Recently, a certain estrogen-soaked man-killer of a fuzzball rubbed up against me, and asked in a very sweet, cooing tone about the procurement of pickles. I thought it was a joke - that whole thing about pregnant women and the desire for pickle juice amongst other things. Aside from just being a nice guy, I can't resist that sultry voice.

So, I go out an buy a one-gallon glass jar full of giant pickles. Upon my return, I found myself rapidly accelerating towards the floor as the aforementioned werewolf dropped down from the ceiling and directly onto my back, grabbing the pickle jar out of my hands before I'm halfway down.

The resounding snap of my spine was complimented by the sound of supernatural muscles popping the airtight jar open at unheard-of speeds. Through the pain, I could only JUST turn my head to watch as Anya, almost reverently, grabbed a pickle, and placed it into her muzzle. The crunching sounds she made for the next couple of minutes mimicked the sound my back was making as she rocked back and forth in a pickle-induced ecstasy on the shattered remnants of what used to hold me upright.

The empty jar clunked down on the floor, and a pickle-juice-soaked tongue licked me upside my face. "I love yooooouuuuuu."

I squeaked in a most un-masculine fashion, "Back... crushed... into... gravel..."

She scooped me up like a doll, threw me over her shoulder, and patted my back, "I love that too. And hey!"

She grabbed my hands and rubbed them over her solidly-rounded belly, "When these are born, they can jump on your back too!"

(Anya claims that I cried and twitched all the way to the hospital.)


Epsilon Minus - Mark II - Futurepop Muzik (Pop Muzik)

7

Colvard's Logical Premise: All probabilities are 50%. Either a thing will happen or it won't.