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2/6/2008 4:31:02 PM
51
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 6 666 Devilish Assistant The Turkey dropship swooped down through the swamp, its occupiers seeing several Groans running away in terror from something…or someone…No, it’s something. “Contact me when you find Quays,” said the pilot. “Will do,” replied Master Chef, jumping out of the back of the dropship. He scanned the area for any hostiles, and then spotted a crashed Turkey nearby, raiding it for supplies and finding some KitKats and Diet Coke. “No weapons here, then,” he said to himself. “Great! What am I going to do?” He continued towards the building looming in the mist/fog and spotted a couple of Jackasses patrolling on a fallen tree trunk. “Those are the scrawny ones, aren’t they?” he asked no-one. He slowly approached them from behind, waiting for one to walk away from the other, and then struck…the first one in the back as silently as he could. The sound of buzzing insects drowned out the crack, but as the Jackasses body slipped off the tree trunk, its Energon™ pistol fell with it. Chef cursed and crept up behind the other alien, making a mental note to grab the pistol before it fell. He elbowed the Jackass in the back of the head and watched in anticipation as the Jackass stood stunned, about to drop its weapon, then in annoyance as it fell forward and off the trunk still holding it. “Haven’t done this in a while,” said Chef, limbering up. “AARGH!” As he said this, he dived forward, grabbed the pistol in mid-air, and then forward rolled onto his feet as the Jackass body fell beside him. “Ooh!” he groaned, holding the small of his back. Chef proceeded to the building entrance and massacred the Coverup patrol there, heading into the building and needing to press the white button on the side of his helmet to activate the flashlight. He approached the end of the room and found a dead end. “Where am I supposed to go now?” he asked no-one, spinning in a circle, then spotting the lift in the ground. “Oh.” He stood on the circular shape, which reminded him of a circle, and pressed the holo-thingy control panel to descend. As it moved down, what little natural light there was in the first place disappeared and a chill descended on Chef, whose breath appeared as…steam?…Well, it was visible. “Have the Coverup not heard of turning down the air-con?” Again, Chef said this only to himself, the psycho. Well, I suppose you would talk to yourself in that situation, trying to assure yourself there’s nothing to be afraid of. As the lift came to a halt and Chef looked around, he realised where he was. “No! No, no! Not another square, grey concrete room! Don’t the Coverup…I mean the Roadrunners have any sense of variety? Aaargh…” He span round in the circles of an upset stylist, and fell onto the bottom floor of the room, where a group of Coverup greeted him with Energon™ fire. As was a reflex with Chef when he met Coverup troops, he slaughtered them. A green light on a traffic light means go and a red means stop, so Chef assumed that the green lit door was the only open one in the room. He was, for once, right. The next identical (much to Chef’s annoyance: “I could easily get lost in here!”) room had Jackasses and an Energon™ Turret in it, so Chef decided to break the monotony. He jumped into the Turret, allowed the Jackasses time to hide, and then teased them to come out and kill him. As soon as one did, Chef killed it with one shot of the gun. Running up to the body of it, he screamed, “Why do you have to die so easily?! I’m bored! I want something fun to do!” He came through the next door, which, thank God, had some way of distinguishing it from the others in the form of a burning pile of rubble in the middle. As he moved in, he spotted someone slumped against the wall. “Aaargh!” it shrieked, it being a marine with a weapon, “Stay back! I’m armed!” “Woah! It’s Master Chef!” “You’ll not make me one of…them!” “One of what?” “I don’t know your language! Don’t even try!” “I’m speaking English!” “Just stay back! You won’t…won’t change me!” “Dude, I think you need to see a psychologist.” “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” screamed the marine as Chef attempted to lift him up. He fired at Chef, who then said, “You really need a shrink! I’m on your side!” “No! No! Leave me be…” He got up and ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction. “That’s it,” called Chef, “That’s the way out! I don’t know where the nearest shrink is, though!” He clambered up the burning pile of rubble in the corner and continued, coming to the previous room and activating the Energon™ Bridge to cross it. “How come I know where I’m supposed to go?” he asked. The TARTAN-II walked down the ramp behind the door across the bridge (just telling you how he got there), but for some reason couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. With the words “DO NOT ENTER”, “ΔΟ ΝΟΤ ΕΝΤΕΡ”, “INSERT CORRESPONDING ARABIC LETTERS HERE” scribbled on the wall and an arrow pointing from this text to a door, Chef had a hunch that something terrible was about to happen. “I suppose Quays is in here, the reckless git.” He opened the door, only to have a limp marine’s body fall on him. “WAAH!” he screamed. “Z….z….” replied the marine. Chef looked at the guy and slapped him to wake him up. “Wake up! Wake up! It’s too scary too be here alone!” The marine was a very heavy sleeper and didn’t make any response, except for a fart. “Who are you?” said Chef taking off the guy’s helmet and reading the name. “Private Jerkins? What an unusual name!” As the marine’s head flopped from side to side, Chef spotted a little black box on the inside of the helmet and put it next to his helmet. Nothing happened. “Oh right, I have to put it in the USB port.” Hmm, you think? A group of 4 marines sat in a Turkey dropship, flying into the swamp. Included in this group were Captain Quays, Sergeant ENTER GENERIC NAME HERE, and Private Jerkins. Duh! How would you be able to see what was going on if the guy who recorded it wasn’t there? “Sa-arge,” moaned the fourth marine, “why do we have to listen to this old crap?” “This, ma nizzle,” replied ENTER GENERIC NAME HERE, “is the fab-o-lous Fiddy Cent and his G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-Unit.” “Good train impression thaarh, ENTER GENERIC NAME SOUNDING LIKE IT WOULD IF PRONOUNCED BY A PIRATE HERE,” said Quays. “Nah, dawg, that’s how…” “We’ve reached the swamp guys! Bail out!” called the pilot of the Turkey (Sphincter 999). “Go, go, go!” The marines, all trying to get out at once, fell into a big pile on the ground, with Jerkins’ camera knocked to one side, and then going out. “…boys, I wanna be able to watch this back on ma PC when I get back to ma crib.” ENTER GENERIC NAME HERE finished. The quartet (is that used only for singing? Ah, no, Wikipedia says it's not) continued through the swamp, into the building, and through the endlessly similar rooms, until that fourth marine whose name I haven’t mentioned (Benzova), found what looked like a L33t covered in a brown substance, with plant roots sticking out at various places. “What in the name of hell?!” he asked. “Oi sure as ‘ell ‘ope tha’ the Coverup ‘aven’t developed a new weapon,” Quays said nervously. “Tha’ -blam!- probe was bad enough.” They continued nervously, descending the ramp that Chef had just…um…descended. Come down! Yes. “Why the hell have those bastards barricaded this damn door?” cried ENTER GENERIC NAME HERE. “Ya’ll reckon they got some hoes in there?” he asked, laughing. “Oi doub’ it,” said Quays. They managed to break down the door, finding no prostitutes, much to ENTER GENERIC NAME HERE’s disappointment, and entered the room Chef was stood in. “I really don’t like this…” said Benzova. “You got a bad vibe from all every-fizzlin’-thin’” Just then the radio crackled. “Quays,” a voice that sounded a lot like a marine. Wait, yes, it was in fact a marine. Well, coulda been a generic American guy. You can't [i]see[/i] him. “Quays, we’ve got hostiles…but they’re not Coverup…they’re different … they’re AAARGH!” “Cor’ral” (corporal) “can you ‘ear me? Oi repea’, can you ‘ear me?” No reply. “Benzova,” barked ENTER GENERIC NAME HERE, “Get the fizzle over there and find out what the hell is goin’ down!” “I’ve got a bad fee…” “GO!” Just then, a spine-tingling, stomach-churning, other-organ-disturbing noise was heard from somewhere in the room. “What the fizzle…?” From the side of the screen, small, brown particles that looked like clods of soil bounced, rolled, and moved in any other way that something like that would, into view. Small plant roots grew out of the sods and grabbed onto Benzova and started trying to get into his mouth.
