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|Title: Marathon Story Forum Fan Fic||Author: Yossarian|
[ed. note: this fan fiction contains nudity, violence and mature subject matter. Viewer discretion is advised. Actuall I lie. It's just filled with many, many inside jokes most outside of the MSF wouldn't get. Enjoy!]
Various dead horses dotted the arena. Standing besides most, bearing various large, blunt objects, were various Noobs, fading in and out of existence with each slam of rotting horseflesh, the carcassess callused and grey after what seemed to be years of relentless slamming.
"The 'MaraMovie' threadhorse is really starting to stink" someone commented from out of the darkness, "Who brought that thing here anyway?"
"No one did, they followed us from the Mara.org forums." Yossarian replied dryly, "but I don't they originated there, they've always been around, always with us, like the Jungian archetypes of..."
"Dude shut up."
"Oh Gawd, looks like there's MORE of them..." remarked Adam Ashwell, referring to the various Halo Newbz running around the largest and most bloated dead horse of all, the Halobook threadhorse. They jumped up and down excitedly, pausing to grab large bits of gangrenous horsemeat and shove them into their mouths, all the while trying to ask their boring and meaningless questions.
Andrew Nagy picks up an nearby aluminum baseball bat, softly tapping it against an open palm. "Enough is enough. I'm a man of action, dammit!" He said as he began the slow walk the the school-bus size horse-corpse. Slowly but surely he picked up his pace until he was among them. They run up to him, spewing stupidity and poor grammer in an attempt to do something, something no one could really figure out. Andrew swung wildly from left to right, down, and side to side. Skulls cracked and figures bent over in pain, but for each noob he dispached two crawled slimily from the infested womb of the dead mare. Soon they were upon them, smothering him with dumb. "GAH!" He screamed.
D-M.A. nonchalantly raises a SPNKR and two contrails scream trough the arena, slamming into the horse. Newbies fly in all directions, dead. Nagy's smoking body among them. "I HATE it when he does that" he remarks, reloading the SPNKR.
"Heh heh, I don't" the Battle Cat remarks, enjoying the smell of rot in the air, mixing with the aroma of his smoking cigar.
Out of nowhere, Neoptolemus appears in a flash of blue smoke. He is seen in his true form, an old withered troll with missing eye and whispy old beard. "A pox ye for bannin' my IP, may the seasons frownw upon ye, I curse your-" A shot rings out, echoing off the walls. Adam Ashwell stands with a smoking .44 magnum. "Heh. Reflex." He shrugs sheepishly and holsters the weapon. Steve Levinson quietly hides his copy of the DSM IV. He won't be needing THAT after all.
"Dear God, what's up with this guy?" Elliot remarks, looking at a figure dressed in full battle gear, though nothing but a pistol and three clips. The man is staring, as if frozen, into the darkness of the map.
"Huh? Oh, that's Irritated. He freezes every time he comes in." Callie answers.
"Uh, did anyone tell him to trash his prefs?" Asks Yossarian, in an attempt to be helpful.
"Did anyone NOT tell him that?" Replies Speaker-To-Animals, "In fact, I think its still echoing in here from the last time someone said it."
"Perhaps he needs more RAM?" Steve Levinson offers up. "Can never have too much RAM."
"This guy's gonna need more than a little more memory." Elliot remarks, finally pushing the motionless body over with his index finger.
From the darkness the "Whoosh" of an opening door is heard. The feet of dozens of excited Pfhor can be seen hopping back and forth, side to side. As the door continues to open slowly, more baddies can be seen. Hunters and cyborgs pace, lookers climb the walls. Wasps and drones hover in fleets. Hulks stand, swaying.
"Heh heh, alright!"
Dr. John leaps into action. "Turn on the camera!! Turn it on dammit, I'm in the zone, I can FEEL it!" Goran fumbles with the camera, wishing they were on a better map as Dr J. shadowboxes, warming up his fists.
the Battle Cat stops picking his nose long enough to check that his weapons are loaded and ready to go and then lights a new cigar with his TOZT-T, burning off some whiskers.
The contributors ready themselves for the battle. The door opens and the aliens spill out. The fight is glorious.
Mista_B is ruthless, a bottle of Rye swinging down, crushing the skulls of various colored fighters as he artfully dodges their staffs and bolts. When at last the bottle smashes he bginss stabbing them the remaining shards. When those have splinted, he takes the bottlecap and forces it down the throat of a nearby enforcer. It gags and dies.
Wejam the Carter takes out lookers and wasps and drones in the distance with a magnum, screaming all the while, "EAT THIS YOU NONSENIENT BASTARDS! YOU DON'T NEED TWO EYES TO...TO...TO DIE!!!
Forrest of B.Org talks to an interested Compiler, his fusion pistol cold at his side "...Well I'm glad you asked. It's called 'Eternal' and its got a helluva plot. Let's sit a spell and discuss..."
Steve Levinson, unconventional as ever, uses his PowerBook as a weapon of death, crashing into the faces and groins of various baddies, causing them to double over in pain and death. "..hell yes it's in the warranty, BITCH!" he screams as he lodges into the armor of a MoaH, slicing it open like butter.
Bob-B-Q runs around, a geyser of napalm emenating from the charged flamethrower. He was actually doing this before the Pfhor showed up, but it just wasn't mentioned up until now. Sorry.
Anaphiel was critiquing the textures, his nose pressed nearly against a wall, a magnifying glass in one hand. "Huh... still not real enough." A flying fighter carcass slams into his back, smashing his face into a wall. His nose is broken and gushing blood. "GOD!, it doesn't even break my nose like a real texture. Damn!"
Dr. J was busy dancing around a group of hulks, trying to get them to berserk. Stealthily, while no one was watching, and the camera was blocked, the Doc pulled out his mag and popped a few of the hulks in their giant feet. They howled in rage and pain. "Yeah GET MAD!" he said, holstering the gun and looking around again to make sure no one caught a glimpe. Because if they had, they would not have lived to tell about it.
Yossarian was still firing his AR, a pile of spent clips at his feet. "What the hell are you shooting at?" Elliot asks. "What? Oh, no, I'm just admiring the ricochet pattern. See, you can tell they did a good job with this AR because-" A sailing trooper grenade caught him in midsentence, blowing him in half. the Battle Cat started laughing so hard he had to pause between reloading his shotgun, an obscene trail of snot flowing from his nose.
Ben Potter, yawns, neatly placing his SPNKR rounds here and there, mumbling something about the difficulty level, before nodding off into a dreams, dreams about electric sheep.
Boomer keeps the trigger of his fusion pistol down, waits for the 28th beep and -grinning like a madman- runs into a pack of hunters, taking them all out.
Vid Boi hasn't actually been seen around for a while. Huh.
Mark Levin appears from a hidden door. "This level, though obviously ambitious in design, contains several glaring errors which even the novice player cannot help but oversee, but we'll discuss these as we go. More than anything, it is a weak setting for a hastily construed forum post, little more than mental masturbation on the part of its author in an attempt to bring a little humor to the forums and smiles to the faces of its more regular contributors, some more regular than others. :p
There's little to do here except to talk and shoot; literally. Immediately bored with the start point, I took a stroll down the first corridor. Nothing. Disappointed to say the least, but also a little curious as to why such an extension would be there, I peered into Forge. However this revealed no additional mapping for this hallway. An oversight perhaps? A plot device? Whatever it is or was supposed to be now ignored, I turned around, wishing I could take out a few beetles that unfortunately weren't there, and ran to the next available corridor, dodging Nagy's flying body ton the way. This other corridor (corridor B) continues quite a ways but very soon comes to show the player some of the more obvious overlookings of the map, who learns quite quickly that he or she was never meant to tread here. The walls are untextured, and beyond is visible a very messy cubicle strewn with various music CD's and wireless phones. What this level doesn't have is, well, everything (including monster placement, more on that later). There are no pattern buffers, no terminals, few weapons, and little ammo. In fact, as I write, I notice that several contributors have since run out of ammo, and have resorted to attacking the Pfhor by screaming like little girls and running away. I am curious, as I am sure most of you are, to see how this pans out on a higher difficulty level.
...leaving me to conclude that I'd rather be decapitated than have to appear in this...map...again."
To which Dr. John Sumner yells, standing atop a pile of bodies "IT'S NOT ANY FUNNER ON TOTAL CARNAGE"
To which Steve Levinson adds: "I can't get it to work...", shaking the Pfhor goop out of his horribly mangled Powerbook.
To which Steve Levinson adds 12 minutes later: "Oh, there it is *NM*" as the Powerbook beeps to life.
To which Mark Levin adds: "Spending a little more time in Forge I determined that there is indeed a very large stash of shield canisters; they're off to the side in another hidden room. If I had to guess, it's something the designer added at the last minute as a means of continuing this story."
Hobbling and crying and grinning and smoking and bleeding the various contributors line up to receive their shield power-ups. But the lack of ammunition has turned the tide against them, and the Pfhor keep coming in waves, seemingly unstoppable. This doesn not, however, stop the Battle Cat from recreating very lewd and disgusting actions with various Pfhor corpses and body parts. The contributors laugh heartily, "That Gary!" they say.
The fight continues for but a few minutes, until they are all backed up against a huge platform in the corner, carefully taking aim with what little ammo remains. "I dunno who designed this, but they oughta shoot the sunofabitch" Yossarian remarks cautiously, shifting his eyes back and forth. Adam Ashwell, in another fit of reflex, shoots him too. "I don't want to die like this!" laments Starship Security Officer, "I haven't even seen the naked chicks at the end of Tempus Irae yet!"
Just when it seemed like all hope was lost, the activation of a large platform high above them was heard. Two figures were seen peering down from above.
Todd, in his token appearence, yells: "LOOOOOOOK!" pointing to the humans high above them.
A booming voice bellows from above them, and the oncoming Pfhor stop in their tracks and cease their attacks. "BEHOLD; I BRING TO YOU....WAIT FOR IT...
Ernie unfolds the Marathon hoodie for all to see, and from it a blinding light shoots forth. The hordes of Phfor shriek and cover their eyes.
"I'M WORKING TO GET A SITE UP SO THEY CAN BE ORDERED ONLINE BUT IT'S NOT QUITE READY YET, VERILY!"
And then, heard by all, was the first licks of guitar. They resound around the arena, bouncing and finally hitting the various ear drums, human, phfor, dead, alive.
"Of course! No alien is immune to the badassery of modern Icelandic rock!" Mark Levin shouts and the contributors rejoice.
Johannes Gunnar shows them no mercy. The pure, unhibited notes strike them, causing their heads to explode, the juggernauts collapse and go nuclear, the hunters fry in their armor and the trooper spasm and die, as the notes shoot down like lightening, winning the day.
Irritated pops in out of nowhere, pistol and three unused clips at his side. "Heh heh, all I had to do was give it MORE RAM!" To which Steve holds out his hand. A handul of contributors slap down $5 into the open palm.
"Suck-ers" Steve says grinng, pocketing the cash.
Yossarian, $5 poorer, tries his luck one last time. "but are you sure it isn't because you trashed you prefe-"
All: "SHUT UP!"
------------------------------------- Hamish Sinclair checks the alarm clock. 1:43 a.m.
Aye, this the last time that he'll be having week old pizza as a midnight snack.
OR IS IT???!?!!?!?
[ed. note: Yes. Yes it is.]
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