Tom Otterness, Female Victory, 1982, cast plaster, handpainted edition of three. Photo by Willis Hartshorn, courtesy Brooke Alexander.
Xochitl the Ele-na crushed the hapless captured Golubyavan’s skull between his pincers. The crown popped open and the much beloved green slime bubbled out.
“Quick! A gob!” Xochitl screamed.
Merfat the vimana mascot held the chalice ready and magically managed to collect the foam to its last drop but one, which Xochitl slopped up in midair with his purple tongue.
“I love milt!” Xochitl gobbled on his lips while lecherously eying the steaming goblet of green stuff.
WHAPO! The goblet self-ejected out of the Ele-na’s greedy grasp and scudded in an elaborate and highly unlikely trajectory across the venn. The mitt spilled all over the platform.
“Yog!” Xochitl burped—at the same instant a distant planet exploded and Xochitl glimpsed its hahnium twinkle out of the corner of his four-faceted eye.
“That’s the end of that spitball!” the Ele-na eked and contacted his advisors.
“Yes, oh naib Ele-na!” the advisors return-contacted.
“Report to me at once! I want the latest confessions out of the CHOCHians!” Xochitl usufructed.
“We come, oh naib Ele-na!” the advisors pledged.
Xochitl spotted the sticky smelly milt and redegenerated into prideless wrath. Merfat, always the indirect object of the Ele-na’s distorted fury, quivered away behind the gaddi—he’d seen his master in the like moods before (dreadful to remember that time in BORP when the mighty Xochitl throttled no less than 557 BORPians before his milt fit abated enough to let the Ele-na’s pincers stop itching for something to squish; he was hard put to hide so long under his master’s claw). But this time Xochitl happened to find Merfat first (chance is so random and fickle). Claws through the buttocks, Merfat dangled by his backside as Xochitl picked him up and held him before his mandibles (“That rankling breath!” Merfat couldn’t make that one maverick slap of insolence leave him alone).
“There’s milt in you, yigyag, like in us all!” Xochitl zapped with truth.
(“No, no!” the mascot meekly wished to protest “I’m as miltless as can be!”).
“You’re fat, Merfat!” Xochitl raved. “That eggshell skull holds a big frothy one. I bet!”
Xochitl’s ancillary pair of pincers twitched their way to Merfat’s poor pounding peeping head.
“Quick! A gob!” Xochitl screamed automatically as he pinched open Merfat’s dome—alas! no mascot there to dutifully serve; no matter, Xochitl discovers the delights of direct drink!
“Ah! That was good!” Xochitl wiped his lips with his tongue—just then the advisors blinked into the venn.
“We’re here, oh naib, Ele-na. What may we inform you of?” the advisors added.
Xochitl gazed with a give-me look at outer space for a vril.
“Any news from the tortured CHOCHians?” Xochitl zithered unmusically.
The advisors consulted 1) themselves; 2) their records; 3) the Gambit (they were terrified by what they saw there).
“One of the CHOCHian tribal chiefs talks, oh naib, Ele-na,” the advisors admitted.
“Bring that one to me,” the Ele-na clicked his claws and leered.
Advisor 1 informed advisor 2 who wanted to know who was the 3rd going to fetch.
“Urzed,” advisor 3 said gracefully and abblinked.
The vimana lurched—Xochitl tottered onto advisor 2 and scissored him in two (those razor claws were a menace to the touch of the putty-rubbery blubber of the QX174ian advisors). Advisor 1 scampered to the ejection tube and prepared for vacuum inflation rather than the agony of puncture—he felt like a DAW bladder he was so replete.
“Once is enemy action!” Xochitl smacked. “A planet to nab! Get me zookoject command!”
Advisor 1 immediately alerted the weapons venn whose engineer was ordered by Xochitl to attack the source of the attack. Gabbro the engineer was impelled to inform the spectacular Ele-na that the disturbance proceeded from no enemy but was the nachvibe from the destruction of CHOCH.
Advisor 3 an-blinked with Urzed into the Ele-na’s venn. In his vent of ugly frustration Xochitl chewed the CHOCH for 677 vrils. When the decomposed pulp, spat out onto the wall, evinced unwillingness to respond any further to the Ele-na’s most reasonable prods, Xochitl called for another CHOCH. Advisor 1 complied instantaneously and produced a warped specimen.
“Grfngrfhgrfh!” Xochitl chortled at the crooked curve for a good 71 vrils.
“CHOCH, speak!” Your silence irks me!” Xochitl commanded the two-backed beast. “Where have the Xelocians fled?”
“Jecto-beamed to some isolated prominence,” the unnamed CHOCHian cryptically quipped. Xochitl clicked his newly resharpened shiny pincers under the CHOCHian’s nasal rump: “Another crack and I’ll cram you in my craw!”
“Naught to know, but if you go to ILEUM, the nonce you’ll smell isn’t well,” the unamendable CHOCHian conned a wormhole out of the imbroglio.
Xochitl dripped as he ordered the vimana to ILEUM at maximum paction—the legends of Corsulp’s sorb had traveled far and wide in the universe. A galaxy nabber was certainly to be pardoned for digressing in such stix for so priceless a gyp.