The Doom that Came to Toytown by Alex S. Johnson

(appeared originally in Tall Tales with Short Cocks Volume 3/Rooster Republic Press)

Big Jack Jackson felt it first. He was down in the weight room at the barracks, pumping iron like it was feather-weight plastic, when a spasm crawled over his abdominal muscles. Grunting with pain, he settled the iron carefully back in its cradle and sat astride the bench, breathing heavily.
It had been this way ever since Operation Sandblaster—when enemies threatened Toytown, Big Jack was the resident canary. Ali Jihad had raised the stakes for weapons of massive dysfunction, and all the troops in Big Jack’s unit had suffered from vagaries of the unit. But Jack never recovered. Although he still had partial control of the member he affectionately called “Mr. Wang-Dang-Doodle,” he now received warnings straight to the guts. Any minute now, the klaxon would sound, troops would march down the corridors and the big guns would go boom.
“Big Jack?”
He looked up. Damn that Fuck Me Sideways doll! She knew very well that girls were forbidden in this man’s barracks. The Fuck Me Sideways camp was over the hill and through the dale, within reach of Grandma’s House and always a second away from complete obliteration should the girls get restless. But this one must have come out of the box differently, because she knew no limits and respected no all-male enclave. And that voice…it made him shake with desire. That high-pitched, wheedling voice. And those lips. And those boots. And the nothing else aspect of it all.
“Jack?”
“Don’t you see the sign, No Girl Dolls?” he roared, but without conviction.
“Is Major Jackson grumpy?”
She stood at the door of the weight room, her hips wiggling slightly, her soft, luscious waves of red hair curling down to her ass, her full lips compressed in a pout. She wore a teeny, tiny half-shirt that more than previewed her capacious ta-tas, and Big Jack couldn’t hold out much longer. Even if he tried, he was putty in her hands.
“No,” he said sarcastically. “Major Jackson is never grumpy. Or wheezy or dopey or any of those adorably idiotic names you’ve got for me. If you want to know what’s wrong, I just got the twinge.”
“You mean you’ve got a rumble in the Bronx?” she said teasingly, referring to the Jacky Chan tattoo that covered his stomach.
“Very clever, Fuck Me. And yes, I think we may be under attack.”
“I don’t hear the sirens.”
“They’re coming, I promise you.”
“Is there anything I can do to help…ease your tension?”
With quick, herky-jerky stop motion alacrity she was sitting on his lap and kissing his neck. Her very nice, warm tits pressed against his ultra-manly chest. She was a pleasure model, made only to be ridden and ravished till the sound box in her tummy squeaked. Technically, he could do what he wanted with her.
“I’ve got to be on full alert,” he said.
“You don’t seem to be doing too badly right now,” said the Fuck Me Sideways doll. “In fact, I would say you’re pretty full…right now. Oh honey, kiss me and make it stop! Make the voices stop!”
“That’s right, I forgot—you’re a Sideways Fuck Me Sideways doll, Doll. One of those crazy girls who gets the brain itch when the signal reaches her crotch. I don’t have time for this nonsense.” He stood up, rolling her to the ground.
Another spasm punched him like a mailed fist. But this time he was prepared. He could take it.
Giving the ambient air an automatic salute, he stormed out of the weight room. He could feel his chest expanding, his muscles tingling, shot through with the power of full accountability tinged with just enough transparency to keep him honest.
Rushing out into the corridor, he saw that the other troops were still asleep. He ran down the hall, pounding at every door. “I got the twinge! We’re under attack, I tell you. Under fire. Under siege. Man the battle stations! Fire at will! Melt the bastards!”
He heard shuffling and moans. “Keep it down, will ya, I got a migraine.” And “all is toys”—Majorly Major Man-Candy had studied Shakespeare at Toys R Serious U. And “we’re not all gung go like you, Big Jack. Leave us alone and let us get a little sleep, for the love of Mota.”
“Ok, that’s it,” said Big Jack. “One Man Toy Army coming through.” He hated having to do this, because becoming an OMTA involved shuffling his components and made his plastic brain hurt. Nevertheless, he was willing to do anything for Toytown—suffer a hundred melts, a thousand reconfigurations, endure the glutinous Satanic Gulag, be suspended in mid-air from a chopper while bukkake rain splattered him and him alone, all for the sake of Toys and Country and Freedom.
Big Jack burst into the armory, seizing as many weapons as he could sling over his bursting shoulders and expanding chest. He was growing taller, more warrior-like, his head pivoting on his shoulders, his fully-trained pectorals seizing and developing their own weapons, even his glutes pitching in bravely.
He recited the litany: “Accountability. Transparency. Honor. Vengeance. Collateral Damage. Summa Theologica. Hut, hut, hut…”
Now three times bigger and packing pulse weapons, grenade launchers, fireballs, balls of steel, stellar blood-crushers, ornate baroque dick-jammers and even a Full Ass Infusion for direct deployment into the enemy’s foxy holes, he marched grimly through the exercise yard and hopped the barbed-wire fence.
Still no sign of the enemy. But his guts were never wrong. And even if his guts were wrong, for once, he would have to answer to himself. His conscience. His values.
“Big Jack?”
“Yes, Big Jack.”
His second head swiveled, taking in the landscape in fine-grain green pixels. The world had become a pulsing grid, every potential threat to Toytown Security accounted for, censored, redacted, scrambled, sorted and put down. His first head had taken control of the situation.
“Damn those demonic toys!” howled Big Jack, aiming a burst of total death into the upper atmosphere. Hovering four feet in the air, his multiple heads arranging themselves in battle formation while his chest muscles massed with monitors, satellites, wrenches, Bad Boy Enhancements and all the other Toy toys made possible by the R&D crew down in Toytown’s Nerd City, Big Jack prepared himself for total war.
He would not stand down, even if his second head commanded it.
Suddenly, the air darkened. His guts had been right about the threat. “Yes!” he yowled, assuming a full attack formation.
“How are the ground troops doing?” asked his first head.
“Ground troops are grounded, Big Jack One,” responded his second head. “They’re crawling towards the first perimeter line and taking it out in the name of the One True Toygod.” He couldn’t actually see this but his sensors were never wrong, and they were blasting the data straight into his plastic medulla at a rate of five billion innanobits per microsecond per thumb-crumble.
It didn’t matter if he won, or they won, or—the most sinister possibility—all of this was a function of buggy beta software and thus hallucinatory. It didn’t matter, because Toyland would never fall to Anti-Toy forces, as long as Big Jack was in charge. And he was in charge, because nobody else had the brass ones to shoulder the responsibility.
He was alone out there, his ground troops seized with fear and a strange torpor, his heads whirling faster and faster. He hated the shit-bombs. Those Anti-Toys, besides being sub-toy stupid, displayed an amazing viral cunning that short-circuited all standard military protocols. There weren’t sufficient technicians or even enough numbers to account for all the rogue terror the Anti-Toys might unleash at the burst of a groin muscle.
The shit splattered his helmet, obscuring his outer vision.
“Don’t make me use this,” he boomed from the Big Mouth sprouting from the head battery. “I’m a peaceful, gentle man. I only want your absolute, unconditional surrender.”
And then: “Don’t make me go all ballistic!”
But the little furry enemy was quiet. Too quiet. And the shit-bombs must have been treated with some kind of acid, because the brown glop was boring a big hole in his head battery. And his legs felt like they were going to detach themselves and transform into a whole other militia with a relentless protocol of its very own.
“Okay, that’s it,” said Big Jack.
He was going in.
The shit-fire came faster and faster. His defenses badly compromised, his limbs revolting, his heads knocking each other senseless, Big Jack closed his eyes and focused on the big target.
There was always a big target. The Mother of All Targets. Behind the shit-fire would be a nest, and ruling the nest would be Ali Bin Jihad, the demonic Anti-Toy who had ravished Toytown one too many times.
“Deploy…cock,” said the Big Jacks in unison. From between his legs, the massive phallus reared up and began to discharge.
One cum bomb, straight to the heart of the nest. Another, right through the skull of the tiny gorilla army’s commander. And the third, well, that was for Ali Jihad.
“I’m coming to get you!” said the Big Jacks.
“You and what One Man Toy Army?” came the response from multiple loudspeakers. The Big Jacks rotated 180 degrees just in time to avoid a flying camelgun brigade. Righting itself, the OMTA compressed itself into a single, deadly fist of force and rammed the enclave.
“Muaaaaaaaaaaha ha ha ha ha,” said Ali Bin Jihad. “You’ll never catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man’s Evil Clone!” And with that, he leapt out of the burning bunker, hit the ground running, and disappeared into a cloud of radical insurgency.
The OMTA reformatted into a fist, creating a small cyclone as it crushed and dominated vertically, while Ali Bin Jihad was still evaporating.
“I’ll..oh, fuck it,” said Big Jacks, reverting to his original form. He was only a toy, after all, and had no authority to declare a one man war.
But the changes he’d put himself through had overwhelmed his structure. Damaged his core. “I’ll be back, just you wait, I’ll return, you haven’t seen the last of me yet,” he told the invisible enemy, but he was losing altitude.
Big Jack looked down. The ground rushed to greet him. He was shaking, his limbs buckling and twisting, as his core began the self-destruct countdown.
“I’m so sorry,” he said as his ribcage burst and his heart detonated. “I tried my best. I can’t let them capture me…they’ll turn me into one of Them…”
His guts burst through his stomach and wrapped themselves around his neck, strangling him. “Goodbye, and I’ll see you all in the sequel, ‘Big Jack Strikes Back.’”
Like a string of firecrackers, his cells began to collapse. He smelled a wet, doglike odor as his core ruptured, splattering a plastic soup over the fast-approaching micro-terrain.
“Transparency, integrity, St. Thomas Aquinas,” he managed. And then he was gone, a sticky green mist settling to the ground.
“I’m still the Gingerbread Man’s Evil Clone,” said a taunting voice. “And you can’t catch me, ever, just because. Nyuck nyuck nyuck nyuck.”

You might say that Big Jack failed, but there’s only so much one toy can do against evil. You may say that Big Jack was a fool, but you try to take on the enemy single-handedly and see how far you get. Behind Big Jack, more will spring up, an army of One Man Toy Armies. As an individual, he is a little ridiculous. But as a unit, an erect, pulsing pillar of real manhood, he will always stand stall. And one day, the Ali Bin at the Mota’s of the world will know true terror. One day, they will make a fatal blunder. And on that day, Toytown will be free, safe and permanently secure.

The End

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