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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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  • “Disclaimer, by activating the Platform, you will destroy these hideous beasts! Why will you not do it?!” “As an American president once told me,” answered Chef, killing the last zombie again, “I’m not gonna sacrifice our generation for the benefit of future generations.” “Ah, yes, the Bush dynasty had very conservative views on fuels.” Chef opened the hatch, took aim from above, and fired at the reactor casing. “Well,” he said, “it isn’t hard to distract you, is it?” Clippit, annoyed, turned to a few nearby Sent-‘n’-alls. “Destroy him! Do not let him jeopardise the Platform’s future! I will keep watch to ensure you can actually implement it this time.” The Sent-‘n’-alls’ lights blinked and they turned to Chef. “Farewell, Disclaimer,” hummed Clippit, “At least,” he turned to the Sent-‘n’-alls, “I hope.” “One more reactor casing to go,” said Cort. “Get inside now, else you’ll be killed. Go around to get to that last panel.” Chef saw it ahead of him. “I’ve got a better idea,” he said. Taking a running jump, he landed on the back of one of the Sent-‘n’-alls, which started spinning and bucking, trying to shake him off. “Do not fire!” Clippit screamed. “I do not wish for one of you to be destroyed.” Chef stuck his hand into the top of the robot, pulled out what looked like a small analogue control joystick, and started pushing it in different directions, watching in amusement as the robot moved in the direction he pushed. He steered it over to the last control panel and jumped off, opened the last hatch, and pushed down on the stick. As it clicked, the robot plummeted to the floor, landing on a group of L33ts fighting a Fatty Bom Bom. “We’re almost done,” Cort said, sounding very happy. “Only one more to go, Chef!” “One more?” repeated Chef, “Then you won’t mind if I jump?” “Don’t, Chef!” Cort screamed. “NOOOOOO…” THHD! “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it, Cort?…Cort?” He climbed up to the raised side opposite the last hatch, and started jumping around and shaking his head, trying to shake Cortredhanded back into position, and, by sheer luck avoiding the melee attacks of a Mud zombie behind him. “…Woah…ah! Stop shaking! I’m back!” “Glad to hear it,” replied Chef as the zombie was vapourised by a Sent-‘n’-all laser beam. “One last casing,” said Cort, “and then we have to get out of here.” “Aiming…” A swarm of Sent-‘n’-alls suddenly swooped to block off the casing. “Do not let him destroy it!” screeched Clippit. “No worries,” Chef told Cort. He fired a rocket into the group and, as one, they fell to the floor in a pile of smouldering metal. He then fired another at the reactor casing, which exploded in a flame of red and yellow. Yes. “That’s it!” cried Cort. “The reactors will detonate in about 15 minutes. Now we need to leave. There’s an elevator on the top floor. Go!” Chef hoofed it through the corridors and up to the uppermost floor, up top, only to have the lift descend, filled with Spec Cops Groans and one Spec Cops L33t, quite hilariously wearing spectacles that made it look like Timmy Mallet. “The Chequered One is destroying the Sacred Disc!” it screeched. “Slay him!!” “I haven’t got the time for this,” Chef sighed. He picked up his rocket launcher, stood back, and blew them all to hell. “I really don’t.” “Sledgehammer?! Can you read me?” “Loud and clear, Cortredhanded,” said the pilot, with a slight edge in her voice. “Requesting immediate extraction from the Caterpillar of Springtime, IMMEDIATE extraction!!!!” (Excessive exclamation marks!!!!) “Roger,” came the reply, as if through gritted teeth. The line went dead. “We need to get to an extraction point, ASAP!” “I’m guessing we take one of these conveniently placed Gas Guzzlers,” Chef replied, “It’ll be a lot quicker.” “Fine, just hurry.” Chef hopped into the driver’s seat of the nearest vehicle and set off down the top of the ship, which, had the ship been a girl, would have been quite smutty. “Don’t stop! Don’t worry about the Coverup, Mud or Sent-‘n’-alls,” Cort shouted over the increasingly loud noise of the reactors beginning to heat up, “Just DRIVE!!” Hmm…one of those little smart tags has come up. It thinks Just Drive is a street name. Ha. And again. Dodging the increasingly irritatingly placed pillars, ramps, walls, and dips, Chef slammed on the accelerator with all his strength, the Gas Guzzler pounding down the tarmac (is it? Or would it be concrete or something else?) and the aliens, zombies and robots that got in its way. That’s right, stereotypical baddies from every sci-fi/horror movie/game/book/any other media that that applies to. Concentrating on keeping the accelerator held firmly down, Chef failed to see a major obstacle approach. Well, actually, [i]he[/i] approached [i]it[/i], but you get the idea. “Toll booth!” “What?!” “TOLL BOOTH!!” “A toll booth?! What the hell is a toll booth doing on the top of a ship?!” “No idea!” screeched Cort, “Why don’t you ask the people who decided to NAME this ship!?!” “How much do I have to pay?” asked Chef, reaching for his wallet. “You’re actually gonna STOP?!!!” “If we don’t pay this, the Spec Cops are gonna be onto me!!” “This ship is about to explode!!” Cort screamed over the increasing cacophony of the reactors going into overdrive. “FORGET IT!!!!” She forced Chef’s foot onto the accelerator, and the Guzzler speeded through the booth, which, quite unsurprisingly, was unoccupied. Chef turned as his foot would allow him, and looked back at the broken wooden barrier. “You’re paying for that!” “Cortredhanded, Master Chef, I can see you now,” said the Sledgehammer pilot over the comm. line, “But I am not picking you up.” Chef had stopped the Gas Guzzler on a platform in the open air, and had his accelerator foot twitching so that they could get the hell out of there as quickly as humanly possible, or, if Cort, decided to do it, as fast as computably possible. “What?!” he screamed. “[i]WHY?![/i]” The Turkey dropship appeared above them and started to lower onto the platform. “I discovered a forgetton, or erased memory at the back of my mind,” called the pilot, “about your assistant sleeping with my boyfriend.” “For God’s sake!” Cort shouted over the link, “We have just saved humankind! I think we deserve a little break! Forget about it, woman!!” “Nope,” the pilot replied. “And anyways…I…uh, can’t pick you up. Yep, being attacked by two Banscreens! Argh.” she added not-very-enthusiastically. The Turkey suddenly did a 180 degree turn and flew away. “SLEDGEHAMMER!!!” screamed Cort. “No…” she sobbed, “…she’s gone…” “And so will we be if we don’t get the hell out of here!” shouted Chef. “And as for that -blam!-, she’ll burn in Hell!!" Slamming on the accelerator as if his life depended on it, which, ironically, it did, Chef sped off the platform, over a small gap, and continued along the top of the ship. “I have an idea,” he said, having calmed down. “Can you take care of driving while I lean out of the side?” “Why?” Cort asked cautiously as they ran over a L33t. “What are you going to do?” “You’ll see…” replied Chef as he leaned out. Cort took over Chef’s feet, accelerating and braking at the appropriate moments to continue down the “road”. Chef was about to…enact his plan (you thought I was going to tell you then, didn’t you?), when a Groan waddled into view, though not on the “road”, and looked Chef straight in the eye…I mean visor, its eyes shining with tears. Time seemed to slow as the Groan continued to cry, and, deep down in his heart, Chef had to admit he thought they were cute. That is until it suddenly and rather randomly said, “Mmmm…you have big strong chest! Lots of nipple food in there, me hope!” Then Chef shot it. “So what exactly is this plan of yours?” Cort asked as the floor started to shake violently, “Because you might want to think about doing it. The reactors will explode any minute.” “It’s really original,” replied Chef. “All I need is a ship. Ah!” He leaned back in momentarily to steer the Gas Guzzler to the ship he had seen, what appeared to be an ice-cream van…I mean ship. As they got closer, Chef got ready to jump into the back of the craft which was conveniently open, and, unsurprisingly, jumped into it. The floor shook even more violently (if that was possible) as the disc’s apocalypse was reaching its climax, and Chef slammed himself into the driver’s seat and was about to shove the accelerator forward with all his might, when a voice said, “Hey, what-are you a-doing?” Chef turned around to see an angry Italian-looking alien staring at him with an ice-cream scoop in his hand.

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