Thorvald of Lym
A Little Sketchy
oh.... i didint se u ther, adornig fans, iv bin sew bussy wit me septicular ritnig careir! seeking ov witch, wood yew lik sum moar............ SHATR WORZ?????
In the black emptiness, two lines of blue text suddenly appear:
A short while ago in a galaxy
you're all familiar with . . . .
They linger for a while, long enough that the average viewer can re-read them three, maybe four times.
Then they vanish.
—Aaaaaaand pause.
No. Chances. This time.
I'll beat this damn intro at its own game by fast-forwarding through it.
I didn't want to do it before, because we were all new to this, but I think by now you know the routine and will permit me to bank a few extra years of life.
So, skip... there we go, and... play. I said play! No, that's too far! Ugh, OK, now we go back—no stop, stop! Now forward!—NO, not again, we just went through this! ...OK, so this remote has a delayed response. Let's rewind, again, aaaaaand—
DAAAA
Dd-la-daaa
Dd-la-Da da da DA da da Da da da DA da da
Da da DA DAAAAA-
Do Do Do
-LAUGH WARS-
Episode there are 10 kinds of binary:
RESTORATION OF THE BRITCOMS
christos200 has returned to
his home planet of Greece in
an attempt to rescue his friend
Hermann Fegelein from the
clutches of the vile fascist
Dolfy the Führer.
Little does Chris know that the
GALACTIC EMPIRE has secretly
begun construction on a new
armoured space station even
more Mary-Sue than the first
dreaded Doom Sphere.
When completed, this ultimate
GMwank will spell certain perma-ban
for the small band of rebels
struggling to restore quality
to the fandoms . . .
-Da da da DA!
Dd-la-da da da DA- da
DD-LA-DA dd-la-da DD-LA-DA dd-la-da
DD-LA-DA dd-la-da DD-LA-da-dladadla-da-dladadla-
da-dladadla-da-dladadla-da-dladadla-da-dladadla
DEE doo doo dee DEE doo doo dee
DEE doo doo dee DEE doo doo dee
Oh hey, you're back! ...Er, are you alright?
"I have seen the future... in the past. Wooden acting, atrocious dialogue, horrific cultural stereotypes..."
What do you mean?
"They speak of a... special edition..."
O...kayee, that cough didn't turn into a fever or something, did it?
"The story! You must not finish it!"
Not finish?—Hold on, you told me I had to see this through!
"That was before I saw the whole picture! We've all been played for fools! It's all part of his plan, everything built is meant to be destroyed! We have to shut it down, before it's too late!"
Wait, I thought we were spoofing Star Wars, not Gravity F—
"HE IS COMING."
They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and expecting a different result, in which case the Empire is clinically certifiable. Not having learned its lesson the first time, it somehow managed to accrue enough credit for a Doom Sphere II: Trolltastic Boogaloo. Not only was it engineered to be, like, three times the size of the old one, the contractors were even more clueless: it didn't resemble an egg so much as a tumorous squash, the ultrameme focus dish set at the end of a long tubular projection that connected to a pair of asymmetric ovular—
...wait.
Waaaaaaait.
...
...No, nooo, they couldn't have been stupid enough to—
...
Oh.
God.
DAMN.
It.
Let's just say, allegations that the Emporer was compensating are entirely well-founded. I guess we can thank our lucky stars that in its current state of construction it's not brazen enough for the kids to catch on.
So yeah, the half-finished assault to galactic sensibilities hovered above a... well according to my script it says it's a moon, but if the first Doom Sphere was supposed to be the size of one either this is the largest moon in the universe or sci-fi writers have no sense of scale. Anyway, as a Star Destructor drew near a shuttle shaped like a paper airplane deployed from the hangar bay, unfolding its wings and making for the station accompanied by a pair of Kite Flyers.
"Command station," the pilot called in, "This is SoM 3-21, code clearance Blue. We're starting our approach, deactivate the security field."
Onboard the station, several technicians were seated along a control terminal. "Security ROM field will be deactivated when we have confirmation of your code transmission. Stand by." The technician brought up a 3-D wireframe of the ship on a nearby screen, accompanied by a set of textual information, as an officer observed from over his shoulder. "You are clear to proceed," he radioed.
"We're starting our approach," advised the pilot.
As the shuttle drew near the hangar bay, it refolded its wings and the escort veered off. Several sets of klaxons wailed overtop each other, either because this delivery was that important, or because automated security systems still had to be properly calibrated. "Inform the commander that Lord Lackarse's shuttle has arrived," the officer instructed.
"Sir."
Several station officers and a contingent of shock troopers lined a path to the shuttle's bow. A man resembling Mussolini strode down the ersatz corridor, coming to a halt at the front end. He licked his lips nervously as a gangplank descended and Darth Lackarse debarked. "Lord Lackarse," he began hastily, "This is an unexpected pleasure, we are honoured by your presence—"
The Dork Lord waved his hand dismissively as he marched through the hangar, and the officer quickly made to follow. "YOU MAY DISPENSE WITH THE PLEASANTRIES, COMMANDER. I'M HERE TO PUT YOU BACK ON SCHEDULE."
"I assure you, Lord Lackarse," he replied with anything but confidence, "My men are working as fast as they can!"
"PERHAPS I CAN FIND NEW WAYS TO MOTIVATE THEM."
The commander came to a halt, and Lackarse turned around. "I tell you, this station will be operational as planned."
"THE EMPORER DOES NOT SHARE YOUR OPTIMISTIC APPRAISAL OF THE SITUATION," he retorted.
Il duce twitched nervously. "But he asks the impossible!" he whispered, "I need more men!"
"THEN PERHAPS YOU CAN TELL HIM WHEN HE ARRIVES."
"The Emporer's coming here?!" he panted.
"THAT IS CORRECT, COMMANDER. AND HE IS MOST DISPLEASED WITH YOUR APPARENT LACK OF PROGRESS."
"...We shall double our efforts!" he declared.
"I HOPE SO, COMMANDER, FOR YOUR SAKE. THE EMPORER IS NOT AS FORGIVING AS I AM." Meeting concluded, Lackarse turned about and strode off. The officer stood frozen for a moment, then spun around and walked off in the opposite direction.
------------------------------
While we wait for a worthy sequel to the Dune series, let's take a look at the solid blue sky and dusty orange foothills of this other desert planet. Traversing a broken road were C. Aubrey Farnsworth, Esquire, a tall and well-mannered gentleman, and his inseparable, slide-whistle-playing companion Jenkins. The shorter man issued a short flurry of notes toward his colleague. "Of course I'm worried!" Farnsworth replied, "And you should be too!" Jenkins trilled in the negative. "hoplitejoe and poor Arkady never returned from this awful place!" Lilting chirp. "Don't be so sure," he murmured. Squawk. "If I told you half the things I've heard about this Mr. Hitler... you'd probably have a stroke." Jenkins blew a nervous tune.
The duo arrived at a massive and menacing steel door to what looked like a bunker carved into the hillside. Jenkins made an excited whistle. "Jenkins, are you sure this is the right place?" The upbeat melody appeared to confirm so. Farnsworth examined the entryway for a moment, but couldn't locate a doorbell. "I'd better knock, I suppose." Gingerly he lightly rapped the metal wall. "There doesn't seem to be anyone here," he declared, "Let's go back and tell Master Christos!" Jenkins made a querying chirrup.
There was a clang and a camera lens on a long stalk shot out from a small hatch in the door. «Wer stört die Wolfsschanze?» asked a digitized voice.
"Goodness gracious me!" sputtered Farnsworth, spinning around to find the camera almost straight in his face.
«Was?» it pressed, «Erläutern Sie ihr Angelegenheit!»
After a moment's nervous hesitation, Farnsworth spoke up: "Jenkins Applebee, OBE," he began slowly, gesturing to his companion; the camera turned to examine him and he played a brief chirrup.
«Keine Streiche.» A tiny gun dropped down from behind the camera and the man backed away with a stacatto alarm. «Und wer sind sie?» it turned back to Farnsworth.
"Ich... C. Aubrey Farnsworth, Esquire," he said slowly.
«Engländer?»
"Und... können..."
«Sprich lauter!»
"—Wir sprechen... wie Herr Hitler?"
«Zwei Dandys? Das wird gut!» The voice laughed as the camera retreated back into the door.
"I don't think they're going to let us in, Jenkins!" Farnsworth said with thinly-veiled delight. The other man whistled sarcastically. "We'd better go." Jenkins played a melancholy note as Farnsworth started to leave, but the scream of shifting metal brought him to a halt as the giant gate began to retract. With a flourish, Jenkins shuffled inside. "Jenkins!" he cried, throwing up his arms, "Wait!" But his compatriot only proceeded further. "Oh dear!" he wailed, striding in after him.
"Jenkins! Jenkins, I really don't think we should rush into all this!" Squawk. "Oh!" he cried as a spiderbot emerged from a dark corridor. "Jenkins!! Jenkins, wait for me!!" The shorter man blew a laughter-like trill as he delved deeper into the concrete tunnel, soon colliding with a figure.
"Hrrrgh!" growled a burly man in a jet-black parade uniform with white trim. Jenkins scuttled back hurriedly with an apologetic tweet. "Hrrrrm," rumbled the guard as he appraised the intruder.
"Just you deliver Master Christos's message and get us out of here—" Farnsworth called, coming to his side. "Oh, my!" he cried as another guard came up behind him. There was a clang, and he spun around to see the door shut, trapping them inside. "...Oh, no."
«Hei!» shouted a voice. From deeper inside a man appeared; dressed in an SS uniform, he was somewhat portly with a flat face and thin, greying hair. «Was willst du?»
"Oh, my!" muttered the gentleman. "Wir kommen in Frieden," he said, bowing.
«Für was?»
"We—" he summoned up his diplomatic elocution, "We bring a message to your master, Dolfy the Führer."
«Eine Botschaft für den Führer?»
Jenkins issued a little ditty. "And," Farnsworth added, "A gift!" His brow furrowed in confusion. "Gift?" he turned to his comrade, "What gift?" Twitter.
«Der Führer ist besetzt,» the man replied with a polite smile; stepping forward he leaned down, putting his hand on Jenkins' shoulder. «Als persönlicher Sekretär, bin ich anvertraut, übernehmen die Kommunikation auf seinen Namen. Was ist Ihre Botschaft?»
The gentleman whistled, short and sharp. "He says," Farnsworth translated, "That our instructions are to give it only to... Hitler himself."
The officer straightened up at once, smile vanishing as Jenkins continued to blow staccato notes. He looked about the hall as if searching for hidden assassins. There was an unintelligible grunt from one of the guards.
He fixed upon Farnsworth. "I'm terribly sorry," he said, "I'm afraid he's ever-so-stubborn about these sorts of things."
«So sei es,» he quipped. Turning back down the hall, he beckoned them follow, escorted by the guards.
"Jenkins," he muttered as they trod deeper into the catacombs, "I have a bad feeling about this..."
Lounging on a Roman-style couch on a raised platform was a narrow-headed, withered man with stringy black hair and a toothbrush moustache. Overtop a tie and dishevelled white dress shirt, he sported a black leather overcoat. Behind him stood a gaunt-faced man with slick-backed hair, bony cheekbones and piercing eyes, clad in a mustard yellow suit with a swastika armband. Behind them both, waving a large palm leaf, was a blonde-haired woman in a showy, jet-black dress suit, matching side cap, and distressingly short skirt who, by her expression, had lost feeling in her arms ages ago. Another woman, black-haired in similar dress, knelt in front of the couch toward the man's feet, what looked a collar around her neck; at the other end was a dirty-blond man with an even more dishevelled uniform who'd propped himself up against the couch because he was too drunk to stand. Before them, what resembled a dining hall was filled with a hodge-podge of uniformed personnel, local riff-raff, and several individuals in costumes resembling cartoon animals in varying states of undress yet all bearing some moniker of the Nazi Party or its affiliate organizations. They mixed and mingled as Wagnerian music reverberated off the walls. The man on the couch idly sipped a glass of non-alcoholic wine, eyeing the crowd with contempt, this latter group especially so.
The portly officer guided Farnsworth and Jenkins around a bend and into the chamber. The taller gentleman gave a start as a German shepherd barked excitedly at his arrival, sniffing at his trousers but otherwise staying in place. «Oh, was nun?» groaned the man on the couch in a deceptively high, almost buzzing tone, sitting up as the gentlemen presented themselves before him.
The officer ascended the platform and leaned in toward the man's ear. «Englisch boten für sie, mein Führer.»
"Good morning," said Farnsworth with a polite bow. Jenkins played a cautious dip-roll.
«Sie sagen, Sie haben ein Geschenk für Sie,» he added. Now the man took interest.
Farnsworth grinned nervously. "The message, Jenkins," he hissed, tapping his shoulder, "The message!" The shorter man buzzed a reply.
«So? Lassen Sie uns hören!» said the man with growing impatience.
Jenkins reached into his coat and a pin on his lapel lit up as a holographic image of a ten-foot-tall christos200 materialized before him. "Grettings exalted one," resonated the boy's digitized voice. "Allow me to introduce myself..."
«Mist, es ist ein Geist!» he cried.
«Mein Führer,» muttered the mustard-suited man, leaning in, «Es ist ein Hologramm Aufnahme.»
«Natürlich ist es ein Hologramm!» he snapped, recomposing himself.
"—i am christos200, Cheddar Monk and freind to Groupenfuror Fegelein." Hitler's nostrils flared, breath rapidly accelerating. "I know that you are powerful, mighty Hitler, and that your anger with Fegelein must be euqally powerful."
«Kein Scherz!» he snorted.
"I seek an audeince with your grateness to bargain for fegelein;s life." Hitler burst into laughter, followed quickly if at times only dutifully by the rest of the room. "with your wisdom, I;m usre we can work out an arrangemet that will be mutually benificial, and will ensable us to avoid any unplesant confrontation." Now the Führer's eyes narrowed. The black-haired woman looked around nervously. "As a token of my goodwill, I presnt to you a gift: these two gentelmen." The hologram spread its hand forward.
"What did he say?!" Farnsworth choked. Chirrup.
"Both are hardworking, ad will serve you well."
"This can't be!" exclaimed the gentleman as the hologram faded; "Jenkins, you're playing the wrong message!" His head jerked up as the drunk laughed.
«A teenager bargaining two diplomats?» the grey-haired officer muttered, «He's no Cheddai!»
«Like hell there's a bargain!» Hitler boomed.
"We're doomed!" Farnsworth declared.
«I'm not giving up my favourite decoration, now that I just had it mounted!» He gestured to the far wall and the crowd cleared to reveal the dark grey slab encasing the profile of Hermann Fegelein. «It's so much easier to keep track of him now!»
"Jenkins, look!" Farnsworth cried in relief, "Gruppenführer Fegelein! And he's still on hiatus!" Another round of mandatory laughter followed.
Several minutes later, the gentlemen were marched down a dank (not memetic) and gloomy corridor even further beneath the complex. The shimmer of water reflected off a small arched window as a trio of rats clung to a metal grating. "What could possibly have come over Master Christos?" fretted Farnsworth. "Is it something I did? He never expressed any unhappiness with my work..."
A shadowy figure emerged at a cell door to his right. «Jste nový mučitel?» wheezed a voice.
"Oh!" the man cried, backing away in surprise, "Oh, how horrid!"
A bony arm wrapped around his shoulder as he drew near a cell on the opposite side. «Proszę, potrzebuję jedzenie!» wailed the inmate.
"Oooohhh!" he shrieked. The rearguard withdrew a baton and beat the arm until it retreated back inside before shoving him forward.
Jenkins whistled anxiously as they were ushered down a side hall and into the reception room from Hell. Farnsworth turned to the right to see a sallow-faced man reminiscent of Boris Karloff pumping a lever to tip a man strapped to a platform upside-down. The captive's anguished sobs only ceased when his head dipped beneath the surface of a pool filled with Dewitos. "Torture Bob finds no joy in his job," the operator droned.
The guards drove them forward to a reception desk manned by a cyberpunk salt shaker. Its lower half resembled an overturned rubbish bin dotted by columns of shiny half-spheres. The shallow dome of its head bore two cup-like lights and an optical lens on a long, thin stalk. Connecting it to the metal skirt was a multi-ringed column with a plunger-like apparatus and some sort of laser barrel in place of arms. "AH! GOOD!" it squawked electrically, the lights on its head flashing with each syllable, "NEW! AC-QUI-SI-TIONS! YOU! ARE! A! PRO-TO-COL! DAN-DY! ARE! YOU! NOT?!"
"I am C. Aubrey Farnsworth, Esqu—"
"YES! OR! NO! WILL! DO!" it cut in.
"Oh. Well, yes."
"HOW! MA-NY! LAN-GUA-GES! DO! YOU! SPEAK?!"
Farnsworth's gaze kept drifting to the right as he spoke. "I am fluent in over six million programming languages and can readily—"
"SPLEN-DID! WE! HAVE! BEEN! WITH-OUT! AN! IN-TER-PRE-TER! SINCE! THE! FÜH-RER! GOT! AN-GRY! WITH! OUR! LAST! GEN-TLE-MAN! AND! EX-TER-MIN-A-TED! HIM!"
"Ex...terminated?!" he blubbered.
A sudden shout pulled his attention to a well-dressed man strapped to a rickety chair, head virtually bolted in place and eyelids forced open as The Problem Solverz played on a screen before him. "STOPIT!! STOPIT!! PLEASE, I BEG YOUUU!!!" The gentleman shuddered in abject horror.
"GUARD!" called the secretary, "THIS! GEN-TLE-MAN! MIGHT! BE! USE-FUL! FIT! HIM! WITH! A! RE-TAIN-ING! COL-LAR! AND! TAKE! HIM! BACK! UP! TO! HIS! EX-CEL-LEN-CY'S! MAIN! AU-DI-ENCE! CHAM-BER!"
Grabbing Farnsworth by the shoulder, the guard dragged him into an adjoining room. "Jenkins!" he cried desperately, "Don't leave me—!" Bumping up against something stacked along the wall, he turned around to find a fire-singed and partially-disassembled fursuit dressed up in so much Nazi regalia it punched all the way through bad taste and back into almost-tolerable. "Ooohhhh!" he wailed, disappearing from view.
Jenkins chirruped after him before practically spitting a dissonant staccato stream at the secretary. "YOU! ARE! A! FEI-STY! LIT-TLE! ONE!" it chimed sarcastically, "BUT! YOU! WILL! SOON! LEARN! SOME! RE-SPECT! I! HAVE! NEED! FOR! YOU! ON! THE! FÜH-RER'S! PAR-TY! PAN-ZER! AND! I! THINK! YOU! WILL! FILL! IN! NICE-LY!"
The man whistled apprehensively. He turned about as the prisoner on the rack returned to the surface, coughing and sputtering. "It's like throwing up in my mooouuuth!"
O NOSES!!! hoo wil SAEV tem frum teh FUROUR ov hte FURTHUR?!?!?11/1 (LOL c wat i didd ther??? LOL DO U GEDDIT????) remumber 2 FAV & SUBSKRUB if u wnat MOAR!!!!!! loves 2 u all!!!!! XOXOXOXO
In the black emptiness, two lines of blue text suddenly appear:
A short while ago in a galaxy
you're all familiar with . . . .
They linger for a while, long enough that the average viewer can re-read them three, maybe four times.
Then they vanish.
—Aaaaaaand pause.
No. Chances. This time.
I'll beat this damn intro at its own game by fast-forwarding through it.
I didn't want to do it before, because we were all new to this, but I think by now you know the routine and will permit me to bank a few extra years of life.
So, skip... there we go, and... play. I said play! No, that's too far! Ugh, OK, now we go back—no stop, stop! Now forward!—NO, not again, we just went through this! ...OK, so this remote has a delayed response. Let's rewind, again, aaaaaand—
DAAAA
Dd-la-daaa
Dd-la-Da da da DA da da Da da da DA da da
Da da DA DAAAAA-
Do Do Do
-LAUGH WARS-
Episode there are 10 kinds of binary:
RESTORATION OF THE BRITCOMS
christos200 has returned to
his home planet of Greece in
an attempt to rescue his friend
Hermann Fegelein from the
clutches of the vile fascist
Dolfy the Führer.
Little does Chris know that the
GALACTIC EMPIRE has secretly
begun construction on a new
armoured space station even
more Mary-Sue than the first
dreaded Doom Sphere.
When completed, this ultimate
GMwank will spell certain perma-ban
for the small band of rebels
struggling to restore quality
to the fandoms . . .
-Da da da DA!
Dd-la-da da da DA- da
DD-LA-DA dd-la-da DD-LA-DA dd-la-da
DD-LA-DA dd-la-da DD-LA-da-dladadla-da-dladadla-
da-dladadla-da-dladadla-da-dladadla-da-dladadla
DEE doo doo dee DEE doo doo dee
DEE doo doo dee DEE doo doo dee
Oh hey, you're back! ...Er, are you alright?
"I have seen the future... in the past. Wooden acting, atrocious dialogue, horrific cultural stereotypes..."
What do you mean?
"They speak of a... special edition..."
O...kayee, that cough didn't turn into a fever or something, did it?
"The story! You must not finish it!"
Not finish?—Hold on, you told me I had to see this through!
"That was before I saw the whole picture! We've all been played for fools! It's all part of his plan, everything built is meant to be destroyed! We have to shut it down, before it's too late!"
Wait, I thought we were spoofing Star Wars, not Gravity F—
"HE IS COMING."
They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and expecting a different result, in which case the Empire is clinically certifiable. Not having learned its lesson the first time, it somehow managed to accrue enough credit for a Doom Sphere II: Trolltastic Boogaloo. Not only was it engineered to be, like, three times the size of the old one, the contractors were even more clueless: it didn't resemble an egg so much as a tumorous squash, the ultrameme focus dish set at the end of a long tubular projection that connected to a pair of asymmetric ovular—
...wait.
Waaaaaaait.
...
...No, nooo, they couldn't have been stupid enough to—
...
Oh.
God.
DAMN.
It.
Let's just say, allegations that the Emporer was compensating are entirely well-founded. I guess we can thank our lucky stars that in its current state of construction it's not brazen enough for the kids to catch on.
So yeah, the half-finished assault to galactic sensibilities hovered above a... well according to my script it says it's a moon, but if the first Doom Sphere was supposed to be the size of one either this is the largest moon in the universe or sci-fi writers have no sense of scale. Anyway, as a Star Destructor drew near a shuttle shaped like a paper airplane deployed from the hangar bay, unfolding its wings and making for the station accompanied by a pair of Kite Flyers.
"Command station," the pilot called in, "This is SoM 3-21, code clearance Blue. We're starting our approach, deactivate the security field."
Onboard the station, several technicians were seated along a control terminal. "Security ROM field will be deactivated when we have confirmation of your code transmission. Stand by." The technician brought up a 3-D wireframe of the ship on a nearby screen, accompanied by a set of textual information, as an officer observed from over his shoulder. "You are clear to proceed," he radioed.
"We're starting our approach," advised the pilot.
As the shuttle drew near the hangar bay, it refolded its wings and the escort veered off. Several sets of klaxons wailed overtop each other, either because this delivery was that important, or because automated security systems still had to be properly calibrated. "Inform the commander that Lord Lackarse's shuttle has arrived," the officer instructed.
"Sir."
Several station officers and a contingent of shock troopers lined a path to the shuttle's bow. A man resembling Mussolini strode down the ersatz corridor, coming to a halt at the front end. He licked his lips nervously as a gangplank descended and Darth Lackarse debarked. "Lord Lackarse," he began hastily, "This is an unexpected pleasure, we are honoured by your presence—"
The Dork Lord waved his hand dismissively as he marched through the hangar, and the officer quickly made to follow. "YOU MAY DISPENSE WITH THE PLEASANTRIES, COMMANDER. I'M HERE TO PUT YOU BACK ON SCHEDULE."
"I assure you, Lord Lackarse," he replied with anything but confidence, "My men are working as fast as they can!"
"PERHAPS I CAN FIND NEW WAYS TO MOTIVATE THEM."
The commander came to a halt, and Lackarse turned around. "I tell you, this station will be operational as planned."
"THE EMPORER DOES NOT SHARE YOUR OPTIMISTIC APPRAISAL OF THE SITUATION," he retorted.
Il duce twitched nervously. "But he asks the impossible!" he whispered, "I need more men!"
"THEN PERHAPS YOU CAN TELL HIM WHEN HE ARRIVES."
"The Emporer's coming here?!" he panted.
"THAT IS CORRECT, COMMANDER. AND HE IS MOST DISPLEASED WITH YOUR APPARENT LACK OF PROGRESS."
"...We shall double our efforts!" he declared.
"I HOPE SO, COMMANDER, FOR YOUR SAKE. THE EMPORER IS NOT AS FORGIVING AS I AM." Meeting concluded, Lackarse turned about and strode off. The officer stood frozen for a moment, then spun around and walked off in the opposite direction.
------------------------------
While we wait for a worthy sequel to the Dune series, let's take a look at the solid blue sky and dusty orange foothills of this other desert planet. Traversing a broken road were C. Aubrey Farnsworth, Esquire, a tall and well-mannered gentleman, and his inseparable, slide-whistle-playing companion Jenkins. The shorter man issued a short flurry of notes toward his colleague. "Of course I'm worried!" Farnsworth replied, "And you should be too!" Jenkins trilled in the negative. "hoplitejoe and poor Arkady never returned from this awful place!" Lilting chirp. "Don't be so sure," he murmured. Squawk. "If I told you half the things I've heard about this Mr. Hitler... you'd probably have a stroke." Jenkins blew a nervous tune.
The duo arrived at a massive and menacing steel door to what looked like a bunker carved into the hillside. Jenkins made an excited whistle. "Jenkins, are you sure this is the right place?" The upbeat melody appeared to confirm so. Farnsworth examined the entryway for a moment, but couldn't locate a doorbell. "I'd better knock, I suppose." Gingerly he lightly rapped the metal wall. "There doesn't seem to be anyone here," he declared, "Let's go back and tell Master Christos!" Jenkins made a querying chirrup.
There was a clang and a camera lens on a long stalk shot out from a small hatch in the door. «Wer stört die Wolfsschanze?» asked a digitized voice.
"Goodness gracious me!" sputtered Farnsworth, spinning around to find the camera almost straight in his face.
«Was?» it pressed, «Erläutern Sie ihr Angelegenheit!»
After a moment's nervous hesitation, Farnsworth spoke up: "Jenkins Applebee, OBE," he began slowly, gesturing to his companion; the camera turned to examine him and he played a brief chirrup.
«Keine Streiche.» A tiny gun dropped down from behind the camera and the man backed away with a stacatto alarm. «Und wer sind sie?» it turned back to Farnsworth.
"Ich... C. Aubrey Farnsworth, Esquire," he said slowly.
«Engländer?»
"Und... können..."
«Sprich lauter!»
"—Wir sprechen... wie Herr Hitler?"
«Zwei Dandys? Das wird gut!» The voice laughed as the camera retreated back into the door.
"I don't think they're going to let us in, Jenkins!" Farnsworth said with thinly-veiled delight. The other man whistled sarcastically. "We'd better go." Jenkins played a melancholy note as Farnsworth started to leave, but the scream of shifting metal brought him to a halt as the giant gate began to retract. With a flourish, Jenkins shuffled inside. "Jenkins!" he cried, throwing up his arms, "Wait!" But his compatriot only proceeded further. "Oh dear!" he wailed, striding in after him.
"Jenkins! Jenkins, I really don't think we should rush into all this!" Squawk. "Oh!" he cried as a spiderbot emerged from a dark corridor. "Jenkins!! Jenkins, wait for me!!" The shorter man blew a laughter-like trill as he delved deeper into the concrete tunnel, soon colliding with a figure.
"Hrrrgh!" growled a burly man in a jet-black parade uniform with white trim. Jenkins scuttled back hurriedly with an apologetic tweet. "Hrrrrm," rumbled the guard as he appraised the intruder.
"Just you deliver Master Christos's message and get us out of here—" Farnsworth called, coming to his side. "Oh, my!" he cried as another guard came up behind him. There was a clang, and he spun around to see the door shut, trapping them inside. "...Oh, no."
«Hei!» shouted a voice. From deeper inside a man appeared; dressed in an SS uniform, he was somewhat portly with a flat face and thin, greying hair. «Was willst du?»
"Oh, my!" muttered the gentleman. "Wir kommen in Frieden," he said, bowing.
«Für was?»
"We—" he summoned up his diplomatic elocution, "We bring a message to your master, Dolfy the Führer."
«Eine Botschaft für den Führer?»
Jenkins issued a little ditty. "And," Farnsworth added, "A gift!" His brow furrowed in confusion. "Gift?" he turned to his comrade, "What gift?" Twitter.
«Der Führer ist besetzt,» the man replied with a polite smile; stepping forward he leaned down, putting his hand on Jenkins' shoulder. «Als persönlicher Sekretär, bin ich anvertraut, übernehmen die Kommunikation auf seinen Namen. Was ist Ihre Botschaft?»
The gentleman whistled, short and sharp. "He says," Farnsworth translated, "That our instructions are to give it only to... Hitler himself."
The officer straightened up at once, smile vanishing as Jenkins continued to blow staccato notes. He looked about the hall as if searching for hidden assassins. There was an unintelligible grunt from one of the guards.
He fixed upon Farnsworth. "I'm terribly sorry," he said, "I'm afraid he's ever-so-stubborn about these sorts of things."
«So sei es,» he quipped. Turning back down the hall, he beckoned them follow, escorted by the guards.
"Jenkins," he muttered as they trod deeper into the catacombs, "I have a bad feeling about this..."
Lounging on a Roman-style couch on a raised platform was a narrow-headed, withered man with stringy black hair and a toothbrush moustache. Overtop a tie and dishevelled white dress shirt, he sported a black leather overcoat. Behind him stood a gaunt-faced man with slick-backed hair, bony cheekbones and piercing eyes, clad in a mustard yellow suit with a swastika armband. Behind them both, waving a large palm leaf, was a blonde-haired woman in a showy, jet-black dress suit, matching side cap, and distressingly short skirt who, by her expression, had lost feeling in her arms ages ago. Another woman, black-haired in similar dress, knelt in front of the couch toward the man's feet, what looked a collar around her neck; at the other end was a dirty-blond man with an even more dishevelled uniform who'd propped himself up against the couch because he was too drunk to stand. Before them, what resembled a dining hall was filled with a hodge-podge of uniformed personnel, local riff-raff, and several individuals in costumes resembling cartoon animals in varying states of undress yet all bearing some moniker of the Nazi Party or its affiliate organizations. They mixed and mingled as Wagnerian music reverberated off the walls. The man on the couch idly sipped a glass of non-alcoholic wine, eyeing the crowd with contempt, this latter group especially so.
The portly officer guided Farnsworth and Jenkins around a bend and into the chamber. The taller gentleman gave a start as a German shepherd barked excitedly at his arrival, sniffing at his trousers but otherwise staying in place. «Oh, was nun?» groaned the man on the couch in a deceptively high, almost buzzing tone, sitting up as the gentlemen presented themselves before him.
The officer ascended the platform and leaned in toward the man's ear. «Englisch boten für sie, mein Führer.»
"Good morning," said Farnsworth with a polite bow. Jenkins played a cautious dip-roll.
«Sie sagen, Sie haben ein Geschenk für Sie,» he added. Now the man took interest.
Farnsworth grinned nervously. "The message, Jenkins," he hissed, tapping his shoulder, "The message!" The shorter man buzzed a reply.
«So? Lassen Sie uns hören!» said the man with growing impatience.
Jenkins reached into his coat and a pin on his lapel lit up as a holographic image of a ten-foot-tall christos200 materialized before him. "Grettings exalted one," resonated the boy's digitized voice. "Allow me to introduce myself..."
«Mist, es ist ein Geist!» he cried.
«Mein Führer,» muttered the mustard-suited man, leaning in, «Es ist ein Hologramm Aufnahme.»
«Natürlich ist es ein Hologramm!» he snapped, recomposing himself.
"—i am christos200, Cheddar Monk and freind to Groupenfuror Fegelein." Hitler's nostrils flared, breath rapidly accelerating. "I know that you are powerful, mighty Hitler, and that your anger with Fegelein must be euqally powerful."
«Kein Scherz!» he snorted.
"I seek an audeince with your grateness to bargain for fegelein;s life." Hitler burst into laughter, followed quickly if at times only dutifully by the rest of the room. "with your wisdom, I;m usre we can work out an arrangemet that will be mutually benificial, and will ensable us to avoid any unplesant confrontation." Now the Führer's eyes narrowed. The black-haired woman looked around nervously. "As a token of my goodwill, I presnt to you a gift: these two gentelmen." The hologram spread its hand forward.
"What did he say?!" Farnsworth choked. Chirrup.
"Both are hardworking, ad will serve you well."
"This can't be!" exclaimed the gentleman as the hologram faded; "Jenkins, you're playing the wrong message!" His head jerked up as the drunk laughed.
«A teenager bargaining two diplomats?» the grey-haired officer muttered, «He's no Cheddai!»
«Like hell there's a bargain!» Hitler boomed.
"We're doomed!" Farnsworth declared.
«I'm not giving up my favourite decoration, now that I just had it mounted!» He gestured to the far wall and the crowd cleared to reveal the dark grey slab encasing the profile of Hermann Fegelein. «It's so much easier to keep track of him now!»
"Jenkins, look!" Farnsworth cried in relief, "Gruppenführer Fegelein! And he's still on hiatus!" Another round of mandatory laughter followed.
Several minutes later, the gentlemen were marched down a dank (not memetic) and gloomy corridor even further beneath the complex. The shimmer of water reflected off a small arched window as a trio of rats clung to a metal grating. "What could possibly have come over Master Christos?" fretted Farnsworth. "Is it something I did? He never expressed any unhappiness with my work..."
A shadowy figure emerged at a cell door to his right. «Jste nový mučitel?» wheezed a voice.
"Oh!" the man cried, backing away in surprise, "Oh, how horrid!"
A bony arm wrapped around his shoulder as he drew near a cell on the opposite side. «Proszę, potrzebuję jedzenie!» wailed the inmate.
"Oooohhh!" he shrieked. The rearguard withdrew a baton and beat the arm until it retreated back inside before shoving him forward.
Jenkins whistled anxiously as they were ushered down a side hall and into the reception room from Hell. Farnsworth turned to the right to see a sallow-faced man reminiscent of Boris Karloff pumping a lever to tip a man strapped to a platform upside-down. The captive's anguished sobs only ceased when his head dipped beneath the surface of a pool filled with Dewitos. "Torture Bob finds no joy in his job," the operator droned.
The guards drove them forward to a reception desk manned by a cyberpunk salt shaker. Its lower half resembled an overturned rubbish bin dotted by columns of shiny half-spheres. The shallow dome of its head bore two cup-like lights and an optical lens on a long, thin stalk. Connecting it to the metal skirt was a multi-ringed column with a plunger-like apparatus and some sort of laser barrel in place of arms. "AH! GOOD!" it squawked electrically, the lights on its head flashing with each syllable, "NEW! AC-QUI-SI-TIONS! YOU! ARE! A! PRO-TO-COL! DAN-DY! ARE! YOU! NOT?!"
"I am C. Aubrey Farnsworth, Esqu—"
"YES! OR! NO! WILL! DO!" it cut in.
"Oh. Well, yes."
"HOW! MA-NY! LAN-GUA-GES! DO! YOU! SPEAK?!"
Farnsworth's gaze kept drifting to the right as he spoke. "I am fluent in over six million programming languages and can readily—"
"SPLEN-DID! WE! HAVE! BEEN! WITH-OUT! AN! IN-TER-PRE-TER! SINCE! THE! FÜH-RER! GOT! AN-GRY! WITH! OUR! LAST! GEN-TLE-MAN! AND! EX-TER-MIN-A-TED! HIM!"
"Ex...terminated?!" he blubbered.
A sudden shout pulled his attention to a well-dressed man strapped to a rickety chair, head virtually bolted in place and eyelids forced open as The Problem Solverz played on a screen before him. "STOPIT!! STOPIT!! PLEASE, I BEG YOUUU!!!" The gentleman shuddered in abject horror.
"GUARD!" called the secretary, "THIS! GEN-TLE-MAN! MIGHT! BE! USE-FUL! FIT! HIM! WITH! A! RE-TAIN-ING! COL-LAR! AND! TAKE! HIM! BACK! UP! TO! HIS! EX-CEL-LEN-CY'S! MAIN! AU-DI-ENCE! CHAM-BER!"
Grabbing Farnsworth by the shoulder, the guard dragged him into an adjoining room. "Jenkins!" he cried desperately, "Don't leave me—!" Bumping up against something stacked along the wall, he turned around to find a fire-singed and partially-disassembled fursuit dressed up in so much Nazi regalia it punched all the way through bad taste and back into almost-tolerable. "Ooohhhh!" he wailed, disappearing from view.
Jenkins chirruped after him before practically spitting a dissonant staccato stream at the secretary. "YOU! ARE! A! FEI-STY! LIT-TLE! ONE!" it chimed sarcastically, "BUT! YOU! WILL! SOON! LEARN! SOME! RE-SPECT! I! HAVE! NEED! FOR! YOU! ON! THE! FÜH-RER'S! PAR-TY! PAN-ZER! AND! I! THINK! YOU! WILL! FILL! IN! NICE-LY!"
The man whistled apprehensively. He turned about as the prisoner on the rack returned to the surface, coughing and sputtering. "It's like throwing up in my mooouuuth!"
O NOSES!!! hoo wil SAEV tem frum teh FUROUR ov hte FURTHUR?!?!?11/1 (LOL c wat i didd ther??? LOL DO U GEDDIT????) remumber 2 FAV & SUBSKRUB if u wnat MOAR!!!!!! loves 2 u all!!!!! XOXOXOXO
