Fri Nov 05, 2004 3:06 pm
Freelancer, in the claws of an idiot
What follows is a hopefully humorous collection of short stories about Freelancer related foolery. I only have one so far but more should follow soon. Enjoy...
Story the first: Orillion and cooking
With the Nomads banished to wherever the Hell they went after they were sucked through the Hyper gate, the Order found itself with very little to do. For all Orillion’s talk of ‘We’ll be ready for them next time’ and ‘The threat isn’t over’, it soon became apparent that the Nomads weren’t going to return any time soon.
All those that hadn’t joined the Order so as to defend their homeland from the alien menace had joined because they had been swept away by the romantic notions of honourable outlaws, fighting for humanity and so forth. They had all believed that they would be hailed as heroes at the end of the war, receive unnervingly high deposits in their bank accounts, fame, prestige and frequent fornication with star struck members of the opposite, (or same depending on their sexual orientation,) sex that possessed the I.Q of a severed finger.
The truth was that these people received pitiful cash rewards of three dozen credits from the evil order of greedy bastards that is Interspace Commerce. The Order persons were however awarded with complimentary baskets of turnip-flavoured muffins from Republican Confectionary Inc., courtesy of the new, sugar loathing Rheinland Chancellor.
As you may have guessed from the lack of any news stories relating to the Order following the conclusion of the storyline missions, prestige and fame was denied to them, and space of the colony news service was reserved for kidnapped Manhattan artists and overachieving BMM executives with pickaxes in their skull.
Sorry I’m drifting from the subject, suffice to say that when the Order found itself with nothing to do expect guard the pretty, swirling Hyper gate, desertion became commonplace. Those that remained within the Order tried to amuse themselves with a colourful pinball machine that Orillion had made for them. When this novelty wore off, they set up a debating team and discussed the pros and cons of Kusari’s foreign policies for a total of fourteen days.
Orillion, who couldn’t give a toss about Kusari’s foreign policies, decided to pass his free time in another way. He gathered to him a chef’s hat and costume from Tshushima depot, (What they were doing there in the first place you’ll have to decide for yourself), a fake moustache for visual effect, and assorted kitchen supplies from a guy called Jim who was his brother’s friend’s father’s employer’s son’s hairdresser’s local vicar who also worked in a failing shop on planet Denver named ‘There be ****e within.’
Anyway, when all was prepared, Orillion tried his hand at preparing a simple yet tasty dish for the remaining crew of the Osiris, this was a welcome gesture of good will as the ‘Suspiciously brown’ flavoured Synth paste that the crew had been eating for a month was driving everyone to insanity.
It didn’t occur to Orillion however that he didn’t know the first thing about cooking. He didn’t even know what an oven was. Consequently he crammed too many slaps of beef into a kettle.
The resulting explosion led to a large hole in his right leg.
Despite being told he’d be confined to a wheelchair for a month, Orillion remained un-deterred. The crew were less optimistic about Orillion taking up the chef’s mantle this time and decided o abandon ship and wait in a nearby transport that had been delivered a supply of garlic. The stench of garlic lingered throughout the whole ship was overpowering. Three people fainted, ten more people were violently sick, and one person, a woman named Amy, who was unhealthily fond of pretending to be a vampire, shrieked and ran from here to there shouting that she needed to get off the ship or she’d die. In the end they threw her out of the airlock.
Orillion, who had now seen the logic in reading instruction manuals, had slightly better luck his time. Actually, that sentence may give you the idea that he got it right and created a fine, garlic filled dish of some description. He didn’t.
Despite the fact that he knew how to use an oven, he had no idea what to do with the garlic gloves. Hence he simply stuck them together in the shape of a top hat via the use of an unhelpfully sticky plastic explosive.
The resulting explosion did not kill Orillion, but a flaming piece of blunt metal struck him on the head and put him into a coma that he remained in for the next three chapters. Everyone else returned to the Osiris, put out the fires, erected several air fresheners around the place, and buggered off to Curacao, where they could eat lettuce. The moral crisis in the Order was over.
Tune in next week for, uh, the next one i guess.
Story the first: Orillion and cooking
With the Nomads banished to wherever the Hell they went after they were sucked through the Hyper gate, the Order found itself with very little to do. For all Orillion’s talk of ‘We’ll be ready for them next time’ and ‘The threat isn’t over’, it soon became apparent that the Nomads weren’t going to return any time soon.
All those that hadn’t joined the Order so as to defend their homeland from the alien menace had joined because they had been swept away by the romantic notions of honourable outlaws, fighting for humanity and so forth. They had all believed that they would be hailed as heroes at the end of the war, receive unnervingly high deposits in their bank accounts, fame, prestige and frequent fornication with star struck members of the opposite, (or same depending on their sexual orientation,) sex that possessed the I.Q of a severed finger.
The truth was that these people received pitiful cash rewards of three dozen credits from the evil order of greedy bastards that is Interspace Commerce. The Order persons were however awarded with complimentary baskets of turnip-flavoured muffins from Republican Confectionary Inc., courtesy of the new, sugar loathing Rheinland Chancellor.
As you may have guessed from the lack of any news stories relating to the Order following the conclusion of the storyline missions, prestige and fame was denied to them, and space of the colony news service was reserved for kidnapped Manhattan artists and overachieving BMM executives with pickaxes in their skull.
Sorry I’m drifting from the subject, suffice to say that when the Order found itself with nothing to do expect guard the pretty, swirling Hyper gate, desertion became commonplace. Those that remained within the Order tried to amuse themselves with a colourful pinball machine that Orillion had made for them. When this novelty wore off, they set up a debating team and discussed the pros and cons of Kusari’s foreign policies for a total of fourteen days.
Orillion, who couldn’t give a toss about Kusari’s foreign policies, decided to pass his free time in another way. He gathered to him a chef’s hat and costume from Tshushima depot, (What they were doing there in the first place you’ll have to decide for yourself), a fake moustache for visual effect, and assorted kitchen supplies from a guy called Jim who was his brother’s friend’s father’s employer’s son’s hairdresser’s local vicar who also worked in a failing shop on planet Denver named ‘There be ****e within.’
Anyway, when all was prepared, Orillion tried his hand at preparing a simple yet tasty dish for the remaining crew of the Osiris, this was a welcome gesture of good will as the ‘Suspiciously brown’ flavoured Synth paste that the crew had been eating for a month was driving everyone to insanity.
It didn’t occur to Orillion however that he didn’t know the first thing about cooking. He didn’t even know what an oven was. Consequently he crammed too many slaps of beef into a kettle.
The resulting explosion led to a large hole in his right leg.
Despite being told he’d be confined to a wheelchair for a month, Orillion remained un-deterred. The crew were less optimistic about Orillion taking up the chef’s mantle this time and decided o abandon ship and wait in a nearby transport that had been delivered a supply of garlic. The stench of garlic lingered throughout the whole ship was overpowering. Three people fainted, ten more people were violently sick, and one person, a woman named Amy, who was unhealthily fond of pretending to be a vampire, shrieked and ran from here to there shouting that she needed to get off the ship or she’d die. In the end they threw her out of the airlock.
Orillion, who had now seen the logic in reading instruction manuals, had slightly better luck his time. Actually, that sentence may give you the idea that he got it right and created a fine, garlic filled dish of some description. He didn’t.
Despite the fact that he knew how to use an oven, he had no idea what to do with the garlic gloves. Hence he simply stuck them together in the shape of a top hat via the use of an unhelpfully sticky plastic explosive.
The resulting explosion did not kill Orillion, but a flaming piece of blunt metal struck him on the head and put him into a coma that he remained in for the next three chapters. Everyone else returned to the Osiris, put out the fires, erected several air fresheners around the place, and buggered off to Curacao, where they could eat lettuce. The moral crisis in the Order was over.
Tune in next week for, uh, the next one i guess.
