A mechanical whirring filled the room. It wasn’t an alien. It was the "Cat," a furry titan the size of a skyscraper, prowling the perimeter. The Cat sniffed a Bazooka Joe on the front lines. With one disinterested flick of a massive paw, Joe was sent tumbling into the dark abyss under the sofa.
Huge fingers descended from the heavens. The Boy scooped up the remote, but in his haste, he knocked the Alien Commander and General Grunt together. For a brief moment, they were jammed into the Boy's pocket, shoulder to molded shoulder. toy-soldiers-complete
The battle for the living room floor began at 0300 hours under the shadow of the mahogany coffee table. General Ulysses S. Grunt, a three-inch plastic soldier cast in a permanent mid-stride sprint, stared across the vast expanse of the beige shag carpet. To a human, it was a rug. To the 1st Plastic Infantry, it was the High Grass of the Forbidden Zone. A mechanical whirring filled the room
The infantry moved with stiff-legged precision. They used marbles as cover and a discarded sock as a trench. As they reached the base of the Ottoman Cliffs, the Galactic Raiders opened fire—at least, they would have, if their spring-loaded missiles hadn't been lost behind the radiator years ago. Instead, they relied on their terrifying presence and the fact that they glowed in the dark. “Charge!” Grunt signaled. The Cat sniffed a Bazooka Joe on the front lines
The toy soldiers scrambled up the velvet slope. It was a chaotic blur of green and purple. Just as Grunt reached the summit, fingers closed around the TV remote, his plastic boots slipping on the leather surface. He looked up into the bulbous, unblinking eyes of the Alien Commander.
The enemy was formidable: the Galactic Raiders, a ragtag group of neon-purple aliens with oversized heads and translucent blasters. They held the strategic high ground of the Ottoman Cliffs.
A mechanical whirring filled the room. It wasn’t an alien. It was the "Cat," a furry titan the size of a skyscraper, prowling the perimeter. The Cat sniffed a Bazooka Joe on the front lines. With one disinterested flick of a massive paw, Joe was sent tumbling into the dark abyss under the sofa.
Huge fingers descended from the heavens. The Boy scooped up the remote, but in his haste, he knocked the Alien Commander and General Grunt together. For a brief moment, they were jammed into the Boy's pocket, shoulder to molded shoulder.
The battle for the living room floor began at 0300 hours under the shadow of the mahogany coffee table. General Ulysses S. Grunt, a three-inch plastic soldier cast in a permanent mid-stride sprint, stared across the vast expanse of the beige shag carpet. To a human, it was a rug. To the 1st Plastic Infantry, it was the High Grass of the Forbidden Zone.
The infantry moved with stiff-legged precision. They used marbles as cover and a discarded sock as a trench. As they reached the base of the Ottoman Cliffs, the Galactic Raiders opened fire—at least, they would have, if their spring-loaded missiles hadn't been lost behind the radiator years ago. Instead, they relied on their terrifying presence and the fact that they glowed in the dark. “Charge!” Grunt signaled.
The toy soldiers scrambled up the velvet slope. It was a chaotic blur of green and purple. Just as Grunt reached the summit, fingers closed around the TV remote, his plastic boots slipping on the leather surface. He looked up into the bulbous, unblinking eyes of the Alien Commander.
The enemy was formidable: the Galactic Raiders, a ragtag group of neon-purple aliens with oversized heads and translucent blasters. They held the strategic high ground of the Ottoman Cliffs.
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