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Cannon Fodder: The March of the wildlings

The cloak hangs almost limp, its edges tugged by the weak zephyr that floats through the evening air. Its once bright scarlet has faded to a deeper crimson, ensconced by years of grime and filth, accumulated by harsh battles, brutal raids, bloody defeats and an eternity of trudging through hostile territory.

Yet its owner stands tall, atop the tallest tower of the Asburton Citadel, England’s last hope for ‘beautiful football’.  He is the master of all he surveys.

“Lord Commander?”

The question hung in the air as he stood as still as a statue carved of obsidian; his curt nod merely acknowledged the question. Yet his eyes scanned the horizon, drinking in the sight of the fort below. His sacred land, the land he was charged to protect.

The Master of Arms fidgeted nervously. His discomfort was written plainly in his posture. His eyes darted between the stones at his feet and the silhouette of his master.  He cleared his throat noisily.

Arsene Wenger turned; his stone grey eyes were narrowed peering from an otherwise relaxed visage.

“Has he returned?”

“Yes sir… The news is disturbing…”

“Hmmmm… Eet’s getting cold” intoned Wenger turning again to face the horizon.

“Eh?” exclaimed the Master of Arms, his eyebrow cocked in surprise. He ran his hands over his tonsured skull. His once wavy brown hair of his youth is long gone but being a man of discipline, the grainy stubble of a balding scalp annoyed him.

He was a war-scarred veteran in his own right… He had followed Wenger as a soldier and now served as an officer. His faith in his commander was neigh unshakable. But on the coldest darkest nights, in the deepest crevices of his heart he wondered if his boss had a few screws loose. The question often kept him up at night.

“The tribes of Mamucium are rallying again…” he continued undeterred by Wenger’s apparent lack of interest.

“It is that Chilean mercenary. his band of wildlings and those unholy turn-cloaks are on the war-path again. They were humbled by Hughes and his troop of orcs during their raid of the unholy castle upon Stoke. They suffered a humiliating defeat indeed but now there is no keeping them down.”

Bould looked up only to find Wenger is now picking the lint from his frayed cloak. Exasperated, Bould continues to scan the report.

“Rumor has it that they might have awoken THE MAMMOTH”, he declared, hoping to catch Arsene’s attention.

“Have zey? Zat cood be difficult”

“Smarmy Nasty could be there too…”

Wenger stiffened. The annoyance gradually registers on his face.

“And Bac….”

"Say Hello to my little friend...." (Photo Shop Wizardry courtesy @goonergurl20)

“Say Hello to my little friend….”
(Photo Shop Wizardry courtesy @goonergurl20)

“Enough of zis.” hisses Arsene cutting off his right hand mid-sentence, his eyes now as cold as ice.

“Prepare ze guns” he yelled as he strides towards the armory.

“LIEUTENANT FORSYTHE!!!! Load those cannons… I expect zem to be ready, especially the Welsh rifle and that German sniper. I expect to use zem….. Heavily”

“Aye sir” saluted the Gunsmith clicking smartly to attention as his Commander approached.

“Check the shields too. The French one is getting a leettle old but can still hold back a barrage.” muttered Wenger as he dismissed the Gunsmith with a wave of his open hand.

“Won’t let you down boss…” returned the grinning armourer as he made his way towards the armoury.

“But Arsene… What about the Mammoth? The last time he came here…” managed Bould as he rushed to keep up with the now agitated Commander.

“DON’T TOLK TO ME ABOUT ZE FUCKING MAMMOTH… I MADE ZE FUCKING MAMMOTH I I… I MADE THE FIRST MAMMOTH. ZE FIRST ONE FROM FRANCE!!!! Zhey stole zat one and now zhey think he can sit around and threaten me with some cheap Ivorian knock-off.”

The Master of Arms cowered in the face of Wenger’s spittle spewing maw.

“Who does zat fool think he ees?! I’ll show him… Degoutant cochon!!!”

“Commander… Commander, we must approach them with caution. The assault..”

“I’ll show zhese clowns” mutters Arsene as he heads towards the vault.

“Arsene… Arsene… What on earth are you planning?”

“I’ve got a Chilean surprise for zat Chilean rat!” he said, striding outside into the fading light under the down cast skies of a gloomy London dusk.

A bewildered Bould followed Wenger into the courtyard and skids to a halt in front of the sculpture of the all-conquering hero: Officer Adams.

“Red Nose Tony?” wondered Bould “What on earth…”

“Press hees nose”

“What?!”

“PRESS EET!!” screamed an upset Wenger, gesticulating wildly.

Reluctantly, the Master of Arms honked his old friend and ex-serviceman’s nose and stared in silent shock as the statue smoothly moved on miniscule well-oiled rails to reveal a large vault.

“Buchan’s balls!!” ejaculated Bould, his eyes bulging in shock as Wenger crouched, his hands reaching into the darkness.

“Non… even better!” grinned the Boss, manically cradling the brobdingnagian piece of bad-assery that is his Chilean assault weapon.

“I found zis in ze summer…. Stole from some silly Spaniards… I call him the Mammoth Hunter!!”

As Wenger’s psychotic laughter filled the castle grounds, Bould suppressed a shudder as he indolently pondered his boss’s sanity for the umpteenth time.

“Winter is coming Stevie…  Only zis time, vee are ready for them….”

{Hat doff to @goonergurl20 for the photo shop Wizardry!!!!}

 

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About Varun Chand

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Full time nothing doer and part-time Engineer (supposedly). I really hate the Arsenal and that's why I spend so much of time writing/talking/discussing/debating about them. I enjoy mocking YOU because it's fun.
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