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Of course a grenade in the teeth works wonders, as does a laser blast to the gut. The creature's gut. It died before it could fire, as did the next eighteen of the Vommers. God, they're disgusting... More coming. And dying. And their filthy allies, the Scummers, dying in waves of pulpy green flesh. Exploding flesh, air filled with flying tentacles, screams of the dying, teeth-gnashing of the living, smell nauseating. More coming. Ha-ha! Trying to trap me... or are they? Too many, overwhelmed, dropping ichor, oh, sob, is this the end... I wish to hell I could wake up.
© Harry Harrison, 1988
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