R.W.C. #3: 'A Family Affair'

"Cheesesticks & Poon: The Adventures of Robot Winston Churchill Across the Ages"

Part Three

"A Family Affair"

Word travels fast across the centuries, and rarely does it travel faster than when that word includes Robot Winston Churchill, Asians, and Deep Penetration in the Distant Future. Take it as you will. For news of Robot Winston Churchill's rampant sexcapades had reached ears in the farthest corners of time, but no where was it ringing louder than in the small nineteenth century British village of Woodstock, Oxfordshire.

For at that very moment, a child was born. A small boy who Mistress Fate, in all of her infinite wisdom, has singled out from amongst the masses. A boy whose destiny would find him winning great wars, leading nations and empires, and getting ass loads of poon doing it. For this small boy, wrapped in swaddling cloth and held firmly in his mother's strong arms, would help to vanquish evil from earth.

But not if Robot Winston Churchill had anything to say about it.

Oh, and believe me, he did.

For this boy, this Baby Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill, was the only soul in the history of time with the powers to defeat Robot Winston Churchill; the man, ironically enough, he was born to kill. His parents knew it. There was a reason this birthing had taken place in secret, in a secluded house in an obscure English village. As Mother Churchill smiled at her new born son, the midwife glanced to Father Churchill who stood grinning in the corner, corncob pipe clenched firmly in his square jaw. It seemed that this family, which had gone to so much trouble and through so much pain, had finally found a shred of hope in this god forsaken world. Happiness, after all these years, had finally come to the Churchill family.

But little did they know that a menace was stalking them, just outside their very home. For Robot Winston Churchill could smell like happiness as great white could blood; and like a bug killer on the job, it was time for an extermination.

With a deafening crash, the front door of the cottage crashed down, Robot Winston Churchill charging in like a raging locomotive of righteous fury. Father Churchill was the closest to Robot Winston Churchill, and it would seem, the closest to death.

Robot Winston Churchill lunged, and grabbing Father Churchill's feeble body, snapped his spine like a baseball bat over his mechanical thigh of thunder. Robot Winston Churchill then hoisted the poor man up, still alive and gasping for breathe. With joy in his eyes and blood on his mind, the maniacal android grasped Father Churchill's flaccid manhood, and with one great tug, performed the ultimate vasectomy of pain.

Letting his first victim fall to the floor with a solid thud, Robot Winston Churchill's head than pivoted exactly one hundred and eighty degrees around, his gaze falling on the final three. They were, indeed, the walking dead.

The midwife let out a scrotum-clenching scream and made a dash for the door. But Robot Winston Churchill, laughing with a mechanical glee that would have struck fear into the heart of Satan himself, let go a giant ball of fire from his throat, the result of the installment of a Zippo and can of Tag strategically placed near his jugular. For every Robot Winston Churchillologist worth his weight in salt knows that when Robot Winston Churchill spits, he spits hot fire.

Robot Winston Churchill then picked up the dying old woman with one hand, her face still melting off her skull, as he whipped out his robotic cock with the other. No one is quite sure what happened next, but there are stories. To this day, if you ask the neighbors, they'll tell of a bone shattering crash and a midwife with one extra "happy hole", square through the temple. As for Robot Winston Churchill, well, it wasn't the first time he's had to clean skull bits off his android cock.

Whipping his mouth to clear away his own potent love juice, Robot Winston Churchill then turned towards the last two, his prize easily within his reach. Mother Churchill, desperate to protect her child at all costs, dropped Baby Winston Churchill to the floor and ran out the door screaming into the woods.

This rare act of courage, a testament to the love between a mother and her child, gave time for Robot Winston Churchill to jack himself off onto the wall near the fireplace. But none of that mattered now. Robot Winston Churchill then picked up Baby Winston Churchill and gazed into his baby eyes. Then he pocked them out. And ripped him apart, limb from limb. Picking up a blood stained cradle sheet, Robot Winston Churchill wrapped up the baby and carried him down to the local butcher. There he threw Baby Winston Churchill's broken carcass into the sausage grinder. The villagers would sit down to a special breakfast treat the next morning, though Robot Winston Churchill gleefully, and he escaped once more into the deepest bowels of time.

The entire village of Woodstock, it would seem, would have a "taste" of their future leader.