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by NoPoet

[40K] Marneus Calgar’s Barmy Army: Calgar’s Kidney Stone (part 2)

25/12/2014 in Warhammer 40K

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“Where’s that bloody tech marine?”

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.

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Inquisitor

04/06/2009 in Warhammer 40K

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I can smell it, the arid stench of Delo’s blood, dripping onto my brown jacket. It reeks of tainted putrescence, of an innocence long gone, of an unspeakable rot, and as I twist my blade free of Delo’s disfigured body, the weapon cutting its way out of his chest like a scythe out of dirt, I can smell the blood splash across my jacket. It stains the vest, burning into the seams and weaving down to the red shirt underneath, puddling up around my boots as it drips to the floor and through the wrinkles of my torn black pants. Drip-drop. Drip-drop.

Delo gazes at me unforgivingly, his dead eyes as vacant as the hall we stand in, his cold face rippled with the abborations of a bygone deity that had long since abandoned the maddened collectorate. Once, Delo had been a man, as much a human as the young girls heaped in piles at the back of the hall, the dead children whose pallid skin reeked of death as much as their murderer’s blood did now. Once, Delo had been a respected official, a servant of the Emperor and the government of Estios. Once, but that was a long time ago. A very, very long time ago. He made his decisions, he made his choices. And that is why he is dead now, an erect corpse wobbling on boney legs.

Delo topples to the floor as his legs finally give way to the most literally dead weight above them; the dead weight they had carried for however many years the lanky abomination had been wandering, cast aside by the very power he had turned to like some sort of deformed, unwanted child. His body cracks as it connects with the dusty wooden panels, blood welling in a pool around him, the gaping hole in his chest revealing a twisting labyrinth of empty veins and defunct arteries.

A shriveled heart wilts, barely visible within the hole, its pulse still. That heart had stopped beating a very long time ago, the blood in Delo’s veins long since dried out. Ever since he made his choices, ever since he grew ambitious, grew the idea, grew it much like the cold bodies at the back of the room might have once grown plants or animals or cotton, to foresake his Emperor. My Emperor.

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