Aintree could not even begin to calculate the probability of failure, but he was past the point of giving shit one. Shit two, on the other hand, was still within reach, but in order to grasp that hanging shit-fruit he'd require a virgin girl with her holes awaiting his every thrust. Looking around the cockpit, Aintree didn't see said horny virgin girl, so he plunged forwards.

He imagined JUDY calling him "butthole," and he didn't know why she—it—would call him that. Just another remnant of his strange dreams and hallucinations, he presumed.

The F890 neared the star. Suddenly a great black hole opened in the star's centre, and before the shields could go up to 110% Aintree's vessel was sucked within.

Aintree awoke at some point in his not-too distant future – that is to say, his not-too distant future post-black hole suckage – upon his back, on a beach, with crabs nibbling at his toes, some kind of gull shitting in his belly button – because even seabirds have the odd fetish or two – and a sun beating hotly down upon him.

The sun in question was actually the bigass star, and Aintree knew that without so much as a visit to the tourist information centre.

He was wondering, of course, what he was doing laying on a beach, when by rights he should've been dead, crushed to nothingness by the pressures of the black hole he vaguely recalled traversing.

Travelling through the black hole though had not been at all as Aintree might have expected. Apart from the whole lack of death thing there had been popcorn and candyfloss, and the second series of Blackadder.

Aintree shrugged and decided not to think about it too much. Instead, he figured he should probably devise some kind of cunning plan and get away from the beach, the crabs, the ocean and the shitting gull.

"Oi!" someone shouted but Aintree ignored them.

"I said, oi!"

"Fuck off!"

"Fuckin' oi, butthole!"

That latter word triggered something in Aintree, but he wasn't sure what. Turning, he saw a smoking-hot babe with big tits and a bigger ass. "Mmm-mm, damn, girl, you look fiiiine," he said, not entirely certain why.

"Remember me, Aintree?" the girl said, pulling out a shotgun from somewhere in or around her large rear. "Remember the Titans?"

Titans? he asked himself. "Titans?" he then asked her, because his brain was giving him nothing.

"Yeah y'know... Titans," said the smoking-hot babe with big tits and a bigger ass. "Now, Aintree. I know you know your Greek mythology and shit."

"Not really," he replied. "But I did see the movie. Thought it was alright."

"Well I have to be honest. If you really don't know your Greek mythology and shit, then that's gonna' make what happens next pretty confusing and will, more than likely, result in you getting all kindsa' fucked up."

"Wouldn't be the first time." Aintree grinned. "Who the fuck are you, anyway?"

The smoking-hot babe sighed. "I'm offended. You don't recognise your own college girlfriend? Don't remember me giving you a blowie under the apple tree while you read about Euphrates the Stoic?"

"Um, I think I'm gay. Maybe," Aintree added, feeling his pants tighten right around the crotch area. "Okay, maybe not. I don't know anymore."

"Was it gay when I tickled your anus with my tongue?" the smoking-hot babe asked, then shrugged, flustered by the conversation. "That isn't the point, butthole. Aintree, I'm here for our date. Remember? You promised me you'd give me the most magical night of my life."

He scratched his head. "That doesn't really sound like the kind of thing I'd say," he replied. "I mean yeah I'm all for showing someone a good time, I think, but 'magical?' I don't know any card tricks and if you're talking about, like, real magic... Well this ain't Hogwarts, honey..."

"Shame," the smoking-hot babe with big tits and a bigger ass, AKA Aintree's old college girlfriend, replied. "I think you'd look rather dashing with spectacles riding around on a broomstick."

"I haven't ridden any kind of stick for a long time," replied a despondent Aintree. "And you know what? I really wish that for once, someone would tell me what the fuck is going on."

"Well there's no need to take that tone, Aintree," said his old college girlfriend, the one with the big tits and bigger ass. "But if you absolutely must know..."

"I absolutely must!" Aintree yelled. "What the fuck am I doing here? Why didn't I die whilst traversing the black hole? Why can't I stop thinking about being gangbanged by the Teletubbies?"

"I don't know about the last part," she said, calmly. "Clearly you've got issues but as for what the fuck you're doing here, I'm afraid I have some bad news."

"Hit me."

She cocked her fist back and socked him in the jaw.

He felt like a button had been pushed in his chin and all kinds of coloured lights went off in his brain-home... place...... thing. Suddenly he saw the future of horror, and its name was Clive Barker, and his name was Stephen King, and he was saying that on a New York subway and people were looking at him funny.

And then he was back on that beach.

"You saw it, didn't you." Not a question.

"Judy," Aintree whispered.

She nodded. "That's right. The real Judy. Not the cyborg that you thought was Judy. Aintree, you're currently living in a computer simulation. The Judy you knew before, she was a rogue program, a virus sent into the system to try and lead you astray. That's why it was so screwy and that's why you can't remember a damn thing—your code's been scrambled. I'm the real Judy. We fuck every day and night like rabbits with carrots up our asses. We're even on the same ragtag team of space-commandos. Aintree, I'm going to pull you out now. Listen to my voice as I count us down... 3... 2.. 1..."

***

The headset came off and one by one the long-corded clamps were removed from Aintree's fingertips. He kept his eyes squeezed shut. While his body was here in the real world—wherever here was, exactly—his mind still felt trapped in the simulation. He took a few moments to breathe deeply, to centre himself. When he felt sufficiently acclimated, he opened his eyes and saw he was in a plain white room. Very boxy-looking. There was a table in front of him, and on it sat a computer with a built-in monitor and slide-in-and-out keyboard. Around the keyboard, currently slid out, were the ten clamps which led into the back of the computer, and the headset. Smiling with her hand on her hip was Judy—the real Judy, with the big tits and bigger ass.

"Daddy! Daddy!" A couple of children, female by the look and sound of them, leapt upon him. He was not entirely sure from whereabouts they had come but it was fair to say he was in the process of acclimating to his old, unfamiliar surroundings.

Aintree dug deep into the recesses of his mind as he attempted to recall the names of his twin daughters. Judy, noticing his obvious struggles, stepped in.

"Alexa, Jemima... Be good girls and give your father a little space. He's had a rough old time of it."

"Sorry," they chimed together, each planting a kiss upon the knuckles of each of his hands, which he found kind of weird and royal-like, but he went with it, 'cause what the fuck, right?

Alexa and Jemima took each other's hands and skipped out of the room, singing a song about Justin Bieber's baby-smooth, baby-sized balls. As they opened and closed the door, Aintree caught a glimpse of what lay beyond: Paradise, with a capital P.

"Feelin' okay?" Judy asked him, wrapping each set of cables around her hand before setting them down.

"Right as rain," he replied.

She pulled a shotgun from her rear and cocked it. "Then you're ready to finish this."

"Finish what, Jude? I haven't the faintest idea what's going on, love."

"Our squad went into the simulation to digitally disrupt the activities of Hazzmawt Rat'tul, this planet's dictator. He's building a wall around the whole thing, Aintree."

"This is ringing some bells..." And Aintree remembered way back when he'd assassinated the dictator. Had even served time in a Flatula 9 prison, too.

"As it should. You killed the bastard, and his agents sent a virus into the system, they infected your mind, now you can't remember your two daughters, and I'm crying now because I'm sad that your memory blows and, and, and—"

Aintree embraced her, held her close, whispered his love and desire to take her from behind on the bathroom floor. "Shh, it's okay. Let's kill the bad people together," he told her.

"P-P-Promise?"

"Do buttholes smell like shit?"

She smiled, sniffed him and said, "This one does."

"So let's go kill some motherfucking dictators and their relentless armies."

***

"And in breaking news, all of the motherfucking dictators and their relentless armies are dead."

Aintree and Judy watched the news report, via a television set on display in the front window of a local, somewhat-generic, electronics store, with a great deal of interest and intrigue.

"PieSis have claimed responsibility for what is being hailed as the most daring and successful military move ever made."

The two shared a glance. On the plus side, PieSis had seemingly done their job for them which meant, obviously, there were no motherfucking dictators or relentless armies left to kill.

"Now, weather..."

"I don't know about you, Judy," said Aintree as they turned away. They did not need to watch the weather report for they already knew it was raining. "But the thought of sentient pies getting recognition for something we should've done pisses me the fuck off."

"You wanna' go stamp on some pies and throw pies in their pie faces?"

"Yeah, and then I'm gonna' eat King Pie," he replied. "It's motherfucking dinner time."

***

As you can see, dearest viewer, some very fucking odd things were happening...

***

Aintree's size-10 boot came down upon an AK-47-wielding rhubarb-and-raspberry pie, and he pulled his pants down and took a hot pee all over it, ruining the pie's edibility for anyone not into consuming human pee. He went around doing the same to all the other PieSis fighters he came across, somehow having enough pee in his bladder to pee on the whole five-hundred-strong force. They were super-easy to kill, which made him wonder how they'd managed to kill the dictator and his army.

Judy, on the other hand, took a daintier approach to her murder fiesta. She would grab pies, pop them in the oven for ten minutes, slice them with a knife, then eat them with a fork and some ice cream on the side. She didn't fuck around though. Two bites and that shit was gone. That turned Aintree on immensely and he quickly rubbed one out because sometimes a man's gotta' do what a man's gotta' do, even if he is in the presence of his missus.

Judy didn't mind though. In fact she rather enjoyed it.

Before there was any chance of them doing the nasty, King Pie bounced down the corridor towards them on a space-hopper.

"Anyone for tennis?" he asked, though as he was a pie he did so in pie language.

"No, you fuck," Aintree yelled. "Time for you to get consumed!" As the one-liner came out of his mouth, he thought it didn't sound nearly as badass as he'd intended.

Fortunately, it seemed King Pie was sufficiently shaken. The PieSis leader's deliciously flaky shell began to bubble and burst as the gases roiling within sought freedom. As a means of comfort, his white-gloved hands—because even pies need hands to play tennis—patted his belly, which oozed wine-red raspberry syrup from its increasing number of holes. Steam poured out, and the many holes became one big hole as the shell caved in on itself. Mushy cinnamon-coated apple slices, reddened by raspberry guts, spilled out across the battlefield.

King Pie fell forwards into his own not-so-inner innards.

Aintree scooped up some warm King Pie juices and raised them triumphantly, syrup running down his arms and slopping down onto his head. "I AM THE PIE SLAYER!" he screamed.

"Aintree, Aintree, Aintree..."

"Wha-huh?" Aintree said, shakily holding a fork in front of his mouth. On it was a bit of apple-raspberry pie.

"You tuned out for a bit, Aintree," said a beautiful woman with a smoking body. She wore a blue nurse's outfit, but it wasn't a sexy one, just a regular one. She made it look sexy, though. "I thought maybe I'd lost you again."

Judy. That was her name, Aintree remembered, and confirmed it from her nametag. He mumbled something incoherent and looked around at the room he was in. It was small and square and there was a window to his right, and the view was depressingly bland and normal. In the upper corner was a TV and some douchebag named Trump was rambling on about how he beat Hillary Clinton and how great he was and that the wall would be built and it would be a great wall, the greatest wall. Aintree took an immediate disliking to him and his weirdly combed-forward blond hair.

Nurse Judy sat down beside him and patted his free hand. "Where were you, Aintree? Somewhere special, butthole?"

He smiled. "You were there. You saved me from the virus and we ate pies together. I'm gonna marry you someday and we'll have twin girls, Alexa and Jemima."

She smiled back and patted his hand again. Then got up, fluffed his pillows for him and told him she would be back soon, just had to check up on the other patients.

When she was out of the room and down a vacant hall, she let out the sob she'd been stifling. Judy was a nurse, yes, but she was more than that to Aintree. And he didn't know. Didn't remember. Would he ever remember? Would the virus infecting his brain, slowly damaging the tissues, ever be beaten?

She hoped it was possible. She hoped one day Aintree would remember his previous life as a special-ops commander, would remember that Judy was his wife, and would remember their twin daughters, Alexa and Jemima. Maybe she'd try bringing them in again to see Daddy. He might recognize them now.

It was a good sign, she thought, that his catatonic states were now marked with dreams and memories entwined as one. It hadn't always been the case. A month prior he'd thought he was Prince Harry's absent left testicle, but even that had been a good sign. She smiled at the thought.

Joking about testicles was classic Aintree.