Random talks with friends at 2 a.m. in the frigging morning lead to this. By the way, I don't, in any way, own Halo, the Master Chief, or any related characters/items/etc--those belong to the good blokes at Bungie. All that aside, please enjoy.
----------------

He suddenly became aware that he wasn't where he was supposed to be.

Eyes still closed, Master Chief felt around himself, but all he could grasp was that he was face-down in a patch of grass. Real helpful. He tried to open his eyes and immediately squeezed them shut. There was this insane, throbbing pain in the back of his head. Moving seemed impossible, and breathing was out of the question. A quick search in his mind for answers turned up blank.

What... the hell happened? was all that he could come up with. He continued to feel around his surroundings, and grasped a load of vodka bottles. Oh... right...

Finally, the Chief managed to force his eyelids open. Through his visor, which automatically adjusted to the 12 a.m. dark, he saw Sergeant Johnson propped up against a tree, covered in mustard... and pants down. There was a stereo next to him with "It's Raining Men" playing too loudly. Master Chief quickly averted his eyes to the right. Cortana, in full body form, slept on her side while clutching a mutated cyborg bunny as if it were her long lost lover. The other Marines were laying around–most of them had flowers drawn on their asses, but some were sucking on Johnson's head in their sleep. It wasn't a pretty sight.

I don't want to know how that happened, Chief thought painfully. The throbbing grew worse. He attempted to pick himself up off the ground but failed and rolled over, flailing, like a one-legged possum. And wouldn't you know it, there was a group of fifteen Elites standing over him. They all gasped. "THE DEMON HAS AWAKENED!" Then, they began to poke him with sporks.

"Agh! Why must you poke me with sporks!And how did you get those, anyways?" asked the Chief. One of them jumped back. "OMGZ IT TALKS!" it squealed. The other Elites followed the pattern, and the squeal spread like a wave. Master Chief winced. This didn't look too good for him.

"It is the one we've been waiting for! The holy crusade has begun! Come, brothers!" bellowed another alien by the name of 'Vasumee.. The Elites stood there, staring. One of them shrugged and smacked the Chief over the head with his spork, somehow knocking him out. So much for advanced armor.

He woke once again, but this time he was tied to a post in the middle of a large clearing. Flaming ponies stood around him, somehow not responding to the fire consuming them. The Chief wondered yet again just how the Elites obtained those ponies. Just then, 'Vasumee, sporting a long, black robe, stepped out of the bushes and cried, "The sacrifice is prepared! Let the ritual begin!"

One of his "brothers" poked his head out of the bushes and asked skeptically, "You're sure the sacrifice is a virgin, right?"

"Yes, Betty. It is."

"Okay, I'm just asking, because last time you..."

"DAMMIT BETTY! Just get the others out here!"

The one called Betty shrunk back into the shadows. A moment later, the clearing exploded with numerous Elites, all of them wearing the same black coat. They circled each-other and danced a strange Irish jig, then collected themselves and took their respected places around the post. Master Chief heaved a sigh. He knew this was going to be painful.

"The planets are aligned, and the time is right," began 'Vasumee. "Now is when we must celebrate our differences from other warriors." He paused, his eyes gleaming as he smiled harshly at Master Chief. "COMMENCE THE ... uhh... the..."

"The pow-wow!" another Elite cried.

"NO! The... ritual... thing. If I hear another word about pow-wows from you, Michael, I'll..."

The one called Michael burst into tears. His surrounding Elites comforted him and shot accusing glares at 'Vasumee. 'Vasumee, in return, made this noise that sounded like a cow giving birth to the cthulu. "Oh, my Prophet. To be cursed with such imbeciles... shit, let's just START already!" 'Vasumee roared.

The Elites composed themselves and took their places once again. As they fumbled with their robes, Master Chief felt a lump rising in his throat. Being called a "sacrifice" didn't sound like his idea of fun. He found himself saying, "Hey, umm, maybe we can work this out. If you guys let me go, I can give you a trip to...uhhh.. Florida! Yeah, where those sharks eat all the old people? It's a really nice–AUGHHH!"

The Chief had made his offer too late. The Elites cast off their robes... and every single one wore pink, frilly panties stretched tight across their crotchal area. And, happy to obey his gag reflex, Master Chief barfed all over the place–exempting the fact that his helmet was sealed on his head, so vomit stained the visor, making it impossible to see. He sighed gratefully. The stench was worth it.

"Activating cleanup.exe," chimed a mechanical voice inside his helmet. And, unfortunately for him, little windshield wipers appeared and cleaned the chunks of nutrient packs away.

"CRAP! Don't do that!" the Chief screamed at nothing in particular. Lysol emitted from the side of the helmet, spraying a lemony-fresh scent that leaves your vomit smelling oh-so-good.

Just as he regain his vision, the Elites boarded the flaming ponies (still existent) and jumped on them as if they were playing Dance Dance Revolution at the local arcade, depleting the last of the Chief's sanity (non-existent). All of the Elites laughed and squealed like little schoolgirls.

The Chief flailed, but he couldn't break free of the flimsy ropes that bound him to the post. Damn, he thought. Wasting my fricking life away in Spartan School for this.

It was going to be a long night.