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Creepy Sghetti.

I don't like writer's block, I prefer to call it writer's parry.

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There are some games that I wish I could live in, just for the beautiful scenery that I'd never tire of.

 

 

Oh, and because of the ease of money gathering...

Don't insult me. I have trained professionals to do that.

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I seem to subconsciously love broken glass. -.- both feet are bandaged since last week and now my thumb.

 

Please, god, no more glass....

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Please, god, no more glass....

Don't go to the beach... It's made of unrefined glass.

Don't insult me. I have trained professionals to do that.

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Please, god, no more glass....

Don't go to the beach... It's made of unrefined glass.

 

At least it doesn't cut me....

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Please, god, no more glass....

Don't go to the beach... It's made of unrefined glass.

At least it doesn't cut me....

Ever heard of 'chafing'?

Don't insult me. I have trained professionals to do that.

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Ever heard of 'chafing'?

I can handle a little chafing. It's the bandage worthy variety I'm worried about.

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Be careful, broken bottles are always hidden shallowly in the sand on beaches.

Don't insult me. I have trained professionals to do that.

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Ice is forming on the tips of my wings

Unheeded warnings, I thought I'd thought of everything

No navigator to find my way home

Unladened, empty and turned to stone

The soul intention is learning to fly

Condition grounded but determined to try

God keep my eyes from the circling skies

Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit

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Acerrimus ex omnibus nostris sensibus est sensus videndi. Magna res est vocis et silenti temperamentum. Respice post te, mortalum te esse memento.

I don't like writer's block, I prefer to call it writer's parry.

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Spectemur agendo.

 

@blightmare: Icwutudidthar.

I don't like writer's block, I prefer to call it writer's parry.

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'Twas the night before 986996.M41, and all through the station

All there was clear, there was no abomination.

 

My helmet was set on the desk to my right,

On the chance that I was to need it that night.

 

The guardsmen were ensconced, asleep in their beds,

All the tanks too were safe, secure in the sheds.

 

Marines in the barracks, some manning the wall,

Assured me that the bastion never would fall.

 

When out in the yard there arose such discord

I grabbed up my bolter and unsheathed my sword.

 

Away to the window, I ran to take aim

As the marines around me all did the same.

 

My bionic eye turned the night into day

Allowed me to see, and to seek out my prey.

 

When what did my loyalist ocular show,

But an ancient conveyance, knee-deep in the snow.

 

The vehicle was pulled by horned quadrupeds

And a fiery red nimbus glowed from the sled.

 

The driver was mighty, his eyes full of scorn,

Dressed all in crimson like a servant of Khorne.

 

I gestured for other to shoot without pause,

For I was now certain this was Santa Claus.

 

"Fire Marines! Fire Guardsmen! Fire Ogryn and Ratlings!

Fire bolters! Fire lasguns! Fire mortars and gatlings!"

 

"You in the courtyard and you men on the walls!

Now blast away! Blast away! Blast away all!"

 

But all through this maelstrom the evil one flew,

Past plasma and bolt shells and frag that we threw!

 

And then, to my horror, I heard on the roof

The vile cavorting of each decadent hoof.

 

Screaming my orders, I spun quickly around,

As down the chimney shaft it came with a bound.

 

I saw its eyes glow, its vast stomach gurgle,

Bloated and fat, like a deamon of Nurgle.

 

Blinded by anger, I attacked with a scream -

Charged into battle with my brave space marines.

 

As we thundered towards him, closing the rift,

He reached in his satchel and pulled out a gift.

 

Then it tossed the vile boxes - I fell in a stoop,

As they arced through the air at me and my troops.

 

The wrapped missiles fell short, and plopped at our feet,

Our morale was quite strong, we did not retreat.

 

But the marines paused - our charge was disrupted,

They picked up the gifts and were quickly corrupted.

 

For each box contained a chaotic present -

The marines (damn their souls), found them quite pleasant.

 

A bolter, a flamer, a new power fist,

The Claus gave to all, and he checked off a list.

 

It moved through the station and left in its wake,

The sound of bright laughter and the stench of fruitcake.

 

The others succumbed, but it failed in its goal,

For to me it gave only a small pile of coal.

 

The station was lost, I could only instruct

The bastion computer to set self-destruct.

 

I failed to kill him, for I saw as I fled,

The target escaping, quite safe in his sled.

 

I heard it cry out as the base burst into light,

"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

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1/2 strength Gatorade + Vodka... Not a good mix...

Don't insult me. I have trained professionals to do that.

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