Mr Wallace observed the land, and it was good. He was currently situated on the fourth floor of his broccoli shaped mansion, peering out the window to relish the sight of his pristine broccoli fields. Nothing but broccoli heads could be seen for miles, it looked akin to very edgy astroturf.
But wait... [what?]<cl1|
(click-replace: ?cl1)[what's that poking into your peripheral vision?]
[[Observe]]
[[Nosh some broccoli, you're probably just hallucinating]]
My my, on closer inspection the entity which pierced your vision appears to be mobile. Probably just John (*Mr Torode to you*) coming to nab some of your broccoli. He was always jealous of its pedigree. It certainly caused a ripple in the relationship, and in the bedroom nothing was quite the same afterwards. Although, the figure is too far out to be certain.
[[Intimidate with musket]]
[[Call out]]
After some broccolial ingestion you feel nothing short of rigorous. In fact, due to your strict diet your body has adapted itself to gain nutrition solely from broccoli. You could not feel more euphoric.
[[Gently brush the head of a broccoli against the contours of your skin whilst no one is looking]]
[[Release a fantastic, cloud-piercing shriek of ecstacy]]
You call in your house boy to fetch you your prized musket, a gift from Lloyd Grossman. As you stand there feeding powder into the nozzle and then a particularly dense broccoli head, a rush of empowerment compells you. You take aim...
[[Shot!]]
'Blimey, mate. Unless youse got any masha I will not have you intruding on my biscuit-based landplot!' You shout...
The entity approaches closer into your spectacl'd periphery.
[[It can't be...->What?]]
As each bristle brushes the points of your flesh, you understand what it means to live. Intermittently, sprouts of broccoli will flake off the head, and you sympathise with it, you too feel any trace of worry or negativity leave your spirit. You understand your vital purpose; it is this.
You thoroughly enjoy the feeling of liberation and abasement simultaneously. Only broccoli provides this tacit understanding of human sensuality.
[[But wait... what's that?->What?]]
From the depths of your broccoli-laced diaphragm you release a voluminous, thunderous, rapturous shriek of broccoli-induced invigoration.
[[To your surprise, you hear a reply->What?]]
You squeeze the trigger, but the only result is that the brocolli catches fire inside the mechanism. It annoys you. You sniff some broccoli sprouts to decompress.
[[Shots back?->What?]]
'Es lebe der Führer! Die glorreiche Führer!' You hear through broccoli-enhanced ears.
You remember... [all those years ago...]<cl2|
(click-replace: ?cl2)[back in the lab when the BBC conscripted you for broccoli research... Michelle Roux assigned you to broccoli Black Ops section looking at brocco/human splicing. There were two petri dishes of human DNA. Skepta and... Hitler. You must have mixed them up. My god... It's an army of Nazi broccolis!!!]
[[Go loud]]
[[Go tactical]]
You press a button on your broccoli-shaped cufflink and a cabinet opens to your right.
Behold: in all its glory, the parsnip gatling gun that the BBC gave you for not blabbing about their deeply unethical Hitler DNA splice debacle.
[[Open fire!]]
You wait until the Nazi broccoli has advanced further...
'Idiot fetten Mann! Er hat nicht einen Kampf auf! Es lebe die aryan Brokkoli Rennen!'
They begin to get cocky, [[But you have a plan]]
You release: parnsips maiming these vegetable members of the Third Reich. You execute some glorious broccoli-head shots, but overall, you sarifice accuracy.
'Durch die Hintertür ! Für den Ruhm unseres Führer!', the voices are closer.
[[Oh, dear...]]
In all the glory of immense firepower, the rather tactical Nazi broccos have infiltrated your broccoli mansion.
'Wie passend, dein Schöpfer wird jetzt unser Opfer! Sehen Sie in Brokkoli Hölle, Herr Wallace !!!' The broccoli commandant says to his peers, now having crashed down the door.
Everything is unease. The one thing you have come to love now betrays you...
“Once, I saw a bee drown in honey, and I understood.”-
-Nikos Kazantzakis
THE END
As the brocco-Nazis pass under your window, you drop boiling hot masha right over their heads.
'Mein Gott! Der Schmerz! Gemüse fühlen Schmerz!'
'Silly munters' you say, dipping your finger (which is now impervious to pain via broccoli enhancement) into the pot of lethal masha. 'Kawr, dats lavley'.
The day is won!!!
The end.