Game Night - 8K (Patreon)

Ever since the incident and his subsequent banishment from Bedrock Stadium, Fred has been forced to sit at home and watch the game on television.  “I was framed!” he recalled, screaming at the reporters as the police hauled him off to the paddy wagon. “The mascot sucker-punched me!”  The nationally televised footage of him laying haymakers into the Grittsburg Pyrites’ fur-suited mascot is now the stuff of legend.

With another full hour before his game, Fred flips through the channels, brooding and paying little attention as Maury Povichstone proclaims, ‘You -ARE- the father!’  As a constant reminder of the day, the caveman reaches down and scratches beneath the irritating chunk of leather that's strapped to his ankle.  Inside the strap's attached wooden box, a tiny earphone-wearing pterodactyl…Fred’s court-mandated whereabouts-minder…bounces and jostles, cursing under its breath.

Pterodactyl: Ehhh, it's a living.

Fred has the house to himself this afternoon, with Wilma and Betty out shopping at Macyrock's…and inevitably running his overburdened credit a little further into the red.  Likewise, Pebbles, home from Princestone University for her fall break, is out somewhere…probably hanging out with her old high school friends and smoking wacky-weed.  With nothing on but infomercials and talk shows, Fred roots beneath the couch cushion, fishing out this month’s issue of ‘Cave Girls’…which he reads ‘only for the articles’.

Yet another Hollyrock celebrity graces the cover; in this month’s case, Jenna Ore-tega finally went and got herself a boob job.  Leafing through to the back, where all of the tawdry magazine’s dirtier pictorials live, Fred comes across an interview with some Cromagnon…supposedly the adult film industry’s latest incarnation of John Holmestone.

Fred: Heh!  Ain’t gonna be much of an interview.  “Grunt. Ogga-booga.  Me gots big dickasaurus…and like do macromet.”

Flipping the page to the meat of the interview, Fred bats his eyelids at first, then purses his lips and nods his head…impressed with the sheer size of the Cromag’s…well, his ‘meat’.  Further down the page, the Mag now extolling the invention of fire and comparing/contrasting the benefits of obsidian versus stone spearpoints, Fred again bats his eyelids.  This time he squints at the adjoining picture, needing to grab his glasses off the couch-side table to get a better look at…

Fred: Nooo…  It can’t be.

Looking down through the thick lenses, the rotund Neanderthal spies a familiar-looking face, the young woman obviously not the focus of the picture.  The red hair, the bone in her pigtail, half of her face hidden by the outright mass of the Mag’s girth and length.  Arms wrapped around it, hugging like one would a giant teddy-bearasourus, the petite, doe-eyed redhead is all but worshipping the massive column.

A page later, and any doubt he had quickly fades.  Facing the camera, on her knees, chest against the floor and ass in the air, the huge Cromag palms the back of her head.  It’s obviously his Pebbly-poo.  Open-mouthed and Oh-faced, her eyes rolled back in their sockets, the redhead’s tiny frame is impaled by not even half of Cromag’s huge mega-shaft from behind.

Fred: My…  My Pebbles.

Fred can’t help but let a hand slip beneath his loincloth, stroking his, by comparison, not so gargantuan length. Fully engrossed in the pictorial, Fred scarcely notices a figure standing behind him.  A scan of the proceeding picture, Fred can’t help visibly shiver all over, now flipping the loincloth aside and full-length stroking his manhood in earnest. With what has to be every bit of a foot in length left to go, the disproportionate pair now stand in profile…well, in Pebbles case, dangling would be a bit more accurate. An almost comical bulge in her belly and bent at the waist, Pebbles half-grimaces and half-smiles back at the monster…the tips of her toes barely touching the floor.  

Peering over the back of the couch and eyeing the proceedings, a little smirk on her face, Pebbles watches as an otherwise oblivious Fred now two-hands his manhood.  The magazine set aside and turned to the last image, pictorial Pebbles finds herself sitting indian-style atop the prone Cromag. Quite literally, from head to toe, her entire body is crisscrossed with thick, appropriately-sized Mag-ribbons of pearlescent seed.  Much like the first image, but now with arms and legs wrapped ‘round the huge column of flesh, she grins at the camera with a possessive expression that says nothing short of “Mine!”

Just as the pregame announcers welcome everyone to a sunshiny day at Bedrock Stadium, Pebbles clears her throat. Startled, Fred jumps, flailing to cover his manhood, sending the tawdry magazine flying across the living room.

Pebbles: I uhhhhh…  I needed money for college.

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Original Art by Rage Grenade

Colors and Edits by Phillipthe2