Chapter 5: Chapter 3: Remembrance of the Exterminators!

Time for some first-person narration! Over to Rutt the Minotaur... 

The dairy farmers cowered before me!

As well they might. A minotaur of my presence and muscular glory tearing off your kitchen door and surrounding wall is going to alarm you. 

There were three of them. My eyes went first to the hot blonde in the white and blue dress. She was sporting some of the biggest teats I'd seen on a human bitch recently. Later in life then their weight would surely drag them down and they'd look like saggy sacks of shit, but right now they were fucking perfect. 

The sight of her adorable terrified face and crazy curly hair was almost enough make me abandon my vow to stop ramming my deadly dick up human girlies. Hell, maybe that was more of a 'personal goal' than a vow anyway.

The boy was pretty cute too. Haha, yeah. He could tongue my sweaty asshole while I smashed his sister's vag wide. He looked like he'd be into that.

Not that I was really gonna. I was a guest in their house.

I was their guest, even if uninvited, so I had to start acting like it. I had to put them at their ease. Calm them down before they embarrassed themselves with pitchforks or some dumb shit. 

So I started answering their questions. What did they wanna know? They wanted to know how I came to be in their barn. So I told them.

One day's ride we were from this nation's borders. I rode with a merchant caravan, crossing the cruel and barren lands of Ligature from Oasis Ninety-Four, bound for Forfeiture's capital. Easy work and companionable. The traders I guarded were earthy, honest men and the whores that accompanied us were sweet and dutiful enough. 

Little was expected of me but to be a minotaur. To be a deterrent. No brigand or wandering desert monster would be foolish enough to assail a convoy with a fucking huge savage minotaur along for the ride. I was there to be seen and, in being seen, guarantee the safety of those I travelled with.

Yet twice on the long journey we were attacked. 

The first attack came early on, perhaps before word had gotten around the desert robber tribes that a minotaur guarded this procession. Or perhaps the near thirty men who attacked us were just really fucking stupid. The first five I killed by simply grabbing them, lifting them to the sky, and skewering them onto my horns. My horns passed through their soft bellies and I wore the dying fools like a crown. Three on the right horn, two on the left. Gore pouring richly down my broad shoulders. 

The others were soon routed. The spectacle of their friends screaming atop my head, mounted there like a kebab, as I roared and slaughtered, sent most running. Yet none escaped. Each man I ran down and butchered. And when it came to the last, drunk on the exhilaration of bloodshed, I tore his ribcage out and took a steaming shit into the dying bastard's entrails. His internal organs sizzled as the toxic minotaur turds dropped down onto them and among them. 

So that went especially well, I thought.

The second time we were attacked didn't go well at all. It went very badly. It happened when we were one night from the border. 

I was relaxing by the campfire, getting drunk while I allowed some whores to toy with my member, as was the custom each evening for most of us weary travellers through this dusty land. 

When the flying saucers landed outside the circled caravans.

The flying saucers landed, and from out them poured a battalion of British Robots. 

At this point in the telling of my tale, the dairy farmers interrupted me to say they found my words strange and confusing. 

"What is British?" they asked "And what is Robots?"

Britain, I told them truthfully, was one of the most cursed kingdoms in the Multi-Verse. A sick island, withered and spent, full of TERFs and Brexiteers.

"What is TERFs?" the farmers asked to that, "And what is Brexiteers?" 

To this I said nothing, for many brave Enchanters and Shaman had died in the Idea Wars to stop such ideologies from ever entering this little world.   

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"Okay then, just go back to the Robots. What's Robots?" they asked again.

And how to answer! I would have told them "mechanical men" but the machines that attacked us that night were no men. I would have said "small shouty tanks" but the farmers in this quasi-medieval village would surely have had no concept of tanks. 

These robots, I told them true, were like metal cones. Metal cones beset with spheres and guns and kitchen appliances. They rolled around on their wide bases, shrieking in grating voices as they regarded all around them with their stalk-like eyes and clamoured for the extermination of all life those fell eyes fell upon. 

"Why I have never heard of such a thing!" said the elder farmer.

No indeed, I told him, and even if you had ever heard of anything similar then its appearance here would be legally protected as parody in this self-evidently satirical work.

But intellectual property law wasn't the thing I was worrying about when the saucers landed, oh no.

Death-rays shot forth from the angry robots' gun arms. What were they so angry about? There was a manic tenor to their murderous rage beyond any berzerker bloodlust I've ever been in or ever seen. All they seemed to say was to incite or encourage each other to exterminate us. You couldn't tell if they were giving orders or narrating their own killings, for the soundscape was just a cacophony of the zip-zap frazzles of their death rays, their shrill electric barking, and the screams of the merchants and sluts they were massacring.

Of course I gave battle, but my weapons had little effect. My horns, my fists, my penis, my axe. None could pierce or crush the golden shells of these monstrosities from beyond the stars. 

As those I'd sworn to protect died around me, their entire skeletons briefly illuminated when the death-rays hit, I fought now for my own life. 

Wrapping my thick arms around an enemy from behind, out of the arc of its weapon, I worked my hands up to it's eye stalk and tore it loose. Bellowing at this small victory I was unprepared for the British Robot to suddenly electrify its entire body and jolt me back ten feet.

It turned on me. Blinded, but sensing my location by some other arcane electric means. 

A hum came from its weapon. It was charging to fire.

As I raised myself upright, I felt something clinging to my leg. It was a girlie. Karamack, I think her name was. A whore whose face I'd blasted with my seed the previous night. Now she was gripping my leg as tightly as I had the robot. Gripping me for protection from these unstoppable killing machines. The terrified little quim was probably the last human alive in the camp. 

The blind exterminator fired, its aim true. A perfect shot. Its killing bolt of energy flew through the air towards the centre of my leathery chest.

On instinct, I had torn the girlie off my leg and tossed her up into the air between me and the robot. 

The world went into slow motion as her flailing arms and jiggling milkers rose and fell chaotically before my eyes. The force to tear her from my leg had thrown her some way over my head, and now, as she descended, the timing was critical.

Before I knew what I was looking at, I heard the zip-zap frazzle of the death-ray making contact with Karamack's airborne body. It had hit her right in the vag. But it didn't matter where it had hit the thot, the important thing was that her body had absorbed the bolt and shielded mine.   

I was alive. Alive but, judging from the carnage all around me, the only one who was. 

Nothing was to be gained by adding myself to the pile of bodies.

I fled the field.

Wounded, shamed and defeated, I ran from the metal monsters and kept running until I crossed the border into the kingdom of Forfeiture.

Only when I was entirely sure that their flying saucers were not in pursuit did I dare to seek shelter and rest. Only then did I look for somewhere to sleep.   

I found a barn.

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