(We are delighted, and slightly queasy, to welcome Phro back to NCS with a story that was spawned by some new duckgrind from Finland’s Artists Are Idiots.)
Phro’s note: There is more duckgrind to be had. You can skip the story and go right to the music at the end if you want. No one will know and no one will blame you. Artists Are Idiots can be liked, messaged, poked, molested, and cock-rubbed on Facebook. Their music is available on bandcamp at a reasonable price. This is a video about animal penises.
The reporter walked through the hastily erected hospital tents with a hand over her mouth, attempting to hold down her lunch of bacon and fried duck vaginas (“We eat what we kill,” her escort had told her). All around her, victims of the war moaned in agony. Ears bitten off, hair stained with duck shit, eyes punctured by projectile corkscrew cocks, and noses filled with duck cum. Staring blankly into the roof the tent, squeezing a teddy bear to his chest, a child not more than 12 whispered to himself. The reporter swore she heard the words “duckgrind blitzkrieg,” but surely, she told herself, she had misheard him. Such mercilessness was unimaginable, even for the avian enemy.
Still wearing his operating scrubs, a surgeon waved at the reporter, managing to crack a smile. The reporter faltered for a moment—it was the first real smile she’d seen since arriving at the front lines.
“Welcome to Paris,” the doctor said, sticking out his hand. “Oh! Sorry!” he flushed red with embarrassment and quickly plucked off the bloody glove. “Had to extract a piece of duck cum from that poor man’s tear ducts,” he pointed vaguely at a 35 year old man with a magnificent beard and a proud brow curled into the fetal position and sobbing wildly.
“No…it’s okay. I can’t imagine the horror you’re facing on a daily basis,” the reporter said, clasping the doctor’s outstretched hand in hers. Staring into his eyes, she leaned slightly forward. “You’re very brave to stay here.”
The doctor cocked his head to the side with a jerk, his eyebrows arching skyward. “I’ve only just gotten here myself. I mean, I’m…not really sure what you’ve heard, but…”
“No!” she held a finger up, pressing it to his lips. “No, it’s okay. I understand. Please, I’m here to hear your story…to share with the world the horrors that have befallen this great continent.” Pausing, lips quivering, she blinked back tears. “Hopefully, with your testimony, we can rouse the spirit of the Americas, and bring you much needed aid.”
Blinking, the man opened his mouth and closed it several times. The woman waited, her eyes pleading for his honesty.
“You realize it’s just ducks, right?” he finally asked.
Sighing deeply, she shook her head. “Your agony, it’s just so…” She looked away, biting her lip. “Please, I cannot bear it any more.” Wiping tears from her eyes, she ran out of the tent, leaving the doctor to stare blankly at the air where she’d just been.
“What the fuck is wrong with these people?” he said to no one in particular. “It’s like one big LARP someone forgot to tell me. Oh, what now?” He flung his arms in the air as a klaxon began blaring, its shrill pitch slicing through the air like a hot knife through a loaf of baked shit and peanuts. Throwing his hands in the air, the doctor stepped out of the way as nurses and patients scampered for the bomb shelter, nearly stampeding the man.
“They’ve come back! Oh, god in heaven, save us all, they’ve come back!!” screamed an elderly man, hobbling as quickly as he could. Two nurses ran to the him, trying to help him along, but the sound of quacking broke through the klaxon’s screams, and the nurses gave up. Shrieking, they joined the mob in running to the shelter, letting the old man fall on his face.
Shaking his head, the doctor shuffled past overturned beds and spilled medical supplies and knelt to help the old man up.
“No, leave me!” the geezer cried. “You’re too important! You must flee so that you can help others!”
“What in the hell are you–”
The doctor jerked his head up, his brow furrowed, searching the tarp tent for explanation. “What was that?” he asked. When the old man gave him no answer, he looked down to see that the octogenarian had gone silent with terror. Just as he was about to bend down to lift the old man, another splatter echoed through the tent, and then another and another until it was like a rainstorm of…
“Shit,” the doctor stared in amazement at the torrent of duck crap falling in thick, meaty droves outside the tent. It was as if some ancient, constipated deity had swallowed a few gallons of ex-lax and his anus had finally spread open and let relief burst forth. As the shit piled higher and deeper, the man realized that the sun had been blotted out by the unending waves of Duckzis tearing through the air overhead.
Enchanted, the doctor walked to the edge of the tent and stared at the shit, admiring its viscosity, until he felt the first warm drop on his shoulder. With a gasp, he slowly twisted his head around to catch a glimpse of the goo running down his jacket.
Just then, the old man cried out in horror and the doctor wheeled around in time to see the tent roof rippin and bucket loads of duck poop splashin down, filling the geezer’s lungs, throat, nose, and ears. The doctor took a step forward before collapsing to his knees and heaving up stomach acid.
Gritting his teeth, he promised himself he would keep it together, that he would stay strong and…
“Bleeeeeeech!” With tears cascading down his cheeks, he vomited again. “Bleeeeeeech!” And again and again and again until, at last, sweet respite greeted him the form of unconsciousness.
Gathering around the doctor, the ducks took turns shoving their projectile penises into his body, ejaculating hot sperm into the holes their metal-tipped penises tore into him. Cheering and laughing, they flapped their wings and quacked as loudly as they could, proclaiming the glory of Herr Ente Fuehrer. Their voices were like the laughter of school children slowed down and played back through a mangled Speak-n-Spell.
From under the cover of the thick, steel shelter, the nurses and the reporter could but sob at the sight. A sniper, overcome with grief, raised his rifle to take aim, but, fortunately, his officer tackled him before he could take the shot.
“Are you mad, man?”, the officer growled into the sniper’s face. “They’ll massacre us all, biting off our ankles and penis-puncturing our throats.” The officer glanced across the hundred meters between them and the Duckzis and swallowed back a tear. “Duckgrind,” he said, “is hell.”
EDITOR’S NOTE: Find much more of Phro’s fiction at Phro Metal.