Because he's been a sore loser, hardly a fair sport and a whiny little misbehaving spotty bastard.
It used to be a standard rule. Fights on the arena named onebigbox were held with nothing but supershockrifles.
But times change. And people got fed up with Loque's arrogant behaviour and spoiled brat manners.
So, they put a rocket launcher in his sweaty palms. And he did not win the match. Not by a longshot. Hardly. Quite not the succes. Underachievment of the year. Of the decade. Lousiest employee of the month. Misfire, the barrel goes the othe way around. Footloose dancing on his own projectiles. Hot tamales.
Though, sneaky and somewhat witty as he is mister Loque came up with a devious plan. No more humiliations, no more gruesome deaths at the hands of inferior, plain, ridiculous mongrels. Aka the other competitors. Nay, not even that walking bucket of soup named Xan would challenge his superior might any longer.
The breaking point was when an attorney with a mocking spectale shot him in the bum with a sixpack of guided missiles. Truly a horryfying and unforgetable experience. U2 couldn't have said it better.
What to do, but cheat. Cheat like a warcow, like a Skaarj hiding behind a gigantic boulder, waiting for easy prey to trudge along. Then cowardly attack them from behind, and slice them to ribbons. And sell the remains on the Skaarj market, naturally.
Yes, that cheesy smelly bastiche hid a supershockrifle in his... somewhere the sun never shines, but judging by his pale complexion ... the region is debatable. So let's leave it at that. Or else. Or else... what...
When that devious, insidious, malicious crooked attorney blasted his body into the vastness of space AGAIN, Loque couldn't stand it anymore.
It was the year whatever, may. Battle arena hyperblast. Yes, things would get interesting. And not only was he fighting that spectacled twat, no.. other idiots named luthienne, iceweasel and potatopeeler (what???) had joined the massacre. And a massacre it would turn out to be.
When the smoke cleared up, the wall colour had turned into a deep dark red. Organs splattered and piled hither and tither. Blood by the gallons, and eyeballs falling into the void of the ever so immense universe.
But Loque had, in his fierce rage, forgotten about the cameras. THEY had witnessed the whole thing. THEY knew. THEY would take measures against him. THEY would take his trophy away, even plunder his excisting trophy case. THEY would cut his balls off.
The humiliation. The torment. The downward spiral he'd wind up into. The shackles of lead and poisonous venom injected into his once fair soul.
How could he have let himself go? Pride took him down to the dirtiest levels, even beyond the smudge and filth of fetid sewers. Not even paulie the infamous poop eating/rolling/ warcow would stand such vile prospects.
It was already too late. They beamed in and relieved him from his once pure and magnificent weapon. Now stained and tainted by the mockery of his weakness. They'd laugh at him. Despice his treachery. He would probably be banned to arenas the likes of ctf-andaction and mh-lots of hidden deathtraps.
And then they punished him....
Loque sat at his table, staring at his cup. Chicken soup. Past its date.
Trembling, vision blurred by countless tears he picked up the spoon...
and ate it...
Oh the humanity!
It used to be a standard rule. Fights on the arena named onebigbox were held with nothing but supershockrifles.
But times change. And people got fed up with Loque's arrogant behaviour and spoiled brat manners.
So, they put a rocket launcher in his sweaty palms. And he did not win the match. Not by a longshot. Hardly. Quite not the succes. Underachievment of the year. Of the decade. Lousiest employee of the month. Misfire, the barrel goes the othe way around. Footloose dancing on his own projectiles. Hot tamales.
Though, sneaky and somewhat witty as he is mister Loque came up with a devious plan. No more humiliations, no more gruesome deaths at the hands of inferior, plain, ridiculous mongrels. Aka the other competitors. Nay, not even that walking bucket of soup named Xan would challenge his superior might any longer.
The breaking point was when an attorney with a mocking spectale shot him in the bum with a sixpack of guided missiles. Truly a horryfying and unforgetable experience. U2 couldn't have said it better.
What to do, but cheat. Cheat like a warcow, like a Skaarj hiding behind a gigantic boulder, waiting for easy prey to trudge along. Then cowardly attack them from behind, and slice them to ribbons. And sell the remains on the Skaarj market, naturally.
Yes, that cheesy smelly bastiche hid a supershockrifle in his... somewhere the sun never shines, but judging by his pale complexion ... the region is debatable. So let's leave it at that. Or else. Or else... what...
When that devious, insidious, malicious crooked attorney blasted his body into the vastness of space AGAIN, Loque couldn't stand it anymore.
It was the year whatever, may. Battle arena hyperblast. Yes, things would get interesting. And not only was he fighting that spectacled twat, no.. other idiots named luthienne, iceweasel and potatopeeler (what???) had joined the massacre. And a massacre it would turn out to be.
When the smoke cleared up, the wall colour had turned into a deep dark red. Organs splattered and piled hither and tither. Blood by the gallons, and eyeballs falling into the void of the ever so immense universe.
But Loque had, in his fierce rage, forgotten about the cameras. THEY had witnessed the whole thing. THEY knew. THEY would take measures against him. THEY would take his trophy away, even plunder his excisting trophy case. THEY would cut his balls off.
The humiliation. The torment. The downward spiral he'd wind up into. The shackles of lead and poisonous venom injected into his once fair soul.
How could he have let himself go? Pride took him down to the dirtiest levels, even beyond the smudge and filth of fetid sewers. Not even paulie the infamous poop eating/rolling/ warcow would stand such vile prospects.
It was already too late. They beamed in and relieved him from his once pure and magnificent weapon. Now stained and tainted by the mockery of his weakness. They'd laugh at him. Despice his treachery. He would probably be banned to arenas the likes of ctf-andaction and mh-lots of hidden deathtraps.
And then they punished him....
Loque sat at his table, staring at his cup. Chicken soup. Past its date.
Trembling, vision blurred by countless tears he picked up the spoon...
and ate it...
Oh the humanity!
Last edited:
