Moosketov

Drawing back the firing mechanism on her Luger, Iffy kicked open the door. Squatting massively in the gloom at the back of the basement, a hunched figure shifted. Iffy’s stomach clenched in fear, her finger tightened apprehensively on the trigger, her gaze pierced fiercely into the murk. Like a coiled spring, she tensed ready for release in violent action. But that movement in the dark had stirred a waft of air that brought with it a smell, an aroma, that stopped her short. It was sweet, flowery…girly. Strange, but somehow soothing and..familiar?

“Miss Foxtrot. At last! I’ve been expecting you.” It was Moosketov. His eyes weirdly green in the light from his laptop, his pudgy fingers clutching greedily at the pearls around his neck, which clattered together sharply and tinily, like a lobster’s balls. “Do come in,” he said, his high-pitched piping voice breaking into a breathy chuckle.

“No, Moosketov,” she declaimed boldly, her clear voice bouncing sharply off the dank, slimy walls; “I won’t be coming in. In fact, tonight’s the night that YOU will be COMING OUT!”

There was a serpentine hiss of anger and a cat-like thinning of his eyes. His kaftan billowed and stretched like a rhinoceroses knees as his arms flailed in impotent anger. His pearls swung wildly about the fleshy rouches of his neck, colliding concatenously and combining with the fickering light from the laptop bucking on his trembling thighs to create the effect of some infernal, demonic disco. Some hellish nightmare realm in an hermetic dimension of pure torture and pain. Or a Bradford nightclub on a week-night. Iffy allowed herself a tight smile of victory – but it was short-lived.

He stopped suddenly, one meaty paw grabbing his necklace as if viciously choking a chicken. The other swooping down into the bucket at his side. And there was that smell again. What was it? Her head began to swim slightly. His hand withdrew from the bucket, filled with a mass of orange, worm-like shapes which he tossed, carelessly into his gaping mouth and swallowed, hugely, in one gulp.

“Wouldn’t you like a Wotsit?” he whispered, invitingly. Momentarily, she was unable to speak.

The sudden exertion had caused beads of sweat to break out on the pink, fleshy expanse of his head. As she looked at it, surrounded by a black horse-shoe of lightly-dandruffed hair, she felt a sudden shift in her perception. His male-pattern baldness wasn’t just one more element in his general unattractiveness. She suddenly realised it was a sign of his potency; the result of his massive intellect forcing upwards through his skull and thrusting the puny hairs out. As he hurled another fistful of cheesy treats into his opened mouth, she found herself marvelling at the animal passion with which he indulged his appetite. There was something thrillingly ravenous and raw about it. She watched enraptured as he licked and sucked the orange crumbs lasciviously from his deliciously sausagey fingers. Her gun wavered in her hand.

“You really should, you know. These aren’t just any old Wotsits. These are Mammy’s SPECIAL Wotsits.”

A primal sense of danger pierced through her rosy glow; “Mammy’s?” She asked, nervously.

“Yes, didn’t you know? If you came to apprehend Muxter Moosketov, you really have wasted your time. Muxter doesn’t exist any more. I’m Mammaria Moosketov now. Mammy to her friends. I’m a WOMAN. Just like you!”

The deranged cackling tore at her senses, she shook her head, stepped firmly forward, aimed her Luger. “You’re nothing like me!”

With one swift movement his hand swept into his quivering cleavage and from there, slapped up onto his head, a beautifully-tied pretty pink bow. Iffy gasped at the unrestrained femininity of it. It was so girly that it seemed to actually pulsate with demure loveliness. Iffy was speechless, trans-fixed!

“And the resemblance doesn’t stop there, either.” His hand slipped back into his kaftan, ferreting under the other moob this time, and coming back out with a very familiar black calling-card. Hers. He held it up and read, with gusto, aloud; “Miss Iphegenia Foxtrot KCMG CBE OBE RNVR(Rear Admiral(Retired(Mrs))). Billionaire Adventuress, Professional Zeppelin Pilot, Thwarter of Plots, Unraveller of Schemes, Stout Defendress of Queen & Country and International LESBIAN! No job too small.”

“That’s a misprint,” she querulously interjected.

“What is?”

“It was supposed to read “Intersectional Lesbian.”

“And you didn’t have it corrected? With YOUR money!”

“It gives me something to aim for.”

“Whatever. It matters not. You are a lesbian, and so, my dear, am I!”

This was nonsense so extreme that Iffy felt the malefic influence of the pretty pink bow loosen on her slightly.

“You are not, you monster! You have a man-gland,” she spat at him, disgustedly.

Mamma Moosketov chuckled wickedly, “Oh no, my poor, unenlightened precious. I’ve been feeding myself exclusively on these radioactive-oestrogen Wotsits for months now and you arrived just in time to see my transformation complete. Kneel!  Abase yourself before the magnificence of the Lady-Penis!!”

And with that Moosketov rose upwards, like a whale majestically breaking surface. His kaftan flew up and off, like a sheet into a hurricane and he stood, his full glory revealed before her.

“Where is it?” Iffy asked.

Slightly put-out, Moosketov reached down and gently lifted the lowest of his belly-rolls.

And there it was, nestling in the warm dark like a kitten; cashew-like and imperial purple, and dripping with womanliness.

As gloomy as it was in that basement, Iffy hit it with her first shot.