Goris was the name I chose from some long-forgotten novel, one of the many sub-par examples of world literature permanently stored on Vault 13 database. It was a custom of our kind to pick our own names, a welcome replacement to faceless numbers assigned to us by the Enclave Zoological Research Group.
What had once began as a secret rite, hidden from our masters while we skulked the laboratory halls with silent obedience, hawling supplies and equipment, took roots and became a beginning - of the rebellion. Left alone to their own devices by the Enclave, the Research Group, oblivious to the seething, unforgiving hate that burned in our hearts, stood no chance.
After the carnage was over, the halls were splattered with gore and brains; entrails hung from the lamp posts, and torn limbs were everywhere. We licked the cold metal floor, flooded with warm blood, savoring our victory. Terrified lab workers were hurdled together in the dining hall, under the lock and key.
When we were tired of eating and desecrating the dead, the prisoners proved to be a welcome amusement. We would burst in the hall and pick a screaming human (man, woman, or a child - it didn't matter), and do things to it, while the horrified mob watched in helpless silence. We would spread-eagle a 7 year old girl on the ground and nail her to the floor with construction rivets. Stripped of her clothing, she would then be raped by two, sometimes three Deathclaws, her vagina bulged and torn by our enormous genitals. Bleeding and screaming, she would then be gagged by a Deathclaw penis shoved rudely down her throat. Some would try to bite, but to a Deathclaw, a clench of human teeth was like gentle hair stroking his mighty member - we felt no pain, but only pleasure. With forceful thrusts, we would violate her mouth, breaking teeth and dislocating jaws. If the victim didn't die from shock and suffocation, she would be surely drowned when a roaring Deathclaw ejaculated down her throat, sending gallons of sticky, musky-smelling sperm in her lungs and bowels. When we were tired of our toy for the day, we would play with her. Sometimes, we would get her by the feet and smash her head on the walls, or rip her head off and play a game of "catch". I fondly remember a pregnant woman, whose bulging belly was ravaged and pumped with our sperm, then cut open. We tore the cum-smeared infant from her womb and ate it right before her teary eyes, growling mockingly like wild dogs, and then we shat our hot, pasty excrements right in her freshly opened womb. And yet another time, we held down a man and force-fed him with an overdose of stimulants, then we skinned him alive and took turns sodomizing him. The stimulants helped to keep him awake, but they certainly didn't numb the pain. Ah, those sweet screams of mercy! When we were done, we doused the bloody, sobbing human-shaped piece of meat with gasoline and set him on fire...
The memories floored me, and for a moment I lost myself in the nostalgia, when the rude snoring of the "Chosen One", as he called himself, brought me back to reality. Lying in a sleeping bag, he slept like a babe, him and me, all alone in The Great Nothing, like fruit flies on a giant dinner plate. His "companion", I was called. The very thought of being a companion of a HUMAN disgusted me, but I have endured, hoping that one day, with his help, my people who were stolen from my by the Enclave would be found. But right now, all I felt was long-forgotten rage, and a rising erection in my bulged, vein-pierced member... Slowly pulling back the foreskin, I silently approached the sleeping Chosen One...
(the ending is left to you. yes, i know this is a shitty story by any standards, i just had nothing better to do)
Goris
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POOPERSCOOPER
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Thor Kaufman
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