RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (Full Version)

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lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/19/2010 1:08:05 AM)




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




What if I start the war and nobody turns up?

Third Fleet is fully operational. Four Destroyers, two Cruisers and a troop carrier. Poised to strike. Second Fleet refuelled and in position.

All good. S.S “Lazy Sal”, the Empires most renowned explorer, busily ferreting its way westward along the spiral arm. Moving fast. Hitting systems one after the other. Brief stop, quick scan, keep moving.

Only interested in one thing. Apes.

Received a drone indicating they have found a sole Ape explorer poking around a nearby system but no sign of an Ape colony. Annoying. Can’t start the war if there is nobody to fight.

Ordered all of the Empires Explorers westward ho. Go find the Apes or die trying.

Informed by a pompous naval officer that there aren’t any other Explorers. Lazy Sal is it. Sunny Sue gobbled up by a biological.

Build some more! I yell at the twit. Jeez, sometimes I wonder why I bother. Can’t even give him a kick up the bum. Legs still not tamed. Probably trip over if I tried. Undignified.

Analyst tells me what I already know. Icky Apes must lie further along the westward spiral arm. Can’t be to the south. To much emptiness. Besides, we have a deep space monitoring station in position. Anything creeps out of the void down that a ways, we’ll know about it.




[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_sitrep27590712.jpg[/image]




FredTopia, the western most extremity of our empire, assuming strategic importance. Ordered the construction of a small space station. Slow. Not enough steel in system. Need to be freighted in. Shortage of civilian shipping.

Zorg complaining he can’t build any new tonnage ‘cause the navy are monopolising the shipyards. Has a point. Keels for Zorg Trucker Four through Seven laid down. Plus a passenger ship. Zorg opening up new markets. Going to bus tourists in to watch the Apes get waxed for all I know.

Asked the Emperor’s Man on General Huss’ flagship to confirm the destruction of a certain rusty Escort. Happened to be passing through the area.

Unconfirmed. That’s what he said. Unconfirmed.

What the h*ll? A space ship either is or isn’t. Esorts only carry so much Caslon. Run out of the stuff after a while. Can’t go far. Especially when they were scheduled to go BANG last month.

Second Fleet tracked right through the target zone. Scanned the whole damn area. Not hard to locate an unidentified Escort or bits of what used to be one.

Unconfirmed means I may have an Unnecessary worry. Leech on the loose.

Had Son of Igor run time and distance projections. Leech can’t have left the area. Rusty Escorts don’t come equipped with cloaking technology. Destroyed two of Zorg’s freighters. Combat uses a lot of fuel. Only nearby habitable planet being FredTopia. Colony would have picked up a stray ship’s signature.

So where exactly is the crazed one? If Zorg talks to the Leech I’m toast. Can’t happen. Give it a few weeks. If I can’t track down the Leech I may be forced to Pearl Harbour Zorg.

Don’t want to. Not sure if I could. James Wong, my handpicked super spy and ninja accountant, currently incommunicado. Gone deep. Go where-ever you want fella just get me some useable intel.

Icky Apes Explorer has left the Dispayri system. Sniffing its way around the fringes of the empire.

Fired off a message asking if they would be kind enough to sell us a map of Ape Land. Stressed I’d like to come for a visit. Shake hands with the head Ape. Enjoy some fine Ape hospitality.

Apes appear to have learnt a few words of English. Starting with the easy ones. Like NO.

Not even news from Sol can cheer me up. Colonised the scrappy little desert moon there. Existing population thrilled to see the folk from Zion. Cult worship of strange deities. One of them looks a lot like me. Legend of the Seeker all over. Spooky.

Sent a present to their new Emperor. Over seven thousand credits. Open invitation to visit. Keys to the planet. Huge party planned. Feel compelled to worship their Emperor up close.

Whoopee.

Did them a favour. Renamed their little home. All those acres of flat red and ochre dirt. Seasonal icecaps. Generously cratered. Reminded me of Mars. Told the palace cartographer to call it ‘Kansas’.

Hope they like it.




[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_colonies_27590712.jpg[/image]





To be continued...

Lancer



lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/22/2010 4:38:34 AM)



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



Aures -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/22/2010 6:49:56 AM)

Noooooooooo...ooooo...ooooooooo!!!!!!....!!!!!...[X(]

Oh well, look forward to reading more when the official scribe is done greasing the right palms. Smashing stuff this AAR.



vonboy -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/22/2010 6:53:11 AM)

I shall let my master know. He will not be amused.

We'll be waiting, all of us. all of the trigger happy emperers. [:@][:D][;)]



torrenal -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/23/2010 5:54:40 AM)

(Don't mind me... replying to posts at the bottom of the page, and I'm just assuming it's the last post in the thread... silly me)
//Torrenal



thiosk -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/25/2010 10:10:19 AM)

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

seriously i check this thread twice a day



tornnight -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/28/2010 2:51:31 PM)

I also read this thread constantly



2guncohen -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (10/4/2010 7:14:02 AM)

Where are You ???



thiosk -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (10/8/2010 4:38:04 AM)

ughnnn i can't take it anymore, need more fred

Chapter something or other

"hai i'm emperor fred. blather blather. screw toads and women" said fred

"motgher moonz is bno place for u" said whats her name

"haha enjoy the death troopers and 30 regiments lolzzzz" said fred

"why so seriousssss" said leech

"oh **** whose this gai" said whates her name

"bang. emperor fred saves the day" said fred

"mother moon declares huuuuuge orgy" said whats her name

to be continued


Its just not the same :(



Mundy -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (10/8/2010 12:50:17 PM)

I think Lancer's AAR has singlehandedly convinced me to get this game.

Probably after my trip next week.

M-



princep01 -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (10/15/2010 2:24:38 AM)

One gets the nagging feeling that the blood spatter pattern on Chapter 41 may be that of our beloved emperor and his scribe. Those awful amazonian moonies, me thinks.



thiosk -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (11/15/2010 1:11:40 AM)

*twitch*



lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (11/26/2010 10:56:07 AM)



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



To h*ll with holidays. Exercise in futility.

When your interest in women revolves solely around how well they make your cup of coffee there isn’t a lot to be said for spending extra time in their presence. Who needs to be reminded that you have bionic legs and enough free space in your trousers to breed rabbits?

An Emperor on the up and up hasn’t got time for frivolous pursuits. Time is of the essence. Especially when your allotted three score and ten lifespan has been stretched so far that you feel distinct ‘twangs’ every time you draw breath.

Nevertheless I’ve been vacationing. Enforced vacationing.

Rattling around the bridge of the Destructo Fleet flagship. Nothing to do. Waiting on a drone back from our explorers indicating the presence of Ape planets.

Waited and waited some more. Got bored. Annoyed everyone around me. Pointed suggestion made that a break would be in order. Reluctantly agreed.

Shuttled back to Zion. Stomped into the travel agency – the special one reserved for Emperors. Told them to send me somewhere interesting. Followed up with the Freddo Death Stare. Heavy emphasis on ‘interesting’.

Instant swarm of flunkies. Duelling tape measures clash in close proximity. I drop kick a couple back to where they came from but they keep coming. Full five minutes of out-of-tune bionic lunges before they eventually all buzz off and leave me to the concierge who offers me a stiff drink of an exclusive beverage known only to the cultural elite and rats.

Something that tastes that bad must be big with rodents. I can imagine them all clustering around a long tall glass of the liquid and competing to tell tall tales and true of rat-life. Probably take turns at p*ssing into the glass. Froth it up a bit.



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




Handed the rat juice back to Mr Temporary and politely queried when I’d be departing for places more interesting than where I was currently standing.

Glanced at his watch. Two minutes. Starts to fawn. Beginning to get an inkling of his future trajectory in life. Realisation gradually dawning that his Emperor ISN’T HAPPY.

Razz-Copter arrives. Mr Temporary insists on personally acquainting me with the controls. Stabs a button. R-Copter auto configures around my awkward and decrepit frame. Snug fit.

Wave away the sycophant. Tired of his pleading eyes. Mental note to whack his family at the same time. Bad genes there. Shouldn’t be allowed to propagate. Hoick them out of the ground, roots and all.

Whoosh! Deep humming sound and a pleasant vibration. Off I go.

Straight through the rear shop window. Wrap around armoured cocoon takes care of business. Clear the building with difficulty. Stagger into free air space. Had to make some elbow room. Squad of elite, R-Copter mounted, Pursuit troops fall into formation around me.

Captain appears to have slaved my R-Copter into the formation. Wise move. Some collateral damage back there. Broken windows. Broken flunkies. Blood and glass a wicked mix.

Clear the urban boundary. Switch to ground hugging mode. Heads up display showing rapidly changing terrain contours. Impressive. All for show of course. Captain’s got the helm. Could be fun if I was still a teenager.

Which I’m not. What I am is bored. Moving fast. Whipping over trees and bushes. Sliding over hills. Bored.

Right up until the Captain pointed out the Toad. Hopping frantically away from our tangential approach vector. Red arrows on my HUD highlight the weapon controls. Formation realigns.

Flankers funnel the Toad into my kill zone. Captain places me at the apex of the V. Tip of the spear.

Targeting reticules converge on the slimy amphibian. Toad jigs right. HUD says it’s a female heavy with child. The best kind. Reason why it’s moving at the pace of a snail with a Zimmer frame.

BAMMO!

Toad suddenly short one leg. Fancy weapons system allows me to selectively target individual body part. R-Copter banks hard right. Swing round to find the Toad flopping about in ever decreasing circles. Green slime oozing from the hindquarter stump. Gunking up the dirt.

Signal the Captain a big thumbs up. Let’s go find another. Lean into the turn. Dissipate the G forces. Zoom off.

R-Copter has a rear mounted camera. Watch the Toad try to hop one-legged as we jet exit the neighbourhood. Not doing so well. Satellite feed kicks in once the high-powered optics loose their clarity.

Captain informs me over the ‘com that Toads can last a good few days without a leg. Slime full of coagulants. Wound seals off quickly. Not being able to hop gets them in the end. Can only crawl so far on your belly. Even the toughest leathery hide rips eventually.

Try throwing sharp rocks at your expensive lounge suite. See how long it lasts before you are knee deep in stuffing.

Close down the feed. Let nature take its course. Dead Toad crawling.

Strange that I don’t have the same visceral urges towards the Icky Apes. Probably don’t know them well enough. To be fair they haven’t yet tried to de-leg me. Give it time.

As much fun as hunting down Toads in the agile R-Copter is I have high hopes that zapping Apes from the deck of a Starship might be even better. What you lose on the in-your-face personal point of view you gain – hopefully – in effect.

Not certain of the numbers but Starship weaponry should be able to industrially cleanse whole regions of Apes. Zap ‘em by the tens of thousands. Vaporise them, toast them, fry ‘em or perhaps even plain old blow them up into itty bitty little pieces of hairy ape flesh.

Bound to be some fun in that.




To be continued...

Lancer



Igard -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (11/26/2010 12:52:05 PM)

Yay! The forums' favourite sociopathic, xenocidal emperor is back! [:)]



thiosk -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (11/29/2010 9:05:23 AM)

YES.

BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN



lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (11/30/2010 6:08:05 AM)


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



Confidential Report to StarFleet Command dated 2759.11.03

Report Received from the Captain of the Zorg Heavy Lifter Three while conducting cargo operations in the Omgal system. Emergency message drone from ZT3 arrived in-system only yesterday. Drone verified as genuine.

Recovery vessel commander, upon an initial viewing of the drone contents, took it upon himself to bypass normal channels and instead transmitted directly to StarFleet HQ Ultra secure data core via encrypted relay bouys. His initiative is to be commended.

Message given OMEGA classification upon arrival. Full security protocols …




Yeah, yeah. Son of Igor has flagged this for my immediate attention. Picked it up this morning on his usual trawl through Starfleet’s DataCore.

Naval *ssholes refusing to place their trust in their Emperor. Officially I’m still being given the mushroom treatment. If Witch Wanda ever resurfaced they would bind to her like glue. Probably rally around like she was the second coming.

Fortunately molecular Wanda bits are currently outbound to various systems on assorted shotgun trajectories. You can’t glue what you can’t find.


“Herman Von Billsburger the Third is my name, Captain of the Zorg Heavy Lifter Three inbound to Omgal 2, a barren rocky planet with abundant reserves of Lead.”


So Herman the German humps Lead back to Zion. Good for him. Why do I need to know this?


“Seven long years have I been rendezvousing with Zorg Rock Splitter Five, a mining base orbiting Omgal-2. SEVEN long years of taking a full cargo of Lead and transporting it to Zion. Here we load fresh food supplies and a relief crew for Splitter-5 before dead-legging back to Omgal.

During this time I have carried out my duties and obligations as Captain to the best of my abilities. I have had only four weeks leave to visit my family throughout these seven long years. My requests for additional leave have not been granted due to a shortage of replacement personnel – so I have been informed.

My wife no longer bothers to write and my children have apparently forgotten me. Such is my isolation from all matters family that I am uncertain as to whether I am my children’s biological father. I mention this merely in passing and in no way does it lessen my dedication to the organisation.”


I’m detecting a hint of rebellion here. Herman has had the honour and privilege of striving for the good of the Empire and his Emperor for seven distinguished years. So why is he complaining?

Anyway, the obstreperous little b*gger works for Zorg. His problem. How do I fast forward through this waffle?


“Three days out from Splitter-5, inbound, we were hailed by a strange Starship that did not correspond to any entry in our recognition manual. As we are unarmed and slow afoot I made the decision to engage in communication with the unknown Starship in the hope that reason and logic would prevail in the place of brute force.

I abhor the use of violence and the very reason I joined Zorg Corporation as a freighter Captain was an intense desire to live an upright, peaceful existence. To do good. To share a philosophy that revolves around sensible beings interacting in a sensible manner. Violence, in my experience, only begets violence. If our race is to prosper and thrive in a multi-sentient galaxy we must learn to walk down the road of reason.”


Herman, Herman! Where have you been? What mind altering drugs has Zorg been feeding you?

Strange Starship? Ahhhh. Getting to the interesting part. Herman the German meets the Alien. It appears that Herman is uniquely equipped to convince any fret-faced bug that we are nothing more than a race of loveable wimps.

Ten to one odds that Herman is a corpulent white slug slithering a well worn groove between cabin, bridge and toilet. Zorg has force-fed him who knows what, left him there to rot and as a consequence poor old Herman has metamorphosed into a frightened human blimp.

Who unfortunately happens to be the first point of human contact with an unknown Alien race. I don’t have to read any further to see where this is going.

Herman meets Alien. Alien eats Herman. Declares Herman tasty. Signals back to Cannibal HQ to fire up all available Starships and make a beeline for the nearest ‘McHuman’ planet.

That’ll be ten billion Homo Sapiens with fries, thank you. Easy on the ketchup.

Probably gobble their way to the very gates of Zion before they’re stopped at great cost to life and treasury. All because the first human they happened to meet looked like a pasty white hamburger. An individual who was happy to assist in his own bug-induced mastication and subsequent digestion just as long as it was ‘peaceful’ and ‘harmonious’.

Grinding my false teeth I flip through big chunks of text.



“…contact made….appeared friendly….visual feed blocked…language barrier minimal…asked to met in person… agreed to accept visitors onboard Zorg Heavy Lifter Three…meet at airlock…green skinned…”


Green bugs! I knew it. Couldn’t be anything else other than a deep pukey shade of green. Unwritten law of the Universe – bugs are always coloured green.

And why, oh why, is ‘I’m-a-tasty-morsel’ Herman inviting green, goggle-eyed Bugs onto his ship? Aren’t there rules against this? What if they passed on a virulent and contagious bug virus? What if the bugs manage to sneak off with the ship’s DataCore?

Of course, once onboard, the bugs will chomp through everybody in sight. Suck the ship dry of useful information, leave big steaming piles of human DNA-laced bug dung in the empty corridors and then ‘bug off’.

Leaving good ‘ole Emperor Fred with a huge problem. Hungry, man-devouring bugs armed with full knowledge of our Empire, Military and Technological capabilities.

Must remember to send my condolences to Herman’s next of kin. If Herman the Third has screwed up this bad who knows what Herman the Fourth will be capable of?


“…initiative diplomatic endeavours…friendly…put at ease…tour of the ship…mustered ships crew…physical contact…warm…surprisingly warm…brought own drinks…party...”


Herman has thrown one last party before levering himself down the chisel-toothed alien maw of death?


“…more physical contact…dancing…enjoyable company…answer questions about our empire…things…sorry…very sorry…things…they did things to me…awful, terrible, WONDERFUL things!!!

I’m – and the entire crew – are abandoning our ship….joining with the aliens…final report….bye”


Jeez. What am I supposed to make of this? Makes no sense.

None at all. Until I enhance the blurry picture that Herman attached to his report.




[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/sirens_1.jpg[/image]




Green-skinned cannibalistic bugs posturing as Miss Universe 2759. Nasty. Copulate with their victim and then gobble him up while he is lying there fat, flaccid and happy.

Peering closely at the picture I fail to see the fanged sawtooth incisors but I know that they’re there. Hiding. Probably retractable.

Siren bugs. Easier to devour an inert, satiated victim. Eating humans that thrash and wriggle on their way down probably only gives you indigestion and heart burn.

Icky Apes to the West and Siren Cannibal Bugs to the East.

Life is getting complicated. I ask Son of Igor to give me an overview of the strategic situation.




[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_sitrep27591201.jpg[/image]





To be continued...

Lancer



thiosk -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (11/30/2010 9:31:36 AM)

[&o]

Seriously, it could be a book.



Galahad78 -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (12/1/2010 8:57:30 AM)


quote:

ORIGINAL: thiosk

[&o]

Seriously, it could be a book.


Even a TV series!! [:D]

Great return!!!!!!



thiosk -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (12/2/2010 6:35:48 AM)

quote:

ORIGINAL: Galahad78


quote:

ORIGINAL: thiosk

[&o]

Seriously, it could be a book.


Even a TV series!! [:D]

Great return!!!!!!


It should come on right after the walking dead



lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (12/5/2010 8:40:13 AM)



[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/chapter_forty_four_diary_1.jpg[/image]




The most striking feature of life on FredTopia is, undoubtedly, the stench.

Open sewers, unwashed citizens and rank piles of maggot-infested garbage.

I find myself confronting the daily olfactory assault without the aid of quality perfume. All gone. Like every other form of luxury that we knew back on Zion.

Instead of a life of culture and society I find myself knee deep in squalor and stink. Yesterday, heaven forbid, I even had to hang out the washing. Generations of noble blue blood breeding and privilege have ensured that no member of the Donald Dynasty has ever had to stoop so low.

Sadly the help available is of such a poor standard that they are best referred to as ‘hindrances’ rather than servants. Sir Donald has plenty of credits but nobody appears to want any of them, would you believe?

Goods are apparently bartered. FredTopia doesn’t even have a bank. Upon our untimely arrival we have been reduced to the same low level of drudgery as everybody else who lives on this accursed planet. Here we are with pockets full of thousand credit notes and they are useful only in a manner I dare not describe.

Every morning I’m compelled by necessity to walk to the markets. Stepping over my fellow colonists who are as liable to be blind drunk on home made concoctions as they are to be rutting like desperate beasts in the muddy gutters.

It is a sorrowful sight to behold. I fear that even our lowliest servant back on Zion had a better standard of living than Sir Donald and I have here on FredTopia. At the very least they had the advantage of superior plumbing. Poor Sir Donald is forced to squat over a bucket when nature calls.

Which it does often. Hygiene amongst food handlers is non-existent. The weather doesn’t help. Constantly raining.

I can confidently predict the weather on any day of the year. Rain.

We’ve been here for five months and I’m yet to see the sun. I doubt that it exists. Nothing but endless precipitation, damp, and an insidious mouldy slime.

Humidity ensures I am constantly perspiring. Deodorants non-existent. Sir Donald whiffier than a polecat on heat.

Vegetation grows like a weed in a hothouse. Except trees. Hundreds of years old they tell me. Magisterial Miasma oaks reaching for the heavens. Staple building and heating material. As our population increases I fear that one day not a tree will be left standing.

Sir Donald himself forced to take up with a crude axe in order that we have a roof over our head.

At least there is a semblance of authority in town. Daily hangings in the main square. Colony Administrator forced to take drastic measures to ensure the rule of law. Talk of a local government forming. Sir Donald put up his hand for a position but a lack of interest from the proletarian rabble stopped all talk of reform.

The only thing of people’s lips is war. All but essential imports are funnelled into the growing military presence on the planet. Regularly I see squads of armed, jackbooted men patrolling the streets.

Conscription of all those males between eighteen and forty has commenced. Rioting in the streets at first but soon squashed by the black-decked storm troopers from Zion. Besides, those that don’t want to fight can easily run off into the wild.

Which being the most dangerous probably a moot point. FredTopia does not take kindly to the decimation of its natural heritage. Have I mentioned the zip-bears?




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




I fear, dear diary, for Sir Donald’s state of mind. All he can talk of is the Emperor and Zorg. He holds neither in high regard. Quite the contrary in fact. Blames our dramatic fall from grace on them both.

Which is right and proper. Zorg nothing but a money grubbing megalomaniac. Not of royal lineage. No class. No style. A ruthless capitalistic monster that devours all in his path.

And the Emperor, dear diary? What am I to say? Met him once at an official function back on Zion. Horrid little man. Looked more like a ghoulish wax works dummy than a living, breathing person. Something wrong with his legs. Kept bumping into people, spilling their drinks. Manners of a common street thug.

Sir Donald huddles over his miniComs module at night, endlessly fiddling with the controls in the eerie lube-tube glow. Drawing energy from the sole civilian solar generator that powers the colony.

Why on earth they thought that a solar generator would work on planet where it rains for ten months of the year and drips off the trees for the other two is beyond me? Barely manages to eke out a few hours of erratic, insipid electricity each evening.

Headphones prevent me from hearing much but he came to bed with a smile last night. Mumbling something about an old friend being in the area.

When I asked if this friend was in a position to provide us with clean soap and reliable, round-the-clock electricity I received a queer look for my trouble. Best not to broach the subject again. Head up, shoulders back. Soldier on.

In closing, dear diary, I must say that for all of our difficulties, lack of facilities and proper help, we are both in rude good health as a result of our constant physical exertions. Sir Donald looks like the man I married all those years ago and I know for a fact that his womanising days finished the moment we arrived on FredTopia.

Difficult for any man to get excited over we greasy, flea-bitten females.

Nor has it gone unnoticed that Sir Donald moves with an intensity and purpose these days that was not in anyway apparent prior to our arrival. There is a steely, unfamiliar glint in his eyes. I hesitate to even consider the thought, but I fear that the dark genes lurking in the very lowest roots of the Donald family tree may be coming to the fore.

Never mentioned in polite company is the sordid history of dreadful old Digby Donald the First. He who leveraged a small family fortune into a palm-greased passage up into the ranks of nouveaux nobility all those hundreds of years ago.

Dirty Digby wasn’t a ‘successful shoe merchant’ nor does the family motto, ‘Datum Intereo Ferreus’ translate to ‘Spread joy throughout the world’ as Sir Donald blithely told me on the sole occasion that I had the temerity to ask.

For I know my Latin. ‘The Donald’s Die Hard’ is a much more appropriate saying for a Dynasty founded on vengeful Piracy. The only shoes Digby wore were ones soaked in the blood of hapless crews butchered for their luxury cargoes.





To be continued...

Lancer







Snowpeople1 -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (12/5/2010 12:55:25 PM)

Great timing! and so happy to have another chapter of Fred back, thank you Lancer!



thiosk -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (12/6/2010 2:46:54 AM)

Oh the sad life of a colonist.

Squalid beasts, the lot of them.



lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (12/9/2010 12:38:58 AM)



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




Yawning, I command my legs to stretch, succeeding only in knocking over a row of chairs. My hand absentmindedly attempts to scratch a part of my anatomy that is no longer present.

Daily briefing session. Boredom incarnate. Endless talking heads and fancy holo-slide presentations. If it wasn’t for the need to assert my authority over the machinery of Empire I would have done away with such nonsense months ago.

Don’t even listen to what I’m being told. Not interested.

Not necessary either. Empires, in my humble experience, tend to have a life of their own. Tick over nicely, thank you very much, if left to do their thing. Too much interference and before you know it the engine has stalled.

Step in and make a decision about something and next time it crops up everybody is standing around, slack in jaw and blank in face, awaiting your judgement as if it’s the Sermon on the Mount rather than using their own common sense and getting on with the job.

Still, I pay attention to the people. What they tell me is irrelevant. How they tell me is highly informative.

Nervous, agitated individuals are either the bearer of bad news or are standing on a hidden lump in the carpet with a big silly grin on their face. These are the people I sit up and pay notice too. The broken cogs in the machine.

The Starfleet HQ representative nothing but a shaken bottle, fizzed full of anxiety. There is a haze of oily smoke surrounding him. Always a bad sign. Being the arthritic tiger that I am I automatically pounce on the hapless admiral.

All about the Icky Apes. Starfleet tasked with tracking down the nearest Ape infested system along the western spiral arm. Destructo fleet fuelled and ready to go. General Huss on standby in orbit around FredTopia as the second prong of the pincer attack.

Aforementioned oily Admiral inferring that everything going to plan.

Bollocks.

Look how his feet are tap dancing up and down the stage. Asked him how many years have we been looking for the Apes?

Three years, says he.

Neat little dance step he has there. Eyebrows starting to twitch.

How many Imperial Explorers do we have dedicated to the task? Only one, it seems. Currently returning to FredTopia to refuel. Twitch, twirl, twitch.

Once again my lightening faculties of higher mathematics pays off. One minus one equals three fifths of b*gger all.

I refrain from commenting on the haze of grey smoke surrounding the Admiral. Jeez. Hundreds of daily briefings and these tossers haven’t yet figured out that the Emperor always gets the nervous Nellie. Evolution isn’t cranking here.

So exactly how many systems have we searched?

Lots, my Lord, says he. Sweaty twitches breaking out all over.

One solitary Explorer, currently bingo on fuel, dedicated to the task. Found nothing. Wow. When I yelled at them to ‘FIND THE F*#*@# APES!” three long years ago I obviously didn’t make my intent or expectations clear. A measure of ambiguity crept in.

Seventy two months later and Admiral Oily here has the temerity to say that they ‘misunderstood’ my instructions.

I don’t even bother with the social niceties. Times such as these aren’t good for my blood pressure. Definitely not good for my, apparently, delicate and vulnerable psyche

Sighing, I reluctantly take care of business.

Do I feel better? Did that scratch the itch?

Not really. Blatant incompetence nothing but a trigger. Sends me back to times past. I revert. My iron self control revealed for the soggy marshmallow that it is. Animalistic urges overriding my normal civilised, cultured persona.

Shouldn’t, but there it is.

A procession of dubious head-job doctors have warned me of the consequences. To much of the latent aggression and I’ll frizzle my brainpan, they inform me. Deep breathes, I’m told, are the secret. Lots of deep breathing. Otherwise you’ll end up with a reputation.

Well, gosh. I’ll just have to live with the stigma.

Step over the bloodied, dead Admiral and shirt-front his 2IC.

Show me a map, I demand.

Maybe the Apes are someplace else? Maybe they’ve packed up and left. Checked themselves back into the zoo.

Broken cogs need fixing. I’m the fixer.

Order five new Explorers. Entire flotilla to flood the Western Spiral arm. Saturation search. Do it properly. Apes bound to be there somewhere.

Explorers ordered to conduct full system surveys from now on. No more quick scans and then off to the next system. Obvious that once we find the Apes that they are going to be a decent distant from FredTopia, our nearest system.

Going to need a staging base somewhere to the West of FredTopia. Instruct the greasy, grovelling 2IC to colonise the first suitable planet and prioritise the building of a space port. Once that’s done General Huss can rebase his fleet.

Forget the dual fleet pincer strategy. General Huss can ride into town first, bang the Apes around and hold ground until I can arrive directly from Zion with the biggo baddo destructo fleet to deliver the coup de grace.

Yes, I know. No need for such extravagance.

All I need is a refuelling ship tucked away in an isolated cloud of gas. Do the job just as well with minimal expense. Don’t need flunkies or tame robots to tell me that. Knew it already.

Emperors – smart ones - always need a plan B. What if the Apes turn out to be tougher than initially thought? What if the Apes decide to bite back?

That’s why the new colony – essentially just a supply depot and military outpost, a trip wire – is going to have a full suite of deep space sensor arrays tacked onto its star port. Plus a whole lot of grunts with guns running around the boonies.

Cover your rear.

When your front has been Toad-blasted into reproductive heaven that’s sensible advice.




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




To be continued...

Lancer



thiosk -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (12/9/2010 5:12:11 AM)

Oh yeah, ****s bout to get real yo



lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (12/12/2010 3:22:48 AM)



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




Finance.

Top of my agenda this fine morning.

Hoo-bl**dy-rah.

Two cups of coffee, a shot of vodka and a rub down from a team of nubile assistants haven’t managed to raise my enthusiasm for the subject to the necessary levels of engagement.

Nonexistent would be more precise. Don’t want to know. Aren’t there whole departments full of flunkies to take care of this mental mogadon?

Talk to me about accountancy, cash flow and balance of trade and my neurotransmitters instantly power down.

The Imperial Chancellor, Chuck to his mates, is today’s funmeister.

Here I sit on my throne, morosely staring at Chancellor Chuck as he methodically works his way through his warm-up routine. Pages and pages of numbers. Charts. Graphs. Monotonic delivery.

Wouldn’t have put up with it if I thought it wasn’t important. Chuck only visits when there is an issue.

Chuck is here in front of me now, rabbiting on in accounto-geek, so clearly there must be a problem.

If there was a worse way to start your day I wasn’t aware of it. Forewarned I would have hit the juice last night. Confront the onslaught with a hangover and blurry vision. But, no, Chuck arrived unannounced, bless his little tree-loving, geeky self.

Hope he remembers not to hug me. Bye bye Chuck. I’d miss our little chats.

I lean forward a touch. Give him some room to slip his arms around my back. Put a doleful expression on my face.

I’m nothing but a tortured, twisted soul, badly in need of love. Help me, Chuck.

I quietly hum a tune. “I’m just a soul whose intentions are good, oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood…”

Chuck fails to take the hint. Rattling on about our Imperial bank balance. Not what it should be. Struggling. Taking on water. Sinking.

Points to a particular item. Squinting hard I read ‘Troops’. So we happen to have an army. Empires need armies. What of it?




[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_budget_27510113.jpg[/image]




Too many troops, replies the sanctimonious Chancellor Chuck. Can’t afford them.

I keep the squint. Direct it at Chuck. Said I appreciated his advice on matters Military.

Ratchet up the squint a few notches.

Chancellor – ‘I’m a military genius’ – Chuck at pains to point out that he appreciates my appreciation. Adds that I appear to have the situation under control and that further advice from his good self probably not needed at this particular point in time.

Furthermore Chancellor Chuck assures me that, one way or another, he’ll find the money to pay for my wonderful, highly capable armed forces forthwith. Leave it with me, says Chuck, bowing deeply before exiting stage right.

D*mn. All I wanted was a hug.

Left alone I contemplate my navel and clear my mind of the massive dump of accounto-geek that Chuck left me with.

For a short interval. An inadequate five minutes.

Before...

Chancellor Chuck reappears. What the …?

“Emperor, I have solved your financial conundrum”

Didn’t know I was in one. Not sure I'd know if I was. Nevertheless, fast work Chuck.

“I took the liberty-“

Bad words, those. Nobody takes liberties with their Emperor. I sit up and square my shoulders. Use the opportunity to loosen my holster.

“-naturally,” continued Chuck, unperturbed, “I acted solely in the spirit of your express wishes”.

Something wrong with this picture. Five minutes prior Chuck was a grovelling sycophant. Now, mysteriously, Chuck has a full charge of confidence.

“I have accepted, on your behalf, an offer of a trade agreement with the Aredos Renaissance,” continued the, now smirking, Chancellor.

Did a deal with the Cannibal Sirens without my consent? Does not compute. Surely Chuck knows he has bought a ticket on the fast train to h*ll? Must do. I peer closely at Chuck. Strangely, it doesn’t appear to bother him.

My fingers tap, tap, tap the carved wooden arm of my stupendous throne. My wimpy Chancellor has always acted as a smart wimpy Chancellor. It is unlikely that he has decided to commit suicide-by-Emperor. Most unlikely.

Sudden behavioural changes, from past experience, are harbingers’ of stormy weather. Turning points that need to be acknowledged and investigated.

Frowning, I quiz my all-to-confident Chancellor. “And you did this on your own initiative?”

“Yes, my Lord. I did, of course, consult with the relevant people prior to taking any decision.”

Eyeballing me. Body posture all thrust and challenge. Take me on, Chuck appears to being saying, I’m here. Ready.

Tap, tap, tap. Stormy weather? I sense a hurricane bearing down. “Who, exactly,” I pause for effect, “are these people?”

My Chancellor casually flicks a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. “Only Zorg, my Lord.” Hair out of the way, our eyes lock.

Ahhh. Chuck, disloyal flake that he is, has switched his allegiance to Zorg. The unspoken inference being that if I take on Chuck, I take on Zorg.

I realise that the entire mornings conversation with my Chancellor has been nothing but a tightly choreographed performance. Zorg and Chuck must have stitched up a deal with the Cannibal Sirens weeks ago, communications lag and all that.

“I managed to get a copy of their Empire map at the same time,” states my traitorous Chancellor. “We know where they are.”

And they now know where we are. Well done Chuck.

So Zorg has wrapped his greedy tentacles around my Chancellor. The Empires financial affairs are no longer in my control.

Not, I stress NOT, an acceptable state of affairs.




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





To be continued...

Lancer




crazyguy -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (12/15/2010 10:26:11 AM)

Very good story...

Now I am waiting for the next chapter as much as for the expansion...

First one who says something about patience will be shot, hanged, stabbed, feeded to the sharks and killed!



lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (12/16/2010 2:39:12 AM)



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





Moving right along.

Time for my favourite briefing. ‘Colonies of the Empire’. Reports of progress from each of the multitude of Imperial outposts.

Love it. All the sparky, tacky bits of useless information that I don’t need to know but which I’ve specifically asked to be told.

The machinery of Empire in motion is what’s wrapped up in these endless parcels of trivia. Reminding me that I, Emperor Fred, run an EMPIRE. A growing, expanding EMPIRE.

Telling me that I’m a terribly important individual recklessly spray painting my tag all over history. Overwriting all those lesser, forgettable personas who are nothing but dreary footnotes bobbing hopelessly in the surface scum of the backwaters of time.

Not me. I’m the man who redirects the river of history. Dams it, funnels it. Bends it to my will.

Farmer John on planet Noname plants a crop of beans?

I made it happen! Emperor Fred caused it to be! Without my drive and direction there wouldn’t be a colony on planet Noname nor would there be humans like Farmer John there planting crops.

No sir, it all came to happen because I made it so. I, Emperor Fred, ruler of the known Universe.

I close my eyes and lean back in order to better appreciate the ‘Colonies of the Empire’ weekly report that Son of Igor funnels into my thrones inbuilt audio feed.

Endorphins delicately saturate my cortex in anticipation of the feelings of power and control that always accompanies such moments.

It’s too much. I feel the rush. The buzz. Suddenly lurching forward, I punch the air and shout my own name till my voice goes hoarse.

‘I AM the Emperor!

More. Louder! I rough ride the blood surge, hard and fast.

Bow down and worship me all ye heathen b*st*rds!

I’m slamming fists into imaginary opponents. Pumping the power.

'For I am FRED and Fred Rules!!!’

Yeah! I yell and holler some more. Life affirming goodness.

Juiced and exhausted, I slump back into the leathery embrace of my throne and thumb the audio feed. Go ahead, baby, knock me out.

Zion

Marshy swamp moon. Zillions of people. Occasional stray Toad. Major tax contributor. In fact 93% of all the Empires taxes are derived from Zion. Corruption running at 11%, chewing into our revenue.

Who is diddling the Imperial Treasury? Zorg?

Business is booming. Children are a laughing. Birds are a chirping. Tourism a growth market. Making big bucks from the glassy smooth black bottomed lake where the fusion reactor blew. Call it the Toad Pool of Deep Reflection. Declared it a national treasure. Millions of tourists happily stand on lead-lined platforms and stare into the inky, radioactive depths. Free to reflect on how their Emperor saved them from Toad-a-Gemmon.

Urban legend has it that failure to throw coins into the Pool results in a visit from one of the feral Toads still at large. Drop by for dinner. Discrete pictures adorn the area of the aftermath of a Toad deciding to stick around for dessert.

I wanted legless children doing the big spurt but was persuaded otherwise. Picture of big bellied Toad hopping off into the distance instead, with Mom asking ‘where’s Timmy?’

Not as effective but does the job.

Makes a tidy dollar and ensures that whenever a remnant Toad puts his head up somebody is there to kick it in.

Summary: Humming.

Conson

Continental planet. Lots of people. Most of them not native Zionists. Empires best source of Carbon Fibre found in the Redstone hills out west. Fully robotised mine extraction. Terribly efficient. To dangerous for humans. Tried and failed. Fibres chew through their lungs. Four battalions of Shock Troops maintain order in the capitol and ensure the Fibre mines are pest free.

A certain level of residual unpleasantness but nothing more than what you would expect from a bunch of colonial hicks with aspirations bigger than their shoe sizes.

Summary: Under Control.

The Mother Moon

Desert moon. Fair number of whacko females with weirdo hairdos. Imperial edict preventing them from emigrating. Or visiting. If you’ve got orange hair and attitude then you stay right where you are on your miserable little rock and sand-pit moon.

Empire’s sole source of Silicon located in the remote Namboo dessert. Extremely productive. Off planet contractors handle everything. Can’t trust the carrot-tops.

Two battalions of Rangers run interference wherever needed. Spent the last couple of years busily replanting carrots.

Having problems of late. Crazy women fighting smart all of a sudden. Adapting. Hitting hard then going to ground. Doing damage.

Trooper Williams captured recently. Found at time of last report. Middle of an empty desert. Scalped. Castrated. Eviscerated.

Alive but not very forthcoming with information. Couldn’t talk. No tongue. Couldn’t write. No fingers. Local commander had him send Morse code via head nods. ‘She’s back’. All he got. Useless.

Disposed of Ranger Williams immediately afterwards. Bad for morale to leave him breathing.

Rangers walk tall and look the world right in the eye. They stare down at you from wall posters looking big, bad and mean. Failure to stand up straight at morning muster without your feet getting tangled up in your intestines is an outright insult to your fellow Rangers. Not being able to top yourself only makes it more pathetic.

Dealt with.

Summary: Growing insurgency. Additional troops requested.

I would have nuked the place ages ago if it wasn’t for the Silicon. Mindful of my turncoat Chancellor, I reluctantly agree to a doubling of troop numbers. Double their tax rate at the same time. H*llcats can contribute to their own subjugation.


Kansas

Another desert moon. They love me. Hold an ‘I love the Emperor’ day once a month. Much frivolity and good will. Petition to have me visit. Thirty million signatures and counting. Want me to bless them.

No minerals. No troops. No worries. Happy little vegemites.

Summary: Blissed out.

Note to self. Send the clone for a state visit. Work the crowds. Milk the love. Raise their taxes.

FredTopia

A blossoming paradise. My pride and joy. Once they iron out a few of the inevitable growth kinks I’m seriously considering relocating the capitol.

Memos from Zorg complaining of several missing freighters in the vicinity of FredTopia space port. Asking that it be investigated without delay.

How can you lose freighters? They aren’t marbles that accidentally roll down the nearest plughole. Come on, get real, guy.

Probably nothing but a nefarious corporate tax dodge.

Zorg not top of my pop list anyways. So he's misplaced a few frieghters? Lose a few more. Feel the pain.

B*st*rd.




To be continued...

Lancer



thiosk -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (12/16/2010 7:51:52 AM)

You know, the problem of "too many troops" would resolve itself if someone could track down those icky apes.



lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (12/19/2010 5:30:03 AM)


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




Sent the word.

James Wong, super spy and major budgetary sinkhole. Times up. Two years on the job. Give me the goods or get out of town.

Asked to meet. Refused.

Demanded his presence at the Palace. Ignored.

Threatened to put him on the Empires Most Wanted list. Right up the top next to the feral Toads.

Reluctantly agreed.

On his instructions, I initiate a total Palace lockdown. Clear out all non-essential personnel. Son-of-Igor placed in charge of all automated security devices. Mapped out an entry pathway that minimises the risk of visual contact.

Waiting for Mr. Wong, I steel myself. Can’t stop my bionic legs from thrashing around. Damaging the furniture. I hate to admit it but I’m suffering from acute p*nis envy.

Young James doubtless everything that I’m not. Fit, athletic, charming, debonair and handsome. Probably busy humping his way through my secretarial pool at this very moment.

Once upon a time I, too, was an agile, smooth-skinned, Alpha male.

More or less.

Attractive women threw themselves at me.

On occasion. Usually when ordered to.

And yes, I could leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Tallish.

Nowadays I would – if I’m being brutally honest – best be described as an aging Lego construct. Bits keep falling off. The only thing Alpha about me is the notable Absence of various body parts.

Nevertheless, here I am. Five hundred plus years old and still breathing. In charge of the greatest Empire in the galaxy. Beat that, Mr. Wong.

Knock on the door. Muted announcement. My super spy has arrived.

Bet the handsome b*gger is wearing a tailored suit. Hope he remembered to zipper up.

Hello….?

No bespoke suit. No blow-dried hairdo. No tanned, muscled limbs. No clear blue eyes. No polished, gator-skinned boots.

Nothing but a blob in a hover-chair.

A shapeless, limbless blob with flickering red optical implants for eyes. Cables running from an ugly, protruding neurocortal pod at the rear of his skull plugged directly into the chair’s hub.

D*mn. My ultra-expensive super spy is in worse condition than I am. Secretaries probably thought he was a stray lump of floating bio-garbage.

Voice synthesiser. He – it – can’t even vocalise. Jeez. I’ve been conned. What’s he been spying on all this time – the rats down at the local dump?

‘Not what you expected?’

Huh? Sound bouncing off the walls. Difficult to pinpoint an origin. Static. Heavy distortion.

‘You have requested that I investigate Zorg and the Zorg Industries.'

Robotic tinge to the words. ‘requested’ more a ‘ree-q-u-eee-s-t-eee-d’. ‘It’ and Son-of-Igor likely to be bosom cyber-buddies.

‘Zorg Industries datacore security extremely thorough-‘

Course it is. Son-of-Igor couldn’t crack it. That’s why I hired you. Thought Humint would have a better chance. Didn’t realise I had put the robo-blob-from-h*ll on the payroll.

‘-but I have managed to data mine their peripheral cores and have highlighted certain correlations.’

The blob’s twin red orbs must be picking up on my sceptical manner via a facial recognition module. Compelled to explain himself.

‘Certain irregulaties of interest have been isolated.’

Not sure if there’s a human in there. Doesn’t sound like it. I glance at the document in the mini-holo screen before me.




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




‘Note the Apes have a trade balance of Five thousand credits with our empire.’

Yep. Saw that. So?

It takes me a moment or two. Age my only excuse.

Oh. Who is trading with them? More importantly, how are they trading with them if we don’t know where they are?

‘Zorg Industries monopolises the black market trade between FredTopia and the Ikkuro Sovereignty.'

So Zorg, cunning schemer that he is, must know where the Apes are. We’ve been searching high and low for them for three long years and he hasn’t said boo. Not only that he has been trading with them behind my back. From the pride of the empire, FredTopia, no less.

That, my friend, is treason.

How best to leverage this revelation will take some careful thought. In the meantime I glance at the blob. Costing me big buckeroos. Admittedly got the dirty on Zorg, but two years? Time for a reassignment.

The blob, I inform him in my official capacity as Spy Master, is hereby tasked with infiltrating the Ape Empire.

Blob shuffles around in his hover-chair. Not sure if that’s a head nod or sideways shake. Hard to tell.

Anyway, off you go blob. Dress up as an Ape and roam around. I’m sure you’re the right entity for the job.





[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_blob_1.jpg[/image]





To be continued...

Lancer




crazyguy -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (12/22/2010 3:05:52 PM)

Good one +1



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