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Halo - a parody: 5. One Betrayal
Posted By: LegendaryMark
Date: 8 October 2005, 10:58 am
Read/Post Comments
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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.
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