I admit I didn’t really have a plan behind this. I wanted to ride a rocket. It would be cool.
I suppose it’s like those people who think it is cool to ride a fancy motorcycle. A crotch rocket, if you will. Which is dangerous to think of in another way. Can you imagine firing a rocket off a crotch-mounted launcher?
I suppose it is more honest of a weapon. Phallic connotations.
But I’m back to not being sure what to do. I am not going to use it as a standard vehicle. Black Sunshine, my car, is much better. I also keep my scooter, the Minstrel, in reserve. I also don’t have henchmen, so it’s not like I’m going to keep those at the ready for when they go off to raid other places. Could be useful to keep the rocket in reserve for a special assignment.
So those were my thoughts on things before today, when I think I found something I can use them against.
Goddamn motherfucking space marines.
I should have stated that the city’s been invaded. These guys, calling themselves the Adepticus Pugilisticuses, landed all over the place. I was out getting ice cream at the time. One of these guys, dressed in bright green power armor, lands near me spouting some vaguely Latin crap. I don’t know what a bunch of space soldiers are doing taking in Latin. There are much easier languages that are better adapted to handling space vocabulary. English. Esperanto. Swahili, possibly. Give it a chance is all I’m saying.
So he landed near me with a rifle. The rifle has a chainsaw going all the way around the barrel. He also had it along the knuckles of his gauntlets, the toes of his boots, and his codpiece. He waved it around at everyone around, including me. The rifle, not the codpiece.
Normally I’m a pretty mellow guy, but threatening to attack my chocolate and Nutter Butter cone is not a smart idea. Even worse was that it was a space marine. I tossed my damn cone right in the eyes of his stupid little helmet. This elite warrior was utterly blinded by the sweet sticky treat and fired wildly. Nice trigger discipline.
He hit a few civilians nearby, but missed me due to my inerring ability to duck. Being 7 feet tall and properly holding a gun does make it somewhat more difficult to aim low at close range. Unfortunately the chainsaw codpiece made it difficult for me to practice my standard method of attack. What’s worse, it was one of the cleaner streets, so I didn’t have access to trash, which can prove surprisingly useful in a fight.
I didn’t even have my armor on me. Oh well, just have to make do.
I ran under his aim, grabbed under his arm, lifted it, and gave him a Nasty Surprise in the underarm gap of his armor. The Nasty Surprise is my own little chainsaw weapon mounted on my forearm and used at unexpected times to provide its namesake.
I could hear his muffled scream from under his helmet. I was giggling as he swung around, trying to knock me away while swinging his chainsaw rifle at me. I slipped under the attack and around him. I jumped onto his jump pack and rammed the nasty surprise into his throat, letting it dig its teeth in to another weak point in his armor. Blood spewed forth.
Some faux-Latin brought my attention to another space marine that had just landed behind me. The one whose neck I slit must have activated his pack in a panic because I felt it power on and prepare for a jump. I hopped off and dragged him down with me so that when he shot off towards his buddy.
The second marine showed amazing loyalty and chivalry by firing on his friend. That’s when I found out their ammo was explosive in nature. The marine must have forgotten, because his target was too close to him when he fired. First he was caught in his own ammo’s explosions. Then the first marine’s jump pack went up and took the both of them with it.
I did my best R. Lee Ermey impression then and called out after them, “Why don’t you pansy-ass space marines grow some balls and do some pushups until you can stomach fighting one single enemy in regular atmo! You want to run around with chainsaws, you head on up to Canada, jack off a moose, and cut down trees for a living, do you understand me?!”
Naturally, I didn’t get a response.
Twenty minutes later, I was getting close to the bar. Yeah yeah, the bar or the lair. I was closer to the bar and it had some very valuable vodka. Trust the Russians on that one. Vodka is a powerful ally in warfare.
My approach to the bar took me through a pawn shop. A group of marines were outside, fighting. Probably fighting whoever was caught at the bar. One of them was taking cover from energy blasts behind a mailbox. United States Postal Service, man. Fucking hardcore.
Being in my pawn shop, I had my choice of guns and light construction tools. I entered the fray by kicking open the door, albeit after unlocking it first, and tossing a TV at the startled marine. It knocked the rifle out of his hand and instead he was forced to rely on his chainsaw chainsaw. It was a chainsaw sword with a second set of chainsaw teeth rotating in the opposite direction. If you’re having trouble imagine how that works, you’re not alone. I think it was all for show.
So there he was, chainsaw chainsaw in hand. I had an golf club. He charged and I back somersaulted once, twice, then stopped and jumped forward and high. If I’d had any damn reason to be fancy and lose what little icecream I had in me, I’d have added a spin to it. I landed behind the very confused marine, ripped his butt plate off with a swipe of my Nasty Surprise (doesn’t that sound suggestive?) and shoved the club in there. Just way, way up in there. I think I actually heard something crack when I managed to just barely lever him off the ground.
He fell to the ground, handle still sticking out of his rear end. I gave it a wrench and a tug, breaking it off, then headed over to the bar entrance where some very pissed-off patrons were heading inside, including Elita the Warrior Woman who I helped pull space marine helmet off her boot.
I called out to the bartender as we got inside, “Fancy a pint while this whole thing blows over?”