Failure. Loss. Defeat. Cowardice. Betrayal.
The road to glory is long and twisted. It doubles back on itself and no one is immune to confusion. Even bitter vets get lost and must start over.
On the decks of our elite Stratios cruisers, buckled and burned by countless battles, we former Captains of the Dutch Rudder Company sail the unspeakable madness of wormhole space. With fair solar winds at our backs and smooth waters ahead we plundered the tight holes of carebears and failtards in the systems connected directly to the regions of known space.
Within weeks we had amassed a fortune from looting officer-fit Caracals and PLEX-encrusted tears. It was time to make for port and squander our bountiful wealth on male strippers and unnecessarily expensive battleship hulls with fancy paint jobs.
Erotic, depraved hedonism cannot last forever and we soon took back to the uncharted stars, this time in support of those we believed to be friends.
We found the corporation known as Jaded to be a veritable sea of anus-chafing faggotry. Ceaseless chattering filled with "rekt", "gucci", "kek", "gibblefart" and "suckadickbro" reverberated throughout their home C5, Stargasm, in childlike voices that would be impossible for me to replicate - to attempt it would require filling my mouth with an inordinate amount of semen!
Despite their incoherent ramblings and endless debates about everything from ship fittings to how many more penises one of them could stuff into his butt we decided to stay and attempt a rescue operation.
When their active leadership was berated by an absentee CEO we came to his defense and helped him take the helm of the corporation in name as well as in fact. Ruinous comms discipline was reigned in to a mere retarded comms discipline. Catastrophic Sleeper escalations that would've otherwise resulted in the deaths of entire gangs of caps were salvaged so that only minimal losses were incurred.
Jaded's gratitude for our efforts of leadership and content generation was expressed in the revocation of our roles and banishment from their precious festival of failure.
Left to our own devices once again, the Captains of the Dutch Rudder Company hoist our space-anchors and set sail with cargo holds full of wildly inappropriate ammunition and a dick-flourish flag flapping proudly atop our jackstaffs.
Keep out a weather eye, space friends. Soon enough you may see us coming over the horizon.
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