Yer fond of me simple meals, ain't ye? I seen it! You're fond of me simple meals! Say it. Say it!

I don't have to say nothing.

Damn ye! Damn ye, Gleb!

Let Tynan strike ye dead, Gleb!

HARK, RANDY, HARK!

Bellow, bid our father, the stellarch, rise from the Rim full foul in his fury, black legions teeming with cataphract armor, to smother this young mouth with firefoam, to choke ye, engorging your nuclear stomach with insect jelly until ye can scream no more. Only when he, crowned in eltex, with gripping bionic legs and blinking gunlink take up his fell archotech arm, his persona monosword screeches banshee-like in the toxic fallout and PLUNGES right through yer gullet. Bursting ye! A bulging bladder no more, but a blasted, bloody film now a nothing for the Mechanoids and souls of dead outlanders to peck, and claw and feed upon, only to be lapped up and swallowed by the infinite jannisaries of the stellarch himself. Forgotten to any man, to any time, forgotten to any god or devil. Forgotten, even to the Rim, for any stuff or part of Gleb, even any scantling of your soul, is Gleb no more. But is now itself the Rim.

Alright, have it your way. I like your simple meal.