Everyone knows the story of Doom: a lone marine saves the world from the legions of Hell, kicking ass all the way back to Earth. But who among us can say they know what really happened up there at the UAC facility? Today, the Doom Marine is here to recount his grisly tale as only he can.
I was stationed on Mars for six weeks before all Hell literally broke loose. Yes, I’m using the word appropriately: Hell had literally gotten loose and was making a terrible mess of everything. They’re still trying to clean up the labs on Phobos, and have you ever tried getting Hell stains out of Kevlar?
I don’t know what the UAC scientists were initially working on up there—probably some sort of pill to make old guys grow hair out of their boners or something—, but they managed to stumble upon teleportation technology instead. Now, if I had suddenly discovered a portal between Mars’ two moons, you can sure bet I wouldn’t go dicking around with it. I like to keep my molecules where I can see them, and I don’t need to come out the other side with my head on backward or six asses or something.
But those scientists just love to dick around. They probably thought the teleporters would give them some kind of super-boners. What is it with scientists and boners, anyway? They’re all trying to make your grandpa harder than a walrus so that he can continue to have wrinkled sex with your grandmother. There’s a reason why men go limp when they get old: that shit is gross.
Anyway, we got the call from Phobos that demons from Hell had started coming out of the portals, and of course we thought they were kidding. They were probably just getting us back after we used the company laser to etch "Phobos is for Homos" in giant letters on Mars’ surface. That one was Kevin’s idea. Frickin’ genius.
We realized they weren’t kidding around when we saw a guy over the video feed getting raped and eaten—at the same time—by a shaved gorilla with horns. Yeah, I guess Hell really was running amok up there. Meanwhile, Mars’ other moon, Deimos, just up and vanished. Explain that, you goddamn science bastards.
When we got to the Phobos lab, I was told to stay behind and "guard the hangar." As if anything was going to happen there. I knew they were still peeved about Scrabble night: I just play the letters I’m given, you know? I got the last laugh, though, since they were all torn apart by Hell spawn. But that also meant that I had to be the one to go in and save the day. Triple-word scores can be both a blessing and a curse sometimes.
Now, I want to say to whoever designed that place, what the Hell man? Why do you need so many hidden rooms and switches in a goddamn laboratory? Come to think of it, why the hell would you need shotguns and rocket launchers for that matter? Not that I’m complaining about that last part, but the place was an architectural nightmare. Honest to God, I needed to find a red key to open a gate in order to flick a switch that opened a passage in another room. How is that effective design? It’s worse than putting a vertical bar on a door that says "push"!
I just can’t get over how shitty this place was designed. Compared to elevators that only drop when you stand thirty feet away from them, and then having to sprint to catch them before they leave, killing demons is a piece of cake. I would rather face one of those 20-foot ass-holes with goat legs and rocket launchers for arms than have to solve another goddamn switch puzzle.
Actually, it almost seemed like the monsters were having as much trouble getting through that place as I was. I unlocked one room using a red skull (no kidding) and found a shit-ton of the bastards just standing there totally bewildered. I swear, we could have just left them in that lab and they never would have found their way out. Problem solved, universe saved.
The things weren’t really that smart, so I don’t know what the big deal was. After I had opened that last door, one of them started screaming and hurled a ball of green fire at me. That missed and hit another guy, who turned around and started throwing his own shit back at the first guy. Then another one was hit in the crossfire and soon enough they were all tearing each other apart. Eventually, one of the dumber ones accidentally hit the 20-foot-goat-legged-motherfucker in the back, so then he started firing off rockets at everything in the room. I slowly backed out the door and let it close in front of me, then when I came back later I saw that only one of the bastards was left. He was standing around, staring blankly as if he had no idea as to the shit storm that had just gone down. So I pulled out the chainsaw I had found earlier—another invaluable tool used for science, no doubt—and made a meaty little puddle out of him.
That was what I enjoyed the most about my time on Phobos. The therapist that I’m required to see says that I have "serious, deep-rooted psychological issues stemming from my childhood." I don’t know about that, but I do love turning demons into mangled heaps of dead flesh. Or watching them explode. Or melt. Or get ripped apart by my chainsaw’s blades. I like to think of it as art: my shotgun is the brush and the walls are my canvas. Blood is paint, obviously, and little chunks of flesh are like glitter. I probably won’t be able to sell it any old people at a craft fair, though, since all they want to do is get boners and screw.
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