Before Christmas I ran our annual seasonal game down in the club. Simply Gaslands with a 40k theme!
Ciarán, Aaron, Justin and Andy were the willing (at least at the start) participants. Much mayhem ensued! Big thanks to Justin for providing the refreshments. Here are the photos of the evening followed by a literary travesty… you’ve been warned!
’Twas the night before Squigmas, when all through the zone,
Not a piston was quiet, not a gearbox alone.
The track dust hung heavy in the cold wasteland air,
For a Squigmas Eve showdown was roaring somewhere.
The Jackals were ready, revving engines with care,
In hopes that the Patriarch soon would be there.
With helmets all dented and goggles askew,
Their bikes snarled and chattered—a hungry brood crew.
But high in the distance, with a choppa-blade whirr,
Came Orky contraptions in a ramshackle blur.
Deffkoptas descended like a storm made of scrap,
Their rotors all belching out smoke, oil, and krak.
The starter-servitor coughed, spat a spark, barked “BEGIN!”
And the race blasted forward in a riotous din.
Jackal quads fishtailed as they surged off the line,
While the Deffkoptas showered them with grot-fired brine.
The first checkpoint shimmered with a chem-flare glow,
As dust clouds behind them began to billow and grow.
A Jackal threw a demo charge—pure cultist delight—
Only for Ork plates to clang, “HA! Dat barely a bite!”
Then a kopta dove low with a whooping “WAAAGH!”
But clipped a wrecked hab-block and spun in the fog.
It pinwheeled past Jackals who jeered in its wake,
Their wheels screeching sideways on a rust-ribboned lake.
Through sludge pits and barricades the racers did tear,
With debris flying wild through the cold winter air.
An Atalan rider, both fearless and rash,
Boosted forward too hard—ending up in a crash.
The Orks roared with laughter, but the joy didn’t last,
For a cultist ambusher hurled from the blast.
She landed astride them, planting bombs with a grin,
And the kopta behind her erupted in sin.
Checkpoint by checkpoint the carnage unfurled,
Like a Squigmas-tree light show for a grim, broken world.
Engines ran hotter, rivals wilder and meaner,
Gaslands-style chaos—no rulebook was cleaner.
At last came the finish, a crooked steel mast,
With a banner that fluttered in the irradiated blast.
Both teams bore down on it, victory close—
Deffkoptas above, Jackals biting their toes.
With a thunderous roar and a hair-trigger flick,
A Jackal hit nitro—it all happened quick.
The bike leapt like a squig that’d been kicked in the rump—
Right as an Ork fired rockets to give them a bump.
The blast spun them both in a spiralling flame,
And no one could say who first ended the game.
But the wreckage slid over the line in a heap—
A tangled-up mess of Orky metal and cultist creep.
And so Squigmas was settled, in suitably style:
With explosions, bad driving, and scrap piling in piles.
For the moral, dear listener, of this wasteland night:
On Squigmas, everyone wins—
when everyone fights.
Merry Squigmas,
Owen