking, it appears to slowly survey the room with an eyeless head.

It's jaws are overcrowded with row upon row of needle-sharp teeth. It screams, an unearthly screeching sound, then scuttles into the shadows. It crashes through a grate, and escapes into the air conditioning system.

"What.. the.. FUCK.. was... that?", gasped Mentis, stepping nimbly over the pile of ravaged meat that used to be Senor Ramirez.

BumSpud gulped.

"Some kind of... Yellow Ass-bursting Weird Mutant."

Will the Regs ever get back home? Who is going to clear up the puddle that was once Senor Ramirez? Will DarkQueen break with tradition and pass around the tit pics? How will they deal with the escaped Y.A.W.M.?

To be continued...