The Walking Breasts
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NSFW WARNING
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It's been 2 years since they ransacked our land. In scores they came, violating our women, capturing our children, killing our men, and plundering our cities. They walked in pairs, conjoined together by a flab of skin, and each individual one walked on small pink or brown feet. Each pair carried one machine gun, which they used to wipe out mass populations. Eventually only a few of us remained.
I sit in my shelter underground, just below enough that we are hidden but can still hear what is going on in the Earrg above. My son, Melanie, sits near me, and my husband, Patricia, looks up at the ceiling of our shelter. We hear a crack, and my son screams. My husband turns and, pulling out his rifle, smacks my son in the head with the butt of his gun. My son falls to the floor, his blood spilling out of his split-open head profusely as he twitches and makes choking sobs. He is silent and still after a moment.
"Do you want them to hear us?!" my husband screams at my son, who is being very rude by not responding to his father. My son turns pale as a large pool of blood spreads out to touch my feet on the floor. I squeal, and my husband shoots my son in both eyes. "Don't you dare ever be so rude to your mother again!" he screams. I sit back down, allowing my husband to reprimand my son. The cracking sound we heard becomes a reality as a large chunk of the ceiling splits from the ceiling and falls to the floor, landing near my son.
They see us.
The titties.
They first notice us silently. A few have dropped to the ground when the ceiling, their battleground, split off and fell downward. They pull out their machine guns and order us in their lispy to go up or be killed.
Looking down at my son, my husband asks, "What about Melanie?"
One pair of the titties shrugs. "Take thim with you!" they declare.
My husband picks up Melanie and puts him in my arms, and maybe it's his open mouth, tongue sticking out, maybe it's his glazed-over eyes, maybe it's his face in a fit of despair and anguish, or maybe it's the blood that still pours out of his open head wound and into my arms as we are lifted out of the shelter and into a large breast-shaped spaceship with several other survivors, but my son seems more charming to me than ever. I look to my husband. "Where will we go now?" I ask.
My husband looks into my eyes, and I feel a deep connection between us.
This is the last thing I see before he slams the butt of his gun into my left temple and screams, "Shut the fuck up!"
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