Re: Grand Battle S3G1! (Round Two: The Great Battlefield)
05-29-2011, 12:46 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
The first man he’d shot had turned a dark, sickly green. The sort that might look good on a portlier gent, especially if applied to a more ornate ensemble—something with a cape maybe—but not really something he could get behind.
He had the man—corporal something-something, a replaceable sort—show him how the gun was taken apart and put back together again, which gave him a basis enough to fiddle around and see how it worked and how it could work better. The conclusion he came to was that it shouldn’t work at all, and therefore couldn’t really be altered, except for a few aesthetic tweaks.
That would have to do. He could get rid of the green at least. It was a little too… Saint Scofflaw for his tastes. That was a terrible name, what had he been thinking?
After about ten minutes crouching under a rock playing with Corporal Something-Something’s gun, he fired it once more at his only ally (except possibly for Kerak—where had that dinosaur gone off to?) and immediately the boring green number turned to a fetching yet practical Royal Stewart plaid outfit, complete with kilt and knee-high socks.
There was something very Braveheart about it, and of course that had been his intention. He approved.
“Corporal!” he barked. “What is your name and rank and whom do you serve?”
The plaid soldier saluted and responded, “My name is—“ blah blah “—and I am a corporal serving you, sir,” as though he had rehearsed it (which he probably had).
“Not anymore,” he growled, aiming the gun at his own head. “Your name is now Scottie Gibbs, the Alfalfa Male. That is both your name and your rank. You serve me, yes—“ he fired the gun and immediately sprouted a flannel bandanna, “—and I am now to be referred to as THE TARTAN TYRANT, COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE PLAID PLATOON!”
Scottie Gibbs, the Alfalfa Male, seemed as though he were considering mutiny for a moment, but then a higher programming kicked in. “Yes, sir, Commander Tyrant, sir,” he proclaimed. “May I have my gun back, sir? You have your own.”
“Yes I do,” said the Tartan Tyrant, with satisfaction. “I have three, in fact.” He had one gun slung over his back and another hanging from each side of his belt, ruffling his kilt. He felt beautiful and untranslatable. The Tyrant gave Gibbs his gun back and sounded his barbaric yawp. “ARE YOU READY TO FUCK UP THE MILITARY-INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX, ALFALFA MALE GIBBS?” he yawped.
The Alfalfa Male seemed confused by this. “The doctors said my Military-Industrial Complex could only be managed through medication, never cured, sir!” he explained, after a pause. “But… I believe in you. God dammit, I believe in the Plaid Platoon!”
“YEEEEEAH!” yawped Tartan.
“HELL YEEEEEEAH!” yawped Gibbs right back.
Without needing to be told, the two men of action leapt over the rock and onto the battlefield. For freedom. For glory. For the Plaid.
The first man he’d shot had turned a dark, sickly green. The sort that might look good on a portlier gent, especially if applied to a more ornate ensemble—something with a cape maybe—but not really something he could get behind.
He had the man—corporal something-something, a replaceable sort—show him how the gun was taken apart and put back together again, which gave him a basis enough to fiddle around and see how it worked and how it could work better. The conclusion he came to was that it shouldn’t work at all, and therefore couldn’t really be altered, except for a few aesthetic tweaks.
That would have to do. He could get rid of the green at least. It was a little too… Saint Scofflaw for his tastes. That was a terrible name, what had he been thinking?
After about ten minutes crouching under a rock playing with Corporal Something-Something’s gun, he fired it once more at his only ally (except possibly for Kerak—where had that dinosaur gone off to?) and immediately the boring green number turned to a fetching yet practical Royal Stewart plaid outfit, complete with kilt and knee-high socks.
There was something very Braveheart about it, and of course that had been his intention. He approved.
“Corporal!” he barked. “What is your name and rank and whom do you serve?”
The plaid soldier saluted and responded, “My name is—“ blah blah “—and I am a corporal serving you, sir,” as though he had rehearsed it (which he probably had).
“Not anymore,” he growled, aiming the gun at his own head. “Your name is now Scottie Gibbs, the Alfalfa Male. That is both your name and your rank. You serve me, yes—“ he fired the gun and immediately sprouted a flannel bandanna, “—and I am now to be referred to as THE TARTAN TYRANT, COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE PLAID PLATOON!”
Scottie Gibbs, the Alfalfa Male, seemed as though he were considering mutiny for a moment, but then a higher programming kicked in. “Yes, sir, Commander Tyrant, sir,” he proclaimed. “May I have my gun back, sir? You have your own.”
“Yes I do,” said the Tartan Tyrant, with satisfaction. “I have three, in fact.” He had one gun slung over his back and another hanging from each side of his belt, ruffling his kilt. He felt beautiful and untranslatable. The Tyrant gave Gibbs his gun back and sounded his barbaric yawp. “ARE YOU READY TO FUCK UP THE MILITARY-INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX, ALFALFA MALE GIBBS?” he yawped.
The Alfalfa Male seemed confused by this. “The doctors said my Military-Industrial Complex could only be managed through medication, never cured, sir!” he explained, after a pause. “But… I believe in you. God dammit, I believe in the Plaid Platoon!”
“YEEEEEAH!” yawped Tartan.
“HELL YEEEEEEAH!” yawped Gibbs right back.
Without needing to be told, the two men of action leapt over the rock and onto the battlefield. For freedom. For glory. For the Plaid.