DISCLAIMER: No profit is intended in the writing of this story. Star Trek: Voyager and all its characters are owned by Paramount Pictures/CBS Network Television, a Viacom/CBS Corporation.
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WARNING: Contains violence, innuendo and homosexual references.
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Attack of the 50-Ft. Half-Klingon
The President of the United States of Earth holo-projected his scowling features a foot above the sensurround suspensor bed where humanity's greatest hero was engaged in a torrid tryst with twin tempestuous redheads.
"Captain Proton, turn off that thermonuclear strap-on and pay attention! The world is facing its greatest threat since last week's episode! A weapon of mass proportions is running amok in the megalopolis, toppling skyscrapers and smashing fruit carts with abandon... Are you listening to me?"
Tom Paris reluctantly lifted his head from the bodacious bosoms of the Delaney sisters and muttered, "Computer, delete the President of Earth."
The President not only failed to disappear, he grew even larger: a beady-eyed bearer of bad tidings with an uncanny resemblance to a certain EMH. Tom could see right up his nostrils, a sight which put even his mind off what Jenny was doing to her sister with an atomic-powered vibratron.
"Is that...Demonica and Malicia: The Twin Mistresses of Evil?" gasped the President. "They must have brainwashed you! The Proton I know would never let himself be swayed from his duty by the allure of women!"
"Mr. President!" cried Proton, bolting upright in bed. "Are you implying that I'm queer?!"
"Certainly not! Just because you go around in tight pants with a man called Buster - the thought never crossed my mind. But this is not the time to loaf about in a boudoir. We need you! Captain Proton: Spaceman First Class, Protector of Earth, Scourge of Intergalactic Evil, Astrogator of Action, Prince of Planeteers, Lord of the Rings of Saturn, Man of the Day After Tomorrow, Savior of a Statistically Insignificant Percentage of the Universe! You're the only man who can save us from this magniloquent menace!"
"The only man?" scoffed Proton. "What about all the other lazy sods? There are six and a half billion people on this planet! Let the army deal with it."
"The monster is impervious to every effort of the military. Rocket-propelled bullets bounce off like ping-pong balls. Atomic hand grenades only destroy the soldiers who've thrown them. She brushes aside our most powerful Destructo beams with contempt!"
"A gigantic woman, fifty-feet high! Rampaging through our city like a lusty leviathan, endangering the entire world (or at least the bits you can walk on). A feminine terror from which all men flee!"
"Sounds like my wife, ha-ha!" Proton joked. "Mr. President, what you're telling me is impossible. Any human of that size would collapse under their own weight."
"Don't take my word for it!" snapped the President. "See for yourself!"
His face disappeared, replaced by a tri-D image of a city on the verge of destruction. Aerodynamically-unstable flying wings landed on rooftop runways. Gyroscopic trains balanced precariously on monorails. Cigar-shaped rockets vented radioactive exhaust across overpopulated megastructures. City-spanning domes were fogged with pollution, robots stumbled on their bipedal legs, rolling sidewalks and jet-packing commuters imperiled hapless pedestrians!
Across this vision of early 21st Century technopia strode a dark-haired, dusky female of gargantuan yet well-favoured proportions, swiping at the gyrocopters that buzzed about her like angry gnats. Clothing made of stitched bedsheets barely covered her breasts and loins, and thousands flocked to her path despite the danger, drawn by the chance of seeing the world's largest crotch shot.
"ATTENTION FIFTY-FOOT FEMINIST METAPHOR!" blared a loudspeaker. "YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF THE SQUARE-CUBE LAW! RETURN TO A SCIENTIFICALLY PLAUSIBLE HEIGHT/WEIGHT RATIO IMMEDIATELY!"
Ignoring the demand, the Brobdingnagian babe made a beeline for a rotating solar-powered penthouse perched on the peak of a gleaming ziggurat. Reaching up, she seized its roof in one huge hand and peeled it open like a can of Spam.
At the same instant there was dreadful rending of metal above their heads. Megan and Jennifer screamed in terror as the fierce features of a huge B'Elanna Torres glared down through a gaping hole in the ceiling.
"Holy shit, it IS my wife!!!" shouted Tom.
"YOU PHILANDERING PETAQ!" roared B'Elanna, the force of her breath slamming the suspensor bed against the floor.
The philandering petaQ tumbled off the bed and scrabbled naked across the floor, snatching his pants from the household robot and diving headfirst into the nearest vacutube. Seconds later he was flying into the garage in a blast of compressed air, dust and household vermin, colliding with a gleaming silver speedster with more fins than Helsinki and the massive exhaust of a gas turbine engine protruding from its rear.
Tom knew he was in trouble when he saw the car was stamped with the word 'Dinky'.
The bubble-top canopy rose automatically and Tom dived inside, searching frantically amongst hundreds of levers, switches and analogue dials for the start button. The imagizer screen on the dashboard rippled to life.
"Mr. President!" cried Tom. "I need my rocketship prepped for immediate launch! I've decided to emigrate to Planet X!"
"I'm a doctor, not a politician!" snapped Voyager's EMH. "It seems I've been the victim of a practical joke, Mr. Paris. Your wife said I was needed at your autopsy."
Tom slammed the speedster into gear. The garage door dilated barely in time as Tom's car roared out onto a twenty-lane superhighway...only to be plucked into the air by a giant hand.
"Honey, I can explain!" shouted Tom, hanging onto the steering wheel for dear life as B'Elanna shook him like the rat he was. "It's all part of the holodeck program! I was brainwashed by the Twin Mistresses of Evil into becoming their sex slave!"
"You know what's so disappointing about the future?" growled the torrid half-Klingon. "NO FLYING CARS!" She swung back her arm and hurled the speedster as hard and far as she could.
"Heeeeelp meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" cried Tom as he flew across the sky, sounding to the gaping bystanders below like a man-fly caught in a web. After forty-seven seconds of sheer terror, gravity won out and his vehicle crashed into the local atomic power plant which exploded before you could say, "Nuclear reactors don't explode in real life."
Battered, bruised and glowing in the dark, Tom Paris staggered out of the wreckage only to be flattened by a gargantuan foot slamming down from above.
"Computer, end program!" came a muffled voice from under the heel. B'Elanna responded by stamping down even harder, then grinding her foot back and forth as if trying to scrape something revolting off it.
"Relax Tom, the safety protocols are on. This will just hurt a lot!"
It was then that the vast crowd of onlookers had their attention seized by something else.
"Look there, up in the sky!"
"It's a bird!"
"It's a plane!"
"It's an amazing pair of tits!"
A lithesome figure in purple tights swooped between B'Elanna's taut thighs, shot across the dusky skin of her bare midriff, dived through the valley of her cleavage and ended up hovering before her smoldering eyes and scowling forehead ridges.
"Buzz off Borg, before you fall on your backside! Those jet-packs have only sixty seconds worth of hydrogen peroxide fuel, you know."
"Peroxide is irrelevant as I am already a natural blonde," replied Seven of Nine. "I have filled the tanks with Janeway's Special Blend. A single drop of her coffee is enough to keep me flying for hours."
"What do you want then? Annoyed because my legs are now longer than yours?"
"As the designated hero of this holoprogram is currently being squashed under your foot, I have volunteered to destroy the monster and save the girl."
"YOU CAN HAVE THIS GIRLY-MAN RIGHT NOW!" shouted B'Elanna, stomping her foot. A faint cry of pain wafted up from below. "AS FOR THE REST - COME AND GET ME, BUMWIGGLE OF BORG!"
"I was not referring to Mr. Paris," said Seven calmly. "You have clearly adopted this archetype of gender empowerment to battle the green-eyed monster aroused by your husband's absorption in this fantasy world, in which he is the heroic saviour of scantily-clad females who fawn upon his every action. According to the plot you must either come to a new sense of self-worth as a woman, or go insane and be destroyed to restore a reassuring sense of male patriarchy in the audience."
"WRONG! I DID THIS SO I COULD GET KLINGON ON HIS ASS!" roared B'Elanna. "I DID THIS TO SHOW THE ENTIRE WORLD JUST HOW PISSED OFF I AM!" She reached down and yanked a monorail off its support pylons. Wielding it like a bat'leth, she headed for the nearest national monument and began to redecorate it with the fervour of a Ray Harryhausen film.
A huge tri-D of the President shimmered into existence above the city. "CITIZENS OF EARTH!" announced the bare-pated projection. "OUR GREATEST HERO, CAPTAIN PROTON, HAS FALLEN IN A BRAVE ATTEMPT TO SAVE US FROM THIS OVERSIZED AMAZON! NOT SINCE WE WERE EXPOSED TO THE AMAZING COLOSSAL MAN HAS MANKIND FELT SO INADEQUATE. I THEREFORE HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO BLOW UP OUR ENTIRE NUCLEAR ARSENAL, SO WE OURSELVES CAN MUTATE TO ENORMOUS SIZE!"
"Suffering Sapphic!" muttered the Borg. "This is what happens when you elect a mad scientist as world dictator." She reached behind her neck, assimilation tubules shooting from her fist into the tanks of her jet-pack. Seven's entire body began to vibrate as 90% pure caffeine pumped into her system. Her eyes dilating to the size of a Japanese manga heroine, she shot towards where B'Elanna Torres straddled the superhighway, her improvised loincloth riding high upon her thighs...
"You know," said B'Elanna some hours later, as the two (normal-sized) women lazed on a sensurround suspensor bed floating above the pristine surface of a lake. "That was kind of gross. I mean pleasurable, yes, but...couldn't you have snapped me out of it by tickling or something?"
"You should expect such things," replied Seven primly, "if you're going to walk around in public with no underwear."
"Look who's talking. Anyway, have you tried replicating knickers for a fifty-foot high woman?"
Seven reached for a glass of synthahol held ready in the claw of a flying robot...and frowned. The lake below was rippling outward in concentric circles, in time to a rhythmic THUD THUD THUD!
Towering above the hills amidst a swarm of tilt-rotor gunships, a colossal Tom Paris strode towards them with a pissed-off expression, pursued by convoys of army tanks, self-propelled atomic howitzers and truck-mounted weapons of mass reduction.
"He's certainly more...impressive than usual," admitted B'Elanna. Tom had not been able to find an adequate loincloth either.
"True," said Seven. "But that leaves him vulnerable to an attack that would not have been contemplated in a 1950's monster movie." She shook her jet-pack. A faint sloshing within indicated there was still enough coffee for a short flight.
B'Elanna handed the Borg a pair of stiletto boots appropriate for a superheroine.
"Tom, prepare for the World's Highest Groin Kick!"
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