With a Rolling Pin [CLOSED, ATTN OMOTOI]

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]
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Imperium Centralium
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Founded: Nov 20, 2016

With a Rolling Pin [CLOSED, ATTN OMOTOI]

Postby Imperium Centralium » Sat Feb 25, 2017 5:02 am

The premises of this thread

It's not meant to be serious I mean PIZZERIAS WITH MILITARIES

The pizzerias in Kagona were gotten good by Papa Idi's men. They were left in great messes and shambles, chairs lying horizontally on the floor, glass tables smashed and shattered, floor tiles dented or removed here and there, and of course, the cash kept in the buildings were gone, having been taken by the hostile bandits who had committed such an atrocity. When the Neapolitan Pizzeria's troops arrived at the scene, they first searched for any employees still inside, most of which have been greatly frightened by the daylight robbery that had just taken place, while also looking for evidence to the identity of the pillagers; yet only hours later did Papa Idi's confirm and admit to their masterminding of the raids, thus that part was left unnecessary. It was a very bold move, even for powerful companies like the two. This was highly public and incurred great damage and losses; able to negatively affect both sides greatly. Yet these factors did not seem to matter to Papa Idi's, looking only towards the quick uprooting of their greatest local competitor by any means possible.

This was a great embarrassment to the Pizzeria, for the quality and sheer power of their private military was supposed to be world-famous, its infamy a deterrent in itself, yet it was humiliated in such a fashion enough to demand that an emergency meeting between directors of the Pizzeria's various departments and branches be held immediately. The enemy this time were not chetniks from Papa Draza's who were themselves SIAF operators in all but name, but insolent bandits from an African LEDC. The CEO of the Pizzeria demanded that a forceful response be made immediately, or else the face of the Pizzeria, alongside the name of Centralium (for the two were synonymous to the people of many countries that had felt their presence) might risk becoming a laughing stock. Iohannes Sidonius, or John/Giovanni Sidon as he was known in vulgar Centralinese, promised swift retribution, that the Papa Idi's bandits be disciplined and know their place in confronting the Actually Civilized World.

At the emergency meeting held three hours after the raids had concluded with disastrous consequences for both the Centralines and the local people of Omotoi, Giovanni Sidon assured the Chief Executive that he has the situation under control. The Neapolitan Pizzeria's branch in Omotoi was not the most well-armed of the Pizzeria's many outposts, but as a branch situated in a country where rule of corporations has become the political state, it was certainly given great attention and care, assigned weapons that had made the Neapolitan Pizzeria famous for the ludicrous nature of its security units' equipment. Apaches. BRDMs. Improvised armoured trucks with heavy machine guns and some times rocket weapons mounted. Their soldiers used desert camouflage uniforms, equipped with rifles the Centraline Army's legions formerly fought with. It was a force that certainly beat the militaries of many sovereign states.

At the headquarters of the Neapolitan Pizzeria Branch in Omotoi in the country's capital city, Mr. Sidon, himself a refined strategist since his days of service in the Imperial Armed Forces, discussed with his deputies, officers and subordinates of the local branch, both Centralines and local Omotois. The Pizzeria was open to employees of all races and backgrounds (of course so long they aren't a chetnik or a communist), which was truly expected from a herald of the Actually Civilized World, contrary to Papa Idi's racist policies of refusing to employ otherwise perfectly capable and talented men and women simply because they were white. Even the sleek, clean, smooth look of the Pizzeria's offices and restaurants demonstrated superiority of the ACW to these communist savages. Mr. Sidon and the commanders of the Pizzeria's paramilitary had formulated a basic plan for a payback to the Papa Idi's rats.

There was however some issues that needed to be resolved beforehand. What was planned was essentially a major military operation aimed at the complete incapacitation of Papa Idi's for a sizeable length of time and mass destruction of their organic and effective strength. Despite the recognized gradual loss of control over the country by the government of Omotoi and the rise of corporate warlordism, the Centralines would not want the sovereigns of a nation to be maddened if the nature of their act was not clarified and explained. For this Giovanni personally arranged a meeting with the leader of Omotoi. The director walked into the office with his accompanying men, and began discussion with the leader quickly. He first presented to him the photographs of the aftermath of the devastating raids which had not only destroyed legitimate business assets of the Pizzeria in the country but also properties of the people, as the Papa Idi's forces had attacked and looted local government and financial buildings too in outrage over the planned construction of a new Pizzeria.

The leader was quick to understand what Giovanni wished to communicate to him with these photographs. Giovanni explained how Kagona, a prospering city about to rival the capital city in terms of economic opportunity, was hit brutally by the reckless and callous militants. He told the leader stories of how citizens of Kagona suffered following the attack. More and more photographs were shown to him. Then, finally, Giovanni presented a basic, rough overview of planned military action upon Papa Idi's in response. But as it was a corporate affair, he did not wish for the state armed forces and police of Omotoi to be involved in this, for such he requested that the Omotoi state security forces not be involved in the operation and let the troops of the Pizzeria take care of the entire project, demanding only that the state turn a blind eye to whatever killings that may take place.

Facing an invasion from Centralium and her many legions if he answered otherwise, the leader answered affirmatively. "You have made a wise choice, mister," Giovanni replied. "I can in fact see how you have lasted to this day. And I certainly hope you will continue making the right decisions." He grinned, then fixated his tie before departing, stepping on the marble floor of the building. Now that whatever needed to be clarified was resolved, the physical operation would begin.

Myitwari employees of the Neapolitan Pizzeria paramilitary swearing to completely destroy the Papa Idi's threat.

Technicals of the Pizzeria's forces.

The Neapolitan Pizzeria owned two Type 88 Procella attack helicopters, equivalent to AH-64 Apaches in design, in their paramilitary in Otomoi. It was the most powerful asset they had in their local inventory, dwarfing their other, smaller, armed helicopters, most of which were merely equipped with improvised machine gun emplacements, they had at their disposal. Both were to be put to good use to destroy the rats of Papa Idi's who had made such a great mistake as flouting at an aquila. The helicopters were loaded with rockets and machine gun ammunition, and after verification that they were overall in good working condition, they would be put into combat. Pilots of the Pizzeria were trained by ex-CIAF Air Force pilots and most of them had good experience in rotorcraft use already.

Rotorblades of one of the Procellas begun revolving, generating noise as the machine picked up the energy necessary for liftoff. The two rotors of the helicopter spun rapidly, blowing great wind as it finally took off, departing from the runway and lifting itself up into the blue skies of Otomoi. Picking up velocity rapidly, the helicopter gradually faded, navigating towards the direction of a Papa Idi's stronghold located by Centraline intelligence. The second helicopter took off quickly too in the same fashion, directing itself towards another direction. There were two smaller helicopters which had also took off, loaded with well-trained and geared troops ready to vertically assault the enemy and bring warfare to three dimensions. As soon as the 'air force' was sighted in the sky, infantrymen of the Pizzeria paramilitary boarded their vehicles and set off to battle quickly too.

Assembled on fields were soldiers of the Neapolitan Pizzeria paramilitary. They had varying equipment, some wore SSh-68 helmets and olive-colored or khaki-colored field fatigues, while others had bucket hats and Woodland camouflage uniforms. Some wielded Centraline rifles, others holding Kalashnikovs, but they gripped tightly onto their weapons with the equal level of determination. Regardless of their specific attire and weaponry, they were soldiers of the Pizzeria, ready to deliver crushing blows to the enemy, determined and geared for victory. The soldiers roared various slogans which proclaimed to the world their undying will in this great and critical battle against a company that makes disgustingly baked pizzas yet have the audacity to ransack stores of those inherently superior to them. "AD VICTORIAM! AUT VINCERE AUT MORI! LONG LIVE SIMO LICINIUS AND THEODORUS HORTENSIUS! LONG LIVE COMPAGISM! LONG LIVE THE ACTUALLY CIVILIZED WORLD! DEATH TO COMMUNISTS, SUBVERSIVES AND ACCORDS SCUM! DEATH TO PAPA DRAZA'S! DEATH TO PAPA IDI'S! GLORY TO THE NEAPOLITAN PIZZERIA! FOR CENTRALIUM, FOR THE ACTUALLY CIVILIZED WORLD!" Each slogan was being spoken as steel, striking terror into the hearts of any adversary to hear of this.

It was at this point some had recognized how ridiculous the whole setting had just become and they could not resist laughing or cringing at or by themselves. But they had soon realized the more important matter, which was defeating the enemy and eradicating their pathetic existence entirely.

An officer in a field cap and a camouflage uniform stepped onto a rock, and raised high his semi-automatic pistol, addressing the soldiers. "Comrades, today is the day when we reunify the Nation of Korea, and defeat the U.S. Imperialist Menace that has plagued and divided our land for so long! Today we march to Victory under the Banner of Juche, Elprene Futurism, National Renovationism and Ultranationalism! Today we are led to Victory by the Immortal and Ever-Victorious Will of our Supreme Commander, John Idi Bastiano Hanks Jong-il!" He enthusiastically raised his pistol repeatedly, while the soldiers did the same, raising their rifles and machine-guns, or waving flags if they held any.

But then he realized something was wrong with his address. "Oops, wrong script." he said, embarrassed and humiliated, searching his pockets for the correct script to roar from. "Oh yes, this one," he took out a slip of paper from his pocket. "Today we destroy Papa Idi's who have plagued this country with pizzas that taste like faeces of a Bulgarian while trying to eliminate their competitors! Today we completely dissolve their tyranny over this land's right to Good Pizzas! For the Actually Civilized World!" The soldiers of the paramilitary cheered. Soon the assembly dispersed and the soldiers raced for the improvised armoured vehicles which would carry them to battle, competing for even spots on the stairs. The unlucky ones of course had to proceed by foot, but they accepted their fate and moved on.

On their pickup trucks, the soldiers looked forward to the impending battle, raising high their rifles, light machine-guns, grenade launchers, rolling pins and various other weapons, while also clenching their fists, elbows bent downwards, as if they were at a military parade to be inspected by the Autocrat and the Consul themselves. But instead they would be inspected by hard battle with the enemy, inspected by hailstorms of bullets and bombs. Some of the pickup trucks mounted a DShK machine gun instead while others had a mortar. There were even recoilless guns and rocket launchers mounted on the trucks, as well as anti-aircraft guns. Type 63 rocket artillery were seen towed behind some of the armoured trucks, with reloads carried on the vehicles themselves. BRDM-2 vehicles were also present, equipped with anti-fortification rockets. These all contrasted the Pizzeria's high firepower and good level of equipment with the Papa Idi's bands of ragtag militants who could do nothing but ransack defenceless shops and raid helpless civilians.

Overall, the offensive against the bandits of Papa Idi's would be focused on two theatres, one attacking Papa Idi forces in the western direction of the country while the other theatre would focus on their destruction in the country's south. With assistance of Centraline intelligence a complete map of Papa Idi's stores and restaurants was at the access of Giovanni Sidon, and these locations will be targeted by air support while ground forces will aim to seek out and destroy any enemy air defence units as a priority, followed by the use of artillery to effectively devastate enemy formation and morale. Motorized artillery units would rush to occupy high ground outside of cities, then bombard the Papa Idi's restaurants with rocket artillery and mortars. As the disorganized enemy are chased outside their cover, they will come into contact with Neapolitan troops in street combat. The latter's superior equipment, determined will and level of training has determined victory for them for sure. With air support by the helicopter cavalry on their Procella gunships, the Papa Idi threat will certainly crumble very shortly, which could be foretold by how their pizza lost against the Centralines' in a recent competition between the two on local television a week ago.

Western Theatre:
- 564 soldiers
- 6 improvised armoured trucks
- 32 regular trucks
- 8 60mm mortars
- 5 RPG-7 units
- 3 mounted DShK guns
- 2 mounted ZU-23-2 guns
- 3 BRDM-2s
- 2 Type 63 MLRS
- 2 Carl Gustaf recoilless rifles
- 1 Allouette III
- 1 Type 88 Procella

Southern Theatre:
- 520 soldiers
- 9 improvised armoured trucks
- 27 regular trucks
- 9 60mm mortars
- 7 RPG-7 units
- 4 mounted DShK guns
- 1 mounted ZU-23-2
- 5 BRDM-2s
- 2 Type 63 MLRS
- 2 Allouette III
- 1 Type 88 Procella
Last edited by Imperium Centralium on Fri Jul 07, 2017 4:53 am, edited 6 times in total.
Insert quote by some pretentious 19th century philosopher here

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Founded: Feb 25, 2017

Postby Omotoi » Sun Feb 26, 2017 12:46 am

Muchororinga Airfield, Omotoi

On the ground at the only airfield in the possession of the Papa Idi's company in Omotoi was a single twin-engine Cessna 421. However, this was something different from what would be expected. It was one of the few military planes under the ownership of Papa Idi's militia/paramilitary wing. The dual-propeller Cessna was covered in thin armor plating, the windows were replaced with bullet-proof glass. The passenger seats were cut out and their places fitted with ammunition crates for the planes two 30mm autocannons, one on each wing of the plane, radio equipment, and a very expensive camera fitted into the bottom of the plane. The plane was for photography and video footage for Papa Idi's intelligence officers, those being people from Omotoi's military which had in recent times, collapsed. The plane sat on the runway as men running around hap-hazardly fueled the plane, and brought supplies into the plane. As well, crews also preformed maintenance on the plane. The crew of four were standing a few dozen feet from the plane, waiting for the men to finish their duty. They wouldn't have to wait long.

Within a few minutes, the plane's maintenance, supply and fuel crews had finished their duty and were now driving off. The crew, ready to prepare for taking off stepped into the plane. There were five men who would be crewing the plane. The pilot, his co-pilot, a radioman designated with receiving and transmitting messages from a military radio welded into the plane body, a navigator with a section of the plane walled off to himself, a weapons operator in charge of maintaining the weapons the pilot could fire from his modified steering wheel, and a camera operator, in charge of using the plane's filming camera.

Their plane, along with a second armored Cessna would be to take off from the airfield and perform surveillance the few roads leading to the town of Kichwabugingo where the Neapolitan Pizzeria's paramilitary forces would approach on. The plane's engines begin to turn on, and the propellers began to turn as the plane started up. The plane's pilots entered information into the plane computers, whilst the navigator began charting a course along the areas to be patrolled. Neapolitan Pizzeria's paramilitary forces were very well armed, among other things being armed with the capability to take both planes down. A missile could be dodged, if the crew were lucky but under sustained autocannon fire, survival just meant hoping they ran out of ammo before you go down. Thus, taking the right course would be crucial. The plane ready to go, it began moving, taxi-ing out to the runway to take off.

"Muchororinga, this is Mbobu-1. We are ready and currently static, and are waiting for taxi-ing orders."

"Copy, Mbobu-1. Runway 1-2 is currently open. Proceed there, but be aware Mbobu-1 that Mbobu-2 is currently at the end of Runway 1-1 so make sure you don't cause a accident. You'll take off first, then Mbobu-2 five minutes later."

"Copy, Muchororinga. Taxi-ing to Runway 1-2 now, over."

The armored Cessna moved up to the runway, and at the air control tower's command began to take off, touching wheels off the ground and souring into the air. A few minutes later, the second Cessna did the same. Eventually, the two linked up and split off once again to begin scouting duties. There were three main roads, all a few miles long winding toward the militia held up in Kichwabugingo, all of them likely to be used by the Neapolitan white men. For many of the men in both the planes and the ground, this was akin to a tribal conflict. Nearly all of them were from the Bsruo ethnicity, including the majority of Papa Idi's high-ranking officials. It made sense they'd fight for something as ridiculous as a pizza chain. A native one at that.

Kichwabugingo, Omotoi

The town of Kichwabugingo, near Kagona, the second-largest city in Omotoi, was a forward operating base in the Papa Idi's held side of the River Oyomu. The main headquarters was about ten miles northwest at the village of Kamusanganya, though that place was a fortress in it's own right. Defenses here were makeshift at best though. There were two road entrances to the village, the North Road and the South Road. The North Road was covered, though still open. The South Road entrance had been completely blocked. In between two buildings, the defenders had built a metal fence between the two buildings and put up several layers of sheet metal in front of the metal fence as cover. In front of this makeshift cover piece was a large ditch, four feet deep and large enough for a truck to drive into. Despite the rather obvious thought that this was to stop vehicles from ramming through, the purpose wasn't that clever. It was to stop infantry from running up to get to melee distance and to stop them entering the town. The pit was full of gasoline and other flammables ready to be ignited at any moment by the defenders.

In the central plaza of the town was a truck with a ZU-23-2 equipped in the flatbed of the truck, manned by two. It was scanning the skies for any sides of aerial trouble. They knew about the two friendly Cessna gunships, which would be painted bright black with stripes so as to prevent friendly fire incidents costing the company precious assets. Meanwhile, the troops continued fortifying the town. Soon, they would be engaged in the first truly large incident between the two companies.

Overhead Kichwabugingo, Omotoi

The armored Cessna airplane hanged ominously over the North Road leading into the village of Kichwabugingo, which was being held by around seventy of Papa Idi's militiamen whom had raided Kagona only the previous day. The second Cessna, Mbobu-2 was patrolling the roads in the south. They were simply scanning for signs of enemy presence on these roads. In view was the city of Kagona. The planes two 30mm autocannons, loaded with thousands or rounds and the two M60 machine-guns built into each wing of the plane were ready to fire. Given what was inside the plane, and outside, the plane itself was being stretched to it's carrying capacity. Meanwhile, the planes staff went about on their various duties whilst the camera operator scanned for enemies.

"Hey, I think I saw some vehicles down there! Trucks!"

The camera operator pulled away from the eyepiece in the plane's camera and fidgeted around with a series of knobs built into the camera, adjusting the focus and magnification of the camera. He peered back into the eyepiece.

"Those are enemy trucks, more than a dozen. They have a gun that could shoot us down. Advice?"

The pilot looked back into the plane, letting the co-pilot take over and gave his comments.

"Command said that they don't have missiles. I think we'll be safe if we're cautious. Weapons operator, get on station! Radioman, call in to Mbobu-2 and report our findings. Everyone, get ready! We'll give them a few dive runs."

The plane continued in a straight line whilst the radioman contacted the other Cessna.

"Mbobu-2, this is Mbobu-1. We found a enemy convoy consisting of more than a dozen trucks heading towards Kichwabugingo, they have a single mounted flak gun. There could be more, we're preparing to engage."

"Mbobu-1, this is Mbobu-2. Message understood, we spotted a smaller convoy of our own. No anti-air guns in this one, we're preparing to wipe them out. Radio us back in when you finish engaging, by then we'll have mopped these up. Over."

Mbobu-1's radioman dialed off as the plane steered around, getting into position to begin the first dive run. Doing a sharp turn, it had gathered distance from the probably now alerted convoy. The pilots tipped the plane down, and began opening fire with the 30mm autocannons, creating a path of destruction and destroying the two lead trucks. They began engaging with the machine guns, disabling a third truck. However, they had gone too low. The convoy's ZU-23-2 swiveled around and unleashed upon the plane. Holes were ripped throughout the plane, killng the co-pilot, wounding the pilot and the navigator. Soon enough smoke began to pour out. The radioman freakishly put in a distress call to Mbobu-2, asking for assistance.

"Mbobu-2, this is Mbobu-1! We're heavily damaged, the damned anti-air poured a salvo right into us... The co-pilot is dead, pilot and navigator are wounded, plane is smoking. Asking for assist- oh sh-!"

The armored Cessna took another volley of flak fire, and went up into a ball of flames. The plane glided into the ground, raising the earth below it. The plane's carcass was smashed into pieces, the wings being seperated. The inside was obliterated. Only a now heavily wounded pilot survived, crawling out of the burning plane to collapse and bleed out to death. Meanwhile, inside the plane the ammunition had begun to cook off, creating a sight for parts of the Neapolitan forces arriving late.
Last edited by Omotoi on Mon Feb 27, 2017 6:42 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Yet another puppet of Western Pacific Territories, now in ANCAP meme form.

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Imperium Centralium
Posts: 253
Founded: Nov 20, 2016

Postby Imperium Centralium » Wed Mar 01, 2017 3:50 am

Near Kichwabugingo, Omotoi
Neapolitan Pizzeria Paramilitary Forces
The Neapolitan Pizzeria, Omotoi Branch

The vehicle columns rolled forward with vigor and steel-like spirit, with the will to crush all that stood in their way. Noise made by the pickup trucks moving in such a massive and grand formation could be heard by locals from great distances, and from their windows they all competed to get a view of what was happening. Soldiers of the Pizzeria were setting off to battle, tightly gripping their rifles while cheering on their road to war. The sun shined on the soldiers with glory, light reflecting off their steel helmets or the vehicles' plating, truly the impression of a great unconquerable army was created with this grand image. Holding their rifles with their left hands the soldiers clenched their fists, raising it upwards and bending their elbows, as a further symbol of their courage to break through all threats and opposition and achieve victory in the upcoming tense battles.

Suddenly, some of the men caught sight of the enemy Cessna. The enemy air force was more powerful than expected, but the ludicrousness by which they augmented and upgraded such a combat-unworthy plane (compared to the powerful Procella/Apaches of the Neapolitans) only showed how desperate the enemy was, exposing much of their inventory and revealing the full extent of their capabilities, while the Neapolitans still had plenty to draw from (they were backed by a Concordat founding signatory, after all). The ZU-23-2 equipped truck attempted to train its barrels on the enemy airframe, but a problem occurred with the rotating disc and as a result the gun was jammed in one position for a moment. This wasted and drained away precious time, and by the time the mishap was relieved of, the Cessna had closed in and begun strafing the vehicles with its machine-guns.

The high-calibre autocannon cartridges ripped through the car hood of the leading trucks, burying themselves in its sophisticated parts and machinery while also igniting fuel, resulting in a high-energy rapid combustion reaction collecting power and force from whatever flammables that were inside the vehicle, forming a great blossom of orange and red, great flames penetrating through the vehicle to form petals of the beautiful flower that had resulted from this unfortunate working of physics and chemistry, which only Michael Bay would appreciate. The beauty of this work of chemical botany had the unfortunate side effect of flying the vehicle metres into air and completely destroying its internals, leaving it in flames. The driver was instantly killed, one half of him was roasted and shrapnel had densely flung themselves through and into his other half. The other man sitting in the other front seat was too half-roasted and also badly injured not to mention receiving a concussion when the truck fell back onto the ground and the roof hit his head painfully, but he wasn't dead. The soldiers standing on the cargo compartment had took cover, then many of them were thrown off and one was killed, several others badly injured.

The truck with a mounted DShK behind the unfortunate first-casualty was also hit and exploded in a similar fashion. The DShK gun was blown to its original parts and its intended operators taking heavy fall damage with one killed. The driver of this truck was more fortunate though and gathered enough strength to leave the burning vehicle frame before falling to the ground. The ablaze steel skeletons of the trucks were now charred black and utterly wrecked. The third truck was fortunately only disabled. However, the entire convoy had been slowed of its movement with this debacle's occurrence much to the dismay and anger of Giovanni Sidon as he monitored its activity by cameras transmitting to the capital city's Neapolitan Pizzeria Headquarters.

Finally the men manning the anti-aircraft gun were able to turn it to confront and defeat the enemy in their Cessna. The gun's barrel alongside the upper module turned to synchronize its movement with that of the audaciously yet carelessly diving aluminium-bird. Dragons of fire and metal emerged from the barrel, flying towards the makeshift attack plane and puncturing its outer plating as well as the fuselage itself extensively, claiming a life and burying 23mm shells in the structure of the Cessna. The second volley was soon fired too and tore through the plane once again, igniting its fuel and now it was their chance to blossom in a great fiery fireball. The burning fuselage crashed to the ground as the soldiers cheered.

The great convoy simply turned around the destroyed vehicle-carcasses and continued their journey to Kichwabugingo, which was now closer than ever according to GPS navigators installed on some of the trucks. The soldiers no longer stood but rather crouched in the cargo compartments, looking out if another plane comes to ambush them and preparing to fight back with perhaps luck and mediocre marksmanship if such was to happen again.

Kichwabugingo, Omotoi
Neapolitan Pizzeria Paramilitary Forces Aerial Detachment
The Neapolitan Pizzeria, Omotoi Branch

The single Procella attack helicopter hovered over the dull sandy ground, buzzing with the motion of its rotorblades. It was in black paint which had only contrasted it with the environment even further. The pilots were trained by men from the Centraline Imperial Armed Forces Air Force, and as such they had quite the skill in operating the advanced chopper. They enjoyed a good view of the land below through the cleverly designed windows of the cockpit. As it approached its destination the top rotor tilted forward as the helicopter motioned in that direction, its tail rotor tipping similarly.

To understand why a restaurant's paramilitary units would be equipped with an Apache one needed to understand the Centraline foreign policy and doctrine. The Centraline state itself could no longer afford to lose face fighting wars with its own name, in addition to this the Neapolitan Pizzeria provided pizza, which was indeed a great counterinsurgency tactic - if the locals have pizza, they obviously won't even think of rebelling, unless another brand of supposedly better pizza is present which Papa Draza's does not serve - with this realization Septentrionale had came to the understanding that by arming the Pizzeria they could create a fully functional organization able to run entire countries with two magical tools, a gun, and pizza. The Pizzeria was more potent than the Centraline state itself in fighting the war with the Accords and their own proxies. Countries will be less alarmed to a restaurant chain expanding into their country, compared to a proper state invading and thieving their resources. And once the pizza deliveryman has a gun, the pizzeria becomes a state. Wherever the Neapolitan Pizzeria held a gun, the power of the actual state diminished to zero and it became truly a Centraline satellite.

Of course, sometimes the Chetniks who ran their own restaurant chains would protest such neo-imperialist nonsense and take out their Zastavas and charge into battle, but then again the Pizzeria has guns for a purpose.

The town of Kich'go soon came into the sight of the helicopter's pilots, its buildings, concrete or adobe, bathing under the glorious warm sunlight, while its residents went about their daily businesses of trading and dialogue without regard for the massive noise that had just filled their ears. The children looked up and were excited that a 'big bird' had came to visit them. One of the more educated children shook his head and tried to re-gather the others' attention over a new way of playing with stolen sandstone bricks he invented. Sensors of the helicopter scanned through the townscape, transmitting information to computers onboard and displaying processed data to its helmsmen through the liquid-crystal screens and the helmet-mounted displays. The pilots located various buildings of importance in the town, such as stores of Papa Idi's and their various storages and depots located through satellite data, provided by the Centralines.

Target acquisition was soon complete by onboard electronics and systems. The 30mm gun opened fire first, strafing restaurant stores from a distance, while the rocket launchers began rapidly dispensing the 70mm rockets which also headed for the restaurants, as well as at Papa Idi's fortifications and depots, such buildings of tactical significance were ripped through fiercely by the great fire-serpents delivering the message of the Actually Civilized World to the Papa Idi's brutes and savages who dared to resist the ACW's triumphant march of bringing civilization and prosperity to these lands. However, as the gunship went on a rage of destruction, its cameras identified the presence of the anti-aircraft truck in the central plaza of the town, and immediately turned its gun and rockets to emphasize that as a priority. A volley of high-calibre rounds as well as rockets found their way in the direction of the square, heading for the AA-equipped truck.

Explosions were expected as many buildings were hit, first an orange fireball emerged as their skeletons collapsed, then smoke and fire began to engulf and consume what remained of targets that were hit. Men and women screamed and ran, looking for cover. As the 30mm rounds were fired into buildings, glass windows would be shattered and destroyed instantly while the tables will be cut in halves and the chairs returned to their original components. The destroyed restaurants, if they were serving any pizza, would have the pies cooked by the rocket fire to a standard higher than what Papa Idi's could ever manage. Militants of the Papa Idi's paramilitary would be tore to pieces if they came into the line of fire of the gun while metal fences and brick walls would collapse, the work put into them all wasted and in vain. Such was the consequence of enemies of the Actually Civilized World!

With the town now dotted and decorated with explosions, smoke, collapsed buildings and scenes of horror, the Apache pilots reviewed the status of the targeted fortifications and tactical structures and decided it would be a good time to withdraw as the alerted paramilitary troops began to mobilize and may bring out heavier, deadlier and more threatening weapons very soon. Leaving the town in such a state of destruction and scene of annihilation the helicopter turned around, launched one another rocket in the direction of the South Road, and flew off, buzzing as its rotors have always been.

Neapolis, Centralium
Neapolitan Pizzeria
Centraline Imperial Republic

The executives of the Pizzeria as well as high-ranking members of the Centraline state were constantly updated with progress on the confrontation between the Actually Civilized World and barbaric savages, certainly servants and stooges of Cvetovigrad and Villenocte. They grinned as they viewed footage of the Pizzeria's forces setting off to battle in this distant land, many of them discussing with each other future plans for the region after the threat of rival pizzerias have been destroyed. Their brains generated great thoughts about the victory that would surely come to the Neapolitan Pizzeria secured by their inherently superior ways of baking and serving their pies as well as other accompanying dishes. In fact they were convening while eating pizza freshly from the furnace true to the ingredients and recipes that were being enjoyed by other Centraline citizens and members of the Actually Civilized World worldwide.

But besides thoughts and fantasies about the next course of action in the region they were more impressed at how corporations had begun waging war on each other. Truly, pizzerias' own militaries clashing with each other, complete with missiles and bombs, aircraft and armoured vehicles, so on, was something that sounded and looked ludicrous, but was happening before their very eyes. Pizzerias. Not nations or typical omnicorporations (well the Neapolitan Pizzeria to a degree could be an omnicorp, but that was subject to dispute given all it did was serve good pizza and maybe bomb rival pizza franchises), but pizzerias, were waging this war, with equipment beating that of actual national militaries. The whole idea and premise of this incident was...beautiful to the attending Centralines. It opened new questions and possibilities about the future of the world, certainly ruled by pizzerias, and only the best of them (obviously the Neapolitan), in the minds of the men sitting and taking great bites from their Neapolitan Classic. Had any coordinated siege of a homosexual city-state reached such levels of beauty? Any multi-national aerial military exercise? Anything else, compared to warring pizzerias? For the analysts who applaud the mass rocket launches or missile salvos at typical exercises they have indeed not seen the light that is the real future, of politics and of warfare.

"Pineapples...nom nom, they're, nom, an invention of Satan, nom." said one mouth-full executive. "Hawaiian pizzas are disgusting, nom nom nom."

"Agreed." concurred a military officer who was now taking his third slice.
Insert quote by some pretentious 19th century philosopher here

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Neo Philippine Empire
Posts: 6786
Founded: Oct 17, 2013

Postby Neo Philippine Empire » Wed Mar 01, 2017 5:18 am

My Conquest is the Sea of Flour and Tomatoes
Águila Pizzeria's Prologue

Prologue Sountrack

Castillo del Águila
Capital of Águila Pizzeria
0420 Hours

What a great way to start a day.

It was at dawn, the roaring of jet engines passing and fading away was overheard as the C.E.O. of Águila Pizzeria, Don Joaquin López, was forcefully awoken by his personal adviser to inform him of the urgent news regarding a major shift in Pizzeria diplomacy and another major report. Half awake and slightly salty as he was gleefully dreaming that he had been crowned as the supreme Pizzeria Emperor of Omotoi, he slowly walked towards his throne and sat with his legs crossed and his right hand clenched to his right jaw. Slowly, he began reading Águila Pizzeria Intelligence Agency(APIA)'s report regarding an upcoming armed conflict between the infamous brands of Neapolitan Pizzeria and Papa Idi's Pizzera. All traces of drowsiness disappeared as e evilly smirked as he skimmed through reports of army mobilizations and rabid Pizzeria ransacking, López was shaking with excitement.

As it was at dawn, López later on felt intense hunger that he instinctively unintentionally barked at his adviser.

"Pizza with eggs!"

Referring to Águila Pizzeria’s breakfast pizza, a specialty in which was especially popular with Águila Pizzeria’s “territories”. in the Eastern part of Omotoi.

The slightly startled adviser began to run quickly towards to the castle's intercom in order to alert the best of employees of an emergency order. The employees then on red alert began to cook the C.E.O.'s favorite breakfast Pizza while some was brewing López’s favorite coffee, black coffee with cream. As he was reading though the blocks of reports given, he suddenly broke in cold sweat. It stroke fear to him when he saw reports of APC deployments, multiple rocket launch systems, along with other until finally stumbling into the reports of an Apache attack helicopter. The train of thought must have gotten to him that the upcoming armed conflict will not be simply a large scale gang violence but a national civil war. While his hands were shaking in fear, he accidentally pulled out a hidden report.

López later discovered that the hidden file was neither part of the first report nor a second report, but an envelope containing the signature of C.E.O. Santiago de los Santos, the head coordinator of the Águila Conglomerate. Surprised by this unexpected spectacle, he rashly tore off the envelope's perfectly created seal depicting Águila Corporation's sigil which is obviously an eagle. López got himself a fragranced letter with contents written in flawless noble-like hand writing. It was a long block text in which he lazily skimmed at first, however he eventually spared no expense and began reading the letter word for word.

February 26, 2017

Greater Cebu Metropolis, Mahárlika
69 Main Road, Aguila Conglomerate H.Q.

Mr. Don Joaquin López
Castillo del Águila, Omotoi
Capital of Águila Pizzeria

Dear Don López,

It is within my realm of understanding that it is your responsibility as the C.E.O. of the newly opened foreign branch of our Conglomerate, the Águila Pizzeria, to protect and conserve our company interests. And as you can see, your position's strategic importance to the conglomerate have significantly improved the moment our conglomerate’s intelligence has personally sent me a heavily encrypted full on detailed report regarding the current situation on your base of operations on Omotoi.

However it is of my concern that with the Pizzeria's current sub-standard military forces, it currently has low capability to neither defend nor expand our interests in this matter. And I would allow myself to be consumed by maggots before mocking the conglomerate and have you lose on the upcoming conflict. And for this reason I have arranged something for you and the Pizzeria.

I have granted Águila Pizzeria access to all of Águila Conglomerate's leftover Vietnam War weaponry. All the equipment were all constantly undergoing monthly maintenance in case unpredictable situations like these occur. The items and its quantity that were delivered to the Pizzeria are named as:

Unspecified number M1 Helmets, Uniforms with body armor, combat boots, backpacks, non-combat equipment and bladed weapons (knives, machetes, bayonets)
250x AN/PRC-77 Portable Transceivers
1,500x M16s and variants
250x M60 Machineguns
2000x M1911A1 Colt Pistols
4x M72 LAW
6x Stinger MANPADS
25x Trucks
50x Jeeps
6x M-40 Recoilless Rifles
2x 75mm Howitzers
6x 60mm Mortars
6x A-37 Dragonflies
6x OV-10 Broncos
24x Transport Hueys
12x Huey Gunships
2x Aérospatiale Gazelles
3x C-130 Hercules
50 tons of ammunition

I have sent you all these weaponry as for a reason that it would be substantial for the Pizzeria to have these level of weaponry and sending a Pizzeria state of the art 21st century weapons will be considered overpowered and will open a new font of warfare in OOC grounds. Use these weapons wisely and go forth to uphold Águila Conglomerate's pride and prestige. Serve the Conglomerate well and we'll see to it that the Pizzeria will receive their just reward.

P.S. I figured out after you’re reading this, all the stated weaponry are currently being unloaded on the airport.

P.S. It's also written in an 8 hour disappearing ink obviously manufactured by the conglomerate, your loss if you don't read this as fast as possible.

Santiago de los Santos
Head Coordinator of the Águila Conglomerate

After reading the letter, López could not wipe off the arrogant smug present in his unholy face. His adviser later came in while bringing pizza and coffee.

“Sir, your pi-" However he was cut short when López suddenly fidgeted off his throne and walked with brisk akin to that of a march. He reached out the door and before he turned the knob to open it, he slowly tilted his head towards the direction of his adviser.

“Pack my pizza and prepare my vehicle, we are going to the airport.” López said in an arrogant yet cheerful tone as turned the knob to the right, opening the door from his throne and going to his closet to pick out his best clothed to meet Mr. de los Santos' ambassadors.

The Adviser swiftly complied with his commands, he packed his pizza and coffee and later on prepared López’s personal vehicle. As soon López came out, everything was already elaborately prepared. He immediately went inside the vehicle and sat to the place where his adviser Luigi Torres placed his Pizza.

"Torres, drive us to Águila’s private airport, it seems that Mr. de los Santos has an especially interesting gift for the Pizzeria.” López said gleefully while he was enjoying himself watching the disappearing ink slowly fading away from sight and of course, eating his breakfast pizza.

“As you command” Torres replied as he switched on the ignition of the car, and later on began to driving through Omotoi’s sub-standard roads.

Águila Conglomerate’s Private Airport

As they were slowly driving though the rocky streets of Omotoi, the roads suddenly transitioned into those of top quality. Driving 50 meters further to North-east, they finally stumbled upon a high security checkpoint. They were halted by guards akin to those of a Maharlikan Special Forces unit. With their battle ready hands on trigger of an HK416 assault rifle, one guard approached the car and signaled Torres to lower the car window.

“Identification card” Said the guard with a dark bass voice while eyes was watching every motion the people inside the car make, hence any suspicious movement would result to both of them strafed with gunfire without any questions.

But as soon he saw the identification card of Mr. López, he immediately gave out a signal to open the barrier and let the C.E.O. in the airport. He then turned back to the car while lowering his rifle and half removing his mask.

“You may proceed to Gate 7, men under personal direction of Head Coordinator de los Santos is awaiting your arrival.” The guard before putting his mask in and gave them the official permission to drive in.

As they traveled from gate to gate, López saw squadrons of F/A-18s screeching through the skies with the sun slowly rising through the horizon behind them. These aircraft are not from any corporation whatsoever but under the command of the Maharlikan navy, these aircraft were to return to an aircraft carrier in the east as soon as the VIPs are safely evacuated from the country and that the last C-5 would depart out from the borders of Omotoi.

As they approached Gate 4, López saw a C-5 galaxy either taxiing or taking off from the runway. Slowly progressing in between Gate 5 and 6, López saw the delivered items being taken care of carefully. After some time, López arrived at Gate 7 and is immediately greeted with men in black suits, while behind the men is a body of a C-130 Hercules slowly being unloaded from a C-5.

He slowly went out of the car to approach them while he gave every single one a firm handshake. While at first, López and the men had irrelevant small talk, however a rather impatient one immediately gave cut to the chase and handed out López another fragranced letter written by de los Santos. However this letter is not a notice but instead an agreement, as soon as López began reading the letter, the same man who handed out the letter then grabbed López by the shoulder and whispered.

“Despite another one of de los Santos’ long and wordy letters, the content simply means succeed on your duty be rewarded or fail and be punished. So sign this, and so the turnover of weapons will be official, alternatively you can deny this paper and I or the men beside me can bring out the command to turn you, that fellow beside you and the entire delivery into dust.”

López smiled as the sun rose behind him, signed the agreement.

“As of 6:09 AM of the Morning, I, Don Joaquin López, will become an instrument to carry out the Conglomerate’s pride and prestige. And be my conquest the sea of flour and tomatoes.”

The wind brew strongly as a new conquest has begun.

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Victoriala II
Posts: 1834
Founded: Jul 30, 2016
Civil Rights Lovefest

Confederation of Local Pizzerias

Postby Victoriala II » Fri Mar 03, 2017 7:55 pm



prrrrt... prrrrt... prrrrt...

Arielle has been calling the local branch of Pizza Neapolitana for three hours now. She just want a cheesy garlic pizza and mushroom and pepperoni bacon delight with some buttered breadsticks and some chicken wings.

"Fucking hell. Come on, answerrrrrrr."

Three hours became four. Four became five.

Concerned, Polyas came to her room. For some reason, he can go into her house freely for some reason. I don't know, I don't even know jack shit about what I am doing right now. Have you ever thought to yourself, "wow! This really big lore I'm supposed to be developing is not worth the time since I have YouTube videos waiting for me! Fuck, shouldn't I be doing my writing and sketches now? Ah, fuck it, fam lemme just get to the latest RIP vine compilation." Anyway, Polyas, whoever the fuck he looks like at this point (I only had Arielle cemented in my lore) looks towards her, concerned.

"Arie, you okay there? You haven't been calling my calls."

She's silent.

"... Arie?"

"I'm ordering pizza. Go away."

"We don't have Neapolitan here, shithead. Go order at Serafini's instead."

"Does Serafini's have chicken wings?"

"And pasta. And breadsticks. And risotto. And garum."

"We don't eat garum."

"Oh, yeah, that was for the poor Filipino girl down the street."

"Wait, why is there a flip down the street?"

"I don't know, man. We're just making shit up as we go."


"So uh..."

"What's the number for Serafini's?"

"Dude, Serafini's is just a walk from here."

"Here's a hundred bucks. Go get me a medium-sized cheesy garlic and mushroom pepperoni bacon delight with pineapple juice and breadsticks and chicken wings and Aglio e Olio linguine on the side. "

"Lmao fuck you dude, buy them yourself."

Zio Serafini's Pizzeria and Italian Cuisine

"Ah! Bonaveniri, dominasoră!"

Uncle Serafini had a homely, old and bearded Giorgio Locatelli face and a human atmosphere like Hooper's Store before it burned. There's something very queer about the place. And no, the place isn't gay, you ass. Go read a dictionary.

There seems slightly queer about the place. It feels like in the middle of King Emmanuel's giant monument in Rome and a Byzantine church. Yeah. Like Uncle Serafini looks like the guy who puts feta cheese rather than mozzarella. Arie feels tripping balls. Like she's seen the place before. It felt Centraline. But it isn't. What the fuck. Like, it feels like she's in an amphitheater in a blue stola killing it on the dual flute. While kissing a mosaic icon of the Jesus as a fish.

She went forward anyway, and gave her the laundry list of what she's going to order.

"I'd have these, please."

Uncle Serafini looked.

"Is sour cream okay?"

"Of course."

Pizza Cooperative Meeting, Justepaix

"So, despite our best efforts, we still haven't got a clue why our corporate competitors aren't doing anything new and worthwhile."

"What do you mean?"

"Like, the last thing Pizza Hut shat out was Kit-Kat pops. Who the fuck eats those? It's diabetes in a piece of oiled bread. Hell, nutella and strawberry pizza seemed better and it was pure shit from the start."

"Nutella and strawberry was in S&R."

"Yeah, but that's beside the point.

These guys are having a seizure in postmodernity. We have a chance to strike, fam. Look, if they keep on doing stupid shit like this, we best get our pizzerias moving. To the oven?"

The crowd replied with the same question. He replied with the same question. They replied with the same question. Ad infinitum until they found out it was getting boring.

"Alright, motion for having garlic cheese as our flagship say aye."

It was unanimously aye.

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Posts: 30
Founded: Feb 25, 2017

Postby Omotoi » Fri Mar 03, 2017 7:59 pm

[UNKNOWN], Consilia
Syncretic Combine


Three men from Consilia, located in the Syncretic Combine and regarded as one of the worse states there sat around a camera trying to get the thing to work. These three men were rich white boys with plenty of money to spare, and after spending two hours laughing when they found out what the war in that backwater named Omotoi was about they had bought themselves a nice high-end camera. A PXW-Z100 4K Handheld XDCAM Camcorder was what they could splooge up. Considering that they had literally just bought a camera for over five thousand dollars for the sake of recording one video, and to intentionally film it in 'low-quality' for aesthetic purposes was kind of mind-boggling. But they didn't care anyways at all.

One of them was a man dressed up in equally expensive military garb, wearing a bandanna to cover the lower part of his face and a pair of cheap headphones for, once again aesthetic purposes. Behind him, a SMG stood hung up against the wall. These three men and a bunch of other losers assorted across Consilia had formed a underground militia of people willing and wanting to go assist the only 'truly white' forces, that being the Centralines with Neapolitan Pizzeria. Today, they and the other twenty-five or so members, all of whom owned guns and knew how to use them would introduce themselves to the world. Being born in rich, privileged and more than likely racist families, the men here had enough money to pay the air-fares for everyone in the group.

"The viewers of this video, if you see this you likely know about the conflicts ongoing in Omotoi. Already several dozens, if not hundreds have died. The main fighters in this conflict are the white Centralites, good and honest men who actually work for the white race and for themselves. They go up against a genocidal, maniac pizza company that uses ethnic division and militias to fight their enemies. The Centralites so far have every advantage. Who would dare go against them but the most lowly, the most un-intelligent backwards farmer from the middle of the desert? Despite the obvious answer to this question, many dare so. It is the duty of all of us here in Consilia and from other places to come and fight in the defence of the out-numbered and still-threatened Centralites! They may have the advantage now, but should they fall it is for certain all the whites would be killed, massacred."

The video ended there once the man couldn't hold it in any longer, beginning to laugh and cringe at the same time as the video ended. After a few hours of editing, they then uploaded the video and waited for the lulzcow to begin pumping lulz out.

Kichwabugingo, Omotoi

The town of Kichwabugingo was now a moldering wreck of a town. The defenses on the South Road were gone. All the town's storage depots, armories, barracks, temporary HQs, Papa Idi's stores and it's only ZU-23-2 were destroyed or heavily damaged by the surprise chopper strike. As the helicopters left, a furious militiaman raised a Stinger and attempted to achieve a lock-on, however he fired the Stinger before the thing had locked onto the chopper and missed horrendously. If he had waited a few more seconds though, he almost certainly would have killed everyone on board and cost Neapolitan Pizzeria a few dozen millions.

Cursing the potential economic and political effect on the Pizzeria he could have had, he threw the Stinger to the ground and scrambled around. In the meantime, one radio outpost, hidden inside a building had survived the onslaught. This radio post would be the town's only way of communication with the one remaining Cessna. Soldiers scrambled around, trying to re-organize the defenses. The barricade on the southern road, as well as the two buildings next to it were now gone. The only "defense" there now were a dozen troops trying to hastily dig a trench behind the anti-infantry gasoline pit, which had fortunately survived. Meanwhile in the town, the radio station was urgently contacting the remaining Cessna still in the air.

"Mbobu-2, do you copy? Assistance is urgently needed."

"This is Mbobu-2, we copy."

"The damned Neapolitans sent armed helicopters to attack us. They turned the town to dust, many of our installations and soldiers are destroyed and killed. The bastards didn't even try to avoid the civilians. Hold off the convoys."

"There is a convoy of about five trucks approaching on the South Road, about two miles out. No anti-air in this one, we'll blast them to pieces for what they've done! We can't risk attacking the northern convoy, you deal with that on your own."

"Understood Mbobu-2, over."

Overhead Kichwabugingo, Omotoi

The only remaining armored Cessna in this part of Omotoi now buzzed over the convoy of five trucks below. There was nothing they could do, they should have just turned around at this point and prayed that the plane didn't adjust it's course to wipe them all out. However, they continued forward, following orders. They'd pay now. The plane, a few hundred feet out pulled down, slowing speed as they fell closer to the convoy. Finally, they let forth with absolute righteous fury. The 30mm autocannons and machine-guns pounded as they poured hellfire onto the convoy, destroying three out of the five vehicles.

The plane pulled away, having already done significant amounts of damage, buying the town anywhere from five to ten minutes alone, at least on that front. Reading for a second, decisive dive run, it turned around and pulled down. Once more a hail of ammunition came forth, destroying the rest of the vehicles and eliminating threats from survivors. At least, that was what they thought. A surviving Neapolitan picked up a RPG and fired a rocket he knew would never hit at the plane. The plane went for a third one and obliterated everything on the ground for sure this time. In the distance, a truck appeared. The co-pilot squinted.

"AA! It's another ZU! So that's where their air protection was!"

The pilot immediately took the plane's wheel and steered the plane around, taking it directly away from the truck. He pushed the throttle up to maximum speed, and had the radioman call in.

"This is Mbobu-2, we've destroyed five trucks. You should have anywhere up to ten minutes before the soldiers arrive on the south road. We're turning back, AA was spotted on the South Road and we simply refuse to risk it."

"Understood, Mbobu-2. Thank you for the assistance. If we die, we'll die here, Over!"

Izibuko Amin, Omotoi

In the much more radically different sea side port city of Izibuko Amin, the city had turned into a fortress. A population of almost 130,000 lived here, nearly all of them evacuated by orders of the Omotoi government. Trenches surrounded the three sides of the city. Inside it's docks sat only a dozen ships. Ten of them were cargo vessels from Omotoi, stacked up with crates. A eleventh ship was intentionally beached on a sandbar outside the docks. All the deck space was empty, and the ship had been converted into a fortress. It's deck now held large, old guns, ready to fire off when they needed too. Troops manning the artillery lived here, and for good measure, AA systems had been put up in place. The beached ship was a symbol of the increasingly makeshift defenses.

The twelfth ship in port was a government cruiser. Armed with two 70mm cannons, one in the back and one positioned on top of the bridge of the well, as well as a couple of machine guns wasn't exactly a state-of-the-art ship. None the less, it was the only ocean ship left in the hands of the Omotoi Navy. In the case of war, it'd have to be saved any way possible.
Yet another puppet of Western Pacific Territories, now in ANCAP meme form.

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Imperium Centralium
Posts: 253
Founded: Nov 20, 2016

Postby Imperium Centralium » Sat Mar 04, 2017 6:41 am

Kich'go, Omotoi
Neapolitan Pizzeria Paramilitary Forces
The Neapolitan Pizzeria, Omotoi Branch

The Neapolitan troop column that moved ahead and was targeted by the enemy "air force" was completely destroyed, burning wrecks and flaming skeletons of the vehicles were left in the middle of the road. They were obliterated, the autocannon and machine-gun rounds having penetrated through their structures, igniting their fuel and killing their occupants. When the anti-aircraft gun finally arrived, the single effective anti-aircraft vehicle of the entire column, its operators were furious at the destruction the enemy bandits have left, such that they fired at the fleeing Cessna without success or avail. An angry militiaman fired his M4 carbine in the direction of the Cessna, but even with his eye aligned with the sights the cartridge missed by a great length. While cursing the 'cowardly foes' hiding in their flying contraptions, the soldiers did not lose their sense of tactics, and DShK vehicles as well as troop vehicles overtook the ZU-23-2 vehicle, despite at this point the presence of just one of the antiquated Soviet gun could scare away any of the enemy self-proclaimed air force.

The northern column moved forward, approaching Kich'go with great speed. In the middle of the journey, some of the trucks split off from the larger group, now rubbing their trucks' tires against rough sand and rocks as they sought for a hill outside of the town. Six mortars, three RPGs and two MLRS were carried. They were the artillery unit, who were to establish solid ground outside of an enemy town, and then bombard the enemy's fortifications such that the infantry proper can take the town with little effort. The off-road trucks raced for the hill, and very soon the soldiers unloaded the artillery pieces from the trucks as well as their ammunition.

Mark Tucian (literary name Marcus Tucianus) was amongst the Neapolitan Pizzeria paramilitaries fighting in Omotoi. A steel helmet weighed down on his head, velcro straps securing and fastening it, while sweat found a difficult way out of the jungle that was his black hair. He wore a Woodland camouflage uniform, had a belt fastened to his waist and on his back he carried five reloads for the M224 mortar his unit employed. He served in the Centraline Imperial Armed Forces for three years as the squad mortar operator before and it seemed fitting and appropriate for him to handle the artillery. On the truck he was crouching down with his comrades, each holding a submachine-gun in their hands and placing the barrel just over the cargo bed's walls, pointed upward, in case hostiles, on the ground or in the air, came into their sight, even though their weapons would be rather useless. As the trucks rolled over sand and shrubs, Mark prayed that there will not be a Cessna coming to strafe them, for the only potent anti-air weapon they had was a mounted DShK heavy machine gun, not exactly fit for the purpose either.

They had reached the top of the hill, less than two and a half kilometres from the centre of the town. The soldiers immediately jumped out of the cargo beds of the trucks, carrying the artillery pieces with them if they were lightweight enough, and pushing the weapons out with coordinated effort if they were too heavy, as was the case with the Type 63 launchers. The spotters immediately surveyed for appropriate locations to place the weapons, while also measuring the precise distance between the hill and the town. Those who operated the mortars would set the weapons up fairly quickly, while the rocket launchers took longer. They were assured that the Procella gunship had destroyed much of the enemy's capabilities to harm them from the distance, but this did not warrant for slower preparation speeds.

Men operating the Type 63 would use it in the fashion distinctively recognizeable in how it was employed before, in Tropolje and in the Middle East, unleashing a fast and surely deadly hail of 107mm rocket shells on the enemy. They loaded the rocket shells, pushing them into the tubes, and once all twelve tubes were filled with what the Pizzeria wished to gift to Papa Idi's, ignition proceeded. The tubes were angled upward, mounted on the two-wheeled carriage, and faced the direction of the town. Soon, in a sudden, a massive and concentrated cloud of exhaust gas emerged and sprayed from the rear of one of the tubes as the rocket departed it, the metal projectile flying off riding a great red flame produced by the combustion of the rocket fuel (obviously). Travelling in an arc, the rocket then landed on its target, but to say that it only "landed" would be a colossal understatement of its true effect. Its kinetic energy allowed the shell to smash through the adobe brick buildings some of the enemy may have hid in, followed by its 1 kilogram high-explosive warhead exploding, flinging shrapnel at its unfortunate victims. This was all in an instant. In less than a second several of the other tubes also ignited, rockets soaring off into the sky and then returning back down upon Kich'go. In rapid succession of discharge the launcher itself had soon ran out of shells in a few seconds and needed to be reloaded quickly.

Meanwhile, Mark and his mortar-crew, as well as other mortar crews, had started work too. Mark himself adjusted the mortar so to ensure what seemed to be an enemy trench would receive a 60mm high-explosive shell for denying the greatness of Centraline pizza, then he grabbed one of the shells, two hands cradling it, moved its 'tail' to the barrel of the mortar, and dropped it. It slid down the barrel, was ignited by the charge placed and boom, came out, packed with kinetic energy it raced towards the targeted trench, where it would blow up in the faces of the Papa Idi's paramilitary troops. This was repeated, the mortars targeting exposed enemy fortifications and buildings, firing as fast as the operators could drop the shells into the barrels.

Some also held rocket-propelled grenade launchers, they aimed at buildings the spotters observed the enemy were pacing around and so pulled the triggers, hurling more rockets for Papa Idi's to take.

The sudden springing of rockets in the direction of Kich'go was a firm signal to the motorized infantry that they should attack quickly, though not so fast such that they would end up being hit by their own artillery. The gates to the north of the town gradually enlarged in the mirrors of the trucks as the echelons neared the terrified enemy. To announce their presence, the RPG troops of the advancing echelon fired their own munitions at the north gate's walls and fortifications, smashing through perhaps one old house and killing its inhabitants if it had any.

Neapolis, Centralium
The Neapolitan Pizzeria
Centraline Imperial Republic

Observing the recent combat footage sent from Omotoi, the commanders of the operation against the Actually Civilized World's adversaries were greatly impressed by the enemy air force, however poorly equipped they were they had proven their tactical worth through the catastrophic destruction of Neapolitan infantry vehicles and deaths of several employees. However, the bandits were still bandits, and something had to be done to rectify the issue of their air superiority, which the mere presence of Procella gunships can not resolve. Giovanni Sidon personally made a request that the soldiers in Omotoi be equipped with man-portable air defence systems, along with a list of other weapons, though these were of lower priority compared to the need to be able to bring down the pretentious hostile aerial presence.

Signs and rumours that the Aguila Corporation's local branches as well as several other militarized pizzerias in Omotoi may too be involved in the beginning of what was described by strategic analysts as a "pizza war" convinced the decision-making organs that more potent air defence must be provided. Thus it was authorized that FIM-92 Stinger missile units as well as 9K33 Osa vehicles would be delivered to the Neapolitan Pizzeria in Omotoi by air, alongside a shipment of other weapons such as small arms and ammunition. A total of 6 Stinger launchers and 24 missiles were delivered, alongside 3 Osa vehicles and 36 missiles. The airlifts used the international airport in Omotoi's capital, as a blind eye would be turned by the government anyway.
Last edited by Imperium Centralium on Sat Mar 04, 2017 6:45 am, edited 1 time in total.
Insert quote by some pretentious 19th century philosopher here

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Victoriala II
Posts: 1834
Founded: Jul 30, 2016
Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Victoriala II » Sat Mar 04, 2017 9:40 pm

Uncle Serafini's Occupied Territory
Southern Omotoi
[f] Cooperative Confederation of Local Pizzerias of Victoriala Major (CCLPVM)

Peace reigned upon this shithole's side of the woods. There was silence, serenity. Gazelles hopping over springboks, long legged fowls eat fruits fallen from the trees, and the lions sleep after eating one of the fowls that foolishly came near them. Human civilization here was restricted on this small village, where for some reason, accordions upon accordions are heard as background music. These are trucks, container vans, temporal establishments. And there could be more. All these people want was to tell everyone that corporate pizza has become so fucking trash that you might as well go local. And most of them were homegrown Italians! Except Martha, though. She's from Cuba where the stuff gets delivered by flying it like a discus. You know, E P I C C F U C C I N A C C U R A C Y.

And so there was silence. And then there was a faint sound that came from afar. It sounded like its coming closer. The few gazelles took notice first. And then rhe fowls. The lions. And then a rumbling came soon. It had a rhythm. It had a faint high pitched noise to accompany it. It sounded like car engines. And... Music?

The more the sound came closer, the more it grew and comprehensible. At the same time, it also went loud.

Very, very, very loud.





The silence was continuously shattered like a pulp, the giant green trailer truck rushes at full speed as Uncle Serafini screams at the top of his lungs, stepping on the gas as hard as he can. He proceeds to drift soon after. With the truck. And the container. While animals turn into roadkill. All the while Uncle Serafini continues to scream in pure, panicking terror since this is the first time he tried to drive such a vehicle like this.

The roadkill count numbered to about 300 endangered fowl, 20 lions, 5 zebras and three flamingoes.

Finally, he decided, at long last, to step on the brakes. He was about 30 meters from the other's.the ignition finally off, the silence returned, and as the truck nearly teetered from imbalance he stepped out, panting and in shock.

Three people from the camp ran towards him.

"Mio Dio! What in The World has happened to you!" Asked Ettore Boiardi.

"Zio, are you okay?" Asked Brunelleschi Abbachio Gramsci d'Foria.

He shiveringly looked at them, and quiveringly pointed at the truck.


Coordinative Bureau for Interordinate Diplomacy and Interpolitical Relations
[f] GVC Headquarters

"Uncle Serafini did what!?"

Arielle could not believe what she is hearing. It was something so absurd, something straight out of a weed session while being drunk. The confused amazement even made apparent on her body language and unarticulated speech. wh-- I-- w-- wha-- egh-- ho-- I... I-I-I... eghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh?????????? Couple that with some voiceless chuckle and another round of inarticulate sounds of amazed confusion.

"That's what we saw, Ma'am." Justine looks to her, full postured and really has no time for some other bullshit.

Arielle keeps on doing that thing.

"Ma'am, you're overreacting."

Justine stayed silent.

"Want me to keep an eye on hi--"


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Peta Kozarska Brigada
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Founded: Feb 09, 2016


Postby Peta Kozarska Brigada » Mon Mar 06, 2017 6:37 am


It was not often that the authorities in the Federation of Consilia had to deal with a case of "collaboration with the enemy" arising from within the populace, much less from the children of so-called WASP families, indeed the population of the south were not considered worthy of surveillance at all as to put it simply they were "too dumb" to participate in any conspiracy directed against the integrity of the Consilian nation. If those teens did not upload the video to YouTube then perhaps the authorities might not have discovered that they were planning to fight for Centralines while rallying others to their pathetic cause as well. But they did, and the omnipotent algorithms of Wojcicki's authoring plucked out the video the instant it could be accessible. White supremacist messages were recognized from an automatic audio analysis while the mention of "Centralites", deemed to be the illiterate hillbillies' erroneous demonym for Centraline people, instantly led to the algorithm classifying the video as one of high importance.

Free speech was to be upheld in Consilia as a founding value, for the nation was established as a democracy, where all could voice their opinions. Had the uploaders simply spouted idiotic white-supremacism and left out the part about the Centralines they would have been left alone, of course. But now that they've mentioned Centralium, a nation not only a publicly recognized opponent of the Syncretic Combine but also blacklisted by Consilia itself for its numerous hostilities such as attempts at technological theft and the unlawful detainment of Consilian tourists inside its borders, they could be crowned with attempt at treason and collaboration with the enemy, considering how serious tensions were between Consilia itself and Centralium it was certainly an issue not to be overlooked. As soon as the Department of Public Security received message of the mere presence of the video, they themselves dived into investigation.

After some deliberation, the DPS decided that they would nip the bud, for the very thought of a Consilian citizen, no matter the extent of their idiocy, fighting for Centralines on grounds of sharing similar levels of melanin in their skin (but the Centralines being of Mediterranean stock the logic behind this was highly doubtable) was unacceptable. The Consilian Central Intelligence Agency was alerted of the development too while they had just finished disproving the existence of a "Homofront in Consilia" which was supposedly the perpetrator of a recent scene of comedy in Demtro. Tracking down the source of the uploader, who with minimal information technology knowledge had not even the thought of concealing their identity or location, the Department, assisted in decision by the CIA, authorized a raid on the flat where the insolent juveniles were hiding.


Mayerville was a medium-sized town in southern Consilia. It however lacked in activity, few vehicles roaming its roads, much of it was submerged in silence, and even dogs were lazily lying on the front porches of the houses that formed its residential area. Pedestrians were sparsely scattered, them motioning their muscular appendages known as legs to provide locomotion across paved roads whose sections suitable for crossing were marked with white stripes painted over. Ultraviolet rays from the sun around which the planet orbited showered upon buildings, alongside greater quantities of visible light, while shadows were projected onto the ground on the sides of buildings that did not face the nuclear fusion reactor's position in the sky.

That was until the extremely unfunny appearance of the armed police, who came along rolling over the asphalt avenues on their armoured personnel carriers, with no attempt to keep the mission in low-profile. Indeed, no attempt at all, the audible air vibration produced by the vehicles' engine amidst combustion-derived locomotion was as loud as ever. Every single one of them was clad in ballistic armor and under that camouflage fatigues. Some wore kevlar helmets, others a simple hat, or a balaclava. Masks covered the mouths and noses of several of the operators. They wielded firearms definitely beyond the line for acceptable police equipment in most countries, but this is a member-state of the Synkom where everything is more dystopian than an anarcho-capitalist society so yeah. They sat on the sides of their vehicles, looking forward, stern emotions frozen solid on their faces, clearly seasoned men of water-meter checking work.

As soon as the convoy arrived at the foot of the located apartment flat, the policemen disembarked, their right hands on the grips of their rifles and their left hands on the handguards, all built of polymer for minimum weight strains on their users. They stepped quickly in close, tight columns into the building, raising their rifles with stocks rested on their shoulders and eyes aligned with the sights like the pretentious wannabe special forces they are. Many of them were clearly quite nervous now that they were in the presence of not just humans but angry white pious fundamentalist anti-intellectual families who would definitely massacre them if they had even just made unconscious molecular contact with the carbon-based surfaces of their fine, century-old, hand-carved wooden doors. The complex machinery inside their weapons by which a metal object shaped for ballistic damage effectiveness known as a bullet is expelled from the gun barrel with utmost velocity thus had to be able to function at any given moment. To ensure this, the digits extending from their front limbs used to manipulate instruments and tools leaned firmly against the trigger.

The policemen moved cautiously through hallways and corridors, their heavy equipment making shaking sounds as they made every step. They maintained zero communications through radio to avoid the vocoded voices raising alarm from the locals. Eventually they found the door to the room where the upload of the video advocating for whites to fight for Centralines in Omotoi was traced to. The armour-clad men gathered around the door, their fingers still on their rifles' and submachine guns' grips and handguards, two of them standing on the two sides of the doorframe while the remaining lined up behind. The leading soldiers leaned forward, extending their heads into a position where if the door was opened their eyes could see clearly what was inside without risking exposing too much of their body to potential hostile fire. One of the helmeted men knocked on the door, speaking in a calm Southerner accent.

"Hello, this is the local Utilities and Services Department, we want to read and check this holding's water-meter, may we come in?"

One of the team members detached a smoke grenade from his belt, making little sound. Another rested the stock of his carbine on his shoulder and raised the gun's receiver, aligning his eye with the rear sight. Yet no response came from the perspective of the soldiers, perhaps the inhabitants were already alarmed and were deliberating on their next course of action.

The leading team member knocked again, his glove-covered knuckle colliding against the hard wooden door producing sound, and inquired again. "Hello, is anyone there?"

The door opened, a tall yet thin young white blonde male, in his late tens, who facially resembled Jacob Sartorious was now in front of the fully armed policemen. Without even a millisecond of thought the man that knocked raised his armor pad covered knee, hitting the groin of the boy who then groaned in pain and fell to the ground. He was then kicked in the chest and on the lower jaw, the hard soles of the combat boots of the policemen beating against his developing bone structure with great energy. The other policemen advanced in, using the butts of their rifles to hit the heads of the other inhabitants of the room, incapacitating them easily. One of the young men who wore a handkerchief over his mouth was alerted. He reached his hand for the submachine gun hung against the white wall, and was able to fully take control of the weapon, placing his left hand under the barrel and his right hand on the grip. However, an agile and fast-reacting policeman used the butt of his rifle to parry and push away the barrel of the gun, then completely removed it from the boy's possession entirely, the gun falling onto the ground while the boy was hit in the chest with a blow from the gun's stock and fell onto the floor too in pain.

"This is not fair! This is bullying kids!" screamed one of the subdued young men lying on the floor, whose hands were being cuffed by attentive policemen.

"You can never be too young to collaborate with Centralines, kid." replied the captain of the team. However, this botched attempt at making himself look like a very impressive protagonist of an action film caused himself to suddenly be infested with cancerous growths as a result of the colossal amounts of cringe induced to him as soon as the last word faded. As a nasty case of Proteus-Cronenberg syndrome was about to happen the author administered a tetraphysical memetic antidote successfully preventing another breach of technology level protocols. The captain simply sardonically and painfully laughed at his own action, putting his hand over his mouth.

"You're coming with us for planning to collaborate with a known enemy of the Consilian nation and people."

"Uh huh? It, it's for the white race!"

The author has a very concerning lack of knowledge of how redneck children speak and as a result the cringe induced from the inaccuracies of the characters caused everyone to develop cancerous growths again. The author didn't bother administering any antidote this time and they just swelled up from all the cancer. They took away the boys and confiscated all their equipment, and that was the end of this very much irrelevant side story.
Last edited by Peta Kozarska Brigada on Mon Mar 06, 2017 6:40 am, edited 1 time in total.
a bunch of shitty nations in a shitty organization

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Founded: Feb 25, 2017

white tank its the white tank

Postby Omotoi » Mon Mar 06, 2017 9:27 pm

Busumbu, Omotoi
Papa Idi's Store

"Hello, yes. I would like two pizzas, pepperoni. I would also like those shoes that you can order pizza through, you know the ones they said Pizza Hut were selling on TV, you have those?"

"Sir, can you speak our language please? We don't speak Chinese here."

"What did you say? Come on, you ignorant fools should be able to speak Chinese! China number one!"

"Hang on, let me go grab the broom Nbotu."

The cashier serving the front desk at this Papa Idi's store walked back into the kitchen, to grab a broom and get the Chinese tourist that was here for some god-forsaken reason out of the building. Papa Idi's was too busy for this stuff nowadays, and even if the guy called corporate headquarters they'd either hang up or laugh his complaint off. Maybe he should have brought the Chinese to Omotoi handbook they gave at the International Airport in government territory. After shooing him off, the cashier saw two armed guards walk by, dressed in military uniform. These guys certainly weren't militia. How interesting.

Dada Amin, the Chief Commander of The Paramilitary Forces of Papa Idi's looked out the large windows of his eighth floor office. God, it felt amazing to be the 0.1%. In about five minutes he'd go out to the courtyard located near the Papa Idi's management complex. God damn stage fright, he had to do anything up to three recitals the last time he did a public speech. At least it was a excuse to get out and get some air, the only thing worse than the stage fright was the monotonous budgeting, managing of assets and inter-company politics that dragged him down. He was the son of Idi Amin, why couldn't he have a break?

He looked down at the clock later. Go time. He rose up from his office chair, wearing his expensive suit and red beret. The red, of course representing pizza obviously. He waltzed over to the private elevator, got in and pressed the 'down' button. About a minute or two later, it hit the ground floor and the door opened. Waiting at the gilded front door entrance were two uniformed soldiers, part of Papa Idi's full time professional bodyguard. He with his escort walked out to a open top four-seater, looking brand new and painted black. The three men got into the vehicle, Dada Amin sitting in the back. He picked up a cold Pepsi can.

"This stuff is the only good thing to come from Western imperialism. Ahahahahahahaha..."

He opened the cold bottle and drank from it as the vehicle picked up pace. After a minute though, as they almost exited the Papi Idi's management complex they were then stopped by a Humvee blocking the road. Stopping the vehicle, a soldier, among a group of five standing behind the armored Humvee explained to the trio that a account administrator had been caught laundering money to God knows who. After a quick investigation, they found that he had laundered a few thousand dollars through a local Neapolitan Pizzeria's branch in the northern regions, near the border. The only acceptable response was a armed raid.

Dada Amin got out and asked the two guards to bring him to a balcony with a vantage point of the entire street and the house. He wanted to get a good look at the security raid that was going to be delaying him. Almost as soon as he got to the balcony, soda in hand and began to view the spectacle, the soldiers sprang forth and pointed their guns towards the door. They, after throwing in a stun grenade ran in. Signs of a struggle were heard, but in a short time a man in commoner clothes was shoved out. The soldiers proceeded to grab the man and shove him up against the Humvee, demanding the details of his illegal actions. When a response wasn't given, they smashed his head against the door, opened te door and then pushed him in. They restrained him with zipties, and shut the door of the Humvee. The raid was over quickly. Nearby, a man walked towards the Humvee.

"Oh, you're just going to arrest and beat that man because someone up there in that high-rise had to cover up his blatant thievery? You thugs have been a plague to everyone here, why don't you get the fuck out? What are you doing here?"

One of the soldiers held up a radio, and said something about reinforcements, perhaps a riot control vehicle being needed. The other end responded, saying that there were some more 'nabalimi' who were running amok in the area, and that they'd dispatch a riot vehicle to take care of the disobedients. Meanwhile, some more people inside their homes began to voice their opinions. A few minutes later, an APC tore up the road. It was painted bright white, with the phrase 'Utata Idi Ipropati' painted in red on the side. A few militia troops sat on the top. Interestingly, there was no turret on the APC, clearly a BTR-80. Most interestingly, on the sides were fire hoses. Tearing up the road, the APC stopped next to a fire hydrant as the Humvee was moved out of the way.

The troops connected a fire hose to the fire hydrant, and to the shock and dismay of the man in the middle of the road, they sprayed right in his direction. The size and intensity of the water blast sent him falling, when he fell and tried to get up the water blast smacked him back against the ground. The man simply gave up. Dada was snapped back into reality by his bodyguard, who asked him to get back in the car. He obliged, and soon they were going again. The courtyard soon came into view, a courtyard that was completely surrounded by soldiers and vehicles, armored and unarmored. That's when he realized.

"God damn it. I forgot my money."
Yet another puppet of Western Pacific Territories, now in ANCAP meme form.

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Imperium Centralium
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Founded: Nov 20, 2016

Postby Imperium Centralium » Sat Mar 11, 2017 3:23 am

The Neapolitan Pizzeria

Concerning developments in Omotoi had convinced Septentrionale that whatever the Pizzeria had as part of their strategic assets in this conflict was, needless to say, inefficient and insufficient. The local conflict had rapidly evolved from an armed Centraline retaliation in response to the brutal plundering and ransacking of their own assets against Papa Idi's, to an all-out war that would involve all pizzerias in Omotoi, which had the potentiality of sorting out the fittest for survival īn the context of the feudal warlordism Omotoi people were suffering from as a result of its own government's incompetence. And indeed this fight would definitely conclude with victory of the Actually Civilized World, as it was inherent and obvious that under auspices of the Centraline take on liberties, society was ordered, people lived in happiness, the nation would be united against its foes, men and women would all remain faithful to God and stay away from Satanic influences such as Marxism and pineapples, and most important of all, pizza tasted good. It was known and held as truth in the ACW that pizzas of the Neapolitan Pizzeria were the paragon of the pie in every single aspect, its pans were casted with refined metallurgical methods, the wheat it used was wholly natural and grown only in the best environments, the tomatoes used for sauce used the latest in agricultural technologies, its pepperonis cut from healthy pigs, its crust crispy and its dough cohesive, and of course, pineapples were wholly absent.

This truth will soon come to the realization of peoples everywhere, still living under the oppression of globalist and Marxist stores such as Pizza Hut, or uncivilized, regressed degenerates such as Papa Idi's, who indeed had no idea what a Pizza really was; they simply beat the dough flat and put meat on top of it while being completely unaware of the art behind such a noble culinary advancement of humanity and civilization, neither of which these gunslinging tribal savages were close to. But Papa Idi's had guns which they used to force good parents wishing their children to enjoy a slice of Centraline civilization to instead have to feed the kids their own atrocious abominations, which was not something Pizza Hut was equipped with. Thus while the Neapolitan Pizzeria can defeat the globalist chains simply by becoming superior in taste and letting the free market and the people work out the rest (this victory was guaranteed by that pineapples were wholly absent from any pizza Neapolitan served), to confront forces such as Papa Idi's needed them to take up arms and go to war as well. Indeed this battle was not just between two pizzerias but between civilization and barbarity.

But as Papa Idi's gains its customers through forcing them at gunpoint they have only lost for they have only proven that Centraline pizzas are superior through their own actions of attempting to forcefully change the flow of the free market, albeit in a futile effort. They have been forced to justify their pathetic and laughable existence with guns which any idiot and fool can take up. Their doom was inevitable, indeed. And Centralium wished to verify this very fact, that it was History's course to sweep Papa Idi's and its annoying barbarous idiocy to its trashbin, alongside the so-called "pizzas" it served, which belonged there anyway.

What was a better way of doing so other than demonstrating the complete inferiority of the Amin abominations in a public, open, transparent contest between the two chains' pizzas, and let the crystal-clear eyes of the masses to determine who is the real winner of their hearts and tongues? In such a competition there was no doubt that Papa Idi's would completely be defeated while the quality of the Neapolitan Pizzeria be once again affirmed and the public completely convinced whose side was worth being on. This operation would have a far greater significance than bombing even all of the stores of Papa Idi's and push them to eventual self-destruction. The Actually Civilized World will be proved to be superior in all aspects once again and its enemies wiped away simply by what Dio e Popolo demanded and approved.


Noise that buzzed from the engines of C-130 transporter aircraft had filled the air around the capital city of Omotoi's international airport all day, for a week. Flights from Centralium carried weapons and other equipment the Pizzeria's forces needed to eventually gain victory, alongside other resources to their aid. As a plane descended, coming closer and closer to the paved runway on the ground, its wheels were extended preparing for landing, while the buzzing from its engines became louder and louder than ever, fortunately no one was on the surface to suffer such an intense rape of their auditory organs and possibly be killed in the process. The wheels finally made physical contact with the runway, the rubber frictioning with the asphalt excitedly and intensely, the heat energy as well as physical force alone peeling off microscopic, minuscule amounts of rubber molecules. There were also some amounts of the runway pavings shaved off too but they were also in unimaginably small and irrelevant quantities. The plane's velocity gradually decreased, slowing down, before finally stopping while vehicles of various sorts approached the aircraft.

Many hatches opened and from there various articles were unloaded, all of them cargo for the Pizzeria in Omotoi. From the rear, an Osa surface-to-air missile launch vehicle's unmistakable stout silhouette gradually emerged, though its launchers were missing. It rolled down the hatch-turned-bridge, and following it was a crate containing parts of the missile launcher, which was slid down the bridge and loaded onto a truck. Other crates were also slid down, these contained various weapons such as assault rifles or their munitions, as well as gear for paramilitary troops such as steel helmets and camouflage uniforms. The Pizzeria paramilitary was to receive expansions in their inventory, becoming more potent with their armed capabilities as preparations for upcoming engagements with not only Amin bandits but also other rival pizzerias in the region.

Centraline intelligence analyzed closely other entities in the area which could pose a threat to Neapolitan operations. In Neapolis, they presented their findings and analyses to the executives of the Pizzeria, who graciously thanked and applauded their effort. Various other pizzerias and restaurants were identified such as the Aguila Pizzeria, Biano's, Abdul Mohamed's and Uncle Serafini's, three of them uniquely unoriginal in naming conventions. These pizza warlords salvaged whatever was left of the Omotoi state's power and authority, establishing their own fiefdoms where they had their stores. They had state backers too. In particular, the Aguila Pizzeria, which was a branch of the Aguila Corporation, the 'private branch' of the government of the so-called Maharlikan Republic, represented Maharlikan interests in the region. Of greater concern would be Uncle Serafini's for which a quick Google search revealed its Victorialan background. It did not surprise the Centralines at all that an Accords signatory would once again attempt to mess with them, and they were certain that despite reports that it was not armed or otherwise capable of dealing damage they would come to threaten Centraline operations in the area sooner or later. The Centralines were however surprised at how it was the Victorialans and not the Synkomese chetniks who had come to confront them this time. The executives simply gave a chuckle while drafting cunning solutions to their problematic presence.

A weapon is nothing if there is no hand to hold it, and thus while receiving expansions in their inventory the Pizzeria also needed to expand their manpower. They began recruiting locals regardless of race into their paramilitary, with the descendants of white colonists of the region, the little of them left, flocking to sign up, seeing opportunity in 'revenge' by fighting for the Centralines. But many of the local black majority had volunteered too, whether being dissatisfied with the impotent government, seeking to get back at Amin for the Kagona attacks or just looking to expect the unexpectable as super mafia in an action-packed movie. Former members of the Omotoi military were hired to train the new recruits alongside Centraline advisors who would educate the to-be soldiers on more advanced aspects of warfare. A long line formed outside of a makeshift recruitment post set up next to a pizzeria of Neapolitan's in the capital city.

Advisors from Centralium that arrived by air found themselves now in the ranks of the so-called Neapolitan "war cabinet", assisting the local branch in decision-making in a variety of aspects. Most of them however were tasked with training, commanding and directing the paramilitary forces, and were no more than a more knowledgeable addition to the ethnic Hadrine population in Omotoi. They mostly expected this however as most of them were only recently promoted to commissioned officers in the Centraline Imperial Armed Forces, seeking faster promotion by unconventional means, or men already employed in other jobs but were top-performers in their military service cohorts, arriving in Omotoi out of a sense of patriotism and support for compatriot Centralines. However Neapolis regarded them as enough to train an effective paramilitary.

Omotoi had more than enough empty land where few would tread upon out of fear for their lives and the corporate-republics could gather and rally their forces. On empty fields of sand inside territories under Neapolitan control, recruits stood in formation, wearing newly-issued camouflage fatigues given to them, as well as helmets and hats, for sunlight shone strongly in March as it did for much of the year. The Centraline instructors not only taught and educated the to-be militiamen on the usage of firearms, operation of equipment and personal survival, but also imparted tactics and strategy. They were trained on urban combat and tactics, the use of armoured vehicles and how to counter them, guerrilla warfare, defensive combat, how to deal with local populations as well as using artillery to greatest tactical effect. More importantly, military discipline was instilled in the recruits so that they in their uniforms would be distinguished from the ragtags of Papa Idi's, both from appearance and actions. During a recess session, one of the instructors, dining on simple turnip soup, joked to his colleagues that "in due time, these men can fight as a proper part of the Imperator's Legions (the CIAF)."

By now Centralium itself had begun to intervene in many ways, further blurring the distinction between them and the Pizzeria to the residents of Omotoi and other nations paying close attention to these affairs. It might appear that Centralium had heavily elevated Omotoi's status in terms of strategic importance and priority such that it dedicated such a degree of resources to local operations, and indeed it did so. There were plans for further expansion into Omotoi and there were rumors about Centralium forcing the powerless but still symbolically relevant government into a so-called cooperation treaty through which it gains direct economic access to the country. With potential involvement of Maharlikans and Victorialans through their own local appendages this became more līkely every day.


A single truck, painted white, rode through the roads of Omotoi's capital city, blowing off clouds of dust with its wheels and forcing some women walking on the pavement to cover their noses and mouths with their own dresses. On the side of its cargo compartment's outer sheath was a brightly painted logo of Papa Idi's. It astonished scouts and spies of the Neapolitan Pizzeria how their foe was now so audacious about their public presence. The white truck stood out from the rest of the city, which was sand-gold, with its color, even if some spots were dirtied. It was clearly a delivery vehicle, going on a trip around the city to make its residents suffer the horrible atrocities of cooking Papa Idi's offered. The reflection of fierce sunlight off the white paint job did not dazzle any Neapolitan employee witnessing this but only solidified their will to exterminate Papa Idi's.

While they would love to destroy the truck entirely to spare the local people of their suffering of having to eat these pies, they had to sadly preserve it and its contents. The truck can be repainted and used as a vehicle of their own, this particular model was expensive and rare, likely part of a new vehicle fleet the Amin warlords recently purchased. Centraline aid was limited and most resources had to be acquired locally, and the vehicle could make a very useful addition to the Neapolitan forces. Besides, if they did not take it, other factions will inevitably gain possession of the truck, one brick counted anyway towards the erection of a wall. But more importantly the pizzas the truck carried were of great importance. No, they were not going to dine on it. Rather, these pizzas will represent Papa Idi's at a finely arranged local public pizza contest to be televised and broadcasted. There was zero doubt that Neapolitan will emerge victorious with their inherently superior pizzas, but to get Papa Idi's representation there, that was what the plainclothes agents have come here for.

The delivery vehicle made its way through streets and roads, unloading pizzas at destinations of delivery and nuisancing the locals again and again with the dazzling reflection of light off its surface and the dust clouds its wheels blew off. The Neapolitan operatives communicated by radio, reporting on the location of the truck and developments of interest in its vicinity. However they had information in their hands every second they lacked an actual plan to take hold of its contents. As the truck completed delivery at delivery, the agents realized they needed to act fast. They discussed over radio what to do, each of them holding a transceiver by their lips while their eyes were concentrated on the truck, or looking through binoculars.

"We need to act NOW. I want a plan. A plan. As soon as possible. We want that pizza, and we CAN NOT lose this opportunity! Do you understand?" barked an increasingly impatient commander of the operation.

"Can we just have someone go up and ask for pizza, then beat the driver or something, then steal everything?" spoke a young native employee.

"That sounds very sketchy." commented another native.

"I think we should create a traffic jam then raid the truck..."

"We don't have vehicles we can use for that nor do any of us have the driving skills necessary to do that, man."

"We should just threaten with guns."

"We don't have them, besides, that'll get us poor PR."

"What is PR, sir?

"Something your baboon arse isn't intelligent enough to know about!" yelled the commander. His blood was already starting to boil, from rage at his subordinates' incompetence and the emminent loss of a great opportunity at a promotion as well as defeat and humiliation of the Bsruo people and the restaurant through which they exercised terror over this land. A former government soldier, he joined the Pizzeria's paramilitary right after the Kagona attacks when he witnessed the terrorist tactics the Bsruos exercised against their opponents. A man with his heart for the people of Omotoi yet dissatisfied at the government's incompetence, he became convinced he could accomplish some of his wishes by working for and with the Centralines. Sweat drops like crystals fell from his hair onto his skin or uniform, before being wiped off by his rough hand. "How many unarmed and unguarded Amin pizza deliveries can you expect to see in a week? We must start acting quickly."

"My proposal stands. said the young man from earlier.

"Fair enough. We'll do just that." the commander replied, affirmatively. In no time the agents began hurrying to prepare to execute this plan, however dubious they were about its potential effectiveness, or lack thereof. They scaled buildings and parkoured rooftops, revved up the engines of pickup trucks, or made their way through crowds of ordinary civilians going about their regular everyday business. Some of the civilians sensed unusual, synchronized large-scaled movement in their vicinity, but decided not to ask questions and went on with their lives.

A black male in his late twenties, about one point seven meters in height, rather thin and dressed in a green shirt and white trousers approached the truck, which had begun to slow down as it entered a narrow passageway. He tapped the rim of the window with his knuckle to speak to the driver, a man in his fourties, who of course did not expect nor welcome such disturbances to his everyday routine. "Hey man, can you give me a pizza, pepperonis, plum slice and goat cheese, please?" the younger man asked. He was not really begging but rather delivering it in a banterous fashion.

"Sorry, but please order at a Papa Idi's restaurant." replied the driver.

"Please, my family needs pizza! Just one with pepperoni and plum! Please!"

"Order at a restaurant fool, this ain't a moving pizzeria!"

"Give me the pizza, I give you two hundred dollars okay?"

The driver had enough of this. "You're fooling with a delivery truck for His Excellency Idi Amin you shithead! Want to taste what you get for fucking around with an Amin truck? Hint: it is not one of a pizza!" He then opened the door, the young man stepping back, while the driver clenched his fists, about to deliver a punch. But unexpectedly the green-shirted man acted first, his muscles drawing energy from the use of adenosine triphosphate stored inside his organic tissue, that sent his entire lower arm heading for the head of the driver as if it was a high-speed missile. Hitting the driver's cranium on the side and delivering a traumatic blow, that man fell to the ground instantly, knocked out.

It was at this point a grey pickup truck which was just behind the white delivery truck came into prominence. Men disembarked from the vehicle's rear compartment, some sprinting to the front of the truck while most others gathered around the rear door. The delivery man sitting beside the driver was alarmed by the sudden turn of events, and he immediately opened his side of the vehicle door too, but he was soon locked in close-quarters hand-to-hand combat with three operatives of the Neapolitan Pizzeria. The fight was seemingly unfair but the delivery man was potent in his practice of martial arts, allowing him to parry opponent moves effectively at the beginning. There were kicks and punches, agile dodging or strengthful parrying, truly in a fight of experts and masters it was hard to distinguish who was superior. Everyone in Omotoi knew kung fu, after all.

Finally one of the Neapolitan employees delivered a powerful kick with his right leg, stunning the Papa Idi's delivery man as the appendage of locomotion struck and transferred weight and kinetic energy to the cranium, painfully of course. Amazed at how his opponent did not fall yet with this devastating blow the Neapolitan employee sent another uppercut on the lower jaw and finally with the delivery man half-unconscious he banged and smashed his forehead against his foe's, delivering another great deal of energy and shock, and with this the delivery man finally fell to the ground, having been fully knocked out. Keys to the rear container were obtained from a body search and with that the shipment of pizzas was unlocked, all of them loaded onto the grey pickup truck by the operatives. The truck's control was obtained by the green-shirted lad who then drove it elsewhere. To witnesses of this spectacle, both vehicles disappeared in a cloud of dust almost immediately, and thus the debacle was pronounced concluded, the unconscious bodies of two Papa Idi's employees lying on the tiled ground the only remnants to the event.

The commander, who oversaw the operation from a house's rooftop not far away (which he reached after dozens of failed attempts at parkouring to the top, now leaving several injuries minor and major on his body), was satisfied. A small step it was, but what shall happen next would be grand. With this in mind, he grinned, then turned around to depart - only to step off the edge of the roof and fall into a large blue trash-bin.
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Imperium Centralium
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Founded: Nov 20, 2016

Postby Imperium Centralium » Sat Mar 11, 2017 3:25 am

Neapolis, Centralium
Intelligence and Security Directorate
Centraline Imperial Republic

The relationship between the Neapolitan Pizzeria and the Centraline Imperial Republic was a very complex one, one that morphed and changed at different times, and from different perspectives. Sometimes the Pizzeria was an appendage of the Republic, an agent and a proxy, sometimes it was a companion, and sometimes it was a partner only out of common interests. Regardless, given how Septentrionale itself has been involved so far, it seemed that all of these were being fulfilled simultaneously. Anyhow, at a presentation concerning the situation in Omotoi, state officials and Pizzeria executives sat next to each other, those in uniforms next to those in suits. A multimedia projector displayed the presentation slides on a screen, but of course someone needed to present the information. As the guests were seated, a figure stepped onto the platform.

Vassenia Aventina. A woman of the Intelligence and Security Directorate, as indicated by the badge pinned on the right breast of her coat. Long, solid-black hair would flow down the back of her neck and shoulders like rivers advancing down from mountains of Hersiline, if they weren't tied into a bun, which was common practice amongst women in Centraline uniformed services. Her irises were black like jewels, but such similes were easy to formulate, and above the eyes were thin eyebrows slanted downwards by a slight angle. An arch of her hair ran above one third of her right eye which then went over her ear and to the rear, rejoining with the greater flow. Her nose was convex, pointing upwards, and under it were lips of average thickness. Her chin was rather flat when viewed from the front, but the turns angled sharply, somewhat like a side of a regular octagon so to speak. For a Centraline and to other Centralines, the subjective measure of beauty which would be applied placed her in the upper bounds, having demonstrated typical features of Hadrines deemed positive. She stood in a formal dress uniform of the ISD, which consisted of a black double-breasted jacket, a collared shirt underneath and trousers in the same color. Edges and rims of various parts of the uniform, such as pockets, were in white.

Another person of the ISD was also of interest for the reader. Walter Venatius. Some Gothic ancestry, as indicated from his name; Goths in Centralium were like the Xianbeis in China, they disappeared after adopting customs of those they conquered, but the Centraline Goths left slightly larger of a mark behind. Walter was a typical espionage-genre protagonist, skilled and knowledgeable in many different fields and disciplines, enough to get himself out of the various challenges and situations enemies of the Actually Civilized World throw at him. He was considered somewhat, or alternatively worded, moderately experienced, having been deployed in Horbilia to destroy communists and Kalanda to dispatch a powerful local warlord. These experiences left marks on his body and face. In terms of appearance he had black hair as with other Hadrines, wide eyes with thick eyebrows above, a convex nose, thin lips and moderately protruding cheeks. No facial hair, by the way. He was in the ISD dress uniform for this too. He sat next to a man in glasses and with squinty eyes, but crowned with blonde hair, and dressed in a business suit, apparently a Pizzeria man. They sat in the row that was the furthest from the screen.

Vassenia, on the stage, presented whatever was being shown on the slides, for the information of the high-ranking officials for their own decision-making. The presentation was interactive, or at least supposed to be, despite the layout of the meeting which was more akin to a lecture. The woman standing, speaking in Centralinese of course, explained the minute but potentially problematic presence of Victorialan-origined interests in Omotoi which was of priority concern, as well as the overall situation in the area. There was also an evaluation on the combat-effectiveness of the Neapolitan troops so far which she delivered with great eloquence and deep understanding as opposed to script-reading. Speaking of that, she mentioned the problem too.

"We also have another issue with Neapolitan paramilitary forces, that is, they are suffering from repeated script errors, apparently from malicious, trollish sabotage. This has become a seemingly comparatively hilarious yet potentially dangerous issue. When forces were rallied at the beginning of the conflict, a commander reportedly spoke of the reunification of Korea by the DPRK in his rally speech." this was accompanied by appropriate footage, "In fighting in Kichwabugingo soldiers have raised a Syrian flag and shouted slogans such as 'Allah, Souriya, Bashar w bas', while there were also cases of them performing three-finger salutes and speaking in Yugoslav. This could be deterimental to their overall cohesion and integrity as units. We must make sure every person carries script of what they're supposed to say, and not otherwise. It's not funny, really, as anyone would know. Will get worse if it gets caught on tape." She continued as slides changed again, speaking on what Centralium has done so far.

Walter didn't pay much attention at all. His superior merely ordered him to attend this, and of course he sensed he would be sent to Omotoi on a likely exciting operation, though he himself would not describe it as such. Fighting in a pizza war, though, really was something he would betray his values of being a defender of the Actually Civilized World for.

You probably all know where this is going. Will NFKRZ make a video on how the author's writing has hit a new low?

The generals went by what they always did. Talking of soldiers on paper, as a Chinese proverb put it. Walter was dismissed and in the hallway, another person in an ISD uniform escorted him up one floor and to an office. In Centralium they always have these empty offices open for nefarious things to be planned in. This one had air conditioning, a desk probably stolen from a school, and chairs of the kind schoolchildren sat on too. A metal skeleton, two wooden plates nailed on, one for the back and one for the bottom. The walls were painted teal, as with other offices of this building.

Walter stood before a seat. Then walked in a man, firm in his steps, shining were both his shoes and badges, and tidy was his uniform, as if he just received it from the wardrobe. He was most distinguishable for his forehead, which had a relatively larger perceived space compared to other Centralines, which said much for the appearance of the people of this country. Square-framed glasses were another part of his countenance, which most certainly, as they were not colored and/or shades, gave him the appearance of an intellectual, though not of the pretentious sort, such as Bastiano. His hair formed something akin to a rising sea wave due to the lack of any serious effort at maintaining their shape. Walter was very interested in what dialogue he shall form with this fascinating figure.

"Mr. Walter?" he reached out his right hand as Walter turned to face him.

"Indeed, and how may I address you, sir?" the agent extended and opened his right hand too. Both hands were moving towards each other at a largely constant velocity.

"Mr. Vicinius, or Vicinio. Take a seat." The two shook their hands.

Walter and Mr. Vicinius, sitting opposite, began simultaneously examining each other in the seconds they used to get properly seated. Everything about Nr. Vicinius's appearance seemed contrary to the background he was set in, whether because of his seemingly cheerful expression against the dull and uninteresting backdrop of the room, or that he just did not suggest to Walter that he could even be a Centraline if not for his uniform and grasp of the language. He was likely from Chalybsia judging from his accent, which may have explained his odd appearance and general mood. Or, he could be a leftist subversive Satan-worshipper who found their way to infiltrate Centralium's very sword. Walter preferred the first explanation. Anyone not from Hersiline or Pallas was always weird for Hadrine standards.

"I'm being thrown to Omotoi, right?" he inquired, his back leaning on the chair and his hands placed over his belly, his legs extended forward, crossing one another at the ankle.

"Figured you'd know. replied Mr. Vicinius. "Mission is relatively simple, an assassination of an enemy leader figure. But here's a gift for you. You won't be lonely as you were in Horbilia and Kalanda, and Guiluo." His eyes stared at Walter through the glasses' lenses.

"Don't mention Guiluo." He turned his head slightly to the side, and chuckled, albeit sardonically. Spine movement detected. "I didn't even have one damn idea what even happened there. The chetniks outplayed us."

"I know." Mr. Vicinius's expressions did not change by a bit. "But past mistakes won't haunt us, or we simply fall. Anyway, you'll have a partner for this one."

Walter turned his head straight and cancelled all expressions. He was silent for a while. What even? A partner? What is this, some low-quality copypaste of espionage fiction? Hold on, it was, indeed. "Show me."

Mr. Vicinius snapped and the door opened. A female figure stepped in. It was Vassenia.

"You expected this didn't you?"

"Of fucking course."


The next day Walter and Vassenia were shoved onto a flight to Omotoi. They both still didn't have an idea of what was going on. Oh well.

Permission granted by WPT

Kich'go, Omotoi
Neapolitan Pizzeria Paramilitary Forces
The Neapolitan Pizzeria, Omotoi Branch

The town of Kich'go was little to no match for a well-organized and vengeance-minded Neapolitan paramilitary after being devastatingly hit by an Apache helicopter bombing run as well as rocket artillery and mortar fire. The resisting troops were defeated easily, most of them quick to run out of range of mortar shells but right onto the gun barrels of their opponents, and the Neapolitan forces took very little casualties in seizing the town. There was not much of the rifle percussion one would expect from urban combat and by the time the sun began setting a flag of the Syrian Arab Republic hung over the tallest building in town. A victory for the Neapolitan Pizzeria and for the Actually Civilized World.

Two of the Neapolitan soldiers were killed, another four injured while a truck was destroyed in combat along with another truck disabled. Much of the town garrison surrendered. Smoke rose from the town like pillars as an aftermath of the devastating bombings and strikes and many buildings collapsed to rubble. The Papa Idi's shops were completely obliterated. In the meantime that the town would be repaired and fortified against any hostile attempt to retake it, civilians were educated on the evils of the Amin pizza chain and encouraged to begin dining Neapolitan despite the fact there were no Neapolitan Pizzeria stores in the town yet.
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Founded: Feb 25, 2017

Postby Omotoi » Mon Mar 13, 2017 7:04 pm

Busumbu, Omotoi

"God damnit, I forgot my money."

Dada Amin woke up in the back of a stopped limo. He opened his eyes and looked around. His driver and escort were both smoking, wearing rather unprofessional baseball caps. The driver took a glimpse back at him, and sighed. He turned back to the other escort and said that Dada was finally up. What the hell was that fucking dream anyways? He thought it had something to do with the company board wanting to show off their power in the city. He wouldn't give them the budget anyways. While it was true that there were dissidents that Papa Idi's needed to take care of most of the time, it was almost never because the person liked Neapolitian pizza. Rather, it was for some other trivial purpose that really shouldn't need to divert resources from Papa Idi's paramilitary forces. APCs weren't cheap, and much needed on the front lines. Not here, however. Not in Busumbu.

"Hey, sir. We've been waiting here for a hour now!"

"Apologies, the guard detail is still here?"


Dada picked himself up and took the lukeworm Pepsi can, walking through a giant row of fold-up seats. Soldiers sat in a couple of them. About three of them. Tough crowd, he thought to himself. As he approached the podium, he looked around. Rather low amount of troops as far as he could see. In the rather early morning, at around nine o' clock, the scenery was simply amazing, something he always appreciated about Busumbu. Now in front of the podium, he picked up the speech documents he had set up on the bulletproof podium itself. Time to start reading, he supposed. Good change of the day.

Kichwabugingo, Omotoi
Pretentious music to help enhance the viewer's reading experience. Use the first 15 seconds only. Or use all of it.

Melisizwe Chiemeka. A member of the Odongu tribe, whose lands primarily resided in Neapolitan Pizzeria territory, part-time soldier for Papa Idi's lay on the stone hard ground, buried under rubble. It had all happened so quickly. First he heard the helicopters, then the screaming, then the roof caved in on top of him. It was a miracle he survived, the roof was about what, two feet thick? He could feel the pain in his arm. His eyes could see simmers of light come in through the debris. His other limbs were still good, and he didn't feel injured in any part of his body other than his arm. Then again, he supposed, most of this debris was more dust and powder than dry clay or sandstone. Whatever force collapsed the roof was strong. Artillery shell?

He slowly dug himself out of the rubble using his legs and hand, until his body was uncovered. He could hear scurrying men outside. Friendly troops reorganizing, preparing for the next attack. They wouldn't be taken by surprise the second time, good he thought. But first, before he could announce that he had survived being buried by a cave-in, he had to look for other survivors. When the roof caved in, he was with about four other guys from a different militia he didn't recognize. Militias. How disorganized was Papa Idi's methodology of warfare compared to Neapolitian Pizzerias. Then again, Papa Idi's didn't have the backing of a international superpower, he supposed. There were also crates of live ammo in here. Be careful not to set any loose rounds off.

After a few seconds of searching, he saw one soldiers arm sticking out. It wasn't moving. After moving some of the rubble off, he discovered that the man was dead. What was to be expected? He heard more activity around, soldiers were close. They were speaking some sort of foreign language, he didn't... They were Neapolitian troops, they had to be. He had to take cover somehow. He scrambled back to the rubble pile he had dug himself out of and laid in it. Quite carefully looking at the troops, his hunch turned out to be right. So they had taken the town. He had to escape now, by any means needed. But how?

Surrender? Would they accept surrender? Being members of their self-proclaimed "Actually Civilized World", they could at least allow surrender, wouldn't they? If they didn't, it'd be extremely hypocritical of the Pizzeria. And he'd end up dead. No matter, he thought, he'd get shot if he tried to run out of the village. If only he had some white fabric... the storeroom. The higher-ups put clothing to be washed here, there'd be some clothes in the next room. Some of them would be white. He climbed up and stumbled through the wreckage into the storeroom. Nearly untouched, perfect. He wondered how.

Ripping some white fabric off a shirt, he scurried outside holding up the fabric just as a two-man team of Centralite troops rounded the corner. They initially looked unsure, until one of them radioed in that there was yet another surrender. They took him by the back, ziptied him and escorted him to a courtyard where they seemed to be holding all the surrendered Papa Idi's troops to process them. There were dozens. Guess the town collapsed harder than he thought it did.
Yet another puppet of Western Pacific Territories, now in ANCAP meme form.

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Imperium Centralium
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Postby Imperium Centralium » Sat Mar 18, 2017 2:30 am

Intelligence and Security Directorate
Centraline Imperial Republic

Upon leaving the airport of Omotoi's capital city, Walter, dressed in a white shirt and khaki trousers secured by a black leather belt - it was indeed stereotypical for such a setting - immediately set out to reach Neapolitan contacts in the town. He wore a cap, and mounted shades with shining metal frames on his ears and before his eyes, so to minimize recognizeability. Behind him followed Vassenia, also wearing shades, who had a scarf wrapping around her neck and the excess length flowing down in front of her torso, never mind the fact that every single cliche of films set in an arid climate environment with a white main character was being raped to death over here. The two stepped through the streets of the capital city which were surprisingly in better condition than expected, they were actual paved roads and not empty ways cleared of sand regularly. Whether this entailed a fault in the ISD's preparation of information they did not bother to care.

Walter looked around, scanning the distance into the horizon with his eyes. Looking for a Neapolitan Pizzeria, where he could perhaps find methods to reach his destination. Seeing no restaurant that he sought, instead of immediately recognizing that technology was at his disposal he went on to quip, while putting his hands on his waists. "Sure is subtle imperialism." Pretentiousness reflected off his obsidian-black sunglasses' lenses. "We really know how to do this; can't even see an inch of our presence under this baking sun. Real stealth." Behind him, Vassenia wasted little time at doubting the reasoning behind this continued futile attempt at demonstrating intellect and wit, and simply took out a smartphone from her pocket. She tapped nimbly on the app icon for the satellite map on the touchscreen, and soon the interface jumped to that of a map of the city. Provided by military satellites of course. Even the residence of the country's very much irrelevant leader was marked with an icon, and not just any icon, because of the recognized powerlessness of this leader the importance-linked color code that the icon was displayed in corresponded to that which was equivalent in importance to the faeces of a Bulgarian. She typed on the touchscreen keyboard in the query space, and in less than a second the screen focused on the nearest Neapolitan Pizzeria, marked in light blue.

Vassenia then proceeded with other controls that would allow the smartphone to enter navigation mode, guiding the two to their destination. Her digits tapped and pressed nimbly. They hardly aroused any suspicion despite standing right in the middle of the stone pedestrian-only road while all other residents walked on the sides under the shade of the buildings due to the blinding sunlight. They just looked like another clueless foreigner couple. Vassenia stared at Walter who remained in his position for five minutes unchanged. He didn't even try to seek a solution. She did the work. The woman sighed, and tapped the shoulder of Walter, then displayed whatever was on her phone's screen to the agent. "Alright, let's go." they set off, stepping forward, the soles of their shoes pressing against the cobblestones that formed the great path.

Turning from street to street the two partners both could see the bold and outstanding logo of the Neapolitan Pizzeria, a pizza slice with the Bridge of Neapolis in the background, fixed to a red background, under which there were transparent glass windows and a double door. They were affirmative it was a restaurant of the Pizzeria, judging from human traffic that entered and exited the building regularly at a rate expected from such an overseas instalment, and hastened their steps. Vassenia nearly tripped, one of the cobblestones being slightly higher than the others and her shoe's toebox caught by it, and unable to move forward as she would normally expect. She leaned and fell forward, but fortunately her tripped foot found stability quickly and settled flat on the ground again. She lifted her sunglasses, clearly wishing to ignore that this unpleasant moment ever happened. Walter pushed open the door, his hands gripping the large horizontal bar that was the handle, and walking into the restaurant, onto paved tiles, he took off his shades, revealing his now unobstructed Centraline countenance. One of the waiters, a Centraline too, noticed this, and stopped on his path to speak with Walter in Common Centralinese. "Hey. You are-" However he was swiftly interrupted. "Chessboard, yes." Walter reported, firmly and calmly. "Ah. I see Calvin has become more and more enthusiastic about this thing." replied the waiter.

"Not Calvin. Still the executives, they just needed someone professional. Take me to whoever's in charge."

"Alright, signor." Following the man, Walter and Vassenia were guided to a table, where they took a seat. Vassenia inspected the table itself, it was of wood-plastic composite, in black, laminated. She opened the menu in its leather covering, quite a surprise they could have such coverings in Omotoi really, flipping through the pages that were inside their plastic covers much like a human was in their clothes. Well, tights and bodysuits to be exact. Another Centraline took a seat opposite of the two, he was in a blue shirt, but overall there was not much remarkable about his appearance save for his crew-cut. "Get the Classic Neapolitan Supreme," he recommended as he sat down, and through his words he reeked of a real Parthenopean-Campanian accent, "Really good. We've done the base pizzas right here." He rested his bottom on the seat completely, and so in a more comfortable position, and due to the change in topic, he changed in the tone of his voice. "So, what have you been sent here by Sep for?"

"Killing the son of His Excellency Idi Amin himself. Dada Amin. This will show these bandits that they are facing truly the Actually Civilized World." Walter conversed. "We need to get there, somehow."

The blue-shirted man placed half of his arm on the table and looked outside through the window. The panes should be cleaned soon, really. Then he chuckled, and turned to face the two, who feared the worst and frowned with their lips in caution and anxiety. Of course. "Hahaha, we can't help you on that. Walk there or something. But enjoy the pizza." he stood up from the seat, walked away, and left the two very much pessimistic about what was to come next in this land. The same waiter carried a large, dark-brown metal pan from which the smell of fresh pizza immediately hooked up to the noses of the two agents and opened their appetites. They threw this unpleasant welcoming behind their heads, and, with the pizza pan landing onto the table with a cling, the waiter wishing bon appétit in common Centralinese, they dug their fingers and nails into the pie, tearing and ripping slices from sparse amounts of dough that still connected them with each other and took great bites.

After finishing the meal and stuffing their intestines with great amounts of tomatoes, olives, cheese, pepperonis and of course dough, which were being broken down to their chemical components by the presence of hydrochloric acid, various enzymes and other organic chemicals inside the digestive system, Walter and Vassenia stepped out of the restaurant, and as soon as they picked up pace in their steps they began becoming concerned about the lack of assistance to their mission and situation. Inside their bellies the stomach churned and churned, generating physical force to act on the food which was already a sludge from chewing by the teeth lined up in rows in their mouths and on their jaws. As the sludge dispersed and splattered into many smaller blobs of matter from being forced and shoved by the stomach tissue, the surface area for enzymes and acid to work on the food would increase and thus increase the reaction efficiency.

Inside the gastric juices, pepsinogen secreted from the cells of the stomach was activated by hydrochloric acid, transforming into pepsin. They would then react with the food on contact, breaking down proteins in a pepperoni or a piece of diced beef by cutting bonds and links between amino acids. Meanwhile, hydrochloric acid contacting with the proteins in itself would kill any microorganisms that resided on the surface of the ingested matter. Gastric lipase also caused the fats inside the demolished pizza to undergo hydrolysis. In due time, undergoing other parts of digestion and breakdown in parts of the body the pizza has yet to explore in its now dismembered and disfigured state, the fully broken down food will be absorbed by the body for nutrition and all while unusable materials like fibres then group and stick to form faeces to be expelled by fierce muscular activity of the rectal region. But they won't need the toilet anytime soon.

It was inside a vehicle of a short profile, a compact, parked on the asphalt road, this time for vehicles, that attention by other parties began to be paid on Walter and Vassenia as they came into sight. The two front seats were occupied by two women, Orientals, both of which had few distinguishing features (though not in consideration of the natives' overwhelming presence in this city). The first one had a large forehead space and (awkwardly) long, squinty eyes, like coin slots. The second one had darker skin than her teammate, which was obviously the result of overexposure to ultraviolet rays in addition to some genetic factors. Her eyes had some more breadth but was nonetheless still a rectangle with a ratio less balanced than 2:1. But the talk of eyes was a waste of time really as both women had sunglasses up because at this point it might as well be law on pain of death that you wear sunglasses in settings such as this.

"They're the ones, right, Alice?" the one with the forehead that was relatively larger compared to that of the remainder of the population from which she had her ethnic origins in spoke, in a very sandy voice, which gave the impression of an accent despite actual maximum efforts to reduce the presence of such a lingual abomination to zero. "Yeah, I think, yeah." replied the other one, whose voice was about a pitch deeper. One would assume they were Zyrikans, but the darker one was one metre and seventy centimetres in height, which falsified such assumptions immediately. They weren't, of course.

It's called foreshadowing something that doesn't exist at all. They worked for the Great Leader, cxy. Actual relevance to plot is negative.

As Walter walked through streets pondering sources of assistance (while Vassenia tried to actually resolve the issue by looking up on her smartphone), he turned his head by occasion and before him assembled a large yard of vehicles, of all sorts, styles, colors, builds, origins, brands, whatever. There were even Princeps Motors compacts, in the smug sky-blue color they always sold their vehicles in. His attention immediately shifted to the complex behind the automobiles, it was an instinct, to garner more information about what his eyes have just scanned and recognized. A large logo in Arial font, bold, underlined, read, "Car Rental". Walter became ecstatic, but he refused to express it, merely grinning. Now it was his turn to tap Vassenia's shoulder and she too was relieved by how they could finally reach Busumbu to take the life of that pretentious Dada Amin. They were very much angry at both the ISD and the satellite map for not telling there was such a utility and amenity just a turn from the street with the pizzeria.

Some discourse with the manager, a native, in intentionally British-accented English just to put any possible Amin-clique agent off-guard, and Walter was able to get a nice Laktravion, a robust Odryskan pickup truck, for an amount of money. Not Centraline lire of course. Standard dollars. Why he did not pick the Princepts compact which would be far better than what a technocratic pariah state could build was fairly obvious. No one goes into Papa Idi's territory with a brand tied with the Neapolitans. In a few minutes, he and Vassenia were seated and the truck was running on the road.

"Wait, how do we kill him?" Vassenia asked. They had no weapons on them.

"...Shit, good question."

Great Square of the People, Capital City of Omotoi
Neapolitan Pizzeria Paramilitary Forces
The Neapolitan Pizzeria, Omotoi Branch

The Great Square of the People was one of the few large public gathering places in the capital city of Omotoi. Its floors consisted of stone tiles that were not exactly the pinnacle of masonry, but nonetheless sufficed for thousands to stand on with their feet, wearing or without shoes. Today, if one viewed the square from somewhere above, all they would see would be human heads. The space was crowded today, which was very rare, and the thought of any event being able to attract such an audience would persuade closer examination and investigation. Ah, of course. The 'pizza contest'.

Slogans and banners hung across buildings surrounding the square. The Centralines no doubt had a monopoly over this part of town for the time being. The banners, some horizontally hung, others vertically displayed, had messages that were different yet all the same; all expressed endorsement for the Neapolitan Pizzeria, for Compagism, for the Actually Civilized World. One would be quite confused by what country this event took place in, especially when an engraving-styled image of Simo Licinius appeared on some of the banners. But make no mistake, five-sevenths of the crowd were native blacks, many of them either supporters of the Actually Civilized World's ongoing crusade against the Papa Idi's terrorists or simply people who enjoyed the Neapolitan Pizzeria's pies. There was a substantial presence of Centralines too, of course. The white men were mostly in casual dress or in camouflage fatigues, or rarely in green uniforms spiritually successors to the style of Centraline National Legionaries of the 1930s, that had rose up answering the call of compagism to smash and destroy subversives like communism and fascism on the streets of Centralium. They were indeed legionnaires, as the National Legionary Party of Centralium itself took a more aggressive and less subtle stance on the Actually Civilized World's expansion, fully believing that it should do its best to benefit other peoples.

National Legionnaires were the radical side of compagism. Their names said it all. Legionnaires. In Centralium, compagism had the same influence as, say, communism in a generic socialist state ruled by a communist party. But the Centralines were clever to not make it all-out pronounced; political pluralism was still legal and leftist parties did indeed exist, though perhaps only for Carabinier recruits to train in their headquarters every week. But then one would notice they made it quite pretentious while subtle as well. Before 1999, the name of the All-Centraline Unity and Solidarity League, the dominant compagist party, was called the Simo Licinius All-Centraline Compagist League. Let that sink in. They paraded portraits of the man and gave him a cult that makes the Kims jealous and envious. In public, loudspeakers broadcasted songs that were not very different from the communists or the fascists in style, that praised Licinius's brave ventures in defending the people of Centralium from two great beasts that were about to devour them in the 1920s. Later this expanded to compagism as a whole. Hortensius got a slice of the personality cult pie as well. The 1986 crisis was deified as a 'second Longian war' between leftists and actually morally decent men and women of the nation. That was the regular compagists. National Legionnaires...simply no word could describe their dedication to the compagist ideology and ACW thought. They had come here to a place of less strategic value than most other places Centralium operated dirtily in.

The legionnaires wore green fatigues which was what they were identified by for much of their existence, but what distinguished them truly were their belts, one at the waist fastening their fatigues and another one a Sam Browne type, slung over their right shoulders. Budget cuts forced them to use fabric belts instead of leather, however, but this did not change the military atmosphere they emanated. The belts were a symbol of the military discipline that ordered their organization. While before such dress was the signature of intellectuals the addition of these belts turned them into men and women willing to sacrifice for the compagist cause, for nation and for people, led by a flag and by a leader. Licinius was long-dead but in each of these legionnaires he lived on, forever burning, a torchlight never to be extinguished. Indeed they verified this with their actions. The Pizzeria was not the only dirty appendage Septentrionale had.

You thought I was describing the Iron Guard? Turns out this fitted the KPA somehow too. Romans with Juche is pretty fun really.

Suddenly from the loudspeakers came the eardrum-tearing sound of Centraline marching music. To legionnaires, they could identify the song through the opening instrumentals. This one was a march called "We Pledge", which was considered somewhat of an anthem for the legionnaires' movement, but competed for the position with several other songs. In unison, the uniformed men and women roared loudly its lyrics in Common Centralinese (Italian), joined by other Centralines and even locals too.

To the teachings of our Captain and Guide, we solemnly pledge
We will build our Centralium into an invincible bastion
United, legions of us march forward, heads and chests high
Our loyalty to the flag stays strong until death

To the instructions of our Captain and Guide, we solemnly pledge
We will build the Actually Civilized World into a paradise
United, legions of us march forward, heads and chests high
Our loyalty to the flag stays strong until death

To the command of our Captain and Guide, we solemnly pledge
We will defend the Great Achievements of Compagism with our rifles and bayonets
United, legions of us march forward, heads and chests high
Our loyalty to the flag stays strong until death

After taking a great sip of hydrogen oxide from their canteens and water bottles, the Centralines realized who was supposed to be the main character of this gathering and immediately turned back into the audience. Some had suffered from a sudden cardiac arrest from the cringe they have just experienced, but they were carried to safety while being assured that there were worse music out there.

A native video jockey's voice now reached the gathered masses via the loudspeakers, beginning shrewd analysis, clear explanation and witty remarks on what was to occur next. The VJ himself stood on a podium, before a large table covered in white cloth, holding the microphone in his hand. "TOP OF THE MORNING TO YA LADIES- Oh, uh, sorry for that. What's up people of Omotoi, you're at the greatest show ever in the history of our nation, it is a showdown between two pizzas! Yes, a pizza contest! This is VJ Koman live from Great Square of the People, capital city." He turned, to face a helicopter rented from the Neapolitan Pizzeria by the local news channel that was filming the event. Another camera crew was set up in front of him and the clothed table, and the feed from this unit will focus on the details of the contest itself, the sampling and tasting of the pizzas and the production of ratings and scores that would determine which pizza was superior.

"We here have the Neapolitan Pizzeria and Papa Idi's facing off against each other! Whose pies is better, we sure will have an impartial judgment on that today, but of course all of you people know the real answer before it is even shown!" Koman chuckled. "We aren't wasting any more time here, so let's begin!" The camera before him then turned to face a white man, a Legionary, in his uniform, but also over that he wore an apron, white, in addition to a chef's hat, which made him look rather ridiculous but no one uttered a word about that. "This is the representative for the Neapolitan Pizzeria, Cornelio Theodoro! Welcome, mister Theodoro, got anything to say in front of the thousands, perhaps millions, witnessing this?" Koman spoke, off-camera, then placed the microphone in front of Cornelio, who then began speaking, in his Meridionale accent. Meridionale and the rest of Quiris Province were widely known as the 'Home of the Legion' and it was no surprise that someone from the city would attend such an event in such a role. "Hello all, and thank you VJ Koman, and I am indeed honored to represent the Pizzeria in this event. I have only one thing to say, and that is, I am confident our pizzas are definitely better." Colossal applause then sounded, echoing off the walls of buildings and accompanied by chants and roars of Legionary and Pizzeria slogans.

"Next we will have our representative from Papa Idi's! But where is the representative? Where is he? Well, seems like they forgot about this!" Koman laughed again, much to the unease of Cornelio who did not in fact believe that all this happening was funny at all. "But at least they will let their pizzas speak for them! Enter the pizzas!"

A grey pickup truck suddenly drove into the square, much of the crowd dodging and moving out of the vehicle's path as it moved slowly through the mass of colors and faces. Boxes and boxes of Papa Idi's pizza, stacked on top of each other, the logo of that damned restaurant chain inscribed on each of the cardboard packages. The crowd cheered for the Neapolitan employees who had worked hard to rob these pizzas, that were on their way to delivery just hours ago, until the Papa Idi's delivery truck carrying them was ambushed. They would make a dignified participant in this contest.

"Let us show the faces of some of these pizzas, shall we?" Koman shouted, and was replied with affirmative cheers. The Neapolitan employees opened three of the boxes as the camera on the helicopter hovering above focused on their contents. The toppings and dough of the slices were all in colors that they were not supposed to have, which demonstrated the inherent inferiority of the Papa Idi's abominations. Boxes of Neapolitan Pizzeria were opened too, revealing clearly superior pies with ruby-red pepperonis and emerald-green peppers, as well as light yellow cheese. Truly the real victor has already been determined.

Kichwabugingo, Omotoi
Neapolitan Pizzeria Paramilitary Forces
The Neapolitan Pizzeria, Omotoi Branch

The surrendering soldiers in Kich'go were treated well, their surrender was recognized and there was no discrimination against any of them on any basis unlike what Papa Idi's would do. It was hoped that the kindness of the Pizzeria's forces would convince some if not all of the surrendering troops to see which side is worth fighting for. They were left alone though detained within bounds of the temporary prisoner-of-war camp while equipment captured piled up nearby, while the Centralines discussed the next course of action with these captives.
Last edited by Imperium Centralium on Sat Mar 18, 2017 3:51 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Founded: Feb 25, 2017

Postby Omotoi » Sat Mar 25, 2017 9:42 am

Busumbu, Omotoi

TO: @MilitaryCommand
RE: Military Counter-Offensive

Attention: This email has been set at Stage III classification. Distribution of this document is punishable by immediate loss of employment, all financial/non-financial benefits as well as potential jailtime.


Neapolitian forces have recently captured the strategic village of Kichwabugingo in our pocket in Neapolitan territory. The village had a garrison of about ninety men, including a truck-mounted ZU-23-2 gun. Reports from the town before it's capture indicate that the mounted AA gun was destroyed in a helicopter attack by the Neapolitans. About thirty men in addition to the AA gun were killed, and all our stores there were bulldozed in the fighting. The rest are reported to have surrendered. Understandably, how the Neapolitan troops got funding for Apaches is incredibly suspicious. We believe that the nation of Centralium may be involved somehow, and is likely providing the "pizzeria" with funding, training, and military equipment. In light of this, it is the belief of the executive board that we and the military branch of Papa Idi's may have underestimated the strength of the Neapolitan's.

Papa Idi's has decided that we will be required to increase military strength and effectiveness in order to fight on par with the Neapolitians. We have lost one of our expensive modified Cessna aircraft in the offensive of Kichwabugingo from enemy anti-aircraft fire, and our agent near the international airport in the Omotoi Government's capital claims to have seen Neapolitian cargo planes unloading vehicles and missiles, along with dozens of crates. This indicates that our enemy is trying to increase the power of their army even moreso. It must be stressed once again that we are to increase funding in our army if we are to continue to resist enemy forces in the early stages of this war. Some advisors from the government military have suggested smuggling arms from notable trafficking hotspots such as the various Chetnik republics as well as the Rook Islands. These are all considered.

Their words have been noted, and the suggestion that the Rook Islands be used as a tether to smuggle weapons from the Chetniks to Omotoi has been taken very seriously, and it is what we will most likely consider doing. Already we have arrangements in the Rook Islands for a single hangar to operate out of with one cargo plane. Where exactly from the Synkom these weapons will be derived from it unknown, but Khvoynia and Grajoya have both been considered especially. Anyways, while the executive board begins to work out routes for delivering weaponry our military should enjoy into Omotoi, strategy is to be considered.

Strategy will follow in a later email.

Wobongu, Omotoi

The small rural outpost of Wobongu was a tiny town in Neapolitan territory, located near the border with Papa Idi's. The town had a population of say, about 100, and was strategically very well positioned. It was situated in the middle of a 50-mile road running between Idi's and Neapolitan's territory, and had a gas station, a hastily assembled checkpoint put up when the conflict began, and the town itself. The Neapolitan garrison here numbered twenty men. It seemed to be a very small garrison giving the strategic value of the place, but a large force was nearby in the larger town of Nchwera. Just a simple checkpoint, right? Wrong.

What would soon face the outpost of Wobongu, the nearby town of Nchwera, and further east would be a renewed and stronger force of Papa Idi's militia. About a hundred armed troops and a single BTR-90 had been scavenged and assembled quickly in retaliation for the setback at Kich'go and a sabotaged pizza contest the company had not been informed of. In Omotoi's capital city no less. A guy from Busumbu, a Cpl. Kwabunu Ihejirka who was more well known for shitposting on than anything else, had been flown in the night before and driven here. He had some expertise, being a former member of Omotoi's army. The other thing about him was his rank, which would trigger any military serviceman from a developed nation. A corporal leading two platoons independently? Unthinkable. Papa Idis, on the other hand wasn't as concerned about proper low-tier chain of command.

Anyways, Cpl. Iherjirka, probably the most experienced commander within a hundred miles of this shithole knew better than to simply charge in. Actually, this alone made him one of the most intelligent men in the Papa Idi's paramilitary division. He ordered that a command post be set up, which quickly was in about a hour or so. After two more hours of setting up shop, it was 8:00AM. Planning commenced as messages were sent via. encrypted email to Busumbu. There was only one road in Wobungu, all the buildings were built in a long continuous line on the road into Nchwera. Seizing the village was a matter of killing any Centralines at the checkpoint, then clearing the town and continuing onwards. Should be as simple as that.

The convoy of trucks, with the BTR-90 at the head quickly moved out. In a twenty minute drive, not much happened until they got to the checkpoint. Only five people manned the checkpoint, two shacks on each side, one for storing the tolls collected and the second shack to control the gate from, and the gate itself. In the distance was the village. The fight was not even a contest. The BTR-90 stopped with the rest of the convoy, and fired a single autocannon round into the toll storage shack where two of the five were radioing for reinforcements. A man with a AK-74 hopped off a truck and eliminated a soldier who peeked his head out of cover. The BTR-90 fired several more shots, completely destroying the checkpoint. They now could move forwards.

Wobungu took about a hour or so. The first twenty minutes were simply fighting the Neapolitan garrison, who knew they were completely outclassed and chose to imitate guerilla tactics by having a few soldiers firing at a few trucks, then scattering as another group did the same. About a dozen of Papa Idi's men were killed or injured this way, but eventually, a few surrendered whilst the rest chose to continue fighting and were killed. Cpl. Iherjirka actually hadn't planned for a surrender, and decided to have a truck bring the four men back to his command post blindfolded. Afterwards he decided that killing them would bring no benefits and only ruin Papa Idi's image, so he had the prisoners droven back to Wobungu and let them take a truck to Nchwera.

The rest of the hour, the troops secured the village and found the village's command post. The only things they found of importance were a few cell phones, a pizza recipe and some toll money. The toll money was eagerly taken and the rest carefully driven back to the command post, to be shipped to Busumbu for analysis. With the town cleared out, the Corporal ordered that his men stay for a few more hours before moving out to Nchwera. Tactically irresponsible? Yes. But the troops were very inexperienced and didn't like the constant harassment and gunfire. Cpl. Iherjirka knew this very well.
Last edited by Omotoi on Sun Apr 09, 2017 4:45 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Yet another puppet of Western Pacific Territories, now in ANCAP meme form.

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Founded: Nov 20, 2016

Postby Imperium Centralium » Fri Mar 31, 2017 2:13 am

Kichwabugingo, Omotoi
Neapolitan Pizzeria Paramilitary Forces
The Neapolitan Pizzeria, Omotoi Branch

The surrendered prisoners-of-war were left idle for quite a while, they paced around in the corner of the town they were detained in and conversed with each other, sometimes gathering at tables to eat lunch, which were bags of rations distributed by the Neapolitan Pizzeria paramilitary. This was of course all under supervision of the paramilitary forces whose sentries stood on rooftops, holding tightly assault rifles and watching closely the prisoners with their eyes. The sun was falling, already had one quarter of it disappear beneath the horizon, and the coming cold winds of the Omotoi plains would soon brush away the sweat accumulated on the backs of the prisoners and their guards for the day.

A man in a beret and wearing camouflage fatigues, a black, in fact, walked into the yard, alongside several aides and other officers. The Centralines had promoted competent and excellent local men into prominent positions even before the start of this 'pizza war', and this beret-wearing man was amongst these, valued for his previous military experience as well as excellent understanding of strategy and tactics - he had a copy of Sun Tzu's Art of War in his home bookshelf, which spoke a lot about this man. He maintained a sober expression on his face as he walked, then halting before the crowd of prisoners, who were sitting on the floor and appearing quite insipid, heads drooping downwards and hands rubbing together as it gradually got colder, but little did they reflect any interest in the presence of this man.

"Where's the highest-ranking non-Bsruo?" he whispered to a Centraline next to him, who then passed him a piece of paper documenting the information of the prisoners, including age and ethnicity. These were self-reported by the captives when they were asked to do so following their surrender. There was little sense of order or military discipline within the Papa Idi's forces contrary to the well-organized Neapolitan troops whose ranks formed clearly who was a leader and who was mere cannon fodder, while only merit was needed to ascend through the latter's ranks, as opposed to nepotism rampant in the former. The black man and the Centraline pointed with their fingers at various individuals seated, but they rejected proposal after proposal. "A lot of them might have falsely reported," said the black officer, "I'd be certainly astonished if these thugs appointed anyone other than a cousin of Idi into any commanding role. I want an actual non-Bsruo."

Eventually, almost as if God or some other divine entity willed it (which was in fact true), Melisizwe Chiemeka was picked out from the crowd. He, like the other prisoners, sat on the ground, legs crossed and hands crossed, placed between the thighs. At gunpoint he was forced to stand up, and was escorted by the Neapolitan Pizzeria soldiers over to a medium-sized rectangular shack. The black Neapolitan officer pushed open the door and flipped the white switch, turning on white lights that illuminated the room, revealing a painted interior, a desk and two three-legged stools with metal legs. This was definitely the office of the local garrison's commander before the place was overrun. Why was he called here? Interrogation? Maybe the Centralines wanted to know more about the Papa Idi's forces. Maybe. Chiemeka was certain that he was taken here for a purpose. The Centralines wanted something from him, but they won't kill him. He was relieved upon this logical realization.

"Take a seat," said the black officer. And Chiemeka did as told. He sat with his back upright, refusing to cross his legs, facing straight forward and his hands on his laps, taking this interview very seriously. The black officer sat down as well, holding the table of information of the prisoners, on which Chiemeka was of course registered and identified in. "Melisizwe Chiemeka, your name, right?" Chiemeka nodded. "Good. An Odongu, you are?" Chiemeka nodded again. His interrogator did not change in expression, while he himself began to sweat. "So, Mr. Chiemeka. Tell me how they treated you in the Papa Idi's paramilitary. Be honest. Our pizzas are better, and you can have some if you tell us what we want." the interrogator was handed over a box of pizza, which was placed on the desk. He opened the box, and locked freshness escaped instantly, arousing the nose of Chiemeka and opening up his appetite. He wanted to say out loud that he wanted a slice. But he was intelligent and comprehended the beret-wearing man's words, and spoke as demanded.

"I'm not a Bsruo, so I don't get benefits or advantages of any sort. But they need troops, so they're treating us better now, though not a major improvement. We get to eat pizza, but the Bsruos get to have the slices first, not to mention the pizza tastes horrible. I get paid and I get food, though. But seriously, the pizza is bad." He spoke in a steady pace, calming himself as his lips moved and his tongue flexed to form language.

"Do you want to work for them?"

"Heck no. Amin, he's a bad guy. Big bully. But I don't like you people either, you bully people just because you have white men with big helicopters and huge bombs backing you." Truly, Chiemeka was speaking from his heart at this very moment. He was being honest. How could anyone resist the temptation of that silk-like cheese and that delicious topping, not to mention the dough and sauce itself? He craved the pizza. Even though he wasn't speaking the right thing to speak.

"But would you work for us?"

Chiemeka's mind halted. They didn't want information from him. They wanted him to collaborate. He thought carefully what to do next. The pizza was still there, and it was slowly losing its heat and freshness. He wanted to enjoy the pie in its full glory. The temptation was there. He couldn't resist betraying his personal values his family taught him as a child just for a slice, maybe more slices. The fresh smell drove him to continue to speak.

From windows outside, one could see the silhouette of a man stuffing slices after slices of pizza pie down his own mouth, while nodding constantly as another man vaguely visible was seen speaking.
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Postby Imperium Centralium » Sat Apr 01, 2017 7:28 am

Nchwera, Omotoi
Neapolitan Pizzeria Paramilitary Forces
The Neapolitan Pizzeria, Omotoi Branch

When the survivors of the Wobongu skirmish returned, still frightened and panicking, the garrison of the town was certainly alarmed. The earlier radio transmission where the garrisons of Wobongu called for help was cut off and thus the seriousness of the situation was not immediately realized, but at least now it was. The commander of the Nchweran garrison, which numbered two hundred and was bolstered by one hundred recruits that were added to the Neapolitan Pizzeria's forces since the outbreak of the conflict, knew that he needed to have an idea of the situation immediately. The troops in the town were ordered to report to fighting posts facing west, but it was imperative that he had an image of what would come his way. The survivors told of "dozens of men" and an armoured vehicle, the latter of which alarmed the commander.

As Wobongu was now occupied, an important outpost lost to a surprisingly somewhat competent attack by the Papa Idi's forces but also somewhat attributable to the lack of garrisons in the village which could be traced by strategic oversight by the Pizzeria in the area, there were few methods of finding out the true extent of the Papa Idi's unit. But luckily for the commander, a Centraline of Myitwari descent, he lived in an age where warfare was being taken to a new level with a variety of new technologies introduced and applied on the fields of battle and slaughter. A particular innovation would come to his aid. In fact, the Neapolitan Pizzeria began using this innovation extensively two and a half years ago, and there was no shortage of them even in Omotoi especially after the recent introduction of Centraline technological aid.


Two spare quadcopter delivery drones that were built for versatility laid in a dark, old warehouse in the town, but today, the door opened with the sound of the knob turning and sunlight shined upon these drones. They would see action, not in delivering pizza, but gathering information about the Papa Idi's forces. The drone, a Mercury III multipurpose UAV, was equipped for many tasks and matters, such as delivering pizza, reconnaissance, filming, and even dropping bombs. It achieved its versatility through the pair of plastic rails installed on its underside, which could be adjusted to hold goods of different dimensions and types. Its frame was lightweight, and its powerful battery allowed the drone to fly high even with an anti-tank mine attached below. There were many other aspects of the UAV that allowed it to excel in its market, becoming arguably the most successful civilian Centraline drone to date. Owning one was considered prerequisite to entry to any nerds' community in Hersiline and Pallas now.

The men in the camouflage fatigues placed the drone on a desk, then closed the gap between the two plastic rails and attached a camera, part of the drone set, which could be connected to its systems and be controlled all-in-one from one single operating post. Their wrinkled, dark hands pushed the camera in place between the rails and then slid it through, to roughly the middle of the drone's 'belly'. A cable that extended out from the camera's rear was then plugged into a port on the side of the drone. As this was completed, the desktop computer that stood on the desk, its monitor frame black and dust gathered on the screen which reflected off a gleam of light, was turned on. The large rectangular computer case which reminded the soldiers of a pizza box had a silvery button on it, its size indicating its relevance. It was pressed by the thumb of one of the men. Energy transported from the thumb onto the button, pressuring it inwards, two pieces of metal making contact and thus begins life and activity in this machine. Around the button a green light glowed indicating startup.

This machine was rather dated in terms of both hardware and software specifications, but it was decent considering what kind of a country Omotoi was. It took about thirty seconds for the password entry screen to show up, and a few quick presses of keys and a forceful slam of the Enter key had opened the way to the desktop. A trashbin, a palette and brush, the logo for a Centraline browser, and finally a vague drawing of a quadcopter drone with the text "Mercury III" below it. The man with his hands on the mouse hovered the white triangle above that icon, and double-clicked it, opening a refreshingly clear and round interface. The operator was able to link the drone with the computer and calibration was completed quickly.

The Mercury III was released into the azure skies of Omotoi. Its rotors spun rapidly, lifting the frame off into the sky. The camera was held in place, it wouldn't fall off anytime soon unless the rails were hit and broken off. Instructions were being readily relayed via a steady and strong connection, from the command post where the garrison's commanders, including the Myitwari himself, were gathering to observe the results. It whizzed off in the direction of Wobongu.

After travelling for about ten kilometers, the camera was activated and footage was being actively transmitted back to the command post. Wobongu came into distant sight. The high-resolution camera zoomed into the small corridor of houses, huts and shacks, surveying for suspicious detail. It now hovered about 100 meters above ground and maintained distance away from the bandits' gun barrels. The drone operator carefully searched through details of the graphics obtained just in case the highlighting algorithm didn't do its job. The shacks grew in size in the footage as the vehicle was now closer and closer to the village. Radars and other sensors further scanned the landscape, searching for the mentioned 'armoured vehicle', truly the drone was keeping its eyes peeled at this moment and so was its operator. The camera sphere rotated and turned in small angles rapidly, focusing on various parts of the land below, in milliseconds an image was collected and then the camera quickly moved on to focus on another target. It prioritized locations where it detected sound or radio waves coming from. Radio waves from the radar's transmitter cut through the sky, coming into contact with hard surfaces, after which they reflected off these surfaces and were detected by the antenna, producing data on the environment which was transmitted back to base and processed.

A roughly trapezoidal shape was suddenly detected, alarming the operator, and his suspicions were instantly affirmed by video footage evidence revealing a dark vehicle parked in the village. When further details were sent back in the forms of packets and analyzed on the computer, producing legible, comprehensible evaluations, a vehicle of the BTR family was what the town garrison commanders saw before them. Those that had experience with dealing with such vehicles, which were less commonly seen in the ranks of communist forces or communist-backed insurgents they had fought but just as much of an exciting vehicle demolition experience for them, began swiftly working out what to do with the vehicle. If it could be captured, and then repaired (since Papa Idi's was seldom known to treat their vehicles well), the vehicle would look rather splendid in the ranks of the Neapolitan Pizzeria's forces.

The drone collected some more data concerning the situation of strategic assets (which was nothing but the now-destroyed toll booth, remains smouldering, and the gas station) in the village as well as gathering a count of armed men that could be observed. It then set upon the path back to Nchwera, quickly buzzing away, rotorblades turning as fast as before and disappearing from the sight of any attentive local in less than half a minute.

But the commanders have seen enough for their judgement, they all stepped outside of the command room and out into the sunshine of the afternoon, discussing in Centralinese interlaced with local language counters to the troop column that was about to move upon the town. They came to a consensus, and dispersed off into their positions, preparing for the storm that would come ahead (which really was more of just a drizzle). Somewhere else in the village, crates of Centraline-made grenades were unloaded from a silver pickup truck it had arrived here, and the smoke grenade crate was opened with a crowbar. Its contents were emptied quickly.
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Postby Omotoi » Sun Apr 09, 2017 4:28 pm

Wobongu, Omotoi

In the now captured village of Wobungu, the force of around a hundred men had quickly taken to garrisoning the town and under orders of Corporal Ihejirka had began throwing up barricades, using trash and metal beams to barricade small sections of road, leaving the main part of the road cleared for use and ready to be driven on by the garrison's one and only BTR-90. The BTR-90 had been planted on the sidewalk, where's it's crew took the spare time to drink some water and smoke, perhaps chat a little instead of boil in the BTR-90. Any radio messages to Nchwera had been cut off by the fighting, and if a alarm was sent out by now, surely then, the Centraline garrison in Nchwera would have quickly returned to take back the vital checkpoint by now. Actually, in fact they knew that Nchwera was informed about the attack. Those survivors were allowed to drive back. It seemed that the Centralines didn't want to budge. Well, then Papa Idi's would budge them into reacting.

A single truck had now arrived from the town of Ogonmadu just about half a hour away, carrying in the back a single mortar, specifically that of the M2 4.2in mortar variety. A rather outdated model but one with a fairly good range, rather common and easy to source through less than conventional means. The M2 had a maximum range of 4.2 kilometers, but a effective range of only half a kilometer. Cpl. Ihejirka's forces planned on firing at Nchwera from over three kilometers away - certainly pushing the limits, but not impossible. They had some equipment and other things needed to bomb the town already prepared, but the drive had to be made to a secluded ditch near the town where a small stream ran through.

Papa Idi's men had been unaware of the Centraline drone gathering data from above, but given that the truck carrying in the mortar and it's ammo had the cargo covered with a tarp, and that it had arrived minutes after the drone left, the situation was fine. Two trucks left in short order, one carrying the mortar and ammo, the other carrying the operators and computing equipment left, arriving at the stream rather quickly and setting up. The trucks were parked further out in the empty savannah, whilst the mortars set up, then were loaded with HE rounds as the mortars called a associate in Nchwera.

Nchwera, Omotoi

"Okay, so I'm looking at the industrial complex right now. The one with the two warehouses, you see it on your map?"

"We do, we've ranged out the warehouses already. Can you give us a idea of whats there?"

"About like... twenty men, I think. The view is shit from where I am. They're all armed troops, there's a couple of guys that look like commanders. They keep running in and out of the warehouses. Saw something funny get pulled out way earlier. It's got a camera or something though, place is pretty active. They might be gearing up for a attack."

"Thank you, Chinedu. Dropping HE round on the warehouse, ETA twenty seconds, standby."

Chinedu Ayodele was a simply 26 year old unmarried man who had been here in Omotoi for only two weeks, having been transferred to the home of Papa Idi's from a un-named neighboring country. He had been transferred to Papa Idi's paramilitary forces after serving conscription in said un-named neighboring country, and worked as a spotter as of right now for mortars. He waited for what seemed like ages before a mortar round finally touched down, landing on top of a small store he had shopped from two days ago when he had came in with some people loyal to Papa Idi's. The impact of the mortar was deafening.

"Mortar shell went short, it hit a store. Those soldiers are freaking out. Aim about ten meters north."


"Dear god, they're pouring out of everywhere. I think we just hit the hornets nest. It's mayhem out there, they're just rushing around. I bet most of these guys just got drafted into service. It'd be perfect for another mortar strike... forget the warehouse. They're all gathering on Olumoto Street, there's some trucks there. I think they're moving out. Lob a shell there."

"Firing, tell us if we hit anything."

Chinedu anticipated the next mortar shot. It smashed into the ground near a technical and several men. As the twenty-four pound mortar shell, filled with TNT was fired from the M2's four foot long barrel, rifled, a uncommon characteristic feature in mortars, the shell began to pick up velocity, flying over three kilometers in a almost perfect arc, finding it's mark close to the technical and the men surrounding it, intending to get into the technical and drive off to partake in the counter-attack on Wobungu. The HE M3 shell hit the ground at a tremendous speed, detonating on impact and killing three of the men unlucky enough to be in the death radius, and critically injuring two more. The nearby technical was showered with shrapnel, damaging it heavily.

"Very good hit! A few of them are dead, one of their technical's is smoking. They're moving out, pack up quick and get out of there lest they massacre you. I'm out of here, I've got to dispose of this burner phone before they pound on my door to ask questions about who was providing reconnaissance for those mortars. I'm a dead man if I get caught. Out."

"Thank you, we're leaving."
Last edited by Omotoi on Sun Apr 09, 2017 4:44 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Yet another puppet of Western Pacific Territories, now in ANCAP meme form.

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Sigesmann Valley
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Founded: Apr 17, 2017

Postby Sigesmann Valley » Tue Apr 18, 2017 12:50 am

Rattlesnake, Sigesmann Valley

The town of Rattlesnake, located in the north of Sigesmann Valley was a small, remote, and very arid place. Established in 1965, the town was created as a telegraph post. Around the post, located at a train stop located in a region where almost all visitors came simply to hike and sight-see grew a small hamlet of about thirty people, who would end up all
working for a gift shop and tour guide service for visitors wanting to look at the Zacapo River, about a thousand feet below the elevation of Rattlesnake. Why this simple little town would be featured in a roleplay about a proxy war between a pizza chain and a superpower would be bewildering to the reader until they learned exactly why. A trade was about to occur here between two very unlikely groups, the executive board of Papa Idi's, and that of the government of Kastanokion. Exactly why was much more complicated.

The SUV of double-agent spy Marcellinus Livianus slowed down as it swerved from the single road in Rattlesnake, gravel, onto the concrete parking lot of the 38 Mile Point diner. Marcellinus Livianus was a double-agent, supposedly working for various Centraline intelligence agencies, but really working for Kastanokion, so long as the Kastanoese made sure to pay him by the day. He was very good at his role of pretending to be a loyal Centraline mainly because he had been born in and grew up in Hesperia, a administrative division of Pallas. He had a Common Centraline name but identified more with the Herculean roots of his family than the Centraline ones. The rest of his life leading up until now is unimportant.

In a pretentious, more dickish than pretentious but still pretentious manner, Marcellinus stopped his SUV in the middle of the parking lot, pointing off to the northwest. The only traffic here, he reasoned would either be foot traffic that would have no part in the forthcoming talks with the Papa Idi's guy, or Centraline Security Units coming to have a western-style shootout with him and burn the place down afterwards. Just to be sure. So it didn't matter. Waiting at the door was Rattlesnake's only officer. In a town of thirty-two people, there wasn't really any money to pay for a actual police department, so the town mayor just registered a friend of his as who had a passion for guns as being the sheriff. A level of nepotism not uncommon in Centralium.

"Ah! You're the uh... the Kastanoese guy, wasn't it?"

"Centraline, not Kastanoese. Just call me Marcellinus."

"Marcellinus? That's a damn hard name to say. The guy you want's down in the basement. The owner cooked up some breakfast for you, hope you like eggs. And make sure you put on sunscreen when you're out of here."


Marcellinus opened up the glass door of the dinner, grabbing it's steel bar but also leaning on it a bit. He stepped forward into the dinner, taking in the fresh smell of eggs and ham, mixed with the smell of coffee. A glorious stench. He noticed in the corner of his left eye a man eyeballing him down in a confused, curious manner. Someone sent to keep tabs on him? Sentry?

"Who the f-y-uck wears a business suit out here? You some government person?"

"Just got off the plane, I'm supposed to be in Peterstown by two o'clock. Thought I'd get breakfast."

"Okay then, I guess. You better be packing some water or beer in a real good icebox, you don't want to catch heatstroke driving. That's what gets you killed. You're a interesting fellow, don't see your type here. Place is so damn remote."


Marcellinus walked off through the aisle of the diner, passing most of the town who all came in to eat at this diner for breakfast each day, as is tradition. The one exception of course was morning mass on Sunday at the Church of Our Lady down in the rather ironically named town of 'White Mountain' forty minutes west. But none of this was important to the reader or to Marcellinus, because Marcellinus's only concern was transferring information over to the Papa Idi's guy and getting out before anyone could figure out what they were doing. Swerving left,and coming out of view of the bystanders at this diner, he was face to face with Idowi Arendse, Papa Idi's board member. Wait, shouldn't he be somewhere in the basement? What's he doing above ground?

"Change of plans, they're getting uppity about the whole thing going on over in Vincentius. Gotta go."


"Twenty-four miles south of here."

"Who the hell decided to name a town after Gaius Vincentius?"

"Don't ask me, lets go."
Last edited by Sigesmann Valley on Tue Apr 18, 2017 11:22 pm, edited 1 time in total.
some remote valley based off arizona

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Imperium Centralium
Posts: 253
Founded: Nov 20, 2016

Postby Imperium Centralium » Thu Apr 20, 2017 10:15 pm

Nchwera, Omotoi
Neapolitan Pizzeria Paramilitary Forces
The Neapolitan Pizzeria, Omotoi Branch

"Cowardly bastards!" cursed a native commander of the Neapolitan Pizzeria's forces as he coughed while his body emerged from the heavy smoke and rubble that was all that was left from a building hit by the mortar shells. He and the other officers and soldiers gathered and met up not too far from the location of impact after the smoke had cleared and no more shells fell from the sky. To them, the pizzeria allegiances did not come into relevance anymore behind their extensive barrage of imprecations that emerged from their mouths in the local tongue which was the only response to the mortar strike. The Bsruos were being terrorists, as usual, which was why they had chosen to side with a powerful foreign force in the first place. But indeed they were fit to be commanders and they regained composure from the vile saliva-bombing quickly, rationally analyzing the next course of action. Most of them read at least a few pages of Sun Tzu and Centraline field manuals, this coupled with fables their mothers told to them while they were children provided sufficient knowledge such that they were able to recognize that they were being baited. The shells weren't intended to land anywhere important.

And yet this realization only further fuelled their anger. Yet as they continued to think about it, they were shocked that their enemy was being competent, knowing about tactics and strategies. It brung them to the concern that a competent, to say the least, opposing commander was directing the operations of the Papa Idi's forces. And the Myitwari man had realized this too. But he was instead entertained by the thought of having a foe he could properly confront in games of cunning, a grin revealed on his face while drops of sweat continued to make slow paths down his cheeks and his neck. Both sides were trying to bait each other, though the Neapolitan troops wished to gain more from theirs, expecting that their enemies will be directly lured to their deaths. Perhaps they were a bit too impatient.

"Try to hide yourselves, instruct the men to take cover, do not respond no matter what they do, but keep an eye out for things." said the Myitwari in fluent Common Centralinese, though with some pronunciation errors and a moderate oriental accent. With that, the officers were dismissed again.

The road that led into Nchwera from the west was one of asphalt, divided into two lanes, though traffic had dropped to virtually zero as the percussion of guns sounded in the land of Omotoi. These finely paved roads were now only mere pathways for forces of the militarized pizzerias to send their hordes of armed men and machine gun-mounted technicals through and on. They were not mined, despite the potential tactical advantages it may offer, as the Centralines intended on being on the offensive ever since the clashes began and they were never forced into a position where they had to lay mines, except for maybe this moment. But indeed, the garrisons of Nchwera did not even believe planting mines would be something to consider for this time, as they intended to 'have fun' with the Bsruo terrorists. They wanted to let them in, then wipe out this surprisingly competent and interesting enemy, which would become a further blow to Papa Idi's in more than just one aspect. From the outermost houses, men in Centraline-made camouflage uniforms looked through the sights of their assault rifles whose barrels were resting on the windowsills, while some others stood upright scanning the distance with binoculars. Entire rows of men crouching down before the windows, holding their weapons, some lucky enough to operate rocket-propelled grenades or at least be able to use rifle-fired grenades, waited for the arrival of their enemy in a surely timely battle. Neither their skin color nor their language mattered. Their allegiances were with the Neapolitan Pizzeria and the Actually Civilized World at this very moment.

Busumbu, Omotoi
Intelligence and Security Directorate
Centraline Imperial Republic

"We still don't have a gun." Vassenia uttered, looking outside at the pedestrians that walked the streets of the town, her forearm resting on the windowsill of the truck. Her shades were still on.

"Shut up, cunt." Walter replied, rudely. He then pressed a button, and the window where Vassenia was resting her arm on began to close, the glass panel slowly rising.

"Okay, why are we starting to use misogynistic language again? AND WHAT WAS THAT FOR?" she yelled, quickly removing her hand from the fate of being crushed between glass and metal.

"You're a feminist? Got to report that, huh." the man adjusted his sunglasses, looking through the windshield. The car in the front had finally started moving, and so he stepped on the accelerator and the truck began moving forward.

"No, you don't need to be feminist to be uncomfortable when someone calls you something that's between your legs, penis."

"Alright, okay, I apologize." Walter was obviously being sarcastic. But you can't read that through text. He continued gazing outside while Vassenia fired at him a look of disgust, with his unbearable personality.

They journeyed through the streets and roads of Busumbu, not really paying attention to the presence of armed men, clearly affiliated with Papa Idi's. Though they remained impatient, sweating inside the cramped compartment, and both of them would really desire that by miraculous divine intervention the traffic ahead would be removed instantaneously, such that they could finally progress through the town with a velocity they were indeed accustomed to while in the streets of Neapolis, Ursaris, Pallantium or Septentrionale. There was no traffic problem in Centralium, mainly because most of the plebeians took public transport, mass transit in particular, and only the patricians drove around cities regularly in their luxury race cars. Even if the cacophony of the horns of thousands of cars and the sight of vehicles of various colors and builds clogging even the widest roads were symbols of prosperity, only those with a true civilized, virtuous understanding of transport could create the serene traffic environment as seen in Centraline cities.

Truly this was evidence that Omotoi was still in need of enrichment by the Actually Civilized World's ways. Indeed, even in Myitwar, automobile traffic was rarely a problem, purely because of competent measures put into place to control such situations that only the Actually Civilized World could come up with. The advent of self-driving cars was unwelcome as a blatant invasion of privacy, instead most if not all drivers would be connected to a live road condition information network that allowed them to make the appropriate decisions and thus the jams would dissipate as if the people had telepathically coordinated. But do not be mistaken, this network was a one-way instrument for the provision of information. Omotoi would desperately need to taste such glories and innovations of the Actually Civilized World, as soon as the Papa Idi's bandits were eliminated and national security guaranteed. However, recently it was rumoured that several operator companies of city mass transit networks of well-known Centraline and Aureonesian cities were discussing with the Omotoi government to began construction of underground rail in major cities like Kagona. But of course, they might as well just start building immediately and no one will be there to stop them.

After an arduous hour which to Walter and Vassenia was like years, they had finally arrived at the public parking lot which was merely a walk, or more appropriately, a sprint, from where the ISD told them that Dada Amin would be holding his speech. They could take their time now, and so Walter finely backed the car into a lot close to the exit, making sure that the doors would be unobstructed in the event they needed to make a quick escape. They could see balloons and banners in the distance, and even armed men, on a large, open space with stools and benches. They avoided continuing to focus their sight in that direction, and proceeded to the hive of residential buildings nearby, on foot. Walter casually took his smartphone from his pocket, and tapped as if he routinely checked the time and mapping software. The touchscreen remained black, however. He and Vassenia conversed in English, talking about wildebeests they saw on their way, but their Centraline accent was still vaguely identifiable, though it was unlikely anyone nearby would pay any degree of heed.
Insert quote by some pretentious 19th century philosopher here

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Imperium Centralium
Posts: 253
Founded: Nov 20, 2016

Postby Imperium Centralium » Sun Apr 30, 2017 1:51 am

Great Square of the People, Capital City of Omotoi
Neapolitan Pizzeria Paramilitary Forces
The Neapolitan Pizzeria, Omotoi Branch

The pizza contest continued, even though the victor was determined before it had started, much like an election in the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. If you couldn't notice I'm trying to get the word count up here. The massive spectating crowd of thousands of local citizens seethed with excitement, they could not wait any longer for their favorite part of these contests, the reaction of the panel of judges. Meanwhile, the paramilitary personnel of the Neapolitan Pizzeria as well as armed National Legionnaires stood guard at entrances and at locations of high altitude in the vicinity of the Square, a watchful eye with a stare sharp like the Valentian longsword constantly on the lookout for anyone or anything suspicious, even though they were convinced quite enough Papa Idi's would not bother to sabotage or attack such an event. In their hands they tightly gripped rifles, batons or other weapons they got their hands on. Thousands of pairs of feet stepped, trampled and stood on the stone tiles that formed the floor, sweat-drenched shirts collided and rubbed against each other, and heads moved much like restless waters of a sea when viewed from a distance.

The procedures for the pizza contest went as follows. A panel of 10 judges, half of them local celebrities and the other half seemingly ordinary civilians but in reality loyal customers of the Neapolitan Pizzeria, would taste the pizza samples. This contest, meant to be worthy of the venue and spectator count it currently possessed, would feature a larger sampling pool compared to ordinary TV-aired pizza contests which often featured fights that put Memri TV to shame. The 5 most common pizzas of each restaurant would be tasted by each judge instead of merely 1 pizza, and the average would be more accurately reflective of the overall quality of the pizzas of each chain. It was very lucky for the ex military commanders' men to have seized a cargo that just happened to have all 5 of the pizzas they needed for the contest to make it fair. After tasting the pizzas, the judges will give comments, and meanwhile samples of the pizzas will be tasted by the crowd as well. They will be given paper ballots to write on the chain they believed was the winner of their tongues and stomachs, with optional fields for comments. But indeed this is a Centraline-organized event. Even if the crowd found Papa Idi's the better flavor, which was of course only theoretical given the very factual inferiority of their pies, the judges overall had the larger say. It was like elections in Lydland.

The votes from the judges and the crowd will be tallied up and of course first-past-the-post applies for the rest. There's not much to say for that except again they might as well scrap the crowd participation part. There wasn't a lot of rigorousness in terms of qualifying who could cast a ballot so long you were in the square, but certainly if any agent of Papa Idi's attempted to subvert this event they would be met with cold, steel-forged gun barrels pointing at their heads. The sun remained as scorching as usual, but a slice of pizza would blow the heat away, despite the fact that the slices were hot like the fuels that burned while cooking them, it was perhaps analogous to how chebureki was eaten in the summers as well.

The pizzas in their boxes were now presented before the judges on the white-clothed table. The judges tidied and fixated their checkered shirts, not to greet other human beings, but to dignify their presence before the pizzas. They opened the cardboard boxes, and immediately the redeeming aroma of the dough, the sauce, and the toppings escaped the box which had locked them tightly in for the past hour, diffusing throughout the air and entering the noses of many. The judges closed their eyes and raised their noses in unison, intentionally inhaling more air than they would normally, so to take in more of the refreshing scent. Their brains embraced this welcome sensory intake. They would soon sink their hands and teeth into the pizza, but first, they had to give some comments, as per procedures of these contests. "Mm, I'm looking forward to the Neapolitan's, that smell is like the perfume of Delmitea and the flowers of Scopelia!" commented a young woman. Little did she know Delmitea did not produce perfume, and flowers with the best scent were not in Scopelia, which was actually known more for its polluting industries. Another man commented he thought the Papa Idi's aroma was 'distinctive' in a sense. Whether or not he was being sarcastic was very hard to establish.

VJ Koman asked the judges questions on what they thought of the pizza. He pointed his microphone about 20 cm away from the mouth of one of the panel members, and inquired with his heavily accented English. The reply was one that involved mentions of the toppings of the pizzas. This uninteresting segment went on for about two minutes, which was shocking for the crowd as the pizza could have cooled off and lost its freshness during this period of time. Anyway, the judges got to the exciting part where they consumed the pies. At this point envy bombarded them from the crowd, as the spectators, although knowing they were to enjoy the slices too, were becoming impatient and desperate. The men and women picked up slices from the box, the strands of cheese being elongated before finally breaking, and descended the tips of the triangles into their mouths where their teeth sank into the dough, tearing the slice apart, while their tongues enjoyed a full sensory feast upon the toppings. Crunch sounds could be heard as the golden crusts were ripped apart.

And now he pointed the microphones back before the mouths of the judges, who were busy chewing and swallowing, and most delayed for several seconds before responding with uninteresting bland comments praising the taste of the pizzas. Koman then asked the judges on their relative ratings between the two brands of pizza, on which the comments were uniformly praises of the Neapolitan Pizzeria while the comments on Papa Idi's were more of sarcastic reprimands out of spite. "That was awful," commented a middle-aged man wearing metal-framed glasses, on the Papa Idi's entries. "I mean, they don't have pineapple, but how the pies were cooked were uniformly horrendous. The topping meat was most assuredly raw. Actually RAW." he began to frown, "I doubt they even processed the pizza properly. The crust was damp and not crispy and the cheese had a bitter taste, I'm not sure if they put cyanide in it." he chuckled. Another judge, the director of a famous local action film which in terms of quality and popularity was on par with Who Killed Captain Alex, spoke that the Papa Idi's pizza was "awful and simply unrefined much like that of a bush savage."

It was the crowd's turn to taste the pizza, they were given pink paper ballots and when presented the pizza were informed what brands each slice came from. The ballots and the slices were passed around the square and often they had become mixed up, people wrote on slices and ate slips of paper. Sometimes the slips became new fresh toppings. It was a grand sight for Neapolitan Pizzeria employees that the people smiled after consuming their pizzas while they left bitter, confused expressions after stuffing the Papa Idi's pizzas down their own throats. One could hear chatting in the crowd commenting on the quality of the pizzas. The ballots were written upon, and passed around by greasy hands, many dark and damp with oil from the unclean hands and pizza crusts that they came into contact with. In ten minutes most of the ballots were collected.

Unknown, Omotoi
Neapolitan Pizzeria Paramilitary Forces
The Neapolitan Pizzeria, Omotoi Branch

Zawadi Ibori was one of the thousands of local citizens of Omotoi who were outraged by the terrorist attacks upon infrastructure and buildings in Kagona and volunteered to join the only armed group they knew could do anything about the enemies, the troublemaking Bsruos, on their doorstep, the Neapolitan Pizzeria's paramilitary forces. Officially these legions were not marketed as such during recruitment, rather they were called 'Defense and Response Units' and the Pizzeria acted merely as a sponsor. Giovanni Sidon had discussed the probability of the new units being established as a separate paramilitary organization entirely with other Centralines involved in the 'Omotoi project' and that idea had indeed gained significant traction as a means to attract the people of Omotoi with a more long-term, seemingly patriotic cause to the Actually Civilized World's banner without worries that following the destruction of the Bsruo terrorists disloyalty in the now directionless and purposeless local forces would manifest into a new foe of Neapolis.

Ibori was six and a half weeks into his training. For his first two weeks he and his comrades spent day and night exhausting themselves under the baking sun or before the cold harsh winds of the Omotoi plains, marching kilometres and kilometres, carrying full field equipment. They learned how to properly operate various rifles and other firearms in the meantime, and were also to a degree indoctrinated on the importance of their participation in the war against Papa Idi's. In their third week they began learning tactics and strategy. Their Centraline instructors tested them through simulations, most of them performed horribly initially, so bad that they became aware of it and broke down into laughter amidst the simulated battles. The Centralines too were rather amused. They were of course only intended to become reasonably literate, on merely the basics of war beyond gunshots, and so they were considered fit for deployment just after only one month and a half of training.

Ibori and his colleagues stood in their fatigues on a sandy plain, assembled tidily, standing solemnly with their hand palms on the pockets of their trousers that was covered in a substandard camouflage pattern, and certainly woven of materials considered unworthy for war for the spoilt grunts and privates of the Centraline army as well as most other self-claimed 'modern militaries'. A patrol cap sat on their heads. Hilariously the camouflage patterns of their caps, their jackets and their trousers were not even the same. Ibori's cap had blue digital camouflage, while the jacket was in Woodland and the trousers a Centraline pattern. Nevertheless they stood in the spirit and posture of a courageous, iron-willed armed force ready to smash the terrorists of Papa Idi's for their crimes in Kagona and elsewhere. In environments like these, not much can be demanded in terms of material. Anyway, Ibori stared forward, as a Centraline instructor in a helmet walked into the space before the trainees, holding a RPG-7, which was placed onto the ground.

"Today we'll be instructing you on how to use shoulder-fired anti-armor weapons. This, here, is a famous RPG-7, used by armed groups around the world as a devastatingly effective fortification and vehicle buster. It packs quite a punch despite its datedness. We got these captured from damn commies from other places. Your unit has 4 of them, but you might come into situations where they're present and you'll need them, very much." He picked up the launcher, "The launcher is 7 kilograms in mass, it's 95 centimetres long, the tube is 40 millimetres in diameter. The tube here, the middle part, is wrapped in wood, to protect the user from heat, since that part is rested on yourself when firing." the instructor demonstrated by holding the launcher in firing position, the wooden section clearly the part resting on his shoulder. "This part in the back here, is widened, to control blast and recoil."

"You can come and take a look at it." said the instructor. The uniformed men gathered around the launcher, some picking it up and placing it on their shoulders, aligning their eyes with the iron sight. Following this, the instructor demonstrated the munition.

"We have a dummy HEAT warhead here, it's 2.6 kilograms in weight." The details of the grenade were explained, and an explicit warning was made concerning the safety cap of the grenade, that its removal should only occur before its use and that only. The mechanics of the launcher were explained as well. "There is a firing hammer here, you cock it, like this, and then fire it by pressing down the trigger." he pointed at the trigger, "The hammer does not move when the trigger is not held down, so keep that in mind."

Ten minutes passed and the instructor finished explaining the details of the RPG-7. Now the recruits would get to fire the launcher, but no, they didn't get to lob shells at targets and see them be torn apart into pieces, they had to work with a trainer which was loaded into an actual launcher but fired a 7.62mm cartridge, supposedly accurately simulating actual use of the weapon. They were given a total of five launchers and seven trainers. At the target range, the enthusiastic young enlistees stood twenty metres away from the position at which they would fire the tester. Targets could be seen about 200 metres in the distance, consisting of painted wooden crates. Likely the leftovers from a Centraline armaments cargo airlift. A crate of ammunition sat beside the designated firing location.

Ibori dropped the cartridge inside the trainer, slid in the breech, and locked it, with some assistance from the Centraline instructor. The trainer was dropped into the launch tube though care was taken. Ibori then rested the launcher on his shoulder, while kneeling on one knee, and switched up the iron sights. He aligned his eyes with the sight while the instructor helped adjusting the sight for comfortable determination of a target located 200 metres away. The hammer was cocked in and Ibori set his eyes upon a certain blue crate in the distance.

He pressed the trigger, firing the round, which escaped the trainer with great speed, cutting through the air and the wind, collecting great quantities of kinetic energy. At one point the momentum of the 7.62mm round was at 300 kg m/s, indeed the only force that could stop its flight now was the destruction of its target, or the failure of its mission. Hitting the wooden crate and striking it with great energy, its objective shattered into four pieces of wooden planks, smoke emanating from the aftermath. Ibori's eye would observe all this. Applause sounded from the rear as a grin emerged on his lips. Indeed, any Papa Idi's terrorists that would confront him would surely end up the same way the wooden crate did.
Insert quote by some pretentious 19th century philosopher here

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Posts: 30
Founded: Feb 25, 2017

Postby Omotoi » Tue May 02, 2017 9:38 pm

Battle of the Nasralo Bridge, Omotoi
6:32 AM, Village of Nyondo

And so the great conflict, the escalating feud between Neapolitian and Idi's pizza, which had split a entire country in half, came to this. This would be the greatest, largest conflict of the early stage of the war. After the loss of the strategic town of Kichwabugingo, where most soldiers of the Papa Idi's franchise had surrendered mere minutes into the fighting, Papa Idi's morale was already beginning to decline. Now, the executives at Papa Idi's wanted a large-scale battle they could win, to increase morale in the beginning of the conflict. Neapolitian Pizzeria couldn't dominate Omotoi with it's twisted pizza brand, at least not this easily. The largest force seen in the war now assembled in the area around the village of Nyondo. In the surrounding fields, long columns of soldiers formed rank. Most of these men wore new uniforms and carried new guns with new bullets.

These guns were almost exclusively Khvoyian in origin, and the uniforms leased out, but for Papa Idi's troops, this would be sufficient. They fought best in the conditions they were in with the equipment they had, and they'd do their job, for Papa Idi's backing and funding was now behind the troops around this village. They did not expect weak Neapolitian resistance. In all honestly, they expected the Neapolitian troops to know of this attack in detail. These Neapolitian commanders always seemed to know. They had support, they had determination, and hopefully, they had the firepower. These forces were under the command of the Southern Oyomu River Theater Command, or as Neapolitian troops would better know them as, SORTCOM. Twenty-three tanks, eight hundred troops, one river boat. The Neapolitians would be overwhelmed. The best commanders were here.

The supreme commander of this operation, code-named 'Operation Nokuduma', was Commander Enyinnaya D. Bamidele, known as 'Enyi'. He was a experienced battalion commander for the Omotoi Armed Forces post-dissolution of government in the country, and had signed up with Papa Idi's, being a Bsruo. The three colonels under his command were the commander of the militia from nearby Kaiso village, Col. Nsia A. Olufunmiola, the commander of the now assembled Nyondo garrison, Col. Chiyembekezo K. Onyekachukwu, exclusively referred to as 'Chiye', and riverboat captain Col. Taliste B. Chifurino. The Nyondo garrison had assembled, the riverboat was four miles upriver, but the Kaiso militia had not arrived yet. They waited nearly a hour before this moment for Col. Nsia to arrive, now that he was present, the attack could begin in earnest, with Papa Idi's victory.

Beside Nasralo Bridge, Omotoi
6:51 AM, Conflict Zone

The two men laid prone in the brush, about 20 meters from the right side of the cement bridge. One man bore a heavy PKM machine gun, put down on the ground with the bipod deployed. He stared out at the other side of the river through the sights. He wore a bright red beret and had wrapped ammo belts around him, like Rambo. The other was wearing a more camouflaged, suitable uniform for this environment. He had only a pistol, tucked into a holster, a pair of binoculars which he used to stare at the brush of the other side with, and a radio set next to him. It had been a rather dull first ten minutes, before two men on the other side had walked into view from the road. They appeared to be a recon unit. The machine-gunner seriously considered eliminating the Neapolitian recon team, but the observer stopped him. Their position would've been given away, even if they could get the first enemy kills of the battle. And who knew what else could have been nearby? An artillery support radioman?

This recon unit had been very careless in deploying, so much in fact that even the Papa Idi's were comparatively superior to them in that regard. They had gotten here first, already hidden in the brush when the bridge would have been in sight for the Neapolitians. But the Neapolitians pushed out of the brush, only to see a Papa Idi's machine gun barrel pointed at them. The two men froze. They had been caught, but the two reconnaissance men let them live. They didn't fire in return, and what followed next was all the guns being drawn. After that, a thick silence emerged, before the Papa Idi's machine-gunner slowly came up to his knees, then stood. A shout came out from the machine-gunner. The non-white observer on the Neapolitian would've been the only one of the two Neapolitian scouts who would be capable of understanding the machine-gunner.

"You want to know what's coming? We're coming! You best go back to where you came from, lest you be turned to mist!"


"I won't say what, just run back quick! And fast!"

The machine-gunner slowly lowered his PKM as his fellow observer stoop up as well, mounting the radio-set back onto his back. The Neapolitian troops stood up as well, before they both turned back, and froze. A minute later, sure that they wouldn't be shot, they slowly walked back to the position they had came from. Soon, the Papa Idi's troops did the same, making the ten-minute hike on the dirt road back to Nyondo. What could have been the premature beginning of the battle ended with no shots fired. A unusual occurrence. As they got back, they could see newly arrived troops jumping off old flat-bed trucks. A column of tanks were assembled on the road, multiple men loading fuel and shells into each tank. Extensive preparations for the battle ahead.

Town of Nyondo, Omotoi
7:03 AM, Assembly Zone

A command post had been set up in the plaza of the town of Nyondo, now filled with command tents and tables with various papers, radios and maps placed upon them, with men walking all ground, and a select few standing guard. Inside one adjacent building was the artillery support hotline center, pinned up to the wall, next to a large radio was a copy of the grid-map given to all commanders in the field. If Neapolitian presence was as heavy as expected, commanders would radio to the hotline on frequency 103.8FM and call for howitzer or mortar support, depending on the threat posed.
Yet another puppet of Western Pacific Territories, now in ANCAP meme form.

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Imperium Centralium
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Founded: Nov 20, 2016

Postby Imperium Centralium » Wed May 10, 2017 6:26 am

Nasralo Bridge, Omotoi
Neapolitan Pizzeria Paramilitary Forces
The Neapolitan Pizzeria, Omotoi Branch

Another few weeks had passed and Zawadi Ibori's unit was considered combat-ready. This was of course a standard which the Centraline instructors struggled to accept, with their patrician mindset they demanded perfection for all and this meagre amount of barely adequate and largely improvised training was not something they would be fine with sending a combat unit into war with. However, they desperately needed them to be thrown into the fighting as there were only so many Centraline and other Actually Civilized World volunteers, whom by themselves could not hold the line against the Papa Idi's forces at all. Ibori's unit marched on foot, as there was not enough trucks, across the wide, vast arid land, littered with shrubs here and there, while the clouds of early May hanged above them. The temperature had started to drop and the marching men were greeted and saluted by breezes of the land that came very occasionally. A vulture soared over them, croaking as it flapped its long wings.

It had been two months since the Kagona attack occurred, however, despite this, the so-called war was no more than a few select battles that occurred in western Omotoi. While the combat that had already occurred was very much worth the talk of discussion boards online as well as those of military analysts such as Zhang Zhaozhong on television of China-UFR and was comparable to a very good piece of video pornography, due to the sheer supposed absurdity of the nature of the conflict that despite its almost comical appearance most certainly heralded the death of the old ways of war and the dawn of the new rationale behind all conflicts between civilization, the real strategic net force accumulated from these battles was perhaps as decisive as a week at the French trenches during the Great War in most heptapeirons. The token battles at Kichwabugingo and Nchwera were of no real decisive nature, merely symbolic exchanges of the sword and the gun. The use of the Apaches was there only to show that this was a war of which at least one great power took part in. But the absence of any subsequent engagement of such scale and hilarity was a great disappoint to many spectators, indeed.

It's like that new rapper who dropped a really fire track but doesn't make anything else for the next few months. Except the disappointment may have been greater. Up to this moment, the total casualty count from the conflict was pathetic, less than one hundred souls were claimed by the chariots of destruction and most that were injured at Kichwabugingo would have healed by now and could walk around again, with or without crutches. The war continued to be mentioned in the news as 'patriotic self-defense units' waged an anti-terrorist campaign against ethnic Bsruo insurgents, as the media had put it, because no one wanted the name of the Neapolitan Pizzeria to be mentioned.

What this war needed was action engulfing all of the Omotoi land, fire and flame blanketing the entirety of this forsaken soil. Death to pineapples. Long live the Actually Civilized World.

"Patriotic Self-Defense Units" marching to war

Ibori had a field cap on his head, and underneath it, sweat had accumulated between his hair and underneath the fabrics of his head garment. He remained upright despite the tiring trek through the plateau, and his eyes stared forward, looking for visual evidence of the Bsruo terrorists, that they were today coming out to purge completely. He had a full camouflage uniform and several magazine pouches, and that was it. Walking on his side was a relatively more well-equipped soldier with a kevlar helmet and a tactical vest all provided by the courteous Centralines. Speaking of those people, they were in their ranks as well. Ibori was eager to see these trained, seasoned veterans and professionals, no, wished for them to save their asses in the fighting to come.

The echelon's formation was non-existent. They stepped forward in varying paces, and after this was considered, the fact that their uniforms were not unified did not improve their image as a combat force at all. The weight of the equipment and the weapons had gave every raising of the soldiers' knees and then legs a burdened impression. But this almost sloppy appearance of these soldiers should not deceive any observer, for they were certainly determined to smash the Papa Idi's forces. They gripped their rifles with steel-like determination and eternal obedience to the cause of the Actually Civilized World. Some of them had knew of neighbouring Kalanda's prosperity as an associate and ally of the Centralines and were convinced that, in face of their collapsed government and warring nation, the toga-clad men were the harbingers of stability, peace and prosperity for their wounded land.

Never once had any militiaman stopped although some did slow their pace to gain a degree of rest, as there will be plenty of time to rest when they are crawling under the grass of the banks of the Oyomu River. For an innumerable amount of moments they knew only forward. Soon in the horizon they could see other men, some of the soldiers became alarmed and put their hands on the triggers of their assault rifles, but the Centralines assured that these men were their comrades. Their anticipation for battle dissipated but it was now replaced by an even stronger reinforcement of the will to win. There were more of them, there were people of all groups of Omotoi, and there were the Centralines and their companions too. While the Bsruo terrorists could only muster so many from those only within their own ethnic group.

In the sky one of the Neapolitan Pizzeria's reconnaissance drones collected footage of the various echelons ready to converge at the Oyomu river bank, it was like armies of ants marching to a common destination when viewed from the azure above.

Most of the men, in their rough, sometimes wrinkled, hands, wielded AK-family weapons. AK-47s and AKMs were predominant although Vz.58 and Zastava M70 could also be seen amongst the formation. Each of them carried at least 3 magazines of ammunition. These were kept safely inside their ammunition pouches, while some others decided to strap them by their hips so they were more accessible during fighting. The dull grey color of the barrels and other metal components contrasted sharply with wooden furniture that they were embedded in. Besides some modified iron sights that were given to those who performed exemplarily in terms of marksmanship, few customizations were accessible or present.

Ibori himself held a AKM and carried his ammunition in his mag pouches. He had become familiar with the weapon he was issued when training, and was sure that his accuracy with the weapon was superior compared to that of many of his comrades. Indeed the central red spot on targets was punctured more than once many times on the shooting range. And certainly, he will be able to not just score headshots at the terrorists easily, but strike at any position on a foe's body as he desires it to be so with the minimum of errors. He was ready, in his weapon and on his uniform, his people had vested trust and anticipation in him to annihilate those who had been responsible for the atrocity at Kagona. His weapon will unify with his mind and become an instrument of it as he dives into the sea of war with the other soldiers like adolescent seagulls hunting for fish for the first time, though swiftly he shall emerge from its flames, it will become a worthy and complete baptism of fire.
Warriors ready to smite Papa Idi's

Nasralo Bridge was no doubt a very strategically important location in Omotoi. Intersecting the wide Oyomu River, it made traffic across the river possible, becoming the throat of the road it was situated on. The Oyomu River was fierce although shallow at this section which made an offensive that involved crossing the river itself unfeasible, but if one has control of the 400m-long suspension bridge that towered over its waves that smashed against smoothened boulders, then vehicles and infantry could make it across easily without worrying about wet boots or compartments. As the river flowed, much of it was constantly laced with broad strips of white, from bubbles as a result of the vigorous splashing and fast, energetic advances of great quantities of hydrogen oxide rushing towards the Lake of Omotoi. The life that the river brought to its drainage basin was eternal, regardless of season it nurtured plant and animals alike of this land.

But, today, instead of life, the river will flow and teem with death and destruction. Most surely. For two armies have gathered, and they never did so for nothing; the clashing of guns was bound to happen today on the banks of the Oyomu and at the towering bridge which was a relic from the days when Omotoi had a functional government. Murderous intentions emanated from the two banks, a depressing atmosphere of lethal and destructive confrontation about to burst into existence, and the cheesy soundtrack from war dramas which played when an ambush was about to happen was somehow ringing around in the ears of those present. Gun barrels locked onto designated human heads from across the river, correspondingly mortars had selected their planned bombardment positions, and the situation was much like a principally similar if not identical simulacrum of mutually assured destruction.

Papa Idi's intended on launching an offensive across the bridge, cutting another painful salient into the pretentious, obnoxious and arrogant Neapolitan Pizzeria much like how they did with the decisive victory at Nchwera. After securing the bridge transporting large amounts of troops across to pose a significant threat to Neapolitan positions would be no big challenge even for organizations of their level of competence. Its strategic value here was apparent, easy to see. But dramatically the Neapolitans chose to attack the bridge on this very same day too. They desired to achieve the same, though in the opposite direction, thrusting another spear into Papa Idi's which was already threatened by the troops that had occupied Kichwabugingo as well as vigilant, aware, ready and determined troops of various other positions. Nyondo would be cleansed of the Papa Idi's bandits and terrorists and another victory banner raised above its highest building. This was no matter of spear against shield, this was two men charging at each other each with a spear, and its conclusion will determinedly be bloody.

Despite the alarming defeat at Nchwera the Neapolitan Pizzeria did not yet grow out of its toga of obnoxiousness and arrogance. It still underestimated what Papa Idi's could be capable of and so the conscripts who just finished training were selected to become the main thrust of such a strategically important task. Granted, like the process of filtration, those are left behind after the fighting would be truly worthy of further participation in this grand conflict, but a risk was present, and if these trainees fail, then the Neapolitan Pizzeria would have made a major mistake that could potentially cost it the entire war leading to its defeat and exile from Omotoi. That would be a great, humiliating blow to the Actually Civilized World. No one wanted that. But here, echelons of men equipped with guns and uniforms the Centralines gave them who just completed merely two months of training were advancing towards the bridge. Granted, there were elements of the Neapolitan Pizzeria's forces from before the mass recruitment drive, more experienced and reliable, participating in the battle too, but they did not make up a significant portion of the force.

The lines of troops arrived closer and closer to each other as they courageously marched forward, rifle tightly in hand, they will soon rally together to properly position themselves for the offensive. Most of them were light infantry however convoys of motorized infantry on pickup trucks could be seen on the side of the men walking forward, on their faces they had glees at how they were fortunate to not have to waste their leg muscles on such a fatigue-inducing march. The motorized infantry were also significantly better-equipped as they all had helmets and ballistic vests seemed to be commonly issued amongst them. Must be the favorite students of the Centraline instructors, thought the ones with field-caps looking upon them from one metre below. Their vehicles had DShK machine guns mounted on them along with more powerful KPV and even ZSU machine guns and autocannons. Some had anti-tank guided missile launchers, Malyutkas to be exact. Others were firing platforms for RPG crews or operators of recoilless rifles.

Several kilometers behind them a lone T-55 clad in Serb-style improvised spaced armor could be seen speeding towards the bridge as well. It blew off a cloud of dust behind it and was likely the fastest entity amongst the echelons of Neapolitan troops.


- 670 soldiers
- 11 improvised armoured trucks
- 35 regular trucks
- 4 60mm mortars
- 8 RPG-7 units
- 10 mounted DShK guns
- 4 mounted KPV guns
- 3 mounted ZU-23-2
- 4 mounted 9M14 Malyutka
- 1 T-55 tank
Insert quote by some pretentious 19th century philosopher here

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Founded: Feb 25, 2017

Postby Omotoi » Thu May 11, 2017 6:29 pm

Battle of Nasralo Bridge, Omotoi
7:31AM, Approach to Nasralo Bridge

Troops from SORTCOM forces, the day before.

In the cool, dreary morning of early May, the forces of Papa Idi's set off to fight the troops of the Neapolitian Pizzeria, and the concept of the 'Actually Civilized World' it represented. These men, all of them familiar with the brutal heat the sun above them produced each year, were simply thankful that they would perform the battle in the very morning, before the worst of the heat could set in. It would be up to four hours before it reached the maximum temperature of the day, so they took the chance to enjoy the cool breeze while they still could. Soon that cool morning breeze would be replaced by whizzing bullets and tank carcasses.

Plenty of cameramen stationed along the dirt road leading to the bridge showed columns of Papa Idi's troops walking on the side of the road, next to passing vehicles hauling crates full of ammunition and soldiers. Like the PSDU units, they were forced to walk whilst the more professional, seasoned troops got to ride into battle in the trucks. The main thing that drew more attention than anything else, however were the tanks scattered among the convoy. Three tanks led the convoy, all of them PT-76Es. The PT-76E was a amphibious infantry transport vehicle, leading the convoy in part due to their 57mm gun, capable of piercing 100 millimeters of armor, giving it the ability to kill even most of today's IFV vehicles. A little back was a T-55 medium tank, then the rest of the armor, all mixed in with various vehicles. In total, twenty-four vehicles accompanied Papa Idi's forces today.

Meanwhile, a few miles away, more cameramen recorded artillery crews bringing ammunition to a line of four M198 howitzers in a dug-out located behind the fighting, each howitzer had a fire support radio linking back to the operational headquarters in Nyondo, where coordinates for fire support requests were handed out to the howitzers, when then would bombard the area there. They loaded up with HE shells in advance, because they knew that in a few minutes, they would conduct a creeping barrage all along the Neapolitian-controlled side of the Oyomu River, reminiscent of those barrages of World War One. Meanwhile, the first of the infantry and tanks came into viewing distance of the bridge. Here, they stopped and took a few minutes to rest, before orders to begin the initial bombardment came. A battle of such a epic scale deserved a equally intense, epic opening.

In the distance, the infantry could hear the howitzers firing as the shells came down moments later, creating plumes of dirt which rose up from the ground. This continued for well over five minutes, approaching ten, before the fire stopped. Now that any Neapolitian presence at the bridgehead itself was gone, they could advance and begin the conflict. The tanks and infantry moved off the road, while the trucks carrying ammunition simply pulled off onto the side, staying fairly far back. The infantry formed up around the tanks as they slowly advanced. The author at this point realized that the music from the first mission in Black Ops 2, the Angola mission, would have been very suitable for this moment. The author then realized that Papa Idi's troops wouldn't act as stupidly as the white-shirted enemies from that mission. But music wasn't important in the moment for these troops.

Suddenly, gun-fire came, and lots of it. The troops and militiamen responded, advancing whilst firing. Not the most intelligent thing to do against a better-trained enemy, perhaps. Casualties on both sides were already rapidly piling up. A RPG-7 shot was seen, and just like that, the whole conflict escalated. The tanks then stopped, suddenly much more aware that this wasn't going to be as simple as they wished. More fire between both sides went off. RPGs from Papa Idi's men were being fired as well, though not at enemy tanks, but simply natural fighting positions and rocks to take cover at. Back in Nyondo, command heard that a new asset would soon arrive, in the form of a brand new river-boat armed with several machine-guns.

Though they could expect a armed boat to provide fire-support soon, and one that would take more than a single RPG shot to destroy, it would be half a hour before it could assist. In the meantime, there were currently several live-streams running showing the battle from both sides of the bridge, and they would certainly give military analysts like Zhang Zhaozhong plenty of material to view, and from there give guesses at what tactics both sides could be using in the battle, as well as future ones.
Yet another puppet of Western Pacific Territories, now in ANCAP meme form.

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Imperium Centralium
Posts: 253
Founded: Nov 20, 2016

Postby Imperium Centralium » Sun May 14, 2017 3:55 am

Nasralo Bridge, Omotoi
Neapolitan Pizzeria Paramilitary Forces
The Neapolitan Pizzeria, Omotoi Branch

Dozens of native and Centraline troops alike lied down under the thick, high bushes, the banks of the river were only one to two hundred meters away from them, and they were certain that they were to cross this zone as soon as possible when the time for the attack comes. The various vehicles of the Neapolitan Pizzeria's forces, unable to be concealed by the vegetation, had to stop at distances further from the bridge such that they were slightly less visible to whoever was lurking across the river. Their status as vehicles made covering the distance that separated them and the foot-soldiers relatively easy once the attack begins, but only theoretically. The troops hidden beneath the tall grass had not only assault rifles but also anti-tank rockets and light machine guns, they were certain that they could not wait for the vehicles to catch up and so came up with their own solutions to their potential absence.

The columns of infantry that were arriving noticed the buildup of a tense atmosphere, for reasons they themselves could not even weave together the words to explain, they had instinctively began to lower their torsos and eventually crouch, they sensed that it was demanded - maybe the surrounding silence suggested it to their brains activating millennia-old inherited genetic instructions, or maybe sight of their comrades in an alert position did so. Some stopped, lying down in prone position and placing their rifles before their stretched-out hands, while others continued forward, eventually forced to crawl through the thick grass-sea. They made no attempt at communication, absolute radio silence was being maintained and the only sounds heard were the ostensibly relax-inducing chirping of birds and the light, inconspicuous howls of the wind.

A vulture glided around the bridge for several laps, flapping its strong, long wings that provided continuous lift, before coming down, descending swiftly, to rest and perch on an acacia tree. Despite the velocity by which it approached the tree's branches, they did not shake at all once its claws had gripped onto the bark.

Suddenly, the howls of the wind were replaced by the screeching of artillery shells.

Blasts were first heard, then for seconds, the travel of the projectiles pierced the ears of the anxious Neapolitan troops, who were waiting for the command for them to rise up and attack. However they were informed that there was no artillery barrage on their part and the offensive will simply begin with a radio instruction. Immediately many panicked. The sounds came from the other side of the bridge. What was happening? The escalation of thoughts occurred quicker than one would expect, after all many underestimate the human brain's processing capabilities. Several soldiers stood up to find out more about this peculiarity.

Then, a rapid sequence of explosions shook the earth. Orange fireballs, in their red coats, had materialized following a most certainly fiery and extreme chemical reaction concerning significant quantities of Composition B. Shrapnel was then flung in all directions from the centre of the detonation vigorously, packing heavy amounts of kinetic energy allowing the pieces of metal to cut through clothing and flesh.

A series of the explosions had unleashed thunder upon the area the Neapolitan troops were hidden in, and accompanying this roaring percussion of war was the equally grand sound of chunks of earth being removed from the ground, raining dirt upon surroundings. The bombardment was grand, dozens of shells falling upon the opposite bank of the river every minute. However, it was indeed very fortunate for the volunteer anti-terrorist forces and the Centraline troops to have positioned themselves at a distance from the bridge itself, as initially most of the shells fell in the 'vacuum zone', inflicting no casualties but perhaps many instances of wild grass as well as pieces of asphalt on the broad road. The troops however realized that they could be hit very soon as the thunders grew louder and louder for those who did not dare to peek up, and many emerged from their covers, retreating from the wraths of the Papa Idi's artillery. The vehicles had also immediately started up as soon as their drivers realized they were not dead and/or a burnt, roasted cadaver yet, backing off dozens of metres, not even bothering to turn backwards, because after all they were to launch a counter-attack.

"Well this is a very pleasant clashing of schedules indeed!" yelled a Centraline, while running away from the shells that kept falling from the sky. He lost his footing and fell to the ground, smearing his face full with brown soil. He heard an explosion from behind, and his nerve endings virtually combusted, and instantly all moments that left a mark on his life came before his eyes. Including that time when he raped his college girlfriend with a pineapple and was then forced to join the military to avoid the social repercussions from such a Satanic act. For a while all that filled his ears was a strange ringing, the cursing of his comrades and the blasts of the artillery drowned out. The horrors temporarily terminated.

He opened his eyes again. Nope, not Pineapple Hell, nor Pizza Heaven. Still the tall grass. He was alive. He wondered how he didn't feel any shrapnel running through his body if he was actually killed, but oh well, it's best to cherish the fact that he wasn't dead from a surprising instance of Papa Idi's tactical competence. He got up and rejoined the retreat.

While the barrage was nowhere near the level seen elsewhere in proper confrontations between capably armed belligerents, it had unleashed carnage amongst the ranks of the Patriotic Self-Defense Units troops as well as the Neapolitan paramilitary forces, possession of 4 howitzers and continuous bombardment using them for minutes was indeed impressive considering what resources Papa Idi's had worked with. The arrogance of the Centralines had turned on them and now the troops they had trained themselves were scattering like rats. Then many realized the shelling stopped. They started to calm down and began to consider whether to charge into battle. And once they looked over the horizon, the soldiers saw that the Papa Idi's forces were crossing the bridge. Their convoys formed a line of grey in the distance, contrasting starkly with the background, and were visibly approaching closer, it would only be a matter of time until even the humming and growling of the engines of the trucks and museum tanks would be audible. They already lost the bridge. If they were to overturn this potential embarrassing defeat of a battle then they must act now.

Without hesitation, hundreds had charged back, sprinting to the positions they had abandoned minutes prior. A Centraline officer raised his pistol, fired it into the air, and roared, "For your homes and families, men of Omotoi! The fangs of Papa Idi's display themselves before us, and we must not falter in beating them out of this beast!" Many of the local troops gave out their battle cries, and like how their ancestors had fought against Bsruo warriors in defence of their homes, they advanced fearlessly, using radio they swiftly coordinated a defence utilizing the height of the local grass and whatever weapons they had. Machine-gunners and automatic riflemen jumped onto the pickup trucks and their vehicles swiftly set off while they rested their gun barrels on the sides of the rear compartments, eyes closely aligned with the sights and at their approaching foe.

As the Papa Idi's troops advanced forward, PSDU soldiers rose up from the bushes and opened fire at them, dispensing 7.62mm cartridges at the enemy with muzzle velocities of hundreds of metres per second. They attacked in sychrony, from many directions, at the foes organized in columns, such that the enemy did not know where to fire at in return. Similarly, operators of RPGs attacked suddenly and many of them fired their weapons simultaneously from several directions. The rocket boosted to a speed such that it left its barrel almost instantaneously before further accelerating to a maximum of 300 m/s, speeding towards the armor of the lead PT-76 light tanks, and leaving behind a quickly dissipating thin trail of smoke on its trajectory as well as a whoosh sound recorded in the ears of the Neapolitan troops as the success of a punch against their foes and the Papa Idi's forces as the horror of the pride of their unit being destroyed. The Papa Idi's soldiers returned with equally fierce volleys of assault rifle fire, empty bullet casings ejected from their rifles and raining onto the ground beneath them.

Without knowing the two belligerents were fighting at a surprisingly close range. The Neapolitan troops had inflicted casualties on their foes, as many of the Papa Idi's troops were hit by the cruel burst-fire from the Kalashnikov-family rifles, their bodies went limp as they fell on the sloped sides of the armoured vehicles they fought at the sides of, while smoke had risen from an immobilized tank as well. However, many of the Neapolitan troops were killed or injured too, their deaths never realized until terrified Papa Idi's militants had accidentally stepped on the cadaver of one unfortunate man. But bullets continued emerging from the grass, cutting through air and into flesh, puncturing organs and tearing through bones, while more and more armed men fell to the ground in violent thumps while their comrades were forced to advance forward stepping on these lifeless bodies. PSDU machine-gunners suddenly opened fire, spraying the Papa Idi's troops with high-velocity rounds dispensed rapidly, and some others threw grenades at the enemies hiding behind tanks. One of these courageous men was hit by machine gun fire from the PT-76 and he fell to the ground with multiple bullets lodged in his chest.

A Centraline soldier armed with an assault rifle with an underslung grenade launcher found himself in a very awkward situation, for a Papa Idi's T-55 was rolling towards him. He hid in the bushes, and attempted to find the gap between the tracks, to sneak between them so that he would not be crushed. He was confident that he would survive such an encounter, and indeed, God bless him, he was able to position himself between the route the tracks of the enemy tank would take, arms stretched out forward and legs backward while the body overall was in prone position. The cranking of the tank's engines grew louder and louder, and soon a shadow was cast upon his sight, the tank was above him, and indeed by God he was not dead. A wave of heat bombarded him since the bottom of the hull was only centimetres from him. He was relieved when he saw sunlight again and the tank was now behind him. He stood up, placed a finger on the rifle grenade launcher, and aimed it at the tank, before pulling the trigger and hurling a 40mm grenade at the rear hull of the enemy vehicle. He quickly collapsed back down while observing for any enemies coming his direction.

Despite their valiant efforts at blunting the enemy assault, the Neapolitan troops at the front were soon depleted significantly such that whatever was left of them had to retreat. Many were killed by ruthless gunfire of their enemy, or RPGs fired at their positions, that gorily embedded their bodies with showers of shrapnel severing key blood vessels or disabling their vital organs. The second line of defense engaged the enemy columns from a further distance, attacking them with suppressive light machine gun fire and well-placed RPG-shots aimed at enemy armor. The PT-76 and the T-55s, as they were more advanced compared to the laughable (though still not dismissible) WW2-era tanks behind them, attracted most of the rockets that the Neapolitan troops had.

But the Papa Idi's forces had something more serious to worry about. Speeding towards their swamped columns were several trucks, some of them with improvised armor on, which reminded spectators of the Tropoljean War. Soldiers fired their machine guns from the trucks at the Papa Idi's foot-soldiers while others tossed grenades at the enemy armor. Of particular highlight was that 2 of the trucks had 9M14 Malyutka anti-tank guided missiles mounted. While those were the improved versions that utilized SACLOS and were easy to control, using them on a vehicle moving at a high speed while coming under threat of enemy armor still required skill and bravery. The missiles took off from their launchers and soared towards the T-55s, ready to deliver destruction to the Papa Idi's bandits and their so-called armoured brigade. But these assets were valuable, and the vehicles had to turn around and retreat quickly as soon as a hit was scored. The other vehicles did the same. This was part of so-called 'Keshik tactics' and the vehicles all maintained a distance of at least 300m to ensure their own safety as well as the ability to strike at hostiles effectively.

It was however very concerning that the Neapolitan forces were severely under-armored for this battle. It bewondered and amazed many that the Intelligence and Security Directorate was unable to gather information on the enemy equipment composition. No, it amazed many that they could not even find out that Papa Idi's was attacking today. But there was little to complain about, and the machine gunners returned to dispensing their dragons of lead at the bandits with unwavering courage and vigor.
Insert quote by some pretentious 19th century philosopher here



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