Epilogue

Forty years later...

Professor Heinrich Doofenshmirtz; unrivalled Tyrant of several Central European states, progenitor of monsters in human guise, father of ruthless warlords, and celebrated inventor of the anal spark plug, stood before his chalkboard contemplating a convoluted alchemical formula.

The laboratory around him hummed to the rhythm of buzzing generators, boiling beakers, bubbling vats of green goo, only broken by the occasional scream of a prisoner–volunteer test subject.

He pondered most handsomely–his unquestionable manliness untouched by age, as though time itself avoided the Vatican’s Most Wanted. Even if time hadn’t given the surgical savant a wide berth, the countless available “organ donors” and his refined version of that idiot Johann’s revitalizing solution would have kept him young as it did Magdela and Liselotte.

His mother-wife and sister-slut bathed in the stuff daily, only growing hotter with every treatment.

Tapping a piece of chalk against the cleft in his chin, Heinrich idly reached down and pulled out of the bombshell brunette’s slobbering lips so her two identically breathtaking sisters could take their turn deepthroating the family Patriarch.

“Don’t get greedy, Ida. Or I’ll spank you… again.”

The triplets were technically his granddaughters. Three prize-winning beauties of superfluous standards that could bring Bishops to their knees with a smile and a wink. Their lean, muscular forms, perfect bone structure, and sumptuous curves (in all the right places) were an inheritance from their mother; Hilda, who was Liselotte’s second daughter.

The Doofenshmirtz family tree was getting downright confusing with each new generation he sired from the one before.

“Hmmm, you can’t threaten me with a good time, Papa.” Ida, an insatiable cock-gobbler giggled. “Gonna bend me over your knee or will a workbench suffice?”

“Later, brat.”

Not that Heinrich cared. He was the monster whose name mothers invoked when children wouldn’t eat their broccoli. An evil genius and creator of godless monstrosities.

He was the Professor Heinrich Doofenshmirtz; holder of the fastest recorded escape from an ethics committee meeting, winner of the Golden Beard Comb for Excellence in Menacing Grooming, and a plague on humanity.

Simply put; Heirich was The Bad Guy.

A little inbreeding didn’t count for much when compared to his list of sins, which was lengthy enough to fill a library card catalog.

“Urk… ugh… mmmph~!”

Ida’s sister Ester–or was it Adelle?–choked on his gagging girth most fetchingly. Milk ran from her fat tits to trickle over a large baby bump. The three sexy nymphettes were thoroughly pregnant, of course. A forbidden foursome had been Heinrich’s gift to the triplets upon reaching their majority.

Goddam, but his family had multiplied like rabbits over the course of a few decades. Single births didn’t exist for a sex god who fucked during hurricanes. Doubly so for one who summoned said catastrophes just to get his rocks off.

Twins were rare. Triplets like the three currently worshipping him on their knees were more commonplace.

The females, all shining jewels of feminine brilliance, Heinrich kept and bred once past their eighteenth birthday.

They surrendered to him eagerly, practically pouncing on the chance to be seeded by a paragon of prime masculinity after years of sneering contemptuously at the shambling peasants who populated the valley.

His male offspring were born villains. Wicked to the bone. Their hyper-masculine forms and charming smiles hid the cruelty that lurked beneath the surface. A calculating brutality which couldn’t be contained.

Heinrich christened those as his generals and warlords, dispatching them to torment his enemies. A goal they achieved with frightening efficiency. No less cunning or merciless than himself.

A polite cough broke Heinrich from his introspection.

Bertha–one of Magdela’s ever-growing brood–stood in the doorway, enticingly attired in an open white labcoat, black knee-high boots, and nothing else. The stacked blonde’s swollen belly kindled a bonfire of possessive lust in his overactive loins.

“Apologies for the interruption, Daddy. But Klaus has returned and demands an audience.” She demurred, watching the triplets enviously.

Last he’d heard, Klaus; an ambitious grandchild, had been marching on Bavaria at the head of an army of reanimated corpses.

“He’s back already? Impossible.” Heinrich scoffed, facefucking Adelle (or possibly Ester) harder. “Feed the imposter to the lava-eels. They’re always hungry. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Before Bertha could reply, a hand–large as a dinner plate–brushed her aside, and a hulking form lumbered into view.

Klause looked around, taking in the laboratory, its inhabitants, the many experiments, and Heinrich with eyes too old and knowing for his young age. Gray eyes took Heinrich back to the days of limping lamely with a twisted spine and crooked legs.

Then the powerfully built warrior spoke in a raspy but unforgettable voice. Not Klaus’s rumbling baritone.

“Hello, boy. Did you forget about me?”

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