Matilda.

     Once again, I have decided not to travel back to the beginning of my story because its my story and fuck you.  Besides, this is much more interesting.  Well, not interesting so much as what I’m going to write about anyway.  So once again, fuck you.  Yes, I have begun antagonizing you again and I don’t care.  Make me repeat myself a third time why dontcha?!

     Today’s Story is about the Battle of Felucia.  Let me set the scene for you if I may.  This is how your “Wookiepedia” describes the planet…no, first, let me ask: Seriously, Wookiepedia?  All the creativity, technology, and knowledge your people have and Wookiepedia is the best you can come up with?  Ya’ll are dumber than a holocron library.  This begs another question as well, did you miss something somewhere?  You managed to discover all of our stories, there have been a handful of us hiding here for ages, and you managed to miss all of our tech?  I mean, I get not having lightsabers, that is probably for the best, but I can’t find a blaster or blue milk anywhere?  What the ever loving fuck?  Considering the amount of money you people spend on weapons tech, it is down right embarrassing.  

This fucking thing.  Does it need to do that?

     To the point!  Wookiepenia says, Felucia: a colorful, humid jungle planet located in the Felucia system of the Outer Rim.  This statement is two things to me.  First, that people who name things in both our galaxies are lazy.  Second, Felucia is abso-cloning-lutely none of those things.  Colorful?  Sure, I guess beige green is a color.  Humid?  Yeah, if your definition of humid is a penis that suddenly developed the ability to excrete fluids on it exterior in a fashion similar to that of the interior of a vagina and that penis is also jammed in the taint space while strapped into a thick pair of armoried skivvies on a cold day on Mustafar.  For those of you who are uneducated, Mustafar is covered in lava.  All the days.  My point is, Felucia being called humid is of par for understatement of all time next to “Anakin Skywalker is a whiny lil bitch”.

Boo fucking you.

     If you know your history, and having followed the level of your people’s political discourse, I assume you do not, my part in the Battle of Felucia began when the 182nd Legion disappeared and the 501st was called in to find them and or carry out their mission.  Now there is a famous quote by an unidentified Clone Trooper made during the battle that said the 501st got the best and worst of the war.  The statement, though true, is arguably incorrect as far as Felucia is concerned.  Sure, it sucked.  But mostly it was just uncomfortable.  I hate plenty of places more.  Utapau, horrible highway system.  Polis Massa, too many weird baby scoops, like everywhere, its disconcerting. Naboo?  Shit, the place my not look it, but Naboo was one of the worst.  The architecture, the women, the fashion, the Gungans, all terrible.  None of that was the problem.  It was that damn capital city.  Theed.  Fuck Theed.  The damn Seps loved invading that place so fucking much, I swear the main courtyard is just all solidified blood and droid parts now.  We ended up stationing an entire fleet over the damn place just so we could stop liberating the fucking place every other week.  I’d rather be naked on Hoth with an aroused Tauntaun.

Who has time to undress this?

     Right, so we got down to the planet, Terrence kindly dropping us off in a Lartie and running back up to the ship like a shitbird, and start marching around like a we go nothing better to do in the known universe than invite jungle shaped pestilence upon ourselves.  The objective was vague.  Find the 182nd starting with their last known position.  A place that, once on the ground, was simply referred to as “that way”.  Resistance was overall light though persistent, which is one of only two ways to really describe clanker combat tactics, the other being heavy and insistent.  It cost us some time and clones, but seeing as we had just lost an entire legion on this crotch rot of a planet, I'm sure no one upstairs gave a banta fart.  To be be fair, it is a sizable amount of fart.  

     Eventually we come to a shallow river that cut across a gentle, unbubbletreed plain.  Please, do not get me started on the fucking bubble trees.  They are the Clone definition of “Just can’t even”.

Shut it down.

     Suddenly there is the loudest, dick-flacciding crescendo of screeches that coincided with an abrupt pause in blaster fire from the harassing clankers.  I assume for effect.  This effect worked.  Out of the forrest poured a skin crawling mass of Acklay.  Don’t know what an acklay is?  Good for you.  And pouring is only slightly figurative.  it was like watching the floor when you turn on the lights and your earth roaches skitter off into the darkness, but instead of darkness, they’re skittering towards fleshy clones.  Four legged green tooth monsters descended upon us as the droids resumed their fire, their metal bodies impervious to the mouthlust of the Acklay.  I could hear Boba ready his blaster rifle as he muttered something I recall as “I shall survive to savor your flesh”.  Me, I did the only logical thing I could.  I found the nearest Clone with a rocket launcher, relieved him of it, and kicked him into the maw of an approaching deathsteacean to buy myself some aiming time.  I loosed the rocket, the result of which was reported in the sound of Boba screaming “Wiiiiiiiiiifff!” at me, the rocket impacting harmlessly on a fungal tree on the opposite bank.  Here, it looked like the untimely desiccation of yours truly.

No, not at all like that.

     The world darkened and everything became silence.  Fortunately, the darkness was caused by my visor being covered with bug entrails and the silence was me going deaf from a massive explosion mere feet from my Cloneself.  And yes, the Far, Far Away uses imperial measurements, surprised?  I wipe the guts off of my visor after realizing they were there not because I was inside of them to see a big, fuck off AT-TE sauntering lazily through the mess, splattering Acklay across its line of sight like a truck through a locust swarm.  Oddly, the ass of the walker had a picture of a clone helmet on it with the name Matilda written underneath it in cursive.  I assume that was the name of the walker, as there are unfortunately no clone women.  I wish there were, however.  I’d find me a sweet little Clone Trooper Caroline or something and we’d make some really weird Cloneoraphic films.  Or not.  There are a lot of Clorno’s out there and most of them are pretty damn weird.  I don’t think even I and my limitless talents could top their professionalism…Haha, Top.

And you think our armor is impractical.

     Matilda did a once around, clearing the river valley for us.  As it did, we pumped our fists to the sky, letting out a grand Clone Cry of appreciation.  Matilda reciprocated, its forward guns waggling at us in a silly approximation, looking much like a bug herself with the gesture, before walking onward into the jungle to continue giving the Seps hell.  So, in summation, Thank you Matilda, wherever you are, for saving this clones life.  And Boba’s, I guess.

     Tip your clone drivers kids, it pays back in the end.

Clone Crew Roll Call!

     Now that I’m done chewing y’all asses about your dumb Republic, it’s high time I got on with the history lesson. Yes, I am well aware that the events surrounding Order 66, the Galactic Civil Wars, and you going to fuck yourselves, are all history, but I’m talking about mine.  This particular story for these Quarren fish folkers that I am being paid a literal money shot’s worth of credits to write.  Chances are that I blew my particular wad with that last bit since I’m pretty sure that was the only part of my trek down history lane that any of you cared about.  It’s certainly one of my favorite moments, if only because I got to do a lot of non-discriminate killing that day.  But there are plenty of other wonderful things besides killing, like whoring, drinking, arson, boy do I love arson, so please stick around.  I know you love these things as much as I do, or you wouldn’t be here, you garbage monster of a fucking person.

You fat turd.

     No story of my exploits would be possible without mentioning some of the players involved.  My Clone Running Crew, if you will, and I want to introduce them to you now before anything else goes down.  Yes, there is probably a more organic way to go about this, but they’re my homies damnit, and if there is one good thing about being a clone, besides the cripplingly larger blaster (my clone dong to the dense among you) that I have to carry, is rolling hella deep.  LAAT?  30 deep.  Tour buses?  40 deep.  Star destroyers?  Hell. A. Deep.  Clone Trooper Clyde and the Rolling Clones, not that I’m sure that’s what we called ourselves? Five deep. Sure, It’s not hella deep, but combined we are like the mad illinest group of galactic badasses you ever accidentally pissed on the shoes of.

This Fucking Guy.

     Boba Chef, you know, you love, and you love his cooking.  The man can disintegrate a rebel or lightly pan sear a tuna steak with the exact same effortless flick of the wrist.  I mean, it helps that he has flame throwers on said wrists, but its still impressive, especially when compared to my sloppy, heavy-handed accident of an ass.

T-Dizzle, T-Dawg, T-do-Baggins.

     After Boba, we’ve got my man, TIE pilot Terrence.  Terrence wasn’t originally TIE Pilot Terrence, he used to be Clone Pilot Terrence, because we didn’t used to have TIE fighters you shit heads, we had ARC-170’s.  Terrence and I met during the battle of Kashyyyk when the 501st was pressed into service as starfighter pilots in an attempt to break the Sep blockade.  I hadn’t driven a speeder bike before that day, much less a starfighter, and we didn’t even have the troopers to fully man the 170’s, which are normally three man fighters.  One clone per bird, and I had the good fortune to have Terrence as my wingman.  More accurately, I was his wingman because I am dangerous, man.  I fell in love with it.  Even though I was a rookie, the skies over Kashyyyk were such a target rich environment that I became a quintuple ace that day.  27 droid kills and only four friendlies.  Missiles are dumb and usually three clones control one of those things, I take no responsibility.  Also, the wide open space of…space, made me wrecking my shit all over the cosmos fairly easy to avoid.  Unfortunately, after the battle my application to the starfighter corps was rejected due to myself being classified as “irresponsibly destructive” and “improbably accident prone”.  These qualities also kept my careers as a flame trooper, dark trooper, and AT-AT driver relatively short.  I did get to drive a speeder eventually.  Exploded six before I gracefully bowed out.  Point is, Terrence and I became fast friends.  Boba, Terrence, and I are the original Clone core of the crew.

Fucking Steve, Steve is such a stupid name, like Luke.

     Stormtrooper Steve is one of the younger and…gag…natural born members of our squad.  He came in after the clones were decommissioned from being the bulk of the Imperial Army.  Boba and I met him before the Battle of Yavin during his later training years.  Boba and I had been working as instructors for the new “natural born” units and this little buggaboo was a straight up tool.  He followed us everywhere, even took to emulating me of all role models.  Not sure why, we probably ruined that poor boys life, but it was fun to ruin one of the Empires new “finest”, and we felt it was our responsibility to keep the small tradition of train wreck troopers going on into the future.  He may not be one of us, but he one of us.

Not pictured, Qui-Gon Baca.

     Lastly, there is a Jedi by the name of Qui-Gon Baca.  Yes, he’s a Jedi and we all have great animosity to those pompous tools, but we didn't meet until I came to this stink hole of a planet somehow rife with humans despite being so remote from my galaxy, and there is apparently a point at which animosity has to clone by the wayside.  That point, it turns out, is being a banillion light years away from everything you know.  I asked him what he was doing here when we first met.  After a brief attempt at killing each other, of course.  It was in the parking lot of a Chili’s, a restaurant we both turned out to hate quite a lot.  We were waiting in a line that was inexplicably out the door when we bumped into each other.  We both turned around to apologize when we recognized each other.  I’d seen him in a few holocrons after 66 about jedi that were still on the loose.  He recognized me because, duh, all clones look a fucking like.  I pulled a blaster, he force pushed me, I rolled a thermal detonator at his feet, he threw a car at me, the Chili’s exploded, aw man it was awesome.  we bonded over a bottle of whisky in the parking lot as we watched that Chili’s fucking burn.  He told me the reason he was here was because it was “Far, far away”. Obviously.  

     There you have it, my running crew.  Don’t forget kids, friends make the world go ‘round, because life’s not all about girls and cars, getting fucked up in fucked up bars.  MC Chris said that.  Look him up.  Smart man. Next week, Felucia, or Kashyyyk, something.  Dark memories there I didn’t feel like exploring just yet so I appreciate you letting me talk about something simple.  I’m not crying…CLONE TROOPER CLYDE!

Afterthoughts on 66

     Clyde can hear y'all bitching in the background.  “But you didn’t explain why Clyde?  How could you kill all the Jedi?  Don’t you know your actions helped bring about the dark times?  The EMPIRE!?  You didn’t even like Vader!”  To that, Clyde thinks y'all fuckers look at history through taint colored glasses.  Just in case you're confused, I don’t mean to say that the lenses on your glasses are tainted, like smudged or shit.  I’m saying that the skin between your ball’gina and butthole has been removed and draped over your eyes.  Just, wrapped, right around your head.  Stretched beyond its bodily constraints so it can stretch about your bantha testicle sized head and fasten in a knot, but still thick enough to cover your gaze.  The remnants of your Dagobah ass from your daily jog seeping behind your sockets, clouding your minds ability to view historical events objectively.  I hope my metaphor cleared that shit up for you.

                                            You’re basically this guy.

     Let me break this down all academical like.  Thesis: The Republic sucked ass, was terrible, and also blew.  Let get that sad sack of an idea out of the way.  “Oh, Clyde, but it was a more civilized age, with more elegant weapons, and Jedi!  Oh, the Jedi were great, and you killed them!”  Uh….Huh.  Really?  First off, I’m not going to get into the whole “Jedi are a bunch of weird child kidnapping pederasts” thing.  Better academics and basement dwelling man children have paved that road a million times.  You know what proves that the republic sucks ass more than any kind of economic or quality of life study ever could?  I’ll tell you.  Imagine I’m sing-shouting this in the worst falsetto you’ve ever heard.  “No-Huh-ah-one would ah-Fi HIIIIIIGHT for AhhITTTT”!  

     No one would fight for it. Not even the jedi.  Don’t believe me?  Then go ask the mother fucking dishes.

     Seriously, nobody cared about The Republic.  Before Emperor Palpatine, before the clones and the first Galactic Civil War, The Republic was already dead and the “Seps were the only people who knew it.  I mean, the money wasn’t good anywhere, racial stereotypes had taken form and were walking around unslaughtered, and basic trust had just disappeared.  Do you remember what started all this?  The blockade of Naboo.  See, I knew you didn’t remember, because it was dumb.  Queen Pandabear says “Hey, I’m blockaded”, everyones like “Are you sure?”  They send jedi, who are almost murdered, come back and say “yup”, then people are still all like “Are you sure you’re sure?  Let’s talk about this”.  The Naboobans (you know what, I’m not gonna giggle and boob, you don’t deserve it) deal with it themselves, and everyone is pissed about something and a war breaks out because it can’t be proven that the Trade Federation, which is somehow its own federation and a part of The Republic, wasn’t attacked while casually minding its own business in orbit around Naboo.  Filthy Naboo.  

This.  Do you remember this?  No one could prove this.  That you are looking at.

     When the walls came crumbling down, the you know who they called?  The jedi.  You know what the jedi said?  “Nope”.  What did they do?  They found us.  Why?  Better question, we had to be found.  Yes, not a question.  WE, the Clones.  The A’s through the ZZZ’s  When The cohesion of The Republic was threatened, not a single citizen stood up to defend it.  Not even that, they weren’t even asked because the politicians and the Jedi knew that not a soul would offer.  That sucks.  So what in the ever loving fuck were my brothers and I even fighting for?  Who were we fighting for?  We were flesh, fighting an army of deathbots.  Sure they were shitty death bots, but there were seriously a fuckshitfuckton of them.  There was no high minded ideal, not creed or cause.  There wasn’t even anyone back home to fight for.  

     The Jedi?  Sure, the Jedi were okay.  Oh, wait, no they weren’t.  Sure, Obi-Wan cared, Anakin was when he shut his mouth and focused anywhere but on his dumb wife, Ayla Secura was great.  You can’t survive swarms of rampaging Acklay without bonding with anyone who helped with that insanity.  In fact, it’s where Boba came up with his recipe for Acklay Stew, sweet, sweet revengey stew.  Most of the Jedi, however, were content to just let us die by the thousands.  You can always grow more.

     Lastly, Palpatine.  Through those taint colored glasses of yours, you see the man who destroyed the free and diverse Republic.  The man who killed the Jedi.  The man who brought about the great and dark empire of the Sith.  Sure.  He did all these things.  He did worse.  Yes, his regime was racist, intolerant, brutal, generally horrible.  You deserved it.  The Republic, all these beautiful things you claim to love and cherish, was just an old toy that you broke and left on the floor to scream at when you later hurt your foot on it.  All Papa Palpatine did was take your toy and put it away.  It was a toy you were all too immature to have and you have the arrogance to blame him for it.  Fuck you.

     Do you see what I’m getting at?  The wonderful toy that you abused, do you know who really loved it?  Who played with it and appreciated it?  We did.  Clones.  We were born to love it.  We fought and died for it.  We were it’s true and only Citizens  We sacrificed and bled and when Palpatine took it away, he kept us, made us part of the Empire because we helped build it.  It was ours.  It was hard and brutish because we didn’t want you to take it away and ruin it just like you did the last time.  

                                            Patriotism.  Clones have it.

     And now it’s over.  I hope you learned your lessons, because the First Order is a bunch of petulant whiney babies.  So far it doesn’t seem like you have.  The Senate is dead again.  Good job.  Fuck.  Ass.

     Clyde mad.  I didn’t want to get all emotional.  Pedantic and shit.  But yeah.  Clone Life!  I’m going to go fuck now and think about you.  Think about me next time you pick up a blaster and what it can mean. GAAAAAAAH!  Boba!  Dinner! Tip-Yip me Brah!  Oh, and check out his Blog/Cookbook, bobachef.blogspot.com  Clyde ain’t afraid to shamelessly shill.   

Order 66, because I'd have done it for free.

     Alright, I’m going to jump ahead here real fast and answer the nagging, insistent, and fucking let it go already question: “Clyde, where were you during Order 66?”.  Along with that, I also get: “Did you kill Jedi’s?  Did you murder any children?  How can you just blindly follow orders like that?”.  First off, yes, I did murder children.  Just not that day.  Although they are easy pickin’s, they fall hella funny when you blast’em.

     On the day in question, as some of you may already know, the little bitty microchips the Sith had managed to implant in all of Clones were activated and we all felt an undeniable impulse to kill all the Jedi at the behest of the Emperor Pederast.  I have a lot of issues with this.  First off, there are two Sith, right?  Two.  How in far, far, awaysville do they ever manage these fucking conspiracies?  They took a clone program they didn’t know about, usurped it after stumbling onto it some? how?  and then managed to develop, program, and mass produce a computer chip that, without any testing, is not only safe for human implantation (unless they changed our genome to be more compatible with the chip), but is also 100% effective at manipulating the thoughts of clones that are ALREADY genetically modified to be loyal and unquestioning!?  How is that even a thing?  Ok, so that was like all the things, but you get my point.

     There I am, on Couriscant with the rest of the 501st, when all of a sudden our chips go off.  All at once, everybody else but me just stands up, all clanker like and shit, and there I’m sitting and someones talking to me.  

                                                        But sexier.

     “ST-058, Execute order 66.  Exit your barracks and join your unit and proceed to the Jedi Temple for mission execution.”  I look around and I’m all alone.  I figure, well Clyde, this is it, its butterfly net time.  Might as well go the full Yoda and answer the disembodied voice. 

     “I’m good.  Gonna just sit here, have a fap, I guess”.  But it JUST KEPT DRONING ON!

     “ST-058, Execute order 66.  Exit your barracks and join your unit and proceed to the Jedi Temple for mission execution.”  It was kinda a sexy voice tho,very polite, and it did mention killing.  I figured “What the fuck”, grabbed my Flechette shotgun and was about to head out the door when I noticed my good buddy Boba Chef (pre chef, mind you) just sitting there, perusing a holocron or some shit.  Do we have books in this galaxy?  I’m still not sure, everything is some kinda holo bullshit, its myopia inducing.  

     “YO, Boba, you gonna do what the voice says or what?  He looks at me like I’m just a bag of hammers in a Clone suit.

     “What the fuck are you talking about man?”

     “You don’t hear that voice telling you to go kill all the jedi?” I asked him. “I mean, everyone else is doing it.  Don’t think its weird that all the guys just got up at once, walked out?”  

     “Well” He replied.  “Normally, the weird thing would be you kipping off about some voice in your head telling you to kill people.  But since you randomly kill so many people offhandedly as is, I kind assumed that was going on anyway.  And the guys get up and do stuff all together all at once all the time.  Kinda a clone army thing.  And no, no voice.  I’m unmodified, remember?  But, a jedi killed my dad, so, sure, I guess.  This holocron is dicks anyway.  Lets go.”

Boba grabbed his blaster and arm in arm we skipped out the door to catch up with the rest of the 501st.  Long story short, after marching through the all the streets of Couriscan, seriously, we have all the damn hover fucking cars, starships, larties, I MEAN HAVE YOU SEEN THE SKIES OVER COURISCANT?!?!?!, and we’re walking!, we get to the Jedi temple.  Spoiler alert, some of this empire shit ain’t quite worth it.  Go where the free killing is boys and girls. We get there, and of course, Anakin Fucking Skywalker is there.  I hate that guy.  He’s a total soppy swatch of Twi’lick (see what I did there?).

                                       Anakin, Noun.  Definition: Twat.

     Out of nowhere he’s calling himself “Darth Vader”, his eyes are orange, I figure he’s either five minutes from an early death by liver disease he’s so damned jaundiced and loopy, and orders us all inside with him at the fore.

     Now, Despite the Darth Vader bit, I have to say, we were pretty jazzed up about the whole thing.  Here we are, the most bad ass, galaxy conquering, shiny white army time and space have ever seen, marching into the den of the most badass wizards to have ever existed for a blast down, dick out fight for the fate of the galaxy.  It was fucking awesome.  You know in that movie you all saw about this exact thing I’m talking about how when we all marched into the Jedi Temple the Imperial March was playing?  Yeah, that wasn’t a soundtrack.  That was us.  Clones have mad Accapella skills so, you don’t even know.

                    BwaaaBwaaaBwaaaaBwaBwaBwaBwaBwaBWAAAAAA!

     “Vapid” tells everybody to spread out and start killing people, which is easy at first since the Jedi certainly weren't expecting their loyal clones to go all “Order 66” on them as they call it nowadays and most of them were walking around unarmed.  Not like Jedi need to be armed, I mean they’re fucking magic, but I can only assume they’re kinda bad at the magic bit all deaths considered.  I mean, numbers aside, we really shouldn’t have walked out of there at all considering they can crush your all of you with their minds and shit.  So, good news I guess.  Point is, “Vaginer” says he’s gonna go upstairs and take care of a small problem.  I was curious as to what this all powerful dingus of the Sith thought was so important that he would pass up all this madness, so I followed him.

     I really wish I hadn’t.  Mostly because It was the most glorious arson party I’d ever been invited to that I hadn’t gotten myself thrown out of for being so good at arson.  Columns and shit were exploding and falling all over the place, Cornered Jedi running in packs, charging mindlessly towards clusters of clones, not giving a fuck if thermal detonators got stuck to them and just fucking exploding all the everyone all over the place.  I have never seen so many curtain fires in my life.  Not that It also required the place to have more curtains than I’d ever seen in my life, but I digress.  I get up to where the Masturbator of the Sith is going and it turns out the whole thing is just one horrible murderpun.  Ding nozzle musta picked up that bad habit from Obi-Wan’s school teacher ass.  I have no idea how Commander Cody ever out up with his shit.  This small problem is all the younglings.  Fucking snot nosed little gaggle of kidnapped child soldiers is what the Dork Lord thinks is so important.  Shit is such a taintwreck.  I mean, sure, killing kids is great, but its the icing on the cake.  Kinda like how you pick a girl because of how awesome she is.  Her being into anal is the frosting on the cloner, not the reason to bone her.  

     Little fucker just walks up to him “Master Skywalker, theres too many of them, what are we going to do?”  and dipstick just starts cutting all their bowl cut little heads off.  With a vengeance too.  I don’t get it.  Dude was gonna be a dad soon.  It was like, how some of you people complain that two dudes getting married will ruin the specialness of your marriage, he was killing younglings like they were making his kids less special.  That was it.  Donezo, out.  I just, stood there for a bit, watched him work, he was killing little breedspwans after all, still fun, but I just up and left.  Went outside to a nearby landing pad and popped a squat to be alone with meh clone thoughts.  I found Boba sitting there already.  Poor guy musta had a snap too I suppose. 

     “Hey budba” I says to him. “How ya doin’?”  He doesn’t look up.

     “I dunno man, This whole thing. Bad fucking idea man.”  Yeah.

     “Yeah, I hear ya buddy, not exactly what I expected.”  He finally looks at me.

     “I’m getting out, I’m gonna do something else, maybe get into bounty hunting like my dad.  Maybe take up cooking.  I’ve kinda always wanted to be a chef, actually.”  Made sense to me.  I just nodded.  A fancy, opened top speeder pulls up and Lo and Behold, his high and mighty sexiness, Senator Bail Organa pulls up.  Bad timing, but there is something about Alderrainans that really get the blood pumping straight into my little trooper.  Men, women, even their mynocks, just sexy as shit.  Bail, no small exception. 

                                                         Grrrrrrrrrth.

     For some reason, some Gung ho Johnny come Trooplately pulls a blaster on him!  Tells him to fuck off!  I mean, I’m at half chub, rude.  Suddenly, out of nowhere, some teeny bopper Jedi flies out and starts hacking these troopers right to the short and clonies.  Obviously Bail freaks right the fuck out.  This wasn’t exactly a “let people in on it” kind of operation so a sabershocked clone stats blasting away at Bail.  Almost kills senator Organa, right in front of me, it was hella sad!  Thankfully that speeder got him free and clear, but not before something snapped in old Clyde.  I was pissed.  Kill. Must. Do. Go.  I got up.  Walked back inside.  Fighting.

     Let me preface this last bit by saying that there is a reason I grabbed my flechette blaster shotgun instead of my standard issue blaster.  You may have noticed that Jedi are really good at blocking and deflecting blaster shots.  Easy way to get dead.  Not a fan.  Know what jedi can’t block so good?  All the blaster bolts.  You draw on his ass, he gets all “pose for style”, this he got this clone thing in the bag (hehe, clone thing, bag, in).  Then BLAM!  No more jedi.  Or more Jedi depending how you look at the data.  For the rest, I’ll let the Douche bag of the Sith tell it like it was.  On the record brah, I’m bad ass.

     Record of Anakin Skywalker, Darth Vader.  Subject: Knightfall.

     The battle for the temple was coming to a close.  I had returned to the main concourse from my task of securing the antechambers to find a young jedi giving a large group of troopers a significant amount of stubborn resistance.  Knight Pal Jerrood.  Not powerful, but extremely focused and adept at deflection and defensive saber techniques.  Very elegant and flowing form.  Despite the large volume of fire directed from a position of total encirclement, Knight Jerrood was untouched.  He was deep in a trance reciting a jedi focus mantra.  I was striding towards the fray to put and end to his destructive resistance.  I could hear him over the din of blaster fire.

     “Fear leads to anger, Anger leads to hate, Hate leads to…”  It was broken by the screaming voice of a clone approaching from my right.

     “CLONE!”  A blaster shotgun was discharged into Jerroods left thigh.  He went down to his knees, lashed out with his saber, catching the clone in the visor, which cracked, exposing the clones bloodshot, wrathsome eye.

     “TROOPER!” A second blast took Jerrood’s saber arm to the molecular realm. The trooper stood over his victim, the barrel of his blaster leveled directly at his face.

     “CLYDE!”  A final blast ended both the jedi and the spectacle.  Clone Trooper Clyde.  Someone will be held accountable for letting that insane menace onto my unit.  I had thought him dead.  He walked off and I let him.  Another time.  Trooper RX-2482 asked me if I would like the fugitive trooper apprehended.  I told him no.  I didn’t want any part of that hot mess.

     You hear that ladies?  Insane?  Hot mess?  

                                       I’m on the market, price reduced.