CHAPTER 5: DIAL "L" FOR "LUST"! AND THEN DIAL "I" AND "S" FOR "IN" AND "SPACE" RESPECTIVELY
"Haw haw haw! Damn that infernal Biff Strokenoff!" shouted the furious and evil and disgusting King Barglagoona from his Secret Command Headquarters. "He has defeated my Sonic Jetcar and all my evil UFOs! And I just realized that my name is now 'King Barglagoona' instead of 'King Grabualsa'! I have no idea why."
The king's science advisor, Mad Scientist Ernie, approached the King. "My lord, perhaps Jeff K. emailed in the story and changed your name but never gave a sufficient explanation to the person who's transcribing and editing the story, Mr. Rich 'Lowtax' Kyanka, who I hear is quite the sex stud."
"Haw haw haw, yes, perhaps that is indeed the reason!" bellowed King Barglagoona in a very evil tone of voice. "Now, Mad Scientist Ernie, perhaps you'd care to show me the new secret weapon you've been working on!"
"Yes my lord!" Mad Scientist Ernie walked over to a stainless steel-like table that wasn't made of stainless steel but instead some kind of futuristic moon metal. Mad Scientist Ernie took off the cover that was covering up something beneath it. "Viola! It's my newest weapon of mass destruction!" Beneath the cover was a very futuristic ray gun.
"Haw haw haw, what is it?" asked King Barglagoona while dripping slime and various evil things.
"It is the Kamikaze Lesbian Cannon!" responded Mad Scientist Ernie in a very ominous tone. "One shot of this gun's deadly beam turns whatever it hits into a sex-crazed lesbian!"
"Haw haw haw! What is so evil about that?" asked the king.
"Well after a session of hot, evil lesbian sex, the subject explodes in a rain of shrapnel and some kind of poison!" Mad Scientist Ernie replied while picking up the gun.
"Haw haw haw, I demand a demonstration!" demanded King Barglagoona. He pointed one of his slimy, grublike arms at a nearby toaster. "I demand you shoot this toaster oven at once!"
The guns are gone. Now what happens to all those paper targets? Don't tell me you forgot about the paper targets. The ones hanging from little clips on fancy clotheslines at shooting ranges. With no guns to destroy these legions of paper bastards, they go unchecked.
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