Numbers' New Year's Newsletter: To Ice Planet 2015 and Beyond

[Other years' letters: 2011 / 2012 / 2013 / 2014 / 2015 / 2016 / 2017 / 2018 / 2019 / 2020 / 2021 ]

Every year, I try to keep you all abreast of my various escapades and endeavours.   Every year, I write these humble Newsletters.  Every year, I grow more uncertain if I will live long enough to write another one.

I wrote to you in 2011, explaining how I built an empire out of selling matches to schoolchildren.  I told you in 2012 how my nemesis tried to end the world and conquered Mars.  I revealed in 2013 how I fought my way through Hell, only to end up lost in time and space, desperately seeking a way home.  And last year, I explained how I confused a tentacle-monster-filled technofuture with modern-day Japan and crushed the New Arstotzkian uprising.

I made it home to find my matchstick empire in embers.  Factories burned down, distribution plants demolished, European cargo trucks mysteriously rammed off the roads.  Someone was out to get me, despite all I had done for this planet.

I converted an abandoned multistory car park into a headquarters/mech bay, where I assembled a crew of my most trusted friends and loyal advisers.  After much sleuthing, we discovered that my ex-arch-nemesis, the one I defeated on Mars, had an heir to his throne.

Not a son.  Not a daughter.  Not a wife.  But a waifu.

When he left the Earth on his mission to Mars, he knew that he might never return.  And so he entrusted his empire to his favourite camwhore, a raven-haired vixen to whom he would frequently fap.  Swiftly realizing that his empire was borderline-worthless, she sold off whatever of his assets that she could, and amassed a small fortune from fake crowdfunding campaigns.  It was not hard for her to find heroes-for-hire willing to destroy my matchstick empire for a reasonable price.

My crew decided it best to hit her where it hurt: the pageviews.  We turned her own tools, that of internet attentionwhoring, against her.  Soon, her name was disgraced, her image worthless, her former fans fapping to someone else.  But she would not sink back into the sea of piss from which she came.

Using what little of my ex-arch-nemesis' research she found worthwhile, she soon launched her own space program.  She was not content to be a citizen of the stars, but their conqueror.  Setting up shop on a planet as cold as her own tiny heart, she declared herself President of Space and, according to intercepted transmissions, began plotting an all-out attack on Earth.

I would not let this stand.  Using what little resources remained from my ruined empire, I kicked the Mech program into full, metal, top gear.  My entire crew became mechanized, and with former military specialist Admiral Killthunder serving as my second in command, we rocketed towards Madame President's icy refuge.  Fearing the worst, we came prepared.

To prevent our systems from freezing in the mighty cold, my R And The D department developed a powerful form of Thermal Energy, or "Tang."  This glorious glowing life-giving orange fluid had already proven itself in space missions of the past, and this new modified version of it might hold the key to our future.

Glowing red-orange Tang sources lit up our mechs, and we fashioned tools and weapons from its solid form.  Our mechs were upgraded with transparent orange skis, and powerful transparent orange chainsaws.  With these, we might just stand a chance.

Life is a series of mistakes from which we learn nothing and can only hope to recover.  I type this from the cockpit of my mech, with green readouts all across the board and friendly indicators lighting up my HUD like Christmas morning.  With a spinning drill on one arm and a transparent orange chainsaw on the other, I stand ready to lead this rag-tag band of brave mech warriors through this frozen wasteland, not unlike the Canada of my youth, and back through Hell itself if I have to, in order to save that shining jewel, Terra.  For we are residents of the Earth, but citizens of the stars, and will not stand idly by while an angsty attentionwhore threatens all that there is.

I do not know how long this campaign on the Ice Planet will last, but rest assured that by this time next year, the Earth will be free.  You have my word, and my drill, and my transparent orange chainsaw.

- Commander Numbers, Mech Pilot, Lover, Gentleman.
Somewhere on the surface of Ice Planet 2015

[Other years' letters: 2011 / 2012 / 2013 / 2014 / 2015 / 2016 / 2017 / 2018 / 2019 / 2020 / 2021 ]