The blue-green bladders flew into battle. (513 wds)
"All right, men. Into the fray!" shouted the General.
Well, he didn't really shout because he had no vocal chords. He exuded a chemical irritant in the direction of his men. As the sulfurous smell wafted over them, his soldiers responded with an obsequious puff of servility. They lined up for inspection; hundreds of teensy troops floating mid-air. Their round, little bladder-bodies puffed-up proudly as the General passed. They had no super-weapons or armored vests – they had only their unnatural abilities, their determination, and the General’s faith in them.
A dark miasma leaked from the General as he commanded: Attack by surprise. Then a subtle tinge of piquancy ordered: Get out with your lives. Come home to your wives. The soldiers opalesced green and blue with admiration. The General was a putrid poet, a rancid rhymer, an odiferous odist. In short, he was wonderful.
The troops buoyed their bulbous, beryl bodies into fighting formation. They maneuvered in the air in a complicated quadrille; when one of them turned, they all reacted. Each pirouetted in the precise pattern of its fellows – a military Simon-Says. They slipped through the air with grace and dexterity – gleaming spheres of primed pungency.
It brought a bubble to the General's vision sphincter.
The air force streaked away to do the General's bidding. Small, petal-soft bladders remained behind and seeped lilac-fraught farewells. So many battles, so many casualties, but there was no end in scent.
Past picket-lines of gargantuan enemy soldiers, the ferocious flyers flew. They were agile. They were quick. They were cunning. The infiltrators did not stop to skirmish; their main goal was still streams of vapor away.
Emitting negligible traces, so as not to alert their target, they rode swelling air currents into the battle zone.
Then, disaster struck.
A gigantic weapon sliced in and out. Its violet-colored expanse disrupted the air, whirling the tiny bladders into disarray. Some spun out of control and smashed, helpless, into unyielding alien flesh. The enemy had a new method of defense – a purple pendulum of death.
The survivors of the attack regrouped and pressed on. The leaders reached the drop zone and squeezed miniscule mutant muscles, dispersing their payloads. Their senses sang with the acrid stench of their onslaught. As soon as the last bomber had loosed its burden, the silent but deadly defilers dove away on passing zephyrs.
As the last of the relieved remnants escaped, the enemy began to roil in disgust and humiliation. The giantess paused, stopped swinging her lilac purse, and screwed up her face in revulsion. The eyes of the other giants narrowed and glared around wondering whom to accuse. The smallest of the monsters, more socially inept than the others, yelped, "Pee-eww! Who cut one?"
By that time, the valiant bladders were far away, gliding back to worried loved ones. They oozed malodorous pride; their mission complete. They had succeeded in sowing suspicion and dissension in the ranks of the enemy, turning them on one another.
The righteous reek of their motto permeated the air. A good stink never dies, it just fades away.