Sunday, 16 April 2017

Saga III Finale - Old Dogs

The scene opens up in a darkened basement in an unknown location. The only giveaway to the location are two wooden stills against the northern wall and several metal kegs dotted around the cold concrete floor, indicating that they are in a pub. Phil, Jericho, Karab, Al, Dave, Robbie Billy, Dick, Ivan, Fabien, Johnny and Tim are sat around a circular wooden table on wooden stools. Jericho has a notepad in front of him as he clicks his pen repeatedly, looking around the table.

Jericho: Are we all here?

All [In Unison]: Aye.

Phil: Alright, the meeting of ASSHOLES shall now begin. Brother Jericho shall read the minutes of our last meeting.

Jericho: That was a while ago, Phil. A long while ago.

Karab: He’s right. It’s been far too long since ASSHOLES had a meeting.

Billy: Should we welcome our new recruits?

Phil: Yeah: Brother Fabien. Brother Johnny. Brother Tim. Welcome to ASSHOLES.

Johnny: ….Okay, and let me just get this right: ASSHOLES stands for Americans Should be Shot, Hung, Oiled up and Lit on fire until they Scream?

Phil: No, it stands for Americans Should be Shot, Hung, Oiled up and Lit on fire until they EXCRUCIATINGLY Scream.

Johnny: Because that makes more sense.

Phil: Quiet, new blood! We ASSHOLES do not approve of dissension in the ranks!

Tim: So where are Moe and Maurice? They’re not American.

Dick: They don’t like to be involved in these meetings.

Jericho: We call them SWISS.

Phil: Go on.

Jericho [Quietly]: What?

Phil [Grinning]: Come up with the acronym.

Jericho: …….Stupid Wankers…In……Ah, fuck off!

Tim: That can’t be right--

Karab: Dissension!

Billy [Slamming his fists down and getting to his feet]: DISSENSION?!?!?

Phil: No, Billy, not yet!

Fabien: Vell, zis is nice! Ze French are welcome here, then? Even though ve love ze Americans?

Phil: Well, yeah. We don’t discriminate.

Ivan: Except against American pigs.

Phil: Indeed.

Tim: And what about Steph--

Phil [Impatiently]: It’s a fucking exclusive club, alright?!?!

Johnny: That’s why we’re in the basement of the Dog and Handgun?

Phil: Exclusive.

Tim: And what about that English lass who follows Jer--

Phil [Pointing at Tim]: DON’T MAKE ME SAY IT!!!!

Tim: Wha--

Phil [Slamming his fists down with every word]: DISSENSION! DISSENSION! DISSENSION! DISSENSION!

Billy quickly gets to his feet, placing his hands under Tim’s armpits and effortlessly lifting him off of his stool.

Tim [Yelping]: WOAH! HEY!

Phil [Coldly]: Give him…The Billy Bumps.

Tim: That sounds bad!

Billy lifts Tim into a military press position before throwing him into the air. Tim yelps as he hits the concrete ceiling before landing on Billy’s hands, who quickly twists him around and sits him back on the stool. Tim shakes his head, somewhat dazed.

Johnny: …That looked fun!

Phil: Well, the next punishment involves tweezers, Nair, a blowtorch, a stone knife and a live goat, so don’t push the dissension.


Phil [Slamming his fists down, glaring at Tim]: DISSENSION?!!?

Tim [Sighing]: …No. No dissension.

Phil: …Right, Brother Jericho. Our last meeting’s minutes. Read them out.

Jericho [Clearing his throat]: Firstly, I read out the minutes of our previous meetings. Following this, Brother Karab suggested shitting on the American flag to fight their imperialist regime. Brother Al suggested burning it and then coating it in manure, leading to his plan being accepted and both him and Karab getting commendations. We then discussed our donations to Egypt and specifically the government, with the Port Said Orphanage having recently opened and ensuring violence against European forces was reduced significantly. We then looked at photos of the orphans desecrating the American flag and enjoyed it. Interloper Tavi interrupted and momentarily disrupted the meeting but after she left, we then discussed making donations to Brazil to bring back Brother Albano, but that fell through when we quickly realised he’s fucking insane. We then drank and sang our national anthem: “God Save The Queen” by the Sex Pistols. We then discussed changing our national anthem to “Amerika” by Rammstein. We decided against it.

Phil: Good. Those were the minutes….Right, first topic: Port Said Orphanage. It’s been open a few years. Full control has been handed over to the Egyptian Government but our flags still fly there.

Jericho: What is there to discuss about that?

Phil: Nothing, thought we could use the update considering we fucking forgot about funding the Orphanage we funded when bloody drunk.

Tim: Is this normal? Do you normally fund outrageous and expensive projects when drunk?!

Jericho: We all do. It was about six years ago we funded a brand new Abrams tank for the Egyptian rebels.

Johnny: Did that work?

Phil: They still have it, funnily enough. The Islamic State captured it but gave it back when they realised how out of date it was.

Jericho [Tutting]: Those crazy fuckers. So glad the Taliban we funded wiped those cunts out.

Phil: Yep, cause funding separatist rebel groups is another thing we do when drunk. THAT…hasn’t worked out so well.

Jericho: The Taliban leave our boys alone, though. They really fucking hated the Islamic State and thanked us for the help.

Dick: And continue to thank us by occasionally bombing our interests.

Phil: That’s how the Taliban say ‘hello’, though.

Dick: It’s not how they should be saying ‘hello’, however. It’s starting to bother the British Army that they can barely get into a Cobra without it spontaneously blowing up.

Phil: Mm. Well, newbies, that’s why it IS a problem. Hopefully the Taliban won’t become a major thorn in OUR side.

Dick: Still a major thorn.

Jericho [Hissing]: Shut the fuck up, I hear footsteps!

As Jericho finishes his sentence, a hatch in the north-west corner of the room flips open from the ceiling and several men descend the wooden ladder: Lynch, Jon, Brick, Bill, Steve, Frank, Will, Dean, Bob and Vince crowd into the room. Jon takes point, arms on hips as he strolls in front of the group in the now-crowded cellar, glaring at the wooden table.

Phil: Aw, shit, it’s BADASS.

Jericho: Aw, fuck, really, Lynch?

Lynch: I’m as American as apple pie, you little fuck. You better believe they asked me to join, and I accepted.

Jon [Smirking]: Looks like we got a good ol’ fashioned street-fight ‘bout to happen with ASSHOLES!

Phil: We’re in a basement, you absolute fucking pleb.

Jon lunges forward, but is stopped by Lynch, Frank and Bill.

Bill: Woah, calm down there!

Jon [Seething]: I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!!

Tim: …BADASS?!

Bill: Brilliant American Dudes who love America, Sex and Shooting!

Tim [Nodding, somewhat in disbelief]: Yep. Yep. Sure. Yep. That makes sense. Yep.

Phil: Come on, Jonny boy!

Jon [Angrily]: DON’T FUCK WITH ME!!

Bill: CALM!

Jon snorts roughly, dusting himself off as Frank and Bill slowly release their grips on his arms.

Jon: Cunt.

Phil: How’s the weather down there, mate?

Jon screams brutally, lunging forward. Bill and Frank quickly grasp his arms, stopping Jon again.

Bill: He’s not worth it! He’s just a Limey fuck!

Karab: So says the redneck.

Bill: Why are you even getting involved, Paki?


Frank: Guys.

Jericho: He’s worth ten of you, sunshine!

Bill: My dick is worth ten of you!

Jericho: Your dick is barely equal to my little finger in substance or size!

Bill lunges forward, but Frank stands in front of him.

Frank [Angrily]: GUYS! STOP!

The cellar falls silent as all eyes turn to Frank, savouring this rare moment of him having courage not fuelled by copious amounts of alcohol.

Frank: Look, tonight, we’ll be heading off for more time-travelling shenanigans. We shouldn’t be wasting it doing stupid things like fighting or bickering…In fact, before then, we ought to abandon these stupid groups…and….well, see just who the best mercenary is in this company.

The room remains silent before Phil clears his throat.

Phil: What the fuck are you on about? Isn’t that just even more hostile towards eachother?

Frank: Not if we make it fun!

Dave: What’s the point?

Frank: There’s no point!! Aren’t you guys sick of doing things that have a point? I mean, we had a point going on vacation, but it was shit! We have a point going on missions, but they’re shit! Remember the days when we did things that didn’t have a point? Like…like when Phil was Wolf’s slave for a day because she stole his credit card!

Phil: Don’t remind me.

Frank: Or when Will advertised his Erotica aftershave for those stupid skits?!

Will [Laughing]: Man, I thought that’d really be marketed!...I was fucking pissed when it turned out to be a damn lie.

Frank: Or when we all took part in a Demolition Derby!!! Or when we had a massive brawl in Beale-Walker Square!!!

Joseph: Yeah, I remember that demolition derby. Weren’t we gonna have another one?!

Dean: Man, I wonder whatever happened to our Hotdog Machine..

Phil: Or that giant mechanical spider manned entirely by UFC fighters.

Karab [Shuddering]: Don’t remind me..


The cellar falls silent. Lynch slowly walks forward, clasping a hand on Frank’s right shoulder. He remains silent before he simply lets out a sigh, looking directly into Frank’s eyes.

Lynch [Calmly]: FRANK…fetch me…TEN TURTLES!!!

A huge cheer goes up in the cellar. Frank grins brightly, quickly sprinting up the stairs and out of the cellar. Lynch sits down, slamming his fists on the table.


Another huge cheer goes up.

Dean [Standing up and raising his arms]: THE HOTDOG MACHINE WILL BE TRIUMPHANT THIS TIME!!

Another cheer goes up. The door to the cellar opens and Ken Shamrock, the UFC legend, peers in.

Ken Shamrock [Pointing at Dean]: Just wait until you see what we have in store!

Shamrock disappears, slamming the trapdoor shut. Dean quickly sits down.


Another huge cheer goes up.


A huge cheer goes up, punctuated by the mercenaries jumping to their feet and pumping their fists.

Lynch: Should that…Should that be our battle cry?

Steve: No, it’s Bob’s battle cry.

Lynch: We need a battle cry. Something like “Semper Fi” but…obviously not “Semper Fi”…

The mercenaries sit down, stroking their chins and thinking amongst themselves..


Upstairs, in ReLoaded, Tavi and Stephen are asleep in separate beds in the darkened bedroom. Stephen, occupying Wolf’s now-abandoned bed, quickly opens his eyes

Stephen [Quietly]: Tavi, are you awake?

Tavi: Yep.

Stephen: Could you hear cheering too?

Tavi: Yep.

Stephen: What was it?

Tavi: Idiots. Idiots gathering. Idiots gathering in a pub.

Stephen: Hm. Seems kinda typical for this place.

Tavi: Yep.

Stephen: I’m sure I heard something about hotdog machines.

Tavi: I have no idea what that is. It was before my time.

Stephen: What was it?

Tavi: A Destruction Derby, many moons ago.

Stephen: …Sounds par for the course for them.

Tavi: Mmhm.

Tavi slowly sits up, rubbing her eyes.

Stephen: You going?

Tavi: I’m going to make sure they’re not doing anything stupid.

Stephen: Noble, but ultimately futile.

Tavi: Mm. I know.

Tavi climbs out of bed, walking towards the door.

Stephen: Do you need any help?

Tavi: No, but if you hear any gunshots, it’s just me.

Stephen: Gotcha.

Tavi slams the door shut behind her..


Back in the cellar of the Dog and Handgun, BADASS and ASSHOLES remain sat around the table. Lynch, however, is stood in front of a chalkboard attached to a wooden stand, standing in front of it and tapping his chin with chalk as he looks at some words scrawled on the blackboard.

Lynch: Right, men, so we’ve been thinking for an hour and all we’ve got is…

Lynch steps away from the blackboard, revealing the words “Semper Fin”.

Steve: Genius in its simplicity.

Lynch: It doesn’t even mean anything!!

Phil: Uh, excuse me?! It means ALWAYS….fin.

Dave: Or Forever Fin.

Bob [Snapping his fingers]: I’ve got it…SEMPER TENTACLES!!

Lynch: Bob, we already clarified that ‘Tentacles’ is your thing.

Ken Shamrock: How about “We’re in the Zone”?

Lynch: No, and what are you doing here?

Ken Shamrock [Shrugging]: I’m thirsty.

Conor MacGregor: How about “Fuck Everybody”?

Lynch: No, and what are YOU doing here?!

Conor MacGregor: Same as Shamrock.

Dave Bautista: I’ve got it!

Lynch: Right, celebrities, if you could just fuck off for a second.

Johnny Cash: No.

Lynch sighs, rubbing his eyes before turning around and placing his hands on his hips, looking at the blackboard.

Lynch [Quietly]: There’s gotta be something catchy we can say…

Jericho: Why don’t we just fucking scream?

Lynch: Scream?

Jericho: Yeah. Like a battle cry. Literally just AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Jericho screams to the heavens, breathing heavily after he finishes before sitting down. Lynch rubs his eyes.

Lynch: No.

Vince: How about “HEY SUMISU”?

Lynch: That’s from an anime, isn’t it?

Vince: Monster Musume, to be precise!

Lynch turns around, throwing the chalk at Vince’s head. The chalk bounces off of Vince’s forehead as he yelps, the impact leaving a small welt.


Dean: Now THAT’S a battle-cry I can get behind!


In the Mercenary Academy at the edge of the Sinai Desert, Mother is sat in her office, examining several blueprints. Behind her to the left stands Father, glancing over her shoulder at the blueprints whilst chewing on gum, his arms folded.

Father [Pointing at the blueprints]: Looks like those labs had a unique source of power..

Mother [Quietly]: Mm. I see. Self-contained for each laboratory..

A knock raps out against the door.

Mother: Enter.

The door opens and in walks Antiope.

Mother [Not looking up]: Hello, Antiope.

Antiope: We need to talk.

Mother: Understood. Take a seat.

Antiope sits opposite Mother, who doesn’t bother looking up from the blueprints.

Mother: Speak.

Antiope: I don’t want to work with fucking Callahay. I don’t like MY glory being stolen!

Mother: Callahay and Ghost Company are incredibly important to our cause--

Antiope: Why am I supposed to care?! He’s stealing MY glory!

Mother: He isn’t.

Antiope: He fucking is! We took the Belledonne OURSELVES with very little help from anyone else, and then during our very last mission, you send HIM in and he takes the glory for it!

Mother: You have received credit for the mission--

Antiope [Scoffing]: Oh, wow, a small bump in pay. You spoil me.

Father: Antiope--

Antiope: Oh no you don’t, YOU will listen to ME this time! I am sick of this shit, because it happens CONSTANTLY! On damn near every mission we get put in—WE, not just Spartan Company—the Ghost Company is ALWAYS sent in to clean up the scraps. No, not accompany us: Clean. Up. The. Scraps. This needs to stop right now, before the other companies start to get pissed.

Mother: Antiope, what I assign companies to is none of your business.

Antiope: …Mother, if this carries on, I’m going to take my company and go somewhere else.

Mother falls silent. Father steps forward.

Father: Antiope, don’t--

Antiope: We’re mercenaries. You trained us to be mercenaries. My soldiers follow ME. I can lead them off to, say, Iraq and sell our services to fight against Praying Mantis. We don’t NEED this Academy if we’re just going to be fucked around!! You may have a cult of personality with several of the companies, but not mine!

Father [Coldly]: Hold your tongue, Antiope, lest you need be reminded what happens to dissenters!

Antiope: So fucking shoot me!

Father lunges for the revolver at his hip, but Mother throws up her right arm, stopping him from doing so.

Mother [Coldly]: No. I am not going to stand for this.

Father: For what?

Mother: For you shooting Antiope, William!

Father takes his hand off of the revolver’s handle.

Father: Dissension is something we punish--

Antiope: Try it. Try it and you will have more than fucking dissension: You’ll have a goddamn rebellion. Is that what you REALLY want when the war with Liquid Ocelot is just around the corner? Oh, wait, I forgot…You’re sending the damned Rejects off to fill your pockets.

Mother: Antiope--

Antiope: What are you really planning, Mother?

Mother [Coldly]: Freedom at any cost.

Antiope [Smirking]: I know of the Philosopher’s Legacy, Mother. That’s an awful lot of money. It’s practically enough to fund a government..

Mother: Antiope, get out.

Antiope gets to her feet, glaring at Father who stares back at her. Antiope looks down at Mother, then at Father, before giving a somewhat sadistic smirk, turning around and storming out of the office before slamming the door shut behind her.

Father [Sighing]: All that just because we sent the Ghosts in to clean up some shit..

Mother: …There’s definitely some underlying tension. This isn’t solely about Callahay--

Father [Chuckling]: Don’t even start. It clearly is.

Mother: It is MOSTLY about Callahay, but clearly she has some distrust for us and our motives..

Father: She’s got a point: The Legacy can fund a government.

Mother: It needs to, considering it’s going to fund several.

Father: …Britain, America…Who else?

Mother: We shall see.

Father: You don’t mean..

Mother: Hm?

Father: We’re not rebuilding CANADA?!?

Mother [Scoffing]: Canada is dead and gone, it’s land now covered by factories and its people subjugated beneath the United States. I have no desire to rebuild Canada single-handedly.

Father [Sighing in relief]: Thank fuck..

Mother smirks slightly, examining the blueprints once more as Father wipes his brow..


Back in the basement of the Dog and Handgun, things are a lot less serious. At the rectangular table which ASSHOLES were sat at, three turtles are now stood at the head of the table, with white lines drawn on hastily with chalk to create lines. Lynch is stood behind Bill, Conor MacGregor and Phil, who are holding their turtles down to stop them as they gaze hungrily ahead at leaves of lettuce on the opposite end of the table.

Lynch [Looking around the room]: Alright men, we will now see who the best team truly is: ASSHOLES, BADASS or….celebrities.

Ken Shamrock: It’s us. You don’t need to say anything else.

Lynch: So, let’s start the first trial….The turtle race. Introducing first, the turtle of Team ASSHOLES…Destroyer.

Jon: It looks retarded.

Phil: You’d know for sure.

Jon grimaces, glaring at Phil who smiles back.

Lynch: And the turtle of Team BADASS, DUTHTY!!!!!

Frank: Named after the beloved and much-missed Dusty Rhodes. And his lisp.

Dave: I like how you said that as if the lisp was an entirely separate entity.

Lynch: And finally, the turtle of…Did I hear that right? Team CUNT?

Conor MacGregor: Celebrities Undisturbed by Nasty Twats? Yep, that’s right.

Lynch: And your turtle is…?

Conor MacGregor: Bob Sapp

A short silence follows.

Lynch [Shrugging]: I don’t have anything to say about that.

Dave Bautista: Shall we just begin?

Lynch: Sure….Well…uh…I ain’t firing a pistol in a crowded cellar…

Bill reaches into the back of his jeans, pulling out a loaded M9 Beretta and pointing it at the ceiling.

Bill: I WILL!!

Lynch [Coldly]: If you do, you’ll fucking deafen us.

Bill: And?

Lynch: Want to know what it’s like being blind, deaf and mute? Cause if you fire that gun, I’ll rip out your tongue and teeth and gouge out your eyes before skullfucking you to death.

Bill blinks in shock before slipping the gun back into the rear waistband of his jeans.

Jericho: Aw, I was curious as to how you can skullfuck a man to death.

Conor MacGregor [Unzipping his jeans]: Ere--

Mercenaries [In unison]: NO!!

Jericho: Wasn’t being serious, you mad bastard!

Lynch: Alright, alright….Now…GO!

Lynch punctuates his sentence by banging the table. The mercenaries and celebrities let go of their turtles, who slowly trudge forward towards the leaves of lettuce at the end of the table.

Conor MacGregor: COME ON TEAM CUNT!!!




Ken Shamrock [Angrily]: MOVE IT, SAPP!!!


Johnny: I KNOW, RIGHT?!?!?

Jon: Fuck, I hear footsteps.

Frank: So?! We’re having fun!!

Bill [Practically frothing at the mouth]: OHMYGODCOMEONDUTHTY!!!

The hatch in the ceiling opens and Tavi descends the wooden ladder. While Karab, Dean and Steve stop what they’re doing, the mercenaries and celebrities keep cheering wildly as the turtles slowly make their way across the table.


Dave Bautista: COME ON, SAPP!!!


Tavi walks forward, clearing her throat. Lynch looks over at her.

Lynch: Oh. What do you want?

Tavi: What the actual fuck are you guys doing?

Lynch: Racing turtles!

Tavi sighs, placing her hands on her hips and bowing her head slightly.

Tavi: I’m sure there’s a good explanation for this.

Ken Shamrock: There isn’t. There really isn’t.

Tavi: At least make one up..

Lynch: …Alright.

Lynch gives a shrill whistle, causing the cheering to stop.

Lynch: Men, let’s form…AN EXCUSE!!

The mercenaries and celebrities quickly huddle together, whispering heatedly amongst themselves before breaking the huddle swiftly, turning to Tavi. Dave clears his throat.

Dave: It’s a Jewish ritual…………….Wait a minute, that’s our excuse?! YOU ANTI-SEMITIC BASTARDS!!

Lynch: We could’ve gotten away with it if it wasn’t for that outburst!

Robbie: We’re not Anti-Semites! We have a Jewish friend!

Dave: Wha—We—You bastards! You’re not using THAT as your excuse!!

Tavi [Sighing, shaking her head]: Oh my God..

Tim: It’s not an excuse: It’s the truth!

Dave: Man, fuck you guys! I’m not putting up with this shit!

Lynch: Now we have to come up with another excuse!

Dave: I don’t care, it’s not a Jewish ritual!

Lynch: FINE!...

The mercenaries and celebrities huddle together again, hissing out several ideas amongst themselves before breaking the huddle once more. Dave clears his throat, turning to Tavi.

Dave: It’s a Sikh ritual--

Karab [Rolling his eyes]: Oh, for fucks sake!!

Tavi: GUYS…guys. Just…stop. I get it. I’m going. I’m going..

Tavi sighs, holding up her arms and turning around, walking towards the wooden ladder and climbing up it.

Phil: Must be jelly cause jam don’t shake like that.

Tavi stops midway up the ladder.

Jericho: Phil, you forgot to think that.

Phil: Yeah, I realise my mistake right now.

Lynch: Are you…shaking?

Phil: It’s just the fear.

Tavi slowly descends the ladder, turning around and glaring at Phil.

Connor MacGregor: Shit, mate, you’re gonna die.

Tavi slowly walks over to Phil, looking into his eyes and chewing the inside of her cheek irritably.

Phil: On the plus side, I heard Valhalla’s nice at this time of year.

Jericho: Mate, they won’t be able to put you back together up there.

Phil quickly turns back to Tavi whose vicious look quickly turns into a small smirk before she leans up, pecking his nose quickly.

Tavi [Winking]: Don’t make me fucking kill you.

Tavi slowly turns around, walking back towards the ladder.

Jon: Oh, come on! Hit the stupid cunt!

Phil: Cause you can’t reach, Verne Troyer.

Jon [Angrily, lunging forward]: I’M GONNA FUCKING GUT YOU!!!

Lynch quickly holds Jon back.

Tavi: Why kill him? He’s adorable some days, thinking he’ll get what he can’t even dream of.

Tavi stops suddenly.

Tim: Oh, wait, she’s re-thinking?

Tavi [Cocking her head]: Jon. What’s this?

Tavi points down at a large metal keg. Or, rather, what is presumably supposed to be a keg. Instead, it appears to be the shape of a ball, placed on a makeshift stand consisting of a wooden pallet with a circle cut of it. The keg hisses quietly and somewhat menacingly when the mercenaries fall silent, looking at it.

Jon: Oh, that? It’s just a keg of moonshine.

Dave: I don’t think kegs are supposed to bulge, mate.

Jon: Yes they are.

Dave: Not until they become fully fucking circular!!

Robbie: Does anyone hear a faint hissing?

The cellar falls silent and, sure enough, a faint hissing can be heard from near the keg. Phil walks over to the keg, squatting down and remaining silent for a few seconds before standing up and walking over to the cellar’s ladder.

Phil: If I were you guys, I’d run like I’m about to.

Phil screams, quickly clawing his way up the ladder and through the hatch. He’s quickly followed by everybody else who quickly scrambles up the ladder, desperately trying to escape the impending explosion from the keg.

Jon [Angrily]: OH PISS OFF!!

Jon watches, hands on hips, as the cellar quickly empties. Lynch quickly snatches up all three turtles, climbing up the ladder hastily before bolting away, leaving the hatch open and Jon alone. Jon sighs, shaking his head.

Jon: Suppose I’d better tap it.

Jon squats beside the keg, grasping the plastic cap atop of the keg.

Jon: Now time to see my--

As he wrenches the cap off, the keg explodes, flooding the cellar with moonshine..


Back in Beale Street, Antiope walks into the Lamb and Flag, which is completely empty aside from Dick standing behind the bar. Dick’s head raises when he sees Antiope walk in.

Dick: Antiope.

Antiope: Richie.

Dick: It’s Richard. And it’s not even that: The lads and lasses call me ‘Dick’.

Antiope: How unfortunate that your name matches a generic British insult.

Dick: It’s a sad attempt at humour, yes, but everybody stopped laughing after the ten billionth time it was mentioned.

Antiope: Indeed. Well, I’d like a glass of whiskey please.

Dick: Two shot--

Antiope: No. A glass. Fill it up.

Dick [Smirking, grabbing a glass]: Drinking to forget, are we?

Antiope: Me and Mother had a fight.

Dick: About?

Antiope: Spartan Company’s glory and success being taken by Callahay and Ghost Company, even after we clear the fucking Belledonne and get Mother what she wants.

Dick [Half-heartedly]: That sucks.

Antiope: It certainly does.

Dick: Back when I was a mercenary goon in Lion Company, Commander Ogbeche had the same complaint. He still does to this day. People have just learned to live with it.

Antiope: But why Ghost Company?!

Dick: Honestly? A lot of people think Mother’s Children is Mother’s own hand-picked squadron: They aren’t. They’re just the best from the Academy: Best shooters, most accurate et cetera et cetera. Mother’s own squadron IS Ghost Company.

Antiope [Bluntly]: What?

Dick: You didn’t know? Really?

Antiope; No..

Dick: Mother’s hands are all over that company. Callahay is practically Mother’s own attack dog. Why do you think Ghost Company gets in everywhere? Why do you think they’re either on a mission or brought in at the end of it to clean everything up? It’s because Mother wants them too: They’re her eyes and ears.

Antiope: Explains a lot..

Dick [Pouring Bell’s whiskey into the glass]: Just ignore it, Antiope. Honestly, that’s the only advice I can give you: No amount of complaining or threats will sway Mother on Ghost Company. They’re a bunch of fucking stupid goons but….they’re Mother’s goons, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Antiope: And Father?

Dick [Laughing]: Father hates those cunts!

Antiope: He tried to shoot me when I threatened to leave!

Dick [Setting the glass in front of Antiope]: Be honest….Did you tell him to shoot you?

Antiope: Well, I did say--

Dick: Father always takes that as a challenge. Don’t take it personally.

Antiope: …..So, he hates Ghost Company?

Dick: In Father’s case, his own companies are his personal guards and soldiers. Father’s First and Second Companies are his own special lot. You’ll never see them because they’re always doing his work and are damn proud of doing it.

Antiope [Smirking, taking a drink]: Wish I could be that proud..

Dick: Us Lions are always proud. You’ve gotta be when you’re peeling a flattened mercenary off of tarmac after he failed a parachute jump, or else you just fucking give up. On life. Permanently.

Antiope: You don’t talk much about your own service, do you?

Dick: I’m proud of what I did and nobody asks me. I have no reason to talk about it. Why? Do you want to know?

Antiope: Not really. But…is it why you chose to surround yourself with alcohol?

Dick [Laughing]: What? You think I’m just as emotionally dependent on alcohol as, say, Frank?

Antiope: Are you?

Dick: Nah. In fact, I had a relatively easy time with Lion Company. But, y’know, after ten years they offered me early retirement—cause this was before Ocelot and his shit—as long as I stayed on Beale Street to help new recruits and I took it.

Antiope: Have you helped the Reject Company?

Dick: In the sense that I provide them with goods they want.

Antiope: Why don’t you join them on a mission?

Dick: Cause I’m Lion Company.

Antiope: And? So you were part of a company of combat medics…What? Do Reject Company not get injured? Idiots luck?

Dick: Nope: There’s not enough bandages in the world to heal their boo-boos, love, and I fucking hate filling out paperwork for expenses.

Antiope laughs, taking another drink as Dick walks over to the right-hand side of the bar, squatting down and opening up the glass-washer..


Back in the Dog and Handgun, BADASS, ASSHOLES and CUNT are gathered in the club. Jon and Frank are sat the bar, with Frank watching Jon warily. Brick is stood behind the bar, watching the others who are gathered around the stage normally used for strippers.

Jon [Looking at Frank]: What’choo eyeballing me for?

Frank: I’m getting drunk off of the fumes, man!!

Jon: Try being me. I’ve bathed in bleach and still can’t get the stench out of my skin!

Frank: How the fuck hasn’t your skin been blistered and peeling?!

Jon: Nanomachines.

Frank [Narrowing his eyes]: Oh, fuck you and your deus ex machina.

Jon: Mate, have you tried them? If you inject them directly into your brain you get one hell of a high--

Frank: What the fuck is wrong with you?!

Jon: Nothing. I have seen nirvana AND IT IS FUCKING RAD!!

Frank: And now you’ve been taken back to the eighties with your slang.

Brick: That’s just the nanomachines.

Jon: Leave nanomachines alone! We’re gonna need ‘em for this trial.

Frank [Sighing, turning around]: Why did we agree to this?

Standing on the walkway used by the strippers at the far end is Sal with an apple on his head. Standing opposite him, at the end of the walkway closest to the bar, is Lynch, flipping a throwing axe in his hand. Sal gulps, shaking nervously against the crushed velvet curtain as Lynch eyes him carefully.

Sal: This is a bad idea, guys!

Lynch [Calmly, closing his left eye]: Nah, don’t worry, we BADASS men have great aim!

Sal: I don’t believe you!

Will: Just hold still and don’t move!

Billy: Who came up with the idea of Throwing Axe William Tell anyway?

Lynch: Guess.

Billy turns his head, looking at Ivan who waves back, grinning brightly.

Billy; Yep, that looks about right.


Lynch: Don’t be stupid: William Tell’s the one throwing the axe. You’re…uh..the meat puppet.

Sal: Greeaaaat.

Lynch: Right, so…

Lynch throws the axe. Sal screams before collapsing backwards and through the curtain unconscious, the axe sheering one of the curves off of the apple and slicing through the curtain just to the left of Sal’s head.

Bill [Grimacing]: Almost!

Lynch: He fucking fainted! I would’ve had it if he hadn’t collapsed like a little bitch!

Phil: Nice excuse, buddy, but you lose!

Lynch [Growling]: Fine, who’s YOUR axe thrower?

Fabien: Ze crazy son of a beetch who came up vith it!!

Ivan waves energetically.

Lynch [Crestfallen]: Aw, fuck.

Ivan: But who vill be the meat puppet?

Jon: PHIL.

Phil: Hang on.

Phil walks over to the bar, grabbing a shotglass of moonshine and downing it in one swift gulp. He shudders slightly, his left eye twitching as he snatches up an apple, walking over to the stage.

Lynch: Holy shit, the boy’s on a mission!


Brick: Hey, it’s the good shit!


Jon: It’s paint stripper, let’s face it.

Jericho: Well, who’s going to throw the axe?!

Phil places the apple on top of his head, standing in front of the curtain and holding his arms open.


Dave [Nudging Tim]: Go on.

Tim: What? Why me?

Fabien: Do something stupid for once!

Tim [Somewhat nervously]: What if I miss?

Jon [Laughing]: PLEASE DO!!

Phil: Why are you such a cunt, Jon? I BOUGHT YOU BEER FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY!!

Jon: I own a club, you stupid cunt!! I don’t need more alcohol!

Frank: Everybody needs more alcohol!

Phil: Shut up and throw the axe!

Tim: Are you sure about this?!

Phil: YES!!

Tim throws the axe forwards. It barely skims past Phil’s left cheek, cutting off a significant amount of his beard as he does. Phil grasps his cheek before pulling it away and looking at the palm, examining the sliced hairs.

Jon [Cheering]: Finally, the hairy cunt has gotten a shave!

Phil [Angrily]: DAMMIT, TIM!!

Tim: Hey, it’s a large target!!

Lynch: You needed it!

Phil sighs, shaking his head and pointing over at the group of celebrities standing to the left of the stage.

Phil: Alright, cunts, get up here.

Conor MacGregor: Fuck that shite!

Phil turns around, climbing off of the stage.

Phil: Welp, I ain’t arguing with them.

Ken Shamrock: Get up there, Conor!

Conor MacGregor: Fuck you, old man!

Lynch: So, who won?

Phil: Let’s call it a draw. Unless they’ll be—

Conor MacGregor throws a bottle through the air which bounces off of Phil’s head with a resounding thud.

Brick: That’s a ‘no’, huh?

Phil: That’s a no.

Johnny Cash: So how do we prove that we’re superior to you? In a way that isn’t completely stupid?

Lynch: …I have a plan!

Lynch sprints out of the doors of the Dog and Handgun.

Johnny Cash [Rushing over to the doors]: I SAID IN A WAY THAT ISN’T COMPLETELY STUPID!!


The mercenaries and celebrities are stood outside in the street, in a huddle, looking ahead at a white van. Tavi is sat in the driver’s seat, sitting back and grinning brightly as she stares down the group of men who are standing opposite it, mere feet away.

Johnny Cash: What did I say, Lynch?

Lynch [Shrugging]: it’s the best I could think of at such short notice.

Phil: Y’know, this strikes me as some kind of incredibly bad idea.

Tavi [Grinning]: It’ll test reflexes and speed!!


Tai: That’s the point!! Last team standing wins!!

Conor MacGregor: Shite, am I glad I retired.

Ken Shamrock: Buddy, retirement ain’t gonna save those legs of yours.

Johnny Cash [Smirking]: Looks like we’ve got a challenge..

Tavi: I hope you’re all…ready.

Phil: I’m not.

Tavi: Oh, but you’re the one I’m gunning for.

Phil: Why? Why is it, every so often, you suddenly have this urge to kill me?

Lynch: To be fair to her, it’s not just solely limited to her.

Jon: Yeah, I’m getting that urge right now.

Phil: The feeling’s mutual, shrimp bait.

Jon [Angrily, lunging at Phil]: I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!

Phil: SEE?!?

Tavi revs the engine violently, grasping the gearstick.

Tavi: Oh, but Phil, you do have a chance: It’s manual.

Phil: Tavi, it’s several tonnes of metal. Even ten miles an hour in first gear is going to splatter me across the sand like a jam donut.

Jon: Jelly donut.

Phil: Leave your mother out of this.

Jon lunges angrily at Phil as Ivan laughs, shaking his head.

Tavi: Are you guys…rea--

Before she can even finish the sentence, the entire group disperses into various buildings and alleyways. Tavi shrugs, firing the engine into life and looking around, slowly driving forwards. She turns immediately right, driving through an alleyway between two bombed-out buildings.

Tavi: Where are you, Phil?

Tavi slowly drives through the alleyway, looking around. Jon appears in the alleyway and Tavi reverses quickly.


Jon rolls out of the way and Tavi looks ahead, watching as a metal trash can suddenly sprouts legs and begins to sprint away.

Tavi [In disbelief]: Really, PHIL?!?

Phil: IT’S NOT PHIL, IT’S OSCAR!!          

The trash can disappears out of view to the right of the alleyway’s opening as Tavi quickly drives through the alleyway. She turns the corner, watching as Phil quickly throws the trashcan aside before twisting around, stopping as he sees the van.

Tavi: Phiiiillll…

Phil: Tavi, you DO know you’re supposed to be gunning for everybody equally, right? It’s supposed to test EVERYBODY’S reflexes.

Tavi: And?

Phil: Technically, I’m winning since I’m the only one who has had to dodge the fucking van.

Tavi stops for a moment.

Tavi: Hm, that’s not fun.

Phil: Exactly.

Tavi: Buuuuuuuttttt….

Phil sprints forward, ducking to his right and into the alleyway leading to Beale-Walker Square. Tavi swiftly reverses the van, looking in her rear view mirror as Vince briefly appears.

Vince: Aw shit.

Vince dives to the side as Tavi emerges in Beale Street, spinning to the right and facing up the street. She quickly drives forward, straight towards Frank who has momentarily emerged. Frank screams, standing still for a moment before Lynch charges forward and tackles him out of the way, the van spraying sand across them before braking and twisting left, facing the alleyway into Beale-Walker Square.

Tavi [Sighing]: He’s hiding in there, isn’t he?

Lynch: Who?

Tavi: Phil.

Lynch: Probably. Why?

Tavi: Can’t drive this damn van through the alleyway--

As if on cue, Frank sprints forward through the alleyway, followed by Lynch. Tavi sighs, slapping the steering wheel.

Tavi [Coldly]: Fuck it.

Tavi reverses slightly before turning to the right, aiming down the street. She slams her foot down on the accelerator, the tires screeching and skidding as she shoots forward towards Fabien.

Fabien: Vell, zis is not good.

Fabien quickly dives to the left, out of the way of the van as it speeds forward. From the roof of the Dog and Handgun, Brick and Jon watch on.

Jon: That bloody furry psycho is gonna hit a building if she’s not careful..

Brick: Should we care?

Jon: Did YOU insure our building with Mother?

Brick suddenly looks crestfallen.

Brick: What’s insurance?

Jon [Leaning over the roof and pointing towards Beale-Walker Square, yelling]: GO THAT WAY! GO THAT WAY!

Tavi quickly spins the van around, facing the Dog and Handgun at an angle. Conor MacGregor, standing in the doorway, quickly slams the doors shut as Tavi revs the engine.


Jericho quickly rushes out of the Dog and Handgun, but stops as Tavi revs her engine threateningly.

Jericho: I wish I had found a better place to hide.

Bill [Peering over Jericho’s shoulder]: me too!

Tavi [Cocking her eyebrow]: How many of you are in there?

Johnny Cash’s Voice: JUST THOSE TWO!!

Tavi gives a twisted grin, revving the engine threateningly.


Lynch peers out from behind the wall in the alleyway of Beale-Walker Square.

Lynch: NO IT’S NOT!!

Phil quickly rushes out of the alleyway towards his house, but Tavi’s head snaps towards him, glaring at him. Phil catches sight of her, freezing suddenly.

Phil: Oh. Bollocks.

The area falls silent as the sound of crunching sand echoes throughout the area. The mercenaries look up the street, watching as the petite form of Courtney strolls down the street, brushing her long hair and rolling her eyes.

Jericho: Oh God, it’s Courtney.

Courtney simply walks past the mercenaries, not paying attention as she does and heads towards the end of the street.

Phil: Tavi, if you hit her, I’ll give you five dollars!

Tavi: Don’t you miss her?

Phil: I have, but you’re in a van so you’re sure not to miss.

Jon: Can’t we just throw rocks at her? Rocks hurt.

Tavi [Snorting]: And what do you guys hate about her?

Jon: Full of herself.

Jericho: Full of herself.

Ivan: American……..Full of herself.

Dave: Only came back cause her stupid hometown got razed by Albano.

Bill: It wasn’t even personal!...Son of a bitch has moved on to New Mexico now.

Phil: Is he just trying to make the United States his? Because that’s how you overextend.

Bill: That was always Albano’s plan, wasn’t it? “THE US SHALL FALL TO ME!!!”

Phil: Maybe we should’ve taken that seriously.

Jericho: Nobody could’ve seen it coming.

Billy: Tennessee certainly didn’t.

Tavi revs the engine violently, but the mercenaries are too distracted. Tavi sighs, placing her elbow on the edge of the window and shaking her head.

Tavi: Well, it was exciting, but let’s face it: I’m only gunning for one of you.

Phil: WE KNOW!

Lynch [Sighing]: Right, we need a sure-fire way of testing dominance….

Conor MacGregor: A fight in the Octagon--

Bill: No fucking chance.

Lynch [Snapping his fingers]: I’ve got it! Follow me!

Lynch rushes into the Lamb and Flag as the others simply watch. Tavi revs the accelerator of the van, leaning over the steering wheel and smiling sweetly.

Tavi: I suggest you follow him, guys.

Phil quickly rushes down the street and towards the Lamb and Flag but screams and begins to sprint up the street as the van begins to accelerate towards him. The mercenaries and celebrities shrug, shaking their heads and walking out of the Dog and Handgun and into the Lamb and Flag next dioor..

**The Lamb and Flag – Half an Hour Later**

The Lamb and Flag is bustling with activity, with most of the mercenaries squashed into the relatively small bar and the air thick with the scent of sweat and the sound of talking. The only notable absences are Brick and Jon, who are presumably in the Dog and Handgun, as well as Will, whom we can only assume is in The Oasis close by. The doors are quickly opened, swinging shut behind Phil who stumbles in, doubled over and panting heavily.

Lynch: Phil! Finally joined us?!


Frank: Well, you could use the exercise.

Phil [Panting]: Man, fuck you! You should try that shit!

Lynch: He’s got a point, y’know.

Tavi strolls in behind Phil, grinning brightly and patting him on the back as she walks past him.

Tavi: Wow, Phil, you really do look pathetic.

Phil: You’d know!

Tavi stops, scowling violently as Frank laughs loudly. Tavi shoots a deathly glare at Frank who gulps, quickly changing the subject.

Frank: Anyway, now that he’s here…Are we going to start the next competition?

Lynch looks around the pub.

Lynch: We’re already doing it.

Frank: Doing what?

Lynch: Well, the next stage is..A DRINKING COMPETITION!!

Robbie: This is unfair! Frank clearly has the advantage!

Lynch: A drinking competition is a time-tested way to show your supremacy over your fellow man!!

Tavi [Laughing]: And men wonder why women are taking over their roles!

Johnny Cash: It’s not a competition, is it? We’re just forgetting this shit and having a drink.

Lynch: ……………Pretty much.

Johnny Cash: I’ll drink to that!

Tavi [Sighing, shaking her head]: Whatever..

Tavi walks over to a table close to the toilets, sitting with Stephen alone. Over at the table closest to the bar, Billy, Vince, Sal, Dave and Robbie are sat around it, together with Vince’s pleasure-bot, which Billy is eyeing nervously.

Billy: Vince, man, why do you have that thing with you?

Vince: She’s a great companion!

Dave: I admire how you have a great mind to be able to do shit like this…..and then you waste it…ON SHIT LIKE THIS.

Vince: It’s not a waste!

Robbie: It is. It truly is.

Vince: Well, I love her and she loves me too. Isn’t that right, Washu?

Washu-Bot: Sure!

Dave: I like how she doesn’t even sound sure!...Why am I calling it ‘she’?!

Vince: Accept it!

Sal [Sighing]: Enough to make a man weep.

Bob squeezes past the table, sitting at the table to the left with Johnny, Tim and Bill.

Bob: I see Vince brought in the robot.

Bill: Somebody’s gotta shoot it.

Lynch carefully squeezes through the tables, walking towards the table where Moe and Maurice, both representing ASSHOLES and seemingly the only ones concerned with such a competition, are sitting opposite Conor MacGregor and Ken Shamrock, a line of shots lined up horizontally in front of them. Moe and Maurice each grab a shot, downing them simultaneously and slamming the glasses down.

Maurice: Go on, lads.

Moe and Maurice glare angrily across at MacGregor and Shamrock who both down their shots.

Ken Shamrock: Your turn.

Moe [Angrily]: Dammit, why are we the only ones doing this competition?

Maurice: Cause the bloody BADASS lads have pussied out!

Lynch: Tactical withdrawal, mate.

Moe sighs, grasping the shotglass of vodka and cricking his neck from side to side before swiftly downing it, slamming the glass down and wincing.

Moe: I’ll be blind tonight!

Conor MacGregor: If you’re lucky.

Ken Shamrock: Conor here will end up lying in a pile of blow.

Maurice: So a normal Friday night, then?

Conor MacGregor: I resent that remark.

Moe: You resemble that remark!

Ken Shamrock: He will in a few hours.

Conor MacGregor: Where the hell am I gonna get coke in this fucking desert?

Maurice: The same place we get alcohol: Cairo.

Conor MacGregor’s face brightens. Phil takes his drink from the bar, walking over to a table with Jericho, Ivan, Steve and Bill.

Phil: Place is rocking tonight.

Jericho: As much as it can.

Phil: Where’s your lass anyway?

Jericho: Still in the bungalow. She hates this place.

Phil: Ghost lass is no fun.

Jericho: She’s not a ghost anymore, dammit!

Phil: ……Suddenly, an ominous feeling chills my bones.

Jericho: SHE’S. NOT. A. GH—

Phil: SHUT UP! Are those…drums and bagpipes I can hear?

From nowhere, a melodious voice starts singing.

Singing: In southern Glasgow he was born!
With the name of David Ross!
Inspired by those who'd fought before,
He took a pen as strong as a sword!

Phil's eyes slowly widen.

Phil: Oh fuck me.

Singing: First was Wallace then came Bruce
Bonnie Prince and many more
Mounted on his two-wheeled horse
Riding every single road

Phil: Whenever someone is introduced with a theme song, that is BAD FUCKING NEWS!

Lyrics: Down to London he did march!
To pay tribute to the great hero!
An epic journey to Smithfield!

Lynch: What the FUCK is that?

Frank: I don’t like it, whatever it is.

The doors to the Lamb and Flag are suddenly booted open as a stocky, bald man stands there. Hands on hips, the figure strolls forward, a blue, black, green and white plaid kilt flowing around his knees and a white t-shirt moulded tightly to his body as he looks around. The figure rubs a missing, scabbed eye in his skull, the other eye, a pale green, glancing around at the pub which has swiftly fallen silent.

Figure [Mumbling]: Goddamn. Sight for a sore eye.

Phil [In disbelief]: DAD?!?!

Figure [Grinning brightly]: HELLO, SON!

The figure slowly walks forward, stopping beside the bar and looking over at Ivan.

Ivan: Uh, hi?

The figure walks up to Ivan, grasping his shoulders and looking down into his eye.

Figure: Boo.

The figure releases his shoulders and turns around. Ivan collapses backwards, splaying out. Dick looks on ahead in disbelief.

Dick: ….David? David Ross?!

David Ross [Grinning]: ‘Ey up, Dicky. Gimme a pint.

Dick: A pint. Alright.

David Ross: And none of that Carling shit! Break out the good stuff!

Dick: You know it, Dave! Innis and Gunn, coming up!

David Ross [Slapping the bar]: Good lad! [Looking to his right at Lynch] ‘Ey up, mate. You’re the Coach here, right? Lynch?

Lynch: Yep.

David Ross looks over his shoulder at the pub, then over at Frank, then back at Lynch.

David Ross: Sorry, mate.

Lynch [Smirking]: Eh, there’s good job security.

The doors fly open once more as a new figure strolls in, clad in a black trenchcoat with a white dress shirt, black trousers and black leather dress shoes. Whipping off a pair of leather gloves and running his hand through cropped brown hair, he lets out a deep sigh. Behind him emerges a taller bald man, with arms and a chest as thick as trunks and a crisp brown goatee around his mouth. The balder figure looks around, unzipping a desert camouflage track top and tossing it aside, revealing a white wife-beater which, paired with his jeans, cuts an even more imposing figure than David Ross.

Bald Figure [In a thick Southern accent]: THIS IS THE FUCKIN' BAR?!

The entire pub falls silent. The figure in the black trenchcoat slaps the bald man violently around the back of the head.

Second Figure [Angrily, in a Northern English accent]: OI! CUNT! IT'S A PUB! NOT A BAR!

Dick [Eyes widening]: Oh fucking hell, Rick and Michael are here.

The second figure walks over to the bar, slamming his hands down.

Second figure [Bluntly]: Dick. Carlsberg. Right fucking now.

Dick: ..Sure, Micky. Sure.

Jericho [In shocked disbelief]: DAD?!?!?!

The figure looks over his shoulder, grinning when he sees his son’s wide eyes.

Michael Kingston: Aye, it's me, yeh little gobshite.

The bald figure, Rick, walks into the bar, turning right, walking behind Bill who remains sat at his table, frozen as a statue. Rick simply drapes the track top over Bill's entire head, looking down at him.

Rick: Son. The chair.

Bill [Gulping]: SORRY, SIR!

Bill shoves the chair away, quickly scuttling to the left and out of it as Rick Sykes sits down in it, reaching up and pulling his track top from Bill's head, glaring coldly across the table at Mustafa.

Rick Sykes [Pointing]: ..I know you.

Mustafa: Mustafa Kgosi. Mercenary mechanic.

Rick Sykes [Smirking]: Yeah, you fixed up my quad bikes a year ago.

Mustafa: They still running well?

Rick Sykes: Like a dream.

Frank: Can somebody tell me just what the HELL is going on?!?!

The pub falls silent. Michael Kingston, having just been handed his glass, drains it down in two gulps before walking past Lynch and over to Frank, smashing the empty pint glass over his head. Frank’s left eye twitches as Michael belches, walking past Lynch and looking down at Ivan who has since sat up.

Michael Kingston: ‘Ey up, lad! Finally awake?

Ivan: Da.

Michael Kingston: Russki, eh? Must be Ivan!

Ivan: Da.

Michael Kingston: Concussed, mate?

Ivan: Nyet.

Michael Kingston: THAT’S THE SPIRIT!

Jericho: What the hell are you lot doing here?

David Ross: Mother’s orders. There’s gonna be a lot more papa bears showing up soon.

Bob: Well…that’s not good.

Dave: Anybody have a dead father? To spare us from complete and total annihilation?

A murmuring of disagreement rolls across the pub.

Sal [Raising his arm]: I do.

Mustafa: My father was killed a long time ago, fighting poachers.

Rick Sykes: Must’ve been a bloody tough man.

Eligio: Mine is still alive!....Wait.

The doors are suddenly shoved open as a young-ish Hispanic male strolls in, wearing a white vest, jeans and jet black hair slicked back. The figure glances around before his eyes settle on Eligio, his eyebrows cocking before he gives a smug grin and walks over to the bar.

Figure: Hola, amigos!

Eligio [Eyes widening]: Fuck.

David Ross: Alberto Martinez! How goes it, mate?

Alberto Martinez [Strolling over]: This damned heat is killing me. These boys are tasked with protecting the Suez?!

David Ross: Aye.

Alberto Martinez [Laughing loudly]: I guess they were hoping they’d die in this damned heat!

Michael Kingston: The heat’s really bugging you, eh? Dressed like a fuckin’ stripper.

Alberto Martinez [Ripping off his vest]: NOW I am!

Dick: Aw, come on man, we’re trying to keep it classy in here!

Alberto Martinez: Are those your members of staff having a drinking contest with Ken Shamrock and Conor MacGregor?

Dick: I said ‘trying’, not ‘succeeding’.

The doors fly open and an overweight man, wearing a sleeveless red flannel shirt, jean shorts and a camouflage baseball cap, stumbles in, scratching his chest-length red beard roughly.

Michael Kingston: Well, Schmicker’s here.

Papa Schmicker: WHOO-WHEEE!! WHERE’S MY BOY?!?!

Phil: Next door in the Dog and Handgun.

Papa Schmicker laughs loudly, walking into the bar.

Papa Schmicker: [Pointing over at Michael Kingston]: FUCK ‘IM, I WANNA BE WITH THE BOYS! MICKY, YOU LITTLE BASTARD! THERE YOU ARE!

Michael looks over his left shoulder, laughing slightly as David jogs over and slaps him roughly on the back, standing beside him before pointing at Dick and slapping the bar.

Michael Kingston: DICK! A Stella for me, and another Carlsberg for this little shit!

Dick: Stone? Drinking Carlsberg? Good God, he really will drink anything.

The entire pub remains still.

Lynch [Quietly]: Stone? Really?!

Rick Sykes [Looking over]: Stone, you not going to say hi to me?!

Stone twists around, opening his arms.

Stone Schmicker [Laughing]: RICK! Man, we're all getting here, huh?!

The doors are kicked open with such force that the left hand door snaps off of its upper hinge, leaning precariously as it hangs there: A figure walks in. With short grey hair and a thick covering of stubble outlining a wrinkled, tired-looking face, the figure appears shorter, and slightly thinner, than his counterparts. His cold, grey eyes, however, give him a look so piercing that it could outright stab someone caught in its gaze. Dressed in a drab grey sweater and khaki cargo pants tucked into black boots, the figure strolls in, glaring ahead before turning his head to David Ross.

Figure: David.

David Ross [Grinning brightly]: Ey-up, Kieran. Good to see you're alive.

Figure: More than can be said for Johnston.

David Ross [Grin fading slightly]: Aye, poor cunt. Where's his son?

David Ross twists around before pointing at Sal who screams, diving under the table.

Figure [Darkly]: Just like him.

Rick Sykes: Get up, you chickenshit yellowbelly! You didn't even go to the funeral!

Sal whimpers quietly. Rick gets to his feet, but the figure simply places a hand on Rick's right shoulder.

Figure: Don't.

Steve: Papa.

Kieran Llarec-Barrett looks over at Steve, giving a tiny nod.

Kieran Barrett: Son.

Stone Schmicker: KIERAN!!!

Kieran Barrett [Smirking]: Stone….Where’s your son?

Stone Schmicker: Next door. Runs his own strip club CAUSE MY BOY MADE SOMETHIN’ OF HIS LIFE!!!

Rick Sykes: Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Stone. Your son didn’t learn to count to three until he was seven.

David Ross: And my son didn’t learn to breathe til he was two!

Phil quickly jolts to his feet, vaulting straight over to the table and twisting to the door, sprinting forward. David Ross twists around and steps out into the open floor, holding his right arm. Phil leaps forward, dropkicking his own father in the chest and hitting the floor. David Ross stumbles back slightly before Phil scrambles up.


David Ross [Smirking]: You oughta fucking be.

Stephen begins breathing harder, his free hand clutching his chest as Phil reaches to the bar, grasping his fathers empty bottle of Stella and smashing it off of the bar, shoving the broken end towards his father.


David Ross: Finally! Some fucking balls! You are my son after all!

Phil blinks, slowly dropping the bottle.

Phil: ..What?

David Ross: Too slow, son.

Phil [Bluntly]: Fuck.

David Ross lunges forward with a right cross jab, nailing Phil in the side of his temple and sending him collapsing to the floor, splayed out.

Dick: Yeah, that did not look pleasant.

Frank: ...Well, this is nice.

Kieran Barrett [Calmly]: This is what you become when you're older. Take note, and take warning.

Phil slowly sits up, rubbing the side of his head.

David Ross: Didn't say you could sit up.

Phil: I'll do what I want, old man. It's not like you were there for much of my childhood anyway.

David Ross: Cheeky bastard.

Rick Sykes: None of us were. We had to save the world.

Bill: Saving the world required drinking a six pack every night, eh?

Rick Sykes [Laughing coldly before frowning]: Shut the fuck up, son. I don’t see you being any better.

The doors open once again and a smaller figure with a blonde ponytail walks in, wearing a black wifebeater and jeans, chewing a toothpick. The figure strokes their blonde goatee, looking around the pub.

Rick Sykes: My God, did a trailer park eat you and shit you out?

Figure: Screw off, Rick.

David Ross [Bluntly]: Are Jew kidding me?

Figure: Fuck off, Dave.

The figure walks beside Kieran, placing his elbows on the bar and leaning forward.

Dick: Blimey, and now we've got Thomas Jackscar.

David Ross: Jackscar. Traditional fuckin' Jewish name.

Thomas Jackscar [Impatiently]: Cause they don't have fuckin' deed polls in England?! Stupid fuck. Better than my old fuckin' family name.

Michael Kingston: Yeah, but don't see me renaming myself Michael Punchface, or Michael Fuckscar or--

Thomas Jackscar: Shut. The fuck. Up. Anything's better than Lowenstein.

The head of every mercenary snaps towards Dave.


Stone Schmicker: Shut up.

Dave [Whimpering]: Sorry.

Stone Schmicker: Jackscar though? Boy, that’s stupider than facin’ a rabid hog with your pants down.

Thomas Jackscar: How?

Stone Schmicker falls silent.

Dick: Right, any more of you old bastards yet to show up?

Michael Kingston: Yeah, there’s a few more of us, all on Mother’s orders!

The doors are thrust open suddenly as a haggard, middle-aged man walks in, wearing desert camouflage fatigues with the odd addition of snakeskin cowboy boots.

David Ross: Caleb Manguel!

Caleb Manguel: David. Where’s my son?

Dean: He runs the Dog and Handgun next door.

Caleb Manguel [Taking off his belt and snapping it]: I’ll be right back.

Rick Sykes: I forgot his kid still owes him five bucks from when he left.

Caleb leaves the pub, slamming the doors shut behind him.

Samuel: I would hate to be in Jon’s shoes right now.

Billy: Y’know, the good thing about me Da being a drunken bum is that he won’t be here.

The doors swing open once more.

Maurice [Walking out from the kitchen]: Dick, will yeh fix the fuckin’ squeaking?!

Dick: I can’t help it! All of these assholes keep walking in!

The figure that strolls in is none other than James Wallace, no more clean shaven and no less haggard than he was sailing across the Moray Firth with Billy. James is, strangely enough, clad in full desert fatigues, complete with combat boots and dogtags over his jacket.

James: Billy.


James [Laughing]: You cheeky cunt!......It did help, mind.

Billy sighs, shaking his head and slamming it down against the table.

Thomas Jackscar: Your boy doesn’t look too happy to see you.

James Wallace: He bloody should be! I’m here to protect his damn town!

Billy: By drinking it into poverty?!

The doors open once again and a somewhat short but stocky figure strolls in, wearing a black leather jacket and jeans. The figure flicks his dark brown ponytail over his shoulder, looking around. Vince’s head suddenly snaps towards the door, eyes widening.

Vince: Daddy?

David Ross: Bloody hell, Stephen LaMarr.

Stephen [Nodding]: Sup. Where's my son?

Vince stands up.

Vince: DADDY!

Stephen grabs his jacket, ripping it off and revealing a "Washu Is My Waifu" t-shirt.

Sal: Okay, now this is just fucking insanity.

Stephen [Angrily, pointing at Vince]: YOU LITTLE FUCK! WASHU IS MY WAIFU! [Flexing] SKADOOSH!!

The arms and chest of Stephen's shirt rips violently, revealing he is a lot more muscular, ripped and generally more in-shape than his son. Vince gulps, his eyes widening.

Vince: Please don't hurt me, papa.

Rick: Fuck him up, Steve.

Stephen roars violently, stomping over to Vince's table and grabbing him by his collar, lifting him into a military press position and throwing him into the wall to the right of the bar, sending him smashing into the exposed back as he flops down to the floor lifelessly.


David Ross: Assholes been eating his spinach.

Stephen grabs the Washu-bot, slinging her over his shoulder and storming out of the pub.

Jericho: This cannot get any worse.

Steve: At all.

Tavi: Why are you saying that?

Jericho: Fuck fate, I just want to get it out of the way: This simply cannot, in any way, get worse!

As the doors swing shut behind Stephen, they swing open and a middle-aged man slowly walks forward, a glint in his tired brown eyes and a grin on his chiselled, stubble-ridden face. He unzips his brown leather jacket, looking over at Dean and Samuel and opening his arms.

Dean [Eyes widening]: Dad?!

Jericho: I thought he was on a hunting trip, and wouldn't be back for a few days?

Alberto Martinez: John’s here!

John Chevrolet [Smiling]: My boys..

Phil: Fuck it. I'm out.

Phil storms past John, shoving the doors open and walking out of the pub.

Jericho: Seems like that's one too many coincidental appearances of vaguely similar fictional characters for ol' Phil.

David Ross: BOY, WHERE ARE YOU—Ah, leave him. Nice to see the gangs here!

Thomas Jackscar: I’ll agree to that one.


Lynch steps outside into the cold dusk of the desert, lighting up his cigar. He looks over his shoulder at the doors of the Lamb and Flag, shaking his head and sighing before stepping forward and taking a drag  of his cigar. Blowing out a cloud of smoke, his head snaps to the left as he sniffs loudly.

Lynch: I smell petunias. Mother?

From between the Lamb and Flag and the Half Moon, Mother slowly walks out, hands clasped behind her back as she chuckles quietly.

Mother: Am I that much of a creature of habit?

Lynch: Nah, everyone knows what your perfume smells like. Some say that our men can no longer walk through a field of flowers without getting PTSD.

Mother: Good.

Lynch [Nodding towards the Lamb and Flag]: ….So.

Mother: How do you like your new security detail?

Lynch: I’m smoking. I tried to quit two years ago. What does that tell you?

Mother: They’re not that bad, are they?

Lynch sighs, making a ‘come hither’ motion to Mother using his right index finger before twisting around and thrusting the doors open, walking into the pub. Mother follows closely behind, watching as Stephen nervously walks up to the bar. Michael Kingston twists his head to the left, looking at him.

Michael Kingston: What is this?

Stephen: ....Uhh..hello...m-my name i--

Michael Kingston slowly raises his right hand, placing his index finger over Stephen's lips.

Michael Kingston: Be quiet, child. It was rhetorical.

Tavi [Angrily]: EXCU--

Michael Kingston: You can be quiet, too. I'm surprised any of you are still alive after what we saw.

Tavi and Stephen fall silent.

Kieran Llarrec-Barrett: Some say it drove David to drink.

Thomas Jackscar: Bullshit! Waking up drives Davey to drink!

David Ross: Fuck off, the lot of yeh!

Tavi [Quietly]: …And what did you see?

Michael looks at Tavi, remaining oddly straight-faced.

Michael Kingston [Suddenly serious]: You think you want to know, but you don’t. I can assure you of this: You really, really don’t.

Tavi: I do--

Michael Kingston: Then ask Mother. If she is willing to give you the answer, she will, but I’m not. I don’t think you’re ready for it. I don’t think you’ll ever be ready for it.

David Ross: Ever seen a human without skin--


David Ross: We all saw that shit, mate.

Stephen: Without ski--

Michael Kingston: Forget what I said, alright?

David Ross: Ever seen a bag of wet hair that isn’t actually a ba--

Michael Kingston [Angrily]: GODDAMMIT DAVE, WHAT DID I JUST SAY?!

David Ross [Hastily]: Sorry, I thought you were finished!

Michael sighs, turning away from Tavi and back to the bar.

Michael Kingston: Double whiskey, Dick.

David Ross [Quietly, aside to Tavi]: Considering Mother’s just sent several shock troopers into the Belledonne? I’d ask her sooner rather than later.

Tavi: What do you mean?

David Ross: Well, she knows about as much as we do. But I’m guessing she now knows more, considering that the Belledonne is where……Just ask Mother, alright? She’s right over there.

David Ross grins, waving to Mother who raises her hand in acknowledgment. Tavi gulps, flustered, and quickly turns away. The doors fly open and Lynch and Mother quickly step to the left. A tall figure with cold, blue eyes and a mop of blonde hair walks in, wearing a black t-shirt, jeans and combat boots. Clasping his hands behind his back, he grins brightly, looking around the pub.

Robbie [Looking up before looking down]: Fuck.

Kieran Llarrec-Barrett: Heinrich! Great to see you!

Heinrich Steinhatten: Guten arben, Kieran! How are you?

Kieran Llarrec-Barrett: Doing good. Doing good..Here to see your son?

Heinrich Steinhatten: Indeed!

Robbie instinctively rises to his feet, kicking his chair out from behind him and saluting. Heinrich Steinhatten smirks, walking over with his hands clasped behind his back.

Heinrich Steinhatten: Son, are you still interested in Axis weaponry?

Robbie: ...Well, yea--

Heinrich Steinhatten slaps Robbie roughly around the cheek.


Mother: Heinrich Steinhatten. Well-trained and a veteran in GSG-Nine. Surprising his son followed a different path entirely.

Heinrich Steinhatten grabs Robbie, shoving him backwards onto his chair and sitting between Dave and Vince, glaring at Robbie.

Robbie: …D-Dad?


Vince slowly shuffles away from Heinrich, before Stephen LaMarr clasps his hands down onto his sons shoulders.

Stephen LaMarr: Stay, son.

Vince: Where’s my Washu-bot?!

Stephen LaMarr: In a better place.

Dave: Hell?

Stephen LaMarr: Boy, we’re already in hell.

Dave: I hear that!

Moe: Hell. Nah, we’re in more than hell right here. We’re in the horrendous, clawing throes of the very personification of Hades himself. We are the men who stare down death on a daily basis for very little money, watching as our humanity slowly ebbs away until the day we are forced to confront the real monsters….OURSELVES!

The bar falls silent, turning and looking at Moe who hiccups.

Maurice: Er, lad—

Moe [Narrowing his eyes, looking at Shamrock]: I told you the absinthe was a step too far.

Moe hiccups again, clutching his head and slumping back in his seat.

Ken Shamrock: Isn’t it always?

The doors open once more as a hulking, tall, bald figure walks in. Ivan looks over his shoulder, smirking slightly before turning back to the bar.

Ivan: Hello, Dad.

Boris Hellgenstrand: Good to see you’re still alive.

Ivan and Boris hug eachother tightly before Boris pulls away, turning to the bar.

Boris Hellgenstrand: Dick! A drink for me and my boy!

Lynch [Shutting the door]: Wow. They’re actually nice to eachother.

Mother: Well, Ivan does have to take a daily boost of nanomachines to stop his cancer from killing him and to stop his neurons from degenerating completely. Boris is thankful his son is alive.

Boris wraps an arm around Ivan’s shoulder, pulling him close.

Phil: Aw, they’re like identical twins. Except Ivan’s six feet and this guy’s seven feet. Maybe eight.

Rick Sykes: Seven feet of pure Russian badass is what he is!

Jericho: Is Frank’s Dad gonna show up?!

Dave: Frank wasn’t born: He just showed up in a brewing vat one day.

Frank: The drunk jokes really aren’t getting any funnier, guys.

Eligio [Quietly]: This shit can’t get any worse.

Joseph Stone: At least my father isn’t here.

Mustafa: Tempting fate, aren’t you?

Joseph Stone: I just want to get it out of the way.

Bobby: Does That Other Random Guy even have a father?

Joseph Stone [Scowling]: Fuck you. Of course I do.

Eligio: But…does FRANK?!

Frank [Sighing darkly]: Shut up.

Bill: C’mon--

Frank: I don’t have a Dad, alright?

Stephen LaMarr: Then how were you born?

Frank [Coldly]: My. Dad’s. Dead. He died when I was five.

The pub falls silent.

Maurice: Bloody ‘ell, that’s a mood killer.

Lynch [Quietly, to Mother]: Well I’ll be….We now know why he drinks so much!

Mother scowls and Lynch sighs, slowly treading over to Frank and slapping a hand on his right shoulder.

Lynch: Alright, I think you haven’t had enough to drink. Dick, what’ll erase these wounds?

Dick [Looking at Frank, then at Lynch]: A father who died in childhood? There’s not enough alcohol in the world for that.

Lynch: ….Just get him some Monkey Shoulder. Straight.

Dick: Monkey Shoulder?! This isn’t a bloody hipster pub!

Lynch: I know you keep a bottle beneath the bar.

Dick sighs, squatting down and standing back up with a bulbous bottle of Monkey Shoulder before slamming a tumbler down onto the bar.

Dick: You’re fucking lucky I like you.

Tavi: Not one to hop into the pity party but I feel you, Frank.

Frank [Solemnly]: He was an alright pa from what I remember. That being said…can’t remember much.

Dick pours the whiskey and Frank quickly grasps the glass, taking a sip.

Dick: I don’t know why you’d drink it straight. It’s best off in a goddamn Godfather or something—And don’t you dare ask me to make you a cocktail or I will leap over this bar and break you in half.

Lynch [Laughing]: Alright, alright!

The doors open once more as the heaving pub begins to get agonisingly figure, a new figure strolling in. Quite skinny and fairly tall, with a shock of matted brown hair on his scalp and wearing desert camouflage fatigues, the pale skin and bottle green eyes ensure that he is recognisable as one mercenaries father for sure:

Bob [Looking over his shoulder]: Dad!

Cole Benito: Son.

Bob: Dad.

Cole: Son.

Bob: Dad.

Cole: Son.

Bob: What do you want, Dad?

Cole: Son.

Bob: DA--

Cole [Grinning, pointing at Bob]: Made’ja shout.

Bob grimaces, sighing and putting his head in his hands. Cole strolls in, taking a seat beside his son and looking around.

Cole: Stevie!

Stephen LaMarr: Coley!

Cole: Gangs all here, huh—Heinrich!

Heinrich: Guten arben, Cole.

Cole: Goddamn, we all got the call, huh?

Thomas Jackscar: We certainly did.

Eligio: How’s it going, Joey?

Joseph [Coldly]: Fuck off. I’ll always be That Other Random Guy.

Bobby: Not to us, you won’t.

Eligio: Because we no longer have--

Mustafa and Marcos glare sharply at Eligio who clears his throat, raising his glass.

Eligio: More tequila?

Mustafa [Bluntly]: Yes. More.

Joseph Stone: I’m guessing my Dad never get the memo.

Bobby: Neither did mine, apparently.

Almost on cue, the doors fly open and a seven feet behemoth, with a torso as thick as a tree with a neck to match, slowly lumbers through the door. With a bald head, a curled moustache and wearing a black wifebeater alongside desert camouflage pants, it’s easy to see that the figure is the spitting image of Bobby, albeit taller and somehow more bulky.

Michael Kingston: Well, if ain’t Truly Terrifying Tommy.

Karab: Oh fuck off.

Truly Terrifying Tommy: ‘Lo, lads.

Bobby: ‘Ey up, Dad.

Tommy sits beside Bobby, squeezing between him and Mustafa.

Truly Terrifying Tommy: ‘Lo, Rick.

Rick Sykes: Tommy! How’ve you been?

Tommy: Good, you?

Frank: I like how ‘Truly Terrifying Tommy’ is quite nice.

Cole Benito: Just don’t get him angry or you will see how he earned his epiphet.

David Ross: Epiphet? Ya posh bastard!

Cole Benito: This is only my first drink, Dave!

Johnny: Wish my Dad was here.

Dave: No, you don’t. You really don’t.

Tim: You really don’t, Johnny.

Johnny: …Yeah, good point.

Tim: I mean, he WAS an abusive alcoholic--

Johnny: I know!

Robbie: He would’ve fit--

Heinrich clears his throat loudly. Robbie sighs, continuing to look at his father who remains locking eyes with him.

Joseph Stone: Seriously, did my Dad just not get the memo?

Tommy: Joseph? Ian’s little lad?

Joseph Stone: That’s me.

Tommy: He’s caught up in traffic.

Joseph Stone [Sighing]: We’re in the middle of the fucking desert!!! How can one get caught up in traffic?!

Tommy [Laughing]: He’s taking a camel.

Joseph Stone: And--

Tommy: He’s stuck behind a goddamn Indian elephant.

Alberto Martinez: Ah-ha! I see!

Bobby: ‘Scuse me, the fuck did you say?!

Tommy: An elephant.

A grin creeps across the face of Rick Sykes as he pushes his chair away and bolts over to the door, opening it and peering outside.

Bill: If he’s happy, we’re fucked.

Tommy [Laughing]: Man, Ian’s gonna be pissed.

Rick Sykes: Look, Dalip’s comin' with his fuckin' elephant!

The lights of the Lamb and Flag are blotted out as every mercenary rushes over to the windows, looking out as the elephant slowly marches forward. Karab, flanked by Sal, Phil, Bob and Frank, rushes out of the Lamb and Flag, watching in awe as the elephant slowly comes to a stop.

Sal: Aww, that is not good.

The elephant lets out a thunderous trumpet of its trunk. Karab whimpers quietly.

Phil: Ah shit.


Karab slowly gets on his knees, raising his hands. From atop the elephant, a hulking figure stands, wearing a sleeveless desert camouflage top and baggy pants tucked into black leather boots. The figure folds his thick, gnarled arms, glaring down at Karab with icy blue eyes: With a thick, white beard extending to his chest, and a golden turban, but with a somewhat more Asian appearance than Karab, with thinner eyes and epicanthic fold, the figure appears to be a lot more impressive and carries a lot more dangerous presence than even Karab.

Dalip Tevany-Singh: Son. Get up, you coward.


Dalip Tevany-Singh: I won't hurt you.

Karab slowly gets to his feet. Dalip Tevany-Singh slowly kneels down, stroking the elephant and pointing at Karab. The elephants trunk shoots out, wrapping around Karab's abdomen and lifting him high into the air as he screams wildly, hanging upside down.


Dalip Tevany-Singh: I promised not to hurt you. The elephant never made the promise.

Lynch: .....So, everyone's father is here?

Mother: We need someone to take care of Beale Street in your absence. Now is the time when SoP is being developed, about to be deployed. The moment that you go through the events of Operation Snake Eater, a lot of information gets declassified. Amongst that is CQC. These men can fight CQC with their eyes closed.

Lynch: ...And the mothers?

The elephant slams Karab down, hitting his head off of the ground before lifting him.

Karab [Screaming]: STOP! STOP!


Phil: Well, fuck, I'm glad that isn't my father.

David Ross: Son, who do you think captured the elephant?

Dalip Tevany-Singh [Calling down]: IT WAS ME, ROSS!

David Ross [Calling up, pointing]: I WAS THE ONE WHO TIED ITS FUCKING LEGS, LION!

Boris Hellgenstrand: I vas ze von who made ze trap.


A camel slowly trots from behind the elephant, carrying a rider wearing a long, white, flowing thobe, a loose dress-like garment covering his entire body. The figure takes off a pair of tinted goggles and his red-and-white Ghutra headscarf, revealing a heavily tanned face, a thick goatee and a short covering of light brown hair on his scalp. The figure lets out a deep breath, rubbing his brow.

Joseph Stone: There’s my father!

Michael Kingston: Ian! Still trekking with the Bedouin, I see?

Ian Stone: Those guys could teach you a thing or two about surviving in the desert—Joseph! Still alive?!

Joseph Stone: You know it, and no longer just some other random guy!

Ian Stone: Not as good as Dalip’s entrance but it’s better late than never.

Joseph Stone: Well, Dad’s here. I guess that’s all of ‘em that are still alive.


John Chevrolet: With what, exactly?!

Maurice: We keep an elephant rifle behind the bar.

Moe: No. No, this is entertaining.

Dalip watches as the elephant holds Karab in the air, in front of his father.

Dalip Tevany-Singh: Alright, put him down. GENTLY!

The elephant slowly sets Karab down onto his feet. Karab stumbles backwards slightly before spinning around, doubling over and vomiting noisily onto the sands.

James Wallace [Wincing]: Aw, that’s bloody pleasant..

Dalip rubs the elephants head and its trunk snakes upwards, wrapping gently around Dalip’s abdomen and lifting him up before gently setting him down on the ground below.

Dalip Tevany-Singh: [Looking over his shoulder]: I hope we have ample parking here.

David Ross: It’s out of its natural environment, Dalip, it’s probably gonna die in a few days unless we can get it to a zoo.

Truly Terrifying Tommy: Well, now we’re all here. We should probably get a briefing, yeah?

John Chevrolet: Where’s Joey?

Dean: Joey?

Truly Terrifying Tommy [Bellowing]: JOEY, YA CUNT! WHERE ARE YA?!

The left-hand window of the Dog and Handgun slowly opens and a man with a thick mop of black hair and a thick moustache slowly peers out of the window, bleary-eyed but with a huge grin on his face and lipstick visible on the collar of his white shirt.

Joey Studlin: Don’t. Wait. Up.

Joey cackles loudly, shutting the window and disappearing from view.

Jericho: Again, not entirely surprising.

Lynch: But seriously, where are the mothers?

Stone Schmicker: As far away as we can keep ‘em.

Stephen LaMarr: Seriously, they terrify us.

Mother: They are, indeed, a last resort line of defence when we need to sacrifice Beale Street to halt the advance of an encroaching enemy.

Billy: Aw, that’s not nice. I know they’re our mothers but still--

Mother: Having personally trained some of your Mothers, I know for a fact they’ll stop at nothing, up to and including burning down every building here just to kill a single enemy.

Vince: Yeah, she has a point.

Jericho: If my Mum’s here, just send me to the sixties right here and now.

Michael Kingston [Laughing]: She ain’t here!....I wouldn’t be drinking if she was. She thinks I’ve quit.avi

Dalip unwraps a unique weapon that is coiled around his waist, with the hilt of a sword but with the glinting metal coiled up against it once removed from Dalip's waist.

David Ross: Hey, look! Lion's got his stupid twirly whippy sword!


Dalip Tevany-Singh skips around, spinning the sword around his feet, twirling as he does before lashing it out at David Ross who swiftly ducks under it, only for Dalip to spin around with the Aara outstretched, the flexible blade swinging out, catching Ross around his heel and tripping him up, sending him crashing to the floor.

David Ross: ASSHOLE!

Dalip Tevany-Singh [Laughing]: YOU ARE NOT SWIFT, ROSS!

Mother [Amused]: I do like them, and i'm glad we went to the trouble of bringing them in.

Lynch: What's with Karab's father?

Mother: Dalip Tevany-Singh. Born in Gorkhastan in India, to a Gurkha father and Indian mother who was descended from Rajput. Well-versed in Rajput weaponry, but perhaps one of the deadliest shots we've come across. He's a great sniper, capable of blowing an enemies brains out at over six hundred feet.

Lynch: Wow.

Mother: In case you're wondering, his nickname comes from the surname 'Singh' which most Sikh's have. Means 'Lion'. Quite apt for a soldier of his calibre.

Lynch: Not surprised to hear that. You’ll have to give me a rundown of the others shortly.

Mother: The street WILL be safe but, yes, BRIEFING TIME, GENTLEMEN!

Rick Sykes: In the pub?

Mother: Yes. Pub.

As if on cue, every single Father walks into the Lamb and Flag, leaving their sons alone in the street, watching in disbelief.

Lynch [Aside, to Mother]: Put a machine gun nest in the pubs. It’s the only way this place’ll survive.

Mother: Understood.

Mother walks into the Lamb and Flag, followed by Lynch who shuts the doors behind him.


The next morning, the mercenaries of Reject Company are lined single-file in Beale Street. Lynch stands at the front of the line, wearing the same jungle camouflage fatigues that the rest of the team are wearing. Aside from Vince, who has decided to don a ghillie suit. The fathers of the mercenaries are all huddled outside of the Lamb and Flag, watching as Mother walks past the line before standing beside Lynch, arms clasped behind her back.

Lynch: Well, I guess we’re off to war.

David Ross: Don’t worry, lad, we’ll take care of the place.

Jericho: We’re not gonna have a home to come back to, are we?

Michael Kingston: You’ll be fucking lucky to have a street to come back to!

Dalip Tevany-Singh: We will protect it, don’t worry. Nobody attacks an elephant willingly.

Karab: And where is the elephant?

Dalip Tevany-Singh: Don’t ask. It will appear when it needs to.

Karab gulps loudly.

David Ross: Nobody messes with our wives either.

Frank: What about Krige?

Mother: Krige will remain here.

Lynch: Well…that’s something. And Moe and Maurice…?

Mother: Augmenting defences.

Lynch: You really are expecting something big, huh?

Mother: Yes. I know you’d rather have all of your original team with you, but we need some veterans to help the other soldiers out with…the lay of the land, if you will. And trust me: They don’t like it either.

Moe and Maurice walk out of the Lamb and Flag, wearing their chef outfits. Moe looks distinctly miserable, gazing over at the mercenaries.

Jericho [Pointing at Moe and Maurice]: We’ll bring home a head for you!

Moe: Please don’t.

An odd stillness fills the air. Suddenly, several feet ahead of Lynch, an anomaly bursts through reality itself, revealing a wormhole. On the other side, obscured by the shimmering fabric of time itself, appears to be dense foliage, rustling lightly in the wind. The odd smell of wet vegetation and mud fills the desert air as Lynch winces slightly.

Lynch: Ho boy.

Karab: And there’s the wibbly-wobbly space thing! Who’s going first?

Everybody looks to Lynch

Lynch [Stepping forward]: Well I guess I shou--

Lynch reaches behind him and quickly grabs the collar of Frank’s uniform, throwing him through the wormhole. Frank yelps but the noise quickly disappears.

Mother: Lynch, step through the hole, don’t just poke your head through.

Lynch: Why not?

Mother: Wormholes are unstable. I’d rather not have you peer through, only to have the wormhole spit you back with no head.

Lynch: I’ll keep that in mind. How are we getting back?

Mother: Same. We’ll create a wormhole in Arlington National Cemetery and bring you back.

Lynch: Great.

Jericho: MOVE IT, WILL YOU?!

Lynch [Angrily]: WHY DON’T YOU?!?!

Jericho storms forward, leaping through the wormhole. Phil sprints behind him, diving through the open wormhole as well.

Sal: Goddamn, let’s go.

Sal runs forward, jumping through the wormhole.

Lynch: just use the Harlem Hellfighter’s catchphr—He’s gone.

Lynch simply steps aside, watching as the mercenaries begin to file forward. Vince stumbles forward slightly, breathing heavily.

Billy [Laughing]: Why did yeh put that on, yeh fat shite?


Stephen LaMarr: You look like a retarded bush, son.

Jon: And that’s without the suit!

Billy jogs forward, past Vince, and jumps through the wormhole, followed by Ivan and Steve. Vince stumbles up to his feet, walking towards the wormhole. Bill sighs loudly, walking forward and grabbing Vince by the rear of his suit, shoving him forward and through the wormhole. Bill himself follows, leaping through the wormhole.


Brick cackles, jogging forward and leaping through the wormhole.

Rick Sykes: Damn, they’re doing it without complaining!

Dalip Tevany-Singh: Run, my son. Prove your bravery.

Karab screams wildly, sprinting forward and throwing himself through the wormhole. Dean shakes his head, stepping forward and calmly through the wormhole.

John Chevrolet: Sammy, take care of your brother!

Samuel: Great. Babysitting.

Jon: Isn’t he older than you?

Samuel: Still counts.

Samuel trudges forward and through the wormhole. Jon shrugs, jumping forward through the wormhole, followed closely by Bob who hesitantly looks into it.

Bob: Are we sure this is safe?

Lynch: You ask that every time and the answer is that we don’t know, but do it anyway.

Bob: Great.

Cole Benito: Go, son.

Bob sighs, reluctantly walking through the wormhole, followed by Joseph who enthusiastically divebombs through it. Will confidently struts forward, but is shoved through by Robbie who marches straight into the wormhole.

Lynch [Clapping his hands]: CHOP CHOP!

Dave sprints through the wormhole.

Thomas Jackscar: Well, there he goes.

Johnny: Well, here goes nothing.

Tim: Isn’t this our first major mission with Reject Company?

Johnny: Yep!......Well, here’s hoping we stay alive.

Johnny and Tim dive through the wormhole, followed by Marcos, Johan, Mustafa and Bobby.

Alberto Martinez: Go forth and conquer!

Eligio grins brightly, marching through the wormhole, leaving only Lynch left. Lynch sighs, turning his head and looking over at Maurice and Moe.

Lynch: You lucky cunts.

Maurice: ‘Ere, we’d rather be going with you lot!

Moe: Give ‘em hell for us!

Lynch: You keep the pub safe!

Moe and Maurice salute.

Mother: Remember, your mission is to find the location of, and subsequently retrieve, the Philosopher’s Legacy. Oh, and keep Big Boss alive or else that paradox could really screw things up.

Lynch: We know, Mother. Well, I guess we’ve gotta do what we gotta do.

Fabien steps forward beside Lynch.

Fabien:Ve shall do zis together, partner!

Lynch [Laughing]: Alrighty then.


Lynch sighs, cricking his neck from side to side before looking at Mother, who nods firmly.

Mother: I am confident that you will be successful in your mission.

Fabien runs forward, leaping through the portal.

Lynch: You know it.

Lynch smirks, turning to the portal and rushing forward, leaping through into the abyss…

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