The Most Holy Sandwich
01-10-2004, 22:08
++Transmission++
From: Minister of Condiments of the Holy Empire of the Most Holy Sandwich
To: Foreign Trade Delegates
Thought for the Day: A closed sandwich is a faithful sandwich.
+++++++++++++
THe Empire wishs to discuss opening of contracts for the importation of mustard. Please contact the Minister of condiments for further details.
++End Transmission++
--------------------------------------
The Minister of Condiments sat at his desk, trying to focus on the crisis at hand, and failing. The two Power armoured Cheddar marines flanking the door to his spacious office stood impassive, almost like a pair of massive statues. In truth, they were constantly scanning the room, searching for even the most remote threat. The minister chuckled morbidly at the thought... He sometimes wondered what sort of thought ran through the minds of his assigned bodyguards. The marines rarely spoke, save to confirm orders.
The minister looked back down at he papers on his desk. The Holy Empire of the Most Holy Sandwich was facing one of the most grievous crises in it history.
They were short on mustard.
The central tenet of the Empire’s religion focused on a rather vague and mysterious concept known as the True Sandwich. The general consensus was that the Sandwich was a metaphor for perfection, and enlightenment.
One of the most sacred rituals in the Empire’s religion was that of the Midnight snack, wherein the head of a household would sneak into the kitchen at night, generally once or twice a month, and make a sandwich out of whatever leftovers were in the fridge. This, of course, required mustard.
“…and with no mustard, there can be no sandwiches,” said the Minister softly.
The marines continued to stand impassive, weapons at parade rest. Their orange and yellow armour reflecting the room’s dim light. The minister sighed, and set the papers down. The foreign trade delegates would be arriving soon, and he needed to relax and get his thoughts straight. He shook his head to clear it, and reached over to touch a button on the desk’s control panel. The scribe answered quickly, her voice coming clearly through a hidden speaker. “Yes, Minister?”
The Minister paused a moment, before speaking, “Send in the first representative. I’d like to have this mustard shortage taken care of as soon as possible.”
From: Minister of Condiments of the Holy Empire of the Most Holy Sandwich
To: Foreign Trade Delegates
Thought for the Day: A closed sandwich is a faithful sandwich.
+++++++++++++
THe Empire wishs to discuss opening of contracts for the importation of mustard. Please contact the Minister of condiments for further details.
++End Transmission++
--------------------------------------
The Minister of Condiments sat at his desk, trying to focus on the crisis at hand, and failing. The two Power armoured Cheddar marines flanking the door to his spacious office stood impassive, almost like a pair of massive statues. In truth, they were constantly scanning the room, searching for even the most remote threat. The minister chuckled morbidly at the thought... He sometimes wondered what sort of thought ran through the minds of his assigned bodyguards. The marines rarely spoke, save to confirm orders.
The minister looked back down at he papers on his desk. The Holy Empire of the Most Holy Sandwich was facing one of the most grievous crises in it history.
They were short on mustard.
The central tenet of the Empire’s religion focused on a rather vague and mysterious concept known as the True Sandwich. The general consensus was that the Sandwich was a metaphor for perfection, and enlightenment.
One of the most sacred rituals in the Empire’s religion was that of the Midnight snack, wherein the head of a household would sneak into the kitchen at night, generally once or twice a month, and make a sandwich out of whatever leftovers were in the fridge. This, of course, required mustard.
“…and with no mustard, there can be no sandwiches,” said the Minister softly.
The marines continued to stand impassive, weapons at parade rest. Their orange and yellow armour reflecting the room’s dim light. The minister sighed, and set the papers down. The foreign trade delegates would be arriving soon, and he needed to relax and get his thoughts straight. He shook his head to clear it, and reached over to touch a button on the desk’s control panel. The scribe answered quickly, her voice coming clearly through a hidden speaker. “Yes, Minister?”
The Minister paused a moment, before speaking, “Send in the first representative. I’d like to have this mustard shortage taken care of as soon as possible.”