Raging Rat Ogre
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Preparing the sledge
"Well that's ruined my Christmas," said Dick, turning away from the sledge Milo had brought.
Calgar and his commanders gawped at it.
"What – how – I – " Calgar stammered.
"It is perfect," said Chaplain Derrick, eyes glowing through the lenses of his skull helm.
The sledge looked sized for one of Santa's elves. It was made of shiny red plastic. There were no engines or weapons.
"Perfect?" Calgar snorted. "You couldn't fit Kevin McCallister in that! How are four of us going to get in?"
"You didn't give me enough points to buy anything proper. I had to get what I could afford."
"You fething wally, it isn't even blue." Calgar inspected the tag which was still attached. "Fun for children aged two to six."
"Milo does have a point, my Lord," said Dick. "When I suggested that we're meant to be the most balanced Chapter and should allocate our spending for all contingencies, you said – and I quote – 'If I want to hear the raving of a leftist commie, I'll watch BBC News'."
Calgar blinked. "That was quite a good impression of me."
"That's funny," said Milo, "I thought it was supposed to be a constipated gretchin."
"Right, nerve-glove for both of you," Calgar said, "pain level: the Post Ops delivery mission from GTA Online. Just thank the Emperor it's Christmas, or you'd have got the the Dune buggy mission."
After Milo and Dick had served their punishment, Calgar decided he would lead the two of them along with First Chaplain Derrick – to victory. Or, quite possibly – to defeat.
=|U|=
The Pre-Race Nonsense
Mount Hera was not only ginormously tall, it was absolutely freezing at the top.
"What's the matter?" Dick said to Milo, who was shivering ferociously.
"I've got the chills."
"Are they multiplying?" said Calgar.
The sledge race was hugely popular and thousands of serfs and civilians thronged the event. Milo stared unhappily down the chutes. There were four of them. Each team would launch at the same time, one team per chute. The four teams were kept seperate initially to avoid a mobile rugby scrum with less dignity than an Ork leadership contest; this event would be broadcast across Ultramar and contestants had to look their best before they crashed so hard they exploded. It was a feth of a long way down. No wonder Dick didn't want to do it.
Calgar snapped Milo out of his morbid reverie.
"What are we going to call ourselves?"
"Something festive, like Team Culkin?" said Milo.
"Team Culkin!" snorted Calgar. "More like Team Shut Up Milo."
"What about Team Death to the Infidel?" suggested Derrick.
"I thought we might choose something simple and dignified, such as Team Ultramar," said Dick.
"If that's the best you lot have got," said Calgar, "you're never naming anything ever. We're the Christmas Warriors."
"Christmas Warriors!" said Milo. "We can't call ourselves that in public, we'll look a right bunch of fart-arses."
"Oh, here we go, the Grinch strikes again. Who's the Chapter Master?"
"You are, sir."
"Who's the weedy little git?"
"That would be me, sir."
"Good. We're the fething Christmas Warriors and that's that. Go and sign us up."
Milo went to the registration desk without any intention of calling his team the Christmas Warriors. The desk was manned by a podgy fellow with a thick black moustache, a mop of black hair and red dungarees. He addressed Milo before the Tanith tree-rat could speak.
"Do you know who I'm looking for?"
"Princess Peach?" said Milo.
"No. I'm looking for the one person who'll take this bloody race seriously."
"Good luck," Milo said. "This is a Barmy Army story, not Rocky 3."
"Your funeral, mate. Team name?"
Milo glanced at the team roster. It was upside down and hard to read as all the team names had been repeatedly crossed out and changed. Apparently Milo wasn't the only one planning some hilarious seasonal sabotage. Calgar's team were currently listed as "The Buttmunch Bunch". "Lily-Livered Imperial Whelps" and "Sexist Masters of Self-Love" had been scrawled out.
What team name – that could be plausibly blamed on someone else – would sum up the depth of feeling Milo had for Calgar?
Milo thunk.
(To be continued...)
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Raging Rat Ogre
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Presenting the Teams
The Ultramarines waited nervously backstage as the teams were called out one by one. Calgar's team wore blue tabards with SOUL OF A LION on the front; Calgar's had a piece of paper sellotaped to the back with BREATH OF A ZOMBIE scrawled in black marker.
The commentator's voice boomed from vox-units positioned around the course.
"Goooood evening, my name's Bob Whitesmile and I'll be your commentator for the 666th Christmas Race. Now before we get started, I must explain two things: people have pointed out that my name is Bob and I'm commentating on a Sled race, but since this is actually a Sledge race, the reindeer-poop is on your faces, people. Second, keeping track of which team is which will be tough since they gave each other stupid names."
The Gift Bearers came out first. Someone had bribed the contest organisers to play My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, an ironic choice in light of the crowd's reaction to the former traitors. The Gift Bearers sledge, which had the name Big Red painted on both sides, was a replica of Santa's sleigh, bulging with presents. The presents were fake. Old habits died hard and Third Chaplain Amalgama wouldn't demean himself by offering charity to Imperial pigs.
"Welcomed back to the Imperium after ten thousand years as idolators living in their own stink, and looking to overcome the shame of being the only Legion whose efforts in the Great Crusade were branded 'crap': Team one, the Turd Cradlers!"
"BOO!" yelled the crowd. "Death to the traitors!"
"Turd Cradlers?" Amalgama glowered at his second, Brother Syster. "What happened to the name Santa's Little Helpers? Why aren't the plebs glowing with joy? And what's with the fething music?"
"We are the only team without Imperial money to bribe the officials, my lord. In fairness to the scum of Ultramar, we did bombard their worlds and nearly kill their Primarch. A lack of Christmas cheer was anticipated."
It was also mutual.
"How dare you fething ingrates hate us?" Amalgama yelled at the cilivians, ducking a beetroot that was flung at his head. "At least we don't smell like Skavenblight!"
"Now there's finding the positive in a situation," Whitesmile said. "Would the crowd please remember this is a charitable event. Fruit and veg should be donated to the needy, not hurled at contenders."
There was a clamour on stage as the second team came out before anyone asked them to.
"And now," Whitesmile announced as if he'd expected it, "here to prove that money isn't everything but you should have it anyway, graduates of the University of Diversity, team two: the Emperor's Stripes Chapter! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, twerk your booties for Team W'ankus Y'ankus!"
The Stripes were dressed like Apollo Creed before his fight in Rocky 4. They danced to a generic rock song called Panama which deafened the crowd at 175 decibels, while can-can girls in glittering silver showed as much leg and crotch as possible in aid of women's rights. As befitted the Chapter who had more points than the rest of the Imperium combined, the Stripes sledge – which could more accurately be described as a chariot of the gods – looked like it came from the Golden Age of Technology. It had rocket boosters and assault cannon sponsons. The name Freedom Through Firepower was etched on it. Its original name, Rosemary, had been painted over, as it wasn't deemed hard enough for such a mighty Chapter (actually a pressure group on their homeworld had complained about their "grossly inappropriate act of misogyny akin to femicide" by giving it a girl's name).
"Good morning Macragge!" Chapter Master Gluteus Maximus boomed.
"Feth off!" yelled the crowd. They were peasants who spent all day working the harsh land of Macragge and weren't in the mood to have someone else's money flashed in their faces, although they were quite enjoying the leg and boob show.
Maximus and his men were devastated. They wept and hugged one another like Modern Men. Just as they were about to "use their words" and talk about their feelings, they noticed a distinct lack of diversity among the crowd which included "too many citizens of Macragge" and "a 4:1 ratio of men to women". The Emperor's Stripes made immediate, furious social media posts on their iPhones, triggering a Leftist rage that would culminate in the birth of the Ruinstorm.
"And thirdly," the commentator said, having to raise his voice over the crowd for the first time, "and thirdly, but by no means last, for Emperor help us if we made them come out fourth, we have the Order of the Bloody Rag, the Bolter Babes themselves, the Sisters Sororita! Ladies and gentlemen and non-specific persons, it's Team Venus Extravaganza!"
A quartet of black-armoured Battle Sisters came out with all the dignity they could muster, to the tune of Maneater by Nelly Furtado. The crowd dared not boo them due to equality laws ("If said person does not earn your respect, lo shall they sue you for it"). So the noble Sisters stood there in silence with narrowed mouths and eyes full of thunder while a team of arco-flagellants dragged their sledge on-stage and a demeaning song made them look like slags.
You can well imagine what a Sororita sledge looked like. Yes, it did have a massive fleur de lis on its nose. Yes, it did have the pipes of a fething church organ protruding like stakes in a defensive wall. No, the Sisters had not named it The Castrator; that name had been crudely daubed on by a heretic. The sledge had originally been called Sage.
"I'm reliably informed," the commentator said, sounding strained, "that it's the Order of the Bloody Rose, and that's what it says on my data-slate. I must apologise and say that I honestly don't know what I was thinking about."
Backstage, nervous sweat poured down Calgar's back into his buttock crevice.
"Are we ever gonna get called?" he said. "My trousers are turning into the Hoover Dam."
"From the desecration of majesty occurring out there, my lord," said Dick, "I think it's better we stay in here."
"Bum-sweat be damned," added Milo.
Unfortunately, Bob Whitesmile had other ideas.
"They're last in line and most likely last in your hearts; honourary holders of the Sprout Cup by Lord Calgar's decree, even though the Ultramarines have never actually won it. Ladies and gentlemen, and those who don't feel like being either today, please put your hands together and hang onto your vegetables for Team Fat Bastard!"
"Team Fat Bastard?" said Calgar. "Why are we named after Milo's mum?"
The Ultramarines were genuinely cheered as they came out to the Captain Caveman theme. Our heroes beamed with pride and waved, not realising that the crowd were only there to see Calgar disappearing towards the other side of the planet at 200mph.
Milo pulled their tiny red sledge onto which he had painted the ironic name Nugget, although upon seeing the other sledges, it didn't seem so ironic after all.
"For this special event, our Ultramarine Lords saw fit to reject tactical logic and borrow their ride from a little girl," the commentator commented. "Now which page of the Codex Astartes is that from?"
The crowd began to laugh. So too did the other contenders.
"Look at it!" Third Chaplain Amalgama was bent almost double with mirth. "What's the matter, Girlyman's whores? Spent all your points on drugs and whores?"
"Sir, they've read your Christmas list," said Dick.
"That's funny," Calgar yelled back, "it reminds me of when your Primarch made ours look a prat in front of his whole Legion. Oh wait."
"Cursed spawn of Guilliman, get stuffed!" Amalgama yelled with a shake of his fist, unable to think of anything clever.
"Could you both pleashe conduct yourshelves with shum dignity?" Sister Superior Ultricia said. Her mouth was disfigured by a slap from a Death Guard power fist and she wore very obvious metal braces to hold her teeth in.
"Jeez, Calgar," said Gluteus Maximus of the Emperor's Stripes, "I always said you were a candy-assed son of a bitch. Just hand over the Sprout Cup now and we won't have to embarrass your ass, Goddammit."
"Can someone translate?" said Calgar. "I don't speak Vandalised Gothic."
"All teams," said Bob Whitesmile, "ready your sledges!"
Team Fat Bastard looked at their namesake.
"What, we're going now?" Calgar felt concern for the first time. Maybe they should have practiced instead of watching Battle of the Bulbs.
"Sir, we've spent the last four hours getting our gear ready for this precise moment," Dick said. "You actually helped polish Nugget. This whole thing was your idea! What did you think was going to happen?"
"I thought today was the fething stage show before dinner!"
"No," Dick spluttered, "this is the stage show before the fragging Nutcase Death Run!"
"We could all be dead in five minutes!" said Milo.
"Your cheeks have got bright pink patches on them," Calgar said. "You look like cartoon chipmunks. Should I send you out to detect crimes?"
"The only thing I detect is a stinking mound of Ork-dump," Derrick slavered. "The Ork-dump of cowardice. We need not some silly preparation. The sledge starts at the top and finishes at the bottom, that is all we need to know, all else is heresy. We get in the fething thing, press snugly up against one another, and trust that Primarch and Emperor will protect us."
"Thing is," Milo said, kicking a small mound of snow, "neither of them are actually here, are they?"
"Fething Nugget," Calgar said, looking at his sledge.
(To be continued...)
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