Free Illegal Aliens by Nick Pollotta

DIRTLINGS. FIGHT AND KILL FOR THE LIFE OF YOUR PLANET. FIGHT THE QUATRALYAN! ”
    Since Chisel had the lowest mentality of the group, he broke first. Clutching his sides, the boy fell to his knees laughing hysterically. Crowbar smirked. Whipsaw guffawed. Torch and Drill clutched each other, hooting uncontrollably and pointed shaking fingers at the ridiculously fat chickendog who approached them, its jelly belly body jiggling and bouncing with every step it took. A lumpy, featureless potato head regarded the gang curiously and then a tiny flap of a mouth dropped open and it gargled at them, sending the gang into fresh gales of laughter.
    “Sheet,” Whipsaw drawled, the scarred mass of tissue that was his face assuming the unusual position of a friendly smile.
    “W-what's it going to do?” Drill gasped, breathlessly struggling not to fall to the floor. “S-sit on us?”
    “Damn thing's uglier then me!” Chisel clowned, holding his sides in pain, his wits never sharper.
    “And your mama,” Crowbar said, grudgingly joining in on the fun.
    “Ain't laughed so hard since that ambulance crashed into the orphanage,” Torch giggled, wiping tears from her eye tattoos.
    “Sheet,” Whipsaw repeated, as always a man of few words.
    Only Hammer did not join in on the merriment; a fact that both Gasterphaz and Nicholi found noteworthy. The street tough knew that looks could be deceiving. Nuns don't seem like much, but they’re wildcats when cornered. And those crosses could kill ya!
    “Whipsaw!” the ganglord barked, his stern gaze never leaving the alien creature for a second.
    Still chucking, the gang member wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his leather jacket. “Yeah, boss?” he asked.
    “Kill it,” Hammer ordered brusquely.
    Moving instantly, the legbreaker surged forward, his heavy motorcycle boots slapping loudly against the cushioned floor, pushing his 300-plus pounds of hard muscle on with astonishing speed. A freight train with a Mohawk, a Mack truck in leather, Whipsaw roared like a primordial beast and closed in on the corpulent alien, his weight lifter's arms ready to block any escape attempt on its part. The street gang cackled in glee. This was going to be great! Whipsaw was three times the size of that cheesy alien mutt. This was going to be over in seconds!
    It was. As the big man reached for the Quatralyan's throat, two slim tentacles shot from its feathery chest, spearing Whipsaw through the stomach. The Bloody Decker's laughter died, when they saw the dripping limbs fingering the back of their friend's jacket. With a dreadful cry, Whipsaw tried to pull away and the Quatralyan stabbed a third tentacle into his body. The gang member writhed in agony, blood gushing from his hideous wounds. A fourth tentacle lanced out and his knees buckled, then another, and another!
    In an abrupt move, the Quatralyan yanked its arms from the street tough's form and Whipsaw crumpled to the floor. Daintily, the chickendog stepped over the spreading pools of red as more and more tentacles snaked out of its impossible body; ten, twenty, thirty. It became a Medusa's head of wiggling limbs on doggy paws. The living nightmare turned its potato head towards the street gang and fiendishly gargled at them again.
    “Waste that thing!” Hammer snarled, drawing an Army Colt .45 from under his jacket, and the Bloody Deckers attacked.
    Razor-sharp throwing stars, shurikens, appeared and disappeared in Chisel's talented hands. The Quatralyan dodged the whirling blades and came at the boy. Twin switchblades snapped into existence and the young blademaster circled to the left. Torch, her hands full of iron hooks, moved to the right. Drill pulled a stiletto from his boot and charged straight at the monster. Crowbar produced a motorcycle chain, and twirled it to near invisibility as he deliberately stepped in front of Hammer.
    “What the fuck? Get outta the way!” the ganglord yelled furiously.
    But Crowbar pretended not to hear him.