Tonight's Episode

Dick Jokes

Space: the final frontier, this side of a bar in Alaska. You and I know space is cold as shit—near as cold as my penis: my vinegary, elephant-toenail-shaped penis, locked within the Starfleet uniform I wear, unwashed, all the time. When will the touch of a Vulcan female in her yearly Pon-Far unleash my firestorm of lust? One day the stars will burn bright with the con-convention to end all conventions, and an orgy that will crack the sky. But for now, the sex-fire that stokes the universe must remain tamed. For now, space drifts in silence, ice.

A dildo-starship thrusted through the loneliness. It penetrated the dark, sexually. It was on approach to a cluster of Covenant ships. The vessels were clumped together in a thick zit of purple metal, protecting…something. Something very, very gay.

The ship decelerated. It neared the deepest darkness of the mass: the space station High Charity. The halls of High Charity swelled with the blood of a hundred million covie-ants. High Charity—the size of my fat ass—was bigger than any of the thousands of ships around it, and like I said, it was surrounded by a fleet of dildo-ships, just like your mom.

Deep inside High Charity the Covenant held a trial. Seven hundred fugly alien races crammed themselves into the pod-stands, and the pods filled an antechamber of darkness. Three simian creatures glared down from the assembly's head. They were seated in regal hover-chairs. These frail creatures had draped themselves in gold encrusted robes and enormous headdresses: for they called themselves the Prophets, ancient guardians of truth and tooth-decay. Beside them stood their biggest asset: a bear sized clump of wiry white pubes. The smeg-ball towered to almost twelve feet tall and six feet wide—and that was just when flaccid in cold weather. All the aliens in the room that had anuses took careful notice of this beast. They whispered his name in hushed tones: Tartarus. Tartarus the Destroyer. Tartarus the Wrecker. Tartarus the Ripper, the Tearer. He was Chieftain of the Brutes. Definitely not Chieftain of the cutes.

Two more Brutes dragged an unconscious reptilian creature into the center of the chamber. They dropped the limp form and stood back.

One of the Prophets extended a wrinkled hand, a hand rosy and soft, well plied with moisturizers and oil-based lubricant. His name was the Prophet of Truth. His asshole was notoriously chapped at all times.

The reptilian creature stood shakily, dusted itself off, and stepped forwards. Beneath the shadow of its helmet its eyes were dulled black and blank, not shining, but like holes. It was an Elite: the reptilian leaders of the Covenant's military.

"Wow," it said. "Looks like I finally made it to the Superbowl."

Boos rained down from all around. Then a quick spritzing of urine showered from one corner and was quickly cut off, only to be replaced by a tidal wave of urine from the Brute's section which splattered all over this Elite. He wiped his face. His mouth had four jaws, and every one of them was curled up with emotion, but not any emotion that has a name in English.

He said: "Wow! What a welcome. Glad to see you've all gathered for the annual gorgy. That's orgy, but with a 'g', so you know it's gay."

Tartarus's foot shook High Charity when it came down on the deck. "Silence, heretic!" His thick butt shook indefinitely with every movement. The two Brutes beside the prisoner forced their charge to his knees with sadistic smiles on their faces. One of the Brutes extracted a putrid phallus and began to wave it back and forth. His victim's eyes widened, but before anything could happen the Prophet of Truth raised his withered hand once more. His hand smelled faintly of lilac.

"Enough." Silence fell immediately. Truth returned to the holographic notes shimmering above the arm of his throne. Below him the crowd buzzed in anticipation. As he continued to read he produced pink gum from his robes and popped two sticks into his mouth. He began to chew. The soft squelching of the gum echoed throughout the court. Truth's jaw popped with every smack. Finally he spoke again, closing his notes with a wave.

"Thank you all for gathering here today at the trial for the incredible failure of Commander Darren. He let Halo be blown up by the humans, so our religion is basically over unless we find another Halo. And what are the chances of that? I can tell, my Covenant, that you are all as disgusted as I am by his idiocy. But fear not: not a single one of the Elites involved in the Halo incident may escape justice, not even if their own deaths stand in the way."

The Prophet of Regret pressed his own throne up to Truth's. "Can I have some gum?"

"Get your own," said Truth. His voice was still on the microphone.

"I don't have any," said Regret.

Truth covered the microphone. "You should have thought of that, before."

A white armored Elite in the audience raised his hand. Truth saw him and groaned non-orgasmically. "Ah, Half-Killer. What is your objection this time?"

"Just why is it that only us Elites are standing trial for the failure at Halo, huh?" Half-Killer widened his eyes and looked invitingly at the other Elites in council, who refused to make eye contact with him or speak to him. "And what about all the other races involved? This trial is targeted at us, the Elites."

A sneer had creased Truth's lips. "The Elites shall be held accountable for their failures. Too long have they been given preferential accolades over the magnificently special and talented Brutes." The Prophet looked fondly at Tartarus and his giant donkey cock.

"Uh…" Half-Killer's butt hovered over his chair before he sat. "Be that as it may, this is not over!"

Truth popped a gum-bubble and turned back towards the accused. "As for you, Commander Darren—due to your failure as Commander of the Halo fleet—"

"I'm not Commander Darren," said the Elite.

A chorus of gasps rose from the stands. Tartarus growled low in his throat, so low that it was actually his balls growling.

"Oh? Your claim is a dubious one, indeed." Truth scrolled through his notes once more, perusing some shitty anime fan art that he had downloaded. "I specifically have here the records of you, specifically, being in charge of the fleet that discovered Halo—" he looked knowingly around at the stands "—and that allowed the humans to destroy Halo."

A chorus of gasps went up.

"I'm not Commander Darren, buddy," said the Elite. He pointed up at the stands: he was pointing at the white-armored Half-Killer who had just spoken. "He is."

Half-Killer began to whistle innocently. A black Elite punched him in the side.

"Do not be ridiculous," said the Prophet of Truth. "That is Half-Killer, special operations Commander of the Special Operations division of the Elites."

"For how long has he been that?" asked the Elite on trial. "For the past two days?"

"I heard Half-Killer has been on vacation," said Truth matter-of-factly. "Such is the laziness of his kind. Don't try to wriggle out of this: I have a description of you right here, Commander Darren, from your personnel officer Kit Fisto." He cleared his throat and began to read. "'Unusually short and saggy. Pus-filled eyes. Nasal-voice. Smells like stomach acid. A real creep. A two, maybe a three at best. Not my team. His name is Commander Darren.'" Truth looked owlishly down at the prisoner. "Does this not describe you?"

"Uh." The Prisoner looked down at himself. "I like to think of myself as endomorphic."

"You mean fat?" asked Truth. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, nerd. But regardless of the nature of your command or your identity, the inability to safeguard Halo was a colossal failure that only a terrible and shitty Elite could have performed." Truth's voice rose. "Too long have we let the Elites monopolize 'protecting the ancient ring world that we discover by chance.' Equal opportunity must be given to the extremely special and talented Brutes."

"I agree," shouted the prisoner, and stomped his foot for emphasis.

"What?" began Truth. "I mean, yes—"

Half-Killer piped up. "That's enough of your favorite-playing, Truth. We all know you're just upset a Brute didn't win the Mr. High Charity beauty pageant last year!"

The antechamber erupted into peals of laughter, much like orange peels but for that which makes them bitter: not the sting of citrus, but the sourness of derision. Also Tartarus farted.

"That contest was rigged," Truth spat, "and all of you know it." He was beet red despite his words and his right hand pumped up and down in reflexive rage. Speaking of masturbation the Prophet of Regret moved behind him.

"Truth, I say we end this farce. The time has come for the fist of justice be sheathed into the bung of villainy."

"An excellent metaphor. Now I remember why I promoted you." Truth inclined his head and glanced at the third member of his threesome: the Prophet of Mercy. The aging holy man had fallen asleep. The faint smell of ass drifted to Truth on the open air.

Truth swiveled back to the room at large. "There has been enough rhetoric this night. I pronounce the heretic guilty." A bubble of clamor burst and subsided in the time between his breaths. Half-Killer crossed his arms and glared at nothing with an expression of mixed emotions on his face: partly satisfaction, partly frustration. Truth continued: "Tartarus, confiscate the infidel's armor and brand him with the mark that befits his fall."

"Sure." Tartarus seized his victim by the arm and whispered into his ear: "We're gonna have a lot of fun together,"

The Elite ignored Tartarus and turned to the antechamber at large. "This is bruteshit. I know you're up there, Commander Darren! And I know that you know, that I know, that you and me know, that we are the only ones who know, what happened on Hayknow."

"What?" said the Prophet of Regret. Trush shushed him, and then peered down his flat nose, or rather his flat face, at the heretic. "It's 'you and I,' heretic, not 'you and me.'"

"I see you there too, Kit Fisto," shouted the heretic. The figure in black armor next to Half-Killer didn't move much, but it did twitch a little. "I see you up there!" The Elite pointed. "Where's the Chief's kid, you bastards? You stole her from me! After I stole her from the Chief!"

"Get him out of here!" roared Truth, pushing his chair forwards. "I tire of listening to his babble!"

"As you command, my love, I mean noble Prophet," said Tartarus. The Brutes began to drag the heretic to his anal fate. The crowd began to chant: "HERETIC, HERETIC!"

"HAIRY DICK!" The heretic recoiled from Tartarus. The doors to the antechamber opened. He began to babble, or rather he continued to babble. "You've gotta believe me! It was Whitania! She tricked me and Darren both! It's all the Marisoo's fault, I had nothing to do with Halo—or the child!—I can tell you all about the baby, baby!" He shook his fist at the stands. "WHERE IS SHE DARREN!? WHERE IS SHEEE?"

Truth closed the internet browser he had been using and mimed quotation marks with his fingers. "Ah yes, Marisoos, the ancient and unstoppable enemy of the universe coming to destroy us all. We have dismissed these claims."

The prisoner railed against him. The doors slammed shut on his anguished screams.

And somewhere else in the universe…

"Ya really did a number on this armor, boy. The computer system's fried, visor's smeared, seal's broken, stains in the lining, holes in the butt plate, snapped catheter…" Sergeant Gunnery Guns Gunderson trailed off with an expectant look.

The Chief put his impassive, gold-faced helmet back on. The seal clicked. "Shut the fuck up you useless sack-of-shit, before I add you to the stains on my boot. I mean, tell that to the Covenant."

Gunnery Gunsmith 'Guns' Guthery scowled up at the seven feet of Spartan before him. "I ain't complaining. Jes' next time, remember the guy who cleans up the shit in your armor is the guy who loads your guns, too"

"I don't reload my guns. I just pick up new ones off dead people." The Chief looked Guns up and down. "Maybe you should get new job."

Guns' wiry stubble fairly bristled in fury. "Hey—you hear this, mister 'super soldier,'" he sassed his metabolic hips, enfattened as a sedentary, vaguely Southern gentleman's would be, "for every soldier that the UNSC puts on the ground, ten thousand bucks worth of blood sweat and tears from guys like me were paid to get 'em there."

The Chief dusted off his gauntlets. "Sorry, but your problems are so small I can't even understand them. I'm too busy worrying about my urethral trauma."

"What?"

"It all started with an accident in the women's locker room back on Reach where some garden shears stabbed my prostate. I didn't know there was a problem until I started peeing blood. Well, things only went downhill from there."

"Now just a minute, I didn't ask—"

"Doctor Hazing did the best she could but in the end I ended up with a nubbin. By the way, in old China, younicks were important and wanted as war commanders. They peed through straws."

"Hold on—"

"Things looked up when I fused with my evil opposite brother from the Covenant who looks like an Elite but is actually my tulpa as in my imaginary friend and I re-grew all the body parts I lost. But after a demon was unlocked in my brain I ate parts of myself, including those parts and a bunch of other parts. Well, Cortana did the best she could with her robot surgery when I got back to Earth, but I'll just say my wiring got a little crossed if you know what I mean."

Trance like, Gunny un-holstered his pistol and cocked its hammer back, then pushed the weapon into his own mouth.

The Chief continued talking. "Now I pee a fecal urine mix—"

At that moment Sergeant Sgt. Johnson strutted into the room. The Chief dropped his monologue and locked onto the black Sergeant. "Johnson! How's it hanging my man Friday?"

Johnson smiled magnanimously. "Long and brown, baby. What's up?"

"Just telling Gunnery Guns about my ravaged manhood."

Johnson eyed Guns and the pistol in his hand. "Another dang-ass pate popper? Guns, if you keep this shit up you'll be the fifth dead this week! You've really gotta check talking about the situation down there, Chief—it's more real than Reach."

The Chief's chest inflated. "REMEMBER REACH!"

Gunny put down his pistol and opened his eyes. "I'll give life a second chance, but only 'cause you asked so nice, Johnson." He frowned. "Hey—I thought you croaked in the Halo incident."

The Chief spoke for Johnson. "He wasn't dead…just taking a breather."

Gunny shook his head. "Maybe I was thinking of Mendoza. Say, where is that little guy…" He licked his lips, his face gaining a strange aspect. "I'd like to…have a word with him."

"Hell, Mendoza's classified." Johnson grabbed the Chief by the hand and led him towards the elevator.

Guns yelled after them. "Classified, huh? Ye can forget about those XL sized condams you had me pick up at the drugstore! And you can forget about those Malcolm X quotes you wanted scratched on yer shotgun!"

Johnson ignored the man. The Chief let himself be led along, calling over his shoulder to Guns: "I'll finish my story later." He turned to Johnson. "I didn't see Mendoza after Halo…know what happened to him?

"My bad homeslice." Johnson turned his palms out. "This nigga is under orders to keep that on the dl."

The Chief followed Johnson into the elevator. "I should have known never to trust the word of a black devil." He pressed down.

Johnson pressed up. "I'm gonna ignore that, whitey. For your sake."

"It's times like these when I think of Captain Keyes." The Chief sighed as they both looked out the window of the elevator, out onto the small shopping mall that every orbital MAC cannon was fitted with. Idly, he picked out every minority he could find.

"Ya talkin' about bein' a racist honkey, M to the Chief?" Johnson slapped the Spartan's back. "No worries. Sometimes you've gotta take the good with the jacked up."

"Don't touch me, tar baby."

"Hey, okay, okay. Hey, we're gonna meet up with that fine-ass Lieutenant Oreo today, right?" Johnson winked conspiratorially. "I bet that ass-sized-rack will cheer you up!"

The Chief shrugged. "I don't know. Things have been weird between us, lately. Ever since we first met."

Elsewhere…

Tartarus and his Brutes dragged the prisoner onto a ledge in a cavernous cavern of onlookers. It was the hollow center of High Charity. Perhaps a million beings lined the great walls, and they all cheered for blood. The Brutes stood him on a metal platform. All would witness what was about to take place.

The heretic eyed the assembled for a moment, then looked up at Tartarus. "Can't we do this somewhere more private? Like in hell?"

Tartarus grinned and slapped the man's ass. "I like you, boy. What's your name?"

"Cercil," said the prisoner. "Cercil Saltstein. I'd shake your hand, but a gay snowman monkey tied me up."

Tartarus just chuckled. "Wrong answer—you're name's heretic. Just listen to the crowd." They were indeed chanting that word. Tartarus led the chant for a moment and turned back to Cercil. His ursine mouth twisted in pleasure. "They can smell the stench of your fear. And so can I."

"I thought that smell was your comically huge, unwashed, gross dick."

"A little column B. A big column C." Tartarus smirked and beckoned the other Brutes. "Westrain him!" They complied, binding Cercil's hands and feet to some floating metallic bands. Then the bands began to glow, because they were alien technology, and alien technology glows.

"And we just met, too," said Cercil, making the obligatory fearless captive gay joke. Then he added his own clever and witty spin: "So, did your dad name you Snowball or was that something your uncles came up with?"

"Uh oh," said Tartarus. "Looks like we have got a badass over here."

And back with the humans…

The elevator was still climbing, the shopping mall dropping away beneath them. Johnson turned from the window. "So, my nigga in Chief….is it true?"

"Is what true." The Chief stared at his own reflection in the glass—half there and half faded, almost like some sort of metaphor.

"Ya dig to my jive, Chief? Didja busta nut?"

"…No?"

"Fuck you." Johnson punched him in the shoulder, then shook his aching hand. "Is It true that you and Oreo did it when we got back to Earth?"

"Who told you that?"

"Shit. Rumors run fast through a posse. There ain't no virgins in fox holes."

"No one would stay virgin for long in the ghetto, either."

Johnson just glared at him.

"Kidding." The Chief hooked his thumbs through his combat harness and rocked back and forth from his toes to his heels. "You could say me and the Lootenant got to know each other a little better, yeah."

"Oh yeah?" Johnson grinned. "An' how was it, niggs?"

"A gentleman never kisses and tells." The Chief mimed a vigorous thrusting motion. "But I put it in her butt."

Johnson's laughter died in his throat. The Chief turned around to find the elevator door open, Lieutenant Oreo standing before them. She was dressed in women's clothing that was described in unnecessary detail.

Johnson was the first to speak. "Yo shorty, we was just talking about—"

"—the last time I cybered with Cortana," the Chief blurted out.

"Great." Oreo watched them disembark. "Anything else you want to tell me, Chief?"

"I need a father figure."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She pulled the Chief's hand towards the staircase. At the top of the stairs they were stopped: a floating news camera shoved itself into the Chief's face.

"GUILTY SPARK!" The Chief pushed Oreo to the ground and then leapt over her and smashed the floating camera's lens. It blew up. Two young reporters stared in shock at their broken equipment.

Oreo picked herself up and dusted her breasts off. "Oh, uh…sorry. The Chief's a little—"

"OREO I SAVED YOU."

"Differently-abled," she said.

"But-but," one of the anchors sputtered "my camera! My coverage! My job!"

"OH MY GOD OREO LOOK MORE COVENANTS." The Chief moved towards the reporters.

Oreo grabbed his arm. "We should probably go."

Once the normal people had all run away, Johnson came out of the elevator. Then he left the elevator and accompanied the Chief and Oreo down the stairs. "Chief, I thought I told ya to put on some bling or some shit for the ceremony."

The Chief was still shaking with adrenaline. "I don't wear…bling. Or anything besides my armor, ever."

Johnson snorted. "Fuck, not all of us got to be kidnapped as children and taken to an expensive all-white school on a privileged high-income planet with a high standard of living on a military base, mother fucker: stop fucking flauntin' your child soldier privilege."

They stepped off the stairs. Lord Hood and many witnesses were assembled all around the CIC, waiting them.

Oreo bumped Johnson's shoulder. "About the bling, Johnson—I told him not to take your, um, 'advice.' This is the armor that he blew up Halo in. I thought it should be the armor that he receives his medals in."

A new voice cut into their conversation. "Brilliant idea. Except for one tiny problem: you can't pin medals on titanium alloy."

"Cortana!" exclaimed the Chief, rushing past Lord Hood and over to the holographic pedestal by the command consoles. "Long time no see!"

"Hey, Chief," said Cortana from the SPARTAN's crotch level. Her toy-sized hologram was now wearing leather chaps and a rider's cap, complete with a majestic pony tail.

Oreo approached, glaring at the A.I.'s ensemble. "What's with the outfit?"

"Thought I'd dress up for the Chief's big special day," Cortana crooned, toying with the Chief's chin as he knelt before her.

"I'm scared," said the Chief.

"You definitely should be. Controlling this Orbit MAC cannon nearly fulfills my installation long dream of having an enormous dick to penetrate helpless men with—firing superheated shells into the ass ends of femmy Covenant engines comes a close second. To coming in someone's ass."

The Chief made sure he was facing her fully, his butt well hidden. "I hope some dreams were never meant to come true."

"I'll show you a dream come true," said Cortana. She licked her lips.

Johsnon leaned over to Oreo. "Guess they gearin' up fo' round two, shorty!"

On the other side of the galaxy…

Orange light enveloped Cercil. It seared his flesh and dug under his armor. Black husks of metal clattered to the deck along with pieces of his under suit, taking some of his flesh with them. Bare nerves and muscles were exposed to the hungry eyes of the crowd.

"That tickles," said Cercil. Tears of pain were streaming down his face.

"Funny you should say that," Tartarus growled as a gigantic metal dildo rose from the floor. It was easily seven feet long, made of gold, and covered in odd spikes and protrusions with a very sharp tip for prostate stimulation. On the end was a burning orange seal: the Mark of Shame.

Cercil's eyes widened to the size of flying saucers. "Oh my. Is that from your personal collection, Tartanus?"

Tartarus just leered, idly stroking the side of the huge tool. "Strip him."

The brutes obeyed, removing whatever scraps of dignity the alien left. Which was none. Everyone laughed at him.

"Now…turn the heretic around."

"There's really no point to this, you know," said Cercil. "The truth is I don't even have an anus. You should just give up now."

"No anus?" The Brute Chieftain licked his lips. "Hm. Guess we'll have to rectify that."

Okay, that's enough of that.

"I can't believe you're doing this to me," hissed Oreo to the Chief as Lord Hood droned on. They were standing in a line with Johnson and a dozen Marines.

The Chief glanced down at her distractedly, his eyes fixed on Lord Hood's jowls. "Do what?"

"Are you still having horrible depressing cyber-sex with Cortana or not?"

"I knew you were going to complain about that eventually."

"So am I boring to you or something? Is that where we are now?"

"You're sooooo controlling. You're just like Cortana!" The Chief poked Oreo in the tit. "I wish there was a woman just like you, but who didn't bug me all the time. And who had normal boobs. I mean, come on—we get it, Oreo, you've got big boobs—not everyone wants to see that 24/7 okay?"

Oreo angrily pushed one of her breasts aside so that she could see the Chief. "How long has Johnson known that you were still sleeping with Cortana inside your own head?"

"Excuse me." Lord Hood stopped reading from the small post-it taped on a soldier's back. "Can I have your attention, guys?"

The gang managed a few nods and some muttered apologies.

"Thanks. Miranda Keyes, please step forwards."

A woman stepped out of their line from the Chief's right. She was short and thin like a thirteen year old girl but she was definitely eighteen, with pale white skin, dark black hair, and liquid black eyes. Her breasts were of medium size and were easily apparent beneath the detailed and fully described clothing that she wore.

The Chief stared. "Hey Oreo, I didn't know you had a hot twin sister."

"Wait. Neither did I." Oreo just watched in silent perplexity as Lord Hood tried to pin Miranda Keyes's medal on with shaking hands. The large pin accidentally pierced the girl's nipple through her military grays and she let out a gasp, back arching.

"There you go miss," said Lord Hood obliviously. "I would have called you up by your rank and given you a speech, but I don't think anyone knows what you actually do around here."

"No big deal." Miranda sighed, a red spot appearing around the medal. "Thanks, sir."

Cortana's hologram glanced from Miranda to Oreo. "I like the new bitch. She is pretty ugly, though."

Johnson hooked his thumbs through his belt as if anticipating a debriefing. "Speak fo' yoself! Dat beyatch is fine. I wouldn't mind teppen det ess." He bit his lower lip.

"Screw you guys," said Oreo.

Lord Hood raised his voice. "Master Chief Petty Officer 117, please step forwards."

"Oh brother, my full name? Am I in for it now." The Chief walked sulkily up to Lord Hood and took his place beside Miranda.

"Just a sec." Hood began to rummage around inside the medal box. "Uh…this one? No. This one. Or maybe…"

Miranda looked up at the Chief. "Damn. You must be the Chief. You knew my father, right?"

"Call me the Chief. And yeah, he kidnapped me about twenty years ago and gave me to a life of child abuse and violence."

"Hell, I guess that makes you kind of an old geezer to me. And boy do I find older men unbelievably attractive." She winked.

"What?" said the Chief. "Sorry, I was thinking about my tragic past."

"Okay!" Lord Hood snapped up a small sun shaped medal from the box. "We're good to go, guys." He cleared his throat. "It is my honor, Master Chief, to present you with this medal of honor. Your service during the Halo incident in repelling threats both inter-dimensional and extraterrestrial goes above and beyond the call of duty. You have more than earned this thin small piece of tin."

"I appreciate it," said the Chief as the medal was taped to his chest with scotch tape. "But I should also get a medal for being turned into a monster as a child."

"No, Dr. Hastily got a medal for that." Lord Hood turned away. "Next!"

Oreo approached at a strategic angle to avoid spooking the Spartan, who was getting increasingly upset. "Try and go to your happy place, Chief."

"I'm gonna throw this medal in the trash." The Chief's voice rose.

The audience stirred. Someone took a picture and the Chief raised a hand to shield his visor. Oreo patted him on the shoulder, her face a mixture of irritation and concern.

"Well, this ceremony couldn't be going any better," said Lord Hood loudly. He turned to Oreo. "Ah, Lieutenant. It is my honor to present you with this medal of honor. Your service during the Halo incident in repelling threats both inter-dimensional and extraterrestrial goes above and beyond the call of duty."

"Oh. Well, at least my work is being appreciated by someone."

Lord Hood made to pin the medal onto her breast but she waved him off.

"No thanks, Admiral. I'm no hero. Also, I wasn't hoping to get my nipples pierced any time soon."

"Good choice," said Cortana to the room at large. "No reason to draw any more attention to your whore udders."

Oreo shot the Chief a look. "Can't you shut her up?"

Miranda was staring at the Lieutenant's chest. "Wow. Are those natural? I wouldn't mind motor boating you, girl!" She winked at Oreo, who just looked at the girl in disgust.

"What is your deal, anyways?" she asked Miranda.

Lord Hood interrupted their squabbling. "Sergeant Sgt. Avery S. '3rd Street Saints' Johnson, please step forwards."

"Here I be!" The black Sergeant strutted up to Lord Hood, his fatigues hanging so low down as to reveal his long and onyx underwear.

"Looks like the man's going back to black," observed Cortana.

The Chief nodded. "The ancient evil awakes."

"Jesus Christ," said Oreo to the universe at large.

Lord Hood was staring at Johnson. "…Sergeant? Are you alright?"

"Sho' thang homeslice jes' chillin in my digs you dig," exclaimed Johnson, throwing up M side.

Lord Hood threw up 3 side. "Glad to hear it, son. Let's smoke some green later." He opened the medal box. "It is my honor to present you with this medal of honor, you baller mother fucker." He pinned the medal to Johnson's shirt.

Johnson frowned down at it. "The hell is this!? I asked for one in the shape of a 3rd Street clover!" He tore the medal off and threw it to the ground. Lord Hood sighed and knelt to pick it up.

Cortana piped up. "I deserve a medal more than anyone here. Where's my medal?"

"Are we done yet?" asked Oreo, raising her hand.

The Chief raised his hand too. "Can I have my childhood back?"

"Everyone shut up!" Lord Hood took off his hat and revealed his gleaming bald patch of rage. The room went deathly silent. "This isn't your fucking birthday party, okay? This is an award ceremony to show the people on Earth how much we appreciate the troops, and the sacrifice of Commander Keyes!"

Miranda Keyes stopped grabbing a Marine's dick and looked up. "What? It's no prob, gramps. I like men in uniform. So did my dad, actually."

"Oh my god," said the Chief. "I just realized—award ceremony, medals, and I'm the tallest person here…I'm the WOOKIE!"

Elsewhere in space-time…

Cercil Saltstein awoke to Tartarus's hairy ass waving back and forth in front of him. He was being dragged—and not by the gravitational pull of Tartarus's global ass, but by his arms, by two Brutes. Also he was naked. He groaned.

"Ah, you're awake," said Tartarus without looking over his shoulder. He let out a huge fart which he had apparently been saving. It smelled like old lettuce.

"Fuck you," gagged Cercil. Tartarus just laughed. One of the Brutes turned Cercil's head to the side, making him look at one of the cells. A few Jackals were in there doing hardcore prison things.

"My God," said Cercil. "Is he…benching five hundred libbbs, as in pounds?"

"That fate and more awaits you," burbled one of the Brutes, licking his lips. "After the Jackals are done pumping your iron, we shall have first bite of you."

Tartarus spanked the Brute, who giggled. "Don't be silly Cassius—you know he's gonna be all mine."

Cercil listened to this and shuddered. "Damn guys, is it just me or is it really cold in here? My nips are like drill bits."

"So are mine," said Tartarus.

The brutes dragged him into yet another fucking god damn gigantic antechamber, but this time they left Tartarus and the Prophets waiting there to handle Cercil, who was left to stand up on his own. His stance was oddly bow-legged. He was still naked.

"Jiminy quimny," he began "you old taints really like big enormous rooms! Having all this space must remind you of your mothers' donkey-stretched birth canals."

Truth sawed over him. "Where is the Mark of Shame, Tartarus? Did I not tell you to brand him?"

"Heh, he's branded all right," said Tartarus. "Just not anywhere where the sun does shine."

Cercil inserted a finger into his ear and twisted. "I think Bearforce One here gave me heavy metal poisoning."

Truth just stared at Tartarus for a long time. Whether his gaze was infused with rage or eroticism, only an entire desk drawer full of used condoms in High Charity's nastiest anonymous sex dungeon could tell.

"So." Regret carefully changed the direction of the conversation away from Cercil's ass. "I suppose you are wondering why you're here, and why you haven't been staked up in the Halls of High Charity to slowly die?"

"I suppose that you've got something interesting in store for me?" Cercil attempted to light a cigarette and lean casually up against the wall in a show of defiance, but unfortunately there were no walls around so he fell over. There were plenty of cigarettes around, though.

Regret moved forwards. "Do you know where we are?"

"Faggots," said Cercil.

"Try again," said Regret.

Cercil saw the coffins lining the walls, and the big pod that had a sign saying 'Arbiter's Armor' on it. There were a lot of coffins out there, stretching on forever.

"Looks like faggots."

Regret turned to Truth. "Let's kill him."

"No. The Brutes killed and ate all the other Elites that I framed—or rather, that I found guilty."

Tartraus belched his ominous, rumbling laugh. In truth he was passing gas out of both ends of his body, but nobody had ever been able to tell the difference.

"Hmph." Regret turned back to Cercil. "So. What do you actually see, here in the ARBITER'S mausoleum?"

"'Arbies?' Where's the beef, ya sack of baby-dicks?" Cercil winked at Tartarus. Tartarus winked back, but not with his eyes. Cercil paled.

"Y-e-s," picked up Truth as Regret searched for his aspirin. "The Arbiters, indeed. They were created and consumed in times of unprecedented crisis: The Grunt Rebellion; The Hunter Rebellion; The Rebellion Without a Cause."

"Whatcha got?" asked Cercil. "Any…" he waggled his eyebrows. "cigarettes?"

Truth's face looked like a red dwarf star about to implode. "Do—do you know why we have brought you here, to this hall of dead heroes?"

"Faggots."

"No. You are to be the new Arbiter. You will carry out heroic and martyring tasks for me—that is, us—or rather, the Covenant—"

"Uh-huh."

"—until you die, and believe me you will. In a rather sticky, messy way."

Tartarus grinned.

Cercil raised his eyebrows. "The only thing more foreshadowing than that is Tartarus's foreskin."

"Glad you like it," grunted Tartarus.

"Both of you be silent." Truth pointed at Cercil. "When you die you will be interred here in a garbage bag, your honor restored. If you refuse, then you will die now after being further shamed and humiliated."

Cercil covered his mouth in horror. "So, no bagels—no bagels at all?"

Tartarus smirked. "There'll be some doughy bagel holes all right…with chocolate chips."

"Oh god," said Cercil.

Truth's lips curled back on yellowing teeth. "Indeed. We have a special chair in mind for you, abomination…"

"Oh god," said Cercil.

Regret moved forwards once more. "Do you accept the gift that we offer? Your, uh, 'honor' restored, a place in the dimming annals of Elite history secured, and a glorious death provided?"

"What's an Elite?"

"You are. You." Regret looked questioningly at Truth. "…He is, right?" Mercy farted uncertainly and Truth shrugged.

Tartarus looked down his ursine muzzle at the Elite. "And like they said: if you don't accept, then I get you."

Cercil avoided the Brute's gaze. "Fine, I'll be your holy Jihad warrior or whatever—but there better be some clothes involved."

"We'll come to that in a moment," said Regret. "For now…" Truth pressed a button. A hologram of an Eite in strange armor appeared.

"Open your eyes my brothers," said the recording. "Well, I mean, open whatever you use

to see. Open your photo receptors my brothers; our Prophets are liars! And they masturbate—"

Truth deactivated the recording.

"Whoa whoa, what was that last thing he said?" Cercil popped his knuckles. "Gotta know it, for mission intel."

"It was nothing," said Truth and Regret together. Mercy farted nervously.

"Heretics!" Regret burst out. "They would use our awesome technology to broadcast their lies!"

"Yeah, okay, whatever," said Cercil. "So you want me to crash that guys party, pop him, and then murder everyone who was at my trial?"

Truth rolled his eyes. "I did not hear that last one—did you say 'kill me now, I am here, kill me, I want to die?'"

Cercil waved a hand. "Sorry, what I said was 'bring justice to the heretic leader.'"

Truth smirked. "What an odd lapse. It must be my age."

Tartarus leered at Cercil. "I'll show you an odd lapse."

Cercil leered back. "No need, cottage cheese dick—you already backed it up back in that hallway."

Truth pointed to the Arbiter's Armor pod, which was descending slowly to Cercil's side. "Be silent and put the armor on, now. You should be honored that our divine gaze would fall upon your foul body if even for a moment."

Cercil waved his pelvis back and forth. "Glad you guys finally came to that."

Regret pointed to the Arbiter's armor more insistently with his rigid finger. "Go get dressed you cheap slut. The cash is on the table." He and Truth snickered to each other.

"Fuck you guys—I was faking it anyways." Cercil walked over to the armor and examined it. The armor was old, very old, but it shone with a radiant light. The faint shimmer of shielding ran over its plates, and strange engravings covered its breast. Cercil lifted the helmet and set it on his head. He turned to face the Prophets, determination in his eyes, and drew a breath.

"I'm gay," he said, and crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.

And elsewhere in the known universe…

Cortana said: "Sorry to interrupt this tea party," said Cortana HA HA OOPS, "but a bucket load of Covenant ships just spooged all over our defense grid. We've got about five minutes before we all get rammed up the ass with plasma lasers."

"Oh, no, the Covenant finally found Earth," said Oreo hollowly. "I can't believe it…"

The Chief looked around. "Wait, we're near Earth? I thought we were just in space or something."

Lord Hood put his hat back on. "Cortana, activate the MAC cannons and tell them to fire at will. We need shells in the air—I mean, the space. And get the troops ready to repel boarders; we'll need everything we've got defending this grid. If it falls, then Earth does too." He nodded to the Chief. "And somebody get this strapping young soldier a weapon."

"Thanks," said the Chief.

"I meant Miranda Keyes."

"Daddy!" she exclaimed in outrage. "I mean, Uncle Hood!"

"Come on, Chief, we've got work to do," said Cortana. "And possible a news recording to destroy and people to kill."

"I think it was a live broadcast," said Oreo, as if she were about to throw up.

"Thanks for the heads up but I knew that on my own and stuff." The Chief removed Cortana from her holo-pedestal and slid her thick, hard memory drive into his tight, hot usb port. The interface was like a gentle wave of icy needles washing over his skin.

Her voice pricked his brain. "I'm open to a freebie before we go, Chief. But don't talk back to me. Next time you'll pay for your defiance in anal blood."

The Chief clicked his shoulder blades and rolled his neck." Let's hold off on the 'hands free' until I get to go weapons free." He turned to Oreo. "Hey, Betty, I need a weapon."

Oreo glared at him. "I know you're flirting with her in there," she snarled.

"What?" asked the Chief. "Sorry, I wasn't listening. I was thinking about Cortana."

Johnson leaned unsubtly towards the Chief's ear. "Niggs—don't—"

"Get off me." The Chief pushed him away.

They headed down a flight of metal stairs. Oreo gave the Chief a look. "Is all this talk about you and Cortana supposed to make me jealous, or something? Because it really, really doesn't."

"Sure it doesn't, or something," said Cortana.

"I heard that."

"I meant you to. Cuck."

The Chief looked around the lower level of the MAC cannon they had just entered. It was dark and sparse. "I need a weapon, guys. Where're all the power weps?"

"My brother," said Johnson, putting a hand on the Chief's shoulder. "Look not for a weapon; violence only begets violence, which in turn begets violence." He turned his shotgun over and read the quote engraved on the other side. "Also, I have a dream."

"Me too," said the Chief. He tore the medal of honor off and threw it to the floor, then snatched a pistol off the belt of a passing Marine so hard that the Marine's belt was ripped off and his pants flew into the air. The man screamed and began running in circles with his hands stuffed between his legs.

Miranda Keyes sweated over to them, chest heaving, dark circles under her arms and nipples. She winked at the Chief and Oreo simultaneously. "Oooh, looking for tools of the trade, guys? I've got my own bag of tools." She gave the Chief a sly look and laid one hand over his pistol's barrel. "Maybe I can show them to you later, big guy, huh?"

The Chief smirked. "My life is full of sexy ladies. It's like a harem anime."

"Don't steal all the action, homeboi." Johnson smiled suavely at Miranda: "So, white meat," he said, "you ever tried the dark?"

Miranda had already led the Chief over to a rack of weapons in the shadows. "Here Chief! Your gun! It's a slab of steel specially designed to spew hot lead into alien bodies." She winked at him. "Of course, you can spew your hot lead into my alien body with your slab of steel anytime."

The Chief's helmet titled back. "…Well."

"No," said Oreo. "Don't ever do that." She grabbed a shotgun, the most powerful close range weapon humanity had ever produced. "We're dealing with close quarters here, Chief. You want this."

"But the assault rifle is so…" Miranda ran a hand over its curved contours. "Cold." She hissed in pleasure, nails digging into the ridge of the rifle barrel, her eyes half closing. "And it's…firm."

"I'm firm," said Johnson.

The Chief grabbed a rocket launcher. "I'll just use this."

Oreo was dubious, as usual. "Uh, I don't know. That kind of weapon seems kind of dangerous on a space station."

"I love dangerous men," Miranda beamed.

"Oh really?" The Lieutenant touched the butt of her pistol. "So, how do you like dangerous women?"

"Even more."

Oreo's eyes widened.

"I use a shotgun myself," said Johnson, hefting his. He eyed Miranda out of the corner of his eye. "It's long, thick, and black. Just how I like 'em."

Miranda hugged the assault rifle to her breasts. "Whatever, fag. I'll keep this rifle for myself. It's so incredibly cold on my nipples."

Oreo looked over at the rack for a weapon of her own. That is, the weapons rack—there was only one weapon left.

"An SMG, huh?" mused the Chief. "I think that's appropriate because Oreo is pretty intimate with sand already, it makes sense that she'd want to shoot it at people."

Johnson leaned over to Oreo. "He means you got sand in yo' vagina, nigga!"

"Yeah, thanks, I get it."

The debate dropped off, leaving the Chief holding a pistol as before. He waved it at their faces. "Shut up, guys. We need to get out there and kill some heretics!"

Oreo gave Johnson a worried look. "Heretics? Do you know what's he's talking about?"

"No idea, shorty."

And they followed the Chief down the stairs to fight the evil Covenant. Little did they know that the Covenant were not evil, but only poor misguided souls searching for redemption in a tragic and uncaring universe.

War, what is it good for? Absolutely nothin'!