CHUCK NORRIS AND THE REVENGE OF THE SPACE MARTIANS FROM SPACE

Prompt: "My eyes slipped away from the baggie onto the man asking, 'You ever had your bunghole licked by a man in an overcoat?'"

"You bastard!" I yelped, my fist colliding with the side of his head. He stumbled back a pace, raising a hand to shift his bowler hat back into position, though his odd smile never slipped.

"I take it you have, then?" He continued. "Excellent. Then you can confirm for me the contents of that bag,"

"As if I would-"

"Sir! We have an emergency!"

"What is it, McLlama?" The man's eyes snapped towards the tall, heaving figure in the doorway. "If you've interrupted this meeting for nothing, I swear I'll put your eye out with my cigarette,"

Smoke curled away from the cigarette menacingly. A small breeze drifted in from the closed window, whipping it into a torrent of greys, blues and whites, drifting towards McLlama's face. He gulped.

"The very fate of the world rests upon your decision, Frank-san," A new voice said. "Give it to me harder," A girl appeared behind the shaggy figure of McLlama, promptly disappearing again in a swirl of pink ribbons and curls.

I liked her accent.

Frank-sempai, or whatever the hell his name was, slammed his meaty fist down onto the table, knocking over a vase of broken fingers and chrysanthemums, not caring that they would probably stain the pale pine with blood. Still, the Legion could probably afford a new pine table. Pine tastes like shit, anyway.

"Dammit, McLlama! How the fuck am I supposed to get some ass around here if you keep cock-blocking me?" He yelled. Spittle drenched the put-upon McLlama from across the room.

"But Sir-" McLlama began, shuffling uncomfortably. Clearly the erection in the front of his bizarre trousers was giving him some trouble, a problem I was sure he was familiar with.

"No buts!" Frank-kun shouted. "I want the shit cleaned out of your paddock by the end of the day,"

"Sir! This situation is critical! If you don't send reinforcements, soon, the whole world will be-"

"Shut up, McLlama," A metallic, lilting voice said. My head whipped around towards the source of the noise. The computer on the desk I had been bent over flickered to life, and the face of a shockingly beautiful, yet strangely coloured, woman appeared. "And you, Chaucer! Don't you know how to speak?"

"I would speak if I knew the question," I replied meekly.

"But if you knew the question to answer the questioning of the answer would be answered," She spoke sagely. I instantly trusted this woman, despite her status as a disembodied head. Disembodied heads could often be useful, even if they were generally lacking full capabilities in sexual prowess.

"Commander-chan-" McLlama cried, despair warping the harsh coo of his wail.

"That's it!" Roared Frank-sama. "I'm getting the sink plunger!"

And then the small bird flew into the window, and racist insults were heard across the country.

"Chaucer! This is your work, isn't it?" Shrieked the face, eyes glowing pink with the fires of unspoken tyranny. There was not an atom in the universe that was not intimidated, timbers shivering within the bodies of even the hardiest space-pirates. Commander-chan was truly fearsome.

"Die, you motherfucker!" Frank-tan ejaculated, wielding the unholy sink plunger with virile abandon. As he rammed the hard, thick shaft of his plunger into the Commander-chan's gaping socket, a chorus of dying angels wailed from the distant planet of Fuckreign-X. It was music to my nose.

And then David Cameron boned Nick Clegg.

Fin.