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2/6/2008 4:31:02 PM
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Hola: Parodies Evolved *Chapter 10 and Epilogue now up*

I know some of you might remember me posting this way back when, but I never posted all of it and most of you have probably never seen it, so I thought I'd post it out of the blue: my fanfic spoofing Halo. Edit: I'll post a new chapter every Wednesday. Hola: Parodies Evolved Prologue The Fall of Retch TARTAN 118 Master Chef, the most senior TARTAN-II soldier remaining, stood opposite the remaining 78 TARTAN-II super soldiers, units A-Z, three soldiers in each, admiring his fine warriors in all their chequered glory. Their ship, The Caterpillar of Springtime, languished in space above a nearby planet. Their job, however, was not to languish. “As you all know,” said Master Chef, who had flunked Food Tech at school and university, only getting the title “Chef” through sheer accident, a hilarious episode involving sausages, mayonnaise, and his examiner, a chef called Declan, “The Coverup are on their way here. This may well be your, I mean our last mission, as this looks like suicide” “Way to get morale up, Chef,” remarked a soldier of Y-Unit. “SHUT YOUR TRAP!!!” yelled a highly disciplined Chef. “Anyway, I have every confidence that yo…we can defeat this Coverup assault. Y…We are the finest troops mankind has to offer, and if we can’t beat these alien scum, no one can.” “Again with the morale booster,” commented the same soldier of Y-Unit. “KEEP YOUR GOB SHUT, MARINE!!!” screamed Chef. “I have watched you all grow into the greatest fighting force known to man …well, except the Coverup, that is.” The marine from Y-Unit opened his mouth, then stopped and shut it again. “All of y…us can go out there and fight to repel this attack, even you, G-Unit.” The half-rapper-half-super-soldier trio looked at Chef, blinding him with their diamond encrusted armour and about ten medallions around their necks the size of dinner plates (causing dire back problems hence their inability to fight), and half-rapped half-spoke the word “Rispek.” “You know what the prize is. Mankind keeps its greatest stronghold, apart from Earth, and those tropical planets near that big star…oh, and…” The talkative Y-Unit soldier caught Chef’s eye. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I…we are expected to give our lives, if necessary, to defend this beautiful planet…” Chef swivelled dramatically with “jazz hands”, presenting a planet that had seen better days, with thick carbon dioxide clouds covering most of the surface (just in case you’re wondering, everyone on the planet wore gas masks. In fact, people who had been born on the planet had never…I’m deviating, aren’t I. Sorry). At that exact time, by sheer coincidence, a volcano erupted, a hurricane started, and several lightening flashes could be seen at various points on the planet. Coincidence. Yes. “Erm…yes. So, just remember everything we have learnt, from other battles with the Coverup, from our lessons with Dr. Halsinky, from our training with Chief Mendit.” “What was his first name again, sir?” asked an R-Unit soldier. “Jim’ll. It was strange, I know. His parents had an obsession with some 20th century television show, if I remember correctly…” Chef stared into the distance, daydreaming. It was a siren, their signal for deployment, which brought him back to reality. “Err, anyway, get on the surface…we’ll get on the surface and use the anti-spacecraft guns to take out the Coverup. If that fails, prepare…I mean, we’d better prepare for dropships.” “Why didn’t we just stay on the surface?” asked a B-Unit soldier. “Because someone needs to keep an eye on the bigger picture…and not because I… we are cowards, before you ask” he added quickly. “Literally, the bigger picture,” he said to himself, tittering at this dire and nigh-on entirely nonsensical joke that he had inadvertently inserted into the sentence. Inyway…I mean, anyway… The lights on the door to Chef’s right turned green. “I’ll bring up the rear,” (Stop laughing back there!) Chef called hurriedly as the troops got arranged in their threes. A-Unit went first, through the airlock and out into the vast open space that is, erm…space. B-Unit followed. After them went C-Unit. Hey, that’s kind of like the alphabet… As the TARTAN-II soldiers proceeded, the queue shortened. Quite logical really. The talkative Y-Unit soldier watched G-Unit float into space, their body language joyful as their lead-like medallions became weightless. Had they not been in space, you would have heard their backs click as they danced in weightless joy. Ah, but then they wouldn’t have been weightless so their backs would have still hurt. You get what I mean. Ah, yes, the story. The Y-Unit soldier…oh, I’m tired of calling him that, let’s just call him Y…Y…Yancy, or Yves. Yves is good (it’s Scandinavian if you’re wondering, I just looked it up.) Yes, so Yves…how about Yoda. Or does that make him sound geeky. No, Yves. But he’s American, not Scandinavian. Yancy… Yancy it is. Sorry about that. Yancy turned to see the Chef stood where he was before (i.e. not in the queue). “Why are you hanging back there?” he asked. “There’s been a change of plan.” “Made by…” started Yancy. “Me. You lot are headed to the planet to be slaughter…I mean fight off the Coverup, I’m going to stay onboard and keep an eye on the bigger picture.” He chuckled slightly. “But you’re the best fighter in the group!” “That is why I must stay here. If I was killed,” ([i]were[/i] killed?) “the army will lose its single greatest soldier and that can’t happen. If it does, humankind will lose the war on the Coverup. So I must stay here. Definitely. Yes.” Yancy sighed and turned to the airlock. “Alright, but you’ve been such an inspiration. It will be harder to gain victory without you.” “Thank you. But I must stay here.” “I’m not suggesting you don’t.” “Good.” “Goodbye.” “Farewell” Yancy turned around to the airlock, breathed deeply, and stepped in. As the doors shut he turned and saluted Master Chef, who returned it. It wasn’t thrown, that’s just a figure of speech. A hiss hissed, and the doors slid open, revealing the battleground and prize Retch. Yancy kicked off into the abyss. Master Chef stood there, staring at the planet his troops were risking the lives for, half mourning for the loss of so many great friends and soldiers, half jumping for joy (inside. Duh! He’d look a bit silly if he was literally [i]jumping for joy[/i], especially in that TARTAN armour) at the fact he wasn’t on a suicide mission to save the largest dump he had ever seen. He stood there and sighed. He stood there some more. And a little more. The sound of a voice made him jump. The PA system on the ship was resonating with the voice of Cortredhanded, the artificial “personality” which controlled the ship. “How you doing?” “Not too badly, I guess,” replied Chef. “I’m kind of glad that I didn’t have to go on that mission.” “You [i]what?![/i]” “I said…” “I heard what you said! The captain said “Send your best men”! That meant do the job as efficiently as you can, not send in everyone but yourself!” Master Chef shrugged. “I’ve always been modest. And besides, it kind of looks like they’re having fun.” “No, I…” “Come on, look at them! Their spinning their arms and legs in joy of the weightlessness. And…” Chef squinted and leaned forward. “grabbing at their necks and spinning their heads…?” “Chef?” said Cortredhanded. “…What?” said Chef, still distracted by the dancing TARTANs. “You forgot to give them their oxygen tanks.” [Edited on 05.14.2008 6:34 AM PDT]
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  • “AARGH! GET IT OFF MF MFBMFBFM !” “I got it, I got the mofo! Benzova!” Benzova had fallen to the ground. “We’re surrounded!” shrieked Jerkins. “Foire at ‘em!” “There’s too many of the mini nizzles!” “I…ARGH!” One clod leapt right at Jerkins, blocking Chef’s view of the action. “JERKINS!” The sound faded. Master Chef removed the little black box, picked up a randomly placed Blaster Gun, and concentrated on the doors, shifting to each one as the eerie atmosphere climaxed. Then it happened. Chef heard the noise and soiled himself. Looking around, he saw nothing move, so decided to change his underwear. He leant against the wall with one hand, oblivious to the small brown clods of earth that mingled behind the adjacent door. Looking around to avoid the sight of the unholy lump, he saw some writing below his hand on the wall. “OPEN, ΟΠΕΝ, INSERT CORRESPONDING ARABIC LETTERS HERE,” he read. “Oh, well, if that’s what it says…” He stood back, aimed the Blaster Gun at the door’s lock, and fired. A huge swarm of earthy clods fell through and bounced toward him. Looking at the writing on the wall again, Chef spotted the two words his hand had covered, the Latin part saying: “DO NOT”. “Oh,” he said, “crap.” As the muddy lumps approached, Chef screamed, firing at the odd sods half out of aggressiveness over the death of the marines, half in sheer pant-browning terror. Wave upon wave of the things threw themselves at him, some of them impacting on his armour, making a small, if barely-noticeable difference, but when they all did it together, Chef feared for his life. “RFLHRD!” said a voice. “Eeeeeh…” whimpered Chef. Brown, muddy, root-sprouting bodies appeared in the doorway, leaping enormous distances then whipping, slapping, and generally overwhelming Chef with their larger, more vine-like roots. Firing at them, Chef back-pedalled to the door, hammered the open button and dived through, jumping up, dusting himself off, and then realising he had not shut the door. “FLRLFRFL!” called a voice. Chef punched the shut button and legged it, coming onto the top floor of another room, where Coverup and the new zombie things were battling on the bottom floor. The sole L33t on the bottom looked up and saw Chef as a sod approached him. “Chequered OAARGH!” The lump of earth swung itself up into the L33t’s mouth using its roots, and then the alien stood there quivering, its skin slowly becoming covered in a browny, mud-like substance, roots growing at various point on its body, with two as thick as its arm growing from the upper limbs. “RFGLF!” said the now-zombie. It leapt up towards the upper level, landing with ease, then faced Chef and ran at him. Chef decided to do what he had done many times before by stepping out of the way at the last minute, and letting the zombie fall back down again. To his horror it was not harmed at all by the fall, and jumped back up behind Chef, making the following noise: “RFGRF!” “AAAAAAARGH!” After trapping the zombie in a doorway, Chef continued his quest to find a way the hell out of there. He found a human body with a weapon lying beside it, a Shotgun, and held it and the Blaster Gun side by side to compare. As he did this, a lone sod, bounced along the ground and into the marines mouth, doing exactly the same thing as was done to the L33t. As the zombie got up, Chef, on sheer impulse, dropped the Blaster Gun, and shot the zombie square in the front, sending it flying backwards. “I think I’ll use the shotgun,” Chef told the splattered zombie remains. He made further progress, and came upon, well, I think you can guess the design of it by now, where Coverup were being slaughtered by the zombies below. Sensing Chef above, one zombie leapt up and confronted him. “I have my new toy,” said Chef. “R RRFL [i]FL[/i] FLLR FLRF,” replied the zombie. "I didn't get any of that." A root the size of a tree trunk whipped out of one of its limbs, picking Chef up, and throwing him to the other side of the room, where he got up and walked through the nearby door, waving to the zombie. “Thanks!” “FLRF!” huffed the zombie, crossing its arms/roots. Chef found a lift, and, while fending off hordes off zombies and sods with his new baby, which he named Cortredhanded, activated it and ascended, and, oh thank God, saw the outside again. However, the view was slightly marred by the hundred or so sods rushing towards him. Chef let Cortredhanded do her thing, then ran out and happily breathed the fresh air while watching a group of marines fight off a load of zombies. “Guys,” he said, approaching them, “we need to find an evac point.” “Yeah, we’ve already spoken to Sledgehammer,” said one marine. “But look! Look at these flying robots get those sods!” “Huh?” said Chef, “Oh, wow!” The robots hovered around, sizzling sods with their lasers(to people rereading this, yes I've realised what I've done, but it's too late now. It would screw up some amusing revelations. Or something). They had small blue lights at their centres and appeared benevolent. Then they were shot down by a zombie with a rocket launcher. “Oh God! What are we supposed to do now?!” “Take out that zombie with the rocket launcher!” screamed Chef, and it was done. “Oh God, this looks bad!” All around them, hordes and swarms of zombies and sods respectively closed in the group. “Anyone…anyone mind if I take some time to do a goodbye letter?” Chef stammered. “This is no time for jokes!” “Who’s joking?” “Here,” said the first marine who I mentioned, “I’ve got a pen and some paper.” “Thank you,” replied Chef. He turned around and leant on a rock, looking around for inspiration. “Erm…” he sighed. “This is going to be hard.” Dear Mum and Dad, A clear voice interrupted his wallowing. “It looks as though you are writing a letter. Would you like some help?” Chef looked up to see a floating paperclip with eyes and a mouth, smiling cheerily down on him.“What the f…?” “I shall take that response as a yes.” “Who…?” “I am the Assistant for Platform 4. My name is Clippit,” it chirped. “Come. Shall we be rid of these monsters?” “Hell yeah!” A blue glow surrounded the chef as all around him turned to black, and he was taken from the swamp to an ancient Roadrunner structure. There were a few more zombies there.

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