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.
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