The Day's Work
"Rise and shine."
Eyelids the size of pillows move. A great sticky membrane peels back, showing the black eye beneath it, wet and unconscious.
"Showtime."
Unseen miles of artery and vein flex and bundle up, blood pulsing through quicker, stronger by the tankerful.
"Get up!"
Reflexes kick in, and hundreds of tons haul upright with bone-crushing momentum. The other eye opens. It's the cold early morning. The titan's body clenches in shuddering breaths, steam pouring out in great rivers from mouth and nostrils, more rising in clouds from thick fur. Dreams are over now- reality has returned.
"Fucking get up!"
The canine rubs her face into the crook of her arm a few times, then reaches next to the massive tarpaulin. Her tan fingers grope until they find the massive sports bra lettered with KAUFMAN SECURITY in white block print. Sitting upright, she snuggles it over her massive breasts with a slight wincing as it goes over air-stiffened nipples. Her creamy pubic ruff is left bare for now, as the canine's taskmaster is already on her case.
"Come on, get up! Christ! Do your damn stretches and meet me out front in five minutes, we've got work to do." Kaufman exits. Ruhr kicks at the tarp as she stretches into a pushup position, hampered by her large breasts. From end to end, ears to soles, she's inches shy of 100 feet.
The massive strata of muscle within her overpowered body flex with every pushup, the canine doing them one-handed with her colossal weight driving her clawed fingers into the dirt, then arching into a bridge. She doesn't stop until every joint in her body has popped, the fatigue and comfort of sleep driven away in favor of readiness and the cold chill of the morning, her eyes blinking in desaturated color at the dim light.
Her name is Ruhr. She has recently taken on a contract with Kaufman Security to provide the final solution to crowd control. She is a German shepherd, Olympian in physique, 20 or less in age. In every aspect, she is a chiseled athlete, lacking a single identifying mark beyond her typical fur pattern, size, and knuckles scarred by the breaking of thousands of teeth. Her only outstanding reason to live is devotion to herself, her muscular body, and her utter physical fitness.
Finally she pulls her shorts on and yanks her tail through the appropriate short sleeve, fastening her woven-steel belt on and attaching the all-important counter to her hip. It is a heavy analogue device custom-ordered and made, as simple as any guard's hand clicker, but orders of magnitude larger. Its display reads 004109. She crunches dried, crumbly soil beneath her giant feet as she strolls around the hill to meet with Kaufman, already emerging from his semi-subterranean house to stand impatiently by the front door.
Kaufman is a human male, in his thirties, solid muscle and unattractive skin. He resembles a football coach, down to the earpiece, and carries an automatic shotgun slung over his back. He is standing next to a small delivery van full of electronics, cameras, and other recording gear. When Ruhr comes around the hill he snaps his fingers to get her attention, and she kneels heavily before him- not submissively, obeying a doctrine rather than a man.
The man pounds one hand into the other. "New Boda's the target today. You know where that is, right?" Teaching her map-reading had gotten to be far too taxing, and now he simply drives along and points. "You're gonna trash it up good. Total security as usual, but start on the outside and pack it down, block the exits before you spiral in for the kill." She stares blankly at him all the while.
"I'm gonna film you, so make sure if you do anything sexy, you do it right in view of the hill from the- pay attention!" He winds up and kicks her leg, steel-toed boots hardly penetrating her fur, let alone the deep layers of muscle and skin. "East. East, where the sun rises.
"If you fuck up on this one, you're not getting anything. Not a goddamn dime. You're gonna show up for work at four whether you want to or not, after my miles, and you're gonna do this nice. Okay?" The canine doesn't bother acknowledging. She stands, waits for the man to get in his van, and gives it a short head start before following it. First a slow stroll, and then as canine instincts ride over her training, an eager lope that eats up miles a minute.
The few farms that witness her passage are flattened into wood shavings surrounded by corn with massive four-toed prints.
Kaufman speeds ahead near the city limits. She pauses near the edge of the deserted road into town, giving him time to set up his camera, prepare to record her rampage, and get his tissues and lotion. Then she stomps forward, a single scream of horror merging with and prolonged by thirty thousand more that become shrieks of pain.
She doesn't bother long with the outlying buildings. She rushes forward into a heavy jog, each step shattering entire blocks with impact and shockwave, straight through the suburbs. High-traffic avenues are choked off with flattened burning cars, entire highways ruined by quick stomps that pulverize the concrete.
When taller buildings rise up, she deals with them as she would linebackers, flashing back to secondary-school practices on technique, and how the coach glared imperiously down at her when she broke bones every drill. As the eight- and nine-story buildings sprout among homes and smaller buildings, she stiff-arms them, her forward momentum unbroken as towers snap off from their bases and spill people with the fall, shattering long streets full of cars trying to flee. She makes a complete circuit of the city before spotting her new goal between skyscrapers.
After all, her goal is easy to spot; the Hetzfeld Stadium, centerpiece of New Boda, holds 115,000 on a full day like today. She pounds her way through the downtown district, shouldering skyscrapers aside with heavy shoves and nonchalant displays of mountain-crushing strength. Already it's beginning to spill people from the giant main exit! The canine growls, certain with one thing- she won't be cheated her triumph.
The canine leaps into a high block of office towers, smashes into the sides of a building, and clambers up the side of the nearest. Reinforced steel cracks at the slightest touch, concrete worn away by her enormous fingers and toes. Yet the building is propped up by its fellows. She gets to the twentieth story before her weight finally starts bending the building outward; it sags, then snaps in half, the canine landing on her feet with seventy feet of skyscraper held across her shoulders like a yoke.
She hurls her prize at the exit of the stadium. Several dozen people are reduced to a bloodied mist on the spot. Rubble spills over the grand main exit, leaving only a handful of stairways; already the emergency exits are clogged with heaps of corpses where the frenzy for escape has smothered the victims. Ruhr vaults the wall of the stadium with a running leap, cracking century-old stonework- and lands with her footpaws buried in the bleachers. She barks in dismay, losing her balance and falling in an undignified heap on the lowest tier, humans atomized to bloodied slicks on her fur.
Many of the victims are trapped in a single giant batch of discount seats. This is an easy matter to solve. They scream and try to mill to escape, some pushed to their death against the crowd-control walls, but Ruhr saves them the effort. She reaches up, grabs the nosebleed section above them, and pulls with the motion of slamming a chest shut; the entire deck falls with a scream of metal, and then an ear-blasting concussion that masks ten thousand death screams.
Another block, trying to rush onto the football field in hopes of reaching underground exits, swarms virtually past her feet. She could stomp them all, but an idea strikes her, and she backpedals to block the exits while letting the crowd rush her.
She's used to killing people in a hundred ways on rampages. Crushed, smothered, flattened, chewed, digested alive, and far more, her own body or the fruits of her labor always the means of destruction. This is the first time she's thought of using the other people, and that pleases her, her tail moving in a single swish as she gathers up handfuls and throws them into the milling, panicked crowd in the stadium.
Brains flatten against the backs of skulls from the acceleration of her monstrous arm. When they hit with solid ruptures, blood not spraying so much as pouring, they break apart. Those that hit bleachers crumble like ragdolls, messily contained within their skin; those that impact concrete shatter. Bones crackle like wood, and by the fifth handful she's closing her fingers before each toss, so pulverizing them in her mighty fist that their bodies impact the panicked survivors like shrapnel.
Lust rises in her body, striking her mind with tingling hammers of need. She's never had sex, and Kaufman doesn't allow her to masturbate. This is the outlet. Years of monkish denial burn within her as she falls heavily to the ground and rolls over the field, steamrolling victims into grease spots on the Astroturf, the ground itself tearing loose and crumbling in her wake.
Her thighs clench with the immense power of her sculpted body, the canine seizing a support girder with both hands and wrenching it from its concrete housing, as she feels a torrent of unquenchable need and frustration. Her massive feet pound craters in the stadium wall, toes smashing into concrete and finding it weaker than her flesh. The giant digits curl over the jellied gore of her victims, her main pads wedging the bruised, severed limbs of helpless spectators deep between them.
Then her arms convulse and grab the enormous pillar, cracking it in half, sending another tier of seats crashing on the few victims still huddled under their furniture and hoping to escape notice. She can smell them. The horrified screams bring her the closest she'll ever be to orgasm, and the canine leaps up again, hurrying to one end of the field and taking a running start toward the opposite side of the stadium.
She explodes through it with a force that sends rebar hundreds of yards into the commercial district. Ruhr can hear emergency vehicles rushing through the streets in a convoy, the wails of children mangled in panic-induced car wrecks. She smashes it all equally beneath her stamping feet and laughs at the city in its distress, white foam sloshing from her jaws as she performs her own private genocide, with Kaufman looking on through telephoto lenses and masturbating furiously.
By the time she hits the end of the main avenue, nobody is left in the streets, every soul having abandoned rescue efforts to preserve their miserable lives in buildings or other shelters. She doesn't care. Flattening the wounded still in the open as she goes, the canine travels to her goal, located and narrowed in on by scent.
A long and murderous stroll through the residential sector, where she tears apartment blocks down like icicles, and rolling in her victims; every part of her body is streaked with blood by the end of it, especially her crotch, where she ground victims to death against the pavement without daring touch herself directly.
She reaches the tiny airport.
A lone airplane has just finished decoupling itself from fuel tankers, waiting foolishly for more refugees instead of screaming down the runway as soon as it could. Ruhr sprints to intercept it, tackling it headlong in a hearty explosion that does little more than singe her, shrapnel bouncing off her thick hide; hundreds of passengers are burnt to nothing more than teeth lying amid ashes.
Stamping panicked ground crew beneath her feet with sticky splashes of more blood, the German shepherd finds what she seeks. The fuel repositories for the airport, fully loaded tanker-trucks abandoned in the quest to run away from her ongoing campaign of demolition. She gathers them up in a single armload.
Her remaining circuit of the city is uninspired. Her creative energy is spent. She simply hurls one truck into a cramped, wood-framed section of town, waits for the fire crews to be tempted out of hiding, then throws them into the inferno they dared try to quench. Then she drops the rest of the laden tankers at strategic points through the town, watching the fires burn out of any reasonable control, sucking oxygen from hiding places and smothering those that tried to hide from her relentless murder.
Some will live. She loses no sleep over this.
Kaufman has his security, his orgasms, and his tapes. She has completed her mission. Walking back home without a thought of cleansing herself in her head, she grins to herself, and for long hours before a chokingly sexual dream comes to her, she works her isometric stretches, clicking the counter between her hands.
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