Status Updates From Journey to Abortosphere

"What's going on in there, Henry?! Does the inside of my asshole feel like 1943?!"

- Lol Here I thought surely things couldn't get more interesting.

'"I need you to probe my asshole."
"I couldn't."
"All right. I asked nicely, now I'm commanding you, as your superior. Probe my ass!"'

An MC that is in love with a shoe-horn and prefers to have his penis cut off rather than lose a finger.

Haha, I never thought I would read the term "ass foliage", I love bizarro stories!

Everything he had worked to preserve up to this point, everything he had worked to cover up, dust over, and track indiscriminately as a CIA spook, all of it boiled down to one thing: assholes. On a metaphorical level, it would have made sense. But in a literal capacity, it was almost enough to bring him to tears.

How Morales wished he were holding a .44 Smith & Wesson just then, instead of his relatively puny 9mm Beretta, just so he could cock the hammer back and ask the alien if it was feeling lucky.

He swam harder, faster, and yet he was barely even moving at all. The pit had grown too vast, too deep. Kicking frantically, he finally found a ledge and followed it up, scattering balls in all directions as he broke the surface running. Emerging from the rainbow- colored sea, the far edge of the pit came into view. He was almost there. Whatever the fuck was behind him, it was almost there too.

Meanwhile, limbs had begun to sprout up on this deck as well. Leaning in close to the nearest wall, Mel examined the tangled mass of flesh before her.
“What are you doing?” Duke asked.
“Hang on,” she said, running her hands over the soft tissue. It was still warm and moist to the touch. “There’s gotta be one here somewhere..” She continued stroking with both hands. “Ed, come help me probe this wall for an asshole.”

Captain Morris stopped mid sentence as something leeched onto the back of his head, pulling his neck taut and lifting him up against the bulkhead. He shuddered as his eyes turned red and the flesh parted at his hairline, receding until nothing of his scalp remained. His face peeled away next, revealing the muscles underneath as the primordial ooze went to work with its digestive juices.

The fetus froze in midair and its eyes shot open, firing grappling hooks into the ship and anchoring itself to it. Morales saw his chance. Charging through a rampaging mob of werewolves and samurai duking it out in a flurry of fur and lacquered plates, he leapt upon one of the connecting cables and climbed as quickly as he could, imagining himself as Sean Connery scaling a cliff.
He truly was the best Bond.

“What the hell is going on?”
“We are at WAR, and I am in desperate need of some coffee—THAT’S what’s going on! Man your damned station, soldier! I fucking KNEW going easy on you in the Waffle House ball pit would come back to bite me in the ass someday!”

While the syrup definitely slowed him down, Henry swam through the waffles with relative ease, sucking them into his gaping mouth as he skimmed along the surface, chewing and swallowing vast quantities between diving and resurfacing for air. Then he remembered his walkie talkie. Swimming for the nearest giant strawberry, he crawled up onto its delicious red shore, pulled out his radio and pressed the call button.

Mounting the first step elicited a terribly loud creak from the old wood. “Think like a feather,” Morales whispered to himself, and took another step.
Skreeaaaak.
“Goddamn it!”
It was at this point that Morales decided to forsake all pretense at stealth, charging up the steps while boldly announcing their presence. “Central Intelligence, mother fuckers!”