*Fiction Based On A Night of Playing Mission III*
It had been a wild party. Sergeant Thumpy was entering his 51st year of service in the Blood Angels, and frankly everyone needed an excuse to have some fun. They had been stuck on this derelict space hulk for the best part of three months and things were getting boring. When Thumpy thought about it, he quite liked his job. But the hours could drag on a bit, and the seconds themselves could be quite dull, but on the whole he was content to be a Space Marine Sergeant of the first company. Mind you, he wasn’t so sure joining the Blood Angels had been such a good move. They were forever posted to these damned space hulks. It’s all they ever seemed to do nowadays. Not like those Imperial Fists who generally spent their days polishing their uniforms and relaxing in some ridiculously luxurious palaces under some weak cover story they were guarding the place. Thumpy had a pen friend in the Ultramarines who often sent him post cards from sunny seaside towns and glorious beach worlds. But not the Blood Angels. More space hulks, more multilimbed corpse nibblers to bash.
The party had reached a frenzy over the course of about three days, and one thing was now certain, the place was a mess. Not a normal alien infested type of mess, but a real booze and curry type of mess only achievable in the absence of females. Not that anyone really cared, except Sergeant Colin. However, tidying up was yet another way to relieve the boredom and satisfy his OCD, so Sergeant Colin had left his quarters with a squad two days ago in search of cleaning supplies.
The radio crackled into life.
“Thumpy, come in, this is Colin.”
“Report, Sergeant.” “Brother Steve has found a janitors closet on deck 3 west, he reports he has found an operational vacuum cleaner.” “Good work Colin, I will tell the men and bring a squad to assist. Thumpy out.”
Thumpy immediately got dressed and assembled a squad from the space marines who were no longer passed out. He picked up his massive thunderhammer and storm shield. This truly was an awesome weapon. He had used it for several years, and it’s mighty power had trashed many hotel rooms and wrecked many hire cars whilst on deployments around the galaxy. Why on terra did the quartermaster issue it to him for hulk duty he had no idea. Within the tight confines of a corridor you barely had room to scratch your armored butt, let alone swing a six foot hammer.
“Sergeant Colin, report.”
“I hear you, Sergeant. Brother Billy Bob is showing us his latest dance moves.” “What type?” “Latin jazz, will keep you posted.” “Keep up the good work, but keep an eye out for xenos.” “Will do.”
Between Sergeant Thumpy and the vacuum cleaner stood a horde of unco-operative genestealers. He would have to bash his way through. Luckily, Brother Keith had remembered to bring an assault cannon. Soon the walls were pasted with purple blood.
“This is Sergeant Colin, we are now at critical dancing mass, and we have you in visual. Brother Phil has found an old set of disco lights and a Girl’s Aloud disc relic and we are really getting down.” “I see you Sergeant Colin, you are quite a mover. We will look for refreshments on our way.”
Thumpy opened a door off the corridor. He could hear the bass bumping and see flashing lights ahead. Behind the door lurked a stinking horror. The stench was appalling. He retched in pain as his nostrils filled with toxic gas. He could smell fried chicken, combined with peri-peri. It was obviously coming from an ancient blocked drain which had had thousands of years to fester. Immediately the music down the corridor stopped as marines stopped dancing and clawed for fresh air. The party was over for now. It was at times like this that Thumpy really wished Sergeants could wear helmets. With only a vacuum cleaner to clean up this mess it was going to be a long night.