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Marneus Calgar’s Barmy Army: 2009 Christmas Special

24/12/2009 in Warhammer 40K

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“What do you think about that weird Christmas song, ‘A Spaceman Came Travelling’?”
“I think it should be illegal to write Christmas songs while on drugs, sir.”
– Marneus Calgar and Dick Bannerman

*

It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth, waiting for Gran Turismo 5 to come out. He is the master of mankind by the will of the Prophets (or should that be Profits?), and master of a million worlds by the might of Andy Chambers and Jervis Johnson. I mean, JERVIS, for feth’s sake? That’s not even a real name, it sounds like something from Dungeons and Dragons, no offence.

The Emperor is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from technology invented during NoPoet’s forthcoming 20K series. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die. (2015 edit: Although the latest fluff kind of craps on that last part.)

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance, if only to distract himself from the itching pang of his piles. Sitting on that throne for 10,000 years has not done his buttocks any good.

Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by www.astronomican.com, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will*. Though how a 40K fansite aids space travel is a mystery to me – maybe there’s a hidden forum I haven’t found.

* At least, that’s how Brannick would describe it.

Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest among his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors, especially the Ultramarines. The Ultramarines have got some comrades and whatever, but they’re not as good.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times.

Forget the power of technology and science, except when it comes to giving Imperial players new guns and tanks. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, unless obviously you’re a Tau.

There is no peace among the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

Except at Christmas.

*

Imagine a beautiful house, decorated for Christmas in the devastatingly nostalgic Victorian style. (Britain FTW) A log fire crackles beneath an ornate mantelpiece, casting its warmth onto a scene of beauty. The Christmas tree looks like it was stolen from a Disney cartoon. Beneath it are presents piled higher than a nice version of Khalan-Gol.

There is restrained immaturity among people everywhere, an excitement in adults who for a brief period of time are allowed to become children once again. There is joy, optimism, a sense of hope and friendship, merriment and a shared love for all mankind.

And then there is what the Ultramarines are doing.

*

Brino Milo of the Tanith First-and-Only was singing as he helped Dick Bannerman decorate the Ultramarine mess hall. Banners and tassels hung depicting such glories as The Battle of the 2008 Pub Crawl, in which Marneus Calgar heroically drank two yards of ale and burped some of it up into a girl’s mouth, and the 8 Years of Calgar’s Barmy Army, during which Calgar himself had been slapped in the face by no less than four women and pointedly ignored by a Canoness, while establishing himself not only as a cretin, but a coward with a small penis. Who says men can’t multitask?

“Christmas time, mistletoe and wine, pilgrims wasting the Emperor’s time, with logs down the toilet and piss on the seat, it’s -”

“Milo!” Bannerman snapped, crushing a wrestling ball in his rage. “Your singing voice reminds me of a Battle Sister having a clitorectomy. Can’t you stick to playing the pipes?”

“Not after what Flat-Head did with them,” the young Tanith replied, rubbing the seat of his trousers to soothe his tattered ring.

“I told you not to wake him up by blowing it in his ear!”

“He shouldn’t keep falling asleep and snoring through Merlin! Anyway, what really annoyed him was the following morning, when I threw that glass of water in his face to wake him up.”

“Milo, that was his own urine! He’d woken up in the night needing to go, but he was too drunk to reach the toilet!”

“Hmm.. fair enough. Stick the radio on. I still haven’t heard Slade yet. It’s not Christmas until Noddy Holder says so.”

The two men continued to decorate while Cliff Richard’s five hundred Christmas songs played on every radio channel.

Milo trimmed the many photos of Calgar which hung on the walls. One of them had a pair of specs and a tash drawn in black felt-tip. Another was an obvious photoshop of Calgar beaming with pride as he shook the Primarch’s hand during the Seige of Terra. A last picture showed different types of Imperial ships through the ages. It had been hastily retconned to show an Endeavour class cruiser from 20K.

“I love this time of year,” Bannerman said with a sudden smile. “Christmas has always been a special occasion for the Ultramarines. Every year the devout Brothers receive a smack round the ear and a Christmas dinner cooked by Calgar himself.”

“Still, the smack round the ear is nice,” Milo agreed.

“Indeed, my young friend. I fething hope he’s not cooking again this year.”

“He is, I feel it in my straight silver. I can already smell burning sprouts.”

“I know, and last year’s turkey was a disgrace!”

“I thought it was a chicken.”

“It was,” Dick complained. “That’s why it was a disgrace. We eat chicken every Saturday. He claimed the Ultramarine army budget didn’t stretch to a Christmas turkey, but really he’s saving up to get Gavriel’s squad another assault cannon. So there we were, eight hundred starving and pissed-up warriors, sitting round a small Morrisons chicken.”

“Not even that,” said Milo. “The worst part was how he used a melta-gun on wide beam to cook it. There were eight hundred starving and pissed-up warriors sitting around a burnt piece of carbon.

“Indeed. Speaking of The Mighty Forehead, we’re nearly finished here and he was supposed to be helping us decorate. Where has he got to?”

“You tell me,” said Milo. “You’re supposed to be his bodyguard.”

“Wait!” said Bannerman. “What was that?”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

Bannerman looked across at the fireplace, which was dormant. There wasn’t any wood in Calgar’s Temple of Awesome, which doubled as the Ultramarine HQ; the only logs to be found were clogging the U-bend of Calgar’s personal toilet.

“I’ve got advanced hearing, remember? I heard something coming from the chimney.”

Milo was about to say ‘Advanced hearing, or big ears?’, but then he remembered it was Christmas Eve (they had come back late from a mission which is why they were decorating so close to the big day) and the two men froze, staring at the fireplace. Could it be? Was Father Christmas on his way?

A trickle of soot fell down to cloud in the fireplace. Milo put his hands on Dick and the two men clutched one another fearfully.

“If you see a pair of black boots and red trouser legs, pretend to be asleep,” said Milo. “Otherwise he won’t leave our stuff.”

Dick looked at his watch. “It’s only half past five in the evening. What’s Santa doing here at this time?”

“Shh! Don’t call him that – you remember how Calgar went off last time.”

“Sorry. What’s Father Christmas doing here at this time? I thought he only came out at night.”

Another trickle of dust spilled down. The pair backed away, still hanging onto each others’ arms.

“He’s got the whole galaxy to do, remember?” Milo whispered. “He probably had to start early.”

Suddenly there was a loud banging, followed by a scraping sound that grew louder every moment. A male voice roared, getting louder as whoever it was came down the chimney arse-first at uncontrollable speed.

“It’s him!” Milo yelled. “It’s Father Christmas, and he’s falling to his death down our chimney!”

“God-Emperor! Our presents! Quick, Milo, if Father Chrimbo bites the big one, we’ll never get any presents again. Sacrifice your life to break his fall!”

Dick grabbed Milo and flung him into the fireplace, where the highly valuable Imperial Guard pipe-player with intermittent psychic powers cringed beneath his doom. A cascade of soot avalanched onto him, followed by the bloated form of a fat man in a big suit, painted black with grime. The man must have weighed four hundred kilograms what with all the spare tyres flapping around his manly area, yet Milo was saved as the great weight simply creased his forehead like one of the many near-misses survived by Tanith main characters.

“SACRED FETH, IT’S FATHER CHRISTMAS!” Dick cried.

Then the fat figure sneezed and soot cascaded from him, revealing a powerfully meaty and somewhat shocked face that was depressingly familiar.

“Where?” said Marneus Calgar. “And how did he get past me?”

*

While Calgar dried himself off after a hot shower, Milo said to Bannerman, “How come he’s taking this Christmas stuff so seriously? Setting up a watch for Father Christmas. Building radar stations tuned to detect reindeer. We’d be better off using those resources to fight the enemies of Mankind. Calgar once told me Christmas was a humbug.”

“That’s before he realised we got presents, young Tanith.”

Calgar stomped into the room with a towel wrapped round his head like a turban.

“Sir,” said Bannerman, “why do you always do that? Your hair is thinner than the edge of a Tanith blade.”

“Stop confusing me with all these questions!” Calgar snapped. “I feel like I’m on Mastermind.”

“I take it you’re in a bad mood today, sir,” Milo said.

“You’re right, little skinny wretch-person. I’ve been up that chimney for three hours and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Father Christmas. I’m sure he’s forgotten me… I mean us.”

“You’re being paranoid, sir,” said Dick. “You’ve been a good boy all year. Apart from the incident with Sister Superior’s cassock, of course, but anyone can make er… a mistake.”

“That’s right,” said Calgar, cheering up. “Anyone can get their head stuck up a Battle Sister’s cassock. Wow, look at all these decorations! You two did a right job. I will give you both an extra 5 points to spend on wargear from now on.”

The other two exchanged glances.

Cheers, Milo sent telepathically. Don’t buy us a tank or anything.

“I heard that, you sarcastic twat. Go and clean the toilets out again. I want to see my face reflected from the bottom of the bowls. Oh, and Brother Dolum left extra skids.”

Brinny-boy looked sick. Dolum was the Ultramarines’ answer to Space Marine Cliche #44: Tactical Brother Who Is So Muscular He Needs To Wear Modified Terminator Armour. He could push out a turd and a half. Fortunately, the AdMech invented power-plungers for just such a dirty occasion.

As Milo left, snivelling, Calgar said to Dick:

“Come on then, let’s see your nuts!”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Dick said, recoiling. “I know living together as warrior-monks causes certain… strains, but this is blasphemy!”

“Your chestnuts. You said you were roasting chestnuts.”

“Oh, those nuts. Thank our Primarch and his unspellable, unpronounceable, rather camp name! I’ll go and get my flamer.”

The banner bearer scurried off. Calgar went to a wall speaker and switched it on. His authoritative voice boomed throughout the Ultramarine base.

“Anyone who wants to try Dick’s hot, salty nuts should queue up outside the mess hall, near the men’s toilets. I’ve gobbled Dick’s nuts before and believe me, when you roll them around on your tongue they seem to explode in your mouth. Calgar out.”

In the Reclusiam, Chaplain Derrik looked at the wall mounted speaker and began to sweat.

“Primarch, show me the way and allow me to resist the temptations of the daemon banner-bearer!”

“And what in the name of fethery is Cliff doing on the radio?” Calgar continued. “Get him off immediately before he ruins my entire life! Not day, not week, not year — my fething life! Have Slade been on yet? It’s not Christmas until Noddy calls it.”

*

Calgar, Dick and Milo were relaxing in front of the telly with a bowl of chestnuts each. It was Christmas, and they were watching a British channel, which inevitably meant that “The Spy Who Loved Me”, which was just starting, would be followed by something like “Star Trek 6: The Undiscovered Country”. Dick had advised his Chapter Master against watching these films, given how many nightmares he’d had after seeing the angry lion king in Bedknobs and Broomsticks, but the Ultramarine leader was having none of it.

“Dick, sometimes you really live up to your name.”

“My name’s Dick Bannerman, sir. I live up to my name every day. I carry the flag.”

“Sod the flag. This is James Bond. Anyone remotely English has to watch a Bond film at Christmas, no matter how crap most of them are. Stop putting me off, he’s about to sock it to the bloody Russkies.”

“Are the Space Wolves in it then?” Milo asked, confused.

“He means the Russians,” Dick explained.

“Oh. Who were they?”

“Well, the only records from that time tend to either be purely American efforts, or films made by the British who had to rely on American funding because the British Government was wasting all the country’s money buying secret second homes. The Russians, according to this propaganda, were evildoers who liked to die in droves. A bit like a less scary version of the Blood Pact.”

“Ah,” said Milo. “Like the Scriven?”

“The who?” said Calgar.

“This is going to go on all night,” Dick grumbled. “Let’s just watch the film. It’s crap but it’s better than listening to you two all night.”

The Spy Who Inspected My Gadgets rolled on, following the normal formula of dead Russians and women who only got into the film industry because they were good-looking and/or had shagged the director.

“You know what?” Calgar said. “Listening to Cliff Richard has permanently destroyed my sex drive. I’ve got this urge to become a born-again virgin. Have we got any white altar boy outfits for me to wear from now on?”

“Oh to be in the trenches again,” Milo muttered, as Dick coughed politely to cover his embarrassment.

While James Bond was ordering vodka-martini number 25 and getting ready to shag yet another random woman in a bikini, Marneus Calgar scooped a handful of chestnuts into his mouth. Unfortunately, as he chewed them, Calgar realised that he didn’t actually like chestnuts.  Another man might have politely spat them into a napkin but Calgar, true to form, opened his mouth in a retch and let the chewed-up food fall out.

Milo and Bannerman both leapt up, tipping their own bowls all over the floor. Chestnuts rolled under the settee.

“What have you done to these, you idiot?” Calgar reprimanded his standard bearer. “They’re bloody horrible.”

“That’s because you forgot to take them out of their shells, sir.”

“Oh. Er… yeah, whatever. You could have peeled them for the Leader of the Ultramarines.”

Within half an hour – during which Calgar said “How long is it until we open our presents” no less than eight times – all three of our main characters were dozing in front of the telly while James Bond had his four hundredth car chase. If driving dangerously is so bad, how come Bond has so many car chases without killing a single ordinary person?

Meanwhile, Calgar woke everyone with a fart that can only be described as elephantine. It would have made Nork Deddog proud.

“Sorry lads,” said Calgar, wafting the air with one of his oversized gauntlets.

“Another unwanted gift from the Chapter Master,” Milo muttered.

“That’s a point,” Calgar said. “I can’t wait to see your faces when you see what I’ve got you.”

“Presumably, sir, they won’t be the same faces we made last year, when you didn’t get us anything at all.”

“I did! I bought you a chocolate orange. It’s not my fault that it smashed into a million pieces when I tried playing cricket with it.”

“Well what did you do it for, sir?”

“Some theories must be tested, Number Two. Some theories must be tested.”

Milo and Bannerman exchanged glances.

“Anyway, Lord Calgar,” said Milo, “the point is, we’ve been together for eight years and in that time you’ve bought us one chocolate orange – which you promptly batted through the ancient Reclusiam window – and a copy of Penthouse magazine with some of the pages mysteriously stuck together.”

“You ungrateful sod!” gasped Calgar. “What about the time I promoted Dick to flag-carrier after my first fifteen choices all developed sudden allergies to wood? I bought him a beautiful flying Space-Mercedes!”

“The one you immediately borrowed to go on a date in, sir?”

“I brought it back.”

“Correction, sir, you brought the steering wheel back. The rest of my car is still upside down in a bush in Tyranid country.”

“Yes,” Calgar admitted. “And we never did find my lady-friend’s head. I’m sure I saw it fly into those shrubs.”

Milo made his excuses and left the Ultramarines alone on the settee.

“Chestnuts always put Milo’s system into reboot,” Bannerman observed.

“How long is it til Christmas Day?” Calgar said.

“God-Emperor on a Battle Sister’s lap,” Dick complained, forgetting himself. “The time isn’t going to magically go faster if you keep asking every five minutes, sir!”

“Well, can’t you just tell me how many hours until we open our prezzies?”

“Nine hours! Same as before Milo went for a shit! We get up no earlier than oh seven hundred! It’s what we’ve been doing for the last seven Christmases, sir!”

Calgar folded his arms and crossed his legs. “I knew I should have appointed Brother Sestian to standard bearer. I don’t care how much of a hernia he gets from carrying flags. He always gives good news to his superiors.”

“That’s as maybe sir, but as far as I know, Brother Sestian can’t manipulate the flow of time, he can’t make Christmas magically arrive within the next five seconds. I also think he died fighting Waagh! Norgrund. You’ll just have to wait like the rest of us.”

“I bet Tigurius could do something.”

“I don’t see how snooping on the Tyranid collective would bring Christmas forward, sir. Besides, the Orks got Tigurius as well. Don’t you ever read White Dwarf battle reports?”

The toilet flushed and Milo came into the room, wafting the air behind him.

“I wouldn’t go in there without a set of flugs,” the young soldier grinned.

“Is it time for bed yet?” Calgar asked Dick, ignoring Milo altogether.

“Feth’s sake, Lord!” snapped Dick. “If it’ll shut you up, yes, let’s go to bed. You won’t keep waking me up every half an hour like you normally do, will you?”

Calgar began to sulk. “Not if it offends you so badly, Number Two, no I won’t wake you up. I’ll let you sleep all through bloody Christmas and I’ll open your presents.”

*

Hours later, Milo, Calgar and Bannerman were all lying in the same bed like men used to do in old British sitcoms before it suddenly became “wrong” for men to do this. Even though it is encouraged for women to do it. Welcome to the age of equality!

The lights were out and all three men had their eyes shut. In fact, Milo and Bannerman were snoring gently. Only Calgar was awake. Excitement boiled in both his stomachs, giving him double-heartburn. Fortunately his enhanced metabolism was able to deal with this by increasing the rate and potency of Calgar’s flatulence. That’s right, there are still plenty of fart jokes to give vent to.

There was a roiling, bubbling sound from Calgar’s guts, then the Hero of Macragge pulsed out a burping, eye-watering fart of beefy content. It shook the mattress. Calgar grunted with satisfaction, delighted he’d done something so acrid without fouling his pants.

“That one’s a rippler,” he chuckled to himself. “Ooh, steak and onion!”

“Emperor’s hairy trouser-hammock!” cried Bannerman as he snapped to wakefulness. “We’re being bombarded from orbit!”

Milo was deeply asleep. His hand began to absently scratch at his nostrils. “Jareth… I only shagged her once, I don’t want to be Prince of the Land of Stench,” he murmured.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Calgar observed. “How many hours is it til we open presents?”

“Oh sir, for feth’s sake! It’s two in the morning, we aren’t opening presents for five hours! What did you wake me up for?”

“I can’t sleep, Number Two. I’m too excited. How do you think Father Christmas manages it?”

“I don’t know, my Lord. There aren’t many details about his sex life.”

“Not that! God-Emperor, I saw Santa Clause the Movie… er, I mean Father Christmas the Movie. His wife’s a trout and no mistake. He’s a cert for the old knuckle tussle.”

“Sir, you farted me to consciousness for this? We’ve been campaigning against the Tau and Nids for eight years, I’m bloody knackered, please allow me more than twenty minutes’ kip.”

“I was just wondering how he delivers presents across the entire galaxy in the space of one night.”

“He has fast reindeer who know the Webway. Can we go to sleep now sir?”

“Listen, Number Two, I’m worried he missed Macragge out of his whistlestop tour of the Imperium. I want to have a look downstairs.”

“Sir, you can’t do that. I’m as eager as anyone to get down there and open my prezzies, but if we time it wrong and Big Red Flying Hood catches us, we’re sure to be branded naughty boys.”

“Bugger it!” Calgar complained, thumping the covers and managing to hit Milo in the gentleman’s region. The ‘Tanith hussy’ sat up with a falsetto cry.

“Milo,” Calgar ordered, “go downstairs and see if Father Christmas has been. Report back on everything you learn.”

“What, now?” Milo said miserably. “It’s the middle of the night, I’m freezing!”

“Just get down there!”

Milo glanced at Dick, who remained rigid. No support there.

“Feth it!” Milo swung his skinny legs out of bed. The Ultramarines with their enhanced eyesight made sport of Milo’s boxers as the moonlight fell on them.

“Wahey!” grinned Calgar. “Like the love hearts! Oh fething hell, you haven’t written SABBAT in every single one, have you? That’s just sad.”

“Where is the Saint, anyway?” Dick asked. “She’s a major element in 40K and she disappeared without trace. Even if she is technically a daemon and the Grey Knights want a word with her.”

“It’s a long story,” said Milo. “I’m sure Mr Abnett will pull it out of his bum in a few books’ time, assuming they don’t just retcon her out of canon.”

*

Milo sneaked down the darkened stairway to the mess hall where everyone’s presents should be waiting. He was on tenterhooks – whatever they are. Less than twenty feet away, behind a single door, was a sight that everyone had been waiting 365 days to see. Should he even be doing this? It felt wrong to be sneaking a look before the proper time.

He reached the door and gently pushed it open. It creaked like an old woman’s love flaps. Milo glanced into the room beyond.

The Christmas tree was a silhouette rising in the dark. Shadowy forms were piled across the floor and on the tables – presents. Lots and lots of presents.

“Wow,” Milo breathed. “Machine-spirit, I beseech thee to activate the lights.”

The ancient cogitator was cantankerous and deliberately mis-heard him. It activated the tree lights rather than the room’s lights. Milo witnessed a little piece of magic. Wrapping paper shone in the gentle light. It felt like the Tanith warrior was a little boy again, having just left his mother’s nourishing teat. How old would he have been – nine or ten maybe?

The Ultramarine Christmas tree was a proper one. Multicoloured lights, not the boring plain yellow you see on most trees. (Apologies if your tree is decked with boring plain yellow lights – just get a coloured set, you’ll be much happier and less dull.)

Milo spent a few minutes searching and found his pile of gifts. His hands were trembling – he’d been on about a PS3 all year despite Calgar’s grumblings that it was an “inferior and overpriced Xbox wannabe that needs longer to load its games than a Commodore 64”. Suddenly he found himself doing something that would get him on next year’s Naughty List – he tore his main present open in a frenzy. Milo hated people who unwrapped things slowly and neatly.

“What the feth is THIS??” he exclaimed.

*

Christmas morning, and the Ultramarines had torn the wrapping from their presents in a flurry of overpriced non-reusable paper. Everyone was happy apart from Calgar, Milo and Bannerman.

“A bloody Commodore 16!” Milo yelled. “This was obsolete when Logan Grimnar was a pup! What happened to my PS3?”

“What PS3?” Calgar defended himself. “You don’t expect me to spend all that money on a Blue-Ray player with game support? Old school, my boy, old school. Remember your roots. I learned to play the Commodore when I was three. It’s a classic piece of hardware.”

“But you didn’t get me any games! Or a joystick! Or even an aerial!”

“That’s what Ebay is for, you tight git. You can’t expect me to buy you everything. Do you want me to wipe your bum for you and pull the chain when you take your Boxing Day dump?”

Milo stormed off.

“Get that little bitch,” Calgar said in a huff. “Well, Number Two, how do you like your present?”

“Er… hmm,” Dick said, looking at the signed photo of Marneus Calgar balancing upside down on one finger atop a Rhino, giving a thumbs-up to the camera with his other hand, while a Khornate Titan attacked him. Ming the Merciless’s face was superimposed in a corner of the image for some reason. “Your experience with photoshop is definitely improving.”

“That’s not a photoshop. It’s real!”

“Then why is Ming the Merciless’s giant, disembodied head floating around? What’s a Heresy-era Titan doing, firing old-school weapons at you? And isn’t that the Imperial Palace in the background?”

“Nonsense, Number Two. Now where’s my present, you ungrateful so-and-so?”

“You’ll see, sir,” Dick smirked. “You’ll see.”

*

That night, Dick and Milo were looking gloomily at one another from their prison cells.

“You actually saw him soil his pants?” said Milo.

“My uber-eyesight detected a spreading brown stain. My uber-nostrils detected last night’s jalfrezi.”

“Marneus Calgar actually crapped his pants in front of the entire Ultramarine Chapter.”

“Indeed.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have got Geri Halliwell to burst out of Calgar’s present wearing insultingly tacky Union Jack underwear and ‘singing’ her bloody awful songs, the talentless cow.”

The prison door opened with a creak. Calgar’s heavy footfalls came closer, then their leader was there. Flies trailed him, trying to land on his backside.

“I’ve just been informed that the Tau are probing our defences along the Cattrian border. We need volunteers for a forlorn hope mission to kick their heads in. Oh, and lads… MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW MILLENNIUM!”

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10 responses to Marneus Calgar’s Barmy Army: 2009 Christmas Special

  1. It’s truly the Christmas season now!

    “Sir, you farted me to consciousness for this?”
    –Classic!

  2. awww mate comedy gold loved every word of it

  3. hahaha JERVIS!

    Made me chuckle…and its good to see a not so serious 40k story!

    HURRAH!

  4. This is so totally inane and pointless, which is probably why it is so good!

  5. I’ve SO missed the Barmy Army! Thanks NoPoet!

  6. Marneus Calgar actually shit his pants? LOLOLOOLOLOL

  7. Haha, great Christmas story and a perfect length for a light read…

    Thanks Nopoet.

  8. NoPoet said on 01/01/2010

    MARNEUS CALGAR WILL RETURN.

  9. I honestly won’t ever be able to play my Calgar model without thinking of this ever again.

  10. NoPoet said on 06/01/2010

    You don’t play with Calgar. Calgar plays with YOU.

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