>>72215546
Imperial Guard to the Games Workshop Redshirt!
O redshirt, English devil and damned daemon's kith and kin, secretary to Abaddon himself. What the daemon kind of employee are thou, that canst not slay a grot with your naked arse? The daemons shit, and your employees eat. Thou shalt not, thou son of a whore, make subjects of Imperial sons; we have no fear of your copyright, by land and by space we will battle with thee, fuck thy mother.
Thou Eldar scullion, Tau dronewright, brewer of a Space Hulk, snotling-fucker of Segmentum Pacifica, Tyranidherd of Greater and Lesser Hive Fleets, grox of the Agri-Worlds, Ratling thief, catamite of the Eye of Terror, hangman of the Tomb Worlds, and fool of all the galaxy and empyrean, an idiot before the God-Emperor, grandson of the Void Dragon, and the crick in our dick. Grox's snout, Mukaali's arse, slaughterhouse cur, unpurified brow, screw thine own mother!
So the Imperial Guard declare, you lowlife. You won't even be herding grox for the Imperium. Now we'll conclude, for we don't know the date and don't own a calendar; the moon's in the sky, the year with the Emperor, the day's the same over here as it is over there; for this kiss our arse!