“Sir, do you think it wise to attach the dynamo to such a small vibrator?”

“TRAVIS, I did not construct a self-sustaining breeder reactor for it to not power sex toys,” he said as he connected the final wire that protruded from its opalescent pink jelly casing.

“Sir, it's just that the power output of the Thrust Dynamo is, as I'm sure you're aware, far in excess of the motor's specifications. It will burn out the motor within minutes.”

“Yes, but how many minutes?” he asked, his finger hovering over the power button. With a simple press the vibrating dong whirred to life, violently shaking loose of the test stand clamps and skittering across the work bench. Just as it perched on the precipice, toying with the idea of falling to the floor, the motor began smoking and burst into flames. At Maxxx's side, a crudely constructed robot arm deployed a fire extinguisher, covering the still-spasming dildo in white frosty foam despite the motor's near complete destruction.

“Smooth, Thrust, real smooth,” called a red-headed woman . She wore a skirt so small to be nearly superfluous and a neatly pressed white button up blouse, through which you had a clear view of her gravity-defying breasts.

“Actually, there are a few bulging veins and some flaring at the tip. Whoever you told you that was entirely misinformed. Also -and I should have led with this in the first place- how the fuck did you get in here?”

“Sir,” TRAVIS chimed in. “It appears we have a security breach.”

“Brilliant observation,” he responded, sarcasm dripping off his tongue. “Now you.”

“Call it talent.”

“With a rack like that, I imagine it takes very little talent to get what you want.” He picked up the remains of the vibrator and began thoroughly examining the damage. “If you're here to audition for Fuck to the Future part III, we've already filled all the roles.”

“No, Mr. Thrust, I'm here-”

“Ramhoe: First Blood part II?”

“No, I-”

“TRAVIS, what else do we have in production?”

“Fuck Hard: With a Vengeance, Sir.”

“No,” she jumped in. “I'm not here for one of your exploitative fuck flicks.”

Maxxx dropped the melted remains of the pink pleasure device on the work bench and glared at her. “The only things being exploited here are my security system and your outfit's ability to draw attention to your breasts. Which is stunning, by the way, but explain yourself or get out. I'm a busy man and you're trespassing.”

“My name is Illyana Kratikova. I'm here on behalf of the Counter-insurgency Unit for Neohuman Threats.”

“Not interested.”

“You haven't even heard-”

“Not interested. One, I don't do weapons. Two, I don't do government. Unless your bosses are interested in purchasing crate loads of American-made adult novelties at very competitive wholesale prices. Are your bosses interested in purchasing crate loads of American-made adult novelties? No, of course they're not. Why would they need pocket pussies to fight neo-human threats? And do you realize your agency spells out C.U.N.T.? Please tell me I'm not to only one that sees that. Where did I leave off?

“Three, sir,” TRAVIS answered dutifully.

“Thank you, TRAVIS. Four, I am currently under house arrest for violating enemy airspace in order to disseminate pornography and sexual stimulation devices to repressed, and no doubt frustrated, civilians under the thumb of a fanatical military regime.”

“We are aware of your... incident, Mr. Thrust.” She stepped past him to an enclosed cylinder and began punching numbers into the key pad on its face. The capsule retracted into the floor, revealing a platinum robot suit with purple accents.

“How did you know how to do that? Did you teach her that?” he asked the crudely-constructed robot, which swung its single manipulator arm to the left and right in response.

She ran her finger down the suits chest. “It's not you we're after, Mr. Thrust. It's him.”

“No, nope, no, not going to happen. I don't do weapons.” He quickly closed the power-suit's capsule.

“Mr. Thrust, you are the weapon.”

“If this is about patriotism or any of that other nonsense, you might as well take those entirely impractical, albeit attractive and expense, heels and walk yourself up my whimsical, well-polished glass stairs and leave. I'm not interested in any of that nationalist propaganda bullshit.”

“Mr. Thrust, the Counter-insurgency Unit for Neo-human Threats has no stake in this country or any other. We are entirely independent and all we need from you in your assistance retrieving an object otherwise impractical to acquire ourselves.”

“Putting things into cunts is definitely my thing, but I'm not interested. Am I interested? I might be interested. No. Wait. I'm not even a little interested. Why are you still here? Oh, right, I haven't shown you out yet.” Maxxx stood, took her by the wrist and took the most direct path to the front door. “If you'll just follow me, please and thank you. Don't separate from the group, we wouldn't want anyone to get lost.”

He tromped up the stairs, looking back several times to be sure she was keeping pace behind him until they reached the spacious living room. Upon the white leather sofa, head hanging over the arm rest, lie Maxxx's personal assistant and executive officer. Her blouse was unbuttoned and her skirt was hiked up around her waist. Soft sighs whispered through her parted lips. Her hand reached up, grasped a tuft of her glistening copper hair, twisting gently.

“You traitor,” Maxxx hissed at her.

She opened her eyes and met his scornful gaze. “Seven times, Maxxx. Seven,” she replied before shifting her eyes hungrily to Illyana.

“Pfft... seven. Seven is me on a bad day. No, my worst day.”

“Not like that, Maxxx. Not even close.” Her eyes closed and her hands wandered over her body until they grasped the small rounded mounds of her breasts, taking her nipples between thumb and forefinger before gently, playfully, squeezing and flicking them.

“I don't have time for this.” He pointed a finger fiercely at Illyana. “You! Go. Leave. Out. Take your C.U.N.T. and... well my typical comments seem to fall flat here. Cram it up your cunt? No, that doesn't work... Stuff it! Alright, yeah, that works. Just rolls off the tongue. You!” He jabbed her in the chest with his finger. “Take your C.U.N.T. and stuff it!”

“You know where to find us when you change your mind, Mr. Thrust. I'll let myself out.” She departed, leaving him with his personal assistant still basking on the couch.

“I'll deal with you later, Saphron.” Maxxx stormed back through the house, back down to his workshop, and sat down in his stool where he picked up the melted vibrator. “How long was that, TRAVIS?”

“Your encounter with Ms. Kratikova lasted seven minutes, twenty-seven-point-three seconds, sir.”

“The motor, TRAVIS. How long did the motor last before burning out?”

“Seven-point-one seconds before reaching critical failure due to exceeding recommended energy input and heat tolerances. Seven-point-one-four before combustion. If you like, I can run a series of simulations to find the optimal-”

“Simulations are for pussies, TRAVIS. I don't pay you to run simulations.”

“Sir, you have never, to my reckoning, paid me. I was constructed to assist you in every task, which includes the construction and development of new projects. Projects that would be finished far more efficiently with simulations rather than haphazard trial and error culminating in either fire or explosion.”

“I don't pay you?” Thrust asked while pulling the silicone away from the motor housing.

“No, sir.”

“Did you get all the photos?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Disseminate Ms. Illyana's images to the major porn sites under one of our dummy user names. Call her... I don't know, something tasteful, like Ivanna Koochie.”

“Brilliant, sir,” TRAVIS responded with an unusual hint of sarcasm.

“Take the 3D scans and prepare an animated short, let's call it a twenty-three minute run time, featuring her and some of the others from our stable. Use the same name for her, naturally.”

“Naturally, sir.”

“How fast can you have that done?”

“Three minutes ago, sir.”

“Who told you to anticipate my needs and commands?”

“You did, sir.”

“I did? Why would I do that? Because it's a convenient time saver, I would imagine. It does save a lot of time.”

“Do you wish to view the film, sir?”

“No. Do I ever? I suppose I have on occasion. No. Rush it to distribution.” He finished prying the motor free of the pink casing. “There's a lot of carbon scoring on it.”

“That's not a thing, sir.”

“TRAVIS Get me everything you can on C.U.N.T.”

“Given your line of work, I would think you know everything about cunt already, sir.”

“Don't. Just don't.”

“It's on your screen, sir.”

Maxxx pressed a button on his work table, bringing up a transparent screen across which a cascade of information lie arrayed before him in panes. Flicking his hands left and right, the panes of light flew aside. “Crap. Crap. Save for later. Crap. Ah, here we go.” His hand scrolled down the page skimming for useful information. “Agent Illyana has been a busy, busy girl. TRAVIS, edit her files to include her measurements as well as the following hobbies: long walks on the beach, fine Italian food, tentacle hentai, Nickelback, leather, lace, and watersports.” The information updated before him nearly instantly. “Okay, let's figure out why they're after me.” He resumed swimming through the panes of light until something caught his eye. “Paragon,” he whispered. He expanded the file, pushing through page after page of information on honors, medals, and news articles, before finding one final, crucial piece. “TRAVIS, fire up the suit and put me through to the director of C.U.N.T.”

“Ringing, sir.”

“Thrust!” The director's voice boomed over the speaker. “How the fuck did you get this fucking number? Do you know what I'm in the middle of right now?”

“Judging by your position, altitude, and heat signatures, I'm guessing a threesome with two short women, one on her knees with her face buried in the others mouth, with you plowing her from behind. I'm guessing one is Brazilian and the other... I give up, who's the other one? Know what? Not important. I'm in. On my way and I'm bringing the party with me.”