“We’re glad you came into the office today Mr. Dieselwang,
I’m Shellandra Foreheart-Stiner Coldcrusher, but call me Shelly,” Shellandra
Foreheart-Stiner Coldcrusher said, giving him a firm handshake as he entered
the clear bubble office that was intrinsic to the CDC while sensuously
simultaneously spraying him up and down with a canister with her other hand.
During this process, her eyes ate up his extremely masculine form, his
skintight shirt clinging alluringly to his abdominal muscles which seemed to
ripple like perfectly melted chocolate being poured into a parchment paper
lined half sheet pan.
“Mrs. Dieselwang is my mother, you can call me Frank. And
it’s a pleasure and an honor,” Frank replied warmly, totally and manfully
unfazed by the sanitizing spray, without taking offense to anything she did, “I
understand you have a problem with Toxic Males.”
“Sorry about this by the way,” she answered, gesturing at
both him and his bulging abdominals with the canister, “But with the toxic male
epidemic, we can’t be too sure that everyone who calls themselves an ally is an
actual ally.”
Frank nodded firmly, “I understand, you need to keep your
safe spaces safe. Good work making that inoculation, that was pretty good work
under the time constraints,” Frank stated without demeaning her competence and
intelligence, then continued, “So what are we dealing with here?”
Shelly slapped down her hand onto a large table with a
folded out map, the velocity and vibration causing her modestly sized but well
shaped breasts to jiggle slightly, and pressed her arms together, pressing them
together for the benefit of readers who are into moderately sized breasts.
Frank however kept his eyes firmly directed to the table, all business.
“The outbreak of Dificilus Dudus started here, at the Rally
for Dudes For Ethics in Journalism And Just Saying By The Way Men and Women Are
Different So Deal With it,” Shelly declared, pointing at the map, “At the Formerly
Enron But We’ve Changed Center.”
“So, another gathering of jerks, what was different this
time?” Frank asked, his brows knitted together like two cat owning librarians.
“I think we’ve seen an event horizon in ‘nice guys’ constant compounding of their logical fallacies against one another, which we
hypothesize led to a devolution in the newly discovered trollahedrix portion
of the brains of assholes,” Shelly explained, “It has put them all into a self
perpetuating and contagious mass of Ultra Toxic Men. We want to turn them back
to to their regular forms, to just being generally trashy guys, but not a
danger to the public.
She then gestured towards a canister and contraption that
looked suspiciously like a flamethrower and a protective suit, “This is our
solution. Social Juicetice.”
“And where do I come in? It seems like you’ve found a way to
distribute it,” Frank inquired, lifting one eyebrow in a panty soaking sexy
manner.
Shelly professionally suppressed her lust given the gravity
of other things taking precedent over getting her rocks off, “We hear you’re
the right man for the job, man with the strongest arms in the West and the
East, unafraid to go toe to toe with anything, and we can’t spray this from a
distance and we’ll need to get close, so let’s do this,” She said, not really
offering any further explanation for this plot that was honestly pretty weak on
science.
“So, beat them up if they get too close is what you’re
saying?” Frank asked, distilling things down like a Kentucky Moonshiner.
“Basically,” Shelly quipped, eager to move this plot along.
“Or hit them hard enough to immobilize them so I can spray them.” She got ready
quickly, stepping into another room (this isn’t a J.J. Abrams Star Trek sequel
after all) to change into the protective suit, and stepped out, looking badass
and well protected in the shapeless suit, which was quite practical. She hefted
up the flamethrower looking thing. “I’m ready.”
Frank nodded and opened the door, and side by side they
stepped immediately into the action as a gaming shirt soulpatch bro charged at
them, shouting in a froth of self aggrandizement and saliva, “Actually, it’s
about ethics in journa….”
That stupid sentence which displayed a complete lack of self
awareness was cut short as Frank’s Iberico Ham of a fist caught him in the jaw
with a crunch, sending him head over heels into a pallet of Frank Millar
comics.
Shelly efficiently stepped over and pulled the trigger,
blasting the dudebro with a concentrated purple gas, the Social Juicetice. Soul
patch cringed and let out a large belch, then whimpered, “I’m sorry, I’m not
sure what came over me! I’ll stop attacking women anonymously on messaging
boards for at least three months!”
“Good job Frank,” Shelly said, grimacing at the qualifier
added by the temporarily cured dickbag, looking rueful. “We can only limit the
effects, these toxic men seem to perpetuate themselves, so it isn’t a permanent
solution without them actually wanting to change themselves.”
Frank folded his arms and looked with pity at the man, arms
akimbo, hands clutching the female objectifying man celebrating comics. “We can
only hope some of them will change their ways. For now, let’s kick this
outbreak in the ass.”
“You got it, partner,” she said, demonstrating her implicit
trust in him that did not elevate or diminish either of their efforts.
They strode down the lane, moving into the thick of the
action, seeing more and more Toxic Men charging at them. It was terrifying, the
way you feel when some of your grandparents start telling you how they really
feel about minorities once you’ve grown up.
A bulky football player charged at them, arms up in a sumo
maneuver, yelling, “I’m Biff! I was such a nice guy, but she friendzo…”
suddenly chomping his jaw shut as Frank stepped in quickly within his reaching,
delivering a one two punch to the solar plexus followed by and upward
palmstrike.
Shelly stepped forward in a flash, delivering a puff of Social
Juicestice in a concentrated dose to Biff’s nose, causing him to go slack, with
promises that he would google search things himself instead of asking people he
was arguing with to do his research for him. Frank caught Biff before he
slipped, and sat the jock down on the curb in a daze.
There was no time for self congratulations, as the mass took
notice of something going wrong, and suddenly it was a Tsunami of a angry
dudebros bearing down on the pair, as if it were a swarm of bees, except
larger, less sweet, and smelled a lot like Axe body spray.
Frank cut off two more douchy screams, one starting with “If
she didn’t want to why did she wea…” and another with “What a bitch, you’re
probably on your perio…” with a chop to one throat and a kick to a chest,
choking the first and sending the other one against a nearby wall, slumping,
and Shelly quickly blasted them with the juice as well.
Frank set his jaw, and turned to face the next self
righteous assholes…
To Be Continued
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