The Curse of Prick Point

WARNING: This short story, a parody based on the classic Doctor Who TV serial entitled "The Curse of Fenric", contains explicit material of a sexual nature

© 2015 Jo Doyle

A thick fog rolled in off the icy, twilight waters of the North Sea, providing perfect cover for the enemy; the half dozen soldiers of the Red Army propelling the small landing craft with swift yet silent paddle strokes towards the coast of Northumbria, England. Beneath the murky depths, the long-necked head of a dragon lay in wait, fierce fangs ready to rip the hull out of the dinghy as it swept across the surface; however this was no living marine monster, merely the rotting remains of a carved figurehead mounted upon the prow of an ancient Viking longboat.
Kapitan Stolin was nervous. The youthful Commander of the covert mission had strong reservations about the likelihood of success - surely the six of them alone could not hope to overcome the entire British base located a little way inland, he reasoned; however orders were orders, and the Kapitan was not one to disobey. Ruffling closely-cropped blonde hair before replacing the moss-green, high-peaked cap emblazoned with the red star symbol of his country, wiping sweaty palms upon the matching coloured trenchcoat, Stolin breathed a sigh of relief as the landing craft reached the shore; so far, his mission had proved a success.
"Sergei, where do you go?!" demanded the Kapitan, clambering out of the dinghy as one of his men marched off alone into the fog.
"Govno!" grunted the gruff Sergeant in response.
"From now, only English speak!" ordered Stolin.
"Then it is for shit I go!" explained the soldier in accordance with the Kapitan's instructions, before disappearing behind some rocks to empty his bowels.
Soon it would be nightfall, observed Stolin, sapphire eyes peering off into the gloom; soon his men would have scaled the cliffs, advancing upon the British base, slaughtering indiscriminately any that stood in their way.
"Halt!" ordered a firm yet youthful voice from somewhere amongst the thick, swirling fog, "Identify yourselves!"
As a slight sea breeze swept in, the curtain of fog parted briefly, revealing a lone British soldier on patrol along the beach; rifle raised to cover the approaching enemy.
"Do you think you can capture all us, Englander?" sneered Stolin, "Once the fog settles, hide we will!"
"What are you doing here?" demanded the solitary sentry, "You're supposed to be our allies!"
"On mission top secret we are, to steal translator machine!" explained Stolin, stealthily circling the soldier now that the fog had shrouded him from view once more, "All your base are belong to us! Your Commander and Officers shot will be, your Privates cut by bayonet!"
"You haven't a hope!" laughed the sentry nervously; suddenly his gaze settled upon a pair of glowing red lights penetrating the fog from the direction of the wildly-lashing waves.
"Is that more of your men approaching by sea?!" he demanded.
Puzzled by this response, Stolin turned to observe whatever it was the soldier had seen, crouching low in the sand in case it proved to be a bluff; however something was indeed approaching, though quite what the burning red glow could be was beyond the Russian.
"Kapitan!" cried one of the soldiers in alarm, unleashing a few rounds of machine gun fire as the unknown entity advanced; Stolin caught a brief glimpse of a tall, powerful figure cutting the man down with what appeared to be long, cruel, sicklelike claws.
"What's going on, what's happening?" demanded the sentry, advancing upon the sounds of slaughter, rifle raised; soon he too fell silent upon the sand.
Stolin unleashed a volley of machine gun bullets upon the silent assassin as the chilling screams of his men indicated more of them had been cut to pieces; presently, the red-eyed horror from the deep advanced menacingly upon the Kapitan himself...