The Ten Worst Dates I’ve Gone On In This, The Grim Dark Future Of The 41st Millennium
SEP. 20, 40,000 By J.P. GRANT
10. He shows up in fashionably ‘retro’ Mark 6 Corvus Armour, strutting toward the bar as if that Beakie helmet isn’t so unironically M.31, as if that studded left pauldron isn’t, like, a total space-goth cliche. He’s barely gotten out a “Greetings, fair one, in the name of the Emperor” before I fake an emergency vox summons from my Administratum sub-commander.
9. He doesn’t look like a Squat in his profile picter. But he is.
8. Crying? Seriously? He’s halfway through his third amasec when he just loses it, great gobs of snot dripping from his nose like drops of water from a leaky faucet. Except these drops are full of plague. He’s blubbering about his ‘existential despair,’ his ‘profound hopelessness and fear,’ begging me to join with him in ‘dark eternal service’ to ‘Papa Nurgle.’ Uh, no. But you can buy me another 19-credit Tranq-tini.
7. After dinner he asks me up to his con-apt to see the ‘etchings’ he’s done of the ‘Most Blessed Primarch Roboute Guilliman.’ Yeah, like I haven’t heard that one before.
6. He’s beautiful, he’s charming, he’s a medicae so you know he’s got credits. But then he gets me up to his hab. Throne, that vox-drone collection. Really? You’re still listening to Machine God? The Flash Gitz? Way to be totally M.37, bro.
5. He doesn’t know I fethed his best friend. Who was secretly a chaos daemon. Awkward!
4. So okay, he quotes the Codex even though you know he hasn’t read it. And he hangs out in dive bars on Edge Worlds to be like, ironic or whatever. But feth it, he’s hot. We’re making out in the alley behind his hab-block when he asks me if I ‘wanna get kinky.’ ‘What did you have in mind?’ I say. He gets this sick grin on his face, then whips out his data-slate. Thousands of picters of post-Atrocity Ravenor—OUTSIDE THE CHAIR. ‘Sizzled flesh turn you on, baby?’ No. No. NO.
3. Fine. I’ve had too many amasecs and now I’m letting him feth me because, whatever, it’s been a while. It’s going okay at first until he starts with the moaning. “Throoooooone,” he yells. “Oh, Throoo--ooo--ooone!” He sounds like a fething Squig with a bowel infection. Total stim-kill.
2. I drunk-vox him for a late-night hookup and he BRINGS HIS ROOMMATE. Who is an Eldar. The feth is he thinking?
1. Do I want to ‘polish’ his ‘nob.’ Um, not anymore!
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