“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