OH YEAH by Richard Karsmakers and Stefan Posthuma
Now don't start thinking that this is a game review, for it is
none, not even by the distance of a very lengthy long shot.
What it is, then?
Well, this is a vague attempt at making this issue worth while
collecting anyway - a new novella featuring good ol' Cronos
Warchild. You can call it 'a refreshing breath of absurdism in
sad times' or you can call it 'a cheap way of making something
Call it whatever you like. We just felt a familiar trembling
trickle down our spines and, after long times of interpreting,
recognized the feeling as that of 'us wanting to write'.
So we guess that's what you'll be looking at if you don't press
Whistling some kind of tune between his teeth, the man put the
pedal to the metal and had his car disappear from the fuel
station in a cloud of dust and dead ants.
Would a camera have been aimed at this fuel station, it would
have displayed the slow appearance of the somewhat puzzled form
of its mid-forty boss, straining to grasp something as the dust
settled down around him.
He wasn't puzzled at the enormous amount of dead ants in the
car's tracks, nor was he wondering about what the hell he was
supposed to do with 9,000 Thanatopian credits.
He was wondering why that dude had just filled up his Pontiac
Trans Am with brown beer.
So was someone dressed in white, who then disappeared, too.
The shopkeeper had looked at Warchild with an incredulous look
in his eyes, fingering a half opened drawer for a weapon of some
kind - for you could never know.
"But, mister," the incredulously looking man had continued,
"arms's my business, ya know. I wouldn't wanna go sellin' booze
when people a' wantin' arms, ya know. I'd be rippin' me own..."
Warchild had cut the man short with a panuniversal sign of his
"I WANT BROWN BEER."
Warchild had repeated his demand with a kind of particular
'something' in his voice. A 'something' that would have neatly
fitted on someone like the grim reaper.
"Mind ya, mister, I would be sellin' ya beer if I had any, ya
know. But I haven't gottit. Itsa simple as tha'".
He had tried to sound as if he still has confidence in himself,
but he had seemed to fail somewhere. He had almost started to
believe that he was lying.
"I WANT BROWN BEER."
Though it had sounded identical to Warchild's previous demand in
even its tiniest aspects, the shopkeeper hadn't quite thought so.
And the poor man had definitely believed he was lying now.
"Okay, okay, mister," the man had said with trembling voice and
sweat appearing on his forehead, "I'll be bringin' ya a nice cool
beer right away, mister!"
He had turned around and disappeared behind a door which had
been labeled "Private".
Cronos had scanned the shop. Quite some interesting gear had
been stacked on the shelves, which would no doubt have enhanced
his chances of surviving the intricate enemy activities in the
fourth tourist world.
If he would have wanted to buy any of them, he would have had to
pay excessive amounts of Thanatopian credits.
Apart from him, there had only been one other customer at the
shop. Someone dressed in white, carefully examining a display of
After about two minutes, the shopkeeper had returned from behind
the door labeled "Private" with what had seemed to look like some
kind of tube.
A tube which had looked a bit like some kind of post-modern
piece of space-age weaponry aimed at the mercenary annex hired
gun. And that appearance had not really pleased him.
Not at all.
With a rather tricky move, Warchild had made the shopkeeper sink
on the floor like a Gorbolax - and a very weak one at that.
First note: In general, people think that there is only ONE
universe. As a matter of fact, this is a grotesque misconception,
for there are NONE.
Well, anyway, there will be none very shortly.
Nobody knows this, but on a far away planet there are creatures
who are at this moment creating a kind of bomb the likes of which
the universe has never seen before - and will never see again,
These creatures are called Gorbolaxes, and are actually a kind
of amoebas - just a bit bigger. They have no internal nor
external skeleton and therefore move in a very....urm...floppy
End of first note.
But still, Cronos hadn't got what he wanted.
Neither had he found it when he had headed back from the Fourth
Tourist world to Earth.
So when he visited the gas station and found a fridge full of
it, he handed the guy behind the counter enough credits to buy
the entire gas station - providing Thanatopian had any more value
than monopoly money on this planet. He also found some gas by the
But since he was trained to fight, and not to think he absent-
mindedly put the beer in his car and drank the petrol, much to
the amazement of an old man who just happened to be sitting in a
rocking-chair on the porch, watching the ants fullfilling their
daily ritual of slaughtering enormous amounts of other ants in
the eternal battle of the scarce picnic leftovers. The only thing
Warchild noticed about this was the unusual foam coming out of
the nuzzle of his car's gas tank (and out of his ears, quite
So now he stood there. In the middle of nowhere.
Maybe, 'nowhere' was actually a bit of an exaggeration, but it
definitely doesn't fall into the confinements of this article's
boundaries to discuss whether thousand square miles of bare
desert sand (with a sand dune here and there) can be described as
'nowhere' or not.
The car had seemed to run smoothly for just about as much time
as was necessary to get him PRECISELY in the middle of this thing
called 'nowhere' and had then quite spontaneously ceased to
operate in an enormous belch of fumes and a disgusting smell of
rancid Brown Beer.
After he had let the synonym of an animal's solid excrements
pass his lips a great many times, he decided to get out of his
burning excuse for a Pontiac.
Just at about that moment, a guy wearing a small, dark, flat hat
with a ridiculous small erect thingy on top of it, holding a
bottle of red wine and a lengthily shaped loaf of bread, barged
into the scene.
Second note: It is impossible to explain where this strange chap
came from, and therefore both authors refrain from doing so.
End of second note.
"Excusez moi?" the strange chap seemed to inquire.
"? Whatthe.... ?"
Completely baffled to an extend Cronos had never before imagined
possible (well, it was universally known that the mercenary
annex hired gun HAD a somewhat limited imagination - hence), he
looked around, carefully scanning the surrounding for someone
that might be jamming his newly acquired hearing aid.
He failed to see anything but enormous loads of sand grains
spread around him on an area which he quickly estimated to be
986.54 square miles in size.
And the somewhat strange chap, of course.
"Est'ce que je aider vous?" the strange chap inquired further.
Warchild was now sure that no one could possibly be jamming his
hearing aid and that could only mean one thing.
He was being insulted in the rudest way someone from Sucatraps
could possibly be insulted.
And, with a short shock that lasted at least several scores of
nanoseconds, he saw that the lengthily shaped thing the strange
chap held under his arm looked pretty much like a tube that had
been shoved under his nose only recently.
So he did what he was trained for to do in dangerous situations
such as this one.
Only to be accompanied by the sound of several millions of air
molecules being savagely torn from each other, his fist rocketed
through the air, impacting the strange chap with a rather
unhealthy speed at a rather unhealthy spot.
About a quarter of an hour later, a deafening 'boom' followed by
a softer 'thud' was to be heard by the gas station owner, who was
now discussing red ant picnic scavenging war strategics with the
old man, after which they looked at the approximate centre of
986.54 square miles of sand grains with slightly puzzled looks.
Note three: Please excuse the authors of this crappy novella for
their blatant lack of French grammatics. Due to circumstances
that fall beyond the confinements of this article's boundaries to
explain, they both flunked this subject at Highschool and thus
don't know any better.
Except maybe for the "Voulez vous couchez avec moi ce soire"
they both proudly use every time they see someone wearing a
small, dark, flat hat with a ridiculous small erect thingy on top
of it, holding a bottle of red wine and a lengthily shaped loaf
of bread - preferably when it happens to be a female specimen.
End of third note.
Cronos decided not to hang around at the scene any longer. The
desert vultures where already noticing a heavily mutilated body
in the middle of the sand grains and were displaying a growing
rate of interest for it.
Since he hated all birds of prey (particularly vultures), he
started on a brisk trot - thereby savagely splattering some ants
who were carrying picnic remnants with a triumphant look on their
little faces that they were to take to the Eternal Honeyjar.
Fourth note: Recent research by reknown biologists (as well as
annihilatologists) has revealed that ants believe that the world
evolves around them and that they spend their afterlives in the
holy and indeed incredibly sweet and plentiful Eternal Honeyjar
which floats amidst the remnants of the Great Picnic at the start
of their World, with scores of decaying animal remains nearby to
munch on (or to go to on posthumous honeymoons).
It is quite a well known fact that, each year, more people who
happen to enjoy a picnic get shocked by the ritual suicide of
enormous hordes of ants who hurl themselves into each and every
End of fourth note.
Warchild had hated vultures ever since this mess with the Golden
Eagle. He had hated every single flying object, actually,
resulting in him spranging his left little toe whilst knocking a
Thanatopian Megafreighter out of space on the Third Tourist
Fifth note: These Thanatopians actually disappeared into a black
hole, and emerged in another Universe - out of a white hole
(which won't surprise anyone).
They are now revered as Gods in this entire Universe and are
quite happy, actually. The Devil in this universe is a rather
abstract shape, squarely built with a rather quadrangular head
and long sideburns.
End of fifth note.
Sixth note: With regard to the fifth note: Discard the First
End of Sixth Note.
He had once been dropped into a nest filled with some rather
inquisitive Eagle juviniles and an enormous load of their
excrements. He considered the stench hanging there to be the most
severe of its kind ANYWHERE in the known universe (nor in the
Seventh note: There WAS actually a smell in the universe that
was so bad that the planet on which it occured, Multifizzic
Omega, actually only supported lifeforms without even as much as
a rudimentary nasal organ - but since the mercenary annex hired
gun was trained to fight rather than the think (or memorize) he
had actually forgotten.
End of seventh note.
Thus had he learned to hate everything which flew, including
He had walked through the seemingly endless desert for a whole
lot of hours when he felt a strangely nauseating feeling in his
At about that same time, from the shimmering air above the hot
load of sand grains came a shape.
"Do you see those bilds, Sjau Long?" the shape said.
The voice wasn't meant to be heard by Warchild. Instead, a
reaction came from a second shape that now appeared slowly above
"Yes, honoled mastel! What ale they? Alen't those vultules?"
this other shape now replied.
Some music now also sounded across the many millions of billions
of sand grains. It sounded like some kind of Oriental folk music,
and the lyrics seemed to go like this:
Blackened is the nonwolthy end
Wintel it will send
Thlowing each nonwolthy thing we see
Into unhonolable obsculity
Then, it seemed to be cut off abruptly - as if the tape had been
hewn in two by the mighty lash of a Samurai swold (er...sword).
"See what I will do with those vultules, noble applentice!" the
first shape now said. It started to make strange movements, not
wholly unlike those made by someone dangling at the end of a ten
foot rope without any ground support.
A shining piece of metal could be seen to be thrown in the air
by the shape, slicing the genitals off one of the more eager
vultures circling in the air above it.
The second shape waited several seconds, and then exclaimed:
"All nice and well, noble mastel, I tlust that vultule will
nevel have sex again, but I guess we will not be having soft
vultule feathel filled cushions to sleep on tonight either, will
"I guess we won't," the first shape said.
Cronos looked at the shapes in bewildered puzzlement, and after
loads of long thinking (I suppose you know now how hard this is
for him, since he was trained to.....well, you know it by now) a
reluctant remembrance shuddered his consciousness.
That was Ninja Master Hang Foy Soozooki, the guy who had taught
him the move that was purely designed to completely obliterate
any bone structure present in any living creature!
Staggering and licking his dried out, crusted lips, he stumbled
slowly towards Hang Foy Soozooki and his servant annex
apprentice, Sjau Long.
These were now engaged in a tea ceremony of enormous complexity,
involving the burning of sand grains, the inserting of precise
quantities of honey in tea mugs, the purging of some dried out
leaves in water, and the fencing off of a couple of hundred
frantically fanatic ants that seemed to have millions of
perfectly valid reasons to hurl themselves into the honey jar the
Ninja Master had taken out of his rucksack.
Needless to say, each and every ant trying to do so was sent
back home without the ability to multiply itself.
"Moo Moo Moomoomooo..." Warchild tried to cry in some kind of
Eighth note: It is actually quite difficult to pronounce a name
in a very happy voice when your lips are about to fall off and
your mouth feels like you've just orally vacuumcleaned the south-
east corner of the Mogabi desert (which is a particularly dry and
End of eighth note.
Whilst trying to cry out the Master's name, the mercenary annex
hired gun dashed (or, rather, clumsily crawled) forward.
Neither Hang Foy nor Sjau actually seemed to find it necessary
to notice him, and quietly proceeded burning grains, inserting
honey, purging leaves and performing mass-micro-surgery.
"Water. Please." Cronos said weakly.
Sjau Long now seemed to notice him.
"Water?" he looked at Warchild with the same kind of look that
had occupied the face of the mercenary annex hired gun before -
one of puzzled bewilderment, that is.
"Water. Please." Cronos repeated, even more weakly.
"Oh! Watel!?", Sjau Long now enthused.
There was now nothing left in Cronos' voice besides weakness.
The servant annex apprentice took an enormous jug in which there
must have been gallons and gallons of crisp, clear and cool
water. He poured it gently over Warchild's dried out head, lips
The fata morgana disappeared, and Cronos only felt the harsh and
bitter taste of a relatively minor quantity of sand grains in his
mouth as he fell face down into the desert.
It felt to him as if someone was pouring down his aching
throat each and every sand grain present in a massive 986.54
square miles of desert.
He decided it might be a wise idea to faint.
So he did.
The spiralling feeling of plunging into endless voids ceased
only then when he impacted something that was quite awkward to
impact. Instead of being nastily solid and quite splattering
(like say a circus tent floor), it was very soft, and liquidish.
Cronos opened his mouth to scream in agony, only to have it
filled with a large amount of the liquid, which tasted very
sweet, and indeed very familiar, but he couldn't quite place it
Nor could he even pretend to like the fact that this liquid, no
matter how good it tasted, obstructed his breathing in a rather
efficient way, and he also didn't like the slow sinking feeling
he was experiencing. It made him want to be a Magogrux once
Taking each and every muscle in his body to the very limits of
its capabilities, he struggled to stay alive. When he opened his
eyes and looked through the thin layer of the thickish fluid on
them, he was disgusted to notice that a couple of rather large
ants were at the verge up jumping in the fluid, too.
Were they really wearing little sandals?
They made a sound that could not be mistaken for anything else
rather than.....chanting, really.
One after the other, the ants started plumeting themselves into
the mass of soft, sweet, thick fluid - in a vortex of many times
six huge insect paws.
Now, there were hundreds of 'em.
He tried to scream once more.
His mouth got filled with the soft, sweet fluid as well as
several dozens of ants.
He decided not to scream anymore, and instead just tried to
Which turned out to be hard, as his nasal openings were
cluttered with ants, too.
"Cronos! Cronos" he seemed to hear. The voice floated like a
mist would float over the endless marshes of Spargoflactic
Ninth note: Many light years from Earth (or even from
Sucatraps), there is a planet called Spargoflactic Yllozud. It is
by all means quite a small planetoid, but its marshes are of
quite gigantic proportions - many scientists believe that a
freakout in the space/time continuum has actually resulted in
them being ENDLESS.
Not the kind of marsh you would be happily flollopping around in
if you were called Zem.
Also not the kind of marsh where you would like to be part of
the expedition that has been travelling for 37 generations to
that 'nice looking patch of hill on yonder horizon'.
End of ninth note.
As the ants absorbed him, Warchild made some rather spastic
And suddenly he was floating through a kind of rotating warp
tunnel that provided his retina with more different colours to
absorb and interpret than the black eye of a stained Frenchman
lying despirited somewhere in the centre of 986.54 square miles
of desert sand.
He felt giddy with vertigo, and tried to grab hold of something.
Unfortunately, there was nothing to get hold of.
With what seemed to Warchild like a deafening 'thud', he landed
on the floor of what, after a couple of seconds' examination,
turned out to be some kind of bar.
Lefty was behind the bar serving a drink. The girl sitting next
to him wasn't extremely pretty, but she sure had some legs down
there. Cronos was a bit surprised by all this, since nobody
seemed to notice his sudden appearance. After a few moments, a
man in some ridiculous white clothes came out of the toilet,
carrying a remote control and a red rose. He walked towards the
bar and ordered a drink.
"Hiya", the man said to Cronos.
"Larry Laffer is the name, you look kinda strange", he said.
Cronos considered his next move. The man didn't seem a threat in
any way so he quickly discarded the thought of smacking the
pathetic jerk's face.
But he did notice a faul odour arising from the smooth jerk's
"Hey. Your mouth smells like the inside of a motorman's glove,"
a voice said.
Cronos looked around him in....well....puzzled bewilderment. Or
shall we say 'bewildered puzzlement'? Yes. Good idea.
"WHAT WAS THAT?" the mercenary annex hired gun inquired.
"Oh, really, that's nothing out of the ordinary," the slick jerk
explained, "It's just good ol' Al giving me some advise. He tends
to do that now and again."
With a slightly embarassed look, he produced a small spray
bottle from the inside pocket of his incredibly ill-fitted silk
suit and used the contents on his oral opening.
"It sure was about time, Larry," the voice rounded off.
Warchild looked around him again, instantly reaching for one of
his recently acquired killer gadgets. When he found it, it turned
out to be all sticky with honey or something like that.
"Cronos! Cronos!" another voice yelled.
The jerk now also looked around him. That surely wasn't good ol'
Al's voice; it was a voice that would have made the sound of
Jessica Rabbit seem like that of an eighty-year-old-Napalm-Death-
crying-grandmother in comparison. Not heeding it, the smooth jerk
went off to the toilet, where Warchild's super hearing (aid)
noticed him talking to a bozo about roses, and afterwards
There was one other, rather interesting, door on the ground
floor of the establishment. It looked quite sturdy and there was
a small peephole in it.
After walking towards it, the mercenary annex hired gun knocked
on it - accidentally knocking the door completely off its hinges.
Behind it, a rather fat pimp was watching a sleazy adult movie
("John & Marsha take a Bath"), who suddenly wore a somewhat
frightened expression upon beholding the rather square silhouette
in the door opening.
"Er...shouldn't you just say 'Ken sent me' or something?" the
fat man ventured in a quite unusually subtle way.
Warchild was planning extensive apologies, but "GRMPF," was all
he found necessary to pronounce.
"Er...yeah. Er....if you wanna, you can go upstairs and...er...
have your pipes cleaned...er....if you get my drift..." the pimp
Cronos' facial expression told quite clearly that he didn't know
nothin' about no driftin' - nor did he know anything about
cleanin' (provided one wasn't talking about toilets on
So he walked passed the abashed man who was very wise and
decided to continue watching the sleazy movie.
"Have a nice lay," the pimp habitually muttered.
Upon arriving upstairs, Cronos saw a rather tarty girl lying on
a small bed. She was reading the printout of some kind of cheap
disk magazine and was apparently enthralled by the adventures of
one of the characters occurring in the introductory novella.
"He walked towards the bed, wondering what the rather tarty girl
might be reading in such an unusually enthralled way," the girl
read aloud to herself, "and he wandered why she read aloud. Then
the girl looked up and saw him standing - her squarely built
Adonis, her hero of all quests...."
The girl looked up from her reading, and saw Cronos standing.
Her eyes opened wildly, not entirely grasping what was
happening. She read the next line of the printout aloud.
"She arose from the bed, screaming widly about male potency,
enormous muscles, square built and a desire of fourteen hours of
passionate sexual intercourse."
Instinctively, the mercenary annex hired gun quickly looked
around him. What to do now?
As the girl was getting up from the bed, licking her lips and
taking off her clothes, he spotted some pills in the window
frame, mistaking them for the explosive eggs of the
Taroglyphoxian killer wale.
He made a run for what he considered to be his only means of
saving his life without getting dirty hands (and without getting
some kind of somewhat transferable disease).
The momentum of his fear combined with her passion, however,
caused him to actually jump THROUGH the window.
A rather unattractive garbage container with a rather callous
hammer in it was coming near to him in a fashion described
centuries earlier by a guy called Isaac.
He turned around many times, and suddenly there were colours.
Many colours, indeed. Even more colours than those present on the
black eyes of a thousand million billion Frenchmen lying spread
all over 986.54 square miles of sand grains.
He felt giddy with vertigo (as usual), and turned and turned and
Freedom of choice
Choice is made for you my friend
Freedom of speech
Speech is words that they will bend
Freedom no longer frees you!"
The song was sung by a blue-haired creature with a tail and
yellow eyes, circling along with Warchild in the vortex of
The creature was followed by about a dozen religious nuts,
complexily floating within the same vortex and yelling sentences
which mainly existed of the word "Blasphemy!".
These were followed by about two dozen large sandals that seemed
to have been lost in all the nuts' enthusiasm.
Two seconds later (well...give or take a couple of nanoseconds),
Cronos found himself back in the enormous honeyjar, every (EVERY)
opening in his body filled with crawling and throbbing ants.
It seemed like they were actually building little ant homes in
his organs, and were preparing for many posthumous honeymoons.
A voice echoed through his subconscious consciousness as it
were. He thought he must be dreaming, for now he even felt clear
and cool water being used to moisten his cracked lips.
Dizzy, he tried to open his eyes. He managed in doing this quite
well - though there was still a thin layer of honey obsctructing
There was somebody sitting on top of him, sweeping ants off his
face. Normally, this would have resulted in immediate termination
of the creature in question, but this one was different...
His eyes had trouble in convincing his brains what they beheld.
A woman, wearing a white robe (on the back of which was written
in large, red letters in a font normally used in cheap B-movies,
"Ambulor Eight Hospital for the Very, Very Splattered") was a few
inches above him. As he looked up, he could see the loose buttons
on her shirt and the black lace revealing itself teasingly. Her
soft roundings were pressed against his chest and he could feel
her breathing in a very special way.
She had a very worried expression on her face that was so
perfectly shaped that Cronos alsmost had to avert his eyes to
prevent them from being blinded forever. Her eyes were faintly
moist which made them glitter as if they were prizeless diamonds
catching the rays of the sun above which suddenly didn't seem to
burn viciously anymore, but merely functioned as a device to
shroud her in an almost divine light. When her long fawnen hair
fell forwards on his face, he was overcome by a smell of
blossoming roses on a warm summer afternoon in some distant and
heavenly country. With one sweep of her arm, she brushed aside
her hair and continued feeding small amounts of water to him.
"Cronos", she whispered in a voice so clear and so full of
emotion that tears welled up in his eyes.
"Are you allright?"
Cronos swallowed some of the water and decided to stay still for
some more time so he could enjoy this with every fibre of his
When she moved to take something from the little bag she was
carrying, one of the lower buttons on her shirt gave up and the
sight revealed to Cronos was enough to almost knock him down
again. Never before had he seen such finesse, or such perfect
shapes. He decided to get up now before things really got out of
hand and he didn't have any tissues handy.
When he stood up next to her, swallowing heavily, he saw that it
was the same nurse that had saved his life already once more.
And, so he was pleased to note, she still looked like an
identical twin of Gloria Estefan.
"Wooo wooo," Warchild said, his voice shaking, trembling and
flollopping with emotions of extensive gratitude.
"Hush, hush," the nurse whispered whilst holding one of her
delicately shaped fingers against her lips, "don't talk, beloved.
It brings you naught but pain."
He felt kinda insulted by the sheer mentioning of the
possibility of he being able to sense pain, but decided not to
act and feign that he was indeed in severe pains. Instinctively,
he seemed to know that this was not going to be bad for him at
He drew her slowly towards him, repeating his exclamation of
"Don't, beloved," the nurse whispered.
She thrust her lips towards his, unable to restrain her passion
and love much longer. She ripped open his black leather jacket
and closed her eyes.
"Oh, Cronos!" she sighed passionately.
Her lips froze in mid-thrust, and her hands did likewise as they
were about to let the heavy leather jacket drop on the desert
"Damn. Dr. Hamilton wants me at the Hospital," she concluded.
"? Whatthe.... ?"
Completely baffled to an extend Cronos had never before imagined
possible (not even earlier that day), he looked around, carefully
scanning the surrounding for someone that might be jamming his
newly acquired hearing aid.
Had some honey come into this device?
Or were a couple of ants having a honeymoon gangbang orgy in
Unfortunately for Cronos, nothing had and none were.
"Got to go," the nurse said whilst adjusting her shirt.
She sensually disappeared in what seemed like a puff of pink
smoke (but, then again, Cronos wasn't a star at interpreting so
it might just as well have been a fata-morgasmic blur of some
A commonly used synonym for an animal's solid excrements passed
At that precise moment, an alien landed RIGHT before him.
Warchild was still busy being baffled with what had happened
just now, so he really didn't know what to do with this new thing
happening to him.
It alighted gently on the ground, and what little hum it had
generated died away, as if lulled by the afternoon calm of 986.54
square miles of desert.
A ramp extended itself.
Light streamed out.
A tall figure appeared silhouetted in the hatchway. It walked
down the ramp and stood in front of Cronos.
"You're a jerk, Warchild," it said simply.
It was alien, very alien. It had a peculiar alien tallness, a
peculiar alien flattened head, peculiar slitty little alien eyes,
extravagantly draped golden robes with a peculiarly alien collar
design, and pale grey-green alien skin which had about it that
lustrous sheen which most grey-green faces can only acquire with
plenty of exercise and plenty of very expensive soap.
Cronos boggled at it.
It gazed levelly at him.
Cronos' first sensation of hope and trepidation had instantly
been overwhelmed by astonishment, and all sorts of thoughts were
battling for the use of his vocal chords at the moment.
"Whh...?" he said.
"Bu...hu...uh..." he added.
"Ru...ra..wah...who?" he finally managed to say and lapsed into
a frantic state of silence. He was feeling the effect of having
not said anything to anybody for as long as he could remember.
The alien creature frowned briefly and consulted what appeared
to be some species of clipboard which he was holding in his thin
and spindly alien hand.
"Cronos Warchild?" it said.
Cronos nodded helplessly.
"Cronos Jehannus Warchild?" pursued the alien in a kind of
"Er...er...yes...er...er," confirmed Cronos.
"You're a jerk," repeated the alien, "a complete asshole."
The creature nodded to itself, made a peculiar alien tick on its
clipboard and turned briskly back towards its ship.
"Er..." said Cronos desperately, "er..."
"Don't give me that," snapped the alien. It marched up the ramp,
through the hatchway and disappeared into its ship. The ship
sealed itself. It started to make a low throbbing hum.
"Er...er..." Cronos tried to shout, and tried to run helplessly
The ship made somewhat more sound, heaved itself up in the air,
and disappeared in what seemed like a fata-morgasmic blur (but,
then again, it might just as well have been a kind of pink
Totally abashed, shaken, lovesick and (not to forget) insulted,
Warchild stumbled further. The sun was sinking slowly behind a
couple of highly unromantic sand dunes. If Warchild would have
been in better spirits, he would have chanted something like "I
am a poor lonesome mercenary, and far away from home...."
But he wasn't, so he couldn't and therefore didn't. In fact, he
decided to pass out once more, falling down quite dramatically,
thus ruining the first date of two teenage scorpions who were
brutally obliterated by Cronos' bulk.
When he regained consciousness, he found himself in a clean,
cool bed. When he looked up, he saw a very familiar face.
"Korik!!" he exclaimed full of joy. Finally, a trustworthy face.
Would the madness finally be over?
"Hi Cronos!". You surely are lucky I got tired chasing all those
celebrities and deciced to take a nice, long walk through the
Tenth note: Korik Starchaser recently got the headlines when he
finally got hold of Miss Fragilia Franatica, the second Princess
of the Zantogian Empire. This Empire spans the larger parts of
the eastern spiral arm of the Galaxy and is so ginormously
wealthy that their Royal Vault covers the outer three planets of
the Zantogian system. Since she is still single, she is the most
wanted and also the most famous female in the Universe. (Even the
unknown bits). Anyway, he got hold of her in a very literal way
and her bodyguard had bluntly removed him from her in front of
approximately 600 billion viewers watching the Annual Washing of
End of tenth note.
"So I found you lying there, babbling about nurses and insults
and ants and honey. Did you know you drank almost two litres of
water whilst being unconscious?"
Cronos jerked himself upright, severely bashing his head into a
steel bar which was not really ergonomically placed, denting the
thing in the process.
"Where am I?" he inquired.
"You're in the Second Desert Hospital For The Very, Very Dried
Out.", replied Korik.
"Hungry", growled a shape in the bed next to Warchild.
After a lot of rummaging in the dusty parts of his brain, the
mercenary annex hired gun recognized the phrase and remembered
vividly wrestling a ghastly creature in a dark tunnel. It was the
sort of creature that ate innocent Hobbits and turned to stone
when the sun shone upon it.
Immediately, his reflexes took over and in a frenzy of hardcore
action and deadly gadgets he savagely ripped the sheets from the
bed, ready to turn the shape into something round and flat that
Italians are used to eat.
Only barely in time did he recognize the fragile human that
turned out to have uttered the aforementioned phrase. His
monomolecular and thus infinitely sharp dagger was hovering mere
millimetres above the throat of the (ex)-master correspondent of
a glorious disk magazine.
"RICHARD!!!" he yelled.
"Cronos!!" Richard muttered, his voice still uncertain if it
would be wise to mutter anything at all.
There was a sudden movement in the bed on the other side and
Warchild turned sharply, observing the emerging human.
"STEFAN!!!" he bellowed.
"Cronos!!" Stefan exclaimed, not bothering to mutter since he
didn't have a frighteningly sharp dagger hovering above his neck.
"Uuuhhh....Cronos....could you please remove that knife?",
"What?? Oh yeah...sure"
Eleventh note: It is not known WHY both authors were suddenly to
be found in the hospital, so therefore neither of them will
elaborate on an explanation. However, it was necessary to start
the beginning of the end of this story.
End of eleventh note.
"Cronos, you might want to sit down," Stefan proposed, "For we
have some rather ill tidings to bring you."
Warchild hesitatingly did so and prepared himself for whatever
he would have to hear.
"Er....you DO know that this is the very last compendium issue
of ST NEWS, don't you?" Richard probed again, habitually
protecting his throat for the possible results of outbursts of
emotion from Cronos' side.
The answer was hard not to be predictable - for Cronos was
trained to fight rather than the think (nor memorise).
"Er...no. Actually, I didn't. Is it?" he replied.
Both Stefan and Richard nodded sadly.
"It is," they spoke in stern unison.
"Well," Cronos said whilst standing up next to the bed. Both
guys crouched in agony, frightened at the prospect of having to
deal with anything even remotely connected with Warchild's Wrath.
"Well," Warchild repeated, "I think I'd better get off, then."
And he disappeared in what could have been a puff of pink smoke
or a fata-morgasmical blur.
So did Korik, actually.
And thus endeth the story of Cronos Warchild... Will he ever
return from the deep catacombs of his spiritual father's brain
womb? Nobody knows. Let's keep our fingers crossed...
The text of the articles is identical to the originals like they appeared in old ST NEWS issues. Please take into consideration that the author(s) was (were) a lot younger and less responsible back then. So bad jokes, bad English, youthful arrogance, insults, bravura, over-crediting and tastelessness should be taken with at least a grain of salt. Any contact and/or payment information, as well as deadlines/release dates of any kind should be regarded as outdated. Due to the fact that these pages are not actually contained in an Atari executable here, references to scroll texts, featured demo screens and hidden articles may also be irrelevant.