Bro makes a show of snorting, of relaxing his stance. His heart is still in his throat. His kids, his kids, someone almost took his kids. Someone did, and the only reason they didn't get away with it has nothing to do with him, nothing, and everything with that rabid weasel who won't. Step. Off. His balls. -- Pretty much as the title says.

"They're not going to bite, you know," She drawled without even turning to look at him, as she forced a sausage-like Harleybertian leg in a leg-hole. She was smirking, though, he could tell from her voice. "Or projectile venom. Hell, even vomit wouldn't get that far." Prequel to Battlefield Terra. 3 000 words of Mr. Strider meeting his newborn clonebabies for the first time. Also features Doc Lalonde.