Author Note: Heh, a humour fic. Let's see if I can turn my hand to these. Then again, it'll probably not get full recognition like the rest of my work... -Sigh-
Shade: Less moping, more typing.
...Shut up.
The Obligatory Red Mesan Humour Fic, Chapter 1: Why CO Shade Should Never Write Humour. EVER.
The dark-clothed individual sat at his computer, typing lethargically. Once in a while he paused to correct a spelling mistake or take a drink of sweet, sweet coffee, then resumed typing again. "Mumble...rassin' frassin' Crusade War...frassle rassle...need to type faster..." CO Shade paused as a thought struck him. He could just leave The Crusade War where it was for now, and alleviate his writer's block...by writing a humour fic.
CRACK-BOOOOOOOOOOM!
"GAH! DAMMIT!" The aforementioned author fell of his chair at the resulting crack of thunder. "Why did that happen? All I said was 'humour fic'-"
CRACK-BOOOOOOOOOOM!
"GAUGH! What in the name of high school football?!" He cried, crawling under the computer desk and curling up into a fetal position, "It can't be that bad, can it?"
Oh yes it can.
"Great, now I have a muse. Juuuuust peachy." CO Shade smacked himself in the head to try and remove said muse."Ow." Not very smart, seeing as his muse was inside his now bruised cranium.
And then, just to compound the author's misery, the lights went out.
"Oh, bugger it."
---
"MUHAHAHAHAAAAA!" Sturm laughed heartily. "Merry Christmas!" He paused, realising what he had just said. Adding that to the fact that he was dressed in a jolly, red-and-white rendition of his usual military uniform, and was breathing snowflakes, he quickly came to the conclusion that he was in yet ANOTHER humour fic. "For the love of...why Father Christmas? Why?"
Scratch that, why is Sturm even here?
"I'll tell you why!" Sturm cried. "To bring festive cheer and happy holidays to all! Ho ho ho!" The Lord of Snifits froze in shock. "I did NOT just say that."
No, I mean, he's dead. Hawke killed him.
Sturm went pale - well, his armour looked slightly lighter than usual. Maybe it was the baubles he was covered in.
"Oh crap."
See? Plotholes already!
CO Shade's muse was quickly annoying Sturm (Version 2.5, Christmas Edition). The Darth Vader/Father Christmas/Overgrown Toaster/Snifit Lord-a-like decided to rectify this slight problem quickly, cleanly, and efficiently.
"METEOR STRIKE!!"
Quickly? Cleanly? Efficiently?
Well, we ARE talking about Sturm here. He's not the brightest bulb in the box.
But...I'm a muse! You can't hurt m-OH DEAR GOD MY LEGS!!!
Satisfied, Christmas Sturm turned back to his desk, where he continued to make toys for all the good CO's, and coal for all the bad ones. "Stupid author," grumbled Sturm, "I'm finishing my plans to take over Wars World!" Sturm laughed merrily, snowflakes flying everywhere, and picked up his pencil. Little did he know, his overly clichéd plan to take over Wars World was doomed. Not by that fact that everyone knows he'll balls it all up somewhere along the line, but by the fact that he had set off anti-cliché alarms in the author's head. "I can hear you, you know," said Strum. "Hey! I'm Sturm, not Strum! For crying out loud, that has to be the most overused Advance Wars joke ever!" the robot CO shook his head exasperatedly and returned to his work, because he's a cissy who doesn't stand up for himself.
"Hey!"
Sue me.
Sturm then proceeded to file a lawsuit against the author, who paid him compensation consistingof six horses, a monkey, and a fairy to put on his head. Sturm returned the favor by throwing his worker elves at him, and denying him presents for the coming Christmas.
---
Shade sighed contentedly. Life was good. Despite the best efforts of the author, who had insisted that life after Advance Wars: Red Mesa had to be absolute hell for him, he had managed to get into the humour fic unscathed. No Twilight/Shade duality making him out to be a psychotic wreck, no long-distance teleportation from a satellite burning up in re-entry, no having to fight his allies...yes, life was good. Shade could do whatever he wanted, there were no wars to fight this week (it was a slow week for War, although Famine, Death and Pestilence were doing well), and he was using the Event Horizon to mess about with, and endanger, the very fabric of reality on a daily basis. Yes, life was good.
"...THIS PROGRAM HAS ENCOUNTERED AN ILLEGAL ERROR?!" Shade switched from 'content' to 'absolutely freakin' furious' in a split second. "Zero-point-two-four-six seconds, to be precise," said Leonard Nimoy, who promptly resolved his unexpected appearance by throwing himself out of the window, where he flew away in much that same way that brick's don't. Shade raised an eyebrow, then turned back to his computer. "Dammit...I'd nearly fragged that guy as well! DAMN YOU, HALOOOOOO!! DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL!!"
Outside Shade's room, the rest of the Red Mesan CO's looked at each other knowingly. "Multiplayer rage," Swift said.
---
Olaf sighed contentedly and leaned back in his musty, creaking, old command chair. Life was good. "That line is getting repetitive," he half grumbled, half burbled, because he was so fat and ugly. "Hey!"
And was the approximate weight of a Boeing 747.
"Stop that!" Olaf cried, because he was a big baby who ate too much and had terrible hygiene. "It's really damaging my mental state!" Grit walked in in the middle of all of this, and raised an eyebrow at the distraught Olaf, apparently yelling at nothing. Grit then leaned on the frame of the doorway - and missed, because he sucked at aiming.
That has got to be the dumbest contradiction ever.
Aren't you supposed to be under a meteor right now?
Uhh...plothole.
Figures. Anyway, Grit pulled himself back up onto his feet, only to see Olaf stuffing his face with ice cream. "Why, may ah ask, are ya doin' that?" Grit said in his unintelligible Southern accent. "Stop that, author guy. Ah'm just asking a simple question." The author relented, and Olaf stopped shovelling Carte D'or into the hole in his face long enough to speak. "I'm eating because it makes me feel better," he said sulkily. "The author said I was fat and ugly and loads of other mean things." Grit sighed. He knew what was coming. Olaf put on his Scottish accent, stopped eating, and took a deep breath:
"I can't stop eeeeating! I eat because I'm unhappy, but I'm unhappy because I eeeat. It's a vicious cycle..." Having finished imitating Fat Bastard, Olaf started stuffing his face again, only to pause a few seconds after, a look of pain and terror upon his face.
"BRAAAAAAIN FREEEEEEEEEEEZE!!"
Grit slapped his hand to his forehead in exasperation. What he forgot was that his revolver, being permanently fused to his hand by the demons at Intelligent Systems' Art Department, promptly knocked him out cold. Whoops. Olaf looked concerned for a second. Digging his spoon into the tub of ice cream and realising it was empty, Olaf's face lit up. They had pork rinds!
"TO THE FRIDGE!!" Olaf heaved his considerable bulk out of his chair - to quote David Duchovny, "The rippling is almost hypnotic." - and, Godzilla-style-earth-shaking step after Godzilla-style-earth-shaking step, he thundered down the corridor of the HQ, towards the canteen.
"Ugh...darn cats...get those rats..." With a groan, Grit stood up, sporting a red, revolver-shaped mark on his forehead. "Ow. I need a nap." Leaving Olaf's office and suantering down the corridor lazily, Grit made his way to his 'sleepy room'. It was his own personal, specially designed rest room, equipped with blubber sensors to detect an approaching killer whale (or Olaf), mood lighting, a wall filled with shelf upon shelf of cigarettes, and more. In the center, was it. The Couch. Grit's Nap Couch. The cause of many early-morning arguements between Grit and Olaf, Grit's Nap Couch was just that: the Couch where Grit would lie asleep for days on end (his best record was two weeks). Grit sighed contentedly as he unbolted the small, fiddly lock, specially made to be to small for Olaf's blubbery fingers to open, and walked in. Life was good.
If you say that one more time, I swear...
Olaf burbled happily like a baby has he shovelled dozens of packets of pork rinds into the logic-defyingly large pockets of his winter coat. Life was good.
STOP SAYING THAT!!!
Olaf turned to leave the canteen, rustling like a tree in autumn due to the hundreds of packets stuffed into his coat. The staff of the canteen, and the soldiers dining, watched in disbelief as the giant, blue-coloured ball of coat and fat shuffled rustlingly towards the exit, giggling happily to himself. The staff tried to stop him, and one even dared to reach into one of his pockets, but-
"GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGH! PORK RINDS!!!" Olaf, being a tactical genius, decided to act accordingly.
"AUGH! MY FACE!!" The poor staff member was flung into a wall by the manical Olaf. Now that all threats to his precious pork rinds were neutralised, he burbled happily, turned, and with a rustle of his coat, left the canteen. One soldier in particular looked rightly disturbed.
"This is the end for Blue Moon. Olaf's finally reached the Terrible Two's." The other soldiers made to nod and agree, when a ear-splitting and girly scream shook the walls of the HQ, shattering the windows, and making Olaf jump. And when Olaf jumps-
CRRRRRUNCCCCHHHH!!
-You know something's going to break.
"My...pork rinds..." Olaf looked like he was going to have a mental breakdown, but steadied himself. He took out the packets of pork rinds, flung them to the side of the corridor, and ran towards the source of the scream - Grit's Nap Couch Room. "OLAAAAAF SMASH!!" The door, although having locks Olaf would normally not be able to open, wasn't built for impacts with the approximate force of a Tomahawk missile. Olaf, despite having enough momentum to kill an adult rhino, screeched to a halt as he took in the scene before him. Grit was pale and shaking, a quivering finger pointing to the figure sleeping on the Couch. Olaf raised an eyebrow, and was about to return to his sweet, beloved pork rinds, when -
"Hisssss...what'sss all the noissse about?" Adder opened his eyes and looked around him. To his horror, he realised he was clad in nothing but a set of purple, crotch-hugging boxers.
Looks like a hysterical scream is in order.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!"
Thought so.
Adder screamed hysterically, eyes wide and arms flailing like a pale, anorexic fish in urgent need of back therapy. Grit flailed around like a moron as well, the combined hysterical screams threatening to shatter the windows. In the midst of all this, Colin, Blue Moon's equivalent to Richie Rich, walked in, sporting a cane, hat, and fur coat. Yes, Colin was a pimp. How else could he get so rich?
Colin took one look at the scene, glanced at the pale-faced, stock-still Olaf, and sighed.
"Look's like a humour fic's goin down in tha' hood!"
End of Chapter 1
Hey, how is that the end? I thought-
CO Shade's muse was cut off by the author clicking 'Save'. He leaned back, sighed, and smiled.
Life was good.
Author Note: So, what do you think? Read and review, and you may even get a cameo!
Shade: ...No. Just no.
Ignore him, people. In Chapter 2, Colin takes the lead on deciding what to do with Adder. And no, Colin's not pimping him...
Colin: Like all mah' other hoes, brutha!