Dozens of large transport planes dropped more than 500 Eight-Legged Robots and a large number of ammunition crates to the ground.
The Eight-Legged Robots curled up in midair, their eight limbs protecting their car-sized bodies.
Even with parachutes on their backs, they still slammed into the ground, leaving crater after crater.
A few even bounced a couple of times, making horrible metallic crunching sounds.
Alvin spread his hands at Ivan, who stood in front of him. "What the hell is wrong with your brain? I'm eating breakfast...
What happens if these things get smashed?"
Ivan took off his helmet and shook out his greasy long hair.
He pulled a flask from an opening that had popped out of the Mech Armor's waist, showed it to Alvin, then took a long swig...
Alvin followed Ivan's gaze as he sized up the Stark camp. He shook his head with a wry laugh. "Why don't you two get married? You'd make one of those old married couples who spend their days just like you do..."
Then Alvin glanced back at Stark, who was charging over with his men, and pointed at the Vodka in Ivan's hand. "A middle-aged alcoholic..."
Then he pointed at the furious Stark. "A bad-tempered, crazy old wife with a beard..."
As Alvin spoke, Stark flew over and charged at Ivan.
Chest to chest, he tilted his head back and glared at Ivan, spewing a rapid string of curses. "Are you out of your fucking mind? You stupid, rude Russian imbecile...
"You've got five minutes to get this damn junk off my turf, or I'll send the whole pile of scrap back to the smelter."
Ivan took another swig of Vodka.
He looked down at the furious Stark, bared his teeth in a sneer, and said, "Go ahead and try..."