Saturday, 31 October 2015

Saga III Chapter IX - Family Misfortune


The scene opens in Fort William, Scotland. A sleepy town in the Highlands of Scotland, there is little noticeable PMC presence based in the town and surrounding villages, presumably due to how relatively isolated the town is. Sitting in a Ford Focus in the parking lot of an Aldi, Billy is sitting in the passenger’s seat next to his father, the grizzled James Wallace who is busy polishing what appears to be a loaf of French bread with shoe polish whilst wearing a thick olive green parka. Billy sighs, watching as he does.

Billy [Quietly]: What are you planning now, Dad? Didn’t you get enough money raiding tourist boats that you destroyed on the Firth?

James: Nah, this is something I need to sort out.

Billy: What could that possibly be? You have nothing to sort out.

James: I want my dole, goddammit!

Billy [In disbelief]: Wait a minute: You’re going to go and rob somebody for your dole?

James: Aye. Well, I’m gonna hold up the job centre.

Billy: You are going to hold up the job centre in order to have your seventy three pounds a week reinstated.

James: Aye.

Billy: Are you fucking drunk?! Why not just rob a bank?!

James: Too high risk.


James: Hey, I know, I just want them to unsanction me so I can get my fortnightly payments.

Billy: And you seriously, seriously think that holding them up at gunpoint will make them do that.

James: Aye.

Billy [Scoffing]: I mean, I don’t even know why I’m saying gunpoint: You’re using a fucking baguette that you’re polishing black and hoping that it resembles a gun at a distance.

James: Aye.

Billy; You must be fucking retarded.

James: Just trust me, my son.

Billy: No.

James sighs, shooting a sideways glance at Billy before firing up the engine.

James: Just trust me.

Billy: Stop saying that! Why should I?! You’re sitting there, polishing bread, wearing a trainspotting coat. I would say that you’ve hit rock bottom but I honestly think that you hit it years ago.

James: Shut up.

Billy: Then stop saying ‘trust me’!

The car reverses out of the Aldi, beginning to drive down the A82 towards its destination.

James: Trust m--

Billy: Why?! Why should I?! Give me one good reason!

James: When we eat hot food tonight, you will see the light.

Billy: Oh please, you’ll just buy a tin of baked beans and eat ‘em from the can.

James: Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it, son.

Billy: It’s pathetic. It really is.

James: I don’t have anything else--

Billy: You’ve got the Moray Firth. Or have the gunboats started appearing to tell you to stop robbing tourists?

James [Coldly]: Shut up.

Billy: So they have!

James sighs, stopping beside a pavement and cutting off the engine, climbing out of the car and walking across the street towards a building with a lurid green sign reading “Jobcentre Plus” above it. Billy sighs loudly, stepping out of the car and following his father.

Billy: Dad, for fucks sake, think about this.

James: Are you ready, son?

Billy; No, but--

James barges through the door, pointing the blackened baguette at two PMC soldiers standing to the left and right of a small reception desk.


The two PMC soldiers standing beside the reception desk quickly raise their rifles, pointing them directly at James. James responds by ripping open his parka, revealing a homemade ‘bomb’. The bomb is actually several tins of ready-cooked mince in gravy with black fuzzy pipe cleaners haphazardly glued onto the top of them. Upon seeing this, the soldiers lower their rifles, with the one standing to the right stepping forward.

PMC Soldier [Sighing]: James Wallace, you have got to stop doing this.


PMC Soldier: Only one man is stupid enough to get sanctioned in Fort William: You. Only one man is stupid enough to even try and rob a Jobcentre, knowing that we don’t keep any money on the premises: You.

James [Angrily]: HOW ABOUT I SHOOT YOU?!?!

Billy [Walking through the door]: It’s not even a feckin’ gun, it’s a loaf of French bread covered in shoe polish.

James: Betrayed by my only son!!

PMC Soldier [Impatiently]: We knew it was fucking bread when we saw it.

James: YOU LIE!!!

PMC Soldier [Sighing]: Look, James, this is the third time we’re going to have to sanction you. If you do it again, you know that we have to inject you with SoP, right?

James: Seriously?

PMC Soldier: Seriously. Just….leave and accept your one hundred and twenty month sanction.

James: One hundred and twenty—THAT’S TEN YEARS!!!

PMC Soldier: Yep.


PMC Soldier: Rob a bank. Mug somebody. Steal candy from a baby and sell it on—Just do something.

James [in disbelief]: So you’re telling me that the British government would rather that I turn to a life of crime than claim benefits?!!

PMC Soldier: The British public would rather you do that too, thanks to the brainwashing of the Daily Mail.

James [Angrily]: How the feck is that rag still in circulation after Rupert Murdoch got literally crucified by the Australian government?

PMC Soldier: Ocelot bought it.

Billy: An angry, reactionary and bigoted newspaper aimed at sociopaths bought by Ocelot: Well, that makes sense.


PMC Soldier: Honestly, James, you look like a heroin addict. I’m surprised you haven’t died already.

Billy: He’s right, Dad.


PMC Soldier [Sighing and stepping forward]: Right, James Wallace, I will… [Reaching into his pocket and pulling out a bundle of notes and pennies, looking through them]…hmm…..give you twenty two pounds and fifty six pence if you just fuck off and don’t come back for another ten years.

James: Sold.

The PMC Soldier walks over and hands James Wallace the money, which he quickly snatches and shoves into his pocket.

Billy: Can we leave now? This is just embarrassing.

James: Alright.

James turns around, walking out of the Jobcentre. Billy follows with his hands on his hips, sighing and shaking his head.

Billy: Well done, Dad: You have twenty two pounds to last you ten years.

James: And fifty six pence.


James shrugs.

James: I can shoot a gun. I can…………………..Hey, I can shoot a gun.

Billy: And?

James: I can shoot things.

Billy [Sighing darkly]: I don’t like where this is going.

James: Son, can I…tag along with you?

Billy: …You want to be a mercenary?

James: Aye. I can shoot things.

Billy: So you’ve said, but I was really fucking hoping you were just going to turn to a life of crime and not join us.

James: But son--

Billy [Bitterly]: Can you defend a house?

James: I can bloody try.

Billy: …..Then…..Ah, fuck it…..Well, I SUPPOSE we could use a guard for our house…..Come on…

James: Seriously??

Billy: The pay’s shit, the company you keep is alright and the location is shit. You get free food and lodging in the middle of a hot hellhole, and that’s it.

James: Better than staying here. Let me grab my shit and we can hit the road, my son!

Billy: And here I thought that you were wearing everything you owned.

James: The divorce was very tough on me and your mother--

Billy; Divorce? She smashed your knees in with a baseball bat, stole your shit and ran away.

James: Aye. I still wonder what happened to her.

Billy: She could have went to Siberia and it still would’ve been better than staying with you.

James [Coldly]: Mouthy little bawheid, aren’t yeh?

Billy: If you want to come along with me, then let’s go.

Billy turns around, walking over to the car and climbing into the drivers seat.

James: Hang on--

Billy: Shut up and give me the keys. If you want to tag along with me, you ANSWER to me. Papa.

James [Sighing]: Fine, whatever, anything for a hot meal.

James trudges forward, climbing into the rear seat behind Billy and sitting there, sulking slightly as Billy fires up the engine and drives away..


Moscow. Home of Liquid Ocelot and the Otselotovaya Khvatka PMC, one of the five strongest PMC’s currently operating. The Kremlin looms over the large square, standing tall over residents and tourists alike.

Standing in the centre of the square are Johnny and Tim, filmmakers-cum-mercenaries who are clearly enjoying their holiday more than others. Wearing black fur ushanka hats and thick woollen overcoats, both men gaze ahead at the Kremlin, with Tim appearing more in awe than Johnny, as Tim clutches his camera and snaps several pictures of the Kremlin.

Johnny: Haven’t you got enough pictures?

Tim: Not of this amazing landmark! And after this, we visit Lenin’s Mausoleum!

Johnny [Sarcastically]: Wow, the embalmed corpse of an old guy who championed the political leaning of choice for lunatics.

Tim: So, what would interest you?

Johnny: Mongolia. I want to explore the Steppes, dammit.

Tim: Well, we’re here now, so we should bask in the amazing sights of Russia..

Tim and Johnny turn around, watching as several female troopers wearing full face helmets and skin-tight armour walk out of the GUM Department Store.

Johnny: Huh. Haven Troopers.

Tim: Yeah. Haven Troopers.

Johnny and Tim stand still for a moment before Tim raises his camera and takes a picture of the soldier.

Johnny: What the fuck was that for?

Tim: I haven’t seen them in a while. Besides, here they are in their natural habitat.

Johnny: Come to think of it, I haven’t seen the Beauty and the Beast Unit in a fair while either.

Tim: I haven’t seen “Brew On The Mo’e” for a--

Johnny [Quickly]: Don’t. Just…don’t.

A young woman, with short and feathered blonde hair, wearing a skintight grey catsuit, strolls out of the GUM Department Store, following the Haven Troopers.

Johnny [Taken aback]: What the fuck?

Tim: Who’s the blonde chick?

Johnny: I have no idea.

Tim raises his camera, taking a picture of the blonde woman.

Johnny [Scowling]: Will you stop that?! You’re going to look like a bloody creep!

Tim: How can I be a creep? I’m just a tourist!

Woman [Beaming brightly and sprinting over, skidding to a halt in front of them]: TOURISTS?!?!

Johnny [Taken aback]: Uh…yeah.

Tim [Looking cautiously at Johnny]: Just here to see the sights…


Tim [Laughing nervously]: We certainly do.

Woman: HAVE FUN!!

Johnny: Uh..sure..

The woman twists around and skips away as Johnny and Tim quickly shoot eachother nervous looks.

Tim: What was that about?

Johnny: Just..don’t photograph that crazy bitch again.

Tim: Agreed.

Johnny: So, can we go to Mongolia now?

Familiar Voice: I’ve just come back from Mongolia. It’s a wonderful place.

Johnny and Tim turn around: Steve is standing there, now wearing a black fur ushanka alongside his tan trenchcoat, is also sporting a thick and wiry black beard, giving him the appearance of a rugged mountain man. Steve gives a tired smile and walks over, pulling his bulging rucksack further onto his back.

Tim: Hey, Steve!

Steve: Hey guys. So, how about this weather, huh?

Johnny: And these PMC’s, huh?

Steve: Yeah. PMC’s.

Tim: It’s all insane around here.

Steve: So why are you here?

Johnny: We’re tourists.

Steve: Enjoying the sights, smells and sounds of Moscow, eh?

Tim: Sights, smells, sounds and squatting Slavs!

Steve: And Ocelot.

Tim: LIQUID Ocelot.

Steve: Yeah, him.

Tim: Where?

Steve points across the Red Square, where Ocelot is slowly marching across a line of PMC’s, hands clasped firmly behind his back as his trenchcoat flows in the bitter October wind.

Johnny: Huh, we could probably kill him.

Steve: Did anybody bring their guns?

Steve looks at Johnny and Tim. Tim responds by lifting his camera and taking a photograph of Liquid Ocelot.

Tim: Well, the jokes on him: This camera has a shitty exposure.

Steve [Sarcastically]: Oh yeah, that’ll show him.

Johnny: No covert assassination this time, Steve, we’re just here on holiday.

Steve: Well, thank goodness he doesn’t know we’re here.

Tim: Haven’t you worked with him before, though?

Steve: This is why I grew the beard.

Johnny: Ah, so that’s why! I thought Phil had infected you somehow.

Steve: Nope, just disguising myself so I don’t get captured and potentially tortured to death.

Johnny: That’s a good plan.

Steve: Thanks.

Tim raises his camera, taking a second photograph of Liquid Ocelot.

Johnny [Sighing]: Will you stop that?

Tim: No.

The young blonde woman quickly bounces over, grinning at Tim.


Tim: Oh God, help…..Hel—HEY!!

Tim spins around, watching as Johnny and Steve quickly sprint away from the clearly deranged woman. The woman clasps her hands on his shoulders, quickly snatching his camera and pulling it from around his neck.

Tim: HEY!

Woman [Deathly quiet]: What?

Tim [Nervously]: Why are you taking my camera?

Woman [Quietly]: You’ve taken photos.

Tim: What? I can’t take photos?

Woman [Quietly]: No….Not unless you’re willing….to pay…the pri--

The woman looks up, watching as Tim sprints away. The woman chuckles quietly before bursting out into a fit of hysteric laughter…


In London, England, Maurice and Moe are still in charge of Pie Aye, Man, their pie and mash shop venture which doesn’t appear to be doing too well. Only one person walks out of the door with a paper bag in his hand, and that person is a Praying Mantis PMC soldier. Maurice sighs, watching as the door shuts behind him and a small bell rings in the distance. Moe walks in from the kitchen, wearing an apron and using it to clean his hands free from flour.

Moe: Gotta love it.

Maurice: Love what?

Moe: Business!

Maurice: Well, I don’t. The only customers we’re getting are bloody PMC soldiers.

Moe: Money is money, Wor Maur.

Maurice: I’m a bloody Geordie, I’m sure they shoot my kind here!

Moe: They’re our only customers, Maur….If they want to shoot, you’re going to have to let them.

Maurice [Sighing bitterly]: Why, man..why…

Moe: Why AYE, man.

Maurice: I miss Dick.

Moe: Why?

Maurice: Well, I miss Dick doing all the work.

Moe: Ah.

Maurice: But, still, business is good, at least.

Moe: We’ve only had four customers today.

Maurice [Stroking his chin]: Aye, I wonder if it’s tae do with that crowd we saw earlier..

Moe: You mean those protestors?

Maurice: Aye.

Moe: …The Vegan protestors?

Maurice: Vegan?

Moe: Yeah, they don’t like how London is still omnivorous. They want all butchers to be firebombed and all shops selling meat to convert into allotments for them to grow fruit and vegetables with names like zucchini and Satsuma.

Maurice: How horrifying.

Moe: It sure is.

Maurice: Still, lad, it’s not like they’re targeting us.

Moe: And why wouldn’t they?

Maurice: Cause our pies are pure class, mate.

Moe: Somehow, I don’t think that will stop vegans with a grudge.

Maurice: But once they get a taste of our macaroni and cheese pie, they’ll love it!

Moe: They’re vegans, they can’t eat cheese.


Moe; Now now, Maur, let’s not challenge people’s opposing viewpoints.

Maurice: I’ll fucking do it if I want to! Besides which, it’s not like we can challenge vegans because the only goddamn argument they have about anything IS THAT THEY’RE FUCKIN’ VEGAN. IT’S ALL THEY EVER SAY!!! Talking about chia seeds and flax and how they’re saving the planet. I’M saving the planet because it’s fuckin’ overcrowded and I’m killing off God’s creatures to make room for more humans and more food for them. Where’s my fucking medal?!

Moe: We got one for Shadow Moses, remember?

Maurice: Why did we nae get one for Big Shell and the Tanker?

Moe [Shrugging]: I guess being heroic is expected of us now.

Maurice: Well…fuck the wee bastards. What are they gonna do, firebomb the store?

Almost on cue, a mob of protestors, wielding placards with witty slogans such as “Turn butchers into vegetables (And by that I mean hit them so hard they enter a vegetative state)” and “The only bacon we like is ‘bacon’ with flour and egg substitutes”. The crowd began amassing outside of Pie Aye Man, shouting angrily and thumping their placards against the door and the windows to the left and right of it. Maurice and Moe simply watch, bemused.

Moe [Sighing]: You had to say it, didn’t you?

Maurice: Aw, fuck, it’s the vegans.

Moe: And we’re about to be attacked by vegans.

Maurice: All we want to do is sell pies, dammit!

Moe: I told you that we should’ve offered a vegetarian option!

Maurice: Who would have thought that they’d mobilise a fucking army?!

The mob begins to grow larger as several thuds are heard. Maurice and Moe watch as vegetables hit their windows, exploding and spraying the glass with rotten flesh and juices.

Moe [Panicking slightly]: Shit, they’re throwing vegetables!

Maurice: And here I thought they’d throw eggs!

Several of the group begin barging into the door. Moe rushes forward, grasping a wooden chair and holding it against the door as Maurice rolls clumsily over the counter, waddling forward and pressing his entire weight against the doors.

Mob Soldier One [Angrily]: MEAT IS MURDER!!!



Moe: These people are insane!

The doors continue to bow to the pressure as the mob do all that they can to try and force the doors open.

Maurice [Laughing in disbelief]: They want peace for animals and yet they’re willing to kill two lads for it!

Moe: Or feed us vegetables!


Moe: I can’t hold it for much longer!


Moe [Straining]: FUCKING HELP ME!!!

Several of the mob begin to slam sticks of celery against the door in a feeble attempt to break through the glass. A potato is thrown, however, and this proves enough to cause a tiny crack in the glass.


Moe: Don’t Brits love pie and mash?

Maurice [Bitterly]: Apparently they love bloody rabbit food now, lad!

Moe: So what do we do?


Maurice roars loudly, leaping straight through the window and shattering it, landing onto the Vegan horde…


Back in Mexico City, the red Mini Cooper holding Marcos, Melvin, Eligio and Bobby is awaiting its violent fate at the hands of Los Zetas. Staring down a Panhard armoured vehicle, as well as several armed cartel members, the mercenaries simply sit there, waiting for the end of their lives.

Eligio: Well, we’re doomed.

Bobby [Sighing]: Can’t you use your government contacts to come to our aid?

Eligio: Que?

Bobby: I thought you were with the PFM.

Eligio: They won’t help me! They’re fucking scared of Los Zetas! Nobody in their right mind fucks with Los Zetas EXCEPT THIS STUPID FUCK!!!

Melvin chuckles nervously. Eligio twists around, lunging over the seat and strangling Melvin violently.

Eligio [Angrily]: I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU MYSELF!!!!!!!

Bobby [Quickly]: For fucks sake, lads, calm down! Calm down!

Eligio [Hysterically]: WE’RE STARING DEATH IN THE FUCKING FACE!!!!!!

Marcos: Why haven’t they shot us yet?

Bobby: It’s Los Zetas: They’re probably going to hold us up, then drag us from the car and behead us.

Marcos: Great.

Bobby sighs, drumming his hands against the steering wheel before suddenly looking up.

Bobby: Oh, hey, it’s Halloween.

Eligio: Halloween.

The car falls silent. Suddenly, an ethereal whooping and hollering is heard far in the distance.

Bobby: It’s Halloween.

Marcos [Sighing in relief]: Thank goodness.

Eligio: IT IS HIM!!! IT IS—

Bobby: The Man in the Banana Suit! Or his non-union Mexican equivalent.

The mercenaries look ahead: Suddenly appearing behind Los Zetas stands the titanic form of a hulking figure wearing solid plate armor coloured yellow, with a green welders helmet and a green flamethrower tank strapped to his back. However, on top of his usual attire is a garish black and silver sombrero atop his welding helmet and a blue fanny pack around his waist.

Eligio: No, it’s just him on holiday.

The Man In The Banana Suit [Hollering]: I’MMA KILL Y’ALL!!!

Bobby: Even us?!

The Man In The Banana Suit: MAYBE!!!!!!!

Melvin: We should definitely get out of here.

The Man In The Banana Suit reaches behind him, grasping the nozzle of his flamethrower and turning to the group of cartel members to the left of Panhard, spraying them with flames. The cartel members quickly spin around, opening fire on the Man in the Banana Suit who doesn’t even reel from the shots, simply smothering several cartel members in flames. The Panhard’s turret spins around but the Man in the Banana Suit stomps over to it, shoving the nozzle of the flamethrower directly into the turret and firing flames into it.

Bobby [Laughing]: Look at the mad bastard go!

Marcos: Do you guys hear that?

The mercenaries listen closely, hearing the sounds of a helicopters blades slicing through the air.

Eligio [Sighing]: Ah shit, what now?

Over the horizon, peering over the tops of the rural buildings, a UH-60 Blackhawk flies over, hovering slightly in the distance.

Melvin: Aw, shit.


Bobby [Laughing]: I know that voice: It’s Mustafa!

Marcos: Goddamn, at least we’re safe now..

Eligio: I think we were safe when the Man in the Banana Suit showed up. Oh, and Bobby?

Bobby: Yeah?


Bobby: Hold on, then!

Bobby slams his foot onto the accelerator, the engine of the Mini roaring violently before speeding forward. Bobby jolts the Mini to the left, driving over the charred corpses of several cartel members as he dodges the Panhard, which now has the Man in the Banana Suit atop of it as he sprays flames down on top of it.

Melvin: Look at him go!

Bobby speeds towards the Blackhawk as it slowly lowers itself. With the cartel members and Panhard disappearing behind them, they speed into a small field where the Blackhawk is hovering inches above the ground. The side door slides open and out hops the hulking form of Johan, yet another mechanic from Beale Street. The Mini Cooper brakes, skidding to a halt beside the Blackhawk as the mercenaries climb out.

Eligio: JOHAN?!

Johan: Here to save you all.

Bobby: Man, are we glad to see you!

Johan: Hop in, hombre!

Bobby: What about my car?!

Johan hops out of the Blackhawk, rushing over to the Mini Cooper. In his hands he clutches a large circular magnet attached to several large, white squares of fabric by thick fabric. Johan sticks the magnet to the boot and the car, without warning, shoots straight into the air, the squares inflating almost immediately into balloons as Bobby watches, horrified.


Johan: Fulton recovery, hombre. We have a MC-130E Combat Talon flying over, and it’ll pick it up.

Bobby: How the fuck does that even work?! I’m literally watching my fucking car enter space!!

Johan: It’s complicated, but trust me: It works.

Bobby: If it doesn’t, you’re buying me a new fucking car.

Marcos: And hopefully not a Mini.

Bobby: Stop complaining, damn you! It’s a damn fine car!

Mustafa’s head peers from around the side of the door.

Mustafa: Come on! Hurry up!

Bobby: MUSTAFA!!

Mustafa: Get in the Blackhawk.

Eligio: But--

Mustafa [Firmly]: GET. IN. THE. BLACKHAWK.

Eligio: Alright.

Mustafa: Hurry! Los Zetas have anti-air weapons and I just polished this damn thing!


Mustafa: Not yet, motherfucker.

Eligio: Why?


Eligio, Bobby, Melvin and Marcos quickly climb in, followed by Johan who grasps the door and slides it shut. All four men quickly take seats, strapping themselves in as Johan sits next to the pilot, with Mustafa lying down on seats against the left side of the Blackhawk, placing his arms behind his head.

Johan: Let’s go, hombre!

The Blackhawk ascends into the air, beginning to fly forward.

Pilot: Sir, there appears to be a man in bright yellow armour firing his flamethrower into the air.

Johan: That’s just the Man in the Banana Suit. We won’t see him for another year yet.

Pilot: Alright sir. Where are we heading?

Johan: Cairo, Egypt.

The pilot goes quiet, examining his equipment and changing course as the mechanics begin their journey back home to Egypt.

Melvin: Man, what an adventure!

Eligio [Coldly]: Shut the fuck up. We just pulled your fat from the fryer. AGAIN.

Melvin: But it was enjoyable, right?

The Blackhawk falls silent as it continues to fly across Mexico. Melvin simply sits there and grins before the grin slowly melts away from his face, replaced by a somewhat fearful look as he simply looks ahead, falling silent with the others..


Back in Beale Street, Lynch is busy walking down the sand-covered road, his hands clasped behind his back. To his left, Mother walks beside him as they chat between themselves. Lynch looks up, glancing over at ReLoaded before looking at Mother.

Lynch [Calmly]: I’ve heard no complaints about Stephen. Which is worrying.

Mother: Why?

Lynch: This entire company is built on friendly hatred. I think he’s shutting himself away with the sugar glider. Or trying to, at least.

Mother: Well, it is natural to be wary of new company.

Lynch: And why the fuck haven’t you dismissed those Irish wankers yet? They’ve practically taken over the Lamb and Flag: You’d think it was Belfast.

Mother: The Irish work of their own accord. They are a PMC, after all, and I have no authority over them. I can merely invite them and do business with them: If you want rid of them, you know what you have to do…

Lynch: Kill the Irish? Alright then--

Mother [Sighing]: I wasn’t being serious, Lynch.

Lynch: Well, I was.

Mother: Lynch, we need to talk.

Lynch suddenly stops. Mother stops as well.

Lynch: That’s never a good set of words to hear from you….Just…what is it?

Mother: Lynch, please prepare yourself: We’re sending you out on a mission.

Lynch: What about the rest of the company? Most of them are still away.

Mother: You’re going to be attached to Spartan Company as a co-commander.

Lynch [Taken aback]: What? Why?! You know I prefer--

Mother: I know you have grown used to leading Reject Company but, right now, I need somebody of your expertise to help lead the company in Grenoble--

Lynch: France. You’re sending me to fucking France.

Mother: It is an operation that requires expert guidance and precision. I believe that you can provide it.

Lynch: With fucking Spartan Company?

Mother: Yes. With SpartanCompany.

Lynch sighs, putting his hands on his hips and clicking his tongue irritably against the roof of his mouth.

Lynch: Fucking Spartan Company..

Mother [Calmly]: Well, on the plus side, the children are beginning to return. Your Company may be here for your return.

Lynch: Great. Still going to fucking France though.

Mother: You will enjoy the mission.

Lynch: No, I won’t.

Mother: We will see.

Lynch sighs, putting his hands on his hips and gazing idly up the street, towards the smoke stack that rises in the distance. That smoke stack, little does he know, is being emitted from the Memeh-Porpington Manor, which once resided in Oxford but is now placed on a flattened sand dune. Within the main, grandiose living room of the manor, the brick fireplace is lit and on a leather sofa opposite of it sits James Wallace in nothing but his underwear and a vest, drinking from a can of Tennant’s lager as he gazes blankly ahead, with Billy sitting next to him wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. A door on the wall behind the sofa opens and Sal walks in, his nose wrinkling as soon as he looks at James.

Sal [Calmly]: Billy.

Billy: Aye, Sal. What’s wrong?

Sal: There’s a man who smells of alcohol sitting on the couch and for once, I don’t believe it’s you.

Billy: There’s a strange man who keeps hitting my shins with a cane when he walks past me.

Sal: That’s just my Grandfather.

Billy: And this is my father.

James belches loudly.

Sal: Nice to see that he’s just as housebroken as you.

Billy: Be grateful that he’s not shitting in the dishwasher. He’s done that before.

sal [Sighing]: Is he useful for ANYTHING?

Billy: Well……He can shoot things.

Sal: So you got me a paperweight that curses, drinks and shoots. He really IS your father!

Billy [Coldly]: Fuck you.

Sal: Anyway, where’s Vince? I haven’t seen that ugly son of a bitch for a while. Did he even go on holiday?

Billy: Let’s be real here, Sal: There’s only one place that Vince could ever have gone on holiday.

Sal and Billy [In unison]: Japan.

Sal: So, now that we know that: This guy’s your father.

Billy: Aye. James Wallace.

Sal: Is he useful for ANYTHING?

Billy: Paperweight.

Sal sighs, shaking his head.

Sal: But we’ve got Vince for that.

Billy: Anyway, speaking of useless things: How the fuck did you even get water and electricity to work here?

Sal: A lot of work. A lot of money.

Billy: Are there even any cables that you can tap into? And water….and gas--

Sal: I have my ways. Ways which are too boring to explain but which, you can be assured, work without any fuss. Quite magically so, in fact. In fact, you could even say that it is a miracle that it works.

Billy: But everything works? I’m not going to try and turn on the oven and blow us both to kingdom come?

Sal: I haven’t tried everything yet, but the shower works fine.

Billy: Well, at least something works….speaking of which….Dad, ready to defend the house?

James: Aye.

Sal: This thing can defend my house?

Billy: It certainly can. Just fill him with cheap booze and he becomes angrier than a neo-Nazi in a Chinese restaurant in America on Christmas Day.

Sal: That was a long winded metaphor, Billy..

Billy: Well, the fumes coming off of me pa are getting to my head.

Sal [Sighing and placing his hands on his hips]: Well, that’s no good..

Billy: I need a bloody vacation..

Sal: Haven’t you just had one?!

Billy [Angrily]: I’ve been babysittin’ this feckin’ drunk!!

Sal: Point taken…so…

Billy: C’mon mate, let’s just do SOMETHING. Hell, show me how you rich bastards live!

Sal: You’re already looking at how we live: Look upon it, ye mighty, and despair.

Billy: Seriously, Sal--

Sal: Alright, alright….Where can we go on a whim……..Right….Okay, yeah, yeah, YEAH! You know what? Let’s go to Japan and piss that son of a bitch Vince off.

Billy [Grinning]: Finally, a REAL holiday!

Sal and Billy walk out of the door in the living room as James simply sits there, drinking. Keenan, Sal’s grandfather, strolls into the living room, looking over at James.

Keenan: Have they left?

James: Aye.

Keenan breathes a sigh of relief, throwing his cane aside and walking over to the couch, jumping onto it and laying down.

Keenan: You look like a man who can hold his drink: Do you want to visit the pub?

James looks at Keenan, then his sandwich, then at Keenan again.

James: Pub?

Keenan: Pub.

James [Nodding]: Pub.

Keenan and James get to their feet, giving a mutual nod of respect for eachother before walking out of the mansion and slamming the door shut behind them as the scene fades to black..


I have posted something quite important on the News and Updates page. I recommend visiting it and reading it if you have a few moments to spare.


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