Mutated Chosen Chaos Marine
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[b]Okay, this is the most messed up thing I've ever written. See, before I write, sometimes I freewrite. And, inbetween writing entries for The Death Guard (LINK IN MY SIG PLEASE READ FOR THE LOVE OF NURGLE ITS A WAY BETTER STORY THAN THIS), I freewrote this messed up story about an insane Serf. He is not a good person. He is not emotionally healthy. He is not smart. He is not a role model. He is an insane Serf.
I met him personally. I met the Lord Macragge. I met the Chapter Master of the Ultramarines. I met the Champion of the Tyranic Wars and the Hero of Zalathras. I met the Astartes who brought an Avatar of Khaine to his knees and stole the Indomitable from the treacherous M’kar. I met Lord Macragge Marneus Augustus Calgar of Ultramar.
He wore the glorious Armor of Antilochus, a suit of Tactical Dreadnought Armor of the highest caliber incorporating a teleporter homer. It was plastered with the holy icons of mankind, the Imperium, the Emperor and Ultramar. His loin cloth alone included three purity seals, four Ultramar seals, a plasteel “U” and a solid gold skull icon. In front of the Lord Macragge’s shoulders were similar decorations, including a bulky, golden wing and an even larger “U” with golden skulls dangling from it. Atop his back was the largest “U”, of all, protected by a secondary, golden “U” around it.
We stood face to face (or rather my face to his torso considering the stature of his armor) within the grand halls of the Fortress of Hera. A series of beautiful ceiling murals held up by magnificent golden pillars depicted the many triumphs of the Lord Macragge. He could be seen fighting the treacherous Warmaster at the Emperor’s side and defending the Blackstone Fortresses from the treacherous Despoiler. The largest mural portrayed him punching through the gargantuan Swarmlord with his trusty gauntlets of Ultramar as the Tyranid forces attempted to flee.
At the side of the Lord Macragge proudly stood High Lord Zarl Cand of the Administratum. He wore simple, elegant robes along with a tall, stiff collar that gave the appearance of a hideous, leathery Xeno swallowing his head. He was bald, with two protruding bionic eyes that gave him a bug like appearance. Wires ran down the back of his head into a buzzing mechanical contraption fixed to his back. One of his hands was an artificial claw. He acted with a cool, calm demeanor and seems to radiate authority.
The Lord Macragge and the Lord of the Administratum order their meals and I quickly jot them down. Where Calgar has ordered a simple soup, the High Lord has chosen to order a bizarre, exotic cocktail of spices and meats we likely don’t have. “Right away, my Lord,” I say. Calgar says, “Now that’s thee attitude of a true servant of the Imperium, lad. I reckon you could be the next Commissar Yarrick or Saint Pius.”
He and Cand chuckle softly. Then, he reaches out one of his massive gauntlets and pats me on the shoulder. Space Marines already have super strength. Now, reinforced by his sacred Armor of Antilochus, he pats me with roughly the strength of a stampeding Carnifex. I’m immediately knocked to the floor. Calgar smiles apologetically and he helps me up. Patronizing feth.
Upon leaving the massive chamber, I enter the real Fortress of Hera. It’s grimy and claustrophobic, dimly light by flickering candles and staffed with hundreds of desperate Serfs, Slaves and Soldiers. I stand by the Chef Knar, a hairy man with a unibrow, watching him frantically stir the bowl. “It must be a great honor,” I say, leaning against a rusted metal desk. It creaks under my weight. “To cook for the legendary Lord Macragge.”
“I thought Space Marines only ate nutrient chow,” Khar says bitterly. “Imagine what he’ll do to me if I mess up. I’ll probably be flayed alive or conscripted or even used as target practice like the PDF Officer who spilled amasec on the Lord Macragge’s Gauntlets of Ultramar.”
“Relax. As long as it’s not poisonous he won’t care what it tastes like. He’s a Space Marine.”
“He’s also the Lord of Ultramar; he owns an entire solar system! And he has quite the exquisite tastes you know. Just look at all the gold on his armor or all the murals on the ceiling or even his exceedingly well groomed hair. Now stop distracting me! This meal needs to be perfect!”
So I spend awhile just waiting around. I start examining the cracks on the ceiling, looking for a pattern. There is none. Really, the only meaning of the cracks is what you make of them. A heretical philosopher by the name of Xfjfa Ijdd said something like that about life at his own execution. In fact, most (in)famous quotes from heretics are from their exceedingly well documented executions.
“Here’s the soup,” says Knar. His knuckles are white and pupils dilated. Sweat is running down his wrinkled forehead into his bushy unibrow. “Quick, serve it to him before he gets impatient!”
“Sure,” I say, scampering off. Pretty soon I find myself in an empty stretch of hallway. Strangely compelled, I set the soup on the floor in front of me. I undo my belt. And I unzip my pants. What in the God Emperor’s name am I doing?
Before I know it, I’m pissing in Calgar’s soup. I’m pissing in the soup of the Lord Macragge. What am I going to do? “Okay,” I say to myself as I put my pants back on. “Calm down. Calm down. Take a few deep breaths and think.” The soup still looks the same, though some has spilled over the edge of the bowl. “Calm down.” I lean down and sniff. It smells the same. “He won’t notice,” I say.
So I pick the soup back up and walk down the hallway. I present the meal to Calgar and he says, “Thank you, boy.” I’m 26; I was born to a rich family and I exceeded in school and then I was pressed into the Ultramarines. I did excellently in training until it happened; I was just a step away from becoming a Neophyte. So, I’m not a boy.
He takes a sip of the soup. Suddenly he has this horrible expression on his face, reminiscent of a constipated Owl. It’s beautiful. You’d just have to see it. “Delicious, huh?” I say with a vacant smile.
“My neuroglottis,” he says slowly. “Detects….” Calgar pauses and I savor the moment. “…bodily fluids in this soup.”
I gasp. “How could this be?” I say. “We’ll launch a full investigation! Every chef and waiter and servant and slave shall be interrogated! We’ll contact the Arbites, no, the Inquisition! Why, we’ll bring in Lord Karamazov himself! This is an outrage!” I turn towards the hall. “Who dared to taint the food of the Lord Macragge?
Come out you coward, you heretic, you blight on humanity, so you can get what’s coming! Why, I’ll kill you myself! I’ll slit open your belly and hang you with your own intestines!” Calgar and Cand are staring at me now. “Yeah, that’s right you coward! Come out here and get what’s coming!” I start running towards the hallway. “Hold me back,” I say to Calgar and Cand. “Hold me back!”
They just keep staring, so I figure I should go ahead. I charge into the kitchen. “Come on you heretic, come out!” I bellow to the kitchen staff. I hit some pots together. I snatch a steak knife and brandish it at my coworkers. “Who dared taint the food of the Lord Macragge?” Knar throws up, starts crying and passes out. I guess he’s really serious about his cooking. “Come at me and get what’s coming!” I scream, swinging the knife wildly.
“Put the knife down,” says Gull slowly. I don’t like Gull. He’s high and mighty, with a patronizing attitude. He’s just another failed applicant like the rest of us, but from the way he acts you’d guess he was the Lord Macragge himself. A heretical philosopher once said that on the scale of reality, all life is insignificant. At his execution he put up one hell of a fight. Huh. “We’ll launch an investigation and-”
“It’s too late for that! The soup has been pissed in and the piss has been ingested by the Lord Macragge! This will not stand! From now on, we WILL NOT SERVE THE LORD MACRAGGE PISS UNLESS HE SPECIFICALLY REQUESTS IT!” I grab a pan and hurl it at Gull. He manages to duck under it. “NOW WHO DID THIS? I’LL HANG YOU BY YOUR OWN TREACHEROUS INTESTINES AND FORCE FEED YOU EXPIRED YOGURT!”
About three hours later, Knar repeats what he’s been saying a lot recently. “I’m gonna die.” It’s lost all meaning. The first time he said it, it was quite dramatic. By the third time he’d said it, it was kinda stupid. By the twenty eighth time he’d said it, I’d learned to tune it out. Yes, I’m a slow learner. “It doesn’t matter that everyone knows I didn’t do it, they have to kill someone and they’re going to kill me.”
“How do you know they won’t kill me? I was the only person completely along with the soup,” I point out. “Really, I’m the only person who could’ve actually gotten away with it, assuming the soup was
even pissed in.”
“You have a good point! They should kill you!” he exclaims. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. Sorry.”
“Throne, its fine. You’re gonna die, you’re allowed to be spiteful. I’d be disappointed if you weren’t.”
Finally the door bursts open. I gently put the crowbar down and step inside, scanning for any sign of Astartes. The cellar’s empty, as I hoped. I flick the lights on and gesture for Knar to follow me inside. Really, it’s amazing. It seemingly stretches on forever, stacked to the ceilings with enough liquors, amasecs and wines to drown the entire solar system. You never see Ultramarines drinking, yet they sure as hell have a lotta booze. Maybe they’re stocking up for a big party when Gullyman wakes up.
“Space Marines have the finest livers in the galaxy,” I explain as Knar shuts the simple, wooden door behind him. “It takes quite a bit to get them drunk. In fact, it takes enough so that most Space Marines don’t even try. Supposedly in a month the Space Wolves consume more alcohol than Necromunda in a year. I believe it.”
“Throne,” says Knar as he stares down into one of the endless corridors of drinks. “So, what are we doing down here?”
“Why, we’re taking stock of course!” I say in the most sarcastic, disdainful voice I can muster. “We broke into a booze cellar so that we can get drunk you gak head. Now, be careful. This stuff is going to be the strongest you’ve ever had, and it’s probably gonna taste horrible too. So no jello shots. Now, let’s get to work.”
A heretical philosopher by the name of Aojfdiuolhsf Suhfaiod once said that the only true pleasure in life is physical and emotional pleasure was in fact natural drugs surging through your blood stream. He was caught setting up ‘pleasure cults’ across a dozen planets and smuggling illegal narcotics. At his execution he claimed that he anticipated death, as he always wondered what it would feel like. He started crying and gagging because the gallows didn’t have enough of a drop. It took him ten minutes to die.
After about five minutes of drinking, we’re plastered. Knar’s thrown up, and I’ve collapsed against the wall. “You know,” he says in a slurred voice. “When I was little and I did somethin’ wrong, I always blamed Bo-Bo.”
“Who the feth is Bo-Bo?”
“I think Bo-Bo was me,” he said. “But that was my way of, uhh, distancing myself from the crime, you know. I could say Bo-Bo did it and then I wouldn’t feel guilty.”
“I assume you’d just say so that yer parents wouldn’t kick her arse,” I replied. “Not everything is psychological you know. That’s a common, err, misconception. Sometimes people just do things… because.”
“No I’m serious. I said it to me, I mean myself. See, even when I was never caught, I told myself Bo-Bo did it.”
“I read a story where this guy always blamed an imaginary friend named Catherine for everything. And it turned out Catherine was his older sister who died when he was two. No one told ‘em that until he was forty.”
“You pissed in the soup,” he said with sudden clarity.
“Huh?”
“You did it. Yer right, you’re the only person who could’ve done it.”
I handed him a bottle with an incomprehensible label in High Gothic. Only clerks and cultists speak High Gothic. Hell, most Inquisitors can’t even speak High Gothic. “Have another drink.”
He stood up as straight as he could. “Why?”
“Because you’re all nervous and crazy.”
“No, why did you piss in it?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then who did?”
Now here’s when I slip up. I say, “Bo-Bo” and then I start laughing, because I guess in my intoxicated state I assume that’s a good joke. Then I stand up and take a quick gulp of the incomprehensibly labeled bottle. “Calm down.”
He slugs me. It’s a miracle I’m able to keep standing. So, I throw a weak punch back at him. He catches my wrist and twists, forcing my arm behind my back. I try to kick his crotch, as women’s self defense infomercials have taught me to do. Knar responds to such dirty fighting by shoving on my twisted arm and then letting go. I slam my face against the wall and collapse onto the floor. Desperate, I try to stand up. He stomps on the back of my neck, pinning me against the cold stone tiles.
“This make you feel good?” I ask. He presses down with his full strength, cutting off my air flow. I howl and writhe and squirm, so he gets on top of me and pins me down completely.
“I’m gonna die,” he says. “And so are you, you fething mother fether!”
Then he lets go and he rolls me over, so we’re face to face. And he starts punching me. I don’t fight back. I just let him. I let Knar get all of his stress, his impotent rage, out on my face. One good punch knocks one of my front teeth out. Another breaks my nose. Despite all this, I force myself to remain limp. Finally he stops.
He stumbles off and starts sobbing. “Did that make you feel like a Marine?” I ask after spitting out a glob of blood. “Did that make you feel like a true Angel of Death and not just a failure, like me?” He doesn’t answer as he’s busy struggling to hold back tears. “I didn’t think you’d get hurt when I did it. But if you’re still mad and you’re gonna kill me, I understand. You can kill a true enemy of the Imperium.”
“I’m not going to kill you, you stupid fether,” he hisses. “feth you!”
“Do it!” I demand as he storms off. “I want you to! Do it! Come on, damn it, do it!”
The hallway is narrow and dim; the lights are dying. A heretical philosopher by the name of Zadfkhlfadj Ujjahdfkf once said a light is a humbled star. He claimed the same could be said about anyone, and the only way to harness your true power would be to release your inner rage. At his execution he growled and writhed a lot, like a true acolyte of the forces of impotent rage.
I place the bag in front of Door 2301, like I’ve been planning on. Carefully, I flick on my lighter and bring it to the bag. The flames quickly catch on and soon the bag is ablaze. After knocking on the door, I scamper off and hide about ten feet away, behind an abandoned janitor’s cart.
The door opens. There’s Aual, an aging, spiteful man with no sense of humor and a strong devotion to the Imperium. People like him are the chief target of my operation. Life’s a bad joke, so it’s best to just chuckle awkwardly and get on with it. But Aual is the type to just grimace at the dumb Comedian and make it even more awkward.
He stomps on the bag and starts swearing furiously. The melted gak sticks to the soles of his boots. Then he notices me. “Hey!” he shouts, running after me. This wasn’t part of the plan, but I’ll go with it. I swing open the door to my own room and slip inside. Cackling hysterically, I try to slam it shut. Aual jams his arm in the doorway and I slam on madly until it becomes apparent he isn’t going to give up. I flee towards the kitchen section of my room.
He follows me in and throws a punch at my face. I barely manage to dodge it and then grab a can of IMPERIAL CERTIFIED BLESSED PEST POISON REMOVER, otherwise known as ICBPPR, and squeeze its plastic trigger. The thin, pale fluid sprays onto his face. Aual starts coughing and gagging, but he’s still coming at me. He kicks me in the crotch and I stumble back against the dishwasher. Evidently I hit the switch, because the garbage disposal flicked on.
He snatches a dirty fork from the sink and attempts to stab my face. I sidestep, dodging the blow, and catch his old wrist with lethal agility. Before he can react, I shove his fork clutching fist into the garbage disposal. Aual screams as his vibrant red blood sprays in all directions. He rears back, so I extend a leg and he trips. His head slams against the corner of a countertop. Before he can get up, I spray his face with ICBPPR again. Then he goes limp.
I stand there, forcing myself to breath slowly and calm down. Evidently this joke is an especially bad one because it killed someone. I never intended for this to happen. All I wanted was to piss off Aual, but he came at me and got my adrenaline flowing and I did something stupid. This is worse than pissing in Calgar’s soup or filling that ATM with concrete or breaking that fire hydrant. I’ve actually killed someone.
Time is passing in slow motion. My heart is beating against my chest, threatening to explode out my ribs and distort my form. I’m slipping away from reality. I sit down, still forcing myself to breath slowly. Everything is coming through in ugly, blurred waves. My senses are failing. Aual’s corpse is staring at me with pained wide eyes. Time is passing in slow motion.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” I say, as if addressing a crowd. In fact there are just two ugly men in front of me and I’m pacing back and forth in a damp basement. I never talk to more than two at a time. But each of these two guys will talk to two people, and each of those two people will talk to two people, and so on until I hopefully will have recruited the entire galaxy. Realistically, I probably won’t manage to recruit more than forty people though. That’s about the size that cults cap out at.
A heretical philosopher by the name of Vuiohd Yuid once said that death and life were an endless continuum. At his execution he smiled and waved to the crowd. “Today is the first day of the life. Do you remember when we were children? We viewed everything with such optimism, such hopefulness. The holy light of the Emperor would cleanse the galaxy of its sins and then we could rejoice in perfect union. Do you remember that?”
Disguised as a beggar, I ask the man, “Have you ever been in a fight before?” He keeps shuffling along, evidently made nervous by me. It’s disrespectful to pretend to not hear me. So I repeat myself. “Hey, you! Yeah you!” I point at him when he glances at me. “Have you ever been in a fight before?”
“Uhh, no,” he answers and then he keeps walking away, this time at a faster pace.
“Hey man, come back! Don’t disrespect me like that!”
“I’m… uhh… late to a meeting! Yeah, I gotta go.”
“No, you aren’t. Come back here. Come on.”
He cautiously approaches. “I don’t bite,” I say with a grin. He sees my missing tooth. “Come on. So, why do you suppose you haven’t been in a fight before? It’s a dangerous galaxy, what with all the Tyrannic Wars and Incursions and what not.”
“Listen, I really gotta-”
“Answer me. Please, just do this one, simple thing for me and I’ll let you go to your precious meeting.”
“I don’t know why I haven’t been in a fight. Now can I-”
“My theory,” I interrupt. “Is that you’re a coward who just compromises and does whatever people say. Throne, you just did it a few seconds ago when I pressured you into coming over here. You should’ve kept walking. But you didn’t.”
I kick him in the crotch. This is very intentional; I want to fight dirty. See, I can’t be seen as sympathetic in the slightest by him. Afterwards, I don’t want to him to feel guilty at all. He groans and tries to punch him. I let it hit; it wasn’t even a very good blow anyways, it probably hurt his fist more than my face. Then I kick him in the crotch again. He falls over and blindly kicks at me. After he hits me in the shin, I purposefully yelp and fall backwards against a wall. I hit my head as hard on the concrete as I can and go limp on the ground, moaning weakly. He stands up, takes a look at me, and runs off. Good. It would’ve been better if he had taken the time to savor his victory, but in any case this is good; baby steps.
“Put the money in the bag!” I declare. “No, wait, here, take the bag! And turn it inside out first! I don’t want to touch the dirty side! Actually, turn it inside out again! I don’t want the money to touch the dirty side!”
Most banks are quite fancy, but this one is just straight forward and efficient. Its cube shaped, with unpainted walls and a skeleton crew of clerks. It’s late at night, so there are only two other ‘customers’ and I have an ominous feeling that I’m not the only one here who was planning a heist. A nervous, female clerk hands me the bag. I look inside. From my estimations, there’s somewhere between three hundred credits (enough to buy very, very, very fancy shoes) and three hundred thousand credits (enough to buy a shoe store). I was never good at math.
“This is too much money!” I shout. “Take some of it out and burn it! Quick!”
She grabs two handfuls of money and puts it on her desk. I retrieve a lighter and some lighter fluid from my pockets with one hand, while still clutching the gun with the other, and hand them to her. Shakily, she pours the fluid onto the credits and lights ‘em up. A heretical philosopher by the name of Hjkadfhiuda Hjjkadhfuiad once proudly proclaimed that he would be willing to destroy anything in the name of his Immaterial masters. At his execution, he winked to the executioner.
“You burned too much! Quick, put some back in the bag!”
She dumps some flaming credits in the bag and the bag catches on fire. “No, put it out! Get that fire extinguisher over there! Quick!” She complies. “You saved too much! Take some out and burn it again! You know what, burn it all! Inflation is a big problem these days, some artificially induced deflation would be good for Ultramar’s economy! Or was deflation the problem? Call the economic advisor of the Planetary Governor, quick!”
The darkness is enveloping, all consuming. A heretical philosopher by the name of Yiufdjad Yahfiddle once said that about decay. He claimed that ultimately, everything rots. Then they shot him in the face and some scribe jotted down his depressing last words. Supposedly everyone who touched his blood contracted skin cancer and died. At my execution I’m going to say something quite lewd about the Emperor’s mother and then I’ll be remembered for all eternity.
Now I’m standing in the empty darkness. There’s something under my feet, holding me up from falling into oblivion, but I can’t feel or detect it. Then, I notice something in front of me. At first it looks like a reflection, a mirror image, but it’s not. It’s me, but it’s perfect. I’m muscular, with perfect skin. My scars are all gone and you can’t see my protruding ribs or weeping sores. This isn’t me. His eyes are a deep blue, instead of my hideous brownish green. He’s too perfect.
“Hello,” he says in a smooth, deep voice. It’s oddly commanding. With that single word, he’s put me under his spell. He’s too damn perfect. “You’re probably wondering where you are.”
“Not really,” I reply.
He smiles, giving me a brief glimpse of his perfect teeth. I lost my right upper front tooth in a fight. Evidently he didn’t. And, unlike me, he’s been brushing at least twice a day. I hate him. “You have spirit, I have to give you that.”
“You don’t have to give me anything.”
“I’m,” he begins. “The Prince of Pleasure and the Lord of Dark Delights. I Slaaneth, the God of Sensation. I am the one who motivates you to slit your flesh and abuse what little is left of your corpse just so that you might feel something. I am responsible for every physical pleasure you’ve ever felt. I am perfection distilled, the ultimate creation of sensation.”
“You’re fething insane, that’s what. I don’t hurt myself to feel something. If I wanted to feel something, I’d get a hooker. They’re cheap these days.”
“Tell me then, why do you abuse yourself?” he asks, leaning close. “If it isn’t for sensation, then what is it?”
“I dunno, but it sure ain’t for pleasure. Get lost,” I say. He’s too damn perfect. “The purpose of life isn’t just to feel, it’s to act. And if you can’t see that, get lost.”
“Ah, very well. You are but one amongst thousands of billions,” he says without any hesitation or regret. He says it in such a matter of fact way that it kind of hurts my self esteem. “I feel obligated to warn you, I will not be your only visitor tonight. There will be three others.” And he fades away into darkness.
I stand around in the darkness for a bit, waiting. After a moment, another version of me forms. Like Slaaneth, he looks like me at a first glance, but he’s stronger. He’s taller, with bulging muscles too. But he’s still flawed. He yawns, revealing his missing front tooth. And there’s my hideous, festering scar running down his arm. And he’s also missing a tooth.
“Greetings,” he says with a bow. “I am the Changer of Ways and Schemer of Fates.”
“I’m a serf. Yesterday I clogged all of the toilets in five different public restrooms just to piss people off. Sometimes I whack the front bumpers of fancy holocars so that the airbag goes off. A week ago I almost got caught filling an ATM with concrete.”
“Fascinating. Why do you think you do this?”
I can’t think of a good answer. These guys are smart. “Because I am compelled.” That outta show him.
“You are lashing out against the Imperium because you are impotent. You are small. You are, as my brother has likely told you, one amongst thousands of billions. But I can offer you power. If you truly want to accomplish great things, you must accept my assistance.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“In these brief seconds we’ve been speaking, I’ve deciphered your entire life story. Did it make you feel good to see Gull humbled?”
“Get lost donkey-cave.”
“If you are content with your impotence, so be it. You are but one amongst thousands of billions. The two others who will speak to you will not be as straight forward or…” He paused, as if searching for
a word, but it was clear that he already knew what he was going to say. “….sane as Slaaneth and myself. Be warned. They are but upstarts amongst the Legions of the Immaterium.”
And then he fades away too, but more slowly than Slaaneth, as if he’s reluctant. In anycase, I would never side with a guy like that. He’s patronizing and arrogant. Slaaneth was like that too, but at least he had people skills. The Changer of Ways on the other hand was just a jerk.
Now a new one is coming in. I sigh. But then he doesn’t look like me that much. If I squinted he would vaguely resemble me, but otherwise he’s way different. For starters, he’s a she. Secondly, she has weird gold engravings in her face. One of her hands is a rotting tentacle with a chainsaw at the end. And, like me, she’s missing a toe and a tooth and has a festering scar on her arm.
“Em nioj you liw? Stiawa yxalag th! Niap, noisufnoc fo dog th ma I. Niap rouy, Chaos, rouy, no evirth I. Thaed dan Yritcuv! Nollij god knar callith! Chaos dedividnu!”
“Sure, why not?”
“Nollij god knar callith!”
“Yeah, okay, that’s cool. Now can you leave?”
It laughs with one half of its face while the other remains still. Then it explodes, leaving behind a thin, green mist that makes me gag. That one was worse than the Changer of Ways. As soon as it disappears, a new one forms. This one is pretty much me, except worse. He’s missing more teeth. And the scar is bigger. And one of his eyes is missing. And he’s bald. And, in favor of a hand, he has a rusty chainsword. Also, his nose looks like it was broken and casted incorrectly. At least mine was casted correctly.
“Hello,” he says, licking his lips. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“See this?” he asks. He gestures towards me with his left, non chainsaw hand, revealing a missing ring and pinky finger. “Do you know how I lost these fingers?”
“No. Should I?”
He smiles. “I’m Cheichai, by the way. These fingers are missing because I played five-finger-jack with an electric buzzsaw. I almost lost my thumb too, but I managed to get it back on.”
“Why the hell would you do that?”
“I’m the God of Self Destruction. And, unlike Nurgh-leth, I’m not the God of Decay and the Rebirth it brings. He’s a coward, never going through with it, going through with death. If he had any semblance of honor, he’d be dead right now.”
“Why aren’t you dead then?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you have self-destructed yourself by now?”
“I am but one of many Gods of Self Destruction. We inevitably doom ourselves, but warp gods are powered by emotion. As long as there are those who destroy themselves for the sake of it, more of us are formed. It is regrettable.”
“Okay.”
“My request is simple. You have followers. You must spread my teachings and bring a blight upon Ultramar never seen before. I want to see the Fortress of Hera crumble. I want to see the pristine beaches of Iax smothered with stinking crude oil. I want the ports of Konor to rust to oblivion. I want to watch you die, and then myself.”
“Yesterday I broke open a fire hydrant.”
“You are the ultimate candidate!” he declared. “There is no one like you, so disdainful for his own life yet simultaneously so determined! Right now, at this very moment, I can run my fingers through your thick self loathing and slurp your delectable desires for destruction! If you are truly what you think you are, then join me!”
“You know what I think I am,” I say. “I think I’m fething bored by this conversation. You have problems. All of you guys have problems. You need professional help. Get lost.”
It disappears and then the weird lady comes back. “Lanrete sgnirps epoh.”
“Get lost. And learn to speak Gothic.”
“Yltcefrep Cithog Wol kaeps I.”
Then she fades away. This time one half of her face is crying and the other is having a seizure and she’s sneezing; freaky. The darkness is overcome by a blinding light. I find myself lying in my bed. I’ve wet myself. And I hear a faint laughter.
“I find you guilty,” says the Judge. “And I sentence you to…” He reads off a piece of paper. I grin, awaiting my execution. “…conscription into the Penal Legions of Iax.”
“No,” I say. Evidently my crimes haven’t been great enough. Things would’ve gone better if he had found me guilty of the piss thing also. I don’t know how I got off the hook from that. Stupid, incompetent Inquisitors. I snatch a hotshot laspistol from a nearby PDF Officer and turn it towards the Judge. “Sic simper tyrannis!”
A heretical philosopher once said that you only live once, but what you do with your life doesn’t matter because you only live once. His execution is coming up for shooting a judge in the arm and a baliff in the face before leaping head first out of a window and landing on some homeless guy. He plans to make a show at his execution, gaking himself, crying, screaming and kicking. Hopefully he’ll become a martyr in the eyes of his cult. His name is Bo-Bo.
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