FluffHammer 40k: Corpse Starch Blues by UpStartOverTurned

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Warhammer 40,000, and I am in no way affiliated with Games Workshop. This is just a fun little crossover I decided to write. May continue with more.

Corporal Larius looked down at the sad display in the parked Chimera: a full fortnight’s worth of unappealing corpse starch rations. Simultaneously greasy and dry, they tasted like a plain potato that had the flavor extracted out of it, then packed into a rough bar shape… and that’s all his squad was going to be eating until they finished escorting the Basilisk artillery to their firing positions.
It was the last leg of a rather nondescript campaign: no horrific xenos or something that would get him killed by the Inquisition for looking at it too long. Just a traitorous governor and his PDF that he thought would be adequate to secede from the Imperium. Instead of independence, the Hammer of the Emperor would squash them flat, delivered by the 62nd Lacaillen Dragoons.

While that suggested gallant cavalry charges and sword fighting, the reality is more mundane: Chimeras, Sentinels, and Basilisks were the focus of their tactics, shelling an area then driving up while they were still huddled in the cover for the guardsmen to breach and clear. Larius was in the latter half, but getting the artillery to where it could hammer the foes of the Emperor was usually the easiest part.

Strategically.

In reality, it was a slog every time, since their mobile method of warfare meant setting up field kitchens was impractical, thus each vehicle had enough rations to make the trip. Normally, these were at least edible since they’d make up the bulk of the guardsmen’s diet, but a spanner had been thrown in the works: a Ratling auxilia.

Ever since the short, larcenous abhumans had been attached, every supply crate was always missing the decent ration packs, leaving only the dregs. Attempts to correct this have always resulted in nothing, just a commissar executing guardsmen for wasting his time, or the chain of command telling them to suck it up. After this, Larius didn’t care if he was going to be executed. Once he got back to base, he’d chuck a frag grenade in the ratling barracks, just for forcing him to choke down these bricks of nigh inedible “food.”

The irony, of course, is that his chimera was parked in a field of wheat. If Larius’s home of Lacaille Prime was not a hive world, he might have the knowhow to at least boil it into gruel. Sadly, he looked at the hissing fields of brown grass, surrounded by food he had not the slightest idea of how to harvest or prepare.

It was then, however, that Larius heard something familiar. The voices were child-like, but he knew that no child in the Imperium was so innocent as to speak in such a way. Picking up his lasrifle, Larius crept up through the wheat towards the sound of the high-pitched babbling, and his prize was playing in the idiotic manner that they always did. In a little, partially dug-out crater was an entire herd of fluffy ponies!

While very few foodstuffs could actually be produced on a hive world, one animal that actually managed to thrive in such an environment was these ancient chimeric creations of Man. Despite being frail and suicidally stupid, they bred at such a rate that any underhiver like Larius knew how to make a greasy meal out of the little morons. He kissed the aquila on his dog tags and thanked the Emperor for this bit of luck, then looked for the fattest among them.

It wasn’t hard to spot: it was a rotund purple unicorn, barking (or at least squeaking) demands of his ‘nummy findews.’ Larius was in luck, since the obnoxious leaders of a herd were always satisfying to kill. He was by no means a sadist, but something about them brought out a viciousness in any human who encountered one. Recalling his youth, when his friends and himself would catch them for food as well as sport, there was one thing that always lured them in.

Clearing his throat, Larius kept his voice low but audible, “Oh Emperor, why can’t I carry all these ‘sketties? If only I had a fluffy pony to share them with!’” He frankly had no idea what a ‘sketty’ was. Their pre-Dark Age of Technology origins meant that something in their head made them crave it, running towards anything that offered it. There were even tales of them running out to techpriests after mishearing ‘Skitarii.’ That was when he showed his squadmates that they were edible! All of them had come from decently well-off families when they were serving in the PDF, so the only time they’d see one is as a pampered, obnoxious pet.

“Dewe am sketties? Gib to Smawty!” The fluffy unicorn’s little legs ran as fast as they could, managing an ungainly waddle towards the gap in the crater walls. His herd followed in tow, half because of the magic word, and half because if the smarty friend wanted something, his goons would be sure he got it.

Larius looked over the herd, and thought of how best to get the fattest, most well-cared for morsels out of this chance encounter. He decided on a course of action, stepping into view, “Oh my. Look at all of you perfect little fluffies. Would you like to come with me to my camp full of sketties?”

The unicorn stomped its pseudo-hooves into the dirt, puffing out its cheeks with its larger fluffy pony minions, “Dummeh hooman! Gib aww you sketties to dah bestes’ smawty an’ his bestes’ hewd!” Acting was never Larius’s strong suit, but by the reaction, he may as well have been trained in the Callidus Temple.

With an exaggerated sigh, Larius looked at the little idiot, “Well… I only have sketties blessed by the God-Emperor of Mankind, so only the best of you may come with me.”
Old instincts kicked in, and they all eagerly showed off their foals, declaring that they wanted a ‘wawm housie, sketties, an’ toysies’, along with declaring Larius the ‘bestest daddeh.’ The smarty and his toughies, however, shut them up with a smack of their hooves or a jabbing horn. In the end, only a hot pink mare, the purple unicorn stallion, and their obese foals were coming with Larius.

After setting up a makeshift pen (though more of a shallow foxhole with his entrenching tool), the corporal reviewed his orders: The basilisks were in place for a lovely little bombardment of traitors fleeing to what they think is safe territory. Instead, the Hammer of the Emperor was set to fall upon them, and Larius had ample time to have himself a fluffy cookout. Everyone he had rode in with were heavy weapons specialists and loaders, setting up heavy bolters and autocannons. Nothing the traitors had merited anything heavier, so the lascannons stayed on base. This meant plenty of old ammunition cans, and he had learned to build a grill out of them with a little ingenuity.

His bayonet was sharp as the day he’d been issued it, and Larius decided what he’d be having first. Walking over to the hole, the stench rising from it let him know he’d chosen well: these nasty shits deserved to be cooked. A look of false shock came across his face, “By the Throne, what have you done?!”
“Stoopi’ hooman wet smawty an’ bestes’ famiwy out of dummeh sowwy howe! Wet fwuffy out nao ow ‘ou’ww get dah wowstes’ sowwy poopies!”
“Afraid I can’t do that. You made bad poopies, so now Commissar Larry will have to instill some discipline in you rats.”
“Smawty nu am wats! Fwuffies am fwuffies!”
After this riveting banter, Larius reaches into the pit, grabbing a fat little foal, and the mare starts squealing in fear for her child. “Nuuuu! Upsies and bad fow widdew babbehs! Nee’ mummeh!” She scrapes her hooves in vain against the dirt sides of the shallow hole. The smarty was big enough to get his forelegs up over them, but far too fat to lift himself.

Larius looked at them, smiling at the squirming, angry little foal. “Wet bestes’ babbeh down! dummeh hooman munsta!” Without a word, the guardsman ran a thumb hard down his swollen belly, forcing the colt to shit out a rancid little jet of lumpy milk-shit. Even if he was old enough to have teeth, it was obvious that the ‘bestest baby’ was allowed to drink as much milk as he wanted. This made Larius smile; milk fed foal meat was always delicious.

The parents watched as the human they thought was going to feed them the ambrosia of their misbegotten kind tugged at his little limbs until they dislocated with a soft pop, and cut a star-shape into their foal’s flesh. With a swift tug, the fuzzy blue skin of the foal was ripped off, leaving only the face with any fluff on it. For a moment, it doesn’t even register… then the shrieking starts. “WHY TAKE BABBEH’S PWETTY FWUFF!? AM ONWY WITTEW BABBEH!”

** **Undeterred, Larius continues to clean the foal, spilling his little guts into the pit, eliciting a begging cry that ‘tummy sketties belong in babbeh’s tummy,’ then sets the flayed and disemboweled fluffy onto the hot grate of his hobo grill.

The guardsman plucks another foal from the pit, picking the second fattest. This time, the mare isn’t as cowed, grabbing onto his arm. “NUU! Munsta daddeh nu hewt wittew babbeh! Nee’ dewe mummeh, nee’ dewe fwuff!” In response, Larius dislocates the foal as normal, but then reaches out for its mother, her maternal instincts melting into cowardice as he seizes her head.
The bayonet slowly carves off her ear, and the corporal states plainly, “Emperor’s Teeth, shut up! You made bad poopies, so now you’re bloody rations.” None of the fluffies catch his meaning, only that being rations is probably a bad thing. The process is repeated: the second foal is relieved of its soft pink fur and delicate skin.

In the pit, both parents are bawling their eyes out, a chorus of ‘huu-huu’ and ‘onwy widdew babbehs,’ the smarty still trying his hardest to crawl up the side. The two remaining foals are chirping in distress, old enough to speak but so scared all they can do is peep like newborns.

Larius relaxes, letting the smell of cooking milk-sweetened fluffy meat drift on the wind as he takes a break to smoke a lho stick. After a few minutes, he sits in front of the pit with his mess kit, and to the fluffies’ horror, they watch as corporal Larius of the 62nd Lacaillen Dragoons eats their two favorite children.

As he expected, the “bestest’ is sweet and tender, young bones crunching easily between Larius’s teeth. Even the corpse starch can be enjoyable with enough water to make a paste with foal meat mixed in. The only thing he doesn’t eat are the heads, scorched but still recognizable. The guardsman looks into the pit and smiles, “Lemme tell you something that I learned when I was a kid
An underhive is a rough place to grow up, even if you have both parents like I did. Food wasn’t easy to find, and even if you did, it was typically garbage from on high. All except for one source: fluff ponies. Every Sanguinalia, my pop would go out with his posse to catch as many of you little mutants as he bloody could, just so we could put on a few pounds and grow strong enough to serve the Emperor.
This meant I spent a lot of my time as a boy learning how to cook and eat you things. Plenty of people in Lacaille’s underhive did, but I learned something really important: you taste better if your last moments are full of despair and agony. Now, that sounds heretical, even evil, but… you aren’t exactly human, are you?”

They didn’t understand. The mare was sniffling, trying to to hug her remaining babies, and the smarty had given up on climbing out. Larious hadn’t expected them to get it. How could they? Even the smartest of them couldn’t even pray to the Emperor; they were creations of Man, but knew not who they should thank for allowing them to exist.

Eventually, Larius’s loader, Private Acervus, returned from getting fresh ammunition for their heavy bolter. “By the Emperor, where did you find fluffy ponies?” The gunner relayed his story, each detail making Acervus’s smile grow. When he said there were almost a dozen of them, the loader had to stop him, “Mate, do you know what that means?”
“It means the Emperor saw fit to give his warriors something better than corpse starch.”
“Amen.”

17 Likes

Don’t forget your name in the title.

Its more then the Owl you need to be afraid of now, GWs legal deparment might fall on the site like a Ork Rok.

1 Like

“I don’t own Warhammer 40k” be alot cooler if you did

Indeed. There’d be no fuckin’ primaris, squats would be canon instead of the Votann, and every fucker asking for female space marines would get pelted with Sisters of Battle advertisements.

3 Likes

A gentleman of taste, if the story wasn’t evidence enough