NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: Comedic RP. ;P

In his evil lair beneath his comfortable Freebodnik home in a sleepy corner of the Freebodnik V island chain, plots Dr. Myshikel (note the lack of numerical surname). With him is his well-meaning, faithful, but rather slow henchman and longtime companion, Murt. Myshikel is a balding man with a wild fringe of blond hair who constantly wears goggles and a lab coat. He has a long, crooked nose and piercing eyes. Murt is fat, stupid, and wears a hat with a pointy thing on top.

Myshikel: Ahhh... Murt! At last I have perfected my global doomsday weapon!

Murt: It looks like a gigantic vibrator.

Myshikel (bonks Murt with a stick): Fool! This is a gigantic cloud-shooting gun.

Murt: Durrr... what does it DO?

Myshikel: It fires an immense bullet which explodes inside clouds, thereby shooting them down from the sky. Upon impact, they smash and create havoc and terror!

Murt: Oh.

Myshikel: Get the variable frequency transmitter, Murt! I want to broadcast my evil message of DOOM to the world!

Murt: Yes master!

Myshikel (clearing his throat): I am Dr. Myshikel! Hear me now! I have perfected a gigantic cloud-shooting cannon! If you do not give me control of this globe, I shall fire it into the atmosphere, triggering a global fall-out of clouds! Your cities and villages shall be crushed by my falling clouds! You have 24 hours to comply!

The door opens and a beautiful dark haired woman in a catsuit enters.

Myshikel: What is it Nina?

Nina: The commune, sir. They're at the door. They're going to go have a nature hike and a picnic in the forest. They want you to come along.

Myshikel: Drat! Well, monitor my messages until I return!

Nina & Murt: YES DOCTOR!

When the Thelasian Hight Command read the message the only responce any one could get out of them was laughter...

OOC: You know, I still have your "Sirithil nos Feanor and Melkor spotted at nude beach" post on my hard drive :twisted:

The only thing heard from Taligari Military Headquarters and the Taligari Senate was laughter for several hours.

From President Alia Yia Atreus: To Dr. Myshikel:

"Whatever drugs you are on, please spend sometime in rehab for your health and the expense of me putting a bullet in your head."

http://www.scifi.com/dune/gallery/images/alia_lrg_05.jpg
President Alia Yia Atreus
”Don’t back people into a corner, not if you want them to remain peaceful.”- Alia Yia Atreus
The Most Serene Republic of Taligari

A mad scientist in the middle of the desert picks up the transmission.
"WHAT!?!" The fumbles around for a while searching for his radio.
"Ha! You and your bloody cloud gun! MY DOOMSDAY WEAPON IS BETTER THAN YOURS!"
*the planet explodes*

The End.

(OOC: :P)

Upon his return to his evil lair, Dr. Myshikel is confronted by insolence and laughter from the representatives and leaders of numerous foreign countries. He promptly squawks and goes into a wild rave, lasting several hours. Wiping foam from his mouth, Myshikel regains his senses later and replies:

"Fools! You dare mock me! Well then, prepare to feel my WRATH!"

"Murt!"

Murt came running, blubber quivering with anticipation, grease pouring from every pore.

"Yes master!"

"Arm the giant cloud-shooting gun!"

"Yes master, right away!"

Myshikel turned once more to the giant, melodramatic screen before him.

"Now listen! In twelve hours my giant cloud shooting gun shall be armed and will fire at the clouds over the nearest population centre! Acquiesce to my demands or be destroyed!"

He pressed the 'off' switch.

"Nina!"

"Yes, Doctor?" came the reply.

"I need genuflection!"

The woman genuflected before the doctor, leather and PVC catsuit squeaking audibly.

"MYAAHAHAHAHAHA! Soon I shall RULE the world! All shall genuflect to me as you do right now! All shall tremble and despair! MYAAAAAHAHAHHAHAHHA! Fetch me my pussy, Nina, I want to stroke her a bit. Murt! Get me some herbal tea, would you?"

And the doctor's word was his command. It was done. Several minutes and some fumbling later, Dr. Myshikel sat before his great ominous blinking computer console, stroking his pussy over some tea, pondering world domination.

*Senator Patill Parva is on the Holoscreen, the infamous "Drunken" Senator, the rest of the Senate is in the background, quite a few are holding bets*

"Can I pet your pussy too?" *pokes viewerscreen* "There is nothing like petting a good warm pussy now and again... HAHAHAHAHAHA"

*The Senator falls to the floor laughting for several minutes, several Senators in the background groan and one cheers as he wins several thousand dollars in cash*


http://www.scifi.com/dune/gallery/images/alia_lrg_05.jpg
President Alia Yia Atreus
”Don’t back people into a corner, not if you want them to remain peaceful.”- Alia Yia Atreus
The Most Serene Republic of Taligari

Bumpalicious

Every nation has to have at least one rogue genius. Most are usually content to build fishing lures or clear colas, but some, oh so few as they may be, are more interesting.

People, like, say Proffessor Arnold Michael Francis Zanphall. Standing back and wiping the sweat and grime from his brow (actually, more like moving it about and enhancing it with his sweatier and grimier hand), he grins at the smooth lines of his newest invention, the one that will rain down fear and terror on all the damned goody-goody gumdrops on Titan.

"Won't this rain... literally... on their parade. Laugh with me, all of you!" He throws his head back in a fit of laughter while his sidekick and partner in crime, R-Rossum 1984AD, twirls one metal finger in the air.

"Um, Zanthal--"

"ZANPHALL, YOU POSITRONIC POINDEXTER!" The grimy human's laugh becomes a roar, his joy-contorted face falling into what can only be described as extreme angst. "FFFFF! FFFFF!" he cries, each teeth-against-his-lip hiss causing a greater bulge on his forehead-veins, "WITH AN 'F' SOUND AS IN FU--"

The android idly turns on the holo, ignoring the good Proffessor. Now listen! In twelve hours my giant cloud shooting gun shall be armed and will fire at the clouds over the nearest population centre! Acquiesce to my demands or be destroyed!

Zanphall pauses, mouth agape as his eyes wander about the scene. The messy laboratory... the coils leading up to device... the smooth, fine lines of something certainly resembling some sort of 'personal' device. He turns around and looks at the monstrocity in his lab, practically identical to every last detail. Turning around again, he blinks... turning around again, and again, and again, until the room goes swirly and...

Finding himself on the floor, A.M.F. Zanphall curses quietly in Arabic. Opening his eyes, he sees the wolf-spider optical array of R-Rossum looking down on him, lenses glowing a faint red with swirls of yellow. "Rossum..." he moans pitifully, long grey hair strewn over the oily floor, "it happened... again... please, please tell me... tell me he didn't..."

"I just got off the phone from the patent office." R-Rossum shrugs. "Yeah, he did his paperwork two hours ago, apparently."

An animal cry, a heart-tensing shriek of agony resounded in the damp underground laboratory. "Every... single... DAMNED... TIME! Beaten to the patent office AGAIN!"

R-Rossum sits heavily in its chair again, tapping its fingers on the side of its head in a gesture analogous to rubbing one's temples. "Well, you could always build a gravy gun... gravitics are in this yea--"

"THAT'S IT!" Zanphall leaps to his feet with a mysterious grace rivaling any wire-borne martial artist, stabbing the air with his finger. "How the do-gooders of Titan will tremble at the scalding meaty might of my GR-AVY GUN!"

R-Rossum smacks his forehead with the knobbly foam-padded heel of of his hand with a dull 'splaff.'

Dr. Myshikel liked the ragtime piano. It was simply one of those musical types favoured by evil geniuses like he - or so he thought. Still, the sound of the ragtime piano was oddly fitting as he, Murt, and Nina chased that troublemaking goody-two-shoes Eulalia 94825 through the halls of his underground lair.

Sandals flip-flopping on white marble and welded steel plates, Eulalia ran, her chest heaving, from the three evil villains.

No matter how many times she brought friendship baskets to their doorstep, presented them with gifts of good will, or sent them insistent, but forgiving letters to urge them to stop their evil ways, she always managed to end up running about in some underground complex of some sort and blowing it up. Nonetheless Myshikel and his goons always managed to escape somehow and rebuild.

Eulalia burst through a door and found herself confronted by a phallic looking superweapon with a barrel about one hundred metres long. She gasped as the door flew open and Myshikel's shrill, craven form burst in.

Eulalia turned, her plain, pale face flushed.

"You awful man!" she exclaimed.

"Yeeeeesss my dear!" said Myshikel, "I see you've discovered my latest invention!"

"How horrid of you! Unleashing a gigantic vibrator to disrupt women all over the world with periodic overwhelming orgasms! International relations will be ruined! Societies will come to a standstill! Libraries will be out of service!"

Myshikel let loose a scream, veins popping on his temples as he pulled at his wisps of wild blond hair.

"IT'S NOT A VIBRATOR YOU HALFWITTED HAPPY-GO-LUCKY HARP-PLAYING HIPPY! IT'S A GIANT CLOUD GUN!"

Eulalia backed as his cronies advanced on her.

"Now my dear," said Myshikel, getting a grip on himself and smoothing his hair back, reaffixing his yellow-tinted goggles, "This, I'm afraid, shall be the end of you!"

As the ragtime piano jittered and jazzed on in the background, Eulalia eventually found herself tied to the end of the barrel of a very large cannon. It was very windy, which was odd, as they were inside. She assumed it must have been the air conditioning system. Then the big doors on the structure began to open and the cloud gun's black barrel protruded, erect and shiny in the sunlight. It was quite long.

Tapping his foot, Myshikel exclaimed, "You've ruined my plans for the last time! In six hours I shall fire this giant cloud-shooting gun and the world will at last learn to fear the name of Dr. Myshikel!"

"Murt!"

"Yes master!"

"Broadcast this to the world!"

"Yes master!"

"Ahem! You have six hours remaining to begin turning over control of your nations to me, or I fire this cannon and take this innocent young Freebodnik girl for a little ride into the troposphere! MYAAAAAHAHHAHAHHAHA!!!!"

"And that's the situation." Advisor Lance Hawke of the Foot-to-Ass (formerly Defense) Section of the Federated Segments of Scolopendra tapped his pointer against the projected image taken by a TYCS Voyeur spysat.

Speaker-to-Animals raises one furred eyebrow. "So... this is a hostage situation..."

"Yes, sir." Hawke seems even grimmer than usual. In fact, it looks like someone pried him out of his coffin and put him in the microwave on 'defrost' for about thirty seconds. 'Death warmed over' is an understatement.

"...with said hostage tied to the end of some sort of hundred-meter dildo?"

"Err..." Hawke coughs politely. "The terrorist claims it to be a 'cloud gun.'"

"What does this... hum... cloud gun do?"

"He says it... shoots down clouds."

Speaker growls. "So you are saying that some madman is asking for us to hand over our countries or else he will use this giant steel penis to shoot down clouds onto population centers?"

Hawke begins to look... sheepish. "Yes... sir."

"Do you enjoy wasting my time, Advisor?"

"Ahh... not particularly... sir..." Hawke coughs again. "Would be a simple enough matter to drop, maybe a squad of M.I..."

"This is practically a cat stuck in a tree, Advisor Hawke."

"But... it's... Freebodnik, sir. They couldn't protect themselves from a rogue box of Kleenex."

The kzintosh growls and rolls his eyes. "Very well then. You have authorization to deploy one squad and invite the good Doctor over for tea."

Hawke blinks. "For... tea?"

Speaker looks at the watch on the bottom of his furred wrist. "It is nearing 1600 hours, Advisor. Move quickly or teatime will pass."

"Umm... yes... sir."

* - * - *

To Doctor Whatshisface:

We are... um... willing to negotiate our... do I really have to say it? Get on with it already, damn you! Oh, alright. Our unconditional surrender. There. Would you have our... er... sir, I can't just blatantly li-- Do it already or I will eat your children. *longish pause* Would you have our diplomats over for tea in, say, ten minutes?

You really wouldn't eat my kids, would you, sir? No, but it made you finish this already. Hrrr? It is still recording? Must I do everything myself...

*bleep*

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/nationstates/scolopendra/lance_hawke.gifAdvisor Lance Hawke
Foot-to-Ass (formerly Defense) Section
Federated Segments of Scolopendra

OOC: Is this 50s sci-fi retro or what? This RP is too damn cheesy and just plain F.U.B.A.R.

From: The Mad Scientists Conference, DA
To: Anyone interested
Subject: Cloudgun

"First of all, we, from the Mad Scientists Conference, DA, would like to point out that we have nothing at all to do with this evil, but brilliant plot to take over the world, originating from Dr. Myshikel.

Due to the fact that there is no worldwide information network for Evil and Insane Scientists with Inferior Penis Size (EISIPS, http://www.eisips.com , membership for 9.99 Euro/ month), we didn´t have any contacts with Dr. Myshikel that would have allowed us to prevent this tragic events.

Nor did we establish contacts with Dr. Myshikel after the recent events took place.

There is no Evil Mad & Insane Scientists Conspiracy (EMISC, http://www.emisc.net , Königsbergerweg 3, 41064 Mönchengladbach, DA, the black, shiny and spherical building with 666 floors) aiming for world domination, nor do we have the necessary support (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=66937&highlight=) to achive our aims.

For any and all results of the current events in Freebodnik V, we claim zero responsibility, while we continue working on our Stealthy planetary base on the tenth planet of the sol system."

Sincerely,

Prof. Dr. Desty Nova, Mad Scientists conference, DA

Slutbum Wallah send no official response to these *ahem* original demands, however Mad Scientist Monthly Magazine does request permission to place onto it's mailing list and offers a subscription starting at any back issue you require. They suggest you purchase the full set as it's the only way you will be able to collect the full 24-piece Build-Your-Own-Frankenstien collectors kit.

To Doctor Whatshisface:

We are... um... willing to negotiate our... do I really have to say it? Get on with it already, damn you! Oh, alright. Our unconditional surrender. There. Would you have our... er... sir, I can't just blatantly li-- Do it already or I will eat your children. *longish pause* Would you have our diplomats over for tea in, say, ten minutes?

You really wouldn't eat my kids, would you, sir? No, but it made you finish this already. Hrrr? It is still recording? Must I do everything myself...

*bleep*


"AHA!" says Myshikel triumphantly. "Finally someone caves into my ridiculous megalomaniacal demands! Very well, I shall have your diplomats and we can begin our negotiations!"

*snaps it off*

"MYAHAHAHHAHAHA! You see, Eulalia? The world is already falling before my greatness! All shall tremble in despair of my giant cloud-shooting cannon! Fear and doom shall cover the worl-"

"Oh what is it, Mrs. Tabwits?"

"Meow."

"Ohhhh dear, not again! MURRRRT!!! Clean up this cat excreta from the console! It's messing with my evil console!"

Murt came running, blubber churning like a big flabby middle-aged Pillsbury doughboy, "Yes master! Right away!"

Dr. Myshikel (note the lack of numerical surname)

Yes, I did know that.

But he'll never compare to Dr. Norton Nimnul:
http://www.toon.eu.org/ralph/nimnul.jpg

God bless,

The Republic of Syskeyia

In the gently-shaking cabin of a Scarab-class utility shuttle, four assault-armored troopers--their bulky armor looking like some bastard result of an unholy coupling of the Stay Puft Marshmellow Man, a bipedal dinosaur, and a trashcan--sat strapped into their seats while their commander paced in front of them, legs having the odd mincing gait of someone in heels... in this case, 30 centimeter heels.

THWAPTHWAPTHWAPTHWAPTHWAP"Okay, troopers," the sergeant grumbled with the noise of the rotor,THWAPTHWAPTHWAPTHWAPTHWAP"we're supposed to be diplomats, so--"

"Could you turn that down,"THWAPTHWAPTHWAPTHWAP"sir?"THWAPTHWAPTHWAP

"What?"THWAPTHWAPTHWAP

"I KNOW HOW YOU LOVE WAR MOVIES," THWAPTHWAPTHWAPTHWAPTWHAP "BUT TURN OFF THE ROTOR NOISE," THWAPTWHAPWTHWAPTHWAP "SIR!"

THWAPTHWAPThwapThwapthwapthwapthwapthwapthwapthwapthwapthwapthwapthwapthwapokaymutenow "That better?" The sergeant grumbles, taking the suit's massive waldo-controlled fist off of the volume knob of the stereo.

"Much better... and... could you get the pilot to stop jiggling the controls? On gravydrive, should be smooth as silk.. this isn't a Huey, sir..."

"Oh, please." The sergeant rolls his eyes, computer-stabilized suit swaying with the deck of the shuttle. "You guys just have no sense of atmosphere, do you?"

"I lost my sense of theatrics in the third grade, sir... stupid school play..."

"Hey, Private, you know that hole? The one that sounds come out of?"

"My sound-hole?"

"Yeah. Shut it." Sergeant Murderdeathkill grumbles something about 'uncultured bohemians' before continuing. "Anyway, the shuttle's gonna jostle and you're gonna like it, 'cause it presents a proper preperatory atmosphere before going in..." The sergeant blinks.

"...to battle, sir?" Private Applejohn suggests.

"...for tea, Private." Murderdeathkill grimaces. He didn't want this pansy-ass op. He'd had to deal with pansies all his damned life. Even got mistaken for one all the time, with the unfortunate last name of Peacehippy. All the other sergeants had cool names, like Slaughter or Rock, so when he could, he legally changed his name to trump them ALL, dammit. It even came with a cool nickname--"Demolition Man"--but now, for some reason, he was only sent on missions where stuff never blew up. It was like they were afraid he'd take it too far or something. Bloody officers. "Even though we're in full ground-dominance kit, we're to go down there and pretend to be diplomats until the time is right to rescue some girl tied to a one-hundred meter long personal massage device."

Applejohn blinks. "You're kidding. So -that-'s why you're not wearing a helmet."

The sergeant nods as the shuttle settles with two thumps--it has to be two thumps, dammit, to represent the skids of a UH-1 touching down--and he slams the button that opens the portside cargo down. "OUT YOU APES! OUT OF THE RIDE! ON THE BOUNCE!"

The five power-suited troopers hop out of the shuttle, Sergeant Murderdeathkill in the lead. All immediately look at the giant cloud gun raised unsubtly from the ground.

"Paging Doctor Freud..." Applejohn mutters.

I have the weirdest feeling of deja vu right about...

...now.

~ Ambassador Lodyk'russ li Nay'mid

((ROFL, this is great! Taggish-ness.))

The illustrious Mr. Dr. Professor Myshikel emerged from his demure, yet spacious white clapboard house clad in his best lab coat and touched a garden gnome on the head. He bent down.

"Ahhh Papa Gnome. You seeeeeeeee? Even now they surrender to me! And you said I couldn't do it! Ha! I showed you, didn't I?"

Myshikel made a wide, sweeping gesture, and said in a stentorial voice, "Aahhhhh! Welcome, diplomats of Scullypanda! Welcome to my humble abode! Please, please, come in to the living room. Have a seat, my friends. The tea is just about ready. Come, come! Make yourselves comfortable!"

Nina appeared at the door, dressed in casual Freebodnik jeans (frayed at the knees, of course) and a big lumpy green sweater, brushing a strand of curly ink-black hair. Little did they know (except in the more than likely event that they had x-ray goggles) that underneath she wore a tight-fitting black leather catsuit, and was uncomfortably warm, more than ready to rip it off at a moment's notice and go into full femme fatale ninja death harlot mode.

Murt followed up the rear, wearing a lacy pink apron over his regular black henchman wear.

"Mmmm..." Private Applejohn muses, "that looks mighty tasty..."

A metallic whang! of waldo-controlled manipulator hand against thick armor helmet. "Dammit, Private, we're supposed to be diplomats," Sergeant Murderdeathkill grumbles over the privacy of internal suit comms, "not horny troopers titillating ourselves by looking at overdressed women of the night!" Looking up over the lip of his massive armored torso, he smiles. "Ah, Doctor Mushycal. How magnanamous of you to allow us into your home." He blatantly ignores the screams of the hippy tied to the gun. "We're here to... uh... negotiate surrender. Yeah, that's right."

Applejohn snaps his suit's metal fingers. "Doctor, do you have a sheet of paper and some crayons I can borrow?"

After leading them into the room and making sure that all of the metal-suited diplomats were comfortably sat on a group of overstuffed couches, Dr. Myshikel sat down, arching his long fingers, to listen to them beg for mercy.

"Doctor, do you have a sheet of paper and some crayons I can borrow?"

"Oh? Why of course. MURRRRRRRRRT!"

Murt came running, as always, a little spit escaping from his flabby lips.

"Yesh master!"

"Fetch us some crayons, and a sheet of paper. Nina, is the tea ready?"

Nina danced in from the kitchen, "Yes, Dr. Myshikel."

Myshikel turned back to the men, "Ah, would you like some cookies with that?"

"We bow humbly to your graces, sir," Murderdeathkill mumbles diplomatically as he raises the teacup to his lips, pinky up, and sips delicately. Private Applejohn takes the paper and crayons, turns around, and begins scribbling. "Don't mind the priva... er... junior diplomat. He's somewhat... special, don't you know." Muderdeathkill winks gently then does his best to look sadly sympathetic.

If someone is supposed to look like he is choking the life out of the most vile creature imaginable while suffering from constipation when they are "sadly sympathetic," then the sergeant succeeds. If not... come to your own conclusions. "I am Sergea... er... Diplomatic O-ciffer Murderdea--" He frowns, covering it up with a hard gulp of tea before continuing in a disgusted voice. "Peacehippy."

"Ah!" Applejohn exclaims, holding up his work. The sergeant, startled, pulverizes the teacup in one metalshod fist with a curse.

"Here ya go," Applejohn turns the paper to show that it now bears the legend Deed to Scullypanda in bright blue crayon, with signature blocks in ochre underneath the legent. Previous owner is written in muave and New owner in fuschia, each to its own signature block.

"Now, before we hand over the country," Applejohn says happily, his smile hidden by the faceless multisensor of his domed helmet, "we must insist that the girl be released. I mean, you can't have the country for totally free, can you? And, if you aim right, just crush the city she happens to be in next. You can still fire the gun if you'd like, 'cause it'd be rather silly for you to blow up your new country.

"Also... ah... a suggestion. If I were you, I'd aim for those really, really high altitude cirrus clouds. Why crush through your opposition with big fat poofy cumulus clouds when you can slice neatly through them with the sharp, serrated edges of the cirrus? Also, they're higher up, so they'll be going faster as they hit and so hit harder." Applejohn shakes the paper teasingly. "Whaddya say, Doc? Er, I mean, my new glorious overlord-person."

<a tag="ROTFLMAO!">

[*tag* More more more!]

"Why..." said Myshikel as he tapped his chin thoughtfully, "You're absolutely correct!"

He whipped out an evil-looking fountain pen and signed an unusually stylish "X".

"I like your ideas, my son! How would you like to sign up to be one of my evil henchmen?"

Murt stuck his head into the room, a slight expression of alarm on his face.

"Master?"

"Oh, not like you, Murt, old pal. As ... hmm... think of it as a scientific internship. Whaddyasay m'boy?"

"Can I, Sarge, I mean, boss?" Applejohn looks expectantly (or at least he would be, if he weren't in a big armor suit) at 'Diplomatic Officer Peacehippy.'

The sergeant nods slowly, ideas forming in his calcified head. SIS is going to fragging love me for this. "Yeeeessss... but, before we sign, we have to see the girl safe to our shuttle. Not like it means much, now that you are our overlord and can ask for her at anytime once we get her to safety... but yeah. We get the girl, you get the country, and a diabolical intern at no extra cost."

"And if you act now," a corporal to his right pipes up, "I can run back and grab you a set of official Scolopendran Diplomatic Tableware ABSOLUTELY FREE!"

"Done deal!" cried Myshikel, leaping from his chair, "MURRRRRT! Release Eulalia from the end of that gun!"

"Yes master!"

Within a few minutes Murt had seriously fumbled up the job and somehow found himself face down in a pile of used womens undergarments. Nina sighed and, utilising her strange, super-agile ninja death harlot skills, leapt to the top of the cannon and brought the screaming, disheveled Eulalia safely back down to earth.

Eulalia rushed through the door and threw herself upon Murderdeathkill's suit, hugging him ecstatically.

Myshikel himself sat back, arching his fingers.

I like being overlord of the world!

"Well, see ya, Private... er... Junior Ambassador of Private Affairs Applejohn." Murderdeathkill grins and waves. "Now that it's a done deal and all, we'll just be off."

"Err, don't you want my suit first, sir?" asks the as-yet faceless private.

"Nah, it's a parting gift." The sergeant winks, then signs 'the deed to Scullypanda' in crayon as 'Diplomatic Officer Peacehippy.' "C'mon, young innocent," he smiles down to Eulalia, "time to get you safety, at least until the evil overlord of great might beckons." He winks once again, rather obviously.

A stomp of metalshod birdfeet and the quick exit of four powered-armor suits with one hippy in tow later (with sufficient bowing and scraping to keep up appearances), Sergeant Murderdeathkill looks at the Standardized Mobile Infantry Mission Report:
[code:1:99b1e18b4b]SMIMR, TYCSDOC-2101/B

SECTION C. MISSION RESULTS
[ ] MISSION SUCCESSFUL
[ ] MISSION IN PROGRESS
[ ] MISSION B0RK3D-UP BEYOND ALL (CIRCLE ONE)
RECOGNITION REPAIR RECOVERY

SECTION D. MISSION SCORE
A. ____ THINGS BROKEN
B. ____ NAUGHTY PEOPLE HURT
C. ____ INNOCENTS SAVED
D. ____ INNOCENTS HURT
E. ____ # OF EGREGIOUS MISUSES OF TACTICAL FUSION WEAPONRY

TO CALCULATE MISSION SCORE, MULTIPLY "A" BY ONE HUNDRED AND ADD FIFTY TIMES "B." TAKE THIS NUMBER AND MAKE IT THE BASE WITH EXPONENT "C," TAKEN TO THE LOGARITHM BASE "D" AND FINALLY DIVIDE BY "E" AND ADD TWO FOR GOOD MEASURE.[/code:1:99b1e18b4b]
Murderdeathkill scans the sheet... "Hum... mission accomplished..." Checkmark. "I broke a teacup..." A copperplate "1" in box A. "No naughty people hurt... one innocent saved..." A copperplate "2" in box C. "No innocents hurt... and no misuses of tactical weapons.

"Lets see, that makes one times a hundred is one hundred, added to fifty times zero is one hundred, base one-hundred to the first is one-hundred, log base zero of one hundred is..."

Murderdeathkill blinks. "Then divide by zero? What the hell? Bloody paperwork." He looks down at Eulalia. "Where do we need to drop you off, kid?"

* - * - *

The still-armored Applejohn finds himself alone, stuck in a room with a mad doctor, a nondescript monosyllabic henchman, and some sort of crazy psycobitch ninja.

"Hey, cool. When do I start?"

OOC: Well that's pretty much a wrap! All I can say is that it was great fun! And watch out... you might see the return of Myshikel!

Eulalia smiled, your typical cute Freebodnik hippy girl smile.

"At the breadmakers' in Commune 825. I'm woefully late for the errand I'm running for grandma."

---

"You can start immediately by finding a suitable volcanic island for our underground lair. Nina, escort our new intern to the computer room. Oh, and kindly remove the young man's suit. It might be difficult for him to work with that thing on."

Nina escorted Applejohn to a room in the dastardly evil laboratory under the house and, in the most sexually provocative manner imaginable, helped the man disengage the locks and mechanisms that held him inside the puffy Marshmallow man suit.

Then she presented him with a gigantic blinking evil console with a map of the world upon a massive 20 metre tall screen.

(OOC: A wrap it is... for now... MU-AH-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAAHHHHHH*gasp* *choke* *cough* *wh-eeeeeezeeee*)

At the breadmakers' in Commune 825:

"Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Yes, most lovely weather we're having."

Ba da da da daaa dum

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Ba da da da daaa dum

"Oh, that... isn't that Adagio for Strings?"

"I don't think so... sounds more Germanic. Give me a moment."

Ba da da da daaa dum ba da da da daaaaa dum ba dadada dummmm!

"It's Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries."

"Oh, silly me."

With two whumps--there has to be two, dammit--the Scarab-class shuttle lands heavily on its thick legs as the door opens, external speakers blaring Germanic opera. "OFF THE RIDE, YOU APES! ON THE BOUNCE!" Four of the insanely over-armed battlesuits hop out, surrounding the smiling hippy girl-child.

"Who's in charge here?!" Murderdeathkill shouts in his best Apocalypse Now voice.

"Um, it's Freebodnik... we all are."

The sergeant shrugs and salutes to every single person in front of the simply-designed yet elegant Freebodnik bakery. "Sergeant Murderdeathkill, Scolopendran Mobile Infantry, reports Mission Accomplished, SU-AH! And MA-HAM! And MA-HAM! And SU-AH! And..."

There's a metallic clank as the corporal smacks the fore of his armored dome with the palm of one waldo battlefist.

"Hey, a bakery," another private pipes up, "I wonder if they got any bear claws."

* - * - *

The House of Myshikel, Sub- Sub- Sub- Sub- Sub-Basement

Applejohn grins goofily as he toys with the OMGUBERMAP-9000 system. "Well, here's an island... volcanic... dormant... lots of igneous rock... only problem is that it looks kinda like a reclining dame or something instead of the usual skull or evil insignia. Will that work?"

The Glorious Revolutionary Tank Collective



"Da da da da da da da da, da da da da da da da da Trogdooooor!"



Two shapely, very dark legs protrude from the access port. Ozone stinks. A shadow appears.



"Johanna?"



"Trogdooooooor!"



The Batman-like singing continues. The shadow of Jan Ntsondo (being realistic, it is shapely and very dark) frowns.



"Johanna?"



"Trogdooooooor!"



"Johanna!"



"Trogd... ow! Whatthehell?" Johanna's shadow appears superimposed on her body except the other way around. Jan winces as his sister's head appears out of her ass. "What?" she asks.



"News. Thought it was right up your alley."



The shadow scans the unfolding documents as the body keeps tinkering with the internals of the Mk 7 Trogdor supertank.



"What's a mad scientist got to do with me?"



Jan rolls his eyes and indicates the tank, brawny mechanical arm and all.