RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (Full Version)

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lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (6/30/2010 4:47:16 AM)



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/chapter_eighteen_past.jpg[/image]



Drop out of hyperspace into the Reshe system. S.E Spence and his team busily scan for planetary bodies.

Another lifeless rat hole.

Except for the incoming message on the broad band receiver that the Comms Officer is desperately trying to decipher.

Big screen of jumbled static flickering crazily.

Captain Wally orders the gravimetric survey shut down, pronto.

Scan for neutrino emissions. Find those, find the life forms. Somebody in the system is trying to talk to us.

Twenty minutes later and S.E Spence has got a lock. Empty looking system, not that many places to search.

Reshe 1, a blue gas giant on a 3 AU orbital slot from the G-class sun has an artificial base in close orbit. Signs of activity. Definitely not abandoned.

Comms Officer cracks the code. Message replayed in passable English.



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_pirate_base.jpg[/image]



Alien life forms make first contact. Another milestone for humanity.

A potentially curly moment over who gets to handle diplomatic relations is easily side-stepped. I offer to assume the burden and Captain Wally distractedly agrees.

Apparently, so I’ve heard, a crew member is unaccounted for. Ensign Oates. Missing. Probably stepped out for a while. “I may be some time,” mutters he.

Regardless, it’s none of my business. Let Captain Wally sweat the search. In the meantime I’ll deal with the bugs.

Bugs with big teeth. Very big indeed.

Scaly reptile bugs.

T-Rex bugs.

Dinosaurs existed for eons on earth up until the point where they suddenly died out.

Palaeontologists clearly got that story wrong.

Always had me suspicious.

Humans have only been around for a hop skip and a jump. It didn’t take us long to evolve to the point of space travel. Dinosaurs clocked up an almighty 160 million years of evolution.

You could – if you had a mind to - do a lot more in that time than run around leaving fossilised footprints and piles of poop.

You could, for example, invent hamburgers. Plasma t.v’s. “I love Lucy”.

But why bother once you had figured out Space Ships? Very large space ships. Ones with strengthened decks and enough head room for a towering T-Rex crew.

So much for all those animated reconstructions of late Triassic life.

Dinosaurs running hither and yon, naked, hungry and aggro. Biting chunks out of anything that came within reach. Huge beasts with tiny reptilian brains full of nothing more than primeval instincts.

Supposedly an asteroid took out the lot of them. Changed the climate. A planetary-wide biological failure to adapt.

Might have been the case for a few of them. The dumb ones down the back of the class. The ones who slept through Evolution 101.

The smart ones had left already. Shot through to the stars. Lurking out there in space. Waiting for the hairless mammals to finally get their act together and stumble into the arena.

At which point they rob them.

Pirates.

Isn’t evolution grand? Millions of years spent evolving Tyrannosaurus Rex into an advanced space-faring civilisation and the best they can do is become glorified muggers.

Probably an inbuilt limitation of the reptilian mindset. A Universal Peter Principle in action.

I peer at the crackly image on the main communications portal. Bits of the vid feed keep dropping out but there’s enough there to form an impression. Audio is all computer generated. Converts the bug babble into recognisable sounds.

Dinosaur says he is of the Naxxilian race. Never heard of them.

How the heck do they manage to form words?

Look at the size of that jaw. I bet it has all the flexibility of a block of concrete. Teeth the size of swords. Enunciate the letter ‘s’ and there’d be blood gushing in all directions.

Little gadget beneath their aural orifice must serve as a ‘grunt converter’.

Introduces itself as the representative of the ‘Adarluun Gangsters’. Running a protection racket. Wants payola.

It’s a bit of a mental leap but I understand gangsters and can relate to a predatory, reptilian carnivore.

Captain Wally, unfortunately, stumbles.

“Battle stations! All hands on deck!”

I remind him that his ship has no weapons. Worry about your missing crew member, I reassure him. I’ll take care of the meat eating thugs.

“No, no,” insists Captain Wally. “This is a matter for the High Council. Only they can decide on such matters of interstellar diplomacy”.

That so? And they are here with us to make a decision are they? Perhaps we can tell the angry looking T-Rex on the screen to sit tight for the next one hundred and twenty days while we hyperspace back to Zion, sort it out, and return with an answer.

Or would you, perhaps, like to assume the burden of responsibility and act on their behalf?

Captain Wally, as I suspected, turns out to have the constitution of soggy pasta once the going gets tough. Muttering nonsense about the ‘rules’ and ‘proper procedure’ he slinks back to his command chair and resumes pulling out his hair.



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_adarluun_2.jpg[/image]



Maintaining the initiative I inform the Naxxilian that, as much as we’d like to hand over lots of credits, unfortunately we can do without their protection.

Ask if there is anything else they would like to discuss?

Sure there is. Thought as much.

Gangsters are business-beings. Won’t attack you while there is a chance they can make a buck first.



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_adarluun_1.jpg[/image]



Keep your discoveries and colonies, I tell him. I’m on an Explorer.

Zzzzzzttt! The communications link goes dead.

S.E Spence reports inbound ship from the location of pirate base. Destination us.

It might, I suggest to Captain Wally, be an opportune moment to depart.

I experience a newfound enthusiasm for exploration.

A rare moment of minds, both great and diminutive, thinking alike.




To be continued...

Lancer



2guncohen -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/2/2010 8:20:20 AM)

Wanda where are thou ?  [:D]



lwarmonger -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/3/2010 4:03:19 PM)

Fantastic!  Hilarious AAR.



lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/4/2010 12:34:10 AM)



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/chapter_nineteen_demons.jpg[/image]




I’m squinting. It’s bright. Blazingly bright.

There’s an enormous fiery sun shining through the viewport.

Right next to us. I feel hot just looking at it.

I ask S.E Spence why, oh why, when we drop out of hyperspace, are we always sitting on top of a boiling, throiling ball of nuclear powered gas?

“Need an aiming point”, mutters S.E Spence, distracted by a nearby screen of jumbled numbers. “Pop out anywhere else within the system and there’s a chance we slam into a planetary body.”

I can see that this wouldn’t enhance my already dim prospects of propagating a future line of Emperor Freds.

“Point at the star and we can be confident that there won’t be any bodies that close in.”

Only a star. The largest, meanest object in the system. What about the star?

“Crash into a star?” scoffs S.E Spence. “Never happen.”

Spence taps the screen full of tumbling numbers. “See that? Calculations. I calculate it out. Make sure we come in close but not too close. The fine and noble art of astronavigation.”

Such as it is.



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_sun.jpg[/image]



Captain Wally has me worried.

He is not the man he used to be.

His jet black bouffant of luxurious hair is turning grey. Patches of raw scalp shine through here and there through the mange. I sense stress.

Problem is the paperwork.

The S.S “Lazy Sal” is missing three crew members. As in lost.

Captain Wally – being commander of aforementioned voyager of the stars – is required to account for all his crew. The fact that a number of them aren’t turning up for breakfast isn’t of any great concern. Plenty of others to take their place.

However there are forms that are required to be filled out in event of an unexpected decrease in staffing levels. Naval forms that have a large blank space explicitly provided to allow Captain Wally to explain precisely why his crew members have gone AWOL.

Official Naval Regulations are quite specific as to the allowable excuses that can be used to occupy the blank space.

‘Accidental Death’ for instance is a perfectly acceptable entry as is ‘Died due to sickness’.

‘Haven’t got a bloody clue’ or ‘don’t know where the h*ll they are’ aren’t valid reasons.

Fifteen times has Captain Wally ordered the ship to be searched. Top to bottom. Inside out. All that was found was the personal effects of the men, tousled and in recent use, lying there ‘Mary Celeste’ like.

A mystery. In deep space anything is liable to happen. Who knows what?

Captain Wally’s private quarters are near mine. Lot of swearing going on. Talking to himself.

Felt obliged to speak to the ship’s Medic. Mentioned I was worried about Captain Wally’s mental state. Suggested that procedures may have to be implemented if things worsen.

Told S.E Spence – during our last drug transaction – that I’d heard Captain Wally mentioning an ‘Alien presence’ onboard.

Spence, wolfing down his heart tablets, stared at me wide-eyed.

I nod. Assured him that I was worried too. Locked my door at night. Slept with the lights on. Asked him if he had any spare weapons?

S.E Spence scuttles away to tell anyone who would listen.

Morale plummets.

Time to go home, I whisper to Captain Wally. We’ve done our bit for the empire. You’ll return a hero.

That is, of course, provided your paperwork is in order. Found those missing crew members yet?

Captain Wally lets out a demented howl.

Confides that the forms are haunting his dreams. He is a Naval Officer. These are Naval Forms. They require a correct Naval response. One that he, Captain Wally, is unable to articulate.

The key, says Captain Wally in his hoarsest voice, to command is information. The man at the top must know what is going on in his space ship. You cannot make effective decisions if you don’t know.

I pat Captain Stresso on the back to signify a sympathetic manly response.

Three men, continues Wally, are gone. Are they dead? Missing? Lost? Vaporised?

Captain Wally suddenly lunges for my shirt front and pulls me close. Phew! Instant halitosis overdose.

“What do I put on the forms? I can’t lie. I can’t say nothing. I need a reason.”

Disentangling myself from the worried one I take my leave but not before giving him a big thumbs up.

As in ‘I’m with you Wally’ or ‘hang in there buddy’.

We men have to stick together.

Even though I may not have a full crop of man-plums I’m still at one with the brotherhood.

I feel his pain.




To be continued...

Lancer



Shark7 -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/4/2010 6:12:10 PM)

Evil, demented...ingenious!



2guncohen -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/5/2010 7:19:35 AM)

So did the emperor killed those guys or is there realy something strange happening ? [:D]



tornnight -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/5/2010 6:05:32 PM)

He ate them!



Tophat1815 -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/5/2010 8:01:27 PM)


quote:

ORIGINAL: 2guncohen

So did the emperor killed those guys or is there realy something strange happening ? [:D]



Well before the alien entity took over the emperor it was just talk,now all bets are off........[:D] Or is it?[;)]



06 Maestro -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/7/2010 12:46:02 AM)

Fred! Fred! Fred! Fred! Stomp the bugs!-take the planets! We are with you! Go Fred!

(something really should be done about that Admiral.



lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/7/2010 4:14:16 AM)



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/chapter_twenty_homeward.jpg[/image]



Big news. Found a planet. Human friendly planet.

Three star systems later, mind you.

Need to tell Zion. Can’t send the drone as it’s already gone. ‘Lazy Sal’ will have to hyper space back itself. Whoopee!

Morale rockets sky-high. The five missing crew members, the fights and arguments are all forgotten. We’re going home!



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_curben.jpg[/image]



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_curben_planet.jpg[/image]



Yes we are, says Captain Wally. Just as soon as we conduct a comprehensive survey of the system.

What? Howls of protest throughout the ship. Captain Wally impervious to the onslaught. Insists we have a duty to present Zion with a fully formed picture of the system.

I have my doubts. Captain Wally is simply putting off his day of reckoning.

I can imagine his reception back at Fleet Headquarters.

“Five crewmembers missing? My G*d, man. Call yourself a captain? What did you do with them, flush them down the toilet? Lend them to the fairies?”

Frosty. Very frosty.

So a full geophysical surveying we shall go.

Six long months of visiting every speck of rock or ice within the system. Nothing even remotely interesting. Just six tedious, mind-numbing months of doing SFA because poor old Captain Wally isn’t prepared to face the music.

Morale, tenuous at best, evaporates. Entertainment Officers join with the crew in not caring any more.

Hair styles turn lank and greasy. Beards sprout all over as men neglect their morning shave. Body odour makes a comeback. Certain EO’s sprout alarming amounts of body hair. Gorillas in the mist.

Day to day grooming and concerns fall by the wayside. People focus on the important matters. Like staying alive.

For evil prowls the corridors at night.

People wander down to the mess hall for a late night snack and are never seen again. Off watch personnel travel in pairs. Doors are bolted shut while occupants sleep. Ancient Hitchcock movies have made showering a hazardous activity.

People speak in whispers, crouched in corners. Backs to the wall. Furtive glances in all directions.

Preventative maintenance has long gone. Essential maintenance in hot pursuit.

The ‘Lazy Sal’ rattles and shakes. Lights flicker on and off. Power surges fry so many screens that the ship’s computer has to ration its interface links with the crew.

Most of the good, healthy food is eaten. A faulty refrigeration plant turns the rest into mouldy pulp. Nothing left but emergency goop.

Diarrhoea breaks out and spreads like a spilt bowl of sickly brown broth throughout the remaining crew. Waste disposal system overloads and backs up.

Lower decks forced to cr*p in plastic bags. Rounded up by the med-tech and ejected into space. ‘Lazy Sal’ leaving a trail of oversized doggie bags behind it as it traverses this way and that.

Med tech declares the ship infectious. A danger to all native life-forms. Spreading germs far and wide.

Nobody cares. Captain Wally wandering the bridge in his dirty underpants. Muttering curses. Red eyed.

Agonisingly later, finally – the survey complete - he gives the order to engage the hyper space drive and set a direct course back to Zion.

S.E Spence calculates a ninety day transit.

No applause. No joy. No happy faces. Morale in terminal freefall.

‘Lazy Sal’ blammo’s into the ether and begins its long trek back home.

Chief Engineer uncertain whether the ship will hold together long enough. Certain areas declared unsafe. Off-limits. All but essential cargo jettisoned.

Two weeks later another crew member goes missing. Ship’s Chaplain.

Delegation to Captain Wally. Ship must have an exorcism before it’s too late. Demand that Captain Wally initiates procedures forthwith.

Captain Wally refuses. Exorcism isn’t in the Naval regulations. Besides, the missing crew members will probably turn up soon. Nothing to worry about. Sickly grin.

Mutiny!

One third of the remaining crew refuse to turn-to for their duty rosters. EO’s conscripted to fill the gaps. Ship’s central data core dying a slow death. Nobody capable of fixing it.

Chief Engineer admits that ‘Lazy Sal’ is effectively on autopilot. Will continue on course until it drops out of hyper space. Human intervention not required.

Revolt spreads. More crew confine themselves to quarters.

Captain Wally knocks on my cabin door one evening. Asks that I write a special report exonerating him from any misconduct. How, he pleads, can he be held responsible for everybody that gets lost or goes missing?

Man is clearly at his wits end. Caught in a dreadful bind. Between a rock and a hard place.

I insist that I will do whatever I can.

Within reason.

A Captain should be held accountable for his crew. That’s what Captains are for, isn’t it?

Desperate, imploring eyes. Deer caught in the headlights moments before impact.

Tell him that I’ll highlight his unswerving dedication to naval duty.

Strongly suggest that he pulls himself together. Confront his personal demons.

Mention the biosphere.

Peace and solitude amongst nature.

Ideal place to gain some perspective and renew your energy levels.

I go there often.





To be continued...

Lancer



Igard -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/7/2010 1:56:41 PM)

This is enthralling stuff!! Hilarious, lancer.



lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/11/2010 12:54:26 AM)


[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/chapter_twentyone_return.jpg[/image]



Zion!

The ‘Lazy Sal’ is a sorry sight to behold. But she has been away for an incredible sixteen months, an all-time deep space deployment record.

There is the small matter of the missing crewmembers.

Ten. Whereabouts unknown.

I am convinced that the navy would have treated such an obscene dereliction of duty in an appropriately penal manner. Unfortunately it is now a moot point as the ‘Lazy Sal’s’ grungy, deranged, regulations-obsessed captain is amongst the missing.

R.I.P Captain Wally.

Without an officially designated Captain I was forced to take command of the ‘Lazy Sal’ myself and do what was needed to return her and her remaining crew to safety.

I am, of course, a hero. A bonafide, larger than life, HERO of epic proportions.

A national figure of renown. The Emperor who stepped in when the chips were down. The man who saved the famous gypsy star ship, the ‘Lazy Sal’.

News of a bountiful planet discovered in the distant realms of the darkness of space only add to my achievements.

I am Emperor. The saver of lost crew, the finder of rare planets. A figure of great renown and stature. A beacon for our civilisation.

Admiral Wanda meet us at Zion spaceport. Frowning. Suspicious. Hostile.

I had to remind her that Hero’s require respect and grovelling. Lots of grovelling.

Wanda Witch Woman forced to pin a medal on my chest.

When the pin stabbed viciously into my flesh I made a point of smiling. Truth be told I may have winked as well.

Drove the poor Admiral into an immediate hissy fit. Had to leave the presentation. Visit the powder room. Kick the walls. Knickers in a knot.

Adulation is something that I have experience with.

I handle it well. I know how to work it to my advantage. Milk it to the max.

It was a full week before Admiral Wanda was able to initiate an investigation into the mysterious missing crew members.

Found it difficult. The ships data core had decayed past the point of recovery.

Apparently some b*stard had deliberately shorted the power supply. Probably a rebellious crew member.

My personal recommendation is that examples should be made.

Senior Ensign Spence. There's a trouble maker if I ever saw one.

Luckily I had the foresight to make the only known copy of the core before it died.

Admiral Wanda cautiously grateful for my benevolence. Came back to see me a day latter. Very edgy. Upset.

“Yes, yes”, I told her. “Of course there are bits missing.”

“Bits? BITS!!” she shouts. “Entire days have been deleted!”

Yelling, screaming and general all-round squawking I find particularly unattractive in women.

Decide not to mention it to Wanda. You don’t prod an angry viper.

Pacification is in order. Calm the troubled waters.

“I was forced to edit certain sections in order to protect the good name of the Navy. Sadly Captain Wally was a sorry state towards the end and if word leaks out that Captain Underpants was in command then it would reflect badly on the peoples perception of Naval Standards.”

Narrow, bunker-slit eyes. Coiled hostility itching to strike. Staggers off in high heels.

Orders the ‘Lazy Sal’ to be taken apart. Literally.

Several days later bodies are found. Rotting. Decomposing. Dismembered. Oozing putrid bodily fluids. Disgusting.

Terrible news. I must have conducted a dozen interviews that day.

A visage of distressed anguish. To think that there was a murderer onboard? One still alive this very day. Slowly slaughtering the brave souls that explored so hard for so long.

It was only by the grace of God that I was able to save as many as I did.

Inevitably I was queried as to who the murdering heathen might be?

Naturally, I said in all innocence, the Entertainment Officers could be discounted.

Women aren’t mass murderers.

Pause.

Quizzical expression.

That’s right, isn’t it?





To be continued...

Lancer



Tophat1815 -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/11/2010 6:44:16 AM)

You are good sir.[:D]



Yarasala -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/11/2010 9:18:12 AM)

Somebody made part 21 disappear [&:]

Very strange, that is [:D]



lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/11/2010 11:09:13 AM)

quote:

Somebody made part 21 disappear [&:]

Very strange, that is [:D]


Fixed. I inadvertently mixed up my chapter headings. Had to post in a hurry. Kids were fighting with the kangaroo.

Cheers,
Lancer



Gommer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/11/2010 4:22:37 PM)

quote:

lancer

<snip>Kids were fighting with the kangaroo.

Cheers,
Lancer


[&:] seriously? Let it kick them once, that'll usually drive the point home. Down-side, it's a lot of wear and tear on the offspring...



thiosk -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/12/2010 7:47:08 AM)

you are my hero



lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/14/2010 1:55:37 AM)



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/chapter_twentytwo_honour.jpg[/image]



The Angry Ant – Minister for Building Things – turns up and proudly announces that the keel for mankind’s first colony ship has been laid down at the Zion Planetary Shipyards.

Sturdy intrepid pioneers will journey to Curben-1 once everything is ready.

How many people, I ask the Ant, does it take to establish a colony? I recall that Mars was colonised initially by only a few score people.

“Interesting question”, replies the Minister. “Very interesting.”

I agree that it was indeed of interest.

“Mmmmm”, said the Minister. “Mmmmm.”

I slap the Ant hard.

The Ant’s sole redeeming feature is that he is shorter than me.

Ant recoils. Swears. Threatens.

Waving all the theatrics aside I ask again how many people is the colony ship designed for?

“A sufficient number”, states the Ant, hackles up, all hot air and belligerence.

I point at the blueprint under his arm. Reluctantly it is rolled out on the table and the Ant grudgingly talks me through the design.

Not being a naval architect I nevertheless have a rough understanding of ship construction. Colony ships, I reason, are just bigger versions of Explorers.

The main design criteria would be lots of hold storage for equipment and plenty of habitation modules for the people.

Peering closely I find only a single small hab-module. Perhaps colonisation is a fully automated, robotic endeavour in this day and age?

“No,” replies the Ant, now recovered sufficiently to be taken seriously as a Minister once more. “Lots of people are required. Quite a few actually.”

Right…. So where do all these people live?

The Minister stabs the plans. “Here, here and here.”

But those are…

“Yes, yes. They are Cryogenic Freezer modules.”

Everybody is frozen? But it’s only a three month voyage. Surely they can occupy themselves gainfully in that time?

“Quite,” says the Minister in his most officious tone. “Unfortunately there are a lot of them. More than can be accommodated in the hab-modules.”

How many?

“…million,” mutters the Minister.

Holy smoke! One million colonists. All squeezed into a single ship.

Turns out that the Ant’s Colony Ship is nothing more than a giant fridge/freezer. Bodies are cryogenically snap frozen and stacked on shelves.

According to the impressive looking plans they are carefully positioned with due regard to personal space and proper medical care.

Squinting carefully at the small print I noticed that the blueprints only allow for a frozen human cargo capacity of around one hundred thousand souls.

Extrapolating forwards to the Great Big Number of folk that the Ant is talking about I experience a cataclysmic failure of comprehension.

I’d seen pictures of ancient sail powered slave ships that provided more space for their shackled cargo than the flying fridge. That’s assuming I double the blueprints estimations, let alone times by ten.

Who would have thought that colonisation is such a people intensive process? Why the heck do they need so many?

The mind boggles at the thought of the giant fridge turning up at Curben-1.

It would be physically impossible to defrost everybody at once. Only space for a fraction of the people popsicles to come to life at any one time.

And what would happen then? The first group to defrost would likely take one look at the tightly packed endless rows of human meat burgers and recoil in shock.

Frantically look for an exit and run like hell.

And why would you bother to go to all the trouble to defrost a million gray slabs of meat in order to create an instant population explosion? On a new planet with zero facilities or capacity to handle such a massive instant influx.

Imagine a million people all milling around. Impatiently waiting for their turn at the toilet. Arguing about who is in charge. Trying to find something to eat and drink.

What a nightmare.

I valiantly try once more to visualise the logistical horror of it all but fall short as my mind shunts itself into lockdown in the face of imminent neural overload. It’s too much.

I’m interrupted by the Angry Ant clearing his throat, stamping his feet and generally behaving like the aggressive little bugger that he is.

“The – um – High Council – have – um –“

It appeared that he was experiencing difficulty in vocalising the intended message.

“- asked that you – um – name the Colony ship.” The Angry Ant didn’t quite spit on the ground in disgust at the thought but he came close.

Well, gosh, what an honour. Unfortunately I won’t be able to accept.

The Ant perked up immediately. Admiral Wanda, I’m told, names all the naval vessels. The Merchant Princes name all the civilian ones. Colony ships – of which this was the first – were apparently the exclusive domain of the Ant, Minister for Industry.

But I wasn’t finished. Emperors, especially heroic, man of the moment, Emperors, gain certain privileges. Naming rights for flying fridges doesn’t come close to the required degree of honour.

“Yes”, I told the Ant. “I think that you should name the empires first mighty Colony Ship.” I resist the urge to pat him on the head. “While you’re at it could you also inform the High Council that I have unilaterally renamed Curben-1, which I personally discovered, to – “.

Dramatic pause…

“- FredTopia.”

The Ant spluttered. Short coughing fit. Run out of air. Huge deep breaths. Choking on his tongue.

I waved regally. “Make it so Minister, make it so.”

A turn of the head. A toss of the hair. Important to get it right.

“Dismissed!”



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_fredtopia.jpg[/image]





To be continued...
Lancer



2guncohen -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/14/2010 12:54:43 PM)

Fredtopians ... Poor people :p



Shark7 -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/14/2010 5:55:27 PM)

OK, that one left me rolling in the floor. LOL

[&o][&o][&o][&o][&o]



Tophat1815 -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/15/2010 3:48:27 AM)

I like it![:D]



lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/18/2010 3:08:02 AM)



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/chapter_twentythree_quameno-1.jpg[/image]



One thing you can say about the Palace is that it has plenty of space. Unlike my plasticized hotel horror of a cabin on the ‘Lazy Sal’.

Sixteen months spent wandering aimlessly around space.

Which is, I’ve decided, just like women. Moments of pure excitement sparsely sprinkled within the vast drudgery of co-existence.

There is no ‘Mrs Fred’ for a reason. After your fifth wife you are over it.

None of them could produce a heir. Even lopped a couple of heads off and skewered them on poles in an effort to inspire better performance out of the others.

Didn’t work. Gave up.

There was always the option for a gene-engineered, biolab-derived little fred but how would I know that he was truly mine?

My sorrow at not having a heir is offset by the strong likelihood that any son of mine would likely kill me well before my time was due.

I know this because that’s exactly what I did. Spilt blood stays spilt.

Still, happy, seriously dysfunctional families aside, it’s good be back home.

Son of Igor has a massive amount of reports and intelligence for me.

Told him to thin it out. Critical stuff only.

Sat in my favourite armchair and began to wade through the list. First off was a report about the Quameno.

Ahh. The Toads.

I’d forgotten about them. Given my current exalted status the chances of the High Council impeaching me are negligible. I can afford to cold shoulder the Quameno ambassador.

Despite this it appears that he has requested an audience with me. Strange.

Asking for my help. Desperately needs assistance.

Major Toad catastrophe in my absence.

I quickly scan through the newsfeed extracts.

Apparently there are two main domed Toad Megapolis’s here on Zion. Billions of horny, smelly toads rooting around under each dome.

Cities need power. Big cities, really big cities, need lots of power.

Fast Breeder Fusion Power Complexes. Right next to the domes.

Accident at a reactor. Went critical. Cooked off.

No more domed city. No more swamp. Just a glassy black burn-melt.

Billions of Toads instantly fried to a crisp. Planetary Toad population halved overnight. Toad internal economy in meltdown. Overwhelming grief. Toadie way of life under serious threat.

Well, shucks.

I pen a short note to my secretary – yes, I have an official secretary these days – that I’m happy to help the Toads any way I can.

Please hand the Ambassador a packet of the best biscuits in the palace, compliments of myself.

Then I compose a shorter, more confidential note, to General Huss by way of Son of Igor.

Mention that he may want to look up the word ‘subtle’ in the dictionary.



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_fusion_explosion.jpg[/image]



Whole bunch of reports about Pirates attacking our gas and mining stations on Shudasta.

The Navy has dealt with the situation without raising too much of sweat. Still, the Merchant Princes are getting edgy and have also requested an audience with my good self.

I instruct my secretary that I’d be happy to meet with them before composing a rather curt note telling Admiral Wanda to send an appropriately sized fleet to the Reshe system and wipe out the T-Rex pirate gang forthwith.

That’s right. I tell people to do things these days. I don’t ask or request. I tell ‘em.

The High Council ratified Curben-1 being renamed to FredTopia. Reluctant to do so but overwhelming public support for my small magnanimous gesture eventually pushed them into it.

Won’t last of course. Give it a little time and I’ll be just another Emperor.

Heroes need to keep doing heroic things to maintain their status. Right there is the reason that most heroes tend to have short life spans.

I’m happy to settle on being a temporary hero. Once the gloss wears off I’ll think of something else.

Important thing is to make the most of my power surge while it lasts.





To be continued...

Lancer



fvianello -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/18/2010 9:58:07 AM)

Great :)
Cannot wait for the next chapter!



lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/21/2010 1:43:44 AM)



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/chapter_twentyfour_power.jpg[/image]



Big argument. High Council deadlocked. Guess what? Emperors have the deciding vote.

High Council reluctantly handball it across to me. Probably hoping to terminally sink me into the mire of disagreement and disharmony.

No sweat. I’m a past master at dealing with the curly ones.

Happy to step up to the plate and show the people who’s really in charge on Zion. A man of action and decision, that’s who.

Conference room at the Palace. Minister for Industry, Chancellor, Prime Minister and Admiral Wanda on one side. Merchant Princes on the other.

Crux of the problem being that the Merchant Princes have expanded their mercantile empires far and wide and are demanding Imperial protection.

Other side of the table complaining that civilians shouldn’t be allowed to wander hither and yon without supervision. Protection for such a dispersed spread of interests next to impossible and outside of budgetary constraints.

Lot of hoo-har. Admiral Wanda staring red-shift lasers at me.

I bang the table and called them all to order. Make sure my best profile is showing to the hidden camera.

I ask for a diagram.

Wrapping your head around the geography of the issue I’ve found, from past experience, to be an essential starting point.

Also highlights the importance of the chairperson. Me.

Complicated holo-display pops up. Mr Squiggle on a bender. Can’t make head nor tail of it from my position at the head of the table.

Order the tech to simplify it. Look again.



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_argument.jpg[/image]



Mankind has spread it’s wings. Literally. Like a giant space-going condor flying towards the galactic core.

Lots of changes since I left.

A new colony on Camparas-1, our home system. Only 14 million humans but, importantly, it’s racially pure.

Not a Toad is sight. A template for the future.

Fredtopia, positioned on the left wing tip, is scheduled for colonisation. I ask the Angry Ant to confirm the progress of the Colony ship being built her on Zion. Use my most commanding demeanour.

Live Vid-footage streaming to all major news outlets. None of the participants are aware of this except myself and Zorg.

Zorg suggested it. Organised it. Insisted that the people’s Emperor could do a better job of resolving the issue than an out of touch, stuffy old High Council.

Of course he could.

Zorg. Fine man that.

Met him in private yesterday. Very satisfying to find a fellow traveller who understanding of certain important issues transcends even mine.



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dossier_zorg.jpg[/image]




Felt that we had things in common, could work together.

Zorg assured me that he spoke for the other two Merchant Houses, Hydrus Group and Vulcan Enterprises.

Yes, of course he did.

I cornered both CEO’s as they entered the palace just to make sure.

What do you know? Turns out Zorg is a greedy, egotistical b*stard with nobodies interests at heart but his own. Neither CEO could stand him.

Nice to know that I hadn’t misjudged the man.

Vulcan Enterprises is – according to Son of Igor – the second largest merchant house in the realm.

Run by a stiff.




[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dossier_vulcan.jpg[/image]




Hydrus Group is the baby of the three.

Son of Igor assures me that there is no connection between Sir Donald and the reptilian pirate crowd out west. Purely an unfortunate coincidence.

Guy sounds more fun than most but essentially a fairy fluff lightweight.

Interestingly both CEO’s are knights of the realm whereas Zorg is an upstart commoner.

Never did go much on royalty.

The civilian muscle clearly rests with Zorg Industries. Biggest and meanest.




[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dossier_hydrus.jpg[/image]




Back to the holo-map. Shudastra system at the tail of the Condor provides many of our strategic resources.

Zorg have a couple of hard rock miners in-system as does Vulcan with a single gas miner. Lot of freighter traffic running between Shudastra and Zion.

The Adarluaan Gangsters, based in Reshe have been consistently hammering Shudastra, targeting Vulcan’s S4 Gas Miner.

Admiral Wanda interjects to assure everybody present that all incursions have been summarily dealt with by patrolling naval frigates.

Yes, thank you Admiral Wanda.

I turn to the camera and raise my eyebrows. Women, huh?

The reptiles on Reshe can be expected to target FredTopia once it is established given their proximity. Obviously priority action needs to be taken here.

Admiral Wanda opens her dainty mouth to speak but I wave her aside. Point to the holo-map. First Fleet, which I specifically ordered to be tasked with removing the Reshe reptile pirate base, appears to have hyper spaced right past and is headed for the Curben system.

Deep frown. Dark face. Ominous music cued by the hidden tech controlling the Vid-feed.

“What on earth is going on here?” I demand, staring pointedly at the Admiral.

Who is wearing a skirt. Who the h*ll ever heard of an Admiral in a skirt?

Wanda witch woman jumps to her feet. Points her ring embellished fingers at poor old Sir Donald. Accuses him of establishing an unauthorised gas mining venture in the Curben system necessitating First Fleets protection.

Didn’t obtain a permit. Didn’t ask the Navy. Just flew off into the wild black yonder without telling anybody and now wants his hand held.

Camera shifts to Sir Donald, CEO of the Hydrus Group, as he rises to his feet and thunders that without the Merchant Houses and their resource development there would be no empire. The Navy, he states, is duty bound to protect us where-ever we choose to go.

Softens his tone, cracks a smile and adds that there will be a cocktail party afterwards and that all present are invited. Aims a lascivious grin at Admiral Wanda.

Zorg and Sir Cedric leap to their feet. Demands protection for their mining interests in the Shudastra system. Apparently all that is left is a lonely wimpy escort. Everybody else has saddled up and ridden out of town.

Perhaps, I suggest, the Navy isn’t pulling its weight here?

Admiral Wanda glares at me, refusing to rise to the bait. Chancellor Chuck steps into the breach.

“Might I say that our Imperial Navy is doing a superb job with the limited resources at its disposal.”

Say what you want, Chuck, it doesn’t change the fact that they have dropped the ball.

Striking a suitably statesmanlike pose for the camera I suggest that the problem here – the proverbial elephant in the room - is management.

“The Navy”, I’m convinced, “is hampered by an inadequate command structure.”

I notice Admiral Wanda rolling her eyes. Hope the camera caught it.

“What is needed,” I continue in a more conciliatory tone, “is a Fleet HQ more attuned to the needs of the private sector. After all, without them we wouldn’t have an economy or a lifestyle, would we?”

“Maybe,” snarled Witch Wanda through gritted teeth, “if we had more frigates we could better pander to the civilians.”

Chancellor Chuck interjected. “That’s an honourable suggestion by the Admiral but unfortunately our economy can’t afford any more. If the civilian sector were put under the authority of Fleet HQ none of these problems would have occurred.”

“What does the Navy know about business?” demanded Zorg. “Would you have us ignore the potential of the Ombara system because the Navy isn’t prepared to send a frigate? Is our fledgling empire doomed to stagnant and suffocate from a lack of resources?”

Stick it to ‘em, Zorg.

But what’s this about the Ombara system?

News to me. I peer at the holo-map again. It’s way out on the right hand wingtip.

There is an explorer lurking nearby. An Imperial explorer.

Here I was thinking that the ‘Lazy Sal’ represented mankind’s sole hope for the future. Apparently not. Must of got tired of waiting. Built another. Sent it eastwards.

Check my ComLog. Recently lobbed its drone back to Zion. News of a habitable planet.

Note attached from the Minister for Industry. Can’t afford a second colony ship at present. Not enough resources. Establishing a foothold on FredTopia remains the main priority.

Just as well.

Almost time for my afternoon nap. I move to wrap it up.

“Well it’s been an invaluable exercise in resolving our differences.”

The heck it has, but who cares? Chin up, shoulders back. Demonstrate a commanding presence for the billions watching.

“I think I can speak for all of us here in saying that having myself provide oversight to Fleet HQ and all construction activity will only serve to benefit the Empire.”

Eyebrows shot up from one end of the table to the other.

Zorg nods approvingly. With my hand concealed by the table edge I signal to the tech to cut the transmission.

The High Council, the Angry Ant and Witch Wanda will just have to wear it.

Emperor Fred, for all intents and purposes, is officially back in town.




To be continued...

Lancer






2guncohen -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/22/2010 8:54:59 AM)

Life of a dictator euh ... I mean emperor is hard  [:D]





lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/25/2010 5:04:07 AM)


[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/chapter_twentyfive_sendoff.jpg[/image]



Here I stand.

Official speech.

Lob the champagne bottle against the side of the ship. Wave to the crowd.

Hoo-rah.

The “Elusive Solace”, mankind’s first interstellar colony ship, is hereby launched.

Massive. Towering over me. Gleaming shiny metallic surface. Sunglasses barely handling the glare factor.

Band strikes up. All done and dusted. Ceremony over, I shuffle off the stage.

“Elusive Solace” my *ss. More like the S.S “IKEA”.

Had a look inside prior to the ceremony.

Ten – count ‘em, TEN, not one - million flat-packed frozen humans crammed into every spare inch of space. Cargo bays full of robots, stores, goods, building materials.

Everything you need – in one neat hyperspacial container – to construct your very own instant colony.

Amazing.

Still can’t get my head around the concept. The sheer scope of it all is beyond my comprehension.

Head full of wild thoughts.


Yes sir, drive to the planet of your choice and ask the wife to help you drag the ‘zippo-instant-colony-in-a-box’ out of the boot. Be very careful you follow the instructions now.

Lots of bits. More bits than you can count.

Once you and Ethel have laid out all the components on the ground – separated of course into neat piles - Machines and robots over here. Stuff there. Squishy grey human popsicles over yonder, then take five.

Have a coffee. Kick back. Peruse the manual.

Colonies are wonderfully complicated, integrated wholes. Everything depends on everything else. Very technical.

That’s why the manual is so big. Give it to Ethel. It’ll keep her occupied.

While she is busy reading the slab of instructions, wander over to the pile of frozen people and zap the nearest dozen with the yellow defroster gun.

Give them all a shovel and tell them to get on with it.

Your job is now done. You have started the process. Order will eventually overcome chaos. Structure will evolve from anarchy.

Locate the fine Scotch whisky. In the container marked “Property of Colony Commander”. Pour both yourself and Ethel a generous tipple.

Set up a chair with a good view of your fledging colony. Arm yourself. Your function at this point in proceedings is to motivate.

Anyone stops digging then shoot them. Shoot the lot. Slackers have no place in your new Utopia.

Defrost another dozen. Ask them to bury the first responders. Motivation in action. Watch those shovels blur.


The really scary part about the whole exercise is how they managed to convince so many idiots to submit to being turned into a grey meat burger and haphazardly stacked on a shelf jammed in amongst all the other clueless frozen idiots.

Reminds me of time I took a chainsaw to an elephant at a zoo – meaningless macho politics of the day - and then tried to put it all back together again. Didn’t work.

Even allowing for the lack of frozen parts and a distinct absence of rigidity I was still p*ssing into the wind. Some things just aren’t meant to happen.

Perhaps they have better quality glue these days but I still can’t see how you can snap freeze ten million bods and expect them to function as a team post restoration.

Especially when they are all first class nongs. You’d have to be to submit yourself to that.

Unlike the inter-system shuttle service to Camparas-1, the voyage time from Zion to FredTopia is three months. Still no necessity for cryogenic treatment but space is the issue.

Give everybody a cabin and some room to roam around and you’d squeeze a thousand, tops, into the ship. Snap freeze them followed by a very aggressive rack and stack and you can, apparently, jam in the full ten million.

Sadly there isn’t room for all the medical niceties that are normally associated with cryogenic status. No monitors, no tubes, no nothing.

Just a really good instant iceblock job that’ll keep them stiff, hopefully, until arrival.

Secret is to turn off the heating while in transit. Saves fuel.

Keep what’s frozen on ice.

Not so much that they’d stop breathing but just enough to flat line their metabolic rate for a while.

Lot of risks involved. Different body types require different temperatures.

Have to go with the mean.

Not everybody is expected to survive the trip. Those that do could experience trauma and major organ failure upon revival.

Luckily there is a lot of redundancy built into the system with such a large number of passengers.

Another reason why there is no food on the ship. Where would you put it? People eat an enormous amount.

Once at FredTopia it is expected that there will be two sources of sustenance available to the colonists. Food which they forage or grow themselves and a lot of surplus frozen dead people.

So go find yourself a tasty flower or chew through some poor b*stard’s rump.


* * *


The Minister for Industry was in charge of procuring the required number of willing colonists.

Given the horrendous conditions and the dubious future that awaits any lucky individual chosen as a pioneering colonist certain adjustments had to be made.

The Angry Ant obtained a dispensation from the High Council in order that he could overlook certain human rights matters in the interests of mankind’s future and the greater good.

High Council piously reassured itself that it was a necessary expedient and that any future colonisation effort would be conducted on a more professional basis.

I could tell that the Angry Ant wasn’t happy with his role. Not at ease. Uncomfortable.

Being asked to do things that no Minister of State should have to. Furtive eyes flickering this way and that. Attempting to dissociate himself from the grubbiness of it all.

There was a selection process.

Only the finest were chosen.

Those with the skills and aptitude required. Those between certain age bands. Those who had particular levels of fitness.

Which meant everybody.

Provided you could breathe and were demonstrably human then you had a guaranteed berth.

Advertisements full of blissful, beautiful colonists residing in luxury staterooms washed through the media of the world.

FredTopia was portrayed as something akin to the Garden of Eden with desirable men and women frolicking through the meadows. Inferences abounded of the untold wealth and leisure time that awaited the chosen few.

Anyone who called the enquiry line was invited to view the colony ship.

A studio mock-up of course. Waltzed through a pre-programmed performance, bombarded with subliminal suggestions and given cocktails heavily laced with happy pills.

Ask to sign an acceptance form. Who wouldn’t?

Immediately whisked away to subterranean holding pens. Never seen again.

Stripped and snap frozen en-masse prior to the day of departure.

Shunted back to the surface. Conveyored onboard. Racked and stacked.

Frozen naked stormtroopers awaiting their chance to push back the frontier.

Mankind’s wobbly, dangly future.

The Angry Ant grudgingly assured me that FredTopia would be colonised on schedule.

But it wasn’t going to be pretty.



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_flat_pack.jpg[/image]



To be continued...

Lancer



thiosk -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/26/2010 9:55:04 AM)

Colonization.

Its a dirty business.

Interesting how fred has seized full control of the government, fleet, expansion, and soon-- research, most likely.



2guncohen -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/26/2010 3:34:49 PM)

I loved this last update  +1rep





Tophat1815 -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/27/2010 5:02:04 AM)

The man is pure evil genius........or else he's my former boss! That you Fred? whew,glad that boy is off planet for sure.Just don't anyone tell him where earth is! 



lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (7/28/2010 10:13:52 AM)



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/chapter_twentysix_mystery.jpg[/image]



November, 2755. Fine year. Good harvest. Girls. Lots of girls.

Zorg stepped into the breach and made sure I was accommodated. Steady supply of soft cuddly secretaries. I churn through a lot of paperwork these days.

Admiral Wanda informs the High Council that a drone has returned from the newly refurbished ‘Lazy Sal’ telling of an independent human colony in the newly explored Sapilla system.

Didn’t bother telling me.

By an unfortunate coincidence my name was left of the notification list.

No matter. Son of Igor long ago hacked the Wanda Witch Woman’s computer and I have a direct feed anytime I desire it.

Knew all about it even before the High Council.

Told Zorg. Who told Sir Donald of the Hydrus Group. Immediately fired off a message drone ordering the Hydrus Happy Gas Miner to beeline to Sapilla.

Merchant Princes determined to establish a business foothold in any new system even before the diplomatic niceties have been taken care off.

High Council dragging its feet. Discussing the ramifications of a second human presence in the galaxy.



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_sapilla.jpg[/image]



Very intriguing. Who are these humans? Where did they come from, Earth?

That semi-mythical planet that was then suddenly isn’t?

Surely mankind derived from a single evolutionally seed. Could it be that Earth is only one of many offshoots?

Is mankind a weed that has spread throughout the galaxy, rampant and noxious?

Where does this leave me?

Am I content to be Emperor of only one tribe of humans or should I aspire to lead all of humanity, where ever it may lie?

Interesting questions that deserve serious contemplation.

Something that I won’t be bothering with. I’ve tried meditation and navel gazing. Once. Gave it the full five minutes. Nothing happened. Waste of time.

Figure it out on the day is more my style. Grab the initiative by the short and curlies and run with it. It’s all about momentum.

Drone message texts indicates that we would be well received by the inhabitants of Sapilla. Occupy a desert moon. Estimated to be only 16 million of them.

Well shucks. Why don’t we send of another boat load of Zionists to help them top up their moon?

In fact we could forgo the expensive bait-advertising campaign and instead empty out our prisons. Dump them all on Sapilla.

The locals won’t mind. Probably be happy to see them.

Anybody who has been isolated on a desert moon for eons would surely be pleased to see a new face. Ten million convict colonists would doubtless make their day.

If nothing else it’ll keep them occupied until I, Emperor Fred, am in a position to bring them safely under the protection of my benevolent wing.

I dictate a quick memo to both the Minister for Industry and the High Council.

“In my humble opinion….”

Stress the need to populate or perish. Paint a happy picture of a Zion with the worst criminals and reprobates permanently removed.

Mention that if there is a shortage of resources then Admiral Wanda may have to wait a little longer for her extra frigates.

Tell Son of Igor to give it a day and if there is no positive response then release the memo to the press.

While my political capital slowly fades with the High Council I’m riding high in the saddle with the general public.

The man who discovered FredTopia. The Emperor with the vision and the drive to colonise it. A fresh face – albeit somewhat wrinkly – of decision and action.

High Council aren’t viewed favourably in contrast. To conservative. To stodgy. To boring.

Admiral Wanda still stirring up more trouble than one woman should have a right to.

Attempting to subpoena me. Cranking up a big enquiry. Serial murder investigation. The mystery of the ‘Lazy Sal’.

Made a number of pointed remarks that I was a ‘person of interest’.

Nonsense.

I released a statement emphasising the lack of proper command onboard the explorer. Crewmembers free to do what they want, when they want. Half of them drugged to the eyeballs. Crazy stuff bound to happen.

The Navy, I stated, needed to take a close look at itself. Procedures and doctrines need overhauling.

Carefully drop the suggestion that none of this would have happened if there was a man in charge.

Standards have slipped. Gone all wishy washy. Limp wristed and feminine.

Reminded everybody of my unofficial capacity as a one man Naval Oversight Board. Inferred that there should be changes. High Council resisting.

Called for Joe and Jill public to petition their local representative. If half the population request my esteemed self take over the navy then a referendum must be held.

Current status is unacceptable. Admiral Wanda running amok and taking not a lick of notice of my wise counsel.

A clear imperative for change has arisen.

While fending off Witch Wanda I take every opportunity available to morph the dialogue towards the other main issue of the day.

Don’t bother petitioning if you’re a toad. Strictly human business.

Appeared on numerous vid-casts in front of assorted talking heads. Discussed the Toads.

Expressed my sympathy for the sudden demise of the second toad Megapolis. Shed the odd crocodile tear.

Suggested that perhaps it might be time for the toads to move on. Find their own planet.

Naturally they are welcome to stay but as the human population grows there is less space and a greater demand on available resources.

And who wants to live next to a Toad Megapolis? Not when they have a bad habit of going KABOOM!

As the toad-induced fusion fireball blasts through your front door what are you going to tell the children?

Toads can’t be trusted. Too busy reproducing to bother taking the time to properly understand advanced and dangerous technologies.

Toad copulation is not only disgusting it’s going to get us all killed one day.

Outside the Palace I hear a sizeable crowd gathering.

Rent a crowd actually. Zorg a very resourceful individual.

Stamping of feet. Waving of arms. Chanting. Shouting. Building to a crescendo.

Zion for humans. Zion for HUMANS! ZION FOR HUMANS!!!



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_protest.jpg[/image]




To be continued...

Lancer



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