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[40K] Marneus Calgar’s Barmy Army: Calgar’s Kidney Stone (part 1)

23/12/2014 in Warhammer 40K

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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

-or-

Calgar’s Discomfitting Kidney Mishap

-or-

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’.”

“My Lord?”

“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.

“Life goes on, Dear John…” the Lord of the Ultramarines sang in falsetto. He mumbled displeasure as he settled onto the toilet seat. It was more of an alabaster throne than a toilet, with long, wide arm rests incorporating a magazine stand (with automatic page-turner) in the left arm and a holder for cups of tea in the right. He could sit in total comfort reading Hammer and Bolter, whose title was a great irony considering the loud and violent manner in which yesterday’s dinner blasted out of Calgar’s anus.

The toilet also incorporated an automatic wiping mechanism which ran a long, continuous line of Andrex Toilet Tissue down the length of Calgar’s scuplted buttocks*, thereby wiping with industrial efficiency and removing all winnets. This amazing toilet from heaven was brand new and this was Calgar’s maiden dump. Or it would be, if there was actually any toilet roll installed.

* In reality, as already mentioned, they were flabby and befouled by painful-looking acne.

“I need a seat cover on this thing,” Calgar muttered as he flipped through the pages of his magazine. “It’s bloody freezing in here; no wonder I’ve got a horrid case of Farmer Giles.”

As he settled back, trying to get comfortable despite the throbbing of his buttock-grapes, Calgar noticed the pain in his back was getting worse.

“Hmm. My silly-sounding oolitic kidney seems to — aargh! Crikey, this makes getting kicked in the nuts feel like a lover’s kiss. And I’ve been kicked in the nuts enough times to know.”

Calgar looked around as if expecting his underlings to be there with the answer. In fairness, Marneus Calgar found he was never more popular than when he was about to sit down on the toilet. Rare was the day Calgar could sit down and play X-COM on his HTC Nexus 9. Suddenly, a galactic crisis would come out of the Charadon region, or ten million astropathic communiques arrived at once, or an Inkie would demand to inspect the Chapter progenoids which always turned into an argument (“How would you fething perverts like it if I turned up asking to inspect YOUR glands?”). On special occasions, some new unspecified threat might kick the Imperium’s arse near the Ghoul Stars. Once, Brin Milo had hidden in the shower unit and played his Tanith pipes like a swanee whistle every time Calgar tried to take his trousers down.

The pain struck again.

“Feth me! It feels like I’m giving birth to a Tyranid through my lower back!”

The pain struck in vicious pangs. Our heroic Chapter Master jostled to evade it.

“Ooh! Ahh! Ahh! Ooh! Ahh! Ahh!” PLOMP! SPLAT!

“Sir?” Dick said from outside the toilet door. “I’ve brought the roll… are you doing monkey impressions?”

“Of course not, you fething ape!” POOT! “I’m wrestling out the Doomsday Turd, and every time I push I feel like my bloody kidney’s gonna explode!”

TRUMP!

“AAAAAAAAAAAARGH!”

“My Lord, shall I fetch the Chief Apothecary?”

“No! No! I’ll be all right. I can’t let the boys see me like this, it’ll undermine my macho credibility!”

Peeeeeeeeeeep!

“Yes! Yes! Fetch the Apothecary, Number Two! Oh God-Emperor, there are Eldar souls trapped on crone worlds who get less grief than this! Get moving like the time we voluntarily failed our morale checks and ran away from those two Wraithlords! The ones that killed five squads from the Seventh Company!”

“The ones we could have stopped with our special weapons and invulnerable saves, sir?”

“GET FETHING MOVING, YOU CRETIN! Emperor in a frigging wheelchair, I feel like Julius Caesar being stabbed by those transvestites.”

Dick Bannerman dropped Andrex rolls all over the floor as he ran to summon an apothecary.

“Number Two! Wait!”

“Oh for feth’s sake, sir,” Bannerman complained, running back. “I thought you wanted a medic?”

“Stick some bog roll round the door, will you? There’s mucous drying all over my ring.”

==||==

Five minutes of increasing agony later and Dick was suddenly hammering on the toilet door.

“Emperor’s sake, Bannerman!” Calgar cried. “Don’t scare me like that while I’m on the toilet, I nearly farted one of my hearts out!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Dick wheezed. “I bring news about the apothecary.”

“I’m not interested in hearing his news, Dick! Who gives a feth if our Chief Apothercary drinks Coca Cola, or decided to paint his armour pink and join the Flamenco Chapter? Get him in here and get this kidney out before I perspire!”

“I think you mean expire, my Lord.”

“I’m not a bloody Kit-Kat, Dick! Your obsession with Google Play phones has gone too far.”

“That’s Lollipop, your Highness.”

“Stop quoting food at me, muppet! What’s the apothecary doing, the idle bastard?”

“I can’t get hold of him, sir.”

“You can’t get hold of him? Who actually is our Chief Apothecary?”

“Who actually is our Chief Apothecary?”

“It’s Davius Mender, sire,” Dick said. “I believe the men call him Dirty Dave.”

“Oh, for feth’s sake. Which prize-winning dildo made him authority over anything except his own boots?”

“You did, sire, after all the other medics got killed during the Tyranid invasion.”

“I knew I must have been fething desperate. Most people would rather have surgery performed by Mr Bean than let that ill-tempered bitch-doctor in the room.”

“You don’t rate Apothecary Mender, sir?”

“Oh, he’s quite charming, as long as you enjoy hearing endless tales of your mum’s knickers flying down to her ankles when he walks into the room. Hang on a minute… Dirty Dave? Why do they call him that? Did they catch him wanking in the ablutions chamber?”

“No, sir, unfortunately you’re still the only one that has happened to. They call him Dirty Dave because he once sneezed into his hands, then went on to perform a triple heart bypass, even though the scalpel was stuck to his hands by nasal mucous… which he actually claimed helped, since he didn’t drop the scalpel into the patient this time.”

“That mucky old binner! Hang on a minute, I had a triple heart bypass recently.”

“Er… yes, you did, sir,” Bannerman said, looking uncomfortable.

“Yeah, it was after I got attacked by forty Gretchin and failed eighteen invulnerable saves in a row. Fething Gretchin spam. Still, at least it wasn’t a whole army of Skavenslaves this time. Some people don’t give a toss about having a good game, they just want to fething win, even if winning makes them an arse.”

“You can’t run Skavenslaves in 40K! Who was using them?”

“I was.”

There was a jolt from the doorway as Cullinus Rex, the Chapter’s greatest astropath, tripped and fell into the room, unleashing a ghastly smell into the halls of Ultramarine HQ.

“Ow! Shit!” the astropath said, grabbing his elbow and wincing.

“I see Brin and Nessa taught you all they know about stealth,” Calgar said.

“Good God-Emperor!” Rex gasped, immediately covering his nose and mouth. “My mind has been submerged in the sewer of the empyrean during my years of service, but never have I smelled such… smelled such…”

“It’s no wonder people call your WC the Bog of Eternal Stench, sir,” Dick said, also covering his face as he peered into the room. “Feth!”

“God-Emperor!” Rex said again. He gave a retching cough.

“Don’t lose your dinner, mate,” said Calgar, who was sitting in front of his underlings with power-trousers around his ankles. “I’ve got to sit in here until Mender turns up, if he ever does. Can’t we find anyone else?”

“I asked the only other bloke with medical training, Brother Oriant, but he won’t come, your Majesty.”

“He what?

“He won’t come. Said he’s too busy playing X-COM: Terror from the Deep. He said those alien scum won’t annihilate themselves.”

“I don’t give a feth about his campaign against the Aquatoids! There are ten billion Orks and Tyranids heading this way he ought to be worried about!”

“He said he understands that, Lord Calgar, but he said ‘Would Calgar rather see X-Com disbanded?’”

“Who does he think he is, High Lord Vandire? He can’t sit on his buns playing games while the galaxy is in peril! In fact, sod him, he tried to fix my broken leg back in 969 and my foot ended up facing the wrong way. Find Mender and tell him to get his miserable, Victor Meldrew backside over here pronto, before I use a melta-gun to etch the caduceus into his liver.”

“My Lord,” said Rex, “I bear a message from the Emperor’s Stripes.”

“Oh, God-Emperor’s sake! As if my misery couldn’t be more complete. Let’s hear what that pestering fether has to say.”

“Greetings to Lord Calgar,” Rex said in an American accent. “Macragge is an impressively large territory; indeed, it is said that the rain never stops on Calgar’s empire. Might I humbly enquire how many gold medals the British athletes won at the 2012 Olympics?”

“Here’s my reply, and you can send it to the fether straight away. Message reads: enough for a country our size. Might I humbly enquire how many drugs the American athletes took?”

==||==

Calgar waited impatiently for an update. He’d managed to lever himself off the bog – though not before he got pins and needles in both legs – and he’d hobbled into the common room, an area where Ultramarines could mentally prepare by watching a holographic hypno-screen displaying motivating images. Someone had attached a wire coat hanger to the top of the screen’s projector frame so everyone could watch Macragge’s Got Talent. A better title would be Macragge Hasn’t Got Talent; it was the usual parade of sob stories, morons who were being given too much exposure “for entertainment purposes” and, of course, Simon Cowell, who hadn’t been the same since he was turned into a lobotomised servitor millennia ago.
Holographic display technology in the Imperium was crude in the extreme and the image wavered erratically, with wavy lines rolling across the image. It was extremely irritating but nobody seemed to mind (the Imperium has mastered intergalactic space travel but cannot build a decent projector). Still, the display equipment could have been worse; it could have been programmed by Microsoft.

Calgar was staring with appalled fascination at the act on-screen – a woman who had been put through to the second round simply because she was doing a crap belly dance and showing her cleavage, with the inspired part of the act being she was dancing for one of the female judges – when Dick Bannerman came in looking harried.

“My Lord, I’ve found Apothecary Mender. He says he’ll see you, but there’s a problem.”

“He’s the most antisocial and medically incompetent prat on the planet?”

“No, my Lord. Well, yes, but that’s not the problem. He was in the middle of his court martial.”

“I don’t care if he’s in the middle of a threesome with Cascada, Ginger Spice and Morgana off Merlin! My kidney is ready to fly out and explode like a Tyranid spore mine. If he – what court martial?”

“The one he says you ordered three days ago, sire.”

“Did I? I must have been doing two things at once then.”

“That would have been Tuesday. You were doing those memory exercises on your DS on Tuesday. Did you ever finish them?”

“How can I? I can’t remember where I put the fething DS. What did the moaning bastard do to end up in dock?”

“I assume it was the time he installed all the Dreadnought pilots backwards. Our performance in that battle report was atrocious. Still, it was against Orks, so we obviously won anyway.”

“I’m going to have to forgive him. That was back in the dark days of sixth ed when walkers were crap anyway. Cancel his court martial and get him over here pronto!”

By this point, some of the battle-brothers taking advantage of the common room were starting to stare. Calgar was no stranger to such attention, not because he was a seven-foot superhuman warrior-monk wearing armour that weighed more than a Peugeot 407, but because he was a boorish gimp whose behaviour attracted shocked comments from whoever was unfortunate enough to be within five hundred yards.

“I cancelled it, sir, but he won’t come here,” Dick explained. “He claims the experience has given him post-traumatic stress disorder. He can’t leave his apothecarion.”

“What is he, a bloody American? He’s miles away! How am I supposed to travel in this pain? It took me long enough to get to the common room! I can’t travel halfway across the continent.”

“You’re going to have to, sir, unless you want brother Lupus to do the job. He’s the only other trained apothercary I could find.”

“Him who thinks he’s a Space Wolf? I’d rather go near your mum when she’s decorating Khorne’s palace.”

“When she’s what, my Lord?”

“You know… riding the exploding Juggernaut. Unleashing Karanak. Doing what Dark Elf Hag Queens do when they get wrinkles? Donning Savage Orc war paint? Joining the Red Corsairs?”

“Sir, I’m not sure what you’re on about, but if the Inkies are spying on you, you’re going for a long drop on a short rope.”

“Those fething ponces,” Calgar scowled, still vexed about the time they’d declared him a heretic. “If they did their jobs properly there’d be no such thing as Chaos. They’re probably all off binding daemons into their warband or implanting ectoplasmic worms in peoples’ heads or getting off with their female companions.”

“Shall we get on with the story, sir?” Dick suggested. “We’re seven pages in and nothing’s happened except for you doing a poo. There’s no way this story will be on Imperial Literature in time for Christmas.”

“Who cares?” said Calgar. “We all know NoPoet writes way too much drivel. He’ll end up posting it in parts and pretending that was the plan all along.”

“Nevertheless, my Lord, I must insist.”

“Fair enough, Number Two, since the Emperor has apparently climbed out of his golden throne, gone to your cell, yanked your trousers down and kissed your buttocks so they became like golden apples, and those apples bore the fruit of leadership, and you became Chapter Master, while I was struck down with piles and rocks in my kidney the size of your helmet – I’m talking about your battle helm, not your wrinkled and rather fishy protuberance – and you took over the lead of this story, and great was the celebration of you and the treacherous gits who followed you, while my wailing laments were heard throughout the Segmentum, making Slaanesh smile?”

There was a stunned silence while Dick stared at his illustrious leader.

“What the actual feth, my Lord? Was that all one sentence?”

“I’ve said my piece, Dick. Go and fetch a Rhino. We’re going to travel to Mender’s. And watch out for Milo, will you? Let’s make this the first Barmy Army story without a ridiculous Wesley Crusher character stinking up each scene.”

==||==

Somewhere deep in that terrible parallel reality known to humans as the Realm of Chaos, a thousand Nurglings snuggled together in wretched slumber. Each of these hideous daemons was the embodiment in miniature of the God who granted their existence: Nurgle the Vile, Nurgle the Rotten, Nurgle the Bloody Disgusting… Grandfather Nurgle, the patriarch of pestilence.

Though they were as pleasurable to be around as someone from a council estate in London, and their God was a fearsome avatar of ruin, the Nurglings were gifted with the joy of life. They could know malice, they could take pleasure in the suffering of others, but they were created for a different purpose: collectively, they embodied Nurgle’s jovial nature, his childish delight in the circle of life and death. In many ways, Nurgle was the most terrible of the Chaos Powers, yet he was also generous, and his underlings despised those who rejected his gifts.

As they slumbered, the rotund, foetid little creatures heard the voice of Marneus Calgar. His rejection of the Grandfather’s blessings gradually stirred them to wakefulness. Superimposed across the bundle of Nurglings were vague, shadowy images of a warrior king in blue being born aloft by straining, sweating Space Marines. The suffering warrior king was delirious with the pain of his kidney stones and he cried out his hatred of them.

His suffering was like the stuff of dreams. The daemons of Nurgle heard not his despair. They heard only a perverse joy, mixed with the confusing and distressing words of rejection that seemed little more than treason. How could this portly mortal sing the praises of Grandfather Nurgle while twisting those prayers into mockery? It would take only the right blasphemies to spill from the warrior king’s lips and the Nurglings would have a way into the mortal universe. The legions of Chaos would pour into the heart of Ultramar using Marneus Calgar’s a-hole as their doorway.

“Say your right words,” the daemons hissed, “and we will bring damnation upon you, and you will be free.”

The warrior king knew that any daemon’s promise was false. He knew that he would be, at best, remade as a Herald of the Plague God. Alternatively, he might end up as a lump of snot, or a fungus tree, or worse even than this: he might be reincarnated as himself except with green armour instead of blue. Shitty death!

But the warrior king could endure only so much. He had spent a hard day farting out a log and had not been able to get his magnificent new toilet to work. He had not been able to play Doom, or Forza, nor had he enjoyed picking his nose and flicking the crusties at Milo’s face. He was hurt by the harsh words of his minions asking him to “Stop fething whining”.

“I wish… I wish…” he started to say.

The Nurglings, some still half asleep, began to jostle and shush each other as they waited for the mistake.

“I can bear it no longer!” Calgar cried as his men tried to carry him to the Rhino bay. “Nurgle, if you’ve got a problem with me, fething come down here and get me! Take these kidney stones and push them where the sun doesn’t shine! And I’m talking about your arse, not mine!”

Dick Bannerman went mental, trying to silence his lord before true words of treachery were spoken. Back in Nurgle’s Garden, the foul heap of Nurglings sagged against one another in disappointment.

“The fat get only had to ask our Grandfather for his favour,” one of the Nurglings said. The others hissed and smiled, disappointment turning into aggression. There would be no sport tonight, not for the creatures of Chaos, for Calgar had not opened himself to possession.

He had, however, laid down a challenge to the Grandfather himself, and that could not be permitted.

“Call in our favours,” the Nurglings chattered to each other. “Send word to the mortal sorcerers. A champion is required. Tell the Lord Rott that his patron asks something of him. Tell him… tell him to activate the Sickman.”

End of part 1

[Ma1]

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