GLEN PICKARD

Dr. Ian Malcolm didn’t need this today. Didn’t need this anytime. He also didn’t need his formidable knowledge on the nature of chaos to reason that this island had been one damn screw up on loop. He’d seen it coming, and tried to explain to that idiotic white bearded bureaucrat, but no one listens to the mathematician. Having barely escaped a T-rex savaging earlier that afternoon, that madman Grant had now taken the kids to go meet more prehistoric dangers at the top of the gargantuan tree he was currently leaning against. Although bandaged and bruised, the kicker for Malcolm was the sheer frustration. He had known. He had told them.

Staggering slowly to his feet, walking past the smoldering steel remnants of their post-t-rex attack vehicle, Malcolm’s frustrations were turning to palpable anger. And now, strangely, lust. He had wanted that Ellie Sattler, and was making the moves, but she seemed lost in that Indiana Jones wannabe Grant. Damn it. The things he could do to her in this jungle. . . .

As his raw sexual frustration started to become overwhelming, a sudden rustle from the nearby bushes caught his attention. Looking up, he saw the Dilophosaurus hop out from some foliage a few feet from him. It about waist high, an inquisitive looking thing, kind of like a lanky bunny with really bad skin. It just stood there, its little head jutted left and right. Malcolm knew what he was going to do. This island had done nothing but fuck him from the moment he got off the chopper. Time to readjust the balance.

The beast seemed oddly calm as he walked over, steadily pulling down his trousers and pants to reveal his erect penis. The animal just stared, seemingly devoid of judgment. With one swift motion, Malcolm brutally pulled apart the beast’s month and shoved his throbbing member straight down the Dilophsaurus’s wet, ribbed, throat. The creature held firm as Malcolm wildly mouth-fucked it, at first taking pains to avoid the teeth being gripped by his hands, and then bizarrely growing to love the feeling of having his little captain slightly shredded. With each thrust now harder, rougher and faster, resulting in a damp thudding sound from the beast’s throat, Malcolm’s grip tightened, as he rushed towards the endgame. Blood was just beginning to drip from the creature’s jaw as Malcolm exploded his unspliced, Mosquito free DNA down its throat and screamed “CHAOS THEORY!!!” at the top of his lungs.

Just as Malcolm hit this peak, his dinosaur sex friend emitted a high pitched shrieking, and suddenly a small multicolored frill emerged from around its neck. Still ball deep inside the now hissing beast, Malcolm felt a strange numb, burning sensation down below as the Dilophosaurus spat something all over his groin. A heartbeat later, the sensation grew to a terrible burning pain. As he pulled out of his personal juicy Jurassic jizz jug, he stared down in abject horror to see that the creature’s foul poison had turned his groin into a bloodied gooey insult to his sexual classification. Malcolm looked up, hoping for the pity of whatever God was observing, only to see Grant and the kids, mouths agape, staring at him from a tree branch.