#I needed a reason for [redacted] to make live commentary on crap going down as the show progresses

[lets-try-some-writing]

The Grim Dark Archives: Statement #004 SITUATION UPDATE

[Statement taken from Agent Witwicky on the 23rd of September 2010 regarding the situation with [Redacted] and the Autobot presence on Earth. Secondary statement taken from [Redacted] shortly after their awakening also included.]

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For any listeners, I will say this simply. The reason for the six year gap in further statements and transcripts is because... [Redacted] was caught by the Autobots shortly after their statement on Holoforms. [Redacted] was meant to only be on a short walk around a secure area, but they deviated from the planned route we had cleared for them. We do not know what they were trying to do, but we believe that they were possibly attempting to observe the Autobots from a distance. What little camera footage we gathered from [Redacted] showed them rushing toward where the Autobots were reported to be looking for energon.

Considering how terrified they are of the Autobots, this choice made no sense to us. But whatever [Redacted] was trying to do, they seemed to be taking notes when the Autobot known as Bumblebee snuck up on them. Bumblebee made some sort of sound that our systems could not pick up, and within moment [Redacted] was surrounded by the Autobots at the dig site. There was some sort of discussion in what we assume was their native language before the one called Bulkhead proceeded to punch [Redacted] hard enough to knock them to the floor. Further footage was grainy, but when the Autobots finally left, [Redacted] was all but a crushed mess on the ground.

Our agents were deployed to collect what was left, but miraculously, [Redacted] still seemed to be alive. Whatever power source keeps Cybertronians operational was still blazing. And so while higher command was not exactly the most thrilled with the idea, [Redacted] was brought in for repairs. I wasn't there for all of it, but from what I gather, our scientists and engineers both had a field day and hated every waking moment of trying to put [Redacted] back together. Thankfully for everyone, [Redacted] seemed to be in some sort of sleep while they were being repaired. It took years to get them back into shape, and all the while we kept the Autobots occupied as best as we could. We took [Redacted]'s advice and were careful about what information we allowed the Autobots to have. They are currently under the assumption that we can destroy them with nukes. It seems to have kept them from acting out.

However they were reported constantly watching the stars and searching for things on the surface. We struggled to keep track of them, at least until two things happened.

Firstly, [Redacted] showed signs of waking up from whatever coma they were in. They started moving around and booting online around the time a new alien aircraft appeared in the skies. We couldn't trace it and there were no Autobot symbols. But the Autobots were quick to inform us that the ship belonged to the Decepticons, their mortal enemies. They seemed far too excited for their own good at the prospect of fighting these other aliens. We opted to keep our sights on the ship as much as possible while the Autobots began a frantic search. It was around this time that [Redacted] finally came online enough to speak coherently, at which point we immediately questioned them about the situation. Their response was highly concerning, just like everything else they have ever told us.

I will play a recording of their statement here.

[-Statement playback begins-

That is the Decepticon warship. Sorry, my processors are pounding like a glitch right now, but yeah, Prime wasn't lying. That's definitely Megatron's ship. Why did you think the Autobots were here in the first place? Did you think they turned up for a vacation? No, they came here because this is where the Decepticons are.

How did you not pick it up on your radar? Well the Nemesis has a cloaker. All Cybertronian ships do. You didn't notice the Autobots until they came to you right? Well think about it this way. If the Decepticons can now be picked up on your radar, it means they don't care about being seen. That in turn means that they have a purpose, a mission. They have been hanging around your planet as long if not longer than the Autobots have, likely waiting for the right moment to make their move.

I don't claim to know their plans, but now that they are up and moving, you can bet that Megatron will show up soon enough. That's when slag is going to get real. So far the Autobots have laid low and been pretty docile right? At least I assume they have since you are all still alive and your capitol isn't burning. Well unfortunately for you organics, things just went from bad to worse. Expect my kin's war to begin ravaging your world as well. Hopefully their lack of numbers will keep it somewhat contained, but honestly at this point all I can do is give you context for what is going on and hope you can use it to your benefit.

The Decepticons are likely here to retrieve something or other. There were thousands of objects deployed during the war to keep them safe. Killing the Autobots is just a bonus. As for the Autobots? I can't claim to know, but I bet they will pull the same scrap. The two factions are notorious for being competitive. Just... try to keep civilians out of the way as they try to wage their war.

We are a dying race, and this is exactly why. When one of the factions get what they want, then you can really start worrying again. For now, they will be too focused on turning each other into slag to care much about you.... or me.

-Statement playback ends-]

[Redacted] did not elaborate on what allowed them to survive very nearly being killed. They also did not tell us WHY the Autobots tried to kill them, but we have more important things to deal with now. The Decepticons are active and we do not have nearly enough information due to [Redacted]'s extended coma. We are going to need to work quick to catch up on all we missed and get as much information as we can from our suspicious ally before they get killed for good this time.

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[Statement end.

Further statements will be added to this catalogue as soon as possible. The Autobots have been observed moving and I am sure it will not be long before we need [Redacted]'s knowledge again.

Agent Witwicky signing off.

Recording ends.]

[jakebraque-blog]

The tale of the time the thing happened in (blank), with (redacted).

 Wow, so that was a lot of grown up stuff being said in that last one. It’s getting so you wonder where to find some good quality toilet humour around this website. Fortunately we’ve just awkwardly segued into another horrible tale of someone's past life. So without further ado:

The tale of the time the thing happened in (blank), with (redacted).

It had been a long car trip, on tyres so bald, we honestly weren't sure we’d make it to (blank). But make it we had, with much humorous shit-dribbling and many repetitions of the title (and let’s face it, only listenable) track to the Gorillaz latest CD on (redacted)'s car stereo (Doot doo doo doo doo, doo doo, hoo hoo). A stereo which, much like the alarm system, was of disproportionate value to the car its self.

The head unit was festooned with bogan-candy, all colour shifting LEDs and graphic hoozawhatsits. The subs couldn’t be cranked right up without popping the windscreen out and whenever you locked or unlocked the car this ridiculous yankee voice would bellow out "SYSTEM DISARMED" like the voiceover on Mortal Kombat. The fact that all of this had been bolted into a rusty old shitbox with steel belting hanging out of one tyre and a levered-off petrol lid may speak to our roundabout ages at the time, but I’m not narrowing down the incriminating details any further than that.

We’d driven down to the picturesque town of (blank) because my mate (redacted) had been invited to meet the folks by his girlfriend at the time. He’d also somehow talked me into coming along to run interference against her Dad and any possible shotgun-related incidents that might crop up, through a series of conversations that presumably made sense at the time (maybe it was someone’s birthday as well, I forget the exact reasoning behind it all). Let's not pretend that any good decisions were made here. 

Also, being sensible young men, we’d decided this important event would be best utilised with a secondary objective of getting shitfaced after all the fogies had gone to bed, and had provisioned ourselves accordingly. Thus did each rolling thump of the subbies echo with a chorus of bottles chiming together in the boot. Long live teenage logic. The first stubby got cracked open ten seconds after the handbrake came on, when the old boy’s dogs started barking to announce our presence on the farm.

Skipping over the whole family gathering now, because eugh, boring and awkward, we come to sometime after the oldies cleared out for home. Now the prospective father-in-law was not at all alongside the idea of his daughter and (redacted) getting up to any midnight shenanigans under his roof. To this end we were politely told to grab whatever stuff we needed for the night, lock the car up and get in his ute. Once the night’s ration of booze, durries and doritos was secured in the tray, we were taken up to the back hills of the property and tucked away in an old cabin with a fire pit outside, while he returned to the main homestead below.

A fire was lit and an hour or two was used up in the traditional young Aussie game of Who Can Get His Own Liver To Spontaneously Combust First. Then (redacted) announced his intention to go and have a crap in the dark and scary woods. Several minutes passed, they may have done so ominously but I’m hard put to remember that part with any clarity. Let’s assume that they did.

He burst back into the fire-lit clearing, pants inside out and trailing behind by one leg, which had become stuck on his shoe.

"Auuugh!" he screamed, flailing at them as though they’d suddenly become venomous.

"Auuugh!" he elaborated. "I got shit on me! I got shit on me!"

His method of locomotion devolved into some kind of strange dance around the clearing, while he frantically tried to remove said effluvia from himself without touching it or falling over. My response was swift and decisive. I collapsed into helpless laughter, spilled beer all over myself and almost rolled into the fire.

This important task completed, I proceeded to coerce the story of what had just happened out of him. Being a fairly simple explanation (he’d pooed from on top of a fallen log, then fallen off the log), it nevertheless took some time to relay, what with the attendant commentary breaks, laughter intermissions and breathless demands for repetition, whereupon the laughter would begin again.

Once this vital debriefing had been completed (quite some time later), it became aparrent that replacement clothing was going to be required. We were down in the south of WA, during winter and while there was technically a fire at the cabin, it was situated outside of it, which negated much of its effect. Also (redacted) was now firmly refusing to wear his hideously befouled trousers on pain of hypothermia and the only suitable replacements were back in the car. Which naturally presented further obstacles.

See, we’d been brought up to the cabin by what you might call the roundabout route. It was on the same property alright, but instead of following any track through it when he’d ferried us up, the old boy had used the main roads surrounding it; with, we suspected, a few extra turns thrown in to confuse (redacted)'s sense of direction. Thus hopefully ensuring no late night activities would ensue after a spot of bushwalking (and then presumably throwing some propofol-filled steaks into the dog kennels- look, the guy was a bit paranoid about this apparently).

Confident in our ability to navigate by the stars, we set out into the forest, one suitably attired for hiking and the other in boxer shorts and a jumper. Did I mention how cold it was? Very. Did the pisstaking continue for the entire walk downhill until we reached the stream? Maybe.

There was a stream. It bordered the paddocks along the edge of the coniferous forest that crowned our little hilltop eyrie. By the light of the stars did we ford it heroically, the boxer-shorted member of our party almost immediately falling in off the rock he was climbing over. Soon to be followed by the rearguard, who found himself unable to maintain the correct fording technique upon witnessing this unfortunate event.

Fortunately the stream was about 2 feet deep, despite being composed of some new supercooled version of water hitherto undiscovered in our balmy home up north. Maybe the terrain naturally secretes ethylene glycol antifreeze into the rivers down there, I dunno. Equally fortunately this was back in the days before smartphones existed, thus saving us both a thousand dollars when we went in and me only being annoyed that my rollie weed got wet. Onward we trekked, coming at last to the outskirts of the house paddock. Where all was quiet.

Getting our respective Sam Fishers on as best we could, in our chilled and rapidly sobering state, we approached from the upwind side of the house and crept toward the car. And then, with the full and unstoppable force of habit driving his thumb down, my friend hit the button on his central locking remote.

"BWOOP BWOOP! SYSTEM DISARMED!" The bellowing noise seemed to echo among the hills and valleys around us in the half second before the whole kennel full of dogs woke up and went fucken batshit, just behind the garden fence.

Various snippets of logistical information were relayed back and forth, such as "get the pants", "fuck!" and "run away." The first household lights started coming on just as the dogs hit their stride and really got into barking gear, presumably trying to make up for sleeping on the job through sheer volume.

We bolted for the tree line, another booming "SYSTEM ARMED!" echoing out behind us as force of habit relocked the car. Breathless seconds passed until we negotiated (read: briefly got stuck on) the border fence around the paddocks. And then we were there, at the edge of the tree line, falling over with fear-laughter as we bolted for cover. We each remembered there was a stream about 2 seconds after it would have been helpful.

The climb back up through the timber was a damp and subdued affair, until finally we spied the light of the fire again and rushed to huddle around it. Sleep wasn’t far off. Mind you, neither was dawn. I’d just about dried out by the time I woke by the fire, having decided against moving into the cabin and instead dragged a mattress outside.

Needless to say, the trip back down the hill was a muted affair, the old boy not being keen on talking and (redacted) and myself not being keen on eye-contact. We left the property not long after.

We’d just made it back home when that bloody tyre let go. Right in the driveway. 

Well that’s the way I remember it anyway. There's only one other party who may disagree but memory’s a funny thing and I doubt he'll want to chime in somehow. Sooooo, I guess if there’s any moral at all to this story it’s:

Don’t be young.

Have fun applying that life lesson.