"Oh, tromatosh...whisper those bittersweet nothings into my soul." It's been hours, and the standoff isn't getting resolved. Saccharine Koth sits up against a giant robot, drinking the first horn of alcohol he found on the ground. As the beverage snakes its way through the tubes in his raspirator and onto his tongue, a tinge of disappointment further darkens his mood.

"Tyling grade swill!" he chucks the horn with a huff. It hits Omega in the groin, pinging against her codpiece. She takes a knee in front of him. Smiling blue eyes meet Koth's gaze. The ghost of a smirk threatens to creep into his expression and ruin his perfectly good grumbling!

"How you goin' mate?"

"Pethlio..." is some kind of dworf for "Shitty". It can be assumed that he feels shittier than the shit being thrown out of the besieged hospital. Omega produces a horn of tromatosh, labelled as "dworf grade" and hands it to Koth. Now a smile has completely destroyed any grumble that remained on his face. He cracks it gingerly; in spite of his desire to be grumpy, and shoves it into his raspirator's feeding port.

"Any breakthrough yet?" Someone screams bloody murder in the distance as a sniper's boolet connects to their shoulder. Another stormhog down. The barricades made of interceptors and gyattler placements seems to be holding steadfast, but that hospital is really big, packed to the brim with thrasher, thrashing neerogs and assloads of shit. A raid periodically emerges out to test their blockade, as well as their patience. All it's done is litter the Hospital's courtyards with still-twitching bodies.

"It's been hours." Koth reports in-between enthusiastic gulps.

"Encore!" Suddenly, dozens of corpses twitch back to life and scramble towards the barricade. Stormhogs groan, annoyed; numbskulls cheer, delighted; A hail of magentic slugs upon the necroes! One gets all the way up to the barricades; right before Ylva splits his skull open with her axe, he manages to fling shit directly at the nearest target: Gideon Husker.

"Grody!" Gideon wipes the shit off his face. He looks back at Koth. "Any luck with the big'un?"

When Koth doesn't answer, Gideon aims his pistol at Koth's bald-spot covering helmet, knowing full well that this calibre won't penetrate brazen steel.

BLAM

Unfortunately, Gideon forgot that he's the worst shooter that has ever shot a shot. Not only does he miss Koth's head, the boolet hits Omega's crotch instead. It collides harmlessly against the metal, and she hardly reacts to the sudden kinetic OOMPH against her privates, but the desired effect is achieved anyway. Koth snaps his attention to Gideon, and shouts "WHAT?"

"Break time's over, pardner. We need that robot running and gunning before-"

Half of the barricade getting bombarded by sneaky mortars situated on the roof of the hospital wasn't on this week's bingo card. The audacity has mouths agape; some numbskulls even dislocate their jaws, so terrible is their shock.

"INCOMING!"

Koth struggles to regain his faculties, shaking his dizzy head back into action. Fecal bombs land and spread their shitty miasma over the barricades, causing retch and misery. 

"Fix that lazy-cunt robot!" shouts some random stormhog right before getting blasted in the face with shit-stained boolets. The Coo-Ca-Labbers charge down the hill once more, screaming crap and throwing shit. Koth understands the assignment and gets to work, foggy head be damned!

"Visa dumaz..." the dworf starts the inspection. Unlike the shit-flinging morons charging down the hill, Koth works with efficiency and speed. If anyone bothered to pay attention to him, his determination would bring tears to eyes. What, are they busy or something?

BANG

BANG

RATATAT

BOOM

BANG

This damn robot is hardly working. It is, indeed, a lazy-cunt of a clanker.

"Where's your fucking motivator, dositula!?"

Can Koth save the day with his techno-ken? Or will he croak like a crygg in a salt-smoker? Is there a way to motivate a robot without a motivator? Can this wrench mess up all plans? Is there a flower blooming on this fertilized battlefield? Why does my back hurt all the time?

All of these questions (except some of them) will be answered...right now! Koth raises his wrench; starts wailing on the robot's chassis while he wails in anguished rage.

"WORK, YOU ARCHAIC PIECE OF WHORESHIT!"

CLANK

CLANK

CLANK

PING

"Ping? Wait a fucking second... "

Koth jumps down, ignoring boolets, lazers and the occasional piece of shit flying through the air.

BANG

RATATATATATATATATA

BANG

RATATRTRTATRATRTAR

BOOM

POW

OW

BANG

RATATATATATATATTATATATATATATA

PEW 

PEW

How's that sound, dear reader?

Are your senses titillated?

Is the action making you moist? 

Koth opens the robot's backside. Also known by many as its "bum" or "asshole". Koth opens the rectal hatch, and removes some of the go-juice inside the anal tank. What once glowed with a proud gold, is now a sad tinge of grey. I'm getting depressed just looking at this boring tar.

"Shove a light up my bommy and call me the Crack of Dawn, go-juice dechromed!" Koth shouts to Gideon Husker, who's busy requesting backup. Here's that whole conversation summarized:

"WE NEED BACKUP!"

+++ On a scale of one to ten, how badly do you need it? +++

"UP SHIT'S CREEK, NO PADDLE!"

+++ ...fine. I'll see if we can spawn more numbskulls. +++

"How long-"

The rest of the feedback is replaced with thrashing horncore as the bards work on that backup. Things being as they are, they have to dip their power chording hands into Ragnalon directly. No easy feat, this will require some mathematical shredding.

Gideon gets shot. It glances off of his armor. He doesn't flinch; looks at Koth. The dworf's fingers are stained with grey...sludge.

"Koth, how much longer do we-OW!" Gideon has to fend off a thrasher with his knife real quick, then it's right back to lighting a fire under Koth's ass. "E.T.A?!"

That's a good question.

How the hel are we going to-

We improvise!

You don't mean-

No time!

Ikh Ny...

Koth takes out a feeder horn, and unzips his pants. It's time for a friendly reminder that the barricades are being bombarded and shot at. Granted, the mortar-men are horribly bad at aiming, but the big booms are going off in the general area. Besides, spray and pray is much more unpredictable when the attacker has no fucking idea what they're doing. There's also the poop. So much poop, you'd think this was a public bathroom at a mall.

"Koth, what the fuck-"

"Shut up!" Koth summons reservoirs of concentration from the depths of his brain, the likes of which would make my ADHD brain twitch into a stroke. The piss flows like a waterfall, some of it spilling outside the lip of the horn. Once his bladder runs dry, Koth zips his pants back up, and looks at the see-through plastic of the feeder horn. His groan isn't very reassuring.

Wrong shade of yellow...

There's no time!

Koth pours the dark yellow liquid into the robot's ass-tank, and uses his technomantic know-how to fiddle with the settings. It's a jury-rig to end all jury rigs, Runic misalignment is very likely.

Please work, please work, please work, please-

The robot comes back online with a triumphant whirr of its gears. The many barrels of its gyattler start spinning, clockwise then anti-clockwise. Smooth motion. Satisfied that its "fingers" aren't stiff, the robot fires at the hill, a murderous hail of boolets peppering the incline. Thrashers fall by the dozens. One gets ripped in half, his backed up entrails releasing excrement in frustrated spurts.

The tide turns. Up on the hill, a mutated monstrosity keeps bulging, trying to churn out more creatures to defend it. An impromptu shub laden with fecaloid nightmares. It’s being seasoned with desperation. A harsh reality snakes its way into Koth's mind...

Not enough ammo to hold them off until backup arrives...

...the robot will realize that it's fueled by piss in mere minutes...

...we're still bald.

Koth looks to his leader in this situation, hoping to find a plan developing in his body language. All he finds is anxiety, as Gideon Husker reaches for his knife. Anyone familiar with this giant tyling knows what's about to happen, but the mumbled oh noes come all the same.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" Gideon charges up the hill with speed that shouldn't be possible; considering his weight and the incline. We're talking some turbo shit! The remaining R.I.P operatives; stormhogs and numbskulls, follow suit as quickly as their reflexes allow. Koth follows behind the robot, a torrent of boolets spraying the hospital with every thudding step.

The thrashers see this display of reckless, decide "Fuck it!", draw their weapons and jump out of cover to charge down the hill; armed with their best shit-eating grins. Some get blasted by stray boolets, either from the stormhogs or the robot. The robot keeps advancing, though much more slowly.

You know what they say about chunky boys and big guns?

...they're made of metal?

Like this robot.

I get it.

Koth is right behind him, firing his own blaster whenever he can get a clear shot. Hard to do when everything upwards is just allies charging.

"COO-CUR-Y-BALA!"

The two sides clash and fighting becomes medieval real quick. Gideon runs a three-armed poop-slinger through with his knife, cuts the throat of another, then crushes one's skull as he writhes around in the dirty incline. The brutal melee consumes the hill, it's anyone's game! That is, until the Coo-Ca-Labbers pull a sneaky ace out of their unwiped asshole.

Behind the robot, inside a pile of poo, a twitching mess of a thrasher emerges with the widest, poop-devouring grin you'll ever see until later in this episode. Strapped to his chest is more explosives than I can fathom. I keep losing count when I go beyond my fingers. He sneaks up, under the robot’s feet, and shouts "EAT SHIT!"

BOOM

The carnage left by the mech's destruction left little in the way of survivors. Yet Koth still lives, lying in a puddle of dirt and gore...oh, and shit. Hard to tell that apart from the regular dirt.

Up on the hospital, the mutated monstrosity groans with exertion, the sound of constipation mixed with bird song. Wet, sloppy sounds flood Koth's ears, as something gets shat out of an orifice and is now on its way towards the battlefield outside. When it emerges, Koth half-expects it to be a sentient string of shit. One of those poops that snakes out of your bum like a serpentine horror made of fecal regrets; slithering into the watery depths beneath your ass.

Instead, he sees a man. A silhouette blurred due to the recent explosion. The newborn man spreads his hands out in a gesture of good will towards his crappy army of shit-heads.

"Coo-Ca-Labbers, we have won against the tyrannical constipation! Let the dreams of Arda Rehi flow true!" The remaining thrashers celebrate their victory, shit-stained tears running down their cheeks...no, not their ass cheeks! Their facial cheeks!

Koth notices...something dangling between their leader's legs. It took him a few seconds to register that not only is he naked, his skin isn't naturally brown to begin with.

He's covered in shit. From head to toe.

It undulates.

Does poop undulate?

It does not.

More to the point, what is that dangling between his legs?

Are those...?

Cheers of triumph. They haven't noticed him, so he takes his chance. Koth aims his grappling hook at the dangling beads in the distance. The pooman notices Koth's deliberate movement too late. Only when the hook latches on to the beads, firm and taut, does he realize what is about to happen.

Koth pushes the "retract" button on the grappling hook. The Go-juice powered gizmo shows no mercy, pulling, RIPPING fifty-eight beads out of the pooman's asshole in two seconds. Poppity pop, pop.

"My doo doo!" Where the beads once lay snug and secure, there is now a gaping hole raring for an exodus of primordial proportions. The anal evacuation covers the surrounding wasteland in a sea of shit klometrons in radius.

Naturally, Koth drowns in the fecal atrocity, as does everyone else. Commuters get caught in the deluge. A shitty day for all involved.

Let it end here. I am ready.

Bad news, baldie.

No...

Oh yes. You're still alive.

How?

You know how, don't be denial. 

But I suffered enough! I need to die!

Too bad, horns demand.

Nooo!

Here we go again, baldie!

ಥ﹏ಥ

One more squeeze, and a nasty squelch. Zacharine Koth emerges naked and wet out of the shub, a hairy, adult baby. He plops down on the hard metal floor with the grace of rotten lead, disappointment weighing him down. There he lies, face first on the cold ground, unmoving, uninspired, unmotivated. Like a sack of shit yearning to be fossilised.

Too much to hope that the Gulf would finally claim me?

He groans, a rumble that vibrates the metal beneath his flesh. The Whiplash does not care. There is no love here, only the cold, unyielding surface of metal.

Suddenly, the shub next to him shudders with activity. The green, milky liquid drips, and out come another one! This time, it's a tyling woman. Koth knows her well. Unlike him, she doesn't face plant on the floor, but rather lands on her butt with a sleepy expression on her face. Her wet, black hair sticks to her face, and she yawns. When she notices the grumbling mess nearby, her expression brightens.

"How you goin' Grumbly?"

Koth grumbles harder, the metal vibrates again. Omega feels a pleasant tingle in her bum. "I usually gotta bung some dosh for that kind of massage, mate." She stands up, her naked body dripping with green wetness. Walking over to Koth, she flips him over on his back with one foot. An impressive feat of strength, considering how dense dworfs can be. 

There is a pause between them, before Koth says anything. He doesn't want to admit it, but he melts under her gaze. There is a conflict inside of him raging like a petty inferno. He's determined to sulk, to vibrate with doomy gloom until even the Nuclear Chaos has enough and goes to check on him. In the end, his insecurity gets the better of him.

"Am I still bald, matara?"

Omega kneels down and starts rubbing his moist scalp. 

SQUEEK

SQUEEK

SQUEEK

"Yeh." Like windshield wipers moving against dry-ass glass, Omega confirms that he is, indeed; still bald. Koth grumbles yet again, metal floor, you know the drill by now. He refuses to stand up, deciding that it is better to sulk than admit you are still alive. Omega pays him no mind. She's got places to be, shugunk to wash off.

I feel worthless.

I'll stay here, and be worthless.

Knock knock.

Who's there?

You.

You who?

Hello!

(¬_¬)

Also, you should probably get off your arse and move.

Why?

It's getting cold, and everyone that's respawning can see your cute little dong.

Koth gasps, snapping upright and covering his groin. His desaturated face blooms crimson from embarrassment, as he frantically runs out of the room.