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!
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