With a superhuman effort, Frank Dieselwang and Shellandra Foreheart-Stiner Coldcrusher, but you can call her Shelly, applied their brainpower to the situation at hand, taking a respite from an intense skirmish, as evidenced by the smell of Axe and the plethora of torn Ed Hardy shirts scattered across the nice guy blasted landscape.
|Taken by Michael Sauers|
Aside from a bit of sweat, and lack of shirt, and slightly elevated heartrate which caused his enormous pectorals and laser etched abdominals to heave just so, Frank was perfectly whole, and he looked on next to Shelly as she stared down the huge 90s style computer terminal at the top of the building they found themselves in after a metric ton of fighting.
Shelly stared intensely at the monitor, and with a a long manicured fingernail (which indicated her care for style and fashion like a classy lady which belied the author’s progressive but still somewhat informed by modern beauty standards views towards women) pointed at a very complex and scientific and technologically advanced looking system which seemed as though it had a solution to solving the problem, because this story has been dragged out long enough.
“What’s that?” asked Frank to give the author an excuse to show the readers the inner workings of this solution.
Shelly huffed and rolled her shoulders back, causing her breasts to press tightly against the front of her shirt for the benefit of anyone who enjoyed that sort of thing. “The possible solution to our problems,” she said, qualifying the statement to indicate that there was still work to be done, “provided I get enough time. This is the chemical plant which is conveniently hooked up to a city wide fan system, established to deliver airborne cures and treatments in the case that a proto zombie outbreak occurred, or perhaps if a bunch of anti vaccinating parents from Marin rushed over here to decrease our herd immunity.”
“Poorly informed McCarthyists,” Frank muttered, hinting at his opinions on the matter while not having too harsh an invective.
“It’s calibrated for those two situations, so I’ll need a lot of time to reprogram the system and remix the formula to treat toxic males, rather than proto zombies,” she sighed, as she looked to him, as though questioning his abilities to do this one thing for her, “They’ll be rushing up here in droves though, as toxic males do when they sense even the slightest threat to their fragile, fragile minds. I’ll need you to hold them off for 43 minutes while I….re-bro-gram it.” Shelly somehow maintained a straight face while stating this.
While Frank thought that was an extremely specific amount of time, he didn’t say so, and gave her a look of supreme confidence which was approximately as supremely confident as he felt. “I got this, let’s get to work.”
As though on cue, the door to the room started to thump rhythmically as bodies began slamming into it. The bodies of angry dudebros, in case that wasn’t clear.
Shelly, without prompting or a look in his direction went to work immediately, competently, and elegantly. She would get the task done no matter what.
Frank stared at the door with a look of sexy intensity, his desire to protect society welling in his breast like some kind of water pipe with too much pressure in it.
His quadriceps flexed like coiled springs the size of four footballs (American) strapped together as he pressed his shoulder against the door, holding off the worst of the onslaught seeking to penetrate their defenses. With each slam of dudebro flesh on the wall, the camera would pan to Frank’s pectorals, with a vigorously enticing bounce with each impact.
Inexorably, the door began to splinter and fell to shreds, leaving Frank the last barrier against the insidious assault of toxic men. He took a few steps back and readied himself, arms held wide. Frank bared his teeth and growled at the crash of men charging in his direction.
“Why don’t you go back to your countr…” bellowed a husky fellow with a Patriots hat before he was dumped unceremoniously headfirst into a dustbin with a might judo throw by Frank.
With barely time to process, Frank dodged the grabby hands of an older gentleman who looked like a professor who launched into a tirade starting “The lab is no place for women they just cry and fall in love wi…” which Frank ended with double elbow chop to the skull, driving the professor’s jaw into the ground with the force of a cannon, shattering his jaw to save people from hearing his drivel for at least three months.
“Reverse raci…!” yelped a seedy looking fellow in a designer trucker hat before two stomach gut punches propelled him into the wall, knocking him out cold.
“Maybe men are just better than all women in that fie…” started a normal looking fellow, which showed that even normal reasonable appearing people had toxic opinions and actually kind of reinforces the whole problem, which Frank thankfully was able to cut off this time with a not quite deadly chop to the throat, choking and incapacitating the nefariously milquetoast aggressor.
For what seemed like hours and hours this continued, Frank a tireless bulwark against misogynists: so called “nice guys,” representatives of the bottom three quartiles of investment bankers in terms of morality, GamerGaters.
He turned back, breathing deeply, the face of a manbaby muttering about fighting misandry caught in his right arm, and locked in his left arm was the neck of an angry lumbersexual, hell bent on insisting that if someone didn’t want to be stared at they shouldn’t be dressed that way.
“And done,” Shelly shouted with triumph, a whole 10 minutes ahead of schedule. With that, she mashed the button with the palm of hand, and with a complicated combination of whirring, whistling, and fan noises, a concentrated mist started flowing from the building and across the hazard site that was the city, and as though science had created a perfect antidote, the hilarious except for the serious nature of angry manbaby men was quieted.
Frank felt the men go slack in his arms and he brought them to a rest on the ground, and puffed out his chest, beaming in pride at Shelly. “You did it! You ended the toxic male outbreak!”
Shelly smiled at him gratefully but sighed as his naivete, “You can’t really cure toxic males, sadly, you can only keep fighting. Women have been dealing with this forever.”
Frank’s enormous shoulders slumped, and exhaled slowly, “Gosh, that sucks.”
“It does,” Shelly patted him on the cheek affectionately, “but it’s getting a lot better when we have good allies.”