Tag Archives: Space Marines!

Get in Line, Oppenheimer 8

Time to get the hizzell out of herezel. I don’t have a problem with outrunning a fireball, mind you, I just dislike doing it way up in the air with no way to fly or glide down. That’s why I hoof it back to the lift as fast as my little peg will take me. I don’t even stop when an Adepticus marine stepped out in front of me. I just ran by the surprised guy and called back to him, “Grab your shit, motherfucker, let’s go!”

Luckily this one was a worse shot than some of the others on the ship.

I dove into that lift and headed back up the way I came while watching the playback of my capture on my one remaining good eye. Bastards. Not that I care. I can always get myself a new eye. A better eye! An eye with x-ray vision and blackjack and hookers!

The lift stopped at a couple of floors. On the first, an exciting pitched battle took place between the Adepticus Pugilicus and a group of soldiers led by a man in dark armor with N7 on his chestplate. I watched as N7 vaulted through a broken window and charged an Adepticus. N7 formed a blade from a holographic projection on his arm and stabbed a marine in the face. In the face, I say! Another flanked him but was gunned down by a woman in bright pink and white armor.

I hope she saw when I motioned for her to call me before the doors closed.

The next stop was boring. Just a squad of Adepticus pinned down by the lifts. One was about to toss a grenade. I yanked his hand down with my hook and pushed the button to close the door. The explosion rocked the door a little, but I continued on my merry way up to the deck where I started this grand adventure. I promptly activated my stealth, which wasn’t quite so foolproof around my replacement parts. The built in sound dampeners in my boots obviously weren’t going to do anything about the peg leg.

By the way, if anyone has ever wondered if I can scream at a high pitch, the bomb went off. I’m not afraid of the dark so much as plunging to my death or being blown up. A few emergency lights came on as I ran for the docking bay. We started to fall. Then, with an odd hum, we stopped. When it grew loudest, I realized the emergency lights faded a little.

This reminds me of the time I played poker with this one guy who was getting way too lucky. So I stopped playing and hit him with my chair. Know when to fold ‘em, right?

At the end of the corridor stood my good buddy, the space Nazi. He reached behind him and pulled out…a circular saw blade on a chain. He charged at me and I hobbled at him, projecting various other mes charging or running and disappearing. He was thrown off by them and gave me a chance to get behind him and disarm him. Then I told him, “You are used to fighting in space, but have you ever fought on Uranus?”

An ancient and powerful fighting technique I know is called “63ing Your Ass” and it is not pleasant for the victims. First, insert hand into enemy ass. If your hand is a hook, this is even less pleasant for the other person. Then, you rotate them 63 degrees along a random axis. The Nazi was knocked out by the bulkhead, for instance. Then you release. Considering where it was, I just left the hook, took my stump, and made my way to the hangar.

I made like a truck driver carrying donkeys and hauled ass. So too did other space marines who emptied out of nearby rooms. I’m not that bad a guy. When I heard machine guns and saw the occasional tracer round fire through the door to the docking bay, I did the polite thing and let the marines go first. Waiting on them, I noticed the lights were dimmer than they had been a few seconds before. The humming was louder too. There could be an innocent explanation. Maybe it’s really boring to gun down waves of space marines.

I didn’t believe that either. I did stick my head out during a lull. Mecha marched through the bay or held defensive positions where they could track the entrances. Their insignia showed an eagle crossed with an airplane.

They also tracked me. I noticed the barrels of their machineguns adjusting slightly to my presence. That’s why I chose to wait until the next group of marines happened by. They charged in, reckless as they always are, and I followed behind. Not right behind. More to the right, since I’d seen some of what those guns could do. They did it, too, prompting me to grab a fallen marine’s laser rifle, roll, and bring it up to aim what I hoped was the cockpit of nearest mecha.

“It’s ok, not a threat, just some civilian. No need to shoot.”

I looked around and saw a mecha that had been aiming at me shrug and return to its watch.

A soldier not in the armor came over and gave me a hand. “You must be so scared, but don’t worry. We’re here to do all the fighting for you. Do you need a trauma counselor?”

I raised my stump to him.

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s the finger.”

They let me on to one of the abandoned Adepticus transports where I took my seat and tried to figure out how to turn the thing on. Unfortunately, the controls were written in improper Latin. I think one of them told me “the engines they go to the brakes”.

It was right then that the pervasive hum stopped. It cut back louder for a moment and then an explosion rocked the ship, followed by that feeling in the pit of your stomach when you realize the ground missed you and wants to hug you at high speed. I jammed my stump against the controls in a hurry as the ship was thrown out.

The transport was thrown into a sharp dip. I saw one of the mechas had grabbed on, and the soldier who had helped me up held tight to the mecha.

I got the ship powering up, engines due to cut on in 25 seconds. I got the ship into an unpowered spin that threw off the mecha, but his little buddy grabbed on to the cockpit window like an orange cat that hated Mondays. The engines started and the soldier breathed a sigh of relief as I examined the systems for a windshield wiper.

“You’re going to need a trauma specialist,” I told him over the external speakers. Then a red glow suffused the window and shot him off.

Then I got to have a firsthand view as the massive ship I had been in suffered another cataclysmic explosion to the midsection. Pardon my terminology, but having a peg leg doesn’t automatically make one knowledgeable in ship lingo. All I know is that I didn’t smell anything, so it probably wasn’t the poop deck that went up. The ship fell after that, prompting the air force and the heroes to go in for the kill. Dead ship falling over a city and all that.

Excuse me for wrapping up here, but you don’t want to hear about me crash landing in a Burrito Bell, catching a cab home, and sleeping for 12 hours.

Still something about the view of the ship, with ants dropping out of it and heroes desperate to destroy it before it takes out buildings, reminded me of a joke I was thinking of when I worked on my rocket. “I am become death, destroyer of worlds,” was what Oppenheimer thought of from the Bhagavad Gita when he saw a nuclear bomb test. If I had been there, I’d have told him, “Get in line, Oppenheimer.”




Get in Line, Oppenheimer 7

I raced down the corridor. I was getting close. The enemy suddenly heard Vincent Price’s voice over the communications channel as “Number of the Beast” began to play over it and drown out their voices with volume. I could only see a railing at the end of the corridor at that time, but there were stairs to the side. I ignored them and leapt off the railing to the marine below. I landed with my knees against his helmet. It threw him off balance and his armor smacked against the floor as we landed. I rolled off easily and jabbed my make-do hook into his throat. Tracheotomy? No no no, tracheotoyou!

The doors between the core and I were heavy enough to withstand almost anything I could throw at them. They were also controlled by a sophisticated computerized locking mechanism. I opened the door with my tongue. Hardest part was angling it out through the hole in my helmet. I think I pulled my tongue. What awaited me within was six well-armed marines. Most people don’t write about the engineers. Why bother with engineers when you can play the armored badasses with giant shoulderpads? Unfortunately, this means they were unaffected by the parody paradox altering other things throughout the ship to said badasses.

I dropped the improvised explosives off by the doorway as I hobbled along, seemingly preceded by a well-armored man with glowing slits on his helmet for seeing and a black Scotsman with one eye and a grenade launcher. I just feel that no trip to a spaceship’s engineering deck was complete unless a Scotsman was involved. Let me know if you’ve heard this one before. A space engineer, black Scottish Cyclops, and a power armored pirate ninja walk into a reactor room. They both took fire as I jumped up on top of a computer bank and then executed a maneuver on the distracted marines that was best known as a “splash”.

Not ready, three went down under me. The closest standing marine turned his weapon on me and fired, but I directed it right into a downed marine’s chest. Blood and ass went everywhere as I jammed my hook up in the gap between armor plates necessary at the groin. It sounded like he was choking, so I let go of his gun and grabbed under helmet. He raised the gun up, but I was too close. His second shot at me gibbed another of his buddies.

He looked surprised for a moment when I got the locks on the helmet undone and yanked it off. Then he looked stunned and bloody as I smashed him in the head with it, over and over and over again. The two that had stayed standing weren’t able to fire with my current playmate in the way, so they flanked me. I dragged my neutered enemy towards one of them, blocking his potential shot, and flung the helmet forcefully at the other. It wasn’t much, but it caused him to flinch as it struck his arms. The shot went wild. I pulled my hook out and jumped up, kicking back at the neutered marine.

It sent him back towards the other marine as I went forward, rolled, then jumped up higher in a flip. He moved to the side, ruining my setup, so I landed on my foot and peg and cartwheeled, taking him down. With him under me, I set my peg in his indented eye and put all my weight on it. It cracked the eyepiece and broke through, stabbing into something with give. I then had to throw myself to the side as a chainsaw kunai was swung at my head. The last of the fallen marines was after me, with the other having dropped his gun in favor of a chainsaw trident.

The marine with the kunai stabbed at me this time, so I caught it in my remaining hand. Right through the palm. Hurt like a mother. I stabbed my hook into the side of his helmet, barely working into the material at full swing, but it allowed me to shift around so that his body was between me and the other marine. Then I tore my hand off the chainsaw, directing what nanomachines were left to try and save it. My Nasty Surprise popped out, though, and I repaid this marine by lunging forward and jamming it into his throat, and then upward into the skull. The blades ripped through flesh and splatter blood out onto both of us.

Once again, the remaining marine tried to flank me. I threw his friend up and onto his trident, pinning the blades against the floor. Meanwhile, I charged forward. When I got close enough, I turned and felt my body hit his. With that, my legs wrapped around his hips as best as they were able. My momentum took me down, but I pushed off the ground and rose back into the air. As I reached the level of his head, I released my hold with my legs and grabbed his helmet. When I came back down, it was on my bottom, snapping his head down and against my shoulder. It didn’t do much to him other than disorient him and pop his helmet off in my hands. Before he could recover, I smashed him in the face with it again and again and again, a grin on my face beneath my own helm.

Someone else walked in. They looked like the marines, but without all the spikes and Freudian overcompensation. Their helmets had shiny visors over the face, and this particular group was a different color each : gunmetal, dark green, bright yellow, and red. The red one had a gun with all kinds of feathery looking things sticking out the top of it. They took one look at me with my missing and replacement body parts, covered in blood, an eyeball skewered on my pegleg, surrounded by 6 dead or wounded marines including one under me whose skull looked a lot flatter than when I started. And ran the other direction.

I yelled after them, “Wait, come back guys! I was just playing a game! Zombie piñata!”

Enough soaking the floors with brain matter. It was time to plant the explosives. The reactor itself was sealed from the outside, but it had a sliding compartment to input materials and a pair of waldos, which I nearly lost by the way. How awkward is that, standing around wondering where’s the waldos? I armed my little armor bombs and set them up next to and under the reactor.

Despite my aches, pains, and bleeding, it was time to run for the lifts before the bombs went off and hope some sort of transport was still sitting in the bay.

Next song on my playlist: “Run for the Hills”.



Get in Line, Oppenheimer 6

The marine who had helped me out against the Adepticus Pugilicus jerks insisted on going his own way. I guess he didn’t feel he could trust me around the weapon of mass destruction he was carrying around.

Either way, he walked off in one direction for some reason. When I tried to catch up to him, he whirled around and trained his big fucking gun on me. Sensing a distinct lack of trust there, I let him go and focused on the downed Adepticus marines.

I was able to scoop a good chunk of them out, since they were partially in chunks now. First bones, then some pink goop, then separated chunks of flesh, blood, bones, and muscle, and then intact body parts in the armored sections further from openings or weak points. Very interesting stuff. It confirmed the weakpoints. Any kind of armor tends to be weaker where someone needs to move, and this was no different. Neck, armpits, groin and inner thigh, and the knees.

It’s like I’ve said before, there’s always a way to kill someone. I’m an optimist of death, you might say, except for the part about experiencing it myself.

Once I had the gooey bits out, I set to work extracting and modifying their cores. Part of this involved slipping my right hand out of my glove and into the armor. It took several minutes, but soon the neural connection was made and I delved into the armor’s specs, trying to learn about the powersource.

Despite the armor, the training, the tendency to smack my enemies upside the head with anything at hand, I have only one thing that could be deemed a superpower. My race has the ability to connect to sufficiently advanced technology by touch. Rule of thumb says our nerves can link us up to any computer, including the CPU regulating the flow of energy to a suit of power armor. The communications package on this armor was also useful to know for psychological warfare.

You won’t be seeing too many more like me in all these rants you read from me. I am currently the only one of my kind on this planet. It involves a dimension-breaching bomb and a version of Earth that is in no hurry to get me back.

I had barely finished my work on the explosives when I was viciously snuck up upon by a guy who shot me in that ungloved hand. I was in shock for a second as I stared at the stump where my hand used to be.

Yes, my armor does actually provide some protection, even if its main function is to gather and process nearby visual data to seamlessly project it on me in such a way as to render me invisible. My abilities allow my brain to regulate this as well. With a hand off, I made use of that invisibility capability and its ability to project holograms nearby.

To the Adepticus who had burned me like a motherfucker, argh!, it looked like my image shook and split into three of me in different locations. All three were gloved and perfectly fine. One goaded him on by waving him over with one hand and pantomiming jerking off with the other. The middle cartwheeled into backflipping towards my assailant. The last me around gave him the finger with both hands, then zigzagged low to the ground as he made his way. Two of these were illusions and the Adepticus marine fired on all three. The flipping Gecko dodged one and then caught another beam in the midsection, the ruby beam spearing straight through and out the other side. The zigzagging one also avoided one of them before the laser seared through its leg. The one taunting the marine got a beam between the eyes and between the legs. None of them showed any effect and the two that were approaching never missed a step.

He tried to go for a Swiss army knife and pull out the chainsaw attachment, but that’s when I dropped all the illusions. Even with my left leg barely attached below the knee, I was able to move in close before he realized it was too late. I caught his hand and the chainsaw Swiss army knife with my remaining hand, my glove charged with energy. It burned his armor as I squeezed his hand, managing to snap something in it, an actuator probably. He dropped it and instead brought the butt of the laser rifle around. With a leg almost off, I was unable to dodge and went down to it.

He pointed it right at me then but I gave him an energy punch to the fingers and took the laser from him. Then I fired point blank into his crotch. He fell in front of me, ruined hands holding roasted chestnuts. I slid around and popped him in the ass as well, for good measure. When he tried to defend himself, I smacked him vigorously in the neck with the rifle butt. “You motherfucker, you shot my girlfriend!” I yelled as I shoved my arm stump in his face.

Some might say forty-seven times was one time too many to smack him. Others might have thought when I tore my wounded leg free of the last skin holding it on and shoved it up his ass foot-first I may have gone overboard. Honestly, sticking the barrel in there and finishing him off just seemed the merciful thing to do on my part. It just took four or five shots because I kept missing anything like his heart or brain that would put him down immediately. My aim gets a little off when my FUCKING HAND GETS SHOT OFF!

Afterwards, I looked around at the workshop, checking for a sufficiently long metal pole or something to act as a crutch. My chances of getting off the ship weren’t looking so hot with me losing body parts left and right and my supply of nanites was limited. My supply of patience was spent. A nearby computer gave up the location of the main reactor with a little coaxing from my nub. Other parts and scraps around the workshop gave me the means to reach it.

When I finished, the workshop looked like it had been used for some torture porn film with blood, body parts, and ass everywhere. But when I stepped out of the door of that workshop, it was with a torn scrap of the green silent marine’s shirt over my empty eye socket, a metal peg leg below my left knee, and a single hooked mechanical digit on a metal cup on my burned right wrist. I had four octagonal pulsing power armor cores strung together and slung over my shoulder.

I was tired, in a lot of pain, and surrounded by people who were of no use to me. Body parts missing, gadgets destroyed, and I was going to have to break in a whole new hand when I got back to base. In the meantime, hoist those colors, mateys.



Get in Line, Oppenheimer 5

The eye’s fine, by the way. I had the suit release some of its internal nanomachines that I use for rapid regeneration and cosmetic surgery. It pays to keep the Wanted posters guessing. And by now I have a really good handle on the pain I feel. If I couldn’t survive missing an eye, I’d have never made it to puberty.

Not that they could fix up that eye anyway. I’ve had my eyes replaced with cybernetic replacements for a long time. HUD, video playback, enhanced vision modes, zoom, and enhanced reality. Pretty fly for a fake eye.

The video playback comes in handy in helping me keep track of how I was brought to the bridge, but I have to keep it running on my one remaining eye while I head a little deeper into the ship. I need to find whatever powers this thing and destroy it. I’m not sure what state their central mainframe is in, or even if they have one, so I think the next best thing is to just explode everything in Engineering.

It was chaotic just finding a lift. There were crossfires all over the place. I saw men and women in body armor with rifles firing wildly and popping off grenades at the space marines and doing decent enough damage. Some even had light machineguns that auto tracked on their alternate continuity counterparts. My ass nearly got burned off by a flamethrower when I hit the stealth and pressed against the wall as they passed by. One of them caught me on his motion detector when I made my move and another panicked. He was shooting everywhere but at me though while shouting about “They’re coming out of the walls! Game over man!”

Some guys just can’t handle pressure. Not like me. I called that lift, the door opened, and inside was an angry quartet of Adepticus marines with chainsaw weapons. They must have given up on carrying gnus around. I charged up my gloves and leapt straight into them, cracking the armor of one of them with a discharge of energy. One of his squadmates tried to save him from my painful discharge with a swipe of his chainsaw shillelagh. It cut into his friend pretty well.

I didn’t have time to enjoy the blood spray because one of the other two took a swipe at me with chainsaw-chuks. He missed and cut half his hand off upon trying to catch them again.

The last one chewed up my abdomen with the help of his chainsaw nightstick. As it chewed through my belly, I was struck with a case of sudden acute Tourette’s Syndrome and I spoke with him briefly on a range of subjects involving his mother’s profession, whether she was married to his father, and what part of the body I thought he was most like. Then I unleashed an energy punch on his neck and heard a satisfying crack. It came just in time too.

I stumbled around the other direction to find the shillelagh wielder had pulled his weapon loose of his late squadmate. He took another go at me, but I grabbed him by the hand while more nanites flooded out into my gut. I couldn’t keep on my legs, however. As I fell, I directed the chainsaw shillelagh into the helmet of the marine who wasn’t trained in how to handle a nunchuk. At last, something to shut up the guy with the hurt hand.

Not like I could hear him anyway over my repeated recitation of the 7 words you can’t say on television.

That still left me one last marine to deal with, but the door opened and saved me a lot of time. No one had hit a button, so some slightly inconvenienced men stood outside the elevator, guns aimed inside at us. If they hadn’t shot up the other guy, I’d have thought they were allies. The armor was very similar, but these new marines had personalized touched all over their armor. Love and Hate, Call for a Good Time, the Koprulu will rise again. Their helmets were also full on visors rather than vaguely humanoid.

Nice folks. They popped the visors and shared a beer and a joint on the way down before I got off.

The plan didn’t hit me until just after the doors closed on the lift at Engineering. Some crazy bastard rigged up a source of energy for those space marine suits and a good rule of thumb is that anything providing power can be used as a weapon. It just means I will have to find it in my heart to slaughter more hapless Adepticus space marines. Oh whatever shall I do?

First thing’s first, sit down and wait for my gut to finish healing. In desperate situations the intestine makes a fine strangulation device, but it’s not one I want to rely on, especially not my own for thrice.

Before I finished healing I was forced to take cover behind some crates in a workshop looking area. I heard fighting nearby, and my suit’s stealth capabilities are reduced when damaged. The sounds of overzealous high tech crusaders were soon drowned out by a shotgun and then some sort of odd fizzing noises. Then a man jumps over the crate to land beside me in a bloody heap.

Green pants, green shirt, grey helmet with a visor. He’s got double barrel in one hand and what I can only call a big fucking gun in the other. He eyes me, but lets go of the shotgun long enough to unstrap a medical kit off his leg. He doesn’t say anything, just grunts.

“Yo, sup?” I ask him. He doesn’t answer. “I’m no space marine, I just wanted to fight and humiliate them in some small way, nawmean?” Curses, not even my funky white boy homie speak can crack him. It’s like he’s mute or something.

Lasers burned into the wall opposite us, meaning that at least one of the Adepticus types had remembered they were from the future. I held out a hand towards the wounded man next to me, “May I?” He reluctantly handed me the big fucking gun.

I stood and quickly spotted the offending group of Adepticus marines who were nice and piled up near a set of barrels. They helped me drop a few pounds with their lasers before I could fire, but I got a shot off. The gun fired a bright green burst that struck one of the barrels. For a moment I thought it would do nothing, but then it exploded out in pale green light, the barrels exploding on their own as well. The enemy marines seemed to shimmer brightly as the effect washed over them. The flesh of those without helmets disappeared in that shimmer even as they and their comrades burst open at the torso, blood flying out and dissolving in midair before they crumpled to the ground.

“Heh..hehehe, hahahaha, HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW!”

The healed up marine stood up next to me and yanked the gun out of my grip, breaking my train of laughter.




Get in Line, Oppenheimer 4

As you can probably tell from this being a short time later, I have at least survived the events I was telling you about. So I guess the continued existence of this endeavor is a spoiler alert. This may disappoint you, especially those of you who do not like me. To the first group, I say that my continued existence does not disappoint me. To the second group, I would like to extend an invitation for you to enter a zoo in the middle of the day while drawing a lot of attention and then engage in sexual congress with yourself forcefully enough to induce anal leakage for up to a month afterwards.

Then go fuck yourselves.

If you must know, they put heavy metal shackles around my wrists, took my belt off, and escorted me to an officer who appeared to be in charge based on his massive shoulderpads. Also, he was seated. I think the two are connected, as I doubt he could even get through the doors on the ship with those things. Command weighs heavily I’ve heard.

“This is the lawyer?” he asked his men, who nodded an affirmative. “He doesn’t look like much of a lawyer.”

“Trust me, I’m a fantastic lawyer. You wouldn’t believe how much corpus I habeus and I have a lot of experience with mens that aren’t very sano,” I responded.

The member of my escort with the slightly larger shoulder pads spoke up, “His Latin checks out, sir.”

“Yes, I see that. Very well, Psychopomp Gecko. What can you do for us?”

This was the tricky part. I had to open up my connection and try to be heard around as much of the world as possible. I needed to send this signal to any civilized area with wifi, as well as the U.S. and Middle East. “Alright, first off, we’ll have to do something about those pesky loopholes. Like satire. Did you know that as long as people make fun of you and your oversized armor you have no legal recourse?”

“Is that true?” he asked as he looked towards a smaller man on the bridge who was wearing what looked like a leather Nazi officer uniform. I butted in first.

“It is. Your hands can’t fit all the way into those gauntlets with those sizes. Depending on how short you are, you may not match up to your codpieces there either. Must make it hard to unscrew the things for a bladder drain, right?”

“Actually, we just urinate into a bag in our suits.”

“Right, so you guys aren’t even trusted with your own bladder control. Here in our time, that’s a basic criteria for not wimping out. For you, it’s just normal to piss yourselves.”

“I feel you are being disrespectful.”

“I apologize. Now let me reach for my fly. If it’s not disrespectful for you guys to pee while standing around talking to each other, I might as well mark an area here while relieving myself.”

“Take him to the brig.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I said to countermand his order. You say something like that, people get interested in a hurry if they have any intelligence.

“Why not?” said the commander-in-shoulderpads. He narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth. It would have been menacing if he didn’t look like he really, really wanted to jerk himself around. Maybe they put chainsaw blades on that too.

“Because your men are unarmed, for starters,” I said to his confusion, then looked around. His men were indeed unarmed. They instinctively pointed their weapons at me, but instead they held ox-like creatures that weighed them down, kicked at them, and began to run amok on the bridge. I looked back to the commander’s face, which sparkled. “Fanfic writers influencing the cultural legacy of space marines so that when someone creates them far down the line, they create the better known versions made up by the millions of people rather than the version some company put out that was turned into you. Problem is, there are these things called typos, so now you go into battle with gnus.” I could see the vein throbbing on the commander’s reddened forehead even as the critters stumbled around, kicked, and generally reeked of alcohol. “Correction,” I added, “loaded gnus.”

“Get him the hell out of here!” He yelled, showing a pair of fangs to match his sparkly skin. My guards were too busy butchering the wild gnus, so the Nazi drew his laser pistol and began to lead me out, even as the words “Team Edward” appeared on his otherwise stylish cap.

“You will be executed for this heresy.” He hissed at me as he lead me further into the ship.

“Fair warning, no one’s executing me today,” I told him.

“You think that do you?”

“Oh yes, the space marines ought to be showing up before long.”
“You addle brain. The space marines have captured you.”

“Listen, Herr future zpace Nazi, zere are other ideas about zpace marines out zere, zome predating yourz. If you come to assert dominance over them in these times, it’ll wipe them out, so they’ll likely show up to stop you at some point. Odds are on my side-“ I had to stop while trying to keep my balance when an explosion rocked the ship, providing a convenient underscore to my warning. As the Nazi and I recovered, I turned and saw he held his pistol outstretched towards me. I leapt and wrapped my legs around his head and arm, locking them into a triangle shape as I fell back, my upper back against the ground. He fired at me a few times, missing once and burning through my visor to take out my eye, but the shot didn’t manage any further.

I released him once he lost conciousness, stood up, and told him, “You just got knocked the fuck out!” His laser made a handy restraint removal device. Then I noticed him begin to stir. “Did I tell you you could wake up yet?” One boot to the head got the point across and sent him back to peaceful slumber.

I had two options then. Either go back and try to grab my belt with all my disposable gear, or not. I sent out the signal to the device in my belt that triggered a self destruct. But Gecko, you might ask, why run around with explosives so close to your crotch? Good question, I would say, but not all explosives go off if they are jostled, or shot, or caught by an explosion. Some, like those involving small nuclear detonations, need to be initiated instead. That’s a revelation that would have blown the Commander’s mind. In fact, since my belt was carried up by one of those escorts, it did.

Now I just had to escape through a ship full of perpetually pissed off marines that was being attacked by either superheroes, the strongest conventional military on Earth, or alternate universe future space marines protecting their future existences.

This is gonna be so much fun!



Get in Line, Oppenheimer 3

It was while enjoying a bottle of Bailey’s in the bar that the purpose of the space marine invasion was made known to us. The marines butted in on every broadcast around to make a statement.

“Profligate peoples of the past. The Adepticus Pugilisticus are here in your time to make a statement. For too long have you casually cheapened our legacy. Even though we come from years in the future and are not the first to take the name Space Marines, we are the peak, the definition of that title. We will not tolerate others helping themselves to it. Only we the truly righteous, are worthy of this. Know this. Today we make the statement that all the worms who dare claim our title for themselves shall be eradicated as insolent pests. For the Emperor!”

Yep. They were willing to attack and destroy lives just to control a term that has been in use since the 1930s. My first thought was to make sure John Glenn and other astronauts who had been marines were protected. They had been literal marines in space. My second was that it was a good day to support piracy and other ways to get around trademark and copyright.

That’s right, I will outright say I support piracy. I am also anti-gun because the sword and axe lobby bought me. Why bother carrying a pissant 9mm when you could be packing a broadsword? I’m also not pro-choice. The only true way to prevent the biblical apocalypse on the off chance it would come true is to abort all the babies whether the parents want them or not. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not pro-life either. In fact, I’m anti-life. Darkseid for President!

So anyway, I got myself back to the lair after they made that announcement, figuring I’d do my part in keeping the world safe and the ability to use a basic term. Also, it’s just fun take the fight to self-righteous religious assholes who are willing to kill for their beliefs. Hell, I took one out on the way back to base. Guy pulled out a pistol that fired exploding bullets. I covered him in pantyhose, drove his head through a mailbox, drew a smiley face on his ass, broke his wrist, and fired it up his rectum. Rectum? Darn near killed ‘em!

I do love my armor. As good as I am outside it, I am better inside it. Except for eating and pooping. I wear special armor for pooping.

I strap on the rocket launcher and head out to find myself a space marine ship. On the way, I spot a giant walker spewing flames and flying the bright green of enemy Adepticus. Lasers lanced out, attempting to hit a villain I knew of. He was dressed in a wetsuit and took gliding, almost skating steps through water that he generated with every step. The mech never even saw me coming. Literally. It saw nothing thanks to my armor’s advanced ability to project nothing while hiding the real view of me. There are all kinds of protection. Get your mind out of the gutter. My armor does technically protect against pregnancy and transfer of STDs, but I was talking damage resistance.

So this big mech walker was burning everything up and getting smacked with bursts of water from Hydroplane when it met with an unfortunate end. I charged up my gloves with energy and busted in the cockpit window. A surprised pilot looked back. He continued looking surprised as I tore out the wiring of the controls and strangled him with it. All the futuristic cybernetics in the world can’t save someone who needs to breathe.

That’s one of those simple truths of life. When life gets you down, remember that and it’s bound to help you out of your troubles.

It was then that I caught sight of Adepticus ship flying over head. Hydroplane caught my gaze and shook his head disapprovingly as I set up the launcher and mounted the rocket. Then I flung myself at the battleship of a group of crusading high tech power armor knights using a weapon known for exploding.

The ship was trying to catch me with rapid-fire lasers, so I had to twist and dodge. More Adepticus marines were whizzing around on their jetpacks. Some were taking potshots at me. Others that were close took swings at me with chainsaw swords, chainsaw axes, and even a chainsaw mace, which seemed to defeat the purpose. Not just the lime green marines, either. Some were in pearl, others in a color my HUD told me was kumquat, and one fellow in periwinkle nearly took my head off. He chased me, but got too close. I was able to yank the chainsaw whip out of his hand because we were both moving through the air at high speeds and it would take a moment to start the whip.

They must have a lot of gasoline in the future to run all these chainsaw weapons.

Oh, and I wrapped the whip around the marine’s neck and guided him into a dropship of theirs that was making its descent. Last I saw of him, he was getting chewed up in a rotor. Took the whip with him.

I miss you, whippy.

The dropship gave me a hint of where they were offloading from and I zipped in while the door was open. I aimed for a doorway to the interior, and then lower. The rocket crashed into the floor as I launched myself off and towards the door, just in time for it to automatically slide open for me or some marine that was walking in. Actually, it didn’t. I crashed into it with my rocket about to go off and no way to disarm it.

I was saved by the door having an easily accessible handle. Saved is a relative term, however. I barely got in when the door blew in on me and left me splayed out on my belly, just in time for a squad of space marines to shove their guns into my face.

I checked, but they had them on the rest of me as well.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” one of them asked me.

Another said, “Doesn’t matter, just shoot him.”

I told them that I was “Psychopomp Gecko, the world’s superest copyright lawyer. I heard you might have a lawsuit on your hands?”




Get in Line, Oppenheimer 2

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?”