Before the microwave era, there was an outbreak of war along the Zimbabwanean peninsula. This war was known as the War of Appliances. Refrigerators, vacuum cleaners, and ride-on lawnmowers were all at stake, and to the victor went the spoils. Each side was comprised of sun-baked adventure seekers with nothing to lose. Instead of conscription, these men had been bred for battle via birthing factories the size of hospitals, where they were then doped by an accelerated growth mechanism. As refrigerators were the most highly regarded items in this war, some men had been cross-bred with oxen for the purposes of carrying not one, but two refrigerators at once. It was a feat of modern genetic engineering. Decades prior to this, scientists were able clone sheep, but nobody wanted sheep, because they were docile and stupid.
The craters were burnt and black. Men had marched out in the thousands, and after days of war, there were only handfuls left. Trenches lined with barbed wire held broken bodies like gruesome cradles. This is what death felt like, unless you had a flamethrower. Corporal Shithead had perfected the art of charging machine-gun batteries with his thrower on full belch. This created a real firewall, just like the anti-virus programs. When he raced at the machine guns, he was followed by a group of men whose sanity was left behind in the sloppy gray mud-walls of the trenches. To these brave and sullen men, only absolute victory was acceptable.
'Onwards men, to the firing line!' he exclaimed, standing atop piles of cracked skulls. His form was obscured by heatwaves. The men under his command were teenagers, young and stupid, but their drive to survive was well imprinted. Survival in this land meant bringing death to the enemy. And so they rushed forward.
The clattering spit of machine-gun bullets met their advance. Some troops threw grenades, while others ducked for cover. Corporal Shithead did neither, as he was crazed and battle-frenzied.
Visions of destruction danced in his mind. He did not perceive the living as one might expect. Both friend and foe were but transient things to him, and he himself was not truly alive. He was cognizant of his own movement and presence, but in reality, he was a zombie. Few were aware of this, and none dared question it. Zombies were known to be quite sensitive about their condition.
'We shall strike at their heart!' he yelled above the gunfire. He called in air-strikes on a whim, and directed mortar fire with his mind. With an extension of his wrist, he unleashed hell's fury. Napalm escaped his grasp, ridding the enemy bodies of their flesh, and only cinder fragments remained. Burnt husks and twisted limbs were left behind as decorations in his wake. Whether or not his own men survived was of little concern to him.
During the assault on Frying Pan Ridge, he directed a tri-pronged attack force of the finest soldiers. These men toiled for days as they ascended the endless walls of cooking implements, spatchula after bloody spatchula. In the final hours of the assault, their numbers had dwindled greatly. By sunset, the remainder of the enemy defense had barricaded themselves within a gargantuan waffle-maker. With the waffle-maker on high, they attempted to smother Shithead's men by hurling giant waffles at them, but they were of Belgian decent, and so they through the waffles in .8 seconds.
Aghast at the voracious appetite of the Belgian warriors, the nameless enemies retreated immediately, leaving behind their prized waffle-maker. Without a moment to spare, Cpl. Shithead jury-rigged the maker to belch out fireballs instead of waffles, and proceeded to ride down the fleeing enemies while piloting a gyro-copter made of silverware. Many a fire-waffle was distributed that day, and many a Belgian was proud of their strong heritage. Cpl. Shithead was never seen again.
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