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"How long have they been at it?"
"Three and a half hours, General."
"Should I break it and decide for them?"
"No, sir, this is way too amusing."
"One has to accept any and every bit of entertainment one can get in these trying times, I suppose."
"Yes, sir."

An Earthling would be thoroughly amused that even a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, there still has been some kind of variation on 'Rock, Paper, Scissors'.
Watching two clone soldiers trying to decide who gets the first watch using this game, would certainly prove even more interesting.

The man was sweating profusely. This was far from his usual duties, but he was the only one at hand with any medical knowledge whatsoever. The pregnant woman lying on the table screamed as another wave of pain coursed through her body.

The mother's swollen belly suddenly exploded in a shower of gore as...something tore its way out.
Tentacles lashed around.
"Congratulations, it's a...Chaos Spawn?"

Khris, Herald of Khorne, let out a frustrated "NOT AGAIN!" that made the World Eaters' Apothecary's skull explode.
But he wouldn't give up. He would have a Daemon Prince son, no matter what.

He woke up in pain. It wasn't for the first time. Pain was his constant companion in the mornings or whatever time he regained consciousness after another mushroom-fuelled debauchery. He and the female from the adjoining tree often sought the psychedelic experience brought by those tasty, white-speckled red mushrooms. But when the excess becomes norm, the only solution for a mind firmly embedded in the domain of hedonism is to seek more extreme excess.
Time to assess the damage.
There's nothing in the world that could describe the sound of a squirrel realising their partner chewed on the wrong nuts.

One brought beer.
Another two brought a variety of snacks.
Another would later order pizza, following a lengthy argument about toppings.
One brought a beautiful set of miniaatures.
Another brought an evergrowing folder full of notes, plans and outlines.
They all brought pen and paper.
They all brought dice.
They all brought good mood.
And for one Sunday, just like every week, they became knights, wizards, rogues and all kinds of things they were not.
And on Monday morning, bleary-eyed, half-asleep, they all got in their cars and re-entered their dull everyday existence, carried by daydreams of their next session.

Amanda got woken up by a bussing sound. She could swear she also heard muffled giggling. The sound came from the room where Mark, her husband's brother, crashed after celebrating...something.
She found her daughter in the hallway, suspiciously quiet and putting on her best 'innocent' face.
"Katie, what did you do?"
"Nothing, Mummy!"
Amanda just stared.
"okay, okay! But I did it for Daddy!"
Amanda kept staring.
"Weeeeell you know how Uncle Mark always makes fun of Daddy's hair? He says his head looks like an egg!"
"Yes?"
"I borrowed Daddy's shaving thingy and now they both look alike!"

When he saw the target in the sights of his Vintorez, he realised the truth in those sayings about blood turning to ice in veins.
Had he been just an observer, he would have chuckled at the situation. It was straight out of a film. Lovers on opposite sides, tasked to kill each other. In a film, they would have teamed up against their masters, earning their happily ever after.
But the orders were clear.
Steady arms.
Breathe out.
Clack.
He didn't miss.
Eyes stared blankly forward as his arms moved seemingly on their own, turning the gun around.
Clack.

The camera's flash conjured a glare on the victim's bald head. The medical examiner turned to the inspector, who was frowning at the dead man's ID.
"Preliminary cause of death, strangulation. Judging by the marks, it was done by a rope made out of extremely thin strands. Why that sour face, Jack?"
"You see, Doc, he had a new ID made today, and look at this."
The coroner looked at said document and made a double take.
"Holy Billy Ray Cyrus, that hair's distilled eighties! Could it be relevant to the case?"
In the shadows, something indubitably hairy skittered away.

A heavy-looking piece of equipment flew through a glass door, shattering it to tiny shards.
"Liars! Fucking liars!"
A kick to a desk flipped it, sending small instruments and tablets flying all over.
"You said you'd still be there when I get back!"
A fist hit a bulkhead several times, leaving red smears on the metallic surface.
"You said you'd still be there. You promised."
The voice now sounded quiet, fragile.
"I should have known you would lie to me, just like you always have."
Red-rimmed eyes stared at the screen, reading the words CRYOGENIC UNIT FAILURE over and over.

The sun kissed my cheek one last time like a lover promising to be back tomorrow as I stepped among the trees. Soon, the mist rose and wrapped around my shoulders like an ex who refuses to acknowledge it's over. From the shadows and places unseen, creatures big and small started adding their voices to the cacophonic choir of the night. Minute after minute, step by step, time crawled like a...

The clerk finished reading the report and filed it with the others.
"You may be just a night watchman on a banana plantation, Harry, but you do dream big."

Once upon a time we thrived, when the world was filled with magic. But men and women had replaced us with new gods they created, willingly enslaved and chained their minds, killed us, killed each other in the name of the false gods, their own creation. They have forgotten us, and we faded into mere stories. My brothers and sisters, the dragons, were the last to fade away, hidden.
I am the last of the last, the last dragon. I did not hide. I planted the seeds of imagination in curious minds. I slept for eons, waiting.

It's harvest time.

Jednotka se připravovala k přesunu na východ.
"Wernere," oslovil mladého poručíka velitel eskadry, "zaleť s touhle depeší do Abbeville. Vezmi si Bückera, Messerschmitty už jsou zabalené na převoz."
Se zmíněným cvičným dvouplošníkem kdosi kdysi přilétl, a stroj už u eskadry zůstal.
Dva mechanici se povalovali na trávě a pozorovali jeho odlet.
"Ty, Heinrichu, kdy jsme naposled dělali údržbu na tý stojednatřicítce?"
"Ani ti nevím, Hansi. Ale to bude v pohodě, co se na tom může potentovat?"
O půl hodiny později, vysoko v oblacích, se náhle ozval ošklivý zvuk a z dvouplošníku byl rázem jednoplošník.
"Ah fick mich, nicht schon wieder..."

Party byla v plném proudu.
"Tys je vážně všechny sežral?"
A opravdu, talíř, kde se ještě před půl hodinou tyčil menší kopec Klářiných pirožků, teď zel prázdnotou.
Pavel se zatvářil provinile.
"No nikdo se do nich neměl, tak jsem si vzal jeden, druhej, a najednou došly."
Tomáš, původce dotazu, jen pokynul Pavlovi směrem na balkón.
Když byli oba stranou hluku, Tomáš se zeptal:
"Poslyš, tobě vážně chutnaly?"
"Jo."
"A...je ti dobře?"
"Jo."
"No díky bohu. Klára totiž děsně špatně vaří, ale kdyby si nikdo nebral, tak by s ní nebylo k vydržení."
Pavel pokrčil rameny. Omylem ohleduplnost, taky ohleduplnost.

Even though she was born Black, there were some things Narcissa refused to do, so Lucius had to seek extramarital aid.
Clad only in a dragonhide harness, stretched on a rack face-down, he looked longingly over his shoulder at the figure in black brandishing a cat o' nine tails.
"Oh, I've been so bad. Please, please, punish me! Torture me! Give me the pain I need!"
His bare buttocks quivered in anticipation.
Then a single word utterly ruined what promised to be a splendid evening.
In a high, cruel, cold voice, eerily reminiscent of the Dark Lord, Dobby said:
"No."

"Man, this stuff's so good. Where do they get it?"
The two petty thieves sat in a properly shady inn and feasted on an extra large pineapple pizza.
"Don't take my word for it, but I heard this place is backed by the Resistance itself. Scratching each other's back, you know."
"Sounds right. I think I recognise the bloke in the corner. They say three inquisitors came for him and he just popped them, one shot each."
"That guy? I heard he lured the top Inquisition agent to a warehouse and blew her up."
"The things they do for pineapple..."

The Pánico was a hundred feet below the surface, on the way to Nares Plain for an exercise, when the order arrived.
"Captain, we have a telegraph."
Eduardo Calamaro, the commanding officer of the submarine, took the strip of paper. He paled and his eyes threatened to pop out.
"With all due respect, did anyone tell our beloved Presidente how babies are made?" He passed the paper to the XO, who began reading loud.
"To help our declining birth rate, all members of the military are to engage in coitus every day, effective immediately."
"I'm down," piped up one ensign.

The two sailors were basking in the sun at the stern of the Dakka, anchored in the Bay Of Guinea Pigs.
"Say, Santana, when you wanna say never and you don't wanna say when the hell freezes over, is it when pigs dance?"
"Fly, Muñoz."
"Shit. We're gonna invent something new."
"Why?"
"Cerdogrande from the Pánico got transferred to the Air Force, and he had his first solo flight yesterday."
"Ah, so one flew at least. How did it go?"
"Wrecked the plane, but got out fine. No dancing though."
"Ah, that's still improvement over the last one they had."

Next!
Sorry, we only hire full-time, and we wouldn't be able to hire the entire team. I dig the van, though.
Next!
I know it's your name, but kindly get the hell out of here and don't forget the stupid razor hat.
Next!
Sorry, but turns out that sometimes size does matter, and you're, frankly, an ant. Nice bow tie there. Stylish.
Next!
No, no, no, no, just no! Get out! We don't need wanton destruction, Japanese puns, gorillas and penis jokes! Remember the last time you applied? Our damage control team still has nightmares about it! GET. OUT.
Next!

"There better be a good explanation, Major Gaviota."
The commander of the Santa Banana Air Force, and currently its only member, nervously looked at the president and then his eyes rested on the mound of dirt in front of him.
"Yes, there is, Presidente. I took Lieutenant Sabueso up in Veronica..."
"Veronica?"
"Yessir, our Tiger Moth. I don't know who named it but it stuck."
"Continue."
"And he forgot to fasten his seatbelt and fell out ouf the plane. He made quite a crater when he fell so we just buried him right there. Why waste a perfectly good hole?"

Captain Calamaro of the submarine Pánico was enjoying his nap on the top of the vessel's command tower when the telephone rang.
"Admiral Marinero here. Pedro, can you explain to me why you requisitioned a third shipment of gas mask filters this month? There is no war or emergency. How do you go through so many?"
"You see, sir, it's Ensign Cerdogrande. When he eats beans, it's a disaster. Last time, Lieutenant Espadarte had to be hospitalised, he didn't put his mask on fast enough."
"Say, Pedro, has it ever occurred to you to have him transferred off the boat?"
"..."

Screw Wagner and the Valkyries. This is the real music. The concert starts with the wail of oncoming jet engines. The Thunderchiefs drop their load. As they pass, the strident roar of their engine exhausts merges with the deep roar of burning napalm.
Whistling artillery shells open the second movement. Percussion section gets the spotlights as explosions punctuate the shell whistles.
Rotor blades announce the third act, as the helicopters arrive. The Hydra rockets join the percussion and bring in a different beat.
The final act culminates with machine gun staccato, as the choppers fly by.
The concert of destruction.

El Presidente's afternoon nap on the balcony overseeing the Bay of Guinea Pigs was interrupted by machine gun fire. He grabbed his phone.
"Aguado here. Yes, Presidente, that's the Dakka firing. Apparently, Ensign Muñoz is hunting dragons."
"What?"
"The cocaine merchant gave us free samples of something called magic strips with the last batch. We tested one on Santana. He was fine at first, we gave another to Muñoz. Now Santana's threatening anyone who tries to get Muñoz off the machine guns."
"PRESIDENTE, THEY'RE COMING FOR YOU!" screamed Muñoz.
Mendoza had to dive for cover as bullets peppered the balcony.

Letos nevím, jestli to dotáhnu do konce. Těšil jsem se na DMD jako Welšan na vypuštění ovcí na pastvu, měl jsem energii, chuť, všechno. Ale vůle se mi nějak roztříštila, najednou zas všechno nechávám na poslední chvíli, jako to dělám s prací a povinnostmi. Neúpím pro téma, nezaraduju se, když mi téma padne do noty, nenadávám, když nepadne. Píšu víceméně BJB, lidem se líbí, co mně se nelíbí a někdy se i stydím, že něco určitého napíšu. A to jsem tu jen druhou sezónou.
Poraďte mi, veteráni, jak zrekonstruovat rozbitou chuť psát, jak dosáhnout toho, aby to zase byla zábava?