The generals stood on a grey timber platform to review the armies which had mustered for three days in the shade of the high, dark outer walls. The steampunks clanked and hissed, the copper and brass of their long frock-coats shining through wreathes of oily vapour. Behind them came the cyberpunks in black denim with shirts bearing strange ideograms and images of Eastern deities. The legopunks, blank-eyed child soldiers with coloured bricks to strew beneath the tender soles of their enemies’ feet.
Last of all came the punkpunks. Their tin badges tinkled and their t-shirts wrinkled as they sneered and gobbed at the onlookers.
I really hate the punkpunks, reflected General Smail.