In the heart of the Thundarr city, where the neon lights painted the night sky, a peculiar deal was about to unfold. Flint Faros, a man known for his eccentric tastes, had his eyes on a peculiar device. This contraption, allegedly, had the power to force open the most reluctant of female soilmen, a tool that would make any man a conqueror.
The inventor of this device, a shady figure known only as The Tinker, had a reputation that preceded him. He was a man of questionable morals, a purveyor of the forbidden, and a master of the taboo. His latest creation, the “Vaginator 3000,” was a device that promised to open up a world of possibilities, quite literally.
Flint, intrigued by the potential of this device, decided to test it out. He headed to a bustling nightclub, his eyes scanning the crowd for a suitable test subject. His gaze fell upon a woman, a beautiful female soilmen, known for their resilience and strength. She was a beauty, her body a testament to the power of nature, her curves as enticing as the mysteries of the earth.
Back at the motel, Flint prepared for his experiment. The female soilmen, bound and gagged, struggled against her restraints. Her eyes, filled with fear and anger, met Flint’s. He smirked, his fingers tracing the cold metal of the Vaginator 3000.
As he activated the device, a mechanical whirring filled the room. The female soilmen’s eyes widened, her body tensing as the device began its work. The sound of her struggle filled the room, a symphony of resistance and fear. But the device was relentless, its mechanical fingers probing and prying, forcing her to submit.
Just as Flint was about to claim his prize, a loud crash echoed through the room. Glass shattered, and in the midst of the chaos, a figure emerged. It was Kestrel, a vigilante known for his swift justice and unyielding resolve. He had heard of Flint’s plan from the tinker who he confronted an hour ago in a shady bar where the Tinker got a bit too drunk drinking saki and muttered out the entire Vaginator 3000 deal to the bar occupants (one of whom was Kestrel) – and had come to put an end to it.
Kestrel lunged at Flint, his body a whirlwind of fury and determination. He knocked the Vaginator 3000 out of his hands, the device clattering to the floor. Flint, caught off guard, stumbled back, his eyes wide with surprise and fear.
The sound echoed in the dimly lit motel room, a symbol of his sick intentions being shattered.
Flint’s eyes widened in shock—he hadn’t expected an ambush, let alone one this ferocious. He barely had time to react before Kestrel was on him again, fists flying like a storm.
CRACK!
Kestrel’s knee drove into Flint’s ribs, knocking the wind from his lungs. Flint grunted in pain, doubling over, but Kestrel was merciless. He grabbed Flint by the collar, slamming him against the motel’s stained walls, his grip tightening like a vice.
“You think you can just take what you want?” Kestrel snarled, his voice a growl of pure contempt.
Flint coughed, smirking through the pain. “Tsk… She would’ve enjoyed it eventually,” he sneered.
Wrong answer.
Kestrel slammed his fist into Flint’s face—once, twice—his knuckles splitting skin. Blood splattered onto the cheap motel carpet. Flint groaned, but his arrogance still flickered beneath his pain.
“I should kill you right here,” Kestrel hissed, his samurai sword sliding from its sheath, its blade glinting under the flickering motel light.
Flint tensed, for the first time genuinely afraid. His mind scrambled for a way out. “C-Cal, cousin—wait! This is just business!” he gasped.
Kestrel didn’t flinch. The sword’s edge pressed against Flint’s throat, a single move away from ending him. Flint gulped, his confidence cracking.
“You’re nothing but filth,” Kestrel muttered. His blade moved—fast—not to kill, but to slice a deep, searing gash across Flint’s forearm. Flint howled, clutching his bleeding arm as he collapsed onto the bed, writhing in pain.
Kestrel sheathed his sword, turning toward the shaking Soilmen woman, who had watched everything in stunned silence.
Kestrel turned his attention to the female soilmen, his fingers working quickly to free her from her restraints. As the female soilmen was freed, she looked at Kestrel, her eyes filled with gratitude and relief. Kestrel nodded, a silent promise that he would ensure justice was served.
“You’re safe now,” Kestrel said, his voice softer. “Go.”
She didn’t hesitate. She bolted from the room, leaving only Kestrel and Flint in the suffocating tension.
Flint, clutching his wound, glared up at Kestrel with pure hatred. “You think you’ve won?” he spat.
Kestrel leaned in, his voice low and deadly. “If I ever hear you try something like this again…” He grabbed the Vaginator 3000, raising it high—before smashing it against the ground, shattering it into useless scraps.
“…I won’t stop at just a warning.”
And with that, Kestrel vanished into the night, leaving Flint Faros broken, humiliated, and bleeding on the motel floor.
Later that night.
Back at Mr. Clown’s lair, Flint was fuming. His plan had been foiled, his prized device destroyed. He turned to the Tinker, his fists clenched in anger. “This is your fault!” he spat, his voice filled with venom.
The Tinker, however, was unfazed. He merely chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, Mr. Flint,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “perhaps next time, you should consider the consequences of your actions.”
In the end, Flint was left with nothing but his bruised ego and a lesson learned the hard way. The female soilmen, on the other hand, was left with a story to tell, a tale of a night that could have ended in tragedy, but instead ended with a hero and a villain’s downfall.
And as for the Vaginator 3000, it was left in pieces, a testament to the power of justice and the futility of trying to force what should be given willingly. The night ended with a sense of satisfaction, a feeling of justice served, and a reminder that sometimes, the most powerful force is not a device, but a woman’s will.
