Cutbastra’s spinning body pierced through rock sedimentary and igneous, mafic and felsic alike, but none metamorphic: this mountain didn’t half-ass shit like that. He cut through series upon series of strata, head first, taking a geology crash course in the most literal sense of such words. Eventually, he landed in a cavern, deep inside the mountain, a place so dark and damp it reminded him of the depts. of the ocean, where he had dived to with the only intention of fucking the submariner wife of a former friend of his. The sea monsters, avid opponents of NTR, battled him for it, but in the end he prevailed, slipping into the submarine so fast he managed to avoid a sudden decompression that would have vaporized his quarry. Ah, those were the days.

Mayonnaise-colored rings appeared all around, their pupils shining with a sick yellowish green as the Brightness of Cutbastra’s Dreamy Smile illuminated them.

When the veins of minerals started barking frantically, Cutbastra knew he had happened upon the legendary and long-lost Rottweiler Mine. He was not the first person to do so, though, as there was a tunnel with a purple neon sign on the rocky arch. It advertised medical services.

He knocked onto the soft walls, macize rock sounding like wood to not disappoint the handsome cultivator.

“Come inside, weary traveller.”

Cutbastra felt a bout of cold descend leisurely through his spine and nest in his cheeks. He didn’t know what was wrong, and he didn’t even suspect it was the British spelling of “Traveler”.

Inside the chamber, as if coiled among the stalactites and stalagmites, a pale figure in a white coat rose to Cutbastra’s height and faced him. “Hey.” The doctor said, his voice as dead as the non-rottweiler life inside the dark, cold environment.

“Sorry for the home invasion, I got slapped by a particularly talented brat and ended down here.”

He then spat a pegmatite that had been stuck between a couple of his molars for a while.

“Neat, tourmaline,” the doctor commented. “May I pick it up?”

“Feel free to do so. So… why do you have a clinic inside this place? Doesn’t seem good for business.”

“I got exiled from my home for my position regarding abortion.”

Cutbastra smiled softly, sat on a nearby mound of debris somewhat shaped like a chair and closed his eyes. “Ah, delicate subject. A clash of rights unlike any other, debated by the greatest minds of uncountable generations, a question of morality, of pragmatism, of ethics, of—“

“None of that, I am the inventor of The Antiabortion. A healer that trudged the forbidden path,” the old doctor began, his voice raspy, concerned with a past that haunted him to that very day.

“A founder of a movement against abortion, then? You’d have to be very extremist to—”

“The Antiabortion. The technique. You may have never heard of it. It’s not a story doctors are allowed to tell each other anymore.” He paced from side to side in the dimly neon-lit chamber, his professional crocs sending particular echoes through the web of tunnels. “It isn’t against abortion, it’s the opposite of it.”

“I don’t get it.” Cutbastra crossed his fingers and pursed his lips with a level of concern that only bloomed when he felt about to be blasted with dangerous amounts of idiocy.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“I am a healer, and I swore to never damage an innocent. This led me to develop a way to end pregnancies without killing the product of said pregnancy.”

“Hey, that is good! That ends the conflict of rights in the debate and should leave both sides happy with the outcome!”

“Not so fast, hear the method first, then comment.” The man pulled a stalactite out of the ceiling, produced a lighter out of his pocket dimension, and began smoking the limestone as if it were an expensive cigar. “You see—”

Cutbastra couldn’t resist his urge to make the most important question in that situation. “How did you light up the calcite?”

“Physics bend for those disillusioned enough with the world. Anyway, as I was saying…” He exhaled a cloud of alkalinizing smoke. “The Antiabortion, a technique forbidden by the hypocrites for achieving results as abominable as its counterpart. The basics of it is that one uses healing energy to accelerate the development of the fetus, making it reach viability way faster than usual. A matter of seconds. ”

“So you force a birth? This may be considered a bit…” Cutbastra spun his hand in the air, searching for his next word. “Tip of my tongue, I swear. Whatever, you get what I mean.”

The doctor nodded with gravity. “That’s not what happens, though. You see, you protect the fetus from the heat such accelerated metabolism generates—”

“How is this contrary to forcing birth?” he interrupted a last time.

“Only the fetus.”

“Oh.” Cutbastra opened his eyes wide. “Oh fuck.”

“Yes, the mother boils inside and explodes.”

Cutbastra’s frozen horrified face was a testament to his brain having barred itself from reality as a means of self-preservation.

“I need an adult,” said an equally horrified Crusadina that had just turned the corner of the tunnel.

Cutbastra stood, excused himself, took Crusadina from her little hand, and lied as naturally as he cucked. “I have to take my little sister to school, doctor. See you later.”

“A. mississippiensis.” Crusadina completed the salute and followed her enemy’s lead.

The sprinted away from that particular tunnel until they lost sight of the neon lights, still inside the massive cavern full of Rottweilers ripe for mining.

Finding themselves free of the oppressive presence of the man, they bumped fists

“Crusadina.”

“Pleasure to know your name, brat. Cutbastra.”

“Should we go back to out fight to death?” crusadina asked rubbing her hands. Cutbastra backflipped away and smirked, bringing day upon the eternal night of the cave with his smile. He then gestured for Crusadina to come at him.

Crusadina began boasting, and Cutbastra let her, “Killing you will be as easy as three point fourteen fifteen ninety-two sixty-five thirty-five eighty-nine seventy-nine thirty-two thirty-eight forty-six twenty-six forty-three thirty-eight thirty-two seventy-nine Fifty twenty-eight eighty-four nineteen seventy-one sixty-nine—“

“Nice!” he interrupted.

Crusadina huffed in frustration. This always happened when she tried to spell out the entirety of pi.

Then, Cutbastra committed the oldest mistake in the book and blinked, which earned him a roundhouse kick on all his fit abdomen. When he buckled due to the sheer pain, Crusadina repositioned and followed with an elbow hit on the immortal’s neck, felling him against the flooded floor and then following with a stomp on his head that buried it onto the submerged rock.

“You are in trouble. Release me,” a husky voice inside the cucktivators head spoke to him.

Cutbastra ignored it and rtasied his hands to tickle Crusadina’s ankles. She began cackling and the Cucktivator took advantage of her distraction to recover his positionand lead a fist straight to his opponents face, Crusadina lowered a bang of her hair and hardened it with vital energy to intercept Cutbastra’s blow, in case you thought this fight couldn’t get more stupid. Cutbastra didn’t relent in his assault: he retreated his fist and followed with another, trying to take advantage of the fact that, as an adult, his extremities were longer. Crusadina kept on the defensive, using arms and hair and even her mischievous and mocking tongue to intercept Cutbastra’s hits.

She didn’t count, after dodging a desperate headbutt, that Cutbastra’s ponytail would uppercut her, leaving her looking upwards and walking back for a few paces to recover her balance. “So you know how to fight after all, old man!”

“Let me out so we can end this,” the voice inside Cutbastra insisted.

“Forget it, I can handle this by myself,” he answered in a mumble, and then braced for the impact of the ramming little fist that came for his chin.