Strangeways, not Eton

The Eugent ships boiled out of dark space and deposited themselves, like turds on a sheet of glass, in orbit around the planet. They coasted for a while from the momentum of their remergence back into reality before their plague engines flared back to unlife with sickly incandescence. Within the bowels of their monstrously bloated forms the galley slaves who had survived the transit across the howlingly insane depths of space began to tread on the vast fly wheels. There was no purpose in their mindless stepping. It simply made the Eugent laugh.

The ships soiled their way down to the planets upper atmosphere. Dark pieces of hull cladding glowed suddenly red as thin gases grazed the ship's underbellies. They shook like nervous beasts. They creaked. They groaned. And sometimes they giggled. Nervously.

Dreadshaft (Caster of the of the Imperial Load, Catcher of the Holy Sow's Milk, Last Holder of the Lost Chance) stared out across the enormity of the battle bridge, across the shaven host and the calculating spider collective, and through the darkened windows. His gaze was on the crescent edge of the planet, and the dark spots which were the other Eugent ships, busily disgorging the Bone Storm soldiers into the upper atmosphere.His great armoured bulk creaked ponderously and the space between his eyes and their protective shield filled suddenly with a dark brown liquid. There was a low percussive boom from within the stygian depths of his body, a flat squeak, and then a metal vent at the side of his armoured, barrel like torso fluttered open and closed. The shaven host and the calculating spider collective swung, as one, on their fracture inducing chairs, away from the seizure control pods, and gazed, slackly, at their commander. Their mouths hung open, released from the mandible control arrays where they had been clamped, tormenting the ship across space. Cloudy, infected drool gathered briefly on the floor before being swept away by midget zombie chimps.

"Gross crew, my chosen emissions selected - despite erectile dysfunction - to join us on this great quest. This...glorious celebration of ultra violence. This communication of pain." Dreadshaft paused, as a particularly thick globbet of liquid squirmed through his helm."We attack now" He squeaked. The vent clanked shut, followed by a series of clicking noises as internal pipework opened and closed. His battle chair began to slowly move downwards, like a sinking ship, down into the depths of the battle cruiser. The shaven host swung back to their workstations, gripping the mandible arrays in their muscular jaws. The calculating spider collection stood and quickly skipped out of the room.

In the upper atomosphere of the planet the Bone Storm Elite streaked downwards on their ItchyCrotch 500 attack bikes. The bikes enabled one rider, and a rear gunner, to sit astride their half living, sausage like bulk. The bikes were like a lump of twisted muscle, pierced with weopons and equipment, a single great ominous eye looking forward. An eye which was currently shut tight, as the pilot cajoled the bike down to the planet at supersonic speeds. Above the contstant percussion of sonic booms could be heard the scream of the bikes war cry.

"oh shit, oh shit, oh shit......mother, fucking hell... I hate this....aaarrrrrgggggghhhhhhhh"The bikes, the sky peppered with them like gravel in slushy snow, tore down through the sky. They left vivid brown organic streaks in their wake.

****

Down on the planets unsuspecting and rather dull surface, Julian Fishguard (Cretin Class Accountant Grade 2) bimbled his way through the concourses and plazas of Capital City. It was a warm fine day with a fresh wind blowing from the deep blue sky (which, had he been paying more attention, he would have seen was criss crossed with vivid brown streaks which carved their way across from the horizon). Julian was vaguely humanoid, an vat bred offshoot from original Terran Stock Version 3.5, inhabiting a world which had long since been forgotten by the Greater Galactic Continuum. There possibly had once been a purpose in populating a plant completely with genetically engineered humans whose only aim was to be lawyers or accountants but the reason had been lost in the mists of time (or in a filing cabinet somewhere). He entered the portico of his office block, shrugging off a slight splash of rain, nodding his head at the security guard (Insipid Class Lawyer, ungraded) who, has ever, barely registered his arrival. The guard sat, behind his mirror polished desk, in a large bulky wheelchair as he had lost his legs in the great Factoring and Tax conflict of '35. Rumour had it, in the canteen, that he had singly handly deducted a nest of pen wielding export specialists.

High above Julian, and his sweaty musings of shared flat tax and leverage with the busty consultant he shared his office with, a ancient metrological airship drifted through the azure sky. It had long since ceased its use as a scientific platform and now served as a high end restaurant for the wealthier populous of the planet. Its massive yellowed bulk dwarfed the gondola which hung beneath it, but even that was capable of housing some 500 people, their servants and assorted hangers-on, lackeys and boot lickers. For its long since disappeared scientific staff the attraction of the gondola had been the open-air balcony which circled its girth, enabling them to operate their sensitive sniffing experiments and complex rain dances. The wealthy mainly used it for drinks partys, and spitting on Capital City.

Blim Fladderstock (Senior Partner, insurgency class, retired) lounged drunkenly in the bridge of the gondola and cast a lazy drink fogged eye over the bank of controls which, in their indolent ignorance, most of the crew (and particularly the captain) had little clue as to their purpose.
"I say Captain" Said Blim, waving a ring encrusted hand vaguely in the direction of the half asleep bulk slouched in the chair opposite him.
"what does the flashing red light, with the words 'Collision Imminent' mean, just beside the screen with the words 'impending doom likely' and just down from the console which is trying to climb out of the window with a parachute strapped to its back?"
"Well, its probably not good" said the Captain blearily, the gust of air from the now open window blowing his party hat off and sending swirls of coloured tape around him.
"I think..." begain Blim, which as his last words were unfortunate, as they were certainly not true. The Sausage Bike, its bone storm rider barely holding on (they were called shock troops simply because that was the state they were predominantly in) burst through Blims chest, after punching through the gondola wall, screeching to a halt which threw its madly chattering rider into the lap of the Captain.
He looked down at the 1 metre long skeletal creature grinning up at him, its flash flensed skull adorned with largely uneccsesary flashing bionic implants.
"Definitely not good" he said, as it began to gnaw enthusiastically at his groin.