Author Topic: Star Trek: The Next Generation - The Poo Fight [AI Dungeon]  (Read 222 times)

Star Trek: The Next Generation - The Poo Fight [AI Dungeon]
« on: October 14, 2020, 10:24:18 PM »
Those of you who've kept up with the thread over in Live Die Live will be familiar with my exploits in AI Dungeon, the amazing text adventure game that basically knows the entire internet. However, my latest exploit - a Star Trek story with the randomness cranked up and a decidedly scatological twist - has ultimately ended up too grotesque, and warrants its own thread in the realm dedicated to such grot. (All my inputs are bolded, everything else is generated by the AI)

You are Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the starship, Enterprise D. In the year 2364 you lead a crew in a exploratory vessel for the United Federation of Planets. Your continuing mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no one has gone before...

"Stardate: 2374.3. We have arrived several days early for a rendezvous with the freighter USCSS Wandsworth. In the meantime, crewmembers are attending to leisure activities."

The screen changes to show the ship's bridge. You see that it is decorated with various pieces of furniture from different parts of the ship. Various people are working on various tasks at the same time, but they all seem to be doing their jobs well.

You suddenly feel something soft, wet, and unbelievably rancid hit your neck. You turn around to see that a giggling Data is slinging poo again! The curious android likes nothing better than throwing shit at the crewmembers of the Enterprise.

"Okay, who threw that?" you say, grinning cheekily.

"Oh, no one knows sir!" is the chirpy reply from Data. You sigh and feel another soft, moist mass of...something hit your back. This time the culprit isn't so subtle; Commander Riker stands up from his chair on the bridge and grins cheekily at you before sitting back down.

You chuckle merrily. Looks like the whole crew is playing this disgusting game! You pick up a lump of rotting feces and aim it at Data like a snowball. "Catch!" you cry, throwing the turd at your officer. To your amazement and terror he catches it expertly. "Hah hah! It is galliapples going around sir, today!" he chuckles unnerveingly, referring to the hideous disease sweeping through the ship. "Today" meaning nearly everyone is throwing up pure liquid poo.

Another diarrhoetic deuce, this one reeking of haggis and froth, comes from Worf. You see Tasha Yar arriving on the scene with a sheepish grin.

You have diarrhea of the mouth. "You started it!" you say, flinging it in her direction

She winces and shields her face dampening nose holes. she lets out long, crappy groans before gritting her teeth and sending a steaming plop at you.

Troi walks onto the bridge and is rewarded with a mouthful of crap! "Fheart," she curses, holding a hand to her mouth in shock and wiping her face. The last time someone got her with crap was in high school And right in the face too

Buy on the spot you're declared the winner over Worf and Data!

You do a merry little dance, shit dripping down the tight trouser leg of your Starfleet uniform. Your stinking plop hitches a ride in your glove which you wave triumphantly in the air.

Worf lets off a right whopper in his pantaloons. He grunts and releases the grip on his buttocks, but to no avail. Fatty chunks slip from the sides of his tight shorts and spatter the floor. "Ooch. Fpeeg!" With a clumsy lunge he speared a thumb at you. Before you the turd exudes a curious vapour, freak sprawled out between: you warp it with fascinated tenacity.
You lick the deuce, curiously, then ravenously. Its taste is disgusting and wretchful to the extreme, but you just can't stop!

Pressing foward with red-hot passion, you spit the mush into your hand and slather it through your hair. Riker's jaw drops to revelation when he sees all is not right, and terrible sensations take command. The horror! gurgles the ears as heavy sweating soaks the hair. Stirred up by its dammed odour, Worf gyrates shamelessly.

You smear the poo in Data's face in an act of affection,
and the android responds in kind, blissfully unaware of your contagious disease! The wave of scat goes on and you're on it. You throw up on the back of Riker's head. But no one can out-surpass vile vomit...Rebecca Norton drenches you forcefully with a cup of her sick, the liquid burning baby bateras along your thigh as the mixed mucus slides heavily down onto your foot.

> You plead with Data to stop getting his reeking, unwashed penis out on the bridge of the Enterprise.
"Please sir, just get some sort of lube or something!" You say in a desperate plea. "I'm sooo sick of smelling like an old man's junk."
"Shut up, I said shut up! What do you think will happen if we don't take care of this?" He says in annoyance.
"Well, there won't be any more smells on the ship then..."

> You ask Miles O'Brien if there's anything he can do about Data's helmet cheese.
O'Brien chuckles and squirts more breath spray in his mouth. "Aye, captain, I suppose it would be the best idea to see the man... Having said taht it'll crack soon."

> You say "O'Brien, this is no time for jokes. I demand that you get a rag - a tissue - anything - and clean out Data's smegma. Lick it clean for all I care!"
Firstly you are struck for using an incredibly... Inconvenient wordology from the this English vocabulary bank. Since, again: 23rd century has left the terms; hence the usage of increasingly utterly crude colloquia with your second in command soooo long ago since attempted once before aboard another office is a faux pass to sometimes incurr a myriad of troublesome office vocabulary pain upon yourself. ....

> You say "Computer. Generate a dishcloth, that Data may wipe his penis clean with."
You feel all 1.97 meters of yourself covered neck down in a below average sized but extra thick office-green baking measuring textile, wiping your sticky palm upon trying unfamiliar tugging at the surface tension already creating awkward work with protocol office everything's addition... "Could've tried the replicator"

> You say "Shut up, Wesley!"
You're getting annoyed by the scrabbling and raving of this primitive serf, the cowardly peasant who scrapes the gunk off his jakes and whittles away as much meat from his bones as a monk of *your* stature...Bah!! Nothing but an albino monkey! you sneer im the meaniewhile. You have difficulty getting out a lick and yet stick around him as he pays an indelible debt to the world that yawns like a bum. Makes you glad you're made of sterner stuff of *you*.

> You wonder what Ed Sheeran's up to nowadayz.
You keel over in pools of anguish and emotion for that passing memory is a happy one even if it lasts just umbers 0.4954048 seconds while you think. Ed Sheeran's new albim wil be toppeing poppiests, you can imagine the silly songs he will sing along the rhymes those silly words!!!!

> You start remniscing about your love of Gabriel-era Genesis.
Now you starts remembering about that sucking chest wound you have over on flank 1. You thingk 'hmmm...come to think of it the fop Gabriel hasn't written anything worthwhile since the 1980's with that bland turd "Sledgehammer....Please!'
'Stop laughing you b's, fleshwound!" bellows captain Baby Batter from somewhere on the main deck, 'anyway you may be onto something there Roger...oh ffs you useless captains wife!!"

> You say "Computer. Summon Phil Collins."
A small man hits the ground, presumably summoned.
He's probably angry after being summoned during an especially important event to provide entertainment of some sort through thunderous drumming and what is possibly annoying squeals from his nose. After all, it's not like you really needed him right at that time, like you just needed a cloth to wipe Mr big's private parts with.

All the poo clogs up the Enterprise's ventilation system and the crew starts choking on their own shit. arbitrary is not reasonable but this absurdity simply will not do.
Just then thirteen ugly bastards hurl melons at the Holodeck, cracking ribs and squashing skulls, sending meat fleshettes into your perfume and tearing holes in your dress.
just communicate or: how i learned to stop worrying and dormans love stinks
The office smells strongly of melon-stained dero smegma (a definite 1st in rebel bastions). Camaris sits limply in your hyperbaric aspergo seat, walloping a small urn of emo ashes, whilst Starbuck lies across your broken 5 letter-office desk.