Reds fanfic
- Thread starter E. Burke
- Start date
Bookmark1995
Banned
The FBU could be portrayed as Britain and France in a hilariously dysfunctional marriage.
UK: "France, you strumpet, where were you?!"
(Behind her are a bag of sex toys, with UASRball's picture on them)
France: "Ta gueule, rosbif!"
Redshank Galloglass
Banned
I feel like the Polandball version of the UASR would be a schizophrenic or someone with bipolar disorder: A sex freak and free spirited dude at home, but when war comes he changes his personality and turns into the sunglasses wearing bomb throwing champion of the proletariat.
Someone make these comics now.
Someone make these comics now.
Bulldoggus
Banned
With Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Belgium, and the Netherlands as obnoxious children, North Italy as a senile grandfather, and West Germany as a psychotic uncle.
I don't really read Polandball (I have a friend who does), so I wouldn't know.
Given how Mattei tended to operate as a filmmaker, it wouldn't surprise me if he was specifically intending to rip off Gor, if the books are still written ITTL.
Yeah, but Amazons turned into something completely different after Wertmuller got the reins.
Also, I kind of doubt the Gor books would still be written ITTL.
Redshank Galloglass
Banned
This was a really old thing I wrote on the great Crusade thread before I learned of this thread. Figured I'd move it here. Its really sensationalist at times, but I'm still proud of it consdering it was one of my first fan pieces.
Excerpts from Smedley Butler's War Is A Racket: Fighting the wars for big business (San Francisco: Black Flag Press, 1935)
"I remember the Great War. I remember the almost alien landscapes, the green fields of France deformed and violated from the constant earth shaking barrages of artillery. I remember the conditions in the trenches, the dysentery, the trench rot, the sheer wetness of it all. I remember the carnage, of waves upon waves of men feasted upon by the Browning 1915 and the French 75. I remember the furious melee, where blood flowed like wine at a congregation on the Sabbath. But there's is one experience about my time in the Great War that transcends remembrance. I fear that I will bear it to my grave.
I remember the hatred.
I remember man's blind indifference to his fellow man.
It was November 1916, somewhere down the southern flank of the Somme. We were moved from our defenses in the North to reinforce the French Sixth Army, who was getting hammered by counterattacks from the German Second Army. their previous assaults on the German Lines got torn up by German 105s and they weren't getting reinforcements for another two weeks. from what I'd heard from the French junior officers, it seemed like a complete disaster. tens of thousands of men shredded by German anti infantry artillery fire. what little forces they still had were responsible for defending against Fallkenhayn's assault troops, real elite forces, apparently called stormtroopers by the British. the French needed everybody left to defend their strongpoints along their southernmost flank. this left us to pick up whatever was left in the North of the French sectors.
It was a Wednesday. like any normal day really, as normal as you could get living in a Trench in a land that was not yours. I was on the line with my commanding officer, who told me that the logistics trains would arrive to reinforce our lines on one month. this, while irritating, wasn't really a problem at the time.My men were stocked on munitions and supplies to last us six weeks, and the U.S fourth Army loaned us some Browning 1915's a month ago. my real problem was manpower. my men, while battle hardened veterans, were still human, and I was losing them every day. reinforcements would not come for another week.
But we were holding. We had fought off small German incursions for minimal casualties. It looked like we were going to get off easy at this post. the same could not be said for many other units.
Unfortunately, that was not the case. that Wednesday would become one of the most brutal confrontations I would ever take part in.
It started at 3pm that day, with a short barrage of howitzer fire striking our lines. the barrage either landed too short of the target or overshot our trenches, causing us no casualties in the barrage. however, it became clear that the barrage was only a small portion of what was to come. as the dust settled, we heard whistles and cries of "Ubertrieben!*" and suddenly, a large wave of German infantry came pouring out at us like a wall, so fast that none of us knew what had happened for a moment. when we came to our senses, adrenaline and training kicked in. I shouted to my junior officers, telling them "Get the fucking machine guns up RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!!" they obeyed, and in less than 5 minutes we were pouring automatic fire into the German assault. our fire was far too accurate for them, and they fell in heaps of mauled and bleeding bodies, the machine guns ripping them apart. within ten minutes the attack was over, and all that was left was a field of gore.
We relaxed. Msgt Daly informed me of the logistical expenses. We were about to inform command when we heard shouting and gunshots on our northern flank.
It became clear to me that the massed frontal assault was just a ruse. while most of our people were tied up fighting the Kaiser's infantry, German stormtroopers snuck around and attacked our northern flank, which was filled primarily with support personnel. knowing time was of the essence, I grabbed a model 1897 trench shotgun and told Daly to arm himself and take two men to help me defend the North sector. he grabbed two corporals, who also armed themselves with trench guns, and he accompanied me to reinforce our northern flank.
Let me tell you something about the trench gun. It saved my life several times in the Great War. the perfect weapon for the cramped close quarters battles of the Western Front, in slam fire* mode it was like having a machine gun in your hands. my men, by this time in the War full socialists, still thanked the bourgeois government for providing them with these guns. the Germans hated them, and issued an order to execute any captured american soldiers found with these guns. hypocrites the lot of them. say what you want of the evils of the bourgeois government, but we didn't introduce the flamethrower or poison gas.
We advanced through the trenches at a furious pace, gunning down any Stormtroopers in our path. They were quality soldiers, on par with us, but their bayoneted rifles were inferior to our shotguns in the cramped trenches. They still fought ferociously though, and at times, we locked into hand to hand combat. I remember one German actually counted the shots I was firing, and when I stopped to reload he grappled with me for control of the weapon. A stroke to the jaw sent him flying to the ground, and a slug to the face left him dead. He was no older than 20.
Hellish business, war.
After taking care of the Stormtroopers, we arrived at the central command post for the northern flank, a wide open area that would look like a square if viewed from above. In it, we found carnage. At least ten Marines were dead, with triple that number of dead Germans. Half of my men stationed at this post were dead. Standing on the opposite wall of the trench was a German officer executing what remained of my men.
The bastard had the air of Junker around him. Clean shaven, Medals proudly displayed on his uniform, peaked cap polished and shined, and a smug sneer as he slowly aimed his Luger and pulled the trigger on weeping youths. These were men that could have been saved. Men that were no threat. He was not doing this out of mercy or fear, he was doing this for pleasure. His association with the German aristocracy was revealed when he spoke in coherent English to the last man remaining, a sergeant. "You Yankees will never learn to stop meddling in Europe's affairs." He said, as he raised his gun to the sergeants head. "Have you any last words, you socialist degenerate?" He said nothing, but he did not weep. He merely looked the gun barrel in the eye, and in an act of defiance, spat upon the Junker's boots. The Junker snarled and pulled the trigger, and the sergeant crumpled to the ground dead.
I have no good explanation of why we stood there and watched him kill our brothers. It may have been cowardice. Or disbelief. Or maybe it was the pure, blind rage and hatred manifesting itself and immobilizing us. To this day, I still don't know why we didn't do something to save them. All I know is that we simply sat and stared while the Junker, unaware of our presence, admired his handiwork.
Finally, Master Sergeant Daniel Daly snapped out of it, unsheathing his spiked trench club. We snapped out of it as well, and advanced on the Junker. The Junker, hearing footsteps, turned to face Daly, and a look of sheer, unadulterated terror washed over his face, like he was on the run from God and was finally sent to face judgement. He tried to reload his Luger, but he fumbled with his clip, and it dropped to the ground, all while Daly advanced on him like an angel of death. He dropped the gun and started to beg for his life; he uttered the words "no, please-" before Daly slammed the club downwards onto his head with all his might.
The Junker slumped to the ground, twitching, before he managed to get on his knees. He was a mess. The point on his skull where Daly's club impacted was entirely caved in, so much so that his brain and smashed skull fragments were clearly visible. His mouth was pouring with blood from where he had bitten off his tongue. His body was convulsing, and his left eye was dislocated, almost popping out from its socket. Somehow, he managed to speak, reciting the lords prayer in slurred German.
Daly, his eyes still burning with rage, spat on him and snarled "There will be no place in heaven for you, you fucking scum. Shut the fuck up and face me like a man, you coward."
The Junker turned his head to face Daly, and Daly lashed out with his club, completely tearing off the Junker's jaw on the left side. It hand there, swinging from his face, like a grotesque cadaver. He fell to the ground, trying desperately to crawl away, but Daly swung downwards again, and the junker was dead, albeit still twitching.
We sat and watched as Daly caved in this mans skull, completely turning what ever was left of his head into a puddle of scarlet viscera.
My men had no objection to this act. Most of them were socialists,including Daly himself, and the Junker was an enemy of their class, of thier brothers in arms from around the world. His sadistic execution of thier wounded comrades merely sealed his fate.
As for myself, I saw the evil in this act, but I saw the evil in the man himself. I was not a socialist at that point, but I saw in him the very things I hate. I saw xenophobia. I saw bigotry. I saw a murderer. This Prussian lord was no different than the lords of America in 1917. The lords of the Factory. The lords of the railway. The lords of the Plantation. Yes, I saw the evil in this act, but some men deserve nothing less than evil.
Some men simply need to die."
*German for "over the top"
*slam fire: basically a fully automatic mode.
Excerpts from Smedley Butler's War Is A Racket: Fighting the wars for big business (San Francisco: Black Flag Press, 1935)
"I remember the Great War. I remember the almost alien landscapes, the green fields of France deformed and violated from the constant earth shaking barrages of artillery. I remember the conditions in the trenches, the dysentery, the trench rot, the sheer wetness of it all. I remember the carnage, of waves upon waves of men feasted upon by the Browning 1915 and the French 75. I remember the furious melee, where blood flowed like wine at a congregation on the Sabbath. But there's is one experience about my time in the Great War that transcends remembrance. I fear that I will bear it to my grave.
I remember the hatred.
I remember man's blind indifference to his fellow man.
It was November 1916, somewhere down the southern flank of the Somme. We were moved from our defenses in the North to reinforce the French Sixth Army, who was getting hammered by counterattacks from the German Second Army. their previous assaults on the German Lines got torn up by German 105s and they weren't getting reinforcements for another two weeks. from what I'd heard from the French junior officers, it seemed like a complete disaster. tens of thousands of men shredded by German anti infantry artillery fire. what little forces they still had were responsible for defending against Fallkenhayn's assault troops, real elite forces, apparently called stormtroopers by the British. the French needed everybody left to defend their strongpoints along their southernmost flank. this left us to pick up whatever was left in the North of the French sectors.
It was a Wednesday. like any normal day really, as normal as you could get living in a Trench in a land that was not yours. I was on the line with my commanding officer, who told me that the logistics trains would arrive to reinforce our lines on one month. this, while irritating, wasn't really a problem at the time.My men were stocked on munitions and supplies to last us six weeks, and the U.S fourth Army loaned us some Browning 1915's a month ago. my real problem was manpower. my men, while battle hardened veterans, were still human, and I was losing them every day. reinforcements would not come for another week.
But we were holding. We had fought off small German incursions for minimal casualties. It looked like we were going to get off easy at this post. the same could not be said for many other units.
Unfortunately, that was not the case. that Wednesday would become one of the most brutal confrontations I would ever take part in.
It started at 3pm that day, with a short barrage of howitzer fire striking our lines. the barrage either landed too short of the target or overshot our trenches, causing us no casualties in the barrage. however, it became clear that the barrage was only a small portion of what was to come. as the dust settled, we heard whistles and cries of "Ubertrieben!*" and suddenly, a large wave of German infantry came pouring out at us like a wall, so fast that none of us knew what had happened for a moment. when we came to our senses, adrenaline and training kicked in. I shouted to my junior officers, telling them "Get the fucking machine guns up RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!!" they obeyed, and in less than 5 minutes we were pouring automatic fire into the German assault. our fire was far too accurate for them, and they fell in heaps of mauled and bleeding bodies, the machine guns ripping them apart. within ten minutes the attack was over, and all that was left was a field of gore.
We relaxed. Msgt Daly informed me of the logistical expenses. We were about to inform command when we heard shouting and gunshots on our northern flank.
It became clear to me that the massed frontal assault was just a ruse. while most of our people were tied up fighting the Kaiser's infantry, German stormtroopers snuck around and attacked our northern flank, which was filled primarily with support personnel. knowing time was of the essence, I grabbed a model 1897 trench shotgun and told Daly to arm himself and take two men to help me defend the North sector. he grabbed two corporals, who also armed themselves with trench guns, and he accompanied me to reinforce our northern flank.
Let me tell you something about the trench gun. It saved my life several times in the Great War. the perfect weapon for the cramped close quarters battles of the Western Front, in slam fire* mode it was like having a machine gun in your hands. my men, by this time in the War full socialists, still thanked the bourgeois government for providing them with these guns. the Germans hated them, and issued an order to execute any captured american soldiers found with these guns. hypocrites the lot of them. say what you want of the evils of the bourgeois government, but we didn't introduce the flamethrower or poison gas.
We advanced through the trenches at a furious pace, gunning down any Stormtroopers in our path. They were quality soldiers, on par with us, but their bayoneted rifles were inferior to our shotguns in the cramped trenches. They still fought ferociously though, and at times, we locked into hand to hand combat. I remember one German actually counted the shots I was firing, and when I stopped to reload he grappled with me for control of the weapon. A stroke to the jaw sent him flying to the ground, and a slug to the face left him dead. He was no older than 20.
Hellish business, war.
After taking care of the Stormtroopers, we arrived at the central command post for the northern flank, a wide open area that would look like a square if viewed from above. In it, we found carnage. At least ten Marines were dead, with triple that number of dead Germans. Half of my men stationed at this post were dead. Standing on the opposite wall of the trench was a German officer executing what remained of my men.
The bastard had the air of Junker around him. Clean shaven, Medals proudly displayed on his uniform, peaked cap polished and shined, and a smug sneer as he slowly aimed his Luger and pulled the trigger on weeping youths. These were men that could have been saved. Men that were no threat. He was not doing this out of mercy or fear, he was doing this for pleasure. His association with the German aristocracy was revealed when he spoke in coherent English to the last man remaining, a sergeant. "You Yankees will never learn to stop meddling in Europe's affairs." He said, as he raised his gun to the sergeants head. "Have you any last words, you socialist degenerate?" He said nothing, but he did not weep. He merely looked the gun barrel in the eye, and in an act of defiance, spat upon the Junker's boots. The Junker snarled and pulled the trigger, and the sergeant crumpled to the ground dead.
I have no good explanation of why we stood there and watched him kill our brothers. It may have been cowardice. Or disbelief. Or maybe it was the pure, blind rage and hatred manifesting itself and immobilizing us. To this day, I still don't know why we didn't do something to save them. All I know is that we simply sat and stared while the Junker, unaware of our presence, admired his handiwork.
Finally, Master Sergeant Daniel Daly snapped out of it, unsheathing his spiked trench club. We snapped out of it as well, and advanced on the Junker. The Junker, hearing footsteps, turned to face Daly, and a look of sheer, unadulterated terror washed over his face, like he was on the run from God and was finally sent to face judgement. He tried to reload his Luger, but he fumbled with his clip, and it dropped to the ground, all while Daly advanced on him like an angel of death. He dropped the gun and started to beg for his life; he uttered the words "no, please-" before Daly slammed the club downwards onto his head with all his might.
The Junker slumped to the ground, twitching, before he managed to get on his knees. He was a mess. The point on his skull where Daly's club impacted was entirely caved in, so much so that his brain and smashed skull fragments were clearly visible. His mouth was pouring with blood from where he had bitten off his tongue. His body was convulsing, and his left eye was dislocated, almost popping out from its socket. Somehow, he managed to speak, reciting the lords prayer in slurred German.
Daly, his eyes still burning with rage, spat on him and snarled "There will be no place in heaven for you, you fucking scum. Shut the fuck up and face me like a man, you coward."
The Junker turned his head to face Daly, and Daly lashed out with his club, completely tearing off the Junker's jaw on the left side. It hand there, swinging from his face, like a grotesque cadaver. He fell to the ground, trying desperately to crawl away, but Daly swung downwards again, and the junker was dead, albeit still twitching.
We sat and watched as Daly caved in this mans skull, completely turning what ever was left of his head into a puddle of scarlet viscera.
My men had no objection to this act. Most of them were socialists,including Daly himself, and the Junker was an enemy of their class, of thier brothers in arms from around the world. His sadistic execution of thier wounded comrades merely sealed his fate.
As for myself, I saw the evil in this act, but I saw the evil in the man himself. I was not a socialist at that point, but I saw in him the very things I hate. I saw xenophobia. I saw bigotry. I saw a murderer. This Prussian lord was no different than the lords of America in 1917. The lords of the Factory. The lords of the railway. The lords of the Plantation. Yes, I saw the evil in this act, but some men deserve nothing less than evil.
Some men simply need to die."
*German for "over the top"
*slam fire: basically a fully automatic mode.
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You are talking about what period - at different times the ratio of nationalism / internationalism was different
QueerSpear
Banned
Gor is a book series infamous for depicting of sexual fantasies of men abducting and physically and sexually abusing women, who supposedly "enjoy" their submessive state. A MRAs wetdream before MRAs existed.
Bulldoggus
Banned
Christ. I'm probably the rightmost regular on the thread, and I am sickened by this.
Yeah it's the book series for people who think that women's rights was a mistake.
It's the kind of book that makes you go full Comrade Pingu regardless of tendency.
Yeah, they're probably unlikely to be published ITTL unless Norman defects from the UASR to a country where someone would be willing to publish them.