A Council of War

Put your game faces on imaginary ladies and gentlemen. Its time to get serious. Its business time. The massive chamber wherein my audiences are usually held has been converted. A colossal table replete with tactical readouts and other vaguely military terms fills the center of the room. I, somewhat dumpy and looking out-of-place in my gross gym clothes, sit at the head of the table.

In times of old, I gathered unto myself a council of war to deal with crises and days wherein I had much to accomplish. It was a means of procrastination and venting of frustration. Well today is no different. An array of vaguely menacing figures stand gathered around the table, the usual crowd of imaginary figures skulking in the shadows. For today Named men and women join me to aid in my calculations and to scare me into staying productive.

I look to my left at the massive power-armored figure.

“Frostius.” The massive primarch nods causing flour to cascade down from his armor and face, making a thorough mess of his immediate vicinity.

“Go bake some cakes. We’re in for a long day.”

He opens his mouth and spits out a massive gob of frosting. He makes the old imperial salute and shouts, “Cake for the Cake God!”

I shoo him away and he disappears off to the bakery and out of my hair. I then swivel my chair to the right and come face to face with my ex-Sister of Battle PA, Badass McAwesomesauce.

“Right. Get the agenda. What’s on the list?”

She scowls for a minute (I’m probably not showing enough obeisance to the Emperor or something inane) before responding, “Aye, my lord. Gym?”

I shudder at memories of pain and torture best left unwritten and nod.

“You have an application due to send out.”

Oh yes. That. I must finish it, in the Emperor’s name. Step two and the most important thing on my list. I shall speak no more on it for fear it ends in ignominy and shame. Plus I like adding an artificial air of mystery to all my deeds.

I motion for the scowling, yet beguiling figure, of my PA to move on.

“Next work on that book thing you’re writing. You know, write down that scene you were thinking of this morning.”

Egads! I must write that down before it disappears into the mists of memory. This morning I thought of an entirely new scene for my little pet project (the beginnings of which are viewable in my writing sample section, entitled the Dreaming Dead). This time, instead of words, I received flashes of images. I need to flesh those out and make them into an easily consumable chunk of words.

The doors at the end of the hall burst open. A massive man steps through and stomps into the chamber. I recognize the figure, one of my cohorts, Alpharius.

“You have news?”

He stares me straight in the eye and says, “I am Alpharius.”

Git.

I scowl and quickly cover it with an indulgent smile. “Yes, yes of course you are Alpharius. Now go away. I have work to do.”

The rude interruption finished, I recover my composure by swiveling my chair in circles for a bit whilst shouting “Whee!”

My PA interposes her massive boot, stopping me in mid spin. I sway dizzily.

“That’s all on the agenda today. May we go now?”

“Indeed it is and indeed you may. Bandmaster, play me out.”

The Bandmaster, Horus Lupercal, reaches into a pocket and pulls out a kazoo and begins the opening notes to the triumphant Captain of Chickens March in F Major. 

 

 


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