Some forest, soon-to-be-conquered,
Germanic Tribal Lands
Excuse me. Hold your horses,
sheath your blades, and give me
a god damned minute. I'm strategizing.
Now, If you don't mind, I
shall now champion this crusade
with verve, gusto, and panache
as its unrealistically brave,
wickedly brilliant, war-general. In
the process, your respect for me
must double, nay, it must become
at least...at least, three times
larger! After that, as I confidently
and effortlessly organize the well-executed battle from the
very front of the front lines, we shall be so devastatingly
victorious that our enemies will each die a thousand
deaths (on average), trembling in fear at even the faint
sound of our encroaching war-stallion's noble hoof steps.
And don't forget, the lead general of our badly dressed,
stereotypically bearded, Germanic-pagan bastard foes is
mine. You will conveniently clear an arrow-free, non-spikyball-and-chain-swinging path of glory between us so we
can meet freely, and without delay, in a centrally located
circular clearing, ringed by the still-steaming bodies of the
fallen.
Then with a sequence of painfully predictable fight moves,
I shall first be slightly injured, blood drawn from, say, my
left forearm, as my arch-villain's poorly crafted demonsaber
strikes first. Following this, as I nearly escape death
between five and seven times by blocking, ducking, rolling,
or cleverly using an enemy carcass as a shield, I shall
overcome insurmountable odds, shatter my nemesis'
sword with my battle-axe, wound him fatally with a lung
puncture from my trusted fighting lance, and summarily
behead him with a majestic parallel strike from my impeccably
sharp - and remarkably lightweight - twin
broadswords.
Back-of-DVD writer
rumored shot in
back-of-head.
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Then, as I triumphantly hold the detached, bloody, head of
my bizzarro barbarian counterpart, reveling in the eerily
encompassing slow-mo and fittingly
emotive, wonderfully composed,
orchestral piece, you will know
once and for all, and throughout
the ages to come, that I alone (my
fifty-thousand men aside), have
laid waste to hellish armies,
brought a hard-fought peace to this
troubled, Wintery land, and will
now return peacefully to my family
farm to plant crops, raise my son
as a strong - yet compassionate -
warrior, and have fantastic sex with
my wife - provided, of course, that
I am not Shanghaied into a forced
political execution/escape/exile by the soon-to-be-assassinated
emperor's hell-bent, power-hungry, son as the first
major plot point.
But until then, tonight, in our makeshift camp of temporary
war-tents, we shall celebrate mightily with food, drink, and
our fill of soon-to-be-delivered cartloads of opium and
pleasure harems. Casually clean the blood from your
weapons with semi-damp cloth, keep the Roman ale flowing,
and bring me your finest meats and cheeses! Now
dammit!
HSP