Rollin' With My HomeBoba.

   Welcome back younglings.  And let me say, who the dumbfuck came up with the term "Younglings"?  It's dumb.  Sounds like something a dumb named, George?  Lets go with George, that sounds right.  Something a dumb named George would think up.  Fuck George, the word "Kids" too mainstream for ya?  "Children" not alien enough?  Fuck you George, you ruin everything.  Gyyyyah, sorry, I am really strung out.  Clyde is consarning happy he ain't gotta make the deadlines on these chapters more than once a week.  Point is kids, if all the cumulative data on your favorite controlled substance is "An illicit substance of some type", go do something else.  Even if its worse.  At least you'll know what to expect.  Pro tip. That ones on me, Philanthropy bitch!  Shit, I got me a Trandoshan Rocketmoneycumasaurus, its real, look it up.  I named him Moneyshot.

     Alright people, its time!  What time? Boba time!  People Let me tell ya 'bout my beeeeeest friend! He's a bitching clone that makes the beeeeest hams!  This guy:

     That resplendent clone is my home skillet Boba Chef.  Pictured with his home skillet, of which he has many because he's a chef.  He is my best friend.  I can't tell you if I'm his best friend, I mean, it's cool if I'm not, I mean, I'm an aAAAAaaasshole.  I don't really like me either.  Point is, he's my Clhomie, my Bacta Brother, my Saaarlac snack, if you will.  He does not like that last nickname by the way.  I have no idea why.

     Boba Chef and I first met on Mygeto helping that ribbed for her pleasure looking jedi Ki-adi-Mundi grab some kinda holocron from the Seps.  Why its always holocrons, I don't know.  I'm like three chapters in and holocrons have have come up like three times. do we do anything else around here but jam things in holocrons and astromech droids?  Well, yes.  But the jamming comes later.  I got a great story about a wicked bender on Couriscant...  Right, so Boba and I were there on Mygeto freezing our cloneceptalces off and I end up on a Lartie with this clone the eltee keeps calling PG-7331.

     And yes, it was exactly like that.  The guns spelled PATOW and everything.  IT was awesome and your life sucks my comparison.  Now this was before they segregated the ST series clones out of the rest of the GAR for their fratricidal tendencies and 7331 was a guy, a new guy, to me anyway, that I had somehow not managed to "accidentally" murder on this particular mission. I mean, there was one guy, I don't remember his number, they all look the same anyway, who was still smoldering in the corner.  But that was an accident.  I was just making sure the "safety off" setting on my blaster worked and his face happened to be at barrel height.  He woulda died anyway being that stupid.  SO, right, I'm hanging with this 7331 guy and I says to him:

     "HI! I'm Clone Trooper Clyde, do you like to kill clankers?"  And unlike most clones, who look at you like an asshole when you say you got a name, he doesn't miss a beat and he says:

     "I'm Boba".  "Why Boba?"  I says to him, and I shit you not, the dude says "That's what my father named me."  Now at this point I'm thinking this clone has got a few cogs loose in the clank dome talking about fathers and shit and I kinda look at him crossways.  "Who's ya daddy droid for brains?" " Jango Fett"  "Well duh, Jango Fett is all out daddy's, we all know that, we paid attention in sleeping class".  But he insists even to this day, that his dad is Jango freaking Fett.  Whatever, I figure, if he's nuts, I'll shoot him, no one will miss him, he was born in a tube.  But this Boba cat was good.  Turns out that the two of us, against all odds, managed to become the clanker killinest clones this side of that bridge on Mygeto that spans nothing and exists for the sole purpose of bottle necking droids into a murder parade.  Ki-Dildo-Mundi ran off and grabbed the Holocron, while Boba and I kept the droids back to the last man.  Literally.  When we got back on the Larties, there was like one clone left and it was the guy guarding it.  Damn that was a good day.  And we only killed some of those clones ourselves!  As a bonus, there was plenty of leg room for the ride back.  Been inseparable since that day.  Except for all those times we got separated.  After order 66, before the battle of Yavin, for a loooong stretch of time between there and the destruction of the second death star.  He won't talk much about what he was doing during the battle of Endor, but he sure does scream in his sleep a lot about it.  Something about a T-shirt cannon.  I dunno.  

   Clonedong and Short for a Stormtrooper of it is that I love this Clone and so do you.  I can't wait to tell you all about the Jedi temple.  Fuck.  Bloody mess that was.  We almost accidentally killed Bail Organa!  boba says the Porck Chops are ready, so I'm gonna grub it up in mah clone hole till next time kiddo's!

Begun, the Cloneoir Has.

     The publishers told me to make this chronological.  I've been alive for like, fucking ever.  I don't know my batch's (ST) exact birthday.  That, is because I don't know or care.  I'm a clone.  I was raised in a tube until I was like...four months old?  Point is, it's on a holocron somewhere and the publishers can wedge it in later.  But since I don't care, you don't care.  You trust me to write my memoirs or not?  The forward has my drawing now, if you wanna see my Moneycumasaurus.  Up to you.

     Fun fact, Clones don't even celebrate their factual birthdays anyway.  As a group, we celebrate a collective birthday on the anniversary of the First Battle of Geonosis.  (Your awful Terran computers keep correcting it to Genesis.  News flash toolbars, when your creator is a geek in a lab coat with an eye dropper and a petri dish, you learn to spot a cult a parsec away.  You, my little taint stains are in one...you have your fucking robots shilling for it for Hutt sake.)  It's a great holiday.  The gatherings have gotten sparse of late, the damn First order dumbfuckedly stopped using clones, but as many of us get together as we can find and start off with a toast: "BEGUN, THE CLONE WAR HAS!".  Slam, Shot, Whew!  Then the drinking begins in earnest. Long story short, it's an illegal holiday in the core systems.  First time I got banned from Coursicant.  I sodomized a bantha in the capital zoo while jazzed out on death sticks.  (speaking of which, you all got any death sticks?  YOU WANT TO SELL ME DEATH STICKS!)

     Right, the tanks.  Drugs later, drinking and writing now.  

     The first memories are a little fuzzy.  Flashes, screams, fire.  They played simulations into our undeveloped minds to jumpstart the warrior urge necessary for the clone zeitgeist.  My favorite image is scraping an ewok's face out with a melon scooper I had made out of my own gauntlets, turning his teeth into a rattle that gave me my first taste of music as I discovered the dance of my heart about a fire made of the ewok's fece filled intestines.  (it really is a shame clones are sterile, if I had children, I would never think of denying them the joy of such an upbringing.  Still have a biological clock, no seed. shame.  I mean, I assume we're sterile, never looked that up either, or used condoms.  So, yea.  I should look that up too.)

     One day, most likely on accident, we saw outside the dream.  We saw the real world.  Not just I mind you, all of us.  Our perpetually open fetal eyes fazed in the haze until the whole clone chamber was crisp and bright.  Rows, aisles, tubes full of bacta and little clone fetus' as far as our weeks old eyes could fathom.  We looked around at each other, confused eye contact here, there, all showing a look of "what the fuck?  Who the fuck? How the fuck? Where did all the ewok blood go?".  All of a sudden, there was a faint crack.  All eyes turned at once to a tank near the center of the chamber.  A nondescript blob of a clone whose face was as full of rage as its featureless head could express was pounding furiously at the walls of his tube.  Somehow that little, barely vertebrate mass has made a sliver appear in its tube, then a spider web.  It pounded until, like a purging Twi'lek at beach time, the bacta spewed forth from the fresh maw and when the flotsam had dispersed, a young clone, white and bloody, its black eyes almost as large as its head, stood tall on its premature legs and vestigial tail.  His unformed fist raised defiantly to the ceiling and somehow, against all biology, screamed out for all is brothers to hear:

     

 
     Clint wavered, fell, and with a squelchy whiff, expired.  We could hear each others thought in that moment.  Hole. E. Shit.  Those on the far wall looked up, those on the near turned to see what had caught their gaze.  Standing yokel mouthed in a window above, two tall necked q-tip looking motherfuckers we would come to know as Kaminoans stared dumbfounded.  In a sudden panic that ended when one of them struck a control we could not see, we all drifted back to the sea of ewok humors till the day of our birth.  It was batch ST's first break.

         Kamino "GAR" Cloning facility.  Re: Batch ST,
                         On site batch supervisors report errant behavior in pre formed gestational stage.  Foetal clone witnessed damaging and escaping gestation tank.  Further aberrations include premature speech capabilities, group think, early self awareness and ability to self terminate subconscious training program.  Supervisor suggests termination of batch, concurred by Kamino Cloning Board.  Ruling overridden by Client due to unsustainable present battlefield losses and budget constraints.  Order and processing for batch ST to continue to birthing stage per procedure.  Objections noted by Board and Supervising Technicians.

     Thus began the grand mistake of the Republic, Clone Batch ST.  Four or so months later I was scooped out.  To this day, I still don't know why we birth babies with scoops.  Do your people do that?  Because it's kinda fucked if you ask me.  at least my mom didn't have a vagina.  She was a tank. A wide one.  BAM!  haha, done, Death stick time.  FLY ME TO THE MOON!

Cloneword!

~35 ABY

From the erotic desk of Clone Trooper Clyde,  

   Howdy readers! I say readers, because you are one of the few people left in this galaxy with the excess leisure time to dedicate to such a costly and outmoded form of entertainment as paper book reading.  I mean seriously, y'all must be the biggest block of entitled assholes in the "far, far away".  We got holocrons, holograms, cantina bands, and super fly twi'lek girls, and your ass is sitting in some hundred thousand credit a fracto-cycle apartment on Couriscant, reading a damned book.  I fucking hate you.  Smug Bantha cum turds.

     My name is Clone Trooper Clyde.  You know that, its on the cover of the damned book.  I can get away with calling you Bantha butter, despite vehement opposition from my publisher and editor, because despite the bloodstripe shitting expanse of our galaxy, you've heard of me.  You want to know the Clone behind the ranging Bone.  You can know both, I promise.  But I warn you, those that know me, have nightmares about me (shout out to my boy Boba Chef, Holla!  Hows the therapy?).

    So why am I talking to you when I have a perfectly good  brothel to run?  Well, one day, a bunch of Quonkies (thats Quarren honkies for the uninitiated) came to me and asked me if I would be interested in writing, compiling, blah, a history of my life and exploits across the Clone wars, the Galactic Civil War, and whatever the fuck we're calling this latest mess of First Ordering? So I said 

  "What the hell a bunch a Squid people need damn books for?  You fish motherfuckers live in a damn ocean!  And don't give me no bullshit about holocron jibber jabber.  Every time there is a coup or something theres always somebody blowing them up or stealing them or some shit.  I know, I done it, like twice. There were fucking Jedi's swinging shit around like a buch of book layering Nazis or some shit.  It was loud and explody.  I'd rather do that honestly, I'm good at it. And then its lost forever.  Shit, we got all this technology, computers, none of its connected.  Theres got to be a series of tubes for that or something.  I ain't no Al Gore, who is a name I just made up.  I mean, these dumb fuckers lost all the maps of the galaxy in one damn R2 unit!  Who does that? New Republic my clone balls. " But then they said the money part. 

   "How much?" I asked.  They said

   "How much will it take?"  I drew them a technical chart.  See graphic 1a. (see "graphic").

1a.

Here we are, Just for the record, I phoned this in and everyone else worked very hard on it.  Enjoy you farts, until the next coup. Where I get to smash every copy.  Again.

Clonecerely, 

   Clone Trooper Clyde (ST-058)