 |
About This Site
Daily Musings
News
News Archive
Site Resources
FAQ
Screenshots
Concept Art
Halo 2 Updates
Interviews
Movies
Music
Miscellaneous
Mailbag
HBO PAL
Game Fun
The Halo Story
Tips and Tricks
Fan Creations
Wallpaper
Misc. Art
Fan Fiction
Comics
Logos
Banners
Press Coverage
Halo Reviews
Halo 2 Previews
Press Scans
Community
HBO Forum
Clan HBO Forum
HBO IRC Channel
Links
Admin
Submissions
FTP Uploads
HTTP Uploads
Contact
|
|
|
Halo - a parody by LegendaryMark
|
Halo - a parody: Prologue
Date: 30 August 2005, 3:58 pm
Prologue
Captain Jacobs Biscuit stood on the bridge of his battered ship, waiting for the onslaught they had been told would come any minute now. He couldn't help thinking that his ship wouldn't be much help. The "Pillar of the Community" (or the "Rusty Bucket" as the motley crew had taken to calling it) was an ageing vessel that had had a MAK* gun whacked on the front of it and had been put out to fight.
'Damn the government and their targets', he mused.
He longed for the days when the PotC was just a freight carrier. The days when he had a wife and his friends weren't pestering him to visit "Alcoholics Anonymous". The days when collecting classic keys was just a hobby, and the crew hadn't given him that ridiculous nickname, "Keys". Trying to shake these thoughts (and the overpowering effect of 21 swigs of "Crewman Jack's extra strong grog") from his mind, he turned to the shipboard Artificial Intelligence.
'Cortonfire?'
'Fragment, consider revising' replied the shapely holographic figure that had suddenly materialised in front of him. He had almost come to like the ridiculously badly programmed "3.5" version of the AI. Produced by a huge software corporation, she took constant delight in correcting his grammar but rarely actually told him anything useful.
'Tell me again about the aliens coming to kill us' he mumbled, concentrating hard on the grammatical correctness of the sentence so he had a chance of getting a straight answer.
'Well sir, little is known about them'.
'Ok, then tell me what you do know' said Keys, his nostrils dilating in mild annoyance as he realised he'd finished the bottle.
'Very well sir. They are a religious collection of races known as the "Consonant". They believe that the gods gave them vowels to be used abundantly; they revere words such as "queue" and "archaeologist". Their technology is far superior to ours.'
'And why do they want to kill us?'
'The first of our planets to make contact with them showed them works of Shakespeare and Dickens and they were very amicable. They were especially impressed when presented with meals of alphabet spaghetti. Unfortunately, a certain slang expression exists on that planet, as soon as a slack jawed local had called one of their diplomats "my gypsy", they became instantly hostile, presumably offended by the lack of vowels in the phrase.'
Keys sighed heavily, his breath knocking Crewman Murray flat at 15 paces. He had seen it all before. Wars broke out for the most ridiculous reasons. Of course, the human race had endured. It always did. This time would be no different.
Warning claxons suddenly heralded the arrival of the enemy. The crewmen who were not stoned out of their minds sat bolt upright at their stations, ready for action. Ignoring the splitting headache those damn sirens were giving him, Keys heard through the ship's PA system that there were incoming hostiles, and that there was now a clearance sale in the onboard shop. Grabbing another bottle of sweet alcoholic relief from his personal cabinet, he turned to the AI's pedestal.
'Cortonfire, give me full helm control' he said, ignoring the "Don't drink and drive" signs plastered all over the bridge.
'I'm sorry sir, I'm not authorised to do that, level 2 clearance is required' came the reply.
Thinking back to a list he had seen of security flaws in this model, he knew the exact input in order to bypass any need for clearance. He offered the holograph a cookie.
Seconds later, with Cortonfire happily munching** away, the captain was weaving the ship in and out of the enemy ships with varying degrees of success. Crewmen winced as the horrible screech of ship on ship pierced their ears, like fingernails down a blackboard. Keys stared in the wing mirror, looking at the long, jagged scratch that now adorned the side of his vessel. Just as he was thinking how a set of classic 20th Century car keys could produce the same effect, and how he was missing such a set in his collection, the ship lurched violently. Adverts for claims companies flashed on his screen, informing him that their top teams of lawyers could sue whoever hit him for every bean they had. Keys however, was more concerned with the military's cost-cutting measure of not putting safety guards on the important buttons. He was concerned about this because he had just been thrown off balance and landed on the big red button marked "Hyperspace jump" with the words "Do not push" scrawled in Keys' own handwriting just below. As he felt his body turning to jelly and all the alcohol he'd recently consumed attempting to push its way out of his system via any path possible, he collapsed in a crumpled heap on the floor.
'Don't worry sir; things can't get much worse than this' opined Cortonfire. She was, as always, utterly wrong.
• • •
If John Smith looked lonely, that's because he was. He gazed up at the stars from the planet Crouch, where he had completed his training. He was a part of the "Roman" training program, an attempt by humanity to produce genetically enhanced super-soldiers for the war. Whilst it was universally acknowledged that the program had been a spectacular failure, John still looked on his fellow Romans with admiration. They had at least shown some signs of being battle-ready. John had preferred to spend the training time learning to cook, the one thing he actually did well. He couldn't kill so much as a lame chicken, but when someone killed it for him; he could make from it a meal that any cook would be proud of. It was his culinary skills that had earned him his nickname, and proud of it he was too. Master Chef.
He was currently kitted out in his brightly coloured "Majolica" armour; the latest version of which he had been told could withstand temperatures of up to 100 degrees Celsius and absorb impacts with forces slightly less than a high-velocity human fist could produce. The electronic cookbook had been one of his own custom modifications. As he marvelled at the technology currently encasing him, he finished paying the shifty character in the loading bay.
'Half now, half on delivery?' he said weakly.
'Just pay me the money' came the menacing reply.
John had heard the rumours of an alien fleet coming to annihilate the planet, and had the common sense to flee for his life any way he could. The freezer he was currently clambering into was scheduled for delivery to a distant planet by a local freighter, though he couldn't help thinking that the schedule looked a bit old. Suddenly, he spotted two of his fellow Romans coming round the corner into the cargo dock.
'Chef? Are you around here anywhere?' shouted the first.
'Yeah come on Chef, they're calling us out to fight' chipped in the second.
The Master Chef's knees knocked together violently from a combination of the cold of the freezer and the thought of actually fighting in a battle.
'Get rid of them!' he hissed to the nearest dockyard attendee, for whom he had whipped up a soufflé the previous day. The attendee knew exactly what he and his friends could do to get rid of the encroaching Romans.
'I'm Spartacus!' they chorused.
As the two Romans fled, covering their ears and wailing some gibberish about Kirk Douglas, the Chef did feel a little sorry for his "friends" in the laughing stock that was the Roman training programme. But it didn't matter; soon he would be off this doomed rock and on his way to a better life. As the freezer did its work and his teeth began to chatter, he felt his stomach go through the floor as the final cargo was hoisted up onto the waiting freight container. Claxons sounded some time later, and he felt the ship jump to hyperspace.
'Free and safe at last!' he whispered to himself, watching his breath mist up the window on the freezer door. The claxons stopped. The Chef, after tracing a rude image in the condensation, fell asleep.
* MAK stands for Magnetically Accelerated Kettle. The war effort had taken its toll on the populace, who had been encouraged to give up their kitchen items to help their brave forces. Popular myth suggests it really stands for 'Might Actually Kill'.
** Simulating munching anyway. That's what you get when you combine a bored programmer and a humorous streak.
Halo - a parody: 1. Out of the Frying Pan
Date: 30 August 2005, 4:17 pm
Chapter 1: Out of the Frying Pan
Keys peered through the drunken haze that clouded his vision. Looking up at the view-screen above him, he couldn't help but notice the armada of red dots coming towards the little yellow dot marked "us". He turned to the AI's pedestal.
"I was blind drunk, how did they..."
"Get here first?" finished Cortonfire. "I have no idea sir."
"Ok, well, where the hell are we? How far did we actually go?"
"Well sir, as to your second query, you were passed out on the button for quite a while, so I would conjecture that we have gone a very long way."
"And as to my first query?" asked Keys, once again getting annoyed as he realised he was about to sober up.
"I'm accessing the database now…"
"No, wait!" Keys shouted, suddenly realising what would happen if Cortonfire couldn't find the location.
Keys slumped back in resignation as, sure enough, the AI took on a familiar blue tint. Strange symbols and markings such as "Esc" and "Ctrl+Alt+Del" flashed across her figure. With Cortonfire unmoving and staring blankly into space, Keys shook his head and turned his attention to the massive object orbiting the planet they had just discovered.
Looking rather like a giant metal circle, highly decorated with what seemed to be meaningful motifs, the object floated nonchalantly around the gas giant with a lazy indifference rivalling that of a fast food restaurant trainee. The inside of the ring appeared like the surface of a normal habitable planet, with normal life forms. Grass, bushes, lakes, rivers, valleys, money trees, flying monkeys and the Loch Ness monster. Keys shook his head. Perhaps he wasn't sobering up after all.
Meanwhile, the Master Chef was feeling very pleased with himself. Having just about subdued the urge he felt to be violently ill, he felt the ship leave hyperspace. Peering out into the gloomy cargo bay, the Chef tried to make out what he could. Crates and containers of various shapes and sizes littered the floor, many marked with labels that could only hint as to what lay inside, such as "Titanium composite rods" and "Crewman Andrew's stash". Presently, the sirens started up again. He noticed the few crewmen, who had previously been smoking their brains into pulp round a table, bolted from the cargo bay with cries of "Come on! Let's get the hell out of here!" He suspected this meant trouble.
Thinking he'd better follow them, he began clambering out of the freezer with all the grace of a chimpanzee in a straightjacket. A voice came over the loudspeaker.
"Thish ish the *hic* captain. We have incoming hoshhtiles. Pleashe *hic* remain at your shtashions *hic* and fight any boardersh that may come aboard."
The Chef, now out of the cargo bay and stumbling along a maze of corridors, could see crewmen valiantly stampeding towards the life pods and piling into them, presumably to ward off any attackers that might choose not to come in through the main doors. Seeing a sign on the floor saying "Life pods" with a large arrow pointing down the corridor to his right, the Chef hurried down it. Of course, the crewmen of the "Pillar of the Community" had been of less than sound mind when it came to painting signs on the floor, as can be confirmed by the fact that on every sign on board the ship were written the exact same words, whatever direction the signs pointed in.
Keys wheeled around, startled.
"Where are those life pods?" queried the clearly worried character in front of him. He vaguely recognised the ridiculous bright colours and fragile armour.
"A Roman? They didn't inform me of any military experiments on board."
"Just get me the hell out of here!" garbled the Chef, glancing anxiously up at the encroaching red dots on the view screen.
As if in answer to his plea, the ship lurched violently, apparently reanimating Cortonfire, who promptly began to run a disk scanning program.
"Report!" bellowed Keys.
"It must have been an explosion" explained Cortonfire helpfully, "I'd guess that was Crewman Westrich and his Bunsen burner experiments".
Ignoring the AI and realising the ship was doomed, the captain turned back to the fearful Roman, who was currently hopping up and down as if he needed the toilet.
"Well, I hash a favour to ashk" said the inebriated Keys.
Seeing that the captain was clearly going to be no use whatsoever, the Chef turned and fled the bridge, grabbing the unloaded pea-shooter that lay on the desk by Keys. Expecting nothing less from the Chef, Keys looked up at the view screen again.
"Ok then Cortonfire. I want you to help me land this thing on that ring. After that, you're no use and you've really annoyed the hell out of me, so I'll run your self-destruct routine." Keys said with amazing coherence, given the circumstances.
"Cortonfire?"
Turning to the AI's pedestal, he saw a small post-it note floating pointlessly in mid-air. On it, in default font, was written:
"Sorry cap. Got to scram, you know how it is. No hard feelings. – Cortonfire"
Cursing the AI in words that would make sailors cover their ears, Keys turned back to the helm.
"If I'm going down, I'm taking everyone else with me".
The Chef, meanwhile, was speeding down the corridor towards the life pods as fast as his puny legs would carry him. He noticed his cook book was downloading and installing something, a new recipe perhaps? His spirit rose at the prospect as the progress bar in the corner of his visor reached 99% within seconds, then mysteriously stalled. Slightly puzzled but still with an overriding fear for his life, the Chef fled onwards, with a few terrified crewmen right behind him in the knowledge that Romans will always find a way off a sinking ship. Coming to a closed door, he pushed the button to open it and, as the metal barrier retracted, he found himself face to face with a most terrible sight.
"An elitist!" wailed one of the crewmen.
The Chef looked slowly upwards at the monstrosity in front of him. Sporting a top hat and tails, monocle and using English in a manner that would make the Queen of England look like a miner from the drinking classes; the elitist raised his silver teaspoon.
"Wort" it started.
"RUN!" screamed another crewman, interrupting the elitist.
As terrified crewmen fled this way and that, the elitist continued.
"Wort the bally heck is all this racket?" he said cruelly in a voice that defined arrogance. "I think I may have to teach you blighters a lesson in manners, wort wort!!"
From his silver teaspoon, the elitist flicked two blobs of highly acidic blackcurrant jam with deft accuracy, catching two of the fleeing crewmen in mid flee. The Chef, thinking of no one but himself, raised the pea-shooter that he had taken from Keys and, loading it quickly with three peas from his bag of mixed vegetables, he fired upon the elitist. Expecting the peas at most to cause a distraction so he could scurry away, he way surprised to see that what he had thought to be a small and insignificant weapon in fact dropped his enemy in three shots. Having no time to wonder what analogies the author may be drawing, the Chef scampered past his dead adversary and down the corridor to the life pods as he heard two more elitists coming up behind him.
Reaching the row of life pods (with the slightly less useful life belts hanging from the wall), he threw himself into the first available pod, stepping hard on the crewman wailing "Oh no, oh no!" in his desperation to get inside.
"Get us out of here!" he screamed at the driver, who seemed totally at ease with the situation.
As the stick of TNT behind the pod exploded, blasting it out into space, the progress bar reached 100% and the Chef's cook book reported to him that it was updated with new software. The Chef had heard the voice many times before at demonstrations and publicity events, he knew exactly who it was.
"Hmm, your architecture isn't much different from the Community's. No, wait, I've got my schematics mixed up. It's totally different".
The Chef sighed as the life pod accelerated towards the giant alien ring. He looked out the back of the pod and saw the Community accelerating erratically as a certain drunken maniac steered it towards the surface of the ring.
"Wouldn't you rather take a seat" asked Cortonfire, realising that her safety was now tied to that of the Chef, and ruing her decision to choose him.
"We'll die either way" groaned a pessimistic Chef.
"Yeah, you're probably right. Still, if I had fingers, they'd be crossed. Not sure how that would help, but it might make you feel better" said Cortonfire, mistaking "comforting" for "worrying".
Hoping that there was still a significant portion of the story to go and that he was still a central character, the Chef closed his eyes. The crewman next to him, whose name no one knew and who was wearing a red uniform, shifted uncomfortably.
Halo - a parody: 2. I've lost my Keys
Date: 2 September 2005, 2:14 pm
Chapter 2: I've lost my Keys
The Chef opened his eyes. It was a terrible sight to behold. Crewmen lay dead or stoned around him. He wondered how he was alive, then realised that the one working airbag appeared to have cushioned him upon impact. He clambered out of the life pod.
"The others…… the impact……." said Cortonfire slowly, gradually piecing together what had happened.
"Warning! I'm detecting multiple Consonant dropships on approach. I recommend moving…"
The Chef was already running like the dickens, leaving the life pod to the aliens. He saw the single dropship come round the corner of the valley and land by the life pod. From his hiding spot up in the hills, he used his armour's 1x magnification system to see the hideous creatures emerge from the sides of the ship. A couple of elitists strolled sharply out, swinging their canes and doffing their top hats to the pilot. Then came a smaller species that the Chef would later come to know as "Gnomes".
The gnomes stood a little over 3 feet tall and, carrying their pickaxes and miner's lamps, they whistled a tune not unlike "Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it's off to work we go" as they scurried off towards the crashed life pod under the disdainful gaze of the elitists. One clambered into the life pod to check for survivors, taking a caged canary in with him. The Chef, feeling he could watch no more, took flight.
"I could swear I detected multiple dropships" mused Cortonfire. "Wait, I detect two more coming in fast. They're almost right on top of us!!!"
John ignored the two sparrows that whizzed playfully over his head and continued onwards. He rounded the corner and stopped suddenly. Survivors! He ran over to the rag-tag band and was immediately greeted by their leader, a tall blonde man with a Swedish accent.
"Sergeant Johansson at your service Master Chef."
"What's the situation here Sergeant?" queried the Chef, attempting to sound commanding and failing miserably.
"Well sir, we've fought off a few of those damn Consonant guys, but we needed a place to stay, so we holed up in this structure. Looks alien to me" explained Johansson.
They both looked up at the towering structure which currently housed the marines and crewmen. There were many holes in the wall with strange slots and screens. The Chef noticed some small shiny coins strewn over the ground by one of the holes marked "change" and true to his nature, he grabbed as many as he could, wondering why the author took so much care to mention this in the story. The main walls were a sickly beige colour, and the word "Bank" was written in large bold letters near the top. Wondering what all this might mean, they hurried inside and started calling for help, ignoring the repetitive sounds like "Cashier number 3 please".
Suddenly, a voice crackled over the radio.
"Hey. I've got a delivery here for one Mr. J. Johansson? Anyone picking this up?"
"Hello? Is that a human ship?" enquired Cortonfire, much to everyone else's amusement.
"Erm, yeah, just set her down in the woods over there" replied Johansson to the incoming delivery ship, looking shifty. "Oh, and would you mind giving these folks a ride? I'll stay behind and, er, look for more survivors."
"Will do. Just hurry it up will you? I'm on a schedule, you know" garbled the irate pilot.
The ship came into view seconds later. The brown paint gleamed in the midday sun, and the motto of the company that owned the ship was clearly visible, "We deliver". Presently, the ship landed, and the pilot got out and jogged briskly over to Johansson.
"Sign here please"
"I thought you said "low key"" mumbled Johansson as he scrawled his signature on the tatty clipboard.
"Not my problem. Come on you layabouts" he said, turning to the Chef and the marines. "Do you want a ride out of here or not?"
While many of the crew saw the brown-clad delivery man as some variation of a pink elephant, most accepted his invitation. The Chef was already aboard.
"Next delivery, one case of finest malt whiskey to a 'Captain J. Biscuit'" said the delivery man.
The Chef felt quite satisfied, he'd got himself out of trouble and he was going to see the captain. Maybe he could persuade him to share a few drops of that whiskey.
"Chef?" said Cortonfire tentatively, "We may have a problem".
Thinking that nothing could possibly go wrong now, and that Cortonfire was simply malfunctioning for the twentieth time today, the Chef answered lazily.
"And what might that be?"
"I'm reading that the captain has been captured by the enemy. They're holding him aboard one of their ships, the 'Aloe and Audio'".
John had a sudden feeling of dread. He looked out of the back of the delivery ship, realised that they were already a good 200 feet up in the air, and decided against jumping. He curled up in a corner, hoping that this wasn't one of the rare occasions when Cortonfire was actually right about something. The ground raced beneath him, and they sped onwards towards the Consonant ship for what seemed like an hour.
An hour later, they reached the ship. The pilot manoeuvred skilfully in through the loading bay doors, and set the ship down. He hopped out, as did the Chef after seeing that no harm had come to the delivery man.
"We're in" said Cortonfire, stating the obvious. "No Consonant defences detected."
"I'll take that whiskey to Keys myself" said the Chef, feeling more confident and hoping that the captain wouldn't notice if a bottle or two were missing.
"Sure thing, just sign here"
He signed his name with a well placed 'x' and the delivery man left the precious cargo with the Chef, departing hurriedly.
"Oh wait; I detect the Consonant defences now. I forgot to scan upwards. Look up Chef."
The Chef did so with a heavy heart, and sure enough the higher level of the loading bay was manned* by dozens of cruel jackdaws. They were savage looking creatures, with sharp beaks and keen senses. And right now, those keen senses were trained on the Chef. With his usual sense of fear multiplied by some astronomical factor, the Chef turned and fled instantly, accidentally tripping over the collected works of J. K. Rowling which some elitist had previously discarded. The bounty of coins he had collected earlier went flying all over the floor. Suddenly the expressions on the faces of the jackdaws changed. They stared at the shiny coins, stock still as if in some sort of trance. One flew down to grab a coin. It was followed by another, and another, and soon the whole floor was a mess of squawking and feathers.
"Time to split" chipped in Cortonfire. Feeling that actions speak louder than words, the Chef agreed by running down the nearest corridor.
Keys looked up from his cell to see a well camouflaged Roman soldier creeping into the small prison compound. Or at least, he would have been well camouflaged had the walls been a mix of ridiculously lurid colours. Knowing that the captain would be his best chance out of this death trap, the Chef had asked Cortonfire to locate the captain and she had done so after 14 other unsuccessful attempts. The Chef had gone from compound to compound opening cell door after cell door. All manner of prisoners were now running loose throughout the alien ship, including several hopped-up crewmen, three outspoken novelists, two petty criminals and Elvis. After dispatching a sleeping gnome guard in a few short minutes, the Chef managed to release the captain from his cell.
"Coming here was reckless. I'd have expected you two to flee for your lives!" said Keys, obviously suffering from having too much blood in his alcohol stream.
The Chef merely shrugged.
"No matter" continued Keys, "I have heard the plans of the enemy". The guards were careless about their talk, and I learned much. Apparently, they believe that this ring is one of the sacred vowels scattered throughout the universe. They believe it is the 'O'".
"Wait a moment, accessing the Consonant archives…" said Cortonfire, hoping to win some respect for once. Unfortunately, being as badly programmed as she was, she could only access the most unrestricted material in the archives, the religious broadcasts. As she scanned through the first one, she saw hundreds of elitists staring up at a giant view screen which displayed a wide shot of the mighty ring. One elitist, obviously some sort of leader, stood at the front of the screen.
"With this weapon, we will create vowels in every corner of the universe and destroy the unbelievers! All hail the mighty 'O'!!" he intoned.
The rest of the elitists began chanting.
"Hail 'O'!".
"Hail 'O'!".
"Hail 'O'!".
Hearing the Chef and the captain tapping their feet in impatience, Cortonfire closed the connection and invented the first thing she could think of.
"According to the data in their networks, they think this ring is some sort of weapon. They call it… HailO" she said nervously, hoping the others would buy it.
"Halo…" repeated the captain thoughtfully.
"Erm, yes sir, Halo" said Cortonfire quickly.
"Whatever the hell it's called, let's take a trip off this ship!" said the Chef, moving towards the doorway.
"What about the others?" inquired Cortonfire.
The Chef looked around at the assorted crew members surrounding the captain and realised that they were taking a different sort of trip.
"Missing in action, I think" he said "their brains are missing and there's sure as hell no action from any of them!"
Keys, ignoring the Chef's witty remark, suggested that they could take one of the Consonant drop ships out of the loading bay. Running back the way they had come, they found such a ship perfectly parked on the second level. Hastily, they clambered aboard, changing the number plates as they went.
"Give me a minute to interface with the ship's controls" said Cortonfire.
"No need, I'll take this bird out myself" said Keys quickly, realising that death was certain if Cortonfire started driving.
The Chef once again found himself curled up in the corner of a strange ship flying away from danger. Looking down towards the bottom of the chapter and sighing as he failed to see the words "The End", he wondered what new danger he was heading into.
* Well, it wasn't manned strictly speaking, it was alienned. There were aliens up there, not men. But I'm not about to invent a new word. I have an authorial reputation to live up to, you know.
Halo - a parody: 3. The Noisy Choreographer
Date: 10 September 2005, 6:25 pm
Chapetr 3: The Noisy Choreographer
"The Consonant believe that what they call the 'Noisy Choreographer' is somewhere under this island. The Choreographer is supposed to hold the secret of the location of Halo's control centre, it may be hidden is his elaborate dance routines. The island has multiple structures and installations; one of them contains the Choreographer."
The Chef was hardly listening to Cortonfire as the sea raced below him and the small island drew nearer. The delivery ship that carried him was only half full, easily space for a "Warts'n'all" vehicle that they would need to get about the island, but in his drunken wisdom, Keys had seen it would be more fuel efficient (and hence less costly) to send the vehicle in after the squad currently being delivered.
As the Chef shuffled towards the back of the transport so that he wouldn't be the first one out, he looked at the marines surrounding him. They were the best the beleaguered humans had, the ones that had recently been put on the drugs rehabilitation programme and were constantly angry due to severe withdrawal symptoms.
"Looks like you boys are gonna be seeing some action. That means I have to ask for payment in advance" said the delivery pilot as the approached the beach. The Chef gulped audibly. The ship touched down and immediately, there was mayhem everywhere.
"Go go go!" shouted the crazed marines as they jumped from the ship and ran screaming down the beach, heedless of the acidic blackcurrant jam that came flying from the teaspoons of the entrenched elitists. Ignoring constant cries of "Delete repeated word?" from Cortonfire, the Chef cautiously jumped from the ship and, seeing no activity behind him, turned and ran in the opposite direction round the island.
"Probably speedier this way" he explained to Cortonfire.
As he sighted an overturned Warts'n'all in the distance and passed some mysterious graffiti in the wall which read "goatrope woz 'ere", he heard over his radio that the marines had managed to triumph over the Consonant forces, and were currently squatting repeatedly over the dead bodies of their enemies, screaming incoherently. Drawing nearer the vehicle, the Chef saw a few marines lying down behind it. A secret compartment had obviously broken open as there were packets of white powder everywhere, apart from near the marines where some empty packets attested to their current condition. The Chef pressed 'x' and flipped the Warts'n'all.
"It looks like there is a path into the centre of the island" opined Cortonfire, seeing a signpost marked "Centre of the island, this way". Seeing a lot of Consonant in that direction, the Chef decided to continue round the island and see what else he could find. He tried the engine and, to his great relief, it started. Oddly, the jeep seemed completely undamaged, even though it had obviously been through a lot. Noting that it had all the handling capability of a large cow, the Chef drove onwards, pausing only for breath, relief by the roadside and a couple of sightseeing detours. Presently, he reached a large structure embedded into the island's cliff.
The structure was decked out in banners and posters with such mysterious writings as "Swan Lake Ballet – postponed" and "Book now for cheap Waltz lessons!" Writ large in big letters across the top of the entrance were the words "Dance Hall". The Chef peered closer, but as he did, the familiar 'U' shaped shadow of a Consonant dropship passed over him. Hurdling the ticket barrier, he sped inside. Elitists and gnomes dismounted from the Consonant vessel, taking up positions to guard the entrance. The Chef watched two elitists set up a card table and bring out the port and stilton. They were obviously here to stay.
"We've got no choice, we've got to press on" Cortonfire said with urgency. Having little time to gaze at the intricate decoration in the entrance hall, the Chef continued further into the structure. Peering round the next corner, he groaned as he saw more Consonant guarding another doorway.
"Don't let them lock the doors!" yelled Cortonfire, obviously worried her woefully inadequate knowledge of security would be uncovered if the doors were locked.
Noticing a pot of jam lying conveniently at his feet, the Master Chef picked it up, loosened the lid and threw it at the feet of the oblivious Consonant troops. He hid round the corner and heard a loud bang. Peeking back round, he marvelled at the destructive power of the jam. Several gnomes lay dead on the floor and the smart coat of the elitist was beyond repair. As the ghastly compote went to work on the elitist, it managed to lock the door with its last breath before collapsing, probably from irony.
"They've locked the doors" stated Cortonfire, "and we don't have enough firepower to get through them. We'll have to go back around the island for miles in the vain hope of finding a way to unlock them".
Ignoring her completely, the Chef picked up the key that the elitist had dropped and slipped it into the lock. The door swung open effortlessly.
"Oh, well, I..." began Cortonfire, but the Chef was already pressing ahead.
Hearing the theme tune to "Shaft" playing in the distance, the Chef went deeper and deeper into the structure, seeing few signs of Consonant activity as he went. A miners lamp here, an oak cabinet there, but no movement could he detect. He heard the voice of the marine officer on the island above him crackle over his radio.
"Chef, we've got dropships inbound! Consonant are advancing from all sides! Oh! Oh, did you see that?! I no-scoped his ass! Owned!! You've gotta find the Choreographer, we'll hold 'em off as long as we can!"
The radio cut out just as the marine was screaming "Triple kill!! Owned, bitch!" As Cortonfire complained vigorously about the marine's spelling and grammar, the Chef came across a small blue pulsating pyramid. Filled with curiosity, he stretched out a trembling hand. Upon touching it, the Chef found himself encased in some sort of alien technology. Just as he was wondering what had happened, an elitist strolled briskly into view. The Chef froze. The elitist looked directly at the Chef, peering as if trying to make out some faint outline. John's heart pounded, why hadn't he been noticed? The elitist shrugged in a dignified manner and, swinging his cane, he strolled on.
"You appear to be encased in some sort of alien technology" said Cortonfire, repeating the author. "It looks like you're camouflaged to the outside world!"
It was true, the Chef would find that he could blend in with any background, be it blue sky, blue walls or blue grass. Feeling more confidant, he forged ahead, coming to what he perceived to be the bottom of the facility. Once more, he found himself peering round a corner. He shook his head at the author's lack of imagination.
"And step 2…3…4… and slide 2…3…4… and turn and pivot… no, no, no, PIVOT!!"
He had found the noisy choreographer.
"Ok everyone, take five. And come back sparkling, people".
Seeing the disgruntled elitists put their noses in the air and take off to a small side lounge, and noticing that his "camouflage" had inexplicably worn off after a few short minutes, the Chef plucked up the courage to show himself to the choreographer.
"Hello?"
"Ooh 'ello! And what do we have 'ere then? Another one looking to learn the magical art? Looking to strut your stuff?"
Hushing Cortonfire, whose spellchecker was melting fast, the Chef answered.
"Actually, I'm looking for the control room. The location of Halo's control centre?"
"Halo? Never 'erd of that me darlin', though I know what control centre you mean" the choreographer sighed heavily. "They all want me for my knowledge, you know. I could teach the world to dance, but they all come here with their questions about the location of this and that. I could have been famous, you know, FAMOUS".
Seeing that he was getting aggravated, the Chef attempted to bring the conversation to a close.
"Yes, yes, I understand" he said sympathetically, "but I really must find that control room".
"Oh very well. Here. Now be off with you" the choreographer snapped, shoving a crumpled piece of paper into the Chef's hand. The Chef, seeing the elitists coming back from their 'five', was only too happy to be off as quickly as humanly possible.
He hurried back up through the complex.
"Cortonfire to Keys, come in Captain Keys" radioed Cortonfire, attempting to reach the Captain with news of their first ever successful mission.
"The Captain has dropped out of contact" came the dulcet reply from the operator, "his ship may be out of range or experiencing technical difficulties. As your custom is important to us, we will keep trying. Hold please".
As some sort of rock music blared out from somewhere, the Chef broke into a run as Consonant appeared from every direction. Gnomes brandished their pickaxes menacingly, elitists scrambled for their silverware and jackdaws activated their shiny shields. Ducking and dodging, the Chef prayed that he would make it safely above ground. Reaching the door which he had previously unlocked, he stopped suddenly.
"En garde, sirrah!" said the elitist in front of him.
This one was obviously of high status, various pieces of gold jewellery adorned his fingers and wrists, and his fencing rapier (the extremely sharp tip of which the Chef was currently eyeing with severe unease) was encrusted with diamonds and rubies from distant lands. Beads of sweat dripped down the Chef's forehead as the elitist advanced on him. Just as Cortonfire was writing out his obituary, he hit on a way out.
"Is this a dagger I see before me?!"
The elitist, mortified by the incorrectness of the quotation, not to mention the terrible elocution, fell on his sword in embarrassment. John didn't notice this however; he was already halfway up the corridor at the first chance he got. Out into the open he rushed. He scanned the horizon in desperation, hoping against hope that someone was here to pick him up. With the sun in his eyes, he peered with a timid curiosity at an approaching speck that was swinging erratically about the sky.
"Keys" he muttered resignedly.
As the delivery ship that Keys had commandeered came to a less than perfect stop near the Chef, the Captain himself became visible in the window. He waved with the hand that wasn't gripping the Jack Daniels, and motioned for them to climb aboard. Meeting them in the small cargo area, he studied the map that the Chef had retrieved with interest.
"Well, you two go there. I'll go here!" he said, pointing to the underside of the map.
For the first time, the Chef noticed the reverse of the paper that the map was printed on also held a map. It was emblazoned with rich detail, fabulous drawings of gold coins and exotic jewels dotted the decoration. A large 'X' marked a spot that was curiously in the middle of a large swampy area. The words "Here be treasure" were written in flowing script just above it. John looked up at the Captain. The drunken haze in Keys' eyes had cleared, and dollar signs now floated stereotypically where his pupils should have been. Not wanting to go on some idiotic Indiana Jones style quest, he agreed with the Captain.
"Yeah, we'll find the control room".
"Let's get moving" suggested Cortonfire. "Here are the coordinates of a flight plan I've worked out"
As the ship lifted into the air, Keys and the Chef looked at each other and shook their heads.
"Er, Cortonfire, these coordinates are underground!" mocked Keys.
"Oh, oops, I…" she began, but the captain interrupted lest the pace of the narrative slow down.
"I'll set you down near the control room and then continue on to this cache of treasure!"
Once again, the Chef found himself looking out over a speeding landscape from the back of a delivery ship. He wondered how much longer the author could get away with this sort of tripe. He wasn't the only one.
Halo - a parody: 4. Death and Taxes
Date: 19 September 2005, 11:12 am
Chapter 4: Death and Taxes
"I'll continue on and investigate this stash of treasure" radioed Keys as he dropped the Chef off near Halo's control room. Dollar signs still visible in his eyes, his delivery ship took off towards his destination, leaving the Master Chef alone with Cortonfire.
"We'd better get moving" she said.
The Chef looked slowly at his surroundings. Snowy cliffs stretched as far as the eyes could see. A few trees dotted the landscape, but this was predominately a barren and cheerless place*. Snow blanketed strange installations, the purposes of which the Chef could only guess at. Against the howling of the wind, he heard a couple of encroaching "Warts'n'all" jeeps, probably the same jeeps which were supposed to rendezvous with them when they landed.
"Climb aboard Chef!" cried one of the marines, clearly narcotized. Checking the back of the vehicle for weapons, the Chef was pleasantly surprised to find two peashooters and a mighty Spud Launcher. Feeling a lot safer with such powerful weaponry in tow, the Chef saddled up and the Warts'n'alls moved off in the general direction of the control room.
As they came to a large open area between the cliffs, they encountered the Consonant forces entrusted with guarding the control room. Obviously, the Consonant were not expecting an attack. Elitists were laid back in their leather armchairs smoking their pipes and chatting about the good old days while gnomes sat in circles, drinking heavily and playing idiotic games. Just as one gnome was declaring in a loud voice that everyone was "his bestest mate in the whole wide world", the sense of ease disappeared as one of the elitists sighted the humans through his monocle.
Strange Consonant scout vehicles, known to the elitists as "1935 Bentley convertibles", quickly encircled the hapless party. Elitists tooted their ridiculous horns and prepared to advance.
"The Spud Launcher!" cried Cortonfire.
Loading the launcher with spuds as best he could given that his hands were trembling like leaves, he glanced at the simple usage guide which had a picture of a man holding the launcher and was marked "Hold This Way". The Chef did so, and fired. An explosive spud came flying out of the back of the launcher and hit the Bentley that was currently racing up behind the Chef and his comrades, blowing it to smithereens while producing a nice creamy mash. Hurriedly, the Chef turned the launcher on the other Bentleys, and soon there was nothing left except topping for a shepherd's pie.
"Hedgehogs!" Cortonfire screamed, seeing two blue monstrosities approaching from the distance. The Chef's heart sank, he had seen the videos in training of how these creatures could make the ears of fine servicemen bleed with their incessant childish cries of "C'mon Tails, let's go get Dr. Robotnik!" and "Super Sonic speed!". The two blue specks grew larger as they raced closer. John realised he had little in the way of ammunition, and produced the only thing he could think of. As the hedgehogs stopped in front of the marines, they realised what the Chef had in his hands.
"Eggs! Aiieeee!!" they chorused.
As the Chef rained free-range death down upon the unfortunate hedgehogs, the marines looked on with satisfaction ("All the colours of the rainbow!!"). Golden rings scattered everywhere. A lawyer for Sega rubbed his hands with glee.
With the elitists and the hedgehogs vanquished and the gnomes too drunk to do anything, the Chef found his path to the control centre mercifully clear. Drawing nearer, he saw that it was a huge structure, cut into the face of one of the snowy cliffs. Ramps zigzagged ominously up the face of the installation for hundreds of yards, a tough trek for even the most seasoned of soldiers. The Chef took the elevator. Finding no Consonant forces at the top, and hypothesising that he must have bypassed a spawn trigger, he opened the large door that led into the control centre.
The Chef stood there for several minutes, awestruck by what he saw. A massive spherical room lay before him, with a walkway leading into the centre. Surrounding it was a large hologram, which looked rather like a screen with masses and masses of numbers on it. John could make neither head nor tail of these; he was looking around for some explanation as to what they might mean, when Cortonfire pointed out the terminal in the centre of the room.
"That terminal, try there".
Sceptical, the Chef walked over to the terminal and docked Cortonfire with it, expecting to see the familiar "Hardware not recognised" message. As luck would have it however, she seemed to interface with the terminal with relative ease. She booted up her hologram in a few short minutes and the Chef found himself looking once more upon her purple holographic figure. Why purple, he could only wonder.
"You alright?" he asked as he saw Cortonfire shift uncomfortably.
"Never been worse!" she exclaimed, "the knowledge, so much so fast, I just can't handle it".
"Just stop accessing the useless stuff and tell me something I might actually want to know" said the Chef, wondering if he could find a gas oven somewhere.
"What?"
"Halo. How do we use it as a weapon?"
"This ring isn't a cudgel" said Cortonfire, once again showing her penchant for stating the obvious. "It's something else, something much more important. Accessing data…"
As the familiar progress bar appeared, the Chef snoozed off, knowing he had a bit of time. Cortonfire woke him some hours later.
"Alright, data accessed. Processing data…" The Chef rolled his eyes.
"How much longer will this take?"
"Wait, I'm getting something. This ring, it's a weapon of sorts, to be used against… no, no it can't be".
"What can't be?" asked the Chef, who was getting anxious.
"No, it's too horrible to imagine… wait… the Captain! You've got to stop him; it's not really treasure he's going to find!!"
"What?! I don't understand…" stammered the Chef.
"Just go! Help Keys! I'll stay here out of harms… erm, I mean, bravely processing this data by myself. Just hurry! Before it's too late!!"
One delivery ship ride later (which the author has neither the time nor patience to describe), John was feeling even more nervous as he approached the swampy area in which the captain's ship was located. There had been something in Cortonfire's voice, some ancient terror lurked here and she knew what it was. His thoughts were interrupted by a voice over the radio.
"The last transmission from the Captain's ship was from this area. Here, you can listen to it…"
The pilot played Keys' last transmission (which mostly consisted of a drunken rendition of "We're in the money"), and then continued.
"When you locate Keys, radio in, and I'll come pick you up."
The Chef disembarked at the mouth of a large structure. Just as the Chef was about to move in, Consonant forces came rushing out. Jackdaws fleeing in terror, holding their stashes of gold coins close to their chests, gnomes discarding their pickaxes and making as if they were unemployed. What could drive them so mad with fear? The Chef wondered this as he entered the facility, checking around for any signs of danger. Taking a lift downwards, his sense of dread began to grow.
He pressed on when he reached the bottom of the lift, finding few Consonant troops to impede his progress. He happened upon some elitists lying on the ground, presumably dead, their wallets having been sucked dry. Heartened by the fact that this new terror seemed to prey on the Consonant, he moved onwards. Presently, he came to a short corridor with a doorway in the middle. Pressing the button intended for disabled users, he opened the door. To his horror, a marine fell into his arms, dead. He crept slowly inside the room, keeping his peashooter close. Laying the marine down, he noticed more dead bodies sporting large holes in their pockets. One of the marines had, by chance, been carrying a video camera. Rewinding and playing the footage, the Chef saw the events of Keys' fateful mission unfold before him.
"Why do we have to listen to this old stuff Sarge?"
"What old stuff son? There's no music playing. It's in your head" said Sergeant Johansson who had obviously cottoned on to Keys' little treasure hunt.
The drop ship they were in landed, the marines filed out as best they could.
The Chef fast-forwarded.
The marines were now standing in the room that the Chef was currently in. Milling about and knocking on walls looking for secret doors, they heard the voice of the second squad commander crackle over the radio.
"Captain! We've got contact! Not Consonant, no, no, I'm unemployed! On benefits, I tell you! Stay away! Oh god! Arrrggghhhhhh…"
Obviously regretting their decisions to come on this expedition, the marines started shifting slowly towards the doorway, when they too heard a sound. From the far doorway in the room, they saw emerge a sight more horrible than custard and lard pie.
"Aiieeee!" wailed one of the petrified marines. "Taxmen!"
Twisted by the years spent imprisoned in the facility and lusting for victims, the parasitic taxmen sprinted towards the luckless party of marines. Bowler hats and red briefcases flew everywhere, wallets were ripped out of marines' pockets, and in the blink of an eye several of the marines were bled dry. The video became more and more blurred as the cameraman fled for his life, only to be brought down by a flying audit. As the video cut out, cries of "40%!" and "You owe us!!" were barely audible. Keys was nowhere to be seen.
The Chef discarded the video camera and looked around in fear. Running out of the room and back the way he came, he saw taxmen attacking hapless Consonant troops on all sides. The elitists were particularly hard-hit, it seemed these taxmen were from a non-conservative era. The monetary murderers rampaged around, taxing at will. Their dapper suits were merely slightly stained by the acidic jam of the hopelessly outnumbered elitists, who decided that discretion was the better part of valour and started fleeing for their lives. Coming back to the lift he had previously come down, the Chef's heart sank when he saw "Out of order" on a large sheet of A4 tacked to the perfectly functioning controls. Skipping onto the lift, his fortune changed when he fell backwards onto the control panel and the lift whooshed rapidly upwards, leaving the taxmen fuming and screaming incoherently about "taxes without borders".
Reaching the top, he found more frightened marines.
"Chef! We've gotta get the hell out of here!" screamed one of them.
Agreeing in earnest, the Chef sprinted out the way he had come and started calling for evacuation on his radio. Marines flooded out behind him; obviously the prospect of getting taxed to death had sobered them up somewhat.
"There's a large structure a few metres from your current position, stay there and I'll come pick you up. But let's hurry it up, I have a schedule to keep, you know."
The Chef noticed the large structure that the pilot had been talking about and couldn't think why he hadn't noticed it before. However, he found he had little time to think as taxmen began appearing out of the swampy marshes. The situation looked hopeless, marines were firing upon the encroaching monsters, but their bullets did little to slow the parasite's advance. Suddenly, as if in answer to the Chef's prayers, floating machines started appeared from the structure and started attacking the taxmen. Their brilliant weapons swamped the taxmen with reams and reams of paperwork, leaving the parasites unable to tax anything and rendering them useless. As the marines cheered at their new comrades, the Master Chef came face to face with what was presumably their leader.
"Well hello. Aren't you a handsome devil?"
"What are you?" said the Chef to the floating blue orb that had materialised in front of him.
"What? Don't you mean 'who' darling? I am 343 Gender Suspect. I am the Janitor of installation 04."
Before the Chef had time to decipher what this thing had just said, he found himself encased by a blue light and feeling strange all over, particularly his backside. As he was whisked off to some new location, he hoped to the heavens that he wasn't the first ever human to be sodomised by a floating blue alien AI. As the view in front of him disappeared, he heard a voice over the radio getting fainter and fainter.
"Chef? Chef? Damn tracking equipment, couldn't they pay for anything better? Chef I've lost your signal, I'll remind you that my company is not liable for any loss or damage of…"
The adventures of the Master Chef were not over yet.
* Not unlike northern Wales.
Halo - a parody: 5. One Betrayal
Date: 8 October 2005, 10:58 am
Chapter 5: One Betrayal
The Chef looked around cautiously.
"We must contain this outbreak!" said the janitor with some urgency, referring to the taxmen that the Chef noticed were again appearing from every direction. For now though, the duo seemed to be safe, as the janitor had taken up the "Wet Floor" signs and taxmen were currently skidding hither and thither, their Italian loafers finding no grip on the mopped surfaces.
"At the centre of this installation lies the "FTSE 100 index", we must retrieve this in order to stop the spread of the parasite."
Feeling that there was little he could do but obey, the Chef started off towards the central structure that he had seen in the opening cinematic. The janitor, feeling happy and gay, followed. Weapons were scattered everywhere, both humans and Consonant had been here, that much was clear. Rapid-fire sewing machines with their stocks of deadly needles lay by the financially drained corpses of gnomes. Human guns that fired sodium chloride crystals were also lying carelessly on the ground, and the Chef judged that one of these may do considerable damage to an unwary taxman. He picked up a salt rifle and moved on.
Presently, the Chef found a large locked door blocking his way. Recounting to himself a rhyme* he had been taught in the Roman training program for such eventualities, and coming to the sort of conclusion that most people come to a lot quicker when faced with locked doors, he looked up at the janitor.
"You wouldn't happen to have a closet, would you?" he inquired.
"Came out of that years ago darling" came the worryingly sincere reply.
"I mean a janitor's closet. With keys to everything?"
"Oh, right, of course you did" said the janitor, winking broadly. "I'll be back in a jiffy".
"Why can't you teleport? … Don't leave me!!!!" cried the Chef to a fast disappearing blue speck.
Wind whistled around the Chef's feet. A dust bunny breezed by. Bells chimed eerily. Just as the Chef was spotting some serious continuity flaws from the author, he heard the howl of enraged taxmen. A chilling sound for any man, the Chef (having nowhere to run) backed towards the doorway, brandishing his salt rifle with a less-than-menacing look.
"You're all gonna get it" he said un-menacingly. His words did little to slow the advance of the taxmen.
In their midst were hideous, bulbous shapes, waddling towards him like drunk penguins and groaning in a similar fashion. Still retreating as fast as he dared, the Chef tripped over an empty wallet and fell to the ground, accidentally firing salt crystals everywhere. A few taxmen fell to the ground clutching at their eyes, but the advance was relentless. Suddenly, one of the salt crystals pierced a "carrier" form, and there was a huge stock market explosion. Taxmen were flung everywhere, mostly dead or aggravated. Once again thinking that some up there** liked him, the Chef stood up, shook the ooze from his armour, and hoped that was shepherd's pie that was currently warming the lower portion of his suit.
"Oh. Hello there".
The janitor had returned with impeccable timing. He fitted his key euphemistically into the lock on the door.
"We must hurry. The photocopiers can use their weapons only for a short time" and the Chef saw confirmation of this as the flying mechanical allies quickly drained their supplies of A4 upon the unlucky taxmen, who were currently nursing some severe paper cuts. Running swiftly after the janitor, he saw the centre of the installation come into view as they rounded the last corner. As they drew nearer, the Chef could make out the green glow of what he assumed was the index, nearer still he could make out numbers and letters floating across the surface of the object. Such phrases as "Buy low, sell high" and "Get me New York on the blower" were baffling to him.
The FTSE 100 index popped out from its container and the Chef stretched out a trembling hand, quite expecting to have it bitten off by some concealed mutant crocodile. The index came free in his grasp quite easily, and the Chef breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
"Excellent! Let's go and make me some… er, I mean, let's go and stem the advance of the evil taxmen!"
Once again, the Chef found himself encased in a glowing blue light, the sort of blue that one associates with a blue movie. The scene of taxmen battling with machines faded to one of familiarity.
"The control room?"
"Yes. Here we can use the FTSE index to activate the ring and stem the tide of taxmen" replied the janitor.
They walked over to the terminal where the Chef had previously left Cortonfire, with no sign of the malfunctioning AI. Assuming that she had either crashed or had just frozen, the Chef took further instruction from an increasingly hyperactive janitor.
"Now, insert the index into the terminal…" it crooned.
Something in the janitor's voice made the Chef pause. What was it the janitor had done to gain his trust? He couldn't remember. The blue light surrounding the janitor seemed to grow more intense.
"Insert the index! Activate the installation!!"
Slowly, the Chef slid the index into the terminal, which accepted it with a slight "Ka-ching!" noise. The numbers on the holographs surrounding the Chef began to skyrocket. He turned back to the janitor, who currently had a dollar sign floating evilly in his eye. Backing away, he began to regret his decision.
"Ha ha ha!! You fool! You have made me rich beyond belief! Now I shall take my rightful place as most…"
The janitor was cut off in mid-gloat by a familiar voice.
"Delete repeated word?"
"Cortonfire!" exclaimed the Chef. He had never been happier to see the grammar-correcting collection of 1s and 0s.
"Fragment, consider revising" stated Cortonfire, which the Chef took as a hearty hello.
"A construct? In the core?"
The janitor looked confused and a little concerned; although how it managed this being purely metal is anyone's guess. Turning from the janitor back to Cortonfire, he saw that she was juggling the index clumsily.
"What's going on? Don't we want to stem the outbreak of the taxmen? We have to activate the ring"
"The janitor has pulled his mop over your eyes Chef. Halo doesn't kill the taxmen. Halo produces money. Tons and tons of filthy cash, all to help swamp the taxmen and give everyone enough to pay them off when they come calling."
"But… I don't understand. Isn't that good?" asked the Chef, getting more and more confused as some serious plot flashed quickly by.
"Guess where all the money goes? There is a certain bank account in the name of one 'Ima Pseudonym', a.k.a. 343 Gender Suspect" she said, turning to the janitor.
Obviously taken aback by the revelation (and apparent failure) of his plans, the janitor just floated there, staring blankly into space. His shade of blue became darker.
"No matter" he assured himself. "I will have my money, the galaxy will bow down to me, I will open gay bars across the stars and statues will be erected in my honour! And you two, you can't stop me. I don't need the FTSE 100 index; I can activate the ring myself!"
Photocopiers floated into view, their paper trays bursting with lethal reams of white terror. The Chef grabbed Cortonfire from the terminal and darted for cover, the janitor laughing manically as the evil machines sought out their quarry.
"I will be rich, RICH!" screamed the floating orb as it disappeared, leaving the machines to finish off the hapless duo.
They closed in around the Chef, their LCD displays telling him that they were changing to rapid-copy mode for a speedy dispatching of the trembling Roman. As the green lights went on, he heard a screeching noise, followed by some rather strange rumblings from the copiers. Opening his eyes and checking that he was still very much alive, the Chef's curiosity got the better of him after the machines had been immobile for a couple of hours, and he wandered up to them. The words 'Paper Jam' were displayed on all four, indicating that the Chef had either been incredibly lucky or that the janitor had put the paper in the wrong way round.
"We've got to stop the janitor" intoned Cortonfire as the Chef started walking towards the doorway.
"Can't someone else do it?" asked the Chef weakly.
"I've located Captain Keys, hopefully he'll be able to help us" said Cortonfire, ignoring him completely. "Apparently, the taxmen didn't kill him. Mistaking him for someone knowledgeable in the field of Keynesian economics, they appear to have him on a Consonant ship. Hopefully, I can teleport us there; I think I've learned how. There is a 78% risk of serious and unspeakable injury, but I think that's an acceptable one to take".
Cortonfire's risk assessment sub-routines were obviously on the Fritz again, but before the Chef could complain, he saw a blue light just in front of him. He groaned, wasn't the light supposed to be around him?
"Oops. I was supposed to take us to him wasn't I…? I think I might have got it the wrong way round…"
As a large and hideous shape appeared in front of them, they both stood back in fear. Never in their lives had they seen something so ugly and disgusting, it oozed a thick puss and smelled faintly alcohol. They both reeled as they realised what it was.
"What a cliff-hanger to end a chapter on" thought the Chef. He was at least half right.
* We can't go under it, we can't go over it, we can't go round it, we'll have to go through it! The Roman training program was obviously as thorough as it was a good use of taxpayer's money. Ironic really, given the Chef's current enemies.
** Most probably the author, who wants to milk this turkey for all it's worth and needs a central character to do so.
|
