A flippant injection of humour...

[2.71828]

The Emperor arrived on Horus’s battle-barge in a clatter of disorganisation and was to find himself sandwiched head-first between several custodian guards, most of whom had somehow managed to wedge their armour and weaponry together in a similar vein to an over-complicated game of ker-plunk.

 

“This is most undignified!” - the emperor uttered though clenched teeth, his gold-plated runic legs kicking the air in an attempt to balance on his forearms. Unpicking themselves carefully, the custodians slid their pole arms away one by one, until His Grace was lowered carefully to the floor and quickly and reverently righted, hair plastered to his face.

Looking about him, mankind’s master noted that his two loyal Primarchs, Sanguinius and Rogal Dorn, had not appeared on ship with him, as neither had a number of his guards.

 

-Back on Terra, Sanguinius was standing at a large refrigeration unit, the door slightly ajar and his wings arched behind him to obscure the view of any observer who might attempt to witness his activities.

Sanguinius! Bellowed Rogal Dorn. We must accompany our Lord urgently! A heavy gauntlet fell on Sanguinuse’s shoulder, causing him to reflexively turn. Tomato juice trickled down his chin as a torn carton was wrenched from his hand. ‘Not again!’ Dorn cried.

 

Aboard the vengeful spirit, the small party of custodians searched for the two Primarchs (the Emperor was at the back pretending to being doing something useful). “It seems that they failed to valmorphesise, my Lord.” ‘Yes’, the emperor agreed. ‘It would appear that Horus has grown more powerful than I had anticipated’...A deep voice piped up from the back: ‘or the valmoriphication unit has packed-in again’... ‘Yes, yes, well; we’re here now – let us find the heretic and be done with it’. The New Man strode purposefully forward, through corridors decked in dissent and resembling a corrupt and awe-inspiring amalgamation between the gungy decor of ‘it’s a knock-out’ and the oppressive and winding structure of ‘fort Bouyard’. “This ship is twisted with the warping powers of chaos!” A custodian whispered frantically.

Cliff Richard songs grotesquely penetrated the psyches of the party, echoing into the plenum of the subconscious and violating sanity which at this trying time, was meagre and sacred...

 

Some were driven insane, subjected all too long to the torturous muzak that irritatingly confined the thoughts to a claustrophobic array of musically synchronised head nods and knee-jerks...Great troughs of feted puce gunge were empted from the pinnacles of doorways as spiked carwash rollers sprung from walls - the custodians diminished in number, some clutching their heads, spinning in distress; others taken directly into darkness by the pursuing servants of chaos.

 

Breaching a corridor, the small party of men piled into a spacious chamber. The Emperor and his custodians rapidly scanned the room – in one corner sat a solitary fondue-set, complete with packaged pink and white marshmallows which appeared to have been unopened. The next crevice housed a half-played game of connect-four and from what could be noted, an espresso machine, it’s little red light flickering ominously with each tremble of the vast ship.

 

Lobotomised hordes of chaos lurched out at the valiant men!; and in a fray of Burberry and cartilage, the custodians overcame the rushing menace and the line was held long enough for the master of mankind to spring free towards the command deck of the ship.

‘Go great Emperor, find Horus, deliver us from chaos!!’ With those words, the last custodian fell, his injuries too severe for any desire of life. The tourmentous form of Simon Cowel had leapt forth and consumed him with a blazon assault on the integrity of his performance and personal character...”A custodian guard! You call yourself a custodian guard!? I’ve seen better performances from security at my local shopping centre!” At that instance the custodian was diminished into a white powder where only a smoking pair of power-boots remained...

 

Only the Emperor found his way to Horus, who stood tall and triumphant; his terminator armour gleamed and mirrored the inevitable promise of doom which was so ardently carved into his face, his expression strained, probably due to a two-hundred year compacted colon.

Most striking however, was not the menace that the Warmaster projected, but in-fact the hood of the Terminator armour, which resembled a 1970’s fire-place with brass filigree edging and what appeared to be a spiked grate which housed a warm red glow emanating from within.

Then the Warmaster spoke, his bum-chin jutted out arrogantly as he clenched his power claw into a slow, furious gesture. “Now you see what I have done with him!?” The Warmaster gloated, indicating aloft.

The great angel Primarch Sanguinius, was strapped to a rigid metal pole, illuminated by little white lights and hung lifeless and splayed atop a large coniferous tree, in the pose of the imperial eagle, his great presence now diminished to that of taxidermided adornment. Not far from this wretched scene, stood another notable object; a large computer-aided sound system that was playing dramatic choral organ music.

 

The Emperor approached the tree and hung his head –‘ why?’...he uttered barely audibly. ‘It feeds my sense of self-importance.’ Horus admitted, referring to the stereo. ‘As for Sanguinius, I offered him everything...power, glory – free dental...and still he refused to join me...at least this way, I can keep him in my sight!!’

Horus’s crass laughter rang out, in que with the dramatic flair, impressioned upon the listener by the music.

‘And you, father, instead of binding chaos to your will you have merely perturbed it! You have fritted away dominion like confetti at a political rally, credits at a used car garage, like electricity on a two-bar heater! Your only redemption now is if you bow down before me!!’ The mortified God responded with defiance: “My son, you speak of Chaos as if it were a desirable force of nature, to be tamed and utilized, no...Chaos brought us nothing but disaster...the millennium dome, Kate Moss and that strange spongy stuff found only in pot noodles...but I see now that you have peed in the swimming pool of purity, you have eaten the fondant yet left the sponge, you have failed to replace the sanitary tissue of cleansing...”

“You heathen-God! Horus interrupted; – ‘look upon your archangel and weep, it may be your last chance, for now I will take the galaxy for my own and purge it of your folly!”

 

The Warmaster leapt forward and delivered a swift punt square in the Emperor’s divine jaw...His greatness retaliated with a psychic blast that filled the air with the smell of a thousand photo-copiers and the blinding contrast of an Pixar movie. “Beloved Horus, you are tainted like the album-cover of a boy-band, you fill my veins with poison and yet, you remain still my son; if we are to surrender our fates to this phenomenal and symbolic battle, then answer me this; what was the manner of Sanguinius’s death?”

 

It so happened that Sanguinius had boldly weakened Horus’s armour by dislodging the evil-eye emblazoned on his breast-plate. Reaching inside whilst locked in mortal-combat, Sanguinius groped for the Warmaster’s nipples and with a torque powerful enough to shame a Porsche 968, twisted in focused rage. Energy streamed from the warp and crackled between the two demi-Gods, until Sanguinius lost his footing on a loose conglomeration of yellow and black-striped hazard tape which had been used to mark out the upper deck and several bulkheads but had since worn away... Seeing his opportunity, the Warmaster adopted a sumo-stance – one fitting of terminator armour - and squat-sat on the poor Primarch, who writhed uncontrollably until his last breath was choked from him...

 

“I strangled the life from him...and as you can see – he stood not a chance against marmite!...Might – I meant- my might...” The Warmaster turned towards the great Perspex dome that sat at the bow of the barge, the red ember underlight from his armoured-hearth, hiding his embarrassment.

Raising his mighty claw, he positioned it in front of the distant form of Terra and grasped...the troubled planet hung in the balance, flashes of explosions were highlighted in its atmosphere so that it appeared as a cheerfully optimistic disco-decoration imprisoned naively within the nightclub of despair...

 

Seeing an opportunity to lay the smack-down on his bad-boy, the Emperor took this brief opening to manifest a large, wet seabass out of the aether; and swinging the fish towards the Warmaster’s cheek like a East-German competing at the Olympic hammer-throw, attacked his son with the combined fervour of a Spartan on a stag-night and a televangelist appealing for cash. The first swing was mighty but missed as Horus limbo’ed backwards under it! The second swing was not so favourable for the Warmaster however – and in the vein of a devoted swing-ball player, the Emperor of Mankind uppercut the fish in a figure-of-eight... Time decelerated as the aquatic animal came into contact with the Warmaster’s face – displacing his expression like a lop-sided Picasso. Horus span on his heel and reeled backwards, falling ungracefully into a group of spectating noise marines, who were jerking out Eurovision song contest hits from their shoulder-mounted ghetto-blasters. It was at the moment that the Emperor almost bent double, dropping the fish and steeling himself against a surge in the warp, as a demonic ring of power encircled both Horus and himself - mustered by the might of chaos undivided!!

 

It was then that Horus charged; the Emperor’s gaudy gold armour was cloven apart by a thundering chest-kick delivered directly from the Warmaster’s frustrated psyche. Horus’s grand mace soon followed and the Emperor was sent flying through a foam bulkhead which had been thinly stylized to look like stone. Little polystyrene S-shapes littered the floor. ”Steel, ceramite and adamantium didn’t pass the health and safety, so we had these soft polymer partitions fitted instead” – an observing chaos marine casually explained to a fellow demonic spectator. Both onlookers were clouted by the Emperor’s flaming-sword as he swung it behind him in an attempt to keep his balance. Horus’s bold head gleamed excessively and he leapt forth, bellowing like an irate high-school gym instructor. Dignity aside, Horus snorted, grappled with his nemesis, and wrapping his father in a tight headlock, began smearing the magnificent face of the incarnate deity into the large gelatinous belly of a plague-daemon that closely resembled Gordon Brown.

Arms flailing in a frantic struggle, the God-Emperor summoned a sturdy frying-pan and detaching the cod-piece of the Warmaster’s armour, panged Horus in the crotch with a pile-driving corkscrew move that would shame a Shaolin master.

The Emperor bestrode Horus with a regal posture, drew in a deep breath of defiance, straightened his laurels, and raising his frying pan, aimed a blow with which he disarmed the Warmaster of his mace in a single oscillating side-stroke. An incandescence illuminated the room.. it was probably due to the fact that the emperor was standing beneath one of those triple-base kitchen lights the battle-barge seemed to favour, and that his armour created the aura. The surrounding crowd began chanting and roaring with the excitement and anticipation of a gladiatorial arena.

 

At that instant, a solitary custodian sprinted into the room to behold the epic scene. Distracted, the Master of Mankind bowed his head in acknowledgement of the dutiful guard. Astonished at the humility of the galaxy’s rightful leader, the custodian stumbled backward but two steps into the breastplate of Horus who had risen slowly behind him. The Warmaster grabbed the custodian in his power claw and rent his armour, laughing manically before idly tossing the guard’s limp body to the floor. All fell silent. The Emperor’s narrowed eyes met with Horus’s wide and crazed gaze and each opponent began to slowly spiral toward the other. Suddenly both combatants charged for the other and leaping into the air, delivered a simultaneous clothes-line. The collision produced a devastating shock-wave of psychic energy that bowled-over the gathered audience and knocked the rivals apart. Recovering quickly, both gained ground again and found their weapons; Horus, his poison-pronged battle mace and the Emperor, his flaming runic power-sword.

Clashing with exaggerated and obtuse glory, the battle resumed. Between blows, His Divinity searched for the body of the custodian, but it was not immediately obvious – had the hounds of chaos devoured it so quickly?

 

A war-cry rang out and the custodian, battle-beaten but alive, lunged into the fray between Horus and the Emperor. Such a misjudgement caused the fanatical but incompetent guard to trip over the electrical cable for the nearby tree-lights, which ravelled about him as he performed a violent but nevertheless well-executed glittering pirouette. The resultant force sent the custodian reeling into the large conifer, which had until that moment, been serving as Sanguinius’s undignified perch. Pine needles dispersed in all directions as the tree toppled to the floor, rolling rapidly toward Horus and knocking his feet from under him. The God-Emperor lunged for the Warmaster in righteous judgment but Horus anticipated his father’s intentions and had been holding back a large branch which he released, thwacking the Emperor in the teeth and knocking him to the ground. Time again, both combatants had been disarmed and in keener recognition of this, Horus gleefully manifested the espresso-machine of the yonder corridor, and unhesitatingly, hurled hot, foamy coffee at the Emperor, who, with nimble wrist, deflected the worst of the seething black death of Nescafe with his non-stick frying-pan. The foul liquid glided off the Teflon surface and cascaded to the floor, baying for steaming retribution!!

 

The surrounding minions of chaos began mocking the tiring Emperor, throwing streaming rolls of toilet paper and pieces of rubble into the ring. Horus was aided by the use of a ladder which a chaos marine had handed to him and with which he drove down the Emperor’s back as he began to get up. The custodian however, was not finished and wrenching an arm free from the tangle of branches and wiring, grasped a fold-up chair, and threw it to the Emperor who then span around, aiming for Horus’s knees. The Warmaster jumped and delivered a suplex-power-slam combo that shattered both the emperor’s shoulder and his will. Ladder and chair locked in immovable stalemate, the Emperor bleeding and groaning, toilet tissue ravelled about his weapon and trailing from his arm...Horus bearing down- his crushing psychic presence in constant assault of His Grace’s will. The Emperor fought back, realising that his precious scion-son had been overcome by the taint of an addiction to White-Lightning, Pease-pudding and Mills & Boon novels...he was truly lost to chaos and only the greatest and purest triumph of the Emperor’s will could cleanse such corruption.

 

The champion of Mankind let go of his chair and with a swift manoeuvre, vaulted from the Warmaster’s pin-hold. Standing once more, the Emperor looked at the dying custodian and the mangled body of the angel Sanguinius – both of whom gave him the surge he needed to attend to the regrettable task...

In a final breath the custodian guard mumbled - ”your belt my Lord...Use your b...” before finally surrendering to death, his head lulling to his side. “Viscous detergent...the only thing that can defeat a Terminator!”

 

Briskly, the master of mankind whipped out a white tubular bottle featuring the green outline of a skull blowing bubbles. Horus’s expression changed from outrage to confusion, as his feet were covered in a translucent green liquid. “Found it in the crew-room, added it to my utility belt when Sanguinius forewarned my need of it.” The liquid eventually spurted in a zig-zag motion across the floor before the last of it oozed out, slowly sinking into a capillary action under Horus’s boots - the container was cast aside.

 

“Your meek and petty reluctance to face me father, has only lead to your demise. You shall be consumed within my wrath, never again to espouse your meaningless and empty ideals.” Horus strode forward confidently – “The battle for Terra is as good as won and I, the victor.” With that the Warmaster took another cocky step, the green goo seeping down his boots, its fragrant apple and jasmine aroma delicately caressing his olfactory organs.

Suddenly (and rather predictably), the Warmaster was flung backward, as if by an invisible force, and landed squarely on his buttocks with a humiliating thud. Horus attempted to stand, but like a Saturday night reveller on the streets of Nottingham, his efforts were thwarted by a combination of uncontrolled aggression and spurious remarks. Limbs splaying to and fro, Horus wriggled his hips along the floor towards the nearest bulkhead where he attempted to right himself. Frantically grabbing at the flaking polystyrene with his power-claw, the Warmaster became increasingly immersed in the slippery detergent, until he began rolling across the deck, white bobbles and dust sticking to his amour...

Eventually, having lost all illusion of sanity, Horus lurched forth and grabbed hold of the divine Emperor’s injured shoulder, sinking his power claw deep into the chest and summoning an apocalyptic psychic assault composed of clips of the crazy frog music video and Day time television... The mortal-God was at last, crippled. Knowing that it was now or never, the Emperor amplified the entirety of his sacred will which coursed through Horus in a torrent of awakening. Having known the perilous agony he inflicted on his brethren and the treachery with which he had burdened his father, Horus experienced a single moment of redemption and with the shedding of a solitary tear, his destruction was complete. The Warmaster’s body lay incinerated inside his dark gothic armour which was emitting a gentle grey vapour...

 

 

Meanwhile, Rogal Dorn had been struggling through the lower decks of the battle barge and had come up against massive chaotic resistance – his weakness – chocolate fondue - had presented an unexpected challenge and he lingered to play connect four with a squig who had previously docked from a passing space-hulk. The white-haired Primarch might have arrived a little sooner if he’d realised the vengeful spirit possessed a multi-level lift...

 

Bursting onto the scene with a group of custodian guards, Rogal Dorn stopped sharply and surveyed the carnage. He let out a startled choke as he saw Sanguinius folded helplessly between the branches of a large tree and threw himself towards the Emperor upon viewing the dying God.

Turning his head weakly, Mankind’s master looked at his loyal Primarchs and then to the loo roll which remained sprawled about him like pink tagliatelle. A realisation had dawned, symbolic of the new era mankind was about to enter. Rogal Dorn, held up one of the toilet rolls inquisitively “...the golden throne.” Groaned the Emperor.

 

The divine Lord now resides bound to the great plastic-riveted, hose-piped machinery of the throne of gold, held together delicately by spit, tin-foil and sticky-back plastic...and maintained by transhumanist geeks who like to call themselves ‘mechanicus’.

 

Will the Imperium of man survive long enough to endure the onslaught of chaos? Nay, a new evil is forthcoming, an evil by the name of A’badd’on – not his actual name you understand – but rather, a name given to him by his mother to describe his frequent poor behaviour...

[Taranis]

That certainly brought a smile on my face. In the dark grim future there is also good fun. :D

[Lenios]

Brilliant, but, could be better with the addition of Khorne Flakes :devil:

[DarkSavage]

Very funny, keep up the good work sir!

[Ufthak]

Laughed my ARSE off with that one :huh:

[2.71828]

The visage of the Emperor: Some show him a bit gaunt featured like Schwarzenegger in 'Conan the Barbarian', others show him to be more Mesopotamian looking/Anatolian, with a broad full face. What do you think?

What of his personality?

 

Here is my two-pennies worth!

 

It’s all well and good talking about the Emperor as he is now - all corpsed up – but what was the master of mankind actually like before the heresy?

It was well known that he was able to disguise himself in a way that made him unassuming, although he did like to pick his nose when he thought no one was looking. He also liked to attend the same restaurant, a Terran chain dealing mainly in spicy chicken, very frequently. A popular but underground argument is that the Emperor’s power is in question because he failed to foresee the events leading to the great betrayal, etc. First things first. These nay-sayers didn’t know anything about the Emperor’s personality. The Emperor (blessed be he of holy Terra) was an easily distracted creature and a little forgetful – it is inevitable that such high intelligence would almost demand eccentricity and it could be said that he paid for his fascination with sequins and buttons, dearly. Secondly, being a psyker is exhausting. Imagine being tied to a sweaty leatherette sofa and being made to watch TV constantly as someone continually channel-surfs. Everyone needs to unwind just as everyone gets distracted...he is 'daddy space marine' after all.

 

This renegade Bodhisattva was compassionate only in so much that he wanted to avoid the closed time-like curve his presence in the warp had created, otherwise he'd have been happy to ascend away from all that unorganised stupidity. Even the Orks had organised stupidity, which made them somewhat of a success...the Emperor had to do all of the leg-work, dragging the reluctant carcass of humanity all the way...

 

It is often mentioned that the Emperor is a giant among men and this is true, but only when he’s wearing his power armour – otherwise he’s about 5”6 and a half. He bites his fingernails and sucks his hair – sometimes. It is said that the Emperor had many children – these were his affectionate term for his science books, not the sensei. He likes his feet massaged and will pester Malcador to oblige, whilst making dolphin-like clicking noises of delight. Despite his power sword, Aurora, bringer of the dawn, being a risk level one fire hazard, he sleeps with it under his bed and doesn’t like the dark. Like everyone else with long hair, he leaves a dark mass in the plughole of the shower cubicle and malts over everything.

 

No, his pee doesn’t have gold glitter in it. Yes, he can be regal and holds soft yet patrician features with high yet broad cheeks, bowed lips and a gentle gaze – providing he’s eaten before 10:00 am; actually it’s more like puppy-eyes because he’s usually after the sugared-almonds Malcador possesses. As long as our divine Lord stays still and doesn’t say anything his grace can be overwhelming; sunlight is reflected off his face with a purity of essence that makes the surrounding air seem like honey – that is until he makes the sound of a rampant Geiger-counter which immediately breaks the spell of awe... It is fair to say that some dignity can be regained from the fact he looks so innocent.

He can go from big friendly giant to titanic psycho in 1.8 seconds if he hears a bad word about the great enlightener, Richard Dawkins...