>>5721042>>5721043WARHAMMER: SPACE LATRINE
IT IS THE 21st millennium.
For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Bidet of Earth. He is the master of the behind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible bowel movements. He is a rotting farce writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Urology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Perineum for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
YET EVEN IN his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal flatulence. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-indigested miasma of the Parp, the only route between distant farts, their way lit by the Gastro-intestinomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's Bile. Vast armies give battle in His shame on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Arse-tartes, the Space Latrines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Venereal Guard and countless papillary defence forces, the ever-vigilant In-remission and the tech-priests of the Anus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from Ukrainians, emetics, mutants – and worse.
TO BE constipated in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody diet regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of trade policy and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of the pantyless soft-landing, for in the grim dark furore there is only the poor. There are no pleas amongst the stars, only a fervency of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
(Yes, pic related is the avant-garde Marcel Duchamp 1917 toilet)
