PURE ACTION!!! x !!!
Posted By: SeverianofUrth<firstname.lastname@example.org>
Date: 6 January 2006, 2:33 pm
Mr. Powers prowled next to the warthog, a shotgun in each hand. He had four of them. Several Elites lay dead in bloody heaps before the vehicle, and when he scanned the horizon and couldn't spot any more enemies to kill, Mr. Powers laid down two of his dual-chambered-uranium-filled-hollow-point-firing shotguns on the ground, took out a can of Ravioli, and after punching through the lid with his teeth he started eating. Yum, he thought: THIS IS SOME DAMN GOOD RAVIOLI.
That was when the comm. unit beeped; shoving the rest of Chef Boyardee's masterpiece into his mouth, he grabbed the headset and screamed, "WHAT?"
A side effect of Project Shiva was that the survivors' vocal cords tended to be afflicted with a permanently wheezy voice, squeaky and loud and obnoxious. They sounded like they were permanently sucking down helium.
"You there, sir? Mr. Powers?" The operator sounded young. "Hello?"
"OF COURSE I'M HERE. WHAT IS IT? I'M BUSY HERE."
The person on the line quailed under the four-armed maniac's audible fury. "Sir, it's just that Colonel Ackerson wanted to review Project Shiva, sir. And you are, as they say, the one-one-seven of this project..."
"OF COURSE I AM." Mr. Powers scratched his ass with one of his four fabled arms. "I KICK ASS."
"Of course you do, sir. So, um, will you be coming in soon?"
"AS SOON AS I FINISH MY JOB."
"But the Colonel was pretty peeved, sir. I mean, he was starting to tell us about how he'd drilled a hole into a captured spy's head once with a potato peeler
"TELL HIM THAT MR.POWERS WILL BE THERE WHEN HE NEEDS TO BE THERE. NOT A MOMENT BEFORE. OR I'LL GIVE HIM THE FOUR FINGERS."
"IT'S YOUR ASS, BOY." Then Mr. Powers cut the line, and picked up his shotguns. The locusts were coming.
A great cloud of them passed over the warthog, and the four-armed man started shooting into it; the buckshot carved great swathes into the insects' ranks that were filled only moments later. He tucked one of the shotguns into his belt, and with that free hand began to catch the bodies of those dead locusts. He had big hands: Project Shiva had given him that. And seven fingers, too, which came in handy sometimes
When he had enough locusts piled precariously on one of his hands, Mr. Powers stopped shooting. Taking one good look at the dead bits of insects on his palm--BETTER STAY DEAD YOU INSECTILE FREAKS-- he closed his eyes and shoved them into his mouth. Great mismatched piles of yellow teeth began crunching through the pupae and the wings and the legs; he spat out some of the ones that were still fluttering a bit (those gave him a tummy ache) and choked down the rest.
He didn't like munching down on bugs, not at all: he was just getting prepared. Preparing for battle, for war. After all, those born from Project Shiva had one great advantage they possessed over their human comrades, even more so then their four strong, brawny, Achillean arms; they had the ability to digest biological materials into radioactive wastes that could then be defecated onto their enemies.
Mr. Powers wasn't dumb. He was just a very savage man. He knew that Ackerson was one hell of a flamer, and that he would be coming after him soon. The Colonel, he had read, was obsessed with destroying the SPARTAN program; and Project Shiva might be something even greater then that
Ackerson could not have two nemeses in his life. He could only spare his time for one. For that Shiva had to be destroyed: and Mr. Powers was determined to kill the other before that could happen.
He didn't have to wait long. Three Pelicans roared overhead, and fifty marines in full tactical gear jumped out. Mr. Powers decided to spare them the theatrics, and just farted on them. Green spewed out from his formidably muscular butt: great clouds of radioactive fury, smelling faintly of rotting onions, swarmed over the marines, and they fell, gagging.
That was nothing. It had just been a sortie, the advance of a pawn in a chess game. Mr. Powers prepared himself. Ackerson had to have something more then this
Then what seemed like shooting stars began to cut through the air. HELLJUMPERS, the four-armed trooper thought with a glee. NOW BEGINS THE FUN.
"Of course, sergeant," Colonel Ackerson purred. He stroked his whiskers. "By the way, did I ever tell about the time when I bludgeoned a man to death with a plunger?"
The Sergeant in question gulped. Beaten to death by a plunger, he thought numbly. Holy cow. "I
I thought as much, sir."
" The Colonel stood up sibilantly, and stretched serpent-like for alliterative kicks. "So, where exactly is this Mr. Powers? When will he be coming in? Soon, I hope?"
"In about an hour, sir." The sergeant trembled as he thought of the four-armed trooper's tendency to act in ways that were unpredictable to Freudians: the finest survivor of Project Shiva not only did not want to copulate with his mother, he also didn't want to kill his father. With those two things in mind, the resident p-shrink, Dr. Penderghastro, had labeled Mr. Powers as a 'psycho.' The other soldiers could only agree: the four-armed soldiers of Project Shiva tended to be pretty crazy, but Mr. Powers took that a step farther... A step so far it was like Armstrong's big leap for mankind.
What it came down to was that though Mr. Powers was a gas-spewing, Covenant-killing four-armed machine, he was utterly unpredictable, and thus useless when it came to any real strategizing. Or timekeeping, for that matter.
His eyes kept drifting back to the nail clipper that Colonel Ackerson was toying with in his hands. Oh, God... A horrible possibility occurred to him: the Colonel was a military genius, capable of punching a hole through someone's head with a potato peeler, or bludgeoning someone to death with a plunger; what might he be able to accomplish with a nail clipper? Then it occurred to him that it might be something akin to circumcision but far more horrible.
"Why did you groan?" The Colonel asked.
"Nothing, sir." Damn you, Powers, damn you!
The ODST's were zombies: Mr. Powers found that out when he pinned one down with his two lower arms, and ripped out it's head-- helmet and all-- with the upper two. The head had went flying, green blood spewing out and leaving a clear trail across the sky. And still the body twitched, flailing to grab and bring him down to his knees. After dispatching it with a massive Herculean punch to the chest that smashed through bone and pulped it's disgusting undead heart, he stood up, and began anew the battle.
It soon became apparent, however, that he would need help. For these were no ordinary Helljumpers: oh, no, Ackerson wouldn't leave a task like this for ordinary men. No, these were ULTIMATE ZOMBIE PARATROOPERS, ALREADY FEET FIRST IN HELL. So he called upon that power of the Brahmin, that energy of destruction...
Mr. Powers screamed, "ALL YOUR POWERS ARE MINE!!!"; then magic started rippling into him, great swathes of jagged white lightning cleaving through the sky to flash into him, instilling him with potent alchemic power. "THUNDER FISTS OF HELL!!!" he roared, and with that-- his fists now crackling with mystical powers-- he began to move through the zombie helljumpers. A skilled fighter with two hands can wreak havoc in the right place at the right time; Mr. Powers was not only in the right place at the right time, he had an extra set of arms. Blood pulped under his magical punches. Swing, crack; punch, smash; kick, whammo!
"SCREAM YOU BLOODY STINKING ZOMBIES I'LL EAT YOUR MOTHERS!!!"
The Helljumpers kept swarming up the hill, over their comrades' dead bodies. It began to resemble something like kantorai, that Japanese trait of pushing on even when your friends die, to storm a castle over the bodies of your fallen brothers, to forge own, to climb over the walls using their corpses as steps.
And magic does not last forever... and there are limits to what four arms can do, against so many.
"Jennings, is it?" Ackerson asked. He twirled the nail clipper into the air, and caught it. "Sergeant Jennings."
"Tell me: it has been an hour... why do you think your Mr. Powers has not arrived yet?"
Sweat broke out in unpleasant place, thankfully hidden, as the sergeant tried desperately to think of an excuse. "I don't know, sir..." That nail clipper looked more and more ominous with every passing second. "I mean, he should be back, now, but you neverknowwithpeoplelike--"
"Relax, Sergeant Jennings." Ackerson stood up. "I know precisely why he has yet to show up."
"What... what would that be, sir?"
"I'm afraid that your four-armed protege is suffering from a condition known as..."
"Yes?" Please don't let it be the plunger not the plunger ohgod not the plunger "Sir?"
"Known as death. As of now several voraciously hungry Helljumpers are eating him, piece by piece. You see, I don't play games. I play ball."
That was when masked soldiers marched in, ray-guns in their hands.
"Minions," the Colonel commanded, "remove this man from my sight."
Mr. Powers would surely have been killed, had it not been for the swift footwork of Vincent Young.
The quarterback swooped in to wisk him out of there as the twenty-four remaining zombies finally knocked the soldier down. Mr. Powers attempted to pry himself out of the young man's hold, but the proud product of the Texas Longhorns held on, and told the soldier:
Well, something. Then he dropped him off near a mountain. It was some kilometers away from the battlefield.
"WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING?" Mr. Powers asked Young.
"To the Rose Bowl, my man," the quarterback told the four-armed man. Then he was gone, flashing out of existence in a brillant spark of temporal disturbance.
Shaking his head, Mr. Powers started his long, long walk back towards the base. Ackerson would be there: there was unfinished business.
Of course, before that happened, a Spartan clad in black armor popped up out of the ground, right before Mr. Powers' feet. The four-armed man stepped back, and assumed the position (no, he didn't bend over; Mr. Powers has a fiftieth-degree black belt in four-armed karate).
"WHO ARE YOU?" He asked the Spartan.
The Spartan replied, while wiping the dirt off his helmet, "I am Zoethil-666, traitor. And I will hellify you."
Then he lunged, and punched Mr. Powers right on his square, manly jaw. The four-armed soldier was flung back into the air, and crashed down back to the ground far, far away. He stood up slowly, while wiping the dribbling blood off his chin.
"YOU'RE GOOD," Mr. Powers said to Zoethil. "BUT WHY DO YOU FIGHT FOR ACKERSON? HE WILL KILL YOU."
And Zoethil replied: "For I am DEATH."
No other explanation was given. For at that moment the Spartan dashed forward, and lashed out with his right leg. Mr. Powers blocked it with one arm, and punched out with his other three arms. The Spartan-- quite impossibly-- jumped into the air and knocked them aside with a single swirl of his arm.
"CRANE STYLE!!!" Mr. Powers cried. He assumed the position, standing on one muscular leg while his arms created the Tao around him. "THE STRIKE OF THE FOUR CORNERS!!!"
But the Spartan was too good: he wasn't caught by that attack, oh no, and after parrying it he assumed the reverse-stance of the Dragon. He shot forward and chopped the four-armed soldier across the throat. The shock of the attack knocked the wind out of him. Mr. Powers staggered back, as Zoethil assumed the ultimate of positions... The Vibrating Fist Of The Assasins.
"The Trembling Fist of Death!" Zoethil cried. Then, with one hand held up over his head, he rushed Mr. Powers.
But the soldier had one last trick left in his roomy pockets: the thunder-god's hammer, Mjolnir. He pulled it out, and the hammer, with it's head as big as Mr. Powers' and it's handle the size of a 32-oz ketchup bottle, crackled with godly energy. He swung. It connected. The swing bashed Zoethil right across his helmet, and he fell down to the ground. Cracks began to web throughout his visor.
"BATTLE'S OVER," Mr. Powers said. "NOW: WHY IS A SPARTAN FIGHTING FOR ACKERSON, OF ALL PEOPLE?"
Zoethil remained stubbornly silent. Greatly angered, Mr. Powers roared: "I'LL TEAR YOUR FRIGGING LEGS OFF INCH BY INCH IF YOU DON'T TELL ME, YOU PUNK!!!"
Still, no reply came. So Mr. Powers stepped up and wrenched the Spartan's helmet off, intending to speak with him face-to-face, not face-to-helmet. But he did it a bit too roughly, and accidentally pulled off both the helmet and the head. Blood splattered all over the ground.
"AH, SHIT." Disgusted, he flung the head away.
And so it was that Mr. Powers began his trek back to Base, intending to confront Colonel Ackerson...
HE WAS GOING TO KILL HIM.
"He's here, sir."
Ackerson turned towards one of his faceless, mindless goons. "What do you mean?"
"That soldier of Project Shiva, sir. Mr. Roth Powers. He's farted his way through the main gate."
"So... the zombie Helljumpers failed." He looked up to the sky and shook his fist. "Damn you, Nosferatu, damn you!"
"So what do we do, sir?"
"Why, I gave you all ray-guns for a reason."
"But sir... the man..."
"He's quad-wielding them, sir. Four ray guns at once. Our men can't stand against it."
Ackerson stared at the minion before him. Then he took the nail clipper out of his pocket. The minion gulped as the Colonel stood up, face pale and livid. He said, "let me see your fingers..."
It was well known that Ackerson often took his anger out on his underlings; and the minion had expected something like this... but he couldn't help but scream when the Colonel gave him the dreaded sunfire manicure.
The screams provided a pleasant accompaniment for the sounds of battle drifting closer every second...
"I'VE GOT YOU NOW YOU BLACK-DONNING GOONS!!!"
Mr. Powers sprayed deadly laser bolts everywhere, missing nothing. His four arms worked the triggers feverishly. Ackerson's minions stormed him left and right and up and down, and one even popped out of the wall to bite his feet, which he took care of by stomping the minion's skull to porridge. The ray-guns fired in a whirlwind, like a Texas tornado--
"Sir! Sir! It's me, Jennings!"
Mr. Powers stopped for a brief moment as Jennings crawled out of the vent. "WHERE WERE YOU?"
"I was hiding out, sir. Ackerson arrested everyone inside the base, and locked them up. But in the confusion of the battle I managed to dig my way out with this silver spoon, sir!"
The four-armed soldier stared at the spoon in shock. "THAT'S MY ICE CREAM SPOON YOU PITIFUL WRETCH."
"I'm sorry, sir!" The sergeant visibly paled. "But it was the only way!"
"YOU'LL PAY FOR THAT, JENNINGS."
"Of course, sir. Two quarts of Ben & Jerry's, correct?"
"Aye, sir. Now, if you'll excuse me..." Then the sergeant dashed out of his sight, fleeing the battle. Mr. Powers raised the ray-guns up once again: the minions were attacking him once more. He ducked as a huge red bolt of energy, fired by a giant ray-cannon on wheels, slammed into the wall behind him; then he let loose a barrage of righteous green bolts, killing the goons instantly.
"The battle isn't going well," Ackerson said to himself. The minion lay in very thin slivers before him, with a bloody nail clipper lying in a puddle of red beside it. "Who knew? Project SHIVA turned out better then I expected..."
He rose from his chair. It was time to bring out the big guns.
"Behold, ye puny four-armed being. Behold the mighty RAGNAROK!"
Mr. Powers finished gutting the last of the minions with his lightsaber, and turned towards the source of the voice. It was up very high in the air.
The speaker was atop a giant mecha; a colossal robot. It had a skull's face, with rocket launchers mounted on it's shoulders; it's arms were fifty-caliber machine guns capable of stuffing through fifteen hundred rounds per second. The RAGNAROK: it was the ultimate of war machines. And Ackerson was on top of it. He was playing ball.
Mr. Powers laughed, and waved the lightsaber over his head. The energy weapon could cut through that steel like sashimi. "BRING IT, YOU FLAMER!!!"
Ackerson yelled something at him, but at that moment the Ragnarok's dual machineguns started spitting out bullets, and Mr. Powers had to dive for cover. When the barrage stopped (ten seconds later, with fifteen thousand spent bullets lying a huge heap beside the mecha like a giant pile of shit), the soldier poked out of the cover and yelled, "I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!!"
"You're using Energizer!"
"SO WHAT? IT GOES ON AND ON--"
At that moment the lightsaber flickered out. Dismayed, Mr. Powers opened the battery compartment, and found that the Energizer batteries had indeed run out of power. It took eighty of those to power a lightsaber, and thus had been a costly investment.
"You should have used Duracell, you fool!"
"SCREW YOU!!!" And Mr. Powers, ditching the useless weapon of the Jedi, started running for the giant robot.
Ackerson popped into the cockpit of the RAGNAROK, and aimed for his head. Mr. Powers, anticipating the attack, jumped to the side just in time as three hundred HELLFIRE rockets thundered in and pounded the earth. The concussion from the blast pulverized his eardrums.
The RAGNAROK's two machinegun arms swerved towards him, then; and Mr. Powers was struck by inspiration.
As the guns started firing, he, employing his bullet-dodging powers, skipped past the fiery salvo and jumped atop the arms. He clambered up the mecha then, using his four arms to grab onto holds a normal, two-armed man could not have held onto. By the time he reached the top (and thus got above the cockpit), Ackerson had noticed, and he sent out his army of little acid-spitting spider bots to rid himself of the four-armed menace.
Mr. Powers batted one aside; then, grabbing another by a leg, he swung it like a club. They fell apart like a pack of hermit crabs. That is, not well at all. It took several hits to destroy just one, and there were many. In the end, he had to pull out Mjolnir...
Several well-aimed smashes later, Mr. Powers stood victorious on the head of the RAGNAROK. Ackerson remained silent inside the cockpit. The four-armed soldier then grabbed the hammer with all four hands and swung hard against the robot's armor. The thunder-god's weapon flashed, and lightning pounded against the steel hull. Nothing.
"It is impenetratable, Mr. Powers. Your efforts are futile."
Mr. Powers ignored him, and kept on pounding.
"At this moment, the satellite-orbital laser, SOL, is being calibrated to blast you to smithereens. There won't be a single bit of ash left. You'll be like those caught right near a detonating atomic bomb, nothing left but a ghostly black imprint on the walls..."
"THAT'S IT!!! I'M TIRED OF YOU!!! I'M TIRED OF YOUR POMPOUS MUTTERINGS!!! YOU'RE GONNA DIE." He pulled his pants down. His green boxers fluttered in the wind. "CHOKE ON THIS, YOU WINDBAG."
"Whatever you say, Mr. Powers. Resistance is futile. Your fate has been determined. You are doo-- AGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
In orbit, or outer space, the RAGNAROK uses it's own sealed supply of oxygen. But on ground, it simply filters through outside air.
Mr. Powers sat on one of the vents with his buttocks bared, and just squeezed out a good dollop of radioactive gas. The sudden rush of air overloaded the recycling system, and in turn Ackerson's lungs...
The RAGNAROK trembled as it's pilot convulsed and thrashed his death-throes. There was a final gagging gasp, then--
He was dead. Colonel Ackerson, the Ultimate Bastard, was dead.
Mr. Powers wasn't dumb. He was just, as said before, very very savage. He remembered Ackerson's threat about the orbital laser, and jumped off the silent robot. He took off running. And three minutes later, with him half a mile away, the air suddenly grew hot and yellow, and he looked back to see a giant pillar of fire descend upon the robot. When it was over, the RAGNAROK stood half-melted, metal dripping off it's carapace like thick heavy syrup.
"Hey, sir! You killed him!"
The four-armed soldier turned back to see Jennings drive up in his warthog. "YES, HE IS DEAD. AND WHERE'S MY ICE CREAM?"
"Here you go, sir," the sergeant replied. "Two quarts, as promised."
"GOOD," Mr. Powers said. "IF YOU HADN'T I WOULD HAVE KILLED YOU."
"Heh." Jennings sounded a tad bit nervous. "So shall we get going, sir?"
The killer of unfortunate marines, zombie Helljumpers, a rogue Spartan in black, hundreds of black-donning goons, and Ackerson looked back at the site of battle. Then he looked forward, at Jennings, at the car. He smiled. Yellow teeth gleamed in the dying light.
"LET'S GO," he said. "I GOTTA TAKE A DUMP."
Or is it...
Yeah, it is.