Legs McKinsey and the Great Migration

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Asmodeus, Nov 14, 2014.

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  1. Legs.jpg

    Legs 'Eight-Ball' McKinsey, ace pilot of the West European Battleforce, scuttled into the hangar. It was a very descriptive hangar, and it looked like stuff.

    "Over here, Legs!" shouted his commanding officer, General Thread. "Where's the rest of your squadron?"

    "Not a jot, Old Bean," Legs replied in his hilarious British accent that I'm not being paid enough to depict. "The chaps wanted to make their own damn silly entrances."

    "Ah, very good." The spider general flexed his eight limbs. The sleeves of his uniform were perfectly pressed. Not like Legs though - he wore a leather bomber jacket. Because he was a pilot. And because he was cool.

    "So what's the hullabaloo, Big Chief?" asked our intrepid protagonist.

    "It's the Foreign League, Legs."

    "The Foreign League of Invading Enemy Swine?"

    "Yes, the F.L.I.E.S."

    "Lordie lord!"

    "One joke at a time. Anyway, they've just unleashed the next superweapon in their Great Migration."

    "Those ruddy mashers!"

    "Yes. The Foreign League have redirected the Zytax Comet onto a collision course with planet Earth. Ground Zero will be command center of the West European Battleforce itself."

    "Those swine plan to puncture our W.E.B.!"

    The general unrolled a series of schematics on the briefing table. "We're kitting out the best spacecraft in the Battleforce. They're to be armed with our latest payload: a ballistic incendiary codenamed The Bag."

    Legs shook his head, making his little goggles rattle. "What will those eggheads think of next?! I hope they didn't scratch up old Rosy."

    General Thread glanced at the Rosetta, Legs's famous spacefighter, which will be significantly better than all of the others in this story. "They know better than to mistreat a war hero's wings."

    "So, it'll be the old bombing run on a flying comet routine, eh Chief?"

    "That's right, Legs. We're going to train you in a new technique. The Charizard Manuever. You're going to fly into geosynchronous orbit with the comet and land on its backside. From there you can deploy the Bag and blow that rock to hell."

    "I'd wager those Foreign League ruffians will have a word or two to say about that?" Legs flexed his eight fists. He hated those F.L.I.E.S. - ever since they began their Great Migration into the known galaxy.

    "That's why we're sending a squadron with you. I've assembled a crack team of less humorous and talented sidekicks to make sure you reach the comet in one piece. They should be arriving right now..."

    Legs and General Thread looked towards the hangar door, awaiting the moment when the roleplay would be ruined.
    #1 Asmodeus, Nov 14, 2014
    Last edited: Nov 14, 2014
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  2. The roleplay was ruined very effectively when Jorick, the totally-not-a-self-insert-cool-guy skateboarded into the hangar and did a gnarly skateboard trick with like flips and stuff.

    He wore a leather jacket like Legs, but with only the two arm holes because he was a human instead of a spider because ew spiders. Anyway, his jacket had like spikes and shit on it, because real badasses have silver spikes on their clothes.

    Then Jorick said words in his gruff manly deep gruff macho voice. "Oh hi guys, I'm here for the mission and I'm totally not a Great Migration spy infiltrating your ranks. Let's wreck that super evil Great Migration weapon. Those Great Migration guys, you know, they're the worst. Great Migration Great Migration Great Migration Great Migration Great Migration." He coughed because coughing is the universal way to make it so nobody heard the last few things you said. "Anyway, let's go blow up the bad guy thing or whatever, yay!"

    He did more skateboard tricks while smoking a cigarette because #YOLO.
  3. Legs narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Jorick.

    'Hmm....' he thought to himself.

    'That's not a regulation skateboard.'
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  4. A tall dark stranger walked into the hanger.

    "Out of the way, science coming through!" A physically attractive octopus in a lab coat splorched past, shoving the stranger aside who was really only there to supplement his income between gigs as a pheasant strangulist.

    "Ahem! I'm Dr. Boobenbutt, the brains of this operation!" Dr. Boobenbutt spoke with the speed and ferocity of ten prohibition news reporters. Legs had a difficult time following her. His many eyes fixated on her nametag.

    "Dr. Boobenbutt, eh? Got a first name?"

  5. "WE INTERRUPT THIS DEVELOPING ROMANTIC SUBPLOT FOR A SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT", cries a booming voice from the doors of the extremely well described hanger thing that has some stuff in it.

    Decked out in a futuristic space suit that you can concoct your own fucking description of and a headset (which is also futuristic), a large fish inexplicably wanders over to the assembling team. Inexplicable because the author is lazy (and this shit probably isn't going to last more than a page or two anyway, let's be honest here).


    It's not entirely clear why Warrant Officer Salmon is choosing to yell his job description to the room at large, given that everyone else probably already knows who he is in the context of the story.

    But fuck you. Everyone else was doing it.
  6. Any effort on the part of Legs McKinsey to decipher the strange mutterings of Jorick Alibi (a Hungarian name) was interrupted by two other characters who had implicitly understood the theme.

    "Top of the morning to ya, Doctor Boobenbut." He tipped his fight hat to the octopus. "I hope this Bag of yours has got the grits to make the fat lady sing."

    "Yes, yes." The octo-doc slithered past him and picked up a schematic with each tentacle. "One bag per space fighter. That's the deal. Just don't open the bags before we reach the comet, unless you want a short ride to a long sleep."

    They had chosen the same accents. This was bad. Maybe they could--


    As with so many moments in life, the scene was interrupted by a deaf salmon.

    "Why, if it isn't old Al' Salmon!"

    "IT'S ME - AL' SALMON! The fish approached majestically and knocked Jorick off his skateboard.

    Legs shook him by the flipper. "I heard you were still on assignment in Fishbowl Space."


    General Thread crossed his eight arms and scowled. He hated when references got mixed up. "Alright, gather around, troops."

    Legs scuttled into a chair by the briefing table. Overhead, there was the sound of engines as another wing of fighters launched for space. Those brave men and women of W.E.B., taking the fight to the Great Migrationers. Legs prayed that they would come home safe, to be eaten by their babies.

    "Is this all of you?" asked General Thread.

    "No... there is another..."

    The General looked at Legs, who cleared his throat. "Ahem, yes. Some other filly was asking if she should show up for the briefing. She sent me a message."

    "A message?"


    "She sent you a message asking if she should attend the briefing?"


    "This jump-in briefing that I arranged?"


    "She wants to know if she can jump in to the jump-in?"

    "That's the ticket, Sir."

    "...She sounds like an idiot."

    Doctor Boobenbut had attached herself to Alex and was slowly constricting him.
  7. "I SAY!" the now defined as deaf salmon booms, changing accents for the second time as the octo-doc begins to envelop him, "THIS RATHER REMINDS ME OF THE TIME WE HAD TO TAKE THE FIGHT TO THE /TRADITIONALGUARD/ OF THE 4TH CHAN, LEGS. THAT WAS A RATHER TIGHT SITUATION AS WELL."
  8. "I guess she's not coming, Legs," grunted General Thread.

    Legs McKinsey fingered his flight goggles sadly. His body was slumped and deflated on the chair. "Damn it all, Old Fruit - I know that. Guess I just thought this war still meant something."

    Doctor Boobenbut hadn't spoken in a while and was busy strangling the fish. And that Jorick fellow was making some kind of report on a non-regulation radio - something about Grain Hydration, which seemed to be very funny because he was laughing every few minutes. It seemed that everyone had lost the impetus.

    Legs sighed. "So who else was on the roster, Chief?"

    General Thread crossed his eight arms, which on reflection would make him roll around like a ball. But fuck it. "Has it really come to that, Captain?"

    "Nothing for it, Old Boy. You'll have to read the list aloud or the whole thing's kaput."

    "On your own abdomen be it." The General picked up his clipboard and proceeded to sell out the entire project.

    "Ensigns @scribz , @Razilin , @Hellis , @IceChateau777 , @Torsty , @Arcadia and...er...." The General had neglected to write down the other names of pilots who had seemed slightly engaged when he rambled about the mission in the mess hall last night.

    "HEY COOP!" yelled Alex Salmon from the rubbery folds of his octopus doom. "YOU REALIZE MOST OF THOSE GUYS CAN'T WRITE AND WILL MISUNDERSTAND THE CONCEPT?"

    "We're at war, Al'." Legs cracked his knuckles. "Can't afford to be Nitpicking Nancies when the bacon's in the keyhole."
  9. And then the meteor crashed and killed them all.

    THE END​
  10. Meanwhile, in another location, scribz was going fucking apeshit for taco's.
  11. Unknowledge was proud he had inspired a masterpiece.
  12. Elly The Elephant was walking along the wilderness of the African plains peacefully when he suddenly and drastically turned into a bowl of petunias. No-one knows why. Suddenly, the meteor picked itself up, being a very resilient meteor. As the meteor headed for Africa, the bowl of petunias last thoughts were, "Oh, not again," No-one knows that either
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