Welcome once again to State Og, where the customer isn't just a number. He or she is also a serial code and a needlessly radioactive tracking device implanted at the base of their skull. Thanks this week go to Michael "Slash And Burn" Hollenbeck.
State Og Special Report: Coeur D'Bang goes Bust, Triggers Troglodyte Holocaust
On August 1, 2003, five men boarded the subterranean exploration vehicle Holaris, bound for the earth's molten core. Had they known that the core was molten, they probably wouldn't have gone, but I guess hindsight is 20/20. Their mission's objective was simple: drill to the center of the earth, deposit a doomsday weapon acquired in a perfectly legal fashion from a nice old lady down the street, and return to the surface to deliver our ultimatum to the United Nations Security Council: Make with the swag, you bastards, or we blow the whole fucking planet into nothing. Or, since we're not sure exactly how great a doomsday weapon it is, close enough to nothing to make things very uncomfortable for all concerned.
Early projections indicated that the Holaris, a 1972 Ford Pinto with a shovel bolted to the hood, would breach the earth's crust and enter the mantle in just under eight hours. After six months, when they had barely reached the four mile point, it began to become apparent that perhaps the Holaris was not as well-suited to the task as previously thought. Having run out of provisions three days before, the crew drew straws to decide who would be eaten. But when the token fat guy didn't draw the long straw, they were forced to dispense with the democratic facade and strangle him with the seat belt.
Disaster, having long loomed over the Project, stopped fucking around and got down to business just two days later when the crew unexpectedly broke through the rock into a massive subterranean cavern. The Holaris, not designed with a fifty-foot fall or rear-end collision in mind, was smashed up beyond operability. The token uptight, by-the-book guy that no one really liked was killed instantly. The rest of the crew, not so lucky, was stranded with no chance of rescue and no one left who was really worth eating after they'd finished what was left of the fat guy. To make matters even worse, they soon found that they were not alone.
The cavern was populated with millions of filthy mole people, scrabbling about in the dark, feeding on whatever they could get their claws on, sliding off their silver hotpants and fornicating with whoever passed by without regard to relation or even gender. Almost identical to Alabama, really, except for the thin veneer of civilization and acceptable standards of personal hygeine.
Higher standards of hygeine than adhered to by the crew of the Holaris, at any rate, who were crawling with everything you could possibly imagine. Listen, you just can't get quality people to go on a suicide mission to the center of the earth so you can blackmail the UN for money they'll never see a dime of. I know, because we tried. At any rate, the mole people's little pampered pussy immune systems couldn't handle them and they started dying off in droves. If the note attached to that severed head they sent up to us is any indication, the survivors aren't very happy with us surface-dwelling types right about now. Not unless "We're going to come up there and kill all of you assholes" means something completely different in mole-speak.
Woops. Chalk this one up to bad judgment on our part, I guess. No one's perfect.
Oh crap, they have the doomsday device too. I completely forgot about that part, what with all the talk about the eating of fat persons and moleman grabass. Again, bad judgment on our part.
Sorry about that. I know we say this every time we doom humanity to slavery and possible extermination at the hands of hideous mutants from beneath, beyond, behind, slightly-to-the-side-of or above something-or-other, but this time we really mean it. Seriously, we really feel terrible about it. We thought about sending a card, but that just seemed so trite and phony. That, and while we may be sorry, we're not $2.50 sorry.- State Og Representative
The guns are gone. Now what happens to all those paper targets? Don't tell me you forgot about the paper targets. The ones hanging from little clips on fancy clotheslines at shooting ranges. With no guns to destroy these legions of paper bastards, they go unchecked.
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A sign proclaiming "BACTA: DA FUTURE" marks the town's medical clinic
1998: I upload dave.pcx, and change the course of history
Set goals for yourself, and fulfill them. Absurd! Only in video games!
State Og... what is it? Who knows! Where do they operate? No clue! All we know is they're fairly evil, and nobody dares question the might of State Og!