Monday, 30 March 2015

Saga III Chapter II - British Blues

The scene opens up in ReLoaded. Outside, Beale and Walker Street have emptied, with not even a tumbleweed rolling across the streets. All that is left is ominous silence and a feeling of uneasiness. This is a result of most of the mercenaries having been given vacation time from Lynch, allowing the Academy to begin cleaning up the streets and prepare for the inevitable onslaught of the PMC's and the Beauty and the Beast Unit. All that remains is ReLoaded and the black vans of the Irish Republican Army PMC, parked directly outside the Lamb and Flag.

Behind the glass counter of ReLoaded is Tavi, wearing a ragged white t-shirt and jeans, indicating that she plans to stay even with the absence of most mercenaries. In contrast, the dusty bell tied to the door rings as Phil walks in, with a large canvas rucksack on his back and wearing jeans, boots and a black military jacket. Phil slowly shuts the door behind him, walking up to the counter as Tavi looks up, unable to flash even the smallest of smiles.

Tavi [Quietly]: Hey.

Phil: 'Ey up, lass.

Tavi: Where are you going?

Phil: Got an idea for a wee little business. Going to give it a shot.

Tavi: ....Well, good luck.

Phil: Cheers.

Phil simply taps his fingers against the counter. Tavi scratches her forearm, looking at the floor.

Tavi: ...Why are you here?

Phil: Can I give you my Colt for safekeeping? Don't want to go through airport customs with it or i'll get dogpiled by twenty PMC soldiers.

Tavi [Chuckling, nodding]: Go on.

Phil reaches into the rear waistband of his jeans, pulling out his silver plated Colt M1911 and placing it on the counter.

Tavi [Cautiously]: What if that discharged right then?

Phil: I wouldn't be sitting down for a good while.

Tavi [Tutting]: You need to take care of your guns better..

Phil [Shrugging]: I try, it's just that all the gangsters do it, don't they? Stuff guns down their pants? Plus it makes for good 'Is that a gun you've got there?' jokes.

Tavi [Blankly]: Only if you stuff it down the front of your pants.

Phil: Well, i'm not THAT stupid at least.

Tavi chuckles, shaking her head. A small silence falls over both of them that turns somewhat uneasy.

Tavi: So--

Phil reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out the white rose and laying it on the counter. Tavi's eyes flicker up and she freezes somewhat when she sees the rose.

Phil [After a short moments silence]: ......Stephen..........told give you it.

Tavi: ...O-Oh....I see...

Tavi steps forward, taking the rose and running her hands across the petals.

Tavi: .....They're my favourite.....

Phil: Yep.

Tavi [Coldly]: I never said anything like that to him.

Phil: I told him. Well, see you.

Phil whistles to himself, spinning around on his heels and walking towards the door. Tavi grasps the counter and leaps over it, twisting him around and shoving him into the door.

Tavi [Quietly, looking into his eyes]: ...What the fuck are you playing at?...

Phil: Hey, i'm a courier, don't kill the mess--

Tavi: ....You......are such a fucking weirdo...This wasn't Stephen....

Phil: It was.

Tavi: ....Do you think we could try again?...

Phil [Gravely]: I did that once with a lass. "Tried again" three different times. The only thing I knew at the end of it was that I really didn't love her. I loved you. I don't want that again. I don't want to scrape the surface further. Unlike that other person, I'm interested in seeing you happy. Stephen will give you that.

Tavi leans up, kissing him softly on the lips, lingering for a few seconds before pulling back.

Tavi [Quietly]: Don't ever fucking assume that you know what will make me happy.

Phil: A Strawberry Daiquri with a tablespoon of sugar.

Tavi sighs darkly, resting her forehead against his chest.

Tavi: As long as Stephen knows what I like...

Phil: Yeah.

Tavi sighs, patting his chest before stepping backwards, her shoulders slumping somewhat.

Tavi: Good luck..

Phil [Calmly]: Don't worry about me. Take care of yourself. And good luck with.....whatever you're doing.

Phil twists around and walks over to the door, opening it as Tavi steps backwards. She opens her mouth to say something, but stops suddenly.

Tavi [After some hesitation]: ....Stay safe.

Phil: Will do. You too.

Phil shuts the door behind him. Tavi sighs, folding her arms.

Tavi [Quietly]: So fucking confusing...

Footsteps echo down the stairway in the small alcove to the right of and behind the counter. Tavi turns around, watching as Mother descends from the stairs, walking to the counter.

Mother: Are you alright, dear?

Tavi: ...Yeah.

Mother [Calmly]: They won't be back for roughly a month.

Tavi [Quietly]: There's always Stephen..

Mother: Indeed. Which reminds me of which, Tavi: It's time that we talked.

Tavi looks over her shoulder, watching Mother nervously. Mother simply flashes a warm smile as Tavi walks behind the counter, the scene fading to black.





The scene opens up in a sprawling, dew-riddled field. In the early March morning, the weather is bitter and though the sun is shining on the grass, a distinct chill is in the air. Surrounded by dense woodland, with only a lone gravel path cutting through it, the opening hosts a skeletal brick mansion: The arch windows are rotting, hanging off of the windows, the stonework stained from water and the grand, angular roof now missing various tiles. The windows have been stained with years of dirt, making them impossible to see through, whilst three stone steps lead up to a single arched door in the middle of the mansion.

Sal Memeh-Porpington, the resident blueblood of the mercenaries, walks forward up the gravel path, looking down at a map. He stops as soon as he stops into the shadow of the mansion, folds his map and looks up at it.

Sal: Huh, so this is the old family home.

Sal remains silent, scratching his rear.

Sal [Unimpressed]: It's got fucking rot.

Sal's eyes dart around the grounds before flicking up to the mansion. hesitantly, he takes a step forward, stopping as if he expects the mansion to collapse suddenly. He's stopped by the roar of an engine, interspersed with squeaking wheels. Sal looks to his left: Driving in front of him is a white Ford Transit van, the wheels dusty and dirty as if they have been in use for many months. Hooked to the rear of the van is a wooden food cart, the serving window lowered and holding two metal cups: One filled with plastic spoons and the other filled with sticks of caster sugar. The van grinds to a halt as Sal looks up: In the serving window, standing in front of several wooden shelves filled with nothing but boxes and catering-sized bags of Yorkshire Tea, is Phil.


Sal looks up, reading the sign: In painted red blocky letters is "BREW ON THE MO'E", with a logo of a white cup with Phil's grinning face poorly superimposed onto it, to its right. Sal walks over to the cart and Phil leans out of the serving window, looking down at Sal and dusting off a blue and white striped apron.

Sal: This is unique, peasant.

Phil [Nodding]: "Brew On The Mo'e!"

Sal: Brew On The Move?

Phil: No, 'Mo'e'.

Sal: What is it?

Phil [Holding out his arms]: TEA!....That's it, I just sell tea, but it's only fifty pence! For a cuppa! I must be mad!

Sal [Calmly]: You ARE mad.

Phil [Shrugging]: Yeah, yeah, that's why i'm selling bourbons for five pence each--ANYWAY, Sal, cup of tea? It's made fresh!

Sal: And why should I buy something from you?

Phil: Because we're partners in crime. [Leaning in]: That and I can blackmail you with those photos of you and that goat.

Sal glares at Phil.

Sal [Sighing]: ...Earl Grey, then.

Phil sucks in air through his teeth, tutting.

Phil: Sorry, we only have Yorkshire Tea. That Southern pansy shit don't fly with real men.

Sal: Uh, Phil, this is the South of England.

Phil: I was wondering why people were trying to stab me!

Sal: Seriously, though? You have a tea...cart that only sells Yorkshire Tea?!

Phil: Yep.

Sal [Coldly]: Keep moving, bub.

Phil [Scoffing]: Fine, guess i'll take a REAL MAN'S TEA and go elsewhere! [Leaning out of the serving window]: WINSTON, BORN OF WINSTON'S, DRIVE US AWAY!!!

Sal turns his head, looking into the white van: A red and white bulldog suddenly appears in the driver's seat, panting loudly as it raises its forepaws and places them on the wheel. Somehow, the van begins driving forward as Phil points at Sal.


Sal [Angrily]: I WAS DRUNK!!!


The van drives off into the woodlands, disappearing as soon as it appeared, leaving Sal alone and in the shadow of the mansion once again. He sighs, scratching his rear.

Sal: Man, this place smells funny. But, this is where my family lived before they died or disappeared in mysterious boating-related accidents.

Sal looks up, turning his head to the right and glancing at a ground floor window. From behind the dirt, Sal can make out a bare flicker of light. Sal's eyes narrow as he rolls up his sleeves.

Sal: Filthy fucking vagrants squatting in my home? SOMEBODY'S HANKERING FOR SPANKERING!!!

Sal storms up the steps and shoves the door open, slamming it shut behind him..


Situated between Avoch and Inverness is a roughly triangular inlet of water, snuggled between the rough crags and hills of the Highlands of Scotland. This inlet, known as the Moray Firth, attracts a lot of tourists looking to catch a seat of the seals, dolphins and whales who occasionally wander in from the North Sea. Aside from this, the area also attracts a lot of fishermen, particularly from towns such as Avoch where livings are made from the fishing industry.

Sailing lazily across the Moray Firth is a small rowing boat, in which is sat Billy, busy skewering maggots onto hooks. In the middle of the rowing boat, two oars in hand, is a large, heavy-set man. With an appearance similar to a well-fed bull mastiff, complete with sunken eyes and wrinkled jowls, with a mop of salt-and-pepper hair on his head complimented by a rough covering of stubble across his jaw, is the man known as James Wallace: Billy's father.

Billy [Grumbling]: Feckin' cold out here.

James [Calmly]: Aye, of course it is, it ain't yeh feckin' desert.

Billy: I liked the desert..

James: Well, yeh ain't there anymore!

Billy [Quietly]: This place smells o' piss--

James [Impatiently]: Son, what the feck are yeh whinin' about?

Billy; I don't like being sat here with nothin' to kill!

James: Son, fishing is the life for us Wallace men!

Billy: But what about that guy we're related to? Y'know, William?

James [Darkly]: We aren't related to William Wallace.


James [Angrily]: Well, i'm sorry that we ain't got any guns, but Avoch is for fishers and fishing is where we go! Now shut up AND BAIT THOSE FECKIN' HOOKS!!

Billy: You couldn't do anything better?!

James [Bluntly]: I was in the military once. It sucked.

Billy: Military don't suck.

James: Son, I hear yeh jaw flappin', but I don't see yeh BAITIN' HOOKS!!!

Billy slams down a small plastic tub, filled with hooks skewering writhing maggots. James takes one, attaching it to his fishing line. James pulls the oars into the boat and grasps his fishing rod, twisting to the right and flicking his fishing rod, sending the line into the depths of the Firth.

Billy: What now?

James: We wait tae see what bites.

Billy stands up, cupping his hands over his eyes and looking ahead: A small sandbank , a rough, hump-like shape on the horizon, is dotted with several shapes.

Billy [Quietly]: What's that?

James [Looking up]: Seals. Lazy cunts.

Billy: What? Navy SEAL--

James [Scoffing]: No, yeh dumb--For fecks sake, seals as in the animal! Those stupid, lazy fat fucking things are popular with other lazy fat fucking things or, as we call 'em, American tourists.

Billy: That's not nice, I fight for the Yanks.

James: No, yeh fight WITH the Yanks. And it breaks my heart.

Billy: Why?

James [Grumbling]: Hate the Yanks.

Billy [Shrugging]: I do too but, eh, they pay well.

James: And where does all the money go?

Billy: Booze, guns, food, Sal's rent and pussy.

James: Yeh pay Sal rent?!

Billy: Hey, I like living in the stupid-ass mansion he built!

James [Grumbling]: Could give yeh old man some money..

Billy: But yeh like fishing!

James [Shrugging]: I don't mind fishing. I'd rather have money. Proper money.

Billy: Not my fault yeh never got a proper job.

James: Shut up or i'll fuckin' dump yeh overboard.

Billy sits down on the middle seat as his father continues to fish. After a few moments of silence, Billy turns his head to the left, watching as a dolphin leaps out of the water in the distance.

Billy: It's a nice place.

James [Grumbling]: Feckin' dolphins.

Billy: Why do you hate dolphins?

James: Cunts o' the sea! They rape and kill indiscriminately--Fuck, they even try to rape human women if they're on their periods! Dolphins are fuckin' evil and if I could, i'd hunt and gut the wee little cunts!

Billy: Go ahead, then.

James: I did. The PMC's shot at me. Something about "Just because there's a war economy, doesn't mean we cannae have a tourist economy." Fuckin' wankin' Ocelot.

Billy: I never thought yeh'd be afraid of some PMC's.

James: I'm not, I just don't like gettin' shot.

The sound of a motor cuts through the relative quiet as a large, black-painted patrol boat begins to roll across the waves to their right.

James: Shite, PMC patrol, act inconspicuous.

Billy sits back on the seat, grasping a fishing hat and pulling it on as the boat sails lazily past. James gets to his feet, pulling down his jeans and boxers in one fell swoop and holding up his arms.


Billy [Glancing over before staring]: DAD, WHAT THE FECKIN--

James [Cackling]: ASSERT DOMINANCE, LAD!!!

As the PMC patrol boat passes by, Billy listens carefully as two PMC's, both of whom are manning a mounted machine gun on the rear of the ship, looking over.

First PMC Mercenary [Unimpressed]: It's fuckin' Wallace.

Second PMC Mercenary  [Shaking his head]: Gotta stop whippin' his cock out, that fella.

First PMC Mercenary [Glancing at the second PMC Mercenary]: Maybe he fancies us and that's why he always does it.

First PMC Mercenary: Aye, cause there's gotta be a better way to assert dominance.

PMC Mercenary Voice from Patrol Boat Loudspeakers: JAMES WALLACE, PLEASE ZIP UP YOUR PANTS.

James [Laughing]: NEVER!!!

Billy [Sighing and grasping both oars]: Right, fuck this, we're outta here. How many times have you done this?

James: About twenty ti--

Billy [Starting to row]: Right, we're outta here.

First PMC Mercenary [Looking away]: He's fucking helicoptering now!

Second PMC Mercenary: The man has issues.

Billy begins to row up the Moray Firth as the Patrol Boat thankfully passes them.


The scene in Whitby is awe-inspiring, the sun blazing down as this quaint seaside town in the North of England bustles with life. Pedestrians cross the road and swamp the sidewalks. A large, gnarled cliff stands in the distance with the skeletal remains of Whitby Abbey standing resolute atop of them. Iron railings guard the pier from the deep waters, and a few brick pagodas are dotted at the end of the pier, where the pier meets one of the key streets of the town, dotted with arcades and shops selling whimsical trinkets.

Leaning against one of the railings on right-hand side of the pier, facing the Abbey, are Jericho and Emilie. Though Jericho is still clad in his suit and brown camelskin trenchcoat, Emilie is clad in a solid black dress, complete with a billowing lace skirt that obscures her feet. The sight isn't unusual, given Whitby's gothic reputation and it's status as host of one of Europe's largest goth festivals.

Emilie: Such a beautiful place.

Jericho: I get this odd feeling of being followed, though.

Behind Emilie and Jericho, The "Brew On The Mo'e" cart suddenly appears on the bend on of the road, with Phil's grinning face in the serving window, slowly squeaking past behind them.

Emilie: Was a holiday destination when the railway was first built. The freshest seafood and most beautiful views.

Jericho [Smirking]: Aye, it's beautiful.

Emilie: I'm not sure about the smell.

Emilie takes a deep smell of the air, her nose wrinkling slightly. Jericho takes a deep breath, his head snapping upwards.

Jericho: fish mixed with wet dog. With a touch of whiskey. And tea.

Emilie [Smirking]: That's one fine nose you have there, darling.

Jericho [Looking around suspiciously]: That's a smell I recognise..

Emilie: Calm down, Jericho. We're here to have fun.

Jericho: Yeah...Yeah! Yeah, we are! Fuck the Sinai, I'm here now! I'm gonna have fun--But really, that smell--

Emilie: Stop, Jericho.

Jericho [Quietly]: Yes'm.

Emilie turns to Jericho, cupping his cheeks in her hands and looking into his eyes.

Emilie [Calmly]: I want to have fun again. Don't be sad: You are free from that vile place, albeit temporarily, and now is the time for us to live life to the full.

Jericho: Yeah..Let's go.

Jericho and Emilie turn around: Walking across their vision and towards the right is Steve, wearing a white t-shirt, denim shorts and sandals, with a large khaki rucksack on his back. Jericho's eyes widen as he watches his teammate slowly walk past him.

Jericho: STEVE?!

Steve twists around, suddenly catching sight of Jericho.

Steve [In disbelief]: JERRY?!?!

Jericho [Narrowing his eyes]: STEVE.

Steve [Blankly]: Jerry.

Jericho [Cautiously]: Where you following us?

Steve: No. I'm just backpacking. And being a tourist. I like to do it without shooting people.

Jericho: ....I see.

Steve: Yep.

Steve glances at Emilie, who flashes a small smile. Steve gives a small smile back.

Jericho: You okay, Steve?

Steve [Looking at Jericho]: I'm just tired. Been hiking across the country so I'll probably settle into a hotel in Scarborough.  The Royal Hotel looks nice.

Jericho: It is.

Steve: Good..

A small silence falls over both men, surprisingly finding no common ground. Steve scratches his neck nervously until a familiar voice rings out, straight from an unfamiliar cart.


Jericho: I recognise that voice.

Emilie [Calmly]: I could use a cup of tea..

Jericho and Emilie walk around to the front of the cart, where Phil is, now wearing false glasses and a fake nose and moustache. Jericho's face falls immediately.

Jericho: Phil.

Phil rips off the glasses, nose and moustache.

Phil [Cheerfully]: WELCOME! WHAT CAN I GET YOU?!

Jericho [Darkly]: ...Did you follow us here?

Phil [Leaning forward]: No, it's just my biggest customer base happens to be Whitby in winter.

Jericho [Bluntly]: It's summer.

Phil: Timing was never my strong point--

Emilie [Swiftly]: Jericho, he is your friend. Treat him as such.

Phil: Listen to the lady, Jerry! I'm just trying to scrape together extra cash while we're discharged!

Jericho: Phil, where are you living?

Phil [Crestfallen]: You're looking at it.

Jericho: That's just tragic.

Phil: Shut up, Jerry, this is my life now.

Jericho: I kinda expected something more. Like, you'd go insane and kill everything in your path before committing suicide by cop. But this? This is just........well......shit.

Emilie: I owe my rebirth to this man. Treat him with respect.

Jericho [Looking at Emilie]: You are descended from nobles. You owe your rebirth to a man living and working in a goddamn mobile food cart.


Emilie [Taking Jericho's hands]: Just help him--

Phil: No! This cart is awesome! I'm my own boss, travel where I want, get all the tea I want, and I get to stiff the taxman!

Steve walks around the side of the cart, looking up at Phil.

Steve: Hi Phil.

Phil [Looking down]: Hi Steve.

Jericho [Looking between Phil and Steve]: Wait, did you two know you were here?!

Phil: Aye.

Steve: Yep.

Phil: Steve's backpacking across Britain. I'm travelling the world in a shitty tea cart: We've ran into eachother, yes.

Steve: We ran into eachother in London. Where Moe and Maurice are opening a pie shop.

Phil: They do a great mince and onion pie--

Jericho [Sighing and shaking his head]: Look, whatever, me and Emilie are gonna go and have fun.

Steve: Well, we're not stopping you.

Phil: Hey, Jerry, have you seen Ivan?

Jericho: He went home.

Phil: Good for him. Anyway, yeah, jog on. Have fun.

Phil turns away, reaching to the left of the serving window as Steve shrugs his backpack further up his body.

Steve: I'm heading for some food, then it's off to Scarborough. Stay safe, both of you.

Phil [Raising his arm]: Stay safe, Steve!

Jericho: Bye, Steve.

Steve turns right, walking up the street and disappearing into the throng of pedestrians bustling up the street. Phil grasps a rope, ringing a large, brass bell repeatedly before twisting around, looking out of the cart. A bulky man in a black suit, white shirt and black tie, carrying a brown leather briefcase, approaches the cart.


Man In Suit [Pointing]: THERE'S THE SON OF A BITCH!!

Phil screams, reaching up and grasping the shutter, slamming it down as the man charges forward and slams his suitcase against it with a crash.

Man In Suit [Angrily]: PAY YOUR TAXES!!!

Phil: Suck my dick, puppet of Ocelot!

The man rips off his blazer, shirt and tie, revealing a physique that can be only described as 'Herculean', with bulging muscles and veins criss-crossing his arms as he lets loose a roar cry.

Jericho [Taken aback]: Nanomachines: Not even once.



The bulldog appears once again, placing its paws on the steering wheels as the van burns out before shooting down the street like a bullet. The taxman quickly sprints after it as Jericho and Emilie watch.

Emilie [Blankly]: Jerry.

Jericho: Aye?

Emilie: You really do need to explain this strange new world to me.


Down in the bustling city of London, one of the financial capitals of the world, capital of what was once the mightiest empire in the world and now a cultural melting pot filled with rich people pissing from the greatest of heights on the poor, is a lone pie shop. Situated within the borough of Tower Hamlets, one of the poorest boroughs within the city and flanked by shuttered shops on either side, is a small pie and mash shop. Named "Pie Aye Man", with a brilliant white sign and black lettering greeting all potential customers, the shop has somewhat good business. Four circular plastic tables are placed to the left of the doorway, in front of a window and allowing customers full view of the horrors that await them outside. Behind the white counter stands the titanic form of Obese Maurice, a man thought so large that it's rumoured Jimmy Hoffa is buried inside of his immense gut. Wearing a black apron that is so large that it could bridge the Thames, Maurice raps his knuckles against the counter, whistling to himself as he glances at the full tables, then outside at Tower Hamlets.

Maurice: Aye, just another day in paradise.

In the open kitchen behind Maurice is Moe Zacharius. Wearing his own small black apron, the smallest, yet strongest, of mercenaries is busy standing beside a mincer, mincing several slabs of beef. Upon hearing Maurice, he glances over.

Moe: Paradise? This is shit!

Maurice: Aye, well, it's paradise when compared to our budget.

Moe: Newcastle's way nicer! Why couldn't we move up there!

Maurice: Lad, i've had enough experience of cooking in pubs an' shit. I wanted a challenge!

Moe: A challenge?!

Maurice: Yeah!

Moe [In disbelief]: This ain't a video game, Maur! We don't die and see if we get a high score! Fuck challenges, man!

Maurice: Look, mate, don't worry: We got this.

Moe: Really?

Maurice: Look, lad, we'll be successful here because we sell what Londoners like and what they want. And do yeh know what Londoners like, kidda?

Moe: Pie.

Maurice: Exactly. Pie. And stabbing lads. And pollution. And overpriced hotels. And overpriced food. And living with the fact that they're corrupt. And living with the fact that they harbour tax dodgers. And--

Moe: Er, Maur, I got it.

Maurice: --living with the fact that a bunch of corrupt, rich foreigners have artificially inflated the housing bubble and are driving up the economy so fast that it rivals the war economy. And--

Moe: Maur.

Maurice: Sorry, lads...Where was I? Oh aye: Pie. It'll work. Trust me.

Moe sighs, walking over to a metal oven where a large pot is bubbling with a metal ladle sticking out of it. Moe reaches up, scooping up the ladle and twisting it, letting the unappetising, turgid green slop slowly pour out into the bowl with a sickening slop.

Moe: What is this shit, even?!

Maurice: Liquor. Parsley kind, not the drinkable, nice kind. Cockneys love it, buncha weird cunts, like.

Moe [Sighing]: Mate, I miss shooting people for a living.

Maurice: Well, kidda, once the war's over with, we gotta find something we're good at, and we're good with food.

Moe [Darkly]: Yeah. I suppose.

Maurice: Now shut up, lad, get the meat minced and don't let the pies burn!

Moe sighs, squatting down and opening up the oven as a dusty bronze bell beside the door rings. Walking inside are Johnny and Tim, wearing matching red floral hawaiian shirts and stonewash jeans: Johnny has since cut off his ponytail, his hair chopped and short, while Tim appears to be trying to grow a moustache, in contrast to his balding head.

Maurice [Giving a wry smile]: Bloody hell, look what the cat dragged in!

Johnny [Looking around]: Nice place you've got here, Maurice.

Maurice [Bluntly]: Nah, it's a fucking shithole, mate.

Tim: Well, we're just here for some food, not the ambience.

Maurice: What'll it be?

Tim [Approaching the counter]: Pie and mash, and don't skimp on the liquor!

Moe gives a small wretch as Maurice shoots him a dirty glance before grinning and nodding at Tim.

Maurice: Well, then, pie, mash and liquor it is.

Moe slams a white ceramic plate down onto the top of the stove, pulling the door of the oven down and reaching in, grasping a pie with a hot water crust straight by its foil container, seemingly unperturbed by the scorching hot foil as he slams it onto the plate.

Tim [Somewhat concerned]: Is Moe alright?

Maurice: Aye, he just wishes he were in Newcastle.

Johnny: Huh, we're going there next--

Moe [Glaring over]: SERIOUSLY?!

Johnny: Aye, party capital of the United Kingdom. Ocelot holds regular foam parties in the town centre. Keeps morale up........apparently. The Irish certainly love it.

Moe [Mumbling]: Reminds them of fucking Guinness..

Maurice [Angrily]: SHUT UP!

Maurice looks at Tim, grinning as Moe walks over and slams down a plate, consisting of a pie in the middle, a smear of mash to its side and a swamp of parsley liquor covering both items.

Maurice: Here you are, mate!

Tim: Pie, mash and liquor, my favourite!

Maurice: Four quid, mate.

Tim reaches into his pocket, pulling out four pound coins and placing them on the counter. Maurice scoops them up, placing them into the till.

Maurice: Business is good!

Moe [Muttering]: I'd rather be up North...

Maurice [Quietly, aside to Moe]: If you shut up, mate, we'll go there at the weekend.

Johnny eyes the unappetising meal, slowly taking a sidestep to his right. Tim grasps a plastic knife and fork, not bothering to step back from the counter as he begins slicing apart the pie, letting the mince and gravy spill forth from the crust of the pie.

Moe [Mumbling]: Bloody disgusting..

Tim begins wolfing down the meal as Moe steps away from the counter, shaking his head..


Sal has since barged into the old mansion. Riddled with dust and cobwebs, a glass chandelier hangs loosely from the main entrance in the middle of the room, with two staircases on the left and right of the room, decorated with torn red and gold carpets, looping up them. To the right of him is a single wooden door, slightly ajar and the flickering light of flames visible to his eyes. Sal narrows his eyes, rolling up the sleeves of his hooded top as he charges forward.


Sal slams his shoulder against the door. The doors hinges snap, the door collapsing forwards and hitting the floor with a crash. The sheer force of the door collapsing extinguishes an old fireplace to his left as Sal screams, tripping over the fallen door and landing on top of it with a crash. He convulses slightly, coughing out dust and getting onto his hands and knees, looking up: Standing in front of him is an old figure, Afro-Caribbean, with grey curled hair and a pencil-thin moustache, clutching a knobbled oak cane in his hands as he gazes down at Sal. Wearing a navy suit with a white shirt, buttoned to the collar, the figure is wearing highly formal wear, despite no sign that Sal was going to visit. Sal gazes up at the figure, his eyes snapping open wider as he recognised the figure.

Sal: ...Grandad Keenan?!

The old man gives a small grin, nodding and bowing his head slightly.

Keenan: Sal. You've returned.

Sal: Well, yeah, I want my house back.

Keenan [Face falling]: I see. That's why you returned?

Sal: Yep.

Sal hops up to his feet, dusting off his hands and looking around the room which is somewhat small. Barely furnished, the only items of note are a small fireplace, unlit, with a large painting above it of an Afro-Caribbean woman in a black lace dress and a white English noble clad in frills, laces and a powdered wig. Opposite this is a chair to the right of an end table, on which is a crystal carafe that is almost empty and a glass beside it, half filled with whiskey, indicating that Keenan was either drinking himself into a stupor or deep in thought regarding something. Or potentially both.

Sal [Whistling to himself]: Is that fireplace expensive? And why is this lounge so small?

Keenan: This is my lounge. The family lounge was opposite the doors. It's much larger, I assure you, less dusty.

Sal: But the fireplace is expensive?

Keenan [sighing]: Do you really need the money?

Sal [Desperately]: I was getting money off o' my daddy! Now i'm as poor as the rest of those fucking plebs! If it wasn't for the money I saved from daddy's factories, i'd be drinking pisswater with the rest of those mercenary thugs!

Keenan [Calmly]: That is no problem of mine. And no, it isn't expensive.

Sal [Crestfallen]: Aw.

Sal dusts off the front of his black hooded top and walks over to the painting, looking up at it. Keenan hobbles beside him, glancing up at the painting.

Keenan: The first of our line...

Sal: Is the painting expensive?

Keenan [Scowling]: Hold your tongue! Those people are Ebele Memeh and William Porpington: The formers of the family that would become Memeh-Porpington, a marriage in seventeen hundred and seventy one.

Sal: Seriously? That far back?

Keenan: Yes...Our family is quite old!

Sal: Smells old.

Keenan [Sighing]: It is old...

Sal: ....Hang on, hundreds of years ago, you're telling me an African woman married an English noble?

Keenan: Precisely.

Sal: That doesn't make a fucking lick of sense. Even the English weren't THAT progressive--

Keenan [Calmly]: And you don't think it happened in secret?

Sal [Shrugging]: You've got a point.

Keenan: Having black servants was considered 'popular' amongst these brutes. Slaves dragged from their homeland to be indebted into slavery. It just so happens that William fell in love with his parents slave and eloped here, to Oxford, in seventeen hundred and seventy three, where he started a family in secret. He couldn't reveal it until abolition in eighteen thirty-eight, when he was eighty six. Even then, it was strange to admit the marriage--

Sal: Yeah, no shit.

Keenan: Our family is a crucible of cultures, ever since that fateful marriage. Though the English and African facet has remained, many other cultures have been involved with our family. Your great grandmother married a Norwegian, your grandmother married me: Of course, your birth came when the Memeh-Porpington heir, your father, married a Hawaiian noblewoman.

Sal: Now THAT'S progressive!

Keenan: Indeed.

Sal: So, whose the new head of the family, given that the old man died months ago?

Keenan: Your brother. Sadly, however, he has moved to the Porpington Manor in Cheshire..This old place is being preserved by English Heritage..

Sal looks out of the window: Dozens of people in suits are standing on the lawn, carrying briefcases and grinning, glaring up at the window. A man on the far right raises the symbol of English Heritage, with the words "HISTORY MEANS NOTHING TO US. PROFIT MEANS EVERYTHING." emblazoned underneath.

Sal: Aw crap.

Keenan [Sighing]: Where you're standing will be a giftshop...Your old bedroom will be a cafe serving overpriced tea, coffee and cakes...Your mother and fathers bedroom will be used to keep cleaning materials..

Sal [Throwing up his arms]: Oh, fuck this! I'm back, baby! HOW COME I'M NOT THE HEIR?!

Keenan flips the paper around to Sal, indicating a family tree.

Notably, the face of a middle-aged man with tanned skin, a thin moustache and cropped black hair gazes ahead, with the words "Cody Memeh-Porpington - 1981" written underneath.

Keenan [Calmly]: He is the eldest, and thus the heir.


Keenan: I'm sorry, Sal, but that's how it works. If you wish to, I can take you see to your brother in Cheshire. The new Porpington Manor is close to completion--

Sal: Fuck that! Our home is here, and i'm not letting those parasites anywhere near this place!


Sal pushes the window open, leaning out and pointing downa t the suited people.


Keenan: Are you sure?

Sal: You're damn right I am!.....I just need to figure out a plan.

Sal slams the window shut, turning to his left and walking over to an old, wooden chair with carved lions paws on each feet, examining it.

Keenan: Your Dad loved that chair..

Sal: Mm. I know.

Sal slowly raises his head, turning to Keenan.

Keenan [Noticing him]: Yes?

Sal: ....What do you about the name 'Dejanel'?

Keenan [Stopping in front of the bookcase]: ...It's a story of heartbreak, betrayal and murder--

Sal [Yawning, Stretching]: Well! I better just get--

Keenan spins around, spinning his cane and slamming the top knob into Sal's gut. Sal wheezes, stumbling backwards and falling into the old chair.

Keenan: Since you are an impatient, thuggish mercenary, I will give you a short version: The Dejanel family were bound to be married to one of our heirs. Emilie Dejanel. The member of our family was your great great grandfather, Lord Hiapo, was given a pendant known as the Ruby Claw to signal the intent of their union. However, it turns out that the pendant was valuable and that Emilie was.....quite the tart. Despite the fact that she was locked in an asylum due to her freely sexual ways, bound to be freed when she was married, she had escaped from it to a foreign land to escape the marriage and to continue her sexual promiscuity. The families of both Memeh-Porpington and Dejanel joined together to hunt her down, on the condition that we would share our fortunes and arrange another marriage.

Sal: So, the Dejanel family is--

Keenan: They were eventually absorbed into our line following the marriages and.......natural deaths....of high-ranking members of the family. The last of their kind was a woman named Sarah, who mysteriously vanished a few months ago. Our family denies any wrongdoing, naturally, but we assume that, for all intents and purposes, they have disappeared. Only a few people carry what remains of their bloodline, but they are ignorant to it.

Sal [Giddily]: Which means that we have their fortune!

Keenan: ....Not quite, Cody has the fortune.

Sal [Bitterly]: I'll take that fortune back one day.

Keenan: I'd be careful, Sal: With Sarah's disappearance, it may be viable that she has died, but she may have gone into hiding to seize the fortune which she is viable to share.

Sal: So, what became of the Ruby Claw?

Keenan: It was passed down the familial line upon the death of each male. You were supposed to be the next recipient of it, but...It was stolen from your father on the night of his untimely death.

Sal [Narrowing his eyes]: So, who killed him?

Keenan: We don't know. It was quite a violent death: Shot three times in the head. Twice in the chest.

Sal [Sighing]: Why would they steal the pendant?

Keenan: Well, it was all that remained of the Dejanel family and their fortune after they were assimilated. Maybe it was a surviving member of the family...Maybe it was Sarah. I can only assume they wanted to take that pendant and begin the family once again, or maybe just sell it for a quick bargain. Given the reputation of the family, however, if they chose to revive their line, then......whoever they choose to marry to carry on the family with will undoubtedly be cursed.

Sal: Cause they were sluts?

Keenan: .............Yes. That and our family is sworn to wipe out the Dejanel family.

Sal: For a fortune?

Keenan: That and pride.

Sal: What kind of sick, twisted pride--

Keenan [Shrugging]: We just didn't like them.

Sal: Good point. Now, shut up, I need to think of how to save this place.

Keenan falls silent as Sal slumps back into the chair, stroking his temple as he begins to think.


In Avoch, the Wallace house could be described as 'comfortable', though a more accurate term would be 'fucking cramped'. The middle house of an entire line of terraced houses, each one facing into a downward-sloping alleyway that leads down to the actual harbour of Avoch, the house itself is unbelievably small. Inside is no better: Opening the front door only allows you to take a single step inside before you walk into a wall, with a set of carpeted stairs to the right and a small door into the living room to the left.

In the living room, where James is sat at a small wooden table gutting fish with a knife, the room is still small, a fireplace against the wall opposite the door further cramping the room and bursting out wave after wave of unbearable heat, with a heap of chopped logs to the left of it. From a small, open doorway behind the table, Billy walks in, wiping off his hands with a teatowel. Glancing over at his father, Billy gives a deep and somewhat uncharacteristic sigh of disdain.

Billy [Looking over]: Dad?

James: Aye?

Billy: Yeh're fuckin' nuts.

James [Looking down]: What? Are they showing?

Billy [Sighing]: Yeh're insane.

James: Why?

Billy: We cannae keep outrunning PMC's because you decide to flash them.

James: We lost 'em at Fort George!

Billy: Only cause you knocked a PMC soldier out and stole his clothes!

James [Smirking]: It was a good plan--


James: I act on impulse sometimes, son.

Billy: It's brain damage. That's gotta be it: Brain damage. That can be the only explanation.

James [Shrugging]: It keeps me entertained during the lonely nights..

Billy [Narrowing his eyes]: Maybe if you didn't throw Mum out of the house.

James: She was annoying me.

Billy: You shot her, too.

James [Angrily]: SHE SHOT ME FIRST!!!

Billy [Sighing]: Dad, just..just stop being so fecking insane.

A knock raps out against the door. James slams the tip of his knife into the table, wiping fish guts down the front of his t-shirt before shooting Billy an angry look.

James [Coldly]: I'll be what I feckin' want tae be.

James walks out of the living room, opening the door: In the doorway stands a Praying Mantis PMC soldier, armed with only a Five-Seven pistol on his waist and an extendable baton in his right hand.

PMC Soldier: James Wallace?

James [Coldly]: Aye. What?

Billy stands in the doorway to the living room, watching as James wrinkles his nose, glaring at the PMC Soldier.

PMC Soldier: In regards to the public indecency earlier today: James Wallace, we have had to warn you countless times in regard to public nudity. This is now your thirtieth warning.

Billy [In disbelief]: THIRTIETH?!

James [Laughing]: THE GIRL'S FECKIN' LOVE IT!!

PMC Soldier: No, they don't. You're rude, you're boisterous and you, quite frankly, have the hygiene habits of a dead dog, with our own soldiers able to identify you by scent alone. There is a warrant out for your arrest, and it is time that you surrender yourself.

James [Scoffing]: For showing me baws? Feck off!

PMC Soldier [Stepping forward]: James Wallace, you are under arre--

James [Angrily]: ME ARSE, YEH ARE!!

James slaps the soldier violently in the face. The soldier reels backwards, twisting around and clutching his cheek. James storms forward, locking his left arm around the soldiers neck, placing his right arm vertically against the side of the soldiers head and using his left hand to grip his mid-forearm, locking in a tight sleeper hold. The soldier begins flailing around, choking wildly as James  tightens the grip.

Billy [Watching]: Uh, Dad--


James drags the soldier backwards, but the soldier grasps his right arm, pulling on it. James drags him down onto his rear, getting down onto one knee behind him and tightening the hold. Billy quickly reaches over the writhing mess of wrestling, slamming the door shut to stop James from being caught.

Billy: Look, if you kill him, we--


Billy: He's nowhere near dead!

James [Cackling]: HEWILLBESHORTLY!!!

James continues to tighten the hold, eventually laying the soldier back on the floor and rolling him onto his side, hold still locked as he lays on his side behind the soldier, wrenching the hold further as the soldier's legs continue to lash out.

Billy [Watching]: You could've just shot--


For a few more seconds, James and the PMC soldier writhe on the floor. EVentually, the soldiers movements dull and stop, his final few chokes forced out as James continue wrenching his arms. When the soldier's body falls still, James releases the hold and hops up to his feet, his brow sweating profusely as he lets out a tired sigh of relief.

James: Whew, he was a toughy! But seriously, I fuckin' hate PMC's.

Billy: Well, Dad, you just killed a PMC soldier. Congratulations.

James: We oughtae dispose of him before his buddies come calling.

Billy: And how the fuck do we do that?!

James falls silent for a few seconds before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a mobile phone, pressing a few buttons and raising it to his ear.

James: ........Yeah, Gordon? It's me, James--Aye--Aye--Aye, shut up, look, I got a favour I need tae call in. It's a body--Aye. Aye........Aye. Alright, see you in twenty.

James hangs up the phone, slipping it into his pocket and looking at Billy who i just stood there, dumbfounded.

Billy: Really? What are yeh, a member of a Scottish Mafia?

James: Aye, did I mention I was a mercenary after serving fer the Queen? We did some shit, and you're about to see that shit.

Billy [Sarcastically]: Oh, I can't feckin' wait.


Back in Oxford, the scene has changed considerably. Considerably being Sal having tied himself to the front door of his mansion, chained and padlocked with the chains looped tightly around the handles as he stands there, arms folded. Out on the lawn, to the right of the concrete steps, Keenan is laying on a white plastic lawn chair, orange juice in one hand and cane in the other. Ahead of both of them, the five suited English Heritage members are stand there, unwavering as they glare at Sal.

Bald Male English Heritage Member [Angrily]: YOU CAN'T STAY THERE FOREVER!!!

Sal: I CAN TRY!!

Keenan [Quietly]: I doubt it.

Sal [Looking over]: Shut up, Grandpa, I'm hanging on no matter what.

Keenan: But they could just shoot you.

Sal's face falls.

Sal: Fuck, I forgot that I was vulnerable to bullets.

Keenan [Quietly]: You don't say...

Sal: It's alright, grandpappy: I have a plan!

Keenan: A cunning plan?

Sal: Yes, a cunning plan.

Keenan [Sighing]: Alright then, Baldrick...

Sal [Confused]: ...What?

Keenan: Blackadder. It was a reference to Blackadder, one of my favourite television shows. "I have a cunning plan". You've never seen it?

Sal [Shaking his head]: Nope.

Keenan [Sighing]: I need to expose you to more English things....

Sal: Hey, i'm still English!...A small part of me...Namely my teeth.

Keenan [Irritably]: Sal, what is your plan?

Sal: Well, it's quite a cunning plan--

Keenan: How cunning, Baldrick?





Keenan [Aside]: He DOES have a point.

Sal [Looking at Keenan]: Aren't you supposed to be on MY side?

Keenan: Well, to be honest, we could use the English Heritage funds to repair the mansion. It wouldn't be ours, but we could move elsewhere and preserve--

Sal [Angrily]: NO! IT'S MINE! ALL MINE!!

Keenan: But what is your plan? Do you even have one?

Sal: Yep. It'll be here any minute now.

Keenan: I'm actually quite worried.

Sal: Do me a favour, Grandpa: Come here.

Keenan rises to his feet, steadying himself with the cane in his left hand and hobbles over slowly to Sal, climbing up the stone steps towards the mansion and standing mere inches away from Sal.

Keenan: Yes?

Sal: Do you like...Wagner?

Keenan [Cocking an eyebrow]: As in Richard Wagner?

Sal: Yep.

Keenan: Well, I can't say that I--

Suddenly, the sound of "Flight of the Valkyries" begins to cut through the air. Quiet at first, the music grows louder and louder as the English Heritage members glance up: The sky darkens somewhat as a fleet of no fewer than six Blackhawk helicopters, each with several cables tied to their undersides, fly forward, hovering over the mansion and slowly lowering downwards.

Keenan [Looking up]: ....What on Earth?


Female English Heritage Member: Yeah, we're going to need to call Ocelot.

Several figures, clad in solid black with black ski masks and goggles, begin to rapel down the cables, sliding down to their ends and landing on the roof of the mansions, beginning to attach the cables to various points.

Keenan: is this even possible?

Sal: Let's just say.............nanomachines.

Keenan [Sighing]: Really? That deus ex machina?

Sal: Hey, shut up, nanomachines are serious business.

Keenan: But won't these Blackhawks simply tear the house apart when they're trying to lift it?

Sal [Eyeing Keenan suspiciously]: It fucking won't. Trust me on this.

Keenan: ...Are you sure this is a good idea?

Sal: Never underestimate someone with more money than sense.

Sal stops, thinking to himself. Keenan chuckles.

Sal [Hesitantly]: ...Wait...that didn't come out right. HOLD ON, GRANDPA!

The Memeh-Porpington Manor is suddenly and violently wrenched upwards by the fleet of Blackhawks, the gas and water pipes severing. The bottom floor is simply ripped from the entire mansion as it splits violently into three pieces: The middle of the house, being the width of the door that Sal is strapped to, the left of the house and the right of the house. Gas and water lines are severed, spewing their contents into the air as electricity cables snap, crackling violently.

Sal [Looking up]: Aw, piss.

Keenan: I told you so.


Keenan: it's been damaged beyond repair.

Sal: Well, i'll use its guts to build a new mansion, then.

Keenan [Sighing]: As you wish.


Keenan [Shaking his head]: ....This is unique, young one.

Sal [Whooping, pointing down at the suits]: YEAH! SUCK ME, ENGLISH HERITAGE! WE'RE TAKING THIS SHIT TO EGYPT!

Bald Male English Heritage Member [Looking up, in disbelief]: MotherFUCKER.


Keenan [Looking at Sal]: The Sinai?

Sal: Well, yeah, that's where I live and work.

Keenan: ...Well...I guess it'll make a change.

The fleet of Blackhawks begin to fly forward, dragging the Manor unsteadily with them.

Sal: You're damn right it will!

Keenan: I hope the fleet is strong enough.

Sal looks up, watching as the cable tied around the chimney slowly begins to fray. Sal lets out a nervous chuckle, turning to Keenan and shrugging.

Sal [Grinning]: Well...we'll find out soon enough!

The scene fades to black as the helicopters begin to fly forward, dragging the torn mansion with them..

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