It was supposed to be pretty simple.
A guy named Charles put us up to it - he said that there was no one home and that the family was out on a vacation. Any day of the week, he said, would be perfect for busting in and stealing the documents in the upstairs bedroom's safe.
"In-and-out." He smiled as if to sneer, and his cigarette tucked itself into the corner of his mouth before he chuckled throatily. "That fool and his company won't know what hit him."
The four of us have done stuff like this before - half the payment before, and the other half after. Blood, sometimes, but never ours. We were confident, capable, professional crooks. But this time,
We Fucked Up.
I still don't know what Charles' exact business is, except that it involves boat engineering of some sort, and that the guy who owned this house was a rival. A mutant too, which made Charles hate him even more - that's why he took over two months looking for the right crew of "non-transformed" to recruit. Either he was a batshit racist or didn't want any sympathy among the crooks, I don't know.
We surveyed the house for a whole day. No signs of movement or activity inside, in its backyard, anywhere - so we thought we knew, for sure, it was really empty.
We busted in through the back porch door just past 1 AM the next day, wearing ski masks and black gear. I had the crowbar and the instructions, Wright and Jackson had the bags and the guns, just in case, and Anders had his toolkit. We all had knives.
Our adrenaline was through the roof, and for a few minutes we thought we were, once again, the coolest, slickest crew on the planet.
We had all made our way upstairs joking about the pictures of the two-headed, conjoined husband and wife - mostly about their massive, shared, "Third Leg." We were just about to open the door to the office,
When a toilet flushed in the hallway bathroom. Fuck.
Out walked a groggy, somewhat sweaty, humantaur-catgirl woman, her paw-feet's claws clacking lightly across the tiles. Two heads, each with cat ears, sat between her shoulders, and a soaked white shirt, specially cut for her four arms, struggled to cover the four massive assets that adorned her chest. As she rubbed her eyes with cat-like hands, her cat tail swished lazily across her taur-half's impressive rear. She was only wearing two crooked black panties, one for each pair of legs, and her blonde hair, a different tone and length for each head, was messily strung about, matted against her necks.
We all froze. Before she could do anything other than open her mouth, Wright put four bullets into her torso. They flew silently from the silencer and burrowed themselves deep within her ribs, the only disturbance being the shells clacking against the floor. A bit excessive, but it brought her down. As she fell, her arms' claws tore at the walls' paint, as she tried to stand, but she quickly had lost her balance - and Anders caught her before laying her down. She curled up, gasping and convulsing in agony.
We grumbled. A "house-sitter". I took out my knife. It was going to take us an extra hour to clean up, but at least we had the equipment in the car. I crouched down and got ready to finish it - I was thinking, "Hopefully she won't spray too much," before:
"Huuuunnnyyyyyy . . ." A husky female voice echoed itself. "You done yet? I put Casablanca oooonn." The voice's tone shifted to worry as Wright and Jackson got their guns ready. "Honey? Tammy?"
Heavy footsteps thudded their way towards the door in the master bedroom down the door, which barely creaked open. The two cowboys wasted no time and shredded the door. That . . . should have been the end of it.
Jackson went to check while we went to open the office door. We hadn't even entered before he started screaming.
By the time Wright and I looked back he'd been silenced. His neck was turned in the wrong direction, and the six-foot tall, bathrobe-clad abomination that was holding him up pulled his knife out of his leg, and pried his gun from his hands.
We froze, stuck in shock. The aberration looked like they had been warped by The Rogue.
For starters, the thing was missing a nose and a mouth on its face, now shrouded in long locks of brown hair. Instead, a tight, shaven, glistening vagina was plastered on it. From the pussymouth, a slightly long tongue lolled out for a half second before retracting. From the neck down, this person, despite having feminine skin, small "breasts," and slightly widened hips, appeared more androgynous and masculine - visible toned muscles glistening under the light.
The bloodstained white bathrobe wasn't doing a good job at hiding anything - instead of nipples, the small breasts rocked 4-inch long dicknipples.
Instead of a navel sat a footlong penis.
All were spent, and the clearly visible cum that still dribbled from them, along with the sweat, indicated sex.
Just about the weirdest couple I'd seen.
And finally, where a vagina/penis should normally have been, and in between the asscheeks protruded large feminine lips perched on thick probosces that looked like blow-job sex toys. The two mouths were contorted in rage, breathing heavily.
What ensued was a short firefight, which ended once the freak charged down the hallway, shooting, using Jackson's body as a shield. They slammed into Wright, smashing him against the wall as Jackson's hole-punched corpse thudded against the ground. I brought the crowbar down, hard, again and again, to no effect until I crunched the balls of the freak's stomach cock. They writhed in pain, and Wright took the chance to get in there with his knife.
He got shot in the stomach with the last bullet in Jackson's gun, and he stumbled and fell.
Anders threw his toolbag at the freak and scrambled down the stairs only to trip, smashing his head through the railing on the side. As he groaned, I came to my senses and swung the crowbar again - only for the freak to catch it with their left hand. A look of pure rage surged through their eyes as their "facial lips" pursed, and I soon found the crowbar colliding with my ribs, legs, and skull.
Jackson, down but not out, struggled to his feet only for a sickening crunch to ring off the side of his head - he and the crowbar careened over the railing and fell 17 feet.
He collided with a table, shattered it, and then met the cold, hard tile.
A pool of red seeped from his head. He wasn't getting back up.
And I was alone.
I jumped up and bodied the freak, trying to stab them with my knife, or tackle them off the staircase - anything!
I felt a rib crack. My knife turned against me, and slashes cut across my abdomen. An attempt at a punch led me to receive shattered fingers and a wrist. There was not even time to scream.
I crashed down the staircase, my arms and legs colliding with wood, wall and tile all too violently.
- - -
By the time I was on the ground, pain was all I felt - up until my waist, at least - I can't feel anything past there now.
It hurts too much to move. I've just been listening and watching. Thinking. How did we screw up this bad?
I guess they really love each other. The freak was sobbing and screaming into the phone with the cops upstairs. They, or I guess, she, must have yelled "Hang on Baby!" like over 50 fucking times.
She's gone quiet.
Now she's standing at the top of the staircase. I don't like that look in her eyes.
Aw crud.
Thanks a lot, Charles.