The Princess highway is in fact the Princes highway
The battle was not going well. General Bradley observed from the command post bunker on a nearby hill. He stared at his map, digesting the reports that had just been radioed in.
“Shore up the Eastern flank, move second division here,” he said, stabbing his finger into the map. “Dammit, how do those Panzers still have fuel? We cut off their lines weeks ago.”
No one answered him. A bored Colonel in a corner of the tent cleared his throat.
“I guess you’re right, Eugene,” said General Bradley, “get the President.”
”Sir, there’s something I need to tell you,” said the Colonel.
“Dammit, man, we don’t have time. Get the President.”
“Yes sir,” said the Colonel. He got on the radio, made some archaic commands into it, and took a deep breath.
“Release the President,” he finally said. The ambient noise of the command post fell silent. Even the gunfire and explosions outside in the battle seemed to have a pregnant pause. Moments passed.
In the distance there was an inhuman wail. Then footsteps. Impossibly loud. Shockwaves fluttered in General Bradley’s coffee.
They saw him crest the hill. A hundred million voices of Democratic fury contained in a forty foot reptile. The Delanosaurus tore into the enemy lines. Panzers were crushed like toys, bullets and artillery shells fell harmlessly from his Paleozoic skin.
“Give ‘em hell, Franklin, give ‘em hell,” said General Bradley.
And indeed he did. The President’s puny forearms were worthless in battle, but he more than made up for it with sweeps of his massive tail, and calculated strikes of his razor sharp maw. The Nazis were completely unprepared. A bright tank commander tried to mount a defense, lining up his Panzers in a backwards V, trying to draw the President into some sort of trap.
Franklin would have no part of the lure. His impossibly tough body was matched only by the brilliance of his mind. There was a reason they put his brain in there. The President’s old body now withered on life support back in Washington. His new body was following in the traditions of Washington, Lincoln and Jackson, tasting the guts, blood and ichor of the enemy on his reptilian tongue. He flanked the Panzer division and began quickly and systematically tearing open tank after tank, crushing, tearing, devouring the Nazi army.
They began to retreat, but the Delanosaurus would have no part of it. He leapt across the lines, gouged impassible trenches with his legs, all the while using his tiny arms to deftly pick up officers and crunch them down like Nazi candy.
It was a massacre. It was a bloodbath. Before long, the fields were soaked through with the innards of the enemy. The Americans couldn’t even cheer; this carnage was too much for their bloodlust.
The President, however, reveled in it. He began to roll around in the gore, confident that his work here was done and that it was the will of his people. His dull orange skin became brown, crusted in Nazi paste. He used his tail to make a pile of enemy corpses.
Until then, few Americans had ever seen a dinosaur penis. But the entire Fourth Army saw one that day. It was almost unreal. It seemed to defy physics. When erect, the President’s penis was nearly as long as his tail, and stuck out wet and bright red from his belly. The nearly iridescent pink tip shone like a beacon of justice under the harsh spring sun.
The beast let out another wail, and with a running start, plunged it into the pile of dead Germans. He began thrusting, monstrously powered thrusts. Limbs flew, blood spewed, hair and skin exploded from the pile. All the while, battle-hardened soldiers cried in the arms of their comrades or clutched themselves into fetal balls of fear.
The President let out another wail, a more guttural sound this time, and half a ton of Electoral reptile spooge shot out of the pile of corpses. Body parts and reptile fluid rained down onto the wasteland.
The beast let out a sigh, held his now limp cock in a stubby forearm and began raking up another pile of dead Nazis.
“Please, no more,” whimpered a private.
“What the hell is going on, Eugene,” asked General Bradley, trying to be staunch in the face of this merciless beast.
“Sir, it’s what I was trying to tell you before,” said the Colonel, “it’s the problem with the secondary brain. The one in the tail, the problem with the dinosaurs…”
“I thought you solved that…oh God, he’s getting a hard-on again,” said General Bradley.
“We did, we had to use two brains, sir! It was the only way it would work! During battle, the President’s brain is in control, but after the battle, the other one takes over, oh God, it’s horrible!” said the Colonel.
“Who’s brain did you use, Eugene?!? Who’s brain did you use?” said General Bradley. He was holding the Colonel up by his shirt, shouting into his face.
“They had to be related, sir! They had to be the same genetic material! We had no choice!” said the Colonel.
“Dammit, man, who’s brain did you use?”
“It’s Teddy, sir, Teddy Roosevelt is in control now,” said the Colonel. General Bradley let go of his shirt, and dropped him to the floor, a sobbing, broken man.
“Dear God,” said General Bradley, “God help us all.”
“Shore up the Eastern flank, move second division here,” he said, stabbing his finger into the map. “Dammit, how do those Panzers still have fuel? We cut off their lines weeks ago.”
No one answered him. A bored Colonel in a corner of the tent cleared his throat.
“I guess you’re right, Eugene,” said General Bradley, “get the President.”
”Sir, there’s something I need to tell you,” said the Colonel.
“Dammit, man, we don’t have time. Get the President.”
“Yes sir,” said the Colonel. He got on the radio, made some archaic commands into it, and took a deep breath.
“Release the President,” he finally said. The ambient noise of the command post fell silent. Even the gunfire and explosions outside in the battle seemed to have a pregnant pause. Moments passed.
In the distance there was an inhuman wail. Then footsteps. Impossibly loud. Shockwaves fluttered in General Bradley’s coffee.
They saw him crest the hill. A hundred million voices of Democratic fury contained in a forty foot reptile. The Delanosaurus tore into the enemy lines. Panzers were crushed like toys, bullets and artillery shells fell harmlessly from his Paleozoic skin.
“Give ‘em hell, Franklin, give ‘em hell,” said General Bradley.
And indeed he did. The President’s puny forearms were worthless in battle, but he more than made up for it with sweeps of his massive tail, and calculated strikes of his razor sharp maw. The Nazis were completely unprepared. A bright tank commander tried to mount a defense, lining up his Panzers in a backwards V, trying to draw the President into some sort of trap.
Franklin would have no part of the lure. His impossibly tough body was matched only by the brilliance of his mind. There was a reason they put his brain in there. The President’s old body now withered on life support back in Washington. His new body was following in the traditions of Washington, Lincoln and Jackson, tasting the guts, blood and ichor of the enemy on his reptilian tongue. He flanked the Panzer division and began quickly and systematically tearing open tank after tank, crushing, tearing, devouring the Nazi army.
They began to retreat, but the Delanosaurus would have no part of it. He leapt across the lines, gouged impassible trenches with his legs, all the while using his tiny arms to deftly pick up officers and crunch them down like Nazi candy.
It was a massacre. It was a bloodbath. Before long, the fields were soaked through with the innards of the enemy. The Americans couldn’t even cheer; this carnage was too much for their bloodlust.
The President, however, reveled in it. He began to roll around in the gore, confident that his work here was done and that it was the will of his people. His dull orange skin became brown, crusted in Nazi paste. He used his tail to make a pile of enemy corpses.
Until then, few Americans had ever seen a dinosaur penis. But the entire Fourth Army saw one that day. It was almost unreal. It seemed to defy physics. When erect, the President’s penis was nearly as long as his tail, and stuck out wet and bright red from his belly. The nearly iridescent pink tip shone like a beacon of justice under the harsh spring sun.
The beast let out another wail, and with a running start, plunged it into the pile of dead Germans. He began thrusting, monstrously powered thrusts. Limbs flew, blood spewed, hair and skin exploded from the pile. All the while, battle-hardened soldiers cried in the arms of their comrades or clutched themselves into fetal balls of fear.
The President let out another wail, a more guttural sound this time, and half a ton of Electoral reptile spooge shot out of the pile of corpses. Body parts and reptile fluid rained down onto the wasteland.
The beast let out a sigh, held his now limp cock in a stubby forearm and began raking up another pile of dead Nazis.
“Please, no more,” whimpered a private.
“What the hell is going on, Eugene,” asked General Bradley, trying to be staunch in the face of this merciless beast.
“Sir, it’s what I was trying to tell you before,” said the Colonel, “it’s the problem with the secondary brain. The one in the tail, the problem with the dinosaurs…”
“I thought you solved that…oh God, he’s getting a hard-on again,” said General Bradley.
“We did, we had to use two brains, sir! It was the only way it would work! During battle, the President’s brain is in control, but after the battle, the other one takes over, oh God, it’s horrible!” said the Colonel.
“Who’s brain did you use, Eugene?!? Who’s brain did you use?” said General Bradley. He was holding the Colonel up by his shirt, shouting into his face.
“They had to be related, sir! They had to be the same genetic material! We had no choice!” said the Colonel.
“Dammit, man, who’s brain did you use?”
“It’s Teddy, sir, Teddy Roosevelt is in control now,” said the Colonel. General Bradley let go of his shirt, and dropped him to the floor, a sobbing, broken man.
“Dear God,” said General Bradley, “God help us all.”