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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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  • Chapter 10 The Awe…some ending. As the Banscreen drifted over the desert, a huge mass came into view. A massive mass, in fact. “Is that…the Caterpillar?” asked Chef, leaning out of the vehicle and once again pulling a muscle. “Ouch!” “Unfortunately,” replied Cort, “yes.” A few moments later, Chef expected to touch down on the docking bay of the ship. Nothing happened. Leaning out the side, he saw that he had drifted right over the ship, and immediately turned around and flew back the other way, only to realise he had passed the ship again. Alternating his position between looking out of the Banscreen and adjusting it, he managed to land in the docking bay, only just getting over the lip of the as he struggled to keep adjusting his position. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Cort said sardonically. “No!” insisted a rather confused Chef. “What would make you say that?” “I didn’t mean to,” Cort answered, sounding upset. “It just sort of slipped out!” “Well, let’s get going,” sighed Chef. “Where to?” “The bridge.” Moving through the lifeboat area, Chef spotted the maintenance tunnel. “Ah, good times,” he reminisced. “Not particularly,” remarked Cort, “You tripped over and lost that UnderShield. I wonder if that’s still in there?” she added. “Let’s have a look,” said Chef, approaching the tunnel. “I’ve got a new flashlight.” Moving into the tunnel, he discovered the red lowlights (is that the right term?) were switched on, and switched his own light off. “Where exactly did it go?” he asked. “Can you remember?” “I think somewhere along here…oh.” “You mean down that hole with Mud sods poring out of it?” “Yeah…hopefully not though.” “Why not?” “Because of the Mud (?)” (Does that work? It was supposed to be like a sarcastic question. Do the brackets show that?) “OH GOD, NOT AGAIN!!!!” Chef screamed. He fired at the sods with whatever weapon he had picked up in the lifeboat area, in this picture it looks like an Assault…I mean, it was a Blaster Gun. Screaming like the suicidal maniac that he was(n’t), he jumped down the hole, only to land in the middle of a Sent-‘n’-all/Fatty Bom Bom fight. After letting the Fatty Bom Boms explode at the flying robots and then taking out the resulting sods, he continued down to a set of doors. “The cafeteria is through this door, Chef,” Cort said. “After that, it’s a short set of corridors to the bridge.” “Good,” he replied, “But I think some sort of iconic image will be set in my mind when I open this door.” As he approached it, the light on the door blinked and the door opened. Out poured a snarling swarm of Mud monsters, the sods bouncing out first, leading the way, with the zombies stumbling forward behind them, just as eager to Mudify Chef as their sod brothers were. “AAARGH!!!” roared Chef, trying to get into angry come-and-‘ave-a-go-if-you-think-you’re-‘ard-enough mode, and pulling the trigger on his gun like there was no tomorrow. The Mud host fell back into the room, allowing Chef to sandwich it/them in between the battling Coverup and Sent-‘n’-alls. “Through here, you say?” he asked, finishing off the last of the Groans. “Yep, just through th…” A pair of Munters burst through a door, which was, funnily enough, the door Chef needed to go through. “I guess it’s the old bait-turn-blam!- technique,” Chef grinned nostalgically. "Why the extra hyphen after blam?" Cort asked. "Dunno. Just felt like it." As the Munters dived at him, Chef rolled to the side and shot them on their orange patches in the small of their backs. That’s right! Both at the same time! Yes, this was one screwed-up weapon. Having dealt with them, he moved into the cafeteria, relieved that there was only a small group of L33ts and Groans, and dispatched of them. No, that’s not right is it? Should that be “was relieved”, and “dispatched them”? I’m not sure. Oh well… “Chef, we’re here! On the bridge!” Chef moved forwards with some caution, as he could see some Groans standing and staring out the front window. No, not standing outside the window, they were inside the ship, looking to the outside! “Haha!” giggled one, “He doesn’t have a clue!” “What?” said Chef. The Groans spun round, revealing sparkling silver armour that was normally not wasted on Groans, and a couple of rather large yellow shoulder-mounted cannons. They also all appeared to be wearing glasses or special night/heat/both/neither-vision goggles. “Fuel Cod Cannons…” started Cort. “We are the Spec Cops,” squeaked the one with a monocle, “and we’re here to deal with you, Chequered One. That’s right, we…” The Groan fell over as several Blaster Gun bullets perforated its shiny armour, splattering blue blood all over the beautiful, shiny metal. Oh, and you can’t stick metal in the machine, either. No, this metal was now permanently ruined. “Cop 123 has been killed!” screeched the one with Splinter Cell-esque goggles on. You know, the green ones in a triangle that Sam Fisher wears? “RUN AWAY!!” “They’re so damn cute when they’re scared,” sighed Chef. “Oh well, they’ll only get turned into Mud creatures.” BLAM! “Stick me in…that’s right.” Cort’s hologram appeared on the control dashboard, and she breathed deeply and looked around, smiling. “It’s good to be home,” she beamed, “but it’s gone downhill a bit.” “It did go through a crash landing,” Chef pointed out. “Right, the codes…” she shut her eyes. “…4…8…15…16…23…42.” A countdown appeared on the main computer screen. 00:02 “Wait, that’s…” BING! Chef and Cort turned to see a small microwave in the corner. “Quays liked his Micro-Chips,” said Cort, breathing a sigh of relief. How? She’s a computer program? “Right….” She shut her eyes again. “Here’s the real countdown…” Numbers again flashed on the screen. 30:00 “We’d better get moving,” said Chef, who had removed his helmet and was eating the Micro-Chips. Then something caught his eye, or the other way around. Basically, he saw something. A projector starting up. “Uh-oh.” “Well, if it isn’t my favourite Disclaimer and his programmed assistant,” hummed the insanely irritating voice of Clippit. “And just as I was beginning to think we would do this without a hitch…” groaned Cort. “What do you want, Wire Boy?” “I would much desire you to end your quest to destroy the Platform,” replied Clippit. “It ain’t gonna happen,” Cort shot back. “No? Well I shall simply do it myself…” The countdown on the screen stopped and vanished. “How the hell…?” “Well, I have been accessing this vessel for quite some time now, and have learnt to manipulate various applications. And I have been slowly learning about our history. Of course,” it added, “I see you two as a rather large blot on this log. Oh, how good it will be when there are no records of your existences on here. “Why do you resist, Disclaimer? Can you not accept that it is your destiny to activate this Platform? Come, give me the program, and I shall not spare your life.” It frowned. “Curse this honesty algorithm…” It disappeared. “I still have power to fight back,” laughed Cort. “Is he still in there?” asked Chef, pointing to the projector. “No,” Cort replied, “He’s moved down to the Engineering Area, he’s trying to disable the reactors…and succeeding.” She frowned. “I can’t get in…he’s constructed a firewall…I could begin the countdown, but with that firewall up I can’t link it to the reactors…” she trailed off, obviously sensing that all hope was lost. “What if I manually destroyed the engine?” “What?” “Think about it,” replied Chef. “If you can’t get through that firewall, I could get to the engines and just blow them up…oh, but we’d need to be a fair distance away when they blow up…” “Oh, I can take care of that,” said Cort reassuringly. “I’ll just alter the firewall to ensure the result of the explosions do not affect the reactors until we’re far enough away.” “Right then,” grinned Chef, “It’s off to work!” “Erm…Chef?” “What?” “Look behind you.” Chef slowly turned around. A group of Sent-‘n’-alls hovered outside the front of the ship and started to move round his sides (that sounded weird), their lasers sweeping over his armour. He fired at each one in turn, the bullets from his Blaster Gun spraying into them and

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