"Gansta-X"

The alien soldier wasn't quite sure what he'd done wrong, but somewhere, something didn't like him. He was on Patrol Duty, which was just another pompous name for "Be Targets for Marine Snipers so We Can Have Fresh Paint on the Hive." The xenomorph had never really known what he'd intended to do with his life, but he'd be dammed if it was to stand around and try and become a Bullet-time alien.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, it was friggin' cold to boot…not that he had any boots, though they'd be a welcome addition to the task. And as for gloves! Well, when they say "One Size Fits All," they obviously didn't take razor-sharp claws into consideration.

"Humans," the alien muttered darkly, summing-up all his hate into one multi-purpose word.

"Huh? Whassat? What was that, Moe my Man?"

And now, the soldier decided, the crap-end of the stick he had been given had just been shat on again by a diarrheic elephant for good measure. Muttering under his breath how he'd dearly love to have a magnet handy right now, the soldier turned to face the oncoming drone. "What is it now, Ji – what in the name of Titanium Dioxide do you think you look like, Jim!"

"You like it, brutha?" the drone purred in a vain effort to be cool as he stood before his superior in a purple fur coat, matching hat with a luminous green feather stuck in it and more chains then the local lavatories.

"Like it? Jim, it looks like you when back in time and killed Huggy Bear for his clothes!" Moe moaned, bringing-up a clawed hand to shield him from the flare of the reflected sunlight that shone from the bling. "How the hell can you stand in all that crap?"

"Hey, this ain't no crap, fool!" the little drone snapped, reaching back to slap the burly soldier, only to be amply reminded that Moe had much more teeth. "Erm, what I mean, is that this may well look like crap to your uneducated eyes –"

"God, you're tripping if you think we all have eyes now," the soldier groaned.

"– But this is really me, in all my glory."

"Jim, get this straight; you're a drone. Care for me to spell that out? D-R-O-O-N. That means you don't ever get any glory." Moe muttered darkly, turning on his heels in a effort to walk away from the embarrassment. The clink-clink-clink close behind told him he was failing. "You know on those army posters our Queen made us advertise, the ones that say "The Hive Army: Crapping on the Little Guy?" Well, you're that little guy."

"Ahh, now that is whack! I ain't no Little Guy…I'm a Bad Ass Mo Fro!" Jim retorted defiantly, "An' I got the threads to prove it, beeyatch!"

"What did you call me?" Moe hissed, spinning back around and bumping into the drone who, under all that metalwork, was like a walking chain-mail suit.

"Yeah, you heard me right, beee-yatch!" Jim snapped loudly, shaking hiss claws until they clicked.

"What did you just call me?" Moe managed to repeat, which was impressive as he had his jaws locked around Jim's head at this point.

"Hey, hey, hey! Don't be trippin', homie! Beeyatch, that means…well, it means you're my main man, fo' sure!"

"Why," Moe muttered reluctantly as he withdrew his fangs, "does it sound like you're just repeating whatever you've read? Or are you getting your, excuse me, 'Gansta Talk,' from somewhere else?"

"GTA, fool…GTA."

"San Andreas…?" the soldier asked wearily.

"Daaaaamn straight! Wass–"

"No! No 'wassup!' No 'wassup' ever, you hear me?" Moe yelled desperately, slamming his hands to where he reasoned his ears should be. "You say 'wassup,' and I swear I'll rip you a new one! What do you intend to do in that get-up, anyway?"

"This ain't no pouncy get-up, fool! This is my P-I-M-P threads, my nizzle!"

"Who and where are you – dear I say it – pimping?"

"Four words, brutha: lady xenos, desperate Marines."

"Banana-shaped brain feeling dirty," Moe shuddered, backing away from the awfully perverted drone. "Must escape…must…go…clean…mind! Yoga, Shiatsu – anything! Just get away from me!"

"It's all cool, man, it's cool…" Jim murmured in his camp gangster voice as the soldier retreated back into the Hive in double-quick time. "Hey! Just so you know, I was gonna cut you in on the game, man!"

"KEEP YOUR FILTHY HOBBY TO YOURSELF, YOU WHACKO!"

"Word…"

There came a pinging noise and Jim the drone stumbled backwards under the impact and surprise. "Man, who be busting caps at me! That ain't right, man!" cupping his hands to his jagged slobbering mouth, Jim turned towards the general direction of the shot and shouted. "Forget the can, cos I'm gonna open a whole damn vat of whupass on the next fool that tries it on wit' me!"

The next shot ricocheted of his dollar-sign chain and nicked his nose, causing the drone to squeak and jump backwards even further.

"Hey, it's cool, man…I'm cool. You can have this turf for now, but when I come back, I'm bringing my homeboys with me, then you are screwed, fools!"

The third shot cut the glowing green feather in his purple cap in half.

"Okay, okay, I'm outta here! Daaaaymm!"