Adepts peered into the muzzle of Kiki’s light machine gun, black and cavernous as Cthulhu’s rectum, shimmering vaguely as hot air rose from the still scorching metal, and a hint of uncertainty rippled through the ranks of lesbian brides. The tension was palpable; a passing lumberjack could have cut the atmosphere with a chainsaw.
“Hold on there young pussy cat.” The mother superior was advancing at speed and holding up her right palm. “It would appear that we share a common cause.”
“Thank Crimbo for that,” said Kiki, throwing away her Bren in disgust. “Bloody thing’s useless. Overheated and jammed up solid just as I was down to my last two rounds.”
There was an uneasy silence before the venerable nun continued:
“You are Kittens of Chaos. Who has not heard of The Kittens of Chaos?”
“Well, we sure as hell haven’t heard of you.” Replied Kiki.
“We are a silent, and consequently somewhat secret order.”
The young brides nearby were babbling excitedly, picking up and dusting off Kitty and Scarlet and bombarding them with questions. The mother superior sighed.
“Our silence is, for the most part, conceptual. But our ‘out reach’ chapter is scrupulously clandestine. Please, accompany me to our humble stronghold. You can freshen up and we can talk some more.”
The monastery-fortress of La Hougue Bie perched on top of an ancient earth mound, 12.2 metres (45¾ feet) high, that had been constructed entirely by human hands. The mound covered an 18.6 metre long passage chamber situated directly beneath the chapels at the heart of the nunnery and its significance will be revealed later in the narrative. As yet our heroines were unaware of this tunnel.
The climb was steep, the entrance to the fortress small and heavily guarded. In the courtyard ranks of warrior nuns were practicing a form of martial art unique to the order.
“We are inspired by the teachings of Master Mao Tzu, combining ‘explosive energy’, or Fu Quo, with the aggressive cynicism of Nepalese Zen.”
“Well I’ll back the Zen of the .762 Rimless any day.” Kiki responded.
The mother superior smiled:
“But not today, dear. Your gun’s buggered.”
Dark Flo and Rotskagg Blenkinsopp watched the first trial run of the upgraded Destroyer of Worlds from a beach below the castle of Dunstanburgh. The mighty Ekranoplan MD-160 klasy Lun skimmed low over a churning North Sea. Gone were the paddle boxes and Bolinder diesel. Patching and riveting had restored the ravages wreaked by the Kittens’ thermal lance. Flame and choking black smoke belched from eight recklessly souped-up and scaled up HeS1 turbojets. The muzzles of six 18.1 inch Type 94 naval guns bristled along its spine.
“She be fast, and she be manoeuvrable. And she be scary. Should work a treat,” observed Rotskagg.
“Have you tested the artillery?” Dark Flo wrinkled her nose inquisitively, “Is recoil going to be a problem?”
“Can’t spare the ammunition. And there be a risk factor. Health and Safety be on my back as it is. ‘Have you completed an assessment? What’s the error margin on the power curves for the engines? Are there separate and clearly marked male and female toilets?’ What be the world coming to?”
“Do they know you’re taking it into a war zone?”
“Byt’ Virgin’s Armpits! Not bloody likely, they’d crap ‘emselves!”