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||Re: Out of the Blue
||Dec 24, 2012, 16:43
|A Quake 2 Christmas
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the base,
The scanners showed no signs of the alien race.
The bullets were placed in my chaingun with care,
In case Strogg invaders soon would be there.
The other marines nestled all snug in their pods,
Dreaming of gibbage and dark vengeful gods.
And I in my Kevlar, and official Quake 2 cap,
Had just settled down for a long cryo nap.
When out in the night there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my pod to see what was the matter.
I ran to the porthole, well shaded and sealed,
And cautiously turned off the magnetic shield.
The moon on the breast of the loosely packed mud,
Reminded me of Stroggos, and the puddles of blood.
When what in the sky should I get in my sights,
But a big hover sleigh and eight huge Parasites.
With a mountainous driver, whom I saw at a gander,
I knew that it must be a damned Tank Commander.
More rapid than lasers his coursers they came,
And he whipped them, and grunted, and called them by name.
"Now Slasher! Now Mincer! Now Pincer, and Mangler!
On Killer! On Ripper! On Gutter and Strangler!"
"To the top of the sandbags! To the top of the wall!"
"Move it, you maggots, or I'll slaughter you all!"
As starships that before a black hole should race,
When they meet with the deadliest hazard in space,
So down to the barracks the cyborgs they flew,
With a sleigh full of ammo and the Tank Commander too.
And then, in the courtyard, I gulped as I saw,
The gouging and scraping of each razor-sharp claw.
As I drew forth my blaster, and let out a call,
The giant Strogg bastard broke right through the wall.
He was dressed all in steel, both solid and mesh,
Held together by strips of grotesque human flesh.
A bundle of rockets he had flung on his back,
He could kill a small army with what he had in that sack.
His eyes -- how they gleamed!
"I must sound the alarms!"
This monster meant business,
He had cannons for arms!
His sly little mouth was drawn up in a grin,
And human blood dribbled all over his chin.
His guns issued smoke in a hypnotic pattern,
Encircling his head like the great rings of Saturn.
He had a broad face and a square, solid chest,
And a cybernetic heart pumping blood without rest.
He was muscular and frightening, a right evil old 'Borg,
With one thing on his mind -- sending me to the morgue.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Filled me with panic and horrible dread.
He spoke not a word but went right to the slaughter,
And my sleeping comrades became cannon fodder.
He killed all the soldiers with dual rockets blazing,
As I stood in horror my eyes blankly gazing.
The carnage complete, he strode back to the sleigh,
And I could do nothing but whimper and pray.
But I heard him say, as he flew out of sight,
"Merry Christmas, Hu-man. You got lucky tonight!"
- Emil Pagliarulo
"Nobody wants to be nobody in America. Ed is the apotheosis of a prevailing American syndrome. It used to be that someone became famous because they were special. Now people are considered special just for being famous. Fame, itself, is its own virtue.