Greetings all. It has been many moons since I promised new stories. Unfortunately, real life has had plans for me and I have barely got anything done since the beginning of January. I also haven’t been able to do anything to try to restore Imp Lit to its former glory.
I’m concerned that some members are being blocked from registering or re-registering, or even just posting on the forums, by Imp Lit’s spam software. There is plenty of legitimate traffic to the site, just no posts, so there’s obviously something going wrong.
I had to install heavy-duty anti-spam software due to relentless spam attacks throughout 2013 and early 2014. If any members are reading this and are having problems, PLEASE EMAIL ME on email@example.com and I will investigate.
I have caught several attempted registrations from long-standing members who have been barred, without my intention to do so, by the spam filters. These should have all been corrected but I simply do not know if it’s worked.
From mid-February 2015 onwards, and for the first time in my life, I will be receiving support for ADHD which I was diagnosed with at the end of 2013. I have been told that the personal benefits of this treatment could be significant and I should hopefully be more productive, better able to focus on bringing Imp Lit back to life. It may be a gradual process though, I’m venturing into the unknown here.
An email will be going out to all members soon asking you all to confirm whether or not you are able to post and/or re-register (if required) on the forums.
I’ll also be investigating new options for spam blocking that won’t prevent members from returning or signing up.
Dick had had to enlist three other Ultramarines to help him give a chair-lift to Marneus Calgar. The fat, complaining Chapter Master had point-blank refused to strip out of his armour for the journey. He was paranoid about “That new girl seeing my nipples”.
They’d worked up a fine sweat by the time they reached the transport bay. Unfortunately the bay, which was more of a circular, open-air arena which perpetually stank of promethium, was almost empty. The floor of the bay was streaked with black stains. Above them, the winter sky was a brooding presence.
“He’s uninstalling Firefox from all our computer systems, sir, and loading Opera in their place.”
“Why in the name of Bob Hoskins did I ask him to do that?”
“You need to work harder on those memory tests, sir. The Inquisition declared Firefox to be more bloated than Nurgle’s colon and you were sick of having your computer freeze for five minutes every time you started Firefox up. Said the waiting made your bollocks retract into your hips.”
“Tech-Priest Nerdingham is the laziest, most unmotivated slob in the region,” said Calgar without irony. “The first time he ever does anything I ask him to is the day my kidney goes kamikaze. He was supposed to be working on the Rhinos today!”
“You put the fear of Guilliman into him, my Lord, by threatening him thus: ‘I don’t give a flying feth about the tanks, mate, you either install Opera or spend five minutes in the nerve glove, pain level ‘watching the European intro to Gran Turismo 5.'”
“That’s quite a good impression of me,” Calgar said, not sure whether to be impressed or go into one of his tantrums. “You even pronounced our Primarch’s name correctly. Hardly anybody does that.”
(Unfortunately, dear reader, even I don’t know how to pronounce that name, and I’ve been taking it in vein for more than a decade!)
There was a familiar buzzing crack; not of the lord Calgar’s flatulence for a delightful change, but an incoming lasgun shot.
“Look out, sir!” Dick yelled, almost flipping the Chapter Master out of their grasp as he tumbled the group of Ultramarines sideways.
Marneus Calgar’s Barmy Army: Calgar’s Kidney Stone
A Warhammer 40,000 parody by NoPoet
Synopsis: Gasp and vomit your way through this insulting, lavatory-humour farce in which the Lord Calgar, whom my Windows Surface tablet thinks should be called “Marines Calgary”, is menaced by a nasty kidney stone… oh, and an invasion of Nurgle. All Calgar wanted to do was use the toilet…
The Marneus Calgar’s Barmy Army Official Anthem
With special thanks to the track author, Dummy, and OC ReMix
Calgar’s Kidney Stone
Calgar’s Discomfitting Kidney Mishap
Marneus Calgar: A Profane, Blasphemous and Intelligence-Insulting Anecdote of One Man’s Unfortunate Circumstance
PART ONE – THE MADNESS BEGINS… AGAIN
Welcome to Macragge, home to the most pious Imperial servants: an entire Chapter of devout warrior-monks, heroic noblemen whose lives are constantly on the line so trillions of robe-wearing minions can scribe things that someone else chucks in the bin. Macragge is a rocky and cold world, a place where dwell men of legend… and their glorious leader, Marneus Calgar.
“OW!” roared Lord Calgar from his uncompromising squat on the Crapper of Macragge. “My fething piles are playing up. They’re throbbing like alien brains in a B-movie.”
“Then stop sitting down with a thump, sir!” Dick called from outside the door. “Remember what the apothecary said: don’t provoke the piles!”
“I’ll provoke the little bastards when I pop them with a power sword and cauterise them with a hand flamer! Even if it itches like a fething bitch, it will be a blessed relief compared to this! I feel like I stuck my arse in a nerve glove set to ‘exterminatus’. Or maybe ‘exterminanus’.”
“It was bawdy lavatory humour, Bannerman. You can feel free to laugh.”
“Oh,” Dick said. “Ha. Ha.”
“Nobody ever gets my jokes,” said Marneus Calgar as the toilet strained beneath his podgy rolls. “You know something, Number Two? These aren’t just piles. They’re rancid visitations. Every time I try to push, I get a stabbing pain in my lower back.”
“You might be wiping too hard, sir,” Dick offered. “We can hear bog roll tearing and shuffling in there for twenty minutes every time you have a crap. It’s bound to play havoc with your ring region.”
“You may be right, Number Two,” Calgar conceded. “Oh, speaking of bog roll, some silly tosser used the last of my Andrex. Fetch us a couple of rolls, will you?”
“Which kind, my Lord?”
“Er… natural pebble, because their marketing executives called it that with a straight face. Fair play to them, their will is clearly stronger than mine. And tell the lads to stop pinching it, I’m supposed to be the only person who comes in here at stopping-off time.”
“You are the only person who goes in there, you big fat bog-roll wasting bell end,” Dick muttered as he headed for the pantry, where Calgar hid his Andrex.
“Oh, and Number Two?” Calgar said.
“You shouldn’t really use that nickname when you’re in there, sir,” Bannerman said, coming back. “I never actually know if it’s me you’re talking to.”
“I do apologise, Dick. I’m only the Chapter Master of the Ultramarines, who am I to address my underlings in the manner of my choosing?”
“What is it, sir?” said Dick, wisely changing tack.
“Can you explain to me the function of Lyman’s ear?”
“Er, no, to be honest. Do you still want that toilet roll? Only, Milo and I are organising a Forza tournament -”
“The Lyman’s Ear, you great blasphemous tit, allows me to hear everything you say within a football field’s radius, even above the constant, squeaking, gaseous emanation of my ablutions. So the next time you accuse me of wasting toilet roll, get ready for the nerve glove, pain level ‘Listening to the theme tune of classic British sitcom Dear John through headphones, on constant repeat, for five hours, without alcohol or other anaesthetic’.”
“Anything but that!” Dick cried. “My apologies, Lord Calgar. I’ll attend to your toilet roll emergency at once.”
TOOT! replied the Lord Calgar’s arsehole. It echoed for some seconds, trapped between a clogged u-bend and Calgar’s fat, spotty backside.
‘This is distasteful.’ Berolinus snarled.
Codian had to agree. He glanced at the others and he could tell they were of the same mind.
‘We sully ourselves while ever we remain in the alien’s presence.’ Berolinus continued. ‘I say we kill it and take the ship as our own.’
‘And can you pilot such a ship?’
‘Perhaps Laenar could.’
All eyes turned to the Techmarine. The warrior shook his head slowly.
‘As far as I am able to tell, this is a Demiurg Stronghold ship. We may be the first humans ever to set foot on such a vessel. Demiurg technology has always been a mystery to the Adeptus Mechanicus. I am not even sure how he manages to pilot this vessel alone.’
Codian turned his attention away from the stars beyond the viewport and moved to join the others, sensing their collective discomfort.
‘Brothers, this is a necessary evil. It is our duty to return to the Imperium in its hour of need, and the only way we can do that is to allow this creature to carry us to the Imperial borders. We are Astartes and it is our duty to aid the Imperium we all swore an oath to serve. Duty must take precedence above all else.’
The others agreed bitterly.
‘Hmm. I’m not deaf.’
Grungi turned away from the vast control banks of the bridge, his augmetic eye twinkling. His mouth was curled into lopsided grin.
‘Your engineer is correct about the Grudgebearer. She’s a Stronghold class, the best in the galaxy. The ships of the Mont’ka Kor’vattra have hunted her for years without success. As for taking her as your own, there are quicker and more effective ways of committing suicide.’
Time most distant, future’s zenith.
In tears, the star-sea mourns.
Isha’s children lament. All is lost to arrogance, grand designs soured by success, dreams are dust.
Shattered and done, the progeny set sail for the forever-beyond, flight borne on the tides of shame.
To dwindle and expire, forever denied.
The New Star burns too intense to douse, unchecked, untamed. Gods despair.
Tide surges, the end time is come.
Future’s path runs red as Khaine-blood, Hate-Winter rages, the portents scream their siren song. The song of Ulthanash is silent, Isha’s eye closed in slumber. Asuryan’s Shrine-light flickers and dies. The Cosmic Serpent reveals the truth and sheds his final skin. The Rebirth is denied. The Doom of Eldanesh comes to pass, the Red Moon rises.
The Rhana Dandra is come, let young and old cower before the chaos of the end.
The New Star will rise unprecedented, all the dread despoilers of the old kingdom quail beneath its fire.
Dead-King shivers on his maggot-throne as the Tide assails his walls, his kingdom lost.
Locust flees, no longer to plague creation-fields, feast denied.
Slave-puppets, once free, now lie in chains, conquered anew, rebellion’s essence bound in blood.
Long-Dead are exhumed, tombs razed. There shall be no flight, no peace in death. Their gods shall tremble.
Damned Shores become bastion as Dark Souls return. Exodus-flight before the rising swell. Denizens of Under-Kingdom cower behind its gates as the Tide surges.
Shame-Kin be damned in the bowels of the Webway, vermin scuttling in filth and terror, afraid of the ragescream storm above. Let them gather souls in shame and desperate haste, past sins quail as the All-Thirst is quenched. The brightest hope may lie amongst the darkest of shadow, the Learned Mongrel-Soul exhumed to see a destiny fulfilled.
Many Mighty Kings shall offer their swords to the Tide. None shall escape. None shall escape.
Skeins divided, hope defiant. Light and darkness heed, else collide and be damned. Fractured is as death, no other path leads to hope.
Existence-Tree be razed to its roots, bitter leaves cleansed. Then can hope’s light flicker. All forgotten to the core of creation. Then can hope’s flame catch the breeze.
Let the Lost Princes of the Young gather, shoulder to shoulder they alone may weather the Hate-Winter’s wrath.
Bright Hope’s flame still burns deep in the shadows of the Dead Land, too powerful to extinguish forever. Soul Beacon, the Horn of Kurnous will sound the call to war. They shall gather, let but some of their names be known.
The Revenant. The First-And-Ever Lords of War. The Lost Princes. The Wrathful Masters. The Reapers of Light. The Stolen Giant. The Prophet. The Last Avenger. The Entombed Ancient. The Oracle. The Blazing Rebel.
All these names and more shall stand ready as the Rhana Dandra dawns and the light of the Final Day casts her glow upon armour and weapon.
Maelstrom, life and death gather for war, old and young collide beneath the Red Moon. Origin revealed, too sour a taste to accept.
It matters not, what is, is.
Gods splintered reform in deed to counter the twilight. The children rise, menagerie gather in bitter winds of division’s death. Choice is murdered for all time, no longer sustainable in revealed irrelevance.
Diversity is power, the only power left unconsumed. Youth’s vigour an appetite insatiable above all else, desperation will rule the firmament. There can be no more old-thought. Every shadow will shift, writhe with hidden stirring. Life’s last breath must be deep.
Let them stand on the Final Shore as one, faces turned to the Tide. I have seen future’s zenith. I have seen crux and apex. Past, present and future united. Enmity is not survival. History rewritten at its very core, primeval puzzle complete.
One must tell the tale. Paths cannot be altered, only destinations revealed.
Unity. When the ash-wake clears, no more division, only Unity.
The Great Unity will prevail.
–Translation of ancient eldar tablet found on Cadia. Artefact thought to be the oldest example of eldar archaeology yet discovered.–
Beneath the ironclad boots of Lord Kaalek of the World Eaters 3rd Company, corpses squelched.
Many of Lord Kaalek’s brethren had seldom put much thought in their daemonic allegiances. They just saw Chaos as a means to an end; the Pleasure God would empower them to indulge every whim and desire, while the Blood God would empower them to strike down their enemies with inhuman strength. The Rot Lord and the Change Lord would empower them to truly live, driving them to greater and greater heights. These Astartes, which were especially prevelant among the Undivided Legions, rarely considered the perspective and thoughts of the Gods. Many didn’t believe the Gods to be sentient at all, viewing them as forces of nature. “The warp”, they called it, not Chaos. No, just “the warp”. Even those who acknowledged the Gods referred to them by mortal names with shocking disrespect. “Khorne,” they said, as if a single syllable could express all that the Blood God was.
Kaalek was not one of these Astartes. When the Blood God had first whispered to the World Eaters, Kaalek hadn’t immediately consigned himself to damnation. He refused to act as mindlessly as the men under his command did, allying themselves with Chaos without even the slightest understanding of what it was. Kaalek had required persuasion.
This story originally appeared on www.dakkadakka.com and is presented here with permission from the author.
We must no longer concern ourselves
with the God Emperor’s disapproval regarding our methods
In the service of Lord Khorne, we have found the perfect outlet for our rage
-Chaplain Xabreith of the XII Legion
The Long War
According to a series of papers written by the late Inquisitor Thrax, the armies of Khorne fight for the thrill of battle and the pleasure of vanquishing one’s opponent. This is not entirely true.
Slaughter Brother Erezak was a sight to behold. His armor was the vibrant blood red, brass edged plate of the World Eaters. Hydraulic tubing ran about his form, plugging into outlets that were carved to resemble the eight pointed star of Chaos. Skulls, some human and others daemonic, were mounted on trophy poles and swaying from rusted chains. The brass icon of Khorne and the outlandish symbol of the World Eaters, a verdant blue and green world caught in the maw of some sort of fanged beast, were built into every facet of his armor. In one hand he clutched a whirring chainaxe, it’s rending teeth stained a dark, gore red from 10,000 years of slaughter, and in the other hand he held an archaic bolter pistol, fed a by a belt of warp cursed ammunition.
He and a thousand other Berzerkers just like him came crashing into the Imperial Fists’ position, screaming bloody praise for their mad God.
This story originally appeared on Dakkadakka.com and is posted here with the author’s consent. This is an epic work which will be posted onto Imp Lit in several parts.
To the far north there lays a land so inhospitable, and wracked by cold weather and the lack of any friendly place to rest, in these rugged foothills and vast rolling tundra plains those who are shunned by the world or driven here by either fear or a need to vanish come. Some find shelter in the few lonely fortified towns that hug the valley floors. Or some live alone, forever wandering those cold marches in search of solitude or perhaps some company to ward of evil dreams.
Known o traveler. In these lands there is but one law, and that is the law layed down by the biting cold north wind and the harsh land itself. Only the strong or lucky can hope to eke out a living here.
So let us begin our story, and let us discover who or what will unfold in it.
Originally posted on www.dakkadakka.com. Posted here with the author’s permission.
The Drakwald, south of the fortress city of Middenheim, The Empire.
Captain Lucarius was quicker than the beastman, deftly avoiding the huge cleaver. In retaliation, his own slender blade sliced through the creature’s body, cleaving deep matted fur, thick muscle and malformed bone. He pivoted swiftly and decapitated another of the foul creatures, his speed far surpassing their own crudely powerful movements.
He risked a glance to see how the rest of his command fared and witnessed two of his own hacked down. The beastmen were no match individually for the elvish warriors, but they had come in numbers and whilst slender blades were momentarily mired in dark furred bodies, so their pack mates took full advantage.
Lucarius ducked a wild blow from a bellowing monster and parried a swinging club as he dropped to one knee and then launched himself forward to stain his blade again in another creature. However, this time his rapid pivot took him into the path of a mighty fist and it sent him reeling back, scarcely retaining his grip on his sword.
Blood pouring from his shattered nose, the captain rolled and scrambled from the fists, axes, clubs and cleavers that sought a more decisive blow. The bloody mud of the forest floor clung to his armour and clothes, slowing his movements resulting in his left leg being crushed by an ill crafted club, little more than large tree branch.
His own sword, the product of a craftsman who had spent centuries mastering his art, sliced the tendons of a beast, but then like the hand that wielded it was hammered deep into the yielding ground by the hefty hoof of another. Growling in triumph, the creature ground his foot, shattering the bones beneath and causing a cry of pain to leap from the Elf officer.
Our settlement had grown large, not through conquest, but through farming. We sustained a population by feeding them while making the proper obeisance to Neiglen, Grandfather Nurgle, who is the god of fecundity as well as the god of decay.
My people had not become soft. The occasional terror of a Chimera attack meant we were always vigilant, and the followers of the Crow God would like little more than to divine their fate by studying our innards.
Yet it was neither beast nor Crow Brethren that saw our destruction. Khorne had looked upon our settlement and found our warrior spirit wanting, for he despises the man who lays down his sword to take up the implements of the farmer, especially when that man is a capable fighter.
The Kurgan horde attacked us in full daylight, giving warning enough to prepare ourselves. Still we suffered many casualties, warriors of the Blood God swiping axes and hellblades in strikes that disembowelled and drew great gouts of blood. They attacked with fury rather than skill, yet somehow the speed and strength of their rage overmatched our discipline, so we knew the Kurgan were favoured indeed.
I was cut down and my guts hit the dirt a heartbeat before my body. As I lay dying, flies began to land upon my exposed vitals. We had always suspected that our tribe carried the favour of Nurgle and as I saw putrefaction spreading across my flesh, I knew the Plague God would hear me. While I prayed, I lost the strength to speak, so I finished the plea in my thoughts.
“Please, Lord Nurgle,” I whispered. Flies landed on my face and began to crawl down my throat. It took me a moment to realise they were chewing into my tongue. “Give me the strength to strike back against these blood-mad heathens. Give me the chance to avenge my people and I will serve you.”
My child, a voice seemed to say in my head. I could hear flies buzzing madly in my ears, feel them burrowing into my skin to lay their eggs.
My child, I do not abandon faithful servants to the torments of other hells, other deities. Am I not a loving God? Is my intervention not inevitable? I have come to claim you and your people, but you shall serve me with your lives, not your deaths.