This section of dialogue murdered me. I laughed so hard my head is hurting now.
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This section of dialogue murdered me. I laughed so hard my head is hurting now.
Trying to figure out ways to make the next chapter do justice to the epic battle that is about to commence...
Hm...
Hm...
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A little teaser. Is it about to go Kaboom?
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It wasn't but I'll slot kaboom in now. And people can blame you for what happens next!
This weekend at some point, I think. May want to bring some headphones to get the full effect.
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HoI4 Dev Diary: A.E.I.O.U
Greetings commanders! As you’ll be aware, it has been a while since our last dev diary, and I’m super thrilled to finally release what we’ve been working on since No Step Back. We take great pride in our attention to gameplay telemetry that we...
My reaction (assuming they do not delete it) is there as is here:
Having played HOI4, this actually wouldn't surprise me.
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Well I had to rewrite everything to make him fit in now. But it will be...different...because of it. Not sure if better. But different. This may be the jump the shark moment where I go too far or the moment where we ascend to that pure nirvana of absurdity that it just rolls off and makes sense.
I am about halfway through writing, have selected the soundtracks for specific moments and know where I'm going with the chapter end...
However, I suspect it shall be a little while left before I finish writing. There is so much to cover.
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My my...
forum.paradoxplaza.com
Do you know what this means, my lovelies? It means we have to do this all over again.
Just as we were within sight of the finish line too...
Announcement | Hearts of Iron 4: By Blood Alone
Greetings Generals. The long tradition of HoI anniversary surprises, while slightly delayed, has not been forgotten. Today, we have the pleasure of announcing to you the next milestone in the Hearts of Iron story: By Blood Alone. Over the...
Do you know what this means, my lovelies? It means we have to do this all over again.
Just as we were within sight of the finish line too...
Italy getting an updated focus tree. One of the signs of the Paradox Apocalypse surely?My my...
Announcement | Hearts of Iron 4: By Blood Alone
Greetings Generals. The long tradition of HoI anniversary surprises, while slightly delayed, has not been forgotten. Today, we have the pleasure of announcing to you the next milestone in the Hearts of Iron story: By Blood Alone. Over the...
Also the Swiss and Ethiopian focus trees seem a bit niche? Does Ethiopia even have a chance to finish more than a couple of focuses before being annexed by Italy? Of course they do but they really shouldn't. For anyone else Switzerland over Austria is an odd choice, as the Austrian balancing act between Italy and Germany seems to offer much more potential. But of course for Paradox it is no choice at all; making Austria better might make things slightly harder for a German player, an outcome which is forbidden .
A chance to do it right and have Italy be amusingly incompetent instead of boringly adept.
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It is genuinely quite surprising. Mind you, the game has been out for a very long time now, so it's a sign they've gotten to the bottom of their list and are going to start from the top again. Probably more british and German stuff next time.
Obviously, what people want is more choices for Switzerland, all of which keep them neutral and inside their own borders. Austria? What's an Austria?
Well, yugulsavia and the rest of the balkans getting custom trees has made it harder for german players...somewhat. No Step Back has brought the Soviet Union up a bit too (as we saw in our game, they can now hold off the german army, at the expense of the rest of their borders).
A chance to do it right and have Italy be amusingly incompetent instead of boringly adept.
I'm thinking a closed multilayer game actually. Everyone is forbidden from playing a major power unless there's an equivalent player (so Japan can be played if there's a China player etc) and there's some gentleman agreement to at least start the game on the most batshit tree path possible (which for most countries is bringing back a monarchy, and for the British is getting rid. But maybe just throw everyone into a lottery and they have to deal with whatever they get thrown. For maximum cover and a garutnee of at least some disaster and interest, we're all Diplomacy players too, so there will be a great deal of stabbing and trickery and what not.
Mind you, if they make a focus tree where its possible for Italy to fail hard at something, I might do that instead. Really, only a few countries have that sort of thing built into them though. France actually has TWO, as we've previously discussed.
Maybe I'll play Ethopia instead. They're an empire...sort of.
I really hope it's got a Coptic Orthodox Crusade focus where Ethiopia gets cores on all of Africa, because that's the title the Coptic Pope claims.
Once you accept HOI4 is a ridiculous meme generating game Paradox should just lean into it.
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There is already an option for Edward VIII to become King of South Africa and conquer the Holy land...
Exactly. The game is beyond salvation as anything serious so Paradox should stop pretending. Ethiopia should have options to go full Rasta and get cores on Jamaica, form an Ethiopian-Japanese Alliance, counter-invade Italy and have Victor III's son as ruler of puppet Italy, go mad for coffee and get free wars with any coffee producing country, declare a counter-revolution and embrace Tea by joining the British Empire, all that sort of stuff.
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Imperial Tea: The Incidentally Incredible, Implausible and Insane Rise of the Ethopian Dominion. Britain gets to keep their empire but Ethopia is a dominion in control of all of Africa, reverses Cecil Rhodes so far that his statue self combusts, and South Africa became the Evil Kingdom under Edward, before we put Edward under it.
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WWIII - A very late April Fool's Day Chapter that is now of dubious canonical status...whoops!
WWIII – A very late April Fool's Day Chapter that is now of dubious canonical status...whoops!
Content warning for being the most off the wall I've ever been.
Also, you may want some headphones handy.
Also, you may want some headphones handy.
Deep in the bowels of an anarcho-communist commune, rumbling were afoot.
“So it is agreed. We will behead the two headed serpents of capitalism in one stroke.”
“Even though they are currently at war with one another and completely ignoring us.”
“The ideal time to strike, comrade. Send in the cannon fodder. I mean, equally important comrades.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“…”
“Are you…you can’t just sit there looking at me. You need to ring them up or something.”
“I know. I know. I was just…looking dramatic.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“…doesn’t really come across in a stripped down dialogue segment.”
“I’ll make the call now.”
The rumblings, suitably a-footed, began to amble towards the doom of civilizations.
“So it is agreed. We will behead the two headed serpents of capitalism in one stroke.”
“Even though they are currently at war with one another and completely ignoring us.”
“The ideal time to strike, comrade. Send in the cannon fodder. I mean, equally important comrades.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“…”
“Are you…you can’t just sit there looking at me. You need to ring them up or something.”
“I know. I know. I was just…looking dramatic.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“…doesn’t really come across in a stripped down dialogue segment.”
“I’ll make the call now.”
The rumblings, suitably a-footed, began to amble towards the doom of civilizations.
…
Several hours later, around two hours after the last chapter ended, which was around 3 o’ clock in the morning or some such. Or perhaps 3 in the evening. It is hard to tell when everyone involved is stuck inside an underground military bunker…
Anyway, we re-join the action not in said bunker filled with hardworking workhorses of industry, military and espionage but in the sunny (or perhaps, moonlit) streets of Roma. It is quiet, peaceful, and as picturesque as one can expect from-
“Argh!”
A screaming anarcho-communist burst through a large window on the fifth floor of an incredibly upmarket hotel. He smashed into the street surface with a splat, and lay still, leaking ever so slightly from various places that should not leak.
Anyway, Roma…is a rather wonderful place, full of historical-
“Argh!”
A second anarcho-communist seems to have landed atop the first, thrown through a different window of the same hotel. How fascinating.
Anyway, as I was saying. When in Rome-
“Argh!”
That’s three and four. The street sweepers are going to need mops rather than sweepers at this rate. I think we better go see what all the fuss is about.
Within the hotel itself was up until recently a very haphazard though jolly meeting of friends and loved ones for a birthday bash for Mr Sodomy Donkey, a hero of some renown. In attendance at this pool party, for it was indeed a pool party, was the Great and Powerful Emperor of Rome, the almighty Alan, a few dozen farmyard animals (of less than some renown), and a few who you have not heard of but were a big deal in-universe, so to speak (for example Mr Buggery Bull, the boxing and radio star).
The party was presided over, of course, by the premier hit entertainer of the day across the Empire: Strangles the Clown. He was currently putting a spin on living up to his name, by drowning several party crashers in the pool. The day, or perhaps night, was young however, and there seemed no end of anarcho-communists determined to meet their end (and other body parts) in a variety of unflattering ways.
“Well, I’m never getting this deposit back,” Alan said, watching Snuggly and Snuggles tag-tear a fatalistically idealistic young woman to shreds.
“Feeding idiotic belief systems to the lions, how did I not think of this before?” the Emperor said, slapping his head. “It’s as classically Roman as it comes!”
“Mighty Cheesare, I feel we must put aside further party planning for today-”
“Surely not, Alan!”
“Sire, we were supposed to be discussing your brilliant plan to destroy the British war effort.”
“Oh yes. Where is the Chief of the Air Force?”
“Over there, playing darts with Mr Buggery Bull and Secret, the Great Bear Spy.”
“Isn’t he British?”
“Eh…” Alan wiggled his hand. “Welsh. And the Brigadier brought him as his plus one.”
“Ah yes. How is the old chap? Not gotten round to speaking to him yet.”
“He’s quite excellent, Mighty Cheesare. And still a bear. And also still inexplicably heir to the unoccupied throne of Poland.”
“Hmm. Remind me to do something about that one of these days.” The Emperor mused, absently dodging a flaming bottle full of the dreams of the proletariat, and decking the thrower with a deck chair.
“Here he is, sir.”
“You fool, Alan! That is Man, not Bear.”
“Yes sir, the Chief of the Air Force.”
“Ah! Excellent. Now, gentlemen, my plan is-”
His words were cut off by some loud screaming (well, louder than the general background noise of animals grunting and human squealing), emanating from high above.
“Ah, the communists are being feasted upon by the flying monkeys,” the Emperor said absently, looking upwards.
“I wasn’t aware we had those,” the Air Chief said.
“We don’t, officially. It’s an old Evil Nazi Mad Science Project that got a bit out of hand. Which, actually, brings me to my plan…”
…
Meanwhile, in London
…
Meanwhile, in London
…
Within the Grand Temple of the Great and Gratuitous Alliance of All Universal, Enlightened and Free Secret Fellowships and Societies, which is, of course, located in London, the various delegates of the world’s secret societies have come together to decide whether or not to support Britain’s war effort.
…better late than never, eh?
In all honesty, most of them were faintly embarrassed that the British Empire had apparently been saved, and the New World Order nearly brought about, completely by accident and without their involvement.
Long ‘extinct’ orders such as the Bavarian Illuminati rubbed shoulders with the Sumerian and Librarian Illuminati, alongside the Masons, the Livery Men, the Butchers, the Bakers, the Quakers, the Stakers, the Undertakers, the Job Creators and the two rival Candlestick makers. Mortal enemies, those last two. All were accounted for and regarded. Except the Grand Liberal Alliance, who were genuinely a complete nonentity.
Two members of the Conservative Party walked amongst them, chatting to each other as various many hatted fellows did their songs and dances in ritual.
“So, they all ultimately work for us?”
“No, but they are all dedicated to maintaining the Sacred Silence about the Hidden Terrible Truth behind our political party and the Establishment, which, were it to get out, would rock the world to its core.”
“What’s that then?”
“Come, come man. Cannot you guess?”
“That a secret cabal of rich white men control the Earth?”
The older man grunted. “That is hardly a secret, Weatherbea. Try again. This is a secret that is barely hinted and whispered, even amongst the dandiest dandies of Cambridge.”
“Oh…that we have to molest a dead pig to get in?”
“Hardly, though it is perhaps an echo of the Hidden Truth.”
“You don’t mean…”
“Yes, my child?”
“I…you…this isn’t just about the necrophilia is it?”
Everyone in the room stopped chanting, and turned with one mind towards the hapless youth of 36 years.
“Yup, basically. End of the day, it’s all about sticking it to a corpse and really having a damn good showing of it.”
“So the whole Imperial experiment…”
“Pure whitewashing, literally. No, no. The only thing we really care about is-”
“Oh God, they have come. They HATH RISEN!”
A scream echoed through the cavernous circular moot place, sourced from one of the tunnels in the wall.
“I say, anyone here hunting the most dangerous game and not told us?” the elder Tory asked the room.
“Not to my knowledge, sir,” the Grand Wizard of Jam Rolls and Bicycle Pumps replied, pulling back his hood and taking out a salmon pink diary. “No…don’t think so.”
The screams became louder, and the crowd edged slowly away from that particular opening.
“This is impossible. The only enemies we have are the Radical Left, and they would sooner die than agree for long enough to unite and attack us.”
“Yes…” said a sinister and ghoulish voice from within the darkened passage, “but what about after we die?”
“Oh bugger,” the elder Tory whimpered as the long dead corpse of Karl Marx shambled in. “When I defiled the graves of the Dead Poet’s Society, I didn’t think it’d go this far.”
“What’s the matter? I thought you liked dead meat?” Christopher Marlowe smiled. Because he was a skeleton.
“Shit! Oh, if only I’d paid attention in Literature Studies. I beg of you, gentlemen of humanity. Quality of mercy is not strained!”
“Not even iambic pentameter can save you now,” Shakespeare muttered. “Get him Stalin!”
“Wait, am I dead in this story? Was that ever established?”
“Oh for…Lenin!”
“Outta’ my way, you creepy little man.”
Stalin, alive or dead, still had his feelings hurt. Being Stalin, alive or dead, he took it out on many other people. The horde of zombies and living dead, both socialist, literary and both, descended upon the gathered throng.
“For God’s sake gentlemen, are you going to help out or…”
Churchill paused as he took in the epic battle in front of him, shrugged, and left the way he had just entered. A few spooky leftists took off in hot pursuit.
…
Meanwhile, in the Nuremburg Rehabilitation Centre for the
Questionably Mentally Unsound War Criminal
…
Meanwhile, in the Nuremburg Rehabilitation Centre for the
Questionably Mentally Unsound War Criminal
…
“…and that’s all they managed to do before we mucked it all up by stopping them.”
The gathering of doctors, military personally and personal entourage of the Emperor took in the depth and craziness of the Secret Nazi Superweapons.
“Christ, most of these are crap.”
Pretty much everyone murmured their agreement with Catastrophe’s words.
“Still, there are a few things here that we took inspiration from. That’s what this facility actually is, a cover for our secret weapons projects.”
“So what happened to the Nazi leadership?”
“Oh, we tried and shot most of them a long time ago. They were absolute monsters, you understand. Some were to some degree mentally impaired if not ill, and those were the least harmful. Most were drug addicts, petty, vindictive little bastards that, sadly, we all have the potential to become.”
“Grim.”
“Yes, but anyway, our scientific efforts were rather more advanced than the Nazis, owing to the fact that our people knew what they were doing, were not working under threat of death and actually had some resources.”
“Such as?”
The head of the ‘medical’ facility grinned, and pulled a gigantic lever. The floor beneath them began to slowly open up and reveal…
“Oh my.”
“Indeed.”
“Oh. I bet Kaboom would love this…”
…
Off the coast of France, in the Bay of Biscay
…
Off the coast of France, in the Bay of Biscay
…
The Admirals of the combined fleets were having a polite discussion over the course of the invasion.
The medical officers had already had words with each of them, and forced them to use their words rather than chair legs.
“I still say the lack of Italian response is unnerving. What the devil are they up to?” Fisher said, pounding the table.
“Who cares? They aren’t here, and therefore are not our problem,” Cunningham shrugged.
“That doesn’t help,” Ramsey said.
“Since when did you ever?”
“Oh stick a brick up your-”
“The Indomitable is signalling sir,” a junior officer butted in politely, handing a notice to Fisher.
HMS Indomitable was one of six air craft carriers hanging off the edge of the combat area, and was serving as flagship to Cunningham’s force. The others likewise kept the other admirals as far apart from each other as one can be on such massive vessels. Indomitable was joined by Invincible, Indefatigable, Incomparable, Intangible and Idaho (the latter of course was bought from the US Navy in exchange for Jamaica).
“What’s the game?”
“Radar is pinging off the walls. Something big’s coming.”
“The Roman Air force?”
“Must be.”
“Scramble all fighters then, and deploy the fleets.”
“All power to the engines!”
From the flight deck, air crews and sailors alike paused in their rush to gawp and stare at the angry black cloud of Italian and allied fighters and bombers rushing their way.
“Jesus Christ, there’s thousands of ‘em.”
“They’ve sent everything. This is it. The big one.”
The droning of engines grew louder and louder over the roar of the sea, until it was deafening. As the mighty ships of the Royal Navy swiveled their guns and prepared their planes, the great swarm was upon them and fire rained down from the heavens.
Several miles from the battle, the Emperor and his court rejoiced upon hearing reports of the first clashes with the enemy.
“That’s right, you snobby bastards! Welcome to the 20th century!”
“Their air force is engaging ours, sire.”
“Meh. We can take them.”
“It seems we can, but their fleet is doing quite some damage, and taking some too. This plan of yours seems to be working so far. I only hope Churchill doesn’t have an ace up his sleeve…”
…
Meanwhile, in the Hellscape formerly known as London
…
Meanwhile, in the Hellscape formerly known as London
…
The City and its inhabitants had gone up in flames. Screams and yells, battle cries, panicking civilians, offended bankers and snarling undead beasts all merged together in a great wave of sound and noise, matched only by the masses of people duking it out on the streets and in the buildings.
Churchill, out of breath and unused to running, was being doggedly pursued by the unholy alliance of dead poets and philosophers. He’d taken out Wordsworth’s legs with a well-aimed pistol shot but Lord Tennyson, that turncoat traitor, was gaining fast.
Suddenly, a roar of an engine sounded and a huge motorcycle rammed through the crowded road. A second roar came from the idling vehicle as its rider fired a shotgun blast straight through the former poet laureate’s head, and pinned Wordsworth to the wall with a well thrown hand axe.
“Viscount Halifax! What are you doing here?”
Halifax flipped up his driving googles and reloaded his gun.
“Wabbit hunting.”
Churchill clambered into the side car as Halifax gunned the engine. “We have to get to Westminster! We have to save England!”
“Wighto. Hold on.”
The pair drove back into the fray, screaming obscenities and horrible drink orders.
As they drove past the Admiralty, the civil servants attempted to flag them down to tell them about that other great battle of our time occurring at that very moment.
Churchill, in perhaps his only misstep of the whole war, simply shouted at them to ‘Do whatever you think best!’
This abdication of responsibility caused much confusion and delay in the office, until a small, wicked looking man in a top hat quietly coughed and offered some direction…
…
Meanwhile, in the Skies
…
Meanwhile, in the Skies
…
The tide was beginning to turn against the Italian Air force. Despite its recent improvements and numerical superiority, there was no getting away from the fact that the Italian was simply not a very good flier of aeroplanes.
It was time for phase two of the Emperor’s plan.
“Mighty Cheesare! It is time for phase two of your excellent plan!”
“Very well Alan. Full speed ahead commander.”
At sea level, the various British captains checked and rechecked their telescopes and RADAR displays.
“Um…Admiral? We appear to be under attack by…Secret Nazi Mega Zeppelins, jet planes, rockets, and Richard Wagner.”
“My God…”
Aboard the largest airship, the Emperor cackled in his custom golden command chair.
“Good lord, this is fun. Watch the little ants run from our flame cannons and European Epic mythologizing!
“Yes sire, but I fear we have only opened the floodgates of escalation.”
“What rot, Catastrophe! What can the British have compared to this?”
At sea level…
“You! Random white shirt! What have we got to compare with that?”
The helmsman pondered a little, before being blown up by Secret Nazi Mad Science.
“Damn it. Any word from HQ?”
“Yes Admiral. They say…stand back and stand by.”
“Now that sounds ominous.”
The seas themselves began churning and bubbling, before giant machines never before seen on this Earth arose from the deep, spraying the fleet with water and the skies with sudden and unknown death rays.
“What…is that-?”
“They may have Epic Opera,” the Helmsman said grimly, “but that is nothing compared to Rock Opera.”
“Mighty Cheesare! We are being attacked by weapons not of this Earth!”
“Damn British imperialists. That book was supposed to be a warning, not an instruction manual!”
“I sense Toppham Hatt’s stubby little hand things in all this.”
“Little runt was playing both sides this whole time! I’m going to personally force him through the exam for driving an articulated lorry.”
“Any more bright ideas, sire?”
“Give me a moment Alan. We have to raise the tension somehow.”
…
Meanwhile, in London…
…
Meanwhile, in London…
…
“This is it, lads. Our time has come. The world is ending and we have to do our duty before it’s all over.”
Every man in the room nodded grimly. Now was not the time for bad cop, good cop. Or even worse cop, delusional cop. Now was the time for every police officer to do his duty, dress in their finest blues, go out there, and beat the shit out of Communists.
As one, they burst from their station and charged, wooden sticks in hand, as their war anthem played.
The House of Commons was barricaded up, and the Tory Party was bravely hiding within whilst their Whips attempted to maintain morale.
“It seems desperate I know, but I really do feel that the time has come for perhaps some small increase in the national tax measures of this great nation…”
“Yes, the rich will be fed whilst the poor starve! While the sick and elderly freeze in their beds, the wealthy will burn their futures for enjoyment!”
“Do be quiet.”
“I will not be quiet. The people of England have been silenced too long!”
“Bold words, sir. And who might it be who speaks them?”
“My name is Tony of Plymouth.”
“Oh bugger. This is definitely still copyrighted.”
“Copyright is but the tool of the establishment to deny freedom of thought and expression.”
Suddenly Churchill abseiled down from the roof, smacked Tony of Plymouth across the face and challenged him to a duel.
“For God’s sake Winston, do you know how hard it’s going to be to push through the vote to get that roof fixed now?” the Chief Whip moaned into his hands, and was therefore nearly taken by surprise when the Dread Pirate Roberts and his crew attempted to storm the backbenches. Rallying quickly, he screamed for party unity, and the preconditioning kicked in.
As one, the Tories pivoted and formed a firing line, pulling out all manner of semi-automatic weapons (not made in Britain) to use against the sword-wielding pirates.
…
Meanwhile, in the skies…
…
Meanwhile, in the skies…
…
“Hang on! Got an idea.”
The Emperor turned off the Wagner abruptly and began rooting through his record collection.
“Mighty Chesare, what are you doing? Without Wagner, we’re doomed!”
“No, Alan. We must fight like with like. Here, take this guitar. Only one man can save us now…”
The great steampunk air and sea ships of the British Empire hovered menacingly ahead of the Roman zeppelins. Their heat rays and light blasters suddenly halted fire on the enemy fleet and began wildly firing far above.
“What the fuck are those things?”
“HAHAHA! RIGHT LADS, FOLLOW ME! DIIIIIIIVVVVVVEEEE!”
A genetically modified Kaboom, resplendent in golden armour, commanded his giant army of Secret Nazi Hawkmen to fly straight at the enemy guns.
“More Flying Monkeys, sire?” Catastrophe asked dryly.
“Hardly, old sport. Flying Men, with fully articulated wings!” The Emperor replied cheerfully, swaying in time to the music he and his cohorts were providing with their mighty guitars.
“Well, at least Kaboom seems to be enjoying himself,” Catastrophe nodded, as everyone on both sides and for several miles could easily hear how much the now-winged Italian commander was gleefully doing what he did best: killing wave after wave of his own men, and also the enemy.
The fighting lasted for several more minutes, but really, there was no holding out against the Italians at this point. The Royal Navy, her ships and crews, her majestic steampunk wonder weapons and bullshit Martian vehicles, all were sent to the bottom of the ocean.
The few remaining Admirals and commanders were left paddling about in a little rowboat, bitterly arguing and complaining about how unfair life was. When the few remaining survivors of their civilised disagreements eventually made it to shore, they collectively realised they were the highest ranking members of the Admiralty left, and had all personally been responsible for losing not just the fleet but a naval war.
Therefore, in true British tradition, they court marshalled and executed themselves.
“Well, well,” the Emperor said, wiping the sweat from his brow and peeling off his fake moustache, “that seemed like a good result. Sure we lost our entire air force, but they lost their entire navy. Scandinavia and the UK are wide open for us…hey, where’s Kaboom gone?”
…
Meanwhile, in London…
…
Meanwhile, in London…
…
“Have at thee, you stammering English prick!”
“Waskally wascal! I’ll feed you your teeth!”
Kaboom had gotten lost and was now flying around the Palace of Westminster, fighting off a demented little man in a jetpack.
…
“Anyway, that’s where I was.”
“Uh huh,” Catastrophe said, unconvinced. “And this herculean specimen of manhood, who touted shotguns and rode motorbikes and nearly beheaded you with a flagpole…that was Lord Halifax, was it?”
“Indeed. What a manly man. A true warrior, but nothing less could have managed to scar the great Kaboom!”
“Mmm. I’m sure…”
Further questioning would have to wait, as the Imperial Airships had made it back to Rome.
“Um…Alan. I thought the city as we left it was rather…not burnt to the ground?”
“Yes, Mighty Cheesare. It does look a little…burnt. Rather than not.”
“Hmm. Oh, wait a moment, I’m getting a call on the Cheese Phone!”
Everyone crowded round as the Emperor picked up the pink receiver and listened closely.
“Yes? Yes, I see. No, really, I can see where you did that…so Wojeck and Secret finally settled their score of who could be King of the Beach? Hmm…yes. Yes? Ok. And where is His Holiness now? I see. Alright then. Ta-ta for now.”
The Emperor put down the phone and glanced up.
“Um…Alan?”
“Yes, Mighty Cheesare?”
“The former Pope was just on the line. He’s asking for a job now the Vatican has been seized by the Great and Worshipful Secret.”
“There is the empty throne of Poland?”
“No, Wojeck sat in that. Excuse me, His Majesty, the King of the United Poland-Lithuania Commonwealth, sat in that.”
“Hmm. Well there is that empty position we were trying to fill out east…”
“Ah yes, some kind of administrative function, was it?”
“Sort of. Something similar to what he’s used to anyway. He might even see Ecclesiastical Patriarch of Constantinople as a promotion.”
“God, we’re brilliant.”
“Yes sire. Yes we are.”
…
Fin
...
Fin
...
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This chapter was wacky, wild, fun, and chaotic. A perfect fit for this AAR.
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If, heaven forbid, the British nation were to ever cease to be, I do hope this is the final act of the Royal Navy.
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