Dundee and his aforementioned entourage crossed the river with guns drawn and at the ready. They saw utter devastation - dozens of dead Apache, riddled with bullets, some torn apart by explosions - laying before them.
Dundee wasn't sure whether it would be better to stay together or split up. They were looking for evidence of any further Apache presence, or any bodies of theirs they had failed to recover. After about ten minutes of looking, they found nothing more on the far bank.
This would be a hell of a lot easier if Sergeant Kimmel were here, Dundee thought to himself. He was somewhat afraid for her, and yet also very upset. Knowing her, she probably just crashed her helicopter into a goat somewhere.
Then, they heard a rustling sound, and an all-too-familiar noise:"Oh shit, not again!" Frisco shouted.
"Be quiet," Dundee said. He then silently motioned for his command to split up: Marco and Kermit to the left, Peacemaker and Frisco to the right, him in the middle. The men moved out into the desolate landscape, guns out. Dundee cradled his shotgun nervously, looking for signs of life among the Apache corpses. He, too, had heard thenoise, and knew something was up. But to increase the inherent drama, he split up his force anyway.
Suddenly, another noise was heard. It sounded low and loud - like - a helicopter! Yes! He could hear a helicopter, and he hoped it was Sergeant Kimmel. It was close - so close, that the noise of its blades drowned out the continuingnoises.
It was almost too late when Dundee saw the two gun-toting Apache aiming at him, he turned his shotgun, and as he fired, the ground beneath the two exploded, sending their bodies sky-high. A few other Apaches - there were only about a half dozen - ran for cover as missiles and machine guns tore into them; they were all cut down but one, who Marco Leone dispatched with a crack shot.
Hurray! Dundee thought. It was Sergeant Kimmel, and she had come to save the day. But his feeling of elation was shortlived, as the helicopter appeared over the horizon. It began firing missiles, rockets, and machine gun bullets wildly.
"Run!"
The five skirmishers rode hell-for-leather back to the river, with the helicopter in hot pursuit. A missile exploded into the water, sending a geyser several feet in the air; Kermit's horse reared up, but he managed to regain control of it. Peacemaker and Marco made a brief, ineffectual anti-aircraft sortie with their obsolete equipment before running from a spray of machine gun fire. Finally, the squad made it back to friendly ground.
"Prepare to fire!" Dundee shouted. His artillery and machine gun crews suddenly snapped to attention. As the helicopter crossed the river, it was subjected to a withering blast of machine gun and anti-aircraft fire. Several hits were made, and the helicopter crashed into the river.
Dundee's men leaped up, guns at the ready, preparing to shoot anyone who came out of the helicopter. Someone did survive, but they swam to the near shore. Dundee saw - to his surprise and disgust - it was Sergeant Kimmel. She panted for breath for a moment, before asking Dundee: "What in the hell am I going to do with that?" pointing at the sinking hulk of the Apache.
On the sandy banks of the river, Dundee walked up to Potts and Tom as they rooted through the belongings of Michelle. Potts and Ben had found her body during their hasty retreat from the Apache camp, and had brought it back to camp.
Holding out a paper, Potts said, hesitantly: "She was. . . writing a paper for. . . English class." Then, he turned to Ben and shouted for him to bring their horses over.
"How did they know?" Dundee asked thoughtfully.
"They're Apache," came the reply.
"And just what in hell is he?" Dundee asked pointing at Ben.
"I am a tame Apache," Ben said. "A skinny jock. Christian Indian. Charriba is Apache."
Dundee eyed him over untrustingly, then crumpled up the test paper and tossed it to Potts. "Jed, you take this skinny jock and go find me Charriba."
Potts hesitated for a moment. "That's what you pay us for, Groggy," he said finally.
Dundee then walked away from his scouts and towards his camp. His men had dug a hasty set of redoubts on the far bank of the river; his artillery had been shelling across the river since the battle was over. But most of his men were content largely with just sitting and recovering from the shock of battle. Several people had been killed, others wounded. Dundee was upset over the loss of his dear friend (and possible secret love interest), Michelle, but put her to the back of his mind for the moment - there were other pressing issues at hand. Like, where in the bloody hell was Sergeant Kimmel? Was she shot down? Or did she simply get lost? It was impossible to tell.
Dundee walked by Bill, who skulked mournfully by himself; Sandra had been killed during the fight. Dundee walked by him without saying a word, then turned to Aimee, who was leading two horses.
"Aimee, you hit?" he asked, noticing blood dripping from her head and matting her hair.
"No, sir," she said. "One of these damned horses kicked me."
Dundee then walked on, and was saluted by Joe Starbuck.
"Eight men killed, sir," Joe reported. "Seven wounded - two critically. 20% of ammunition, 90% of our Thanksgiving feast, 70% of AA and 45% of all AAA batteries, our Internet connections, 75% of cell phones, and 100% of Playstation 2 consoles and games lost or stolen."
Starbuck handed his commander a list of casualties:
Killed:
Michelle
Tristan
Dante the 1st
Lennie
Angel
Black Jacques Shellac
Sandra
Shaulis
Wounded:
Sergeant Harriman
Captain Tim
Mark the Bugler
Keith Richards (though saying he's wounded is kind of silly, isn't it?)
Daniel
Shumaker
Nathan
Dundee and his men had counted at least eighty dead Apache across the river banks in the meantime - they had been very lucky to escape.
At this, Dundee walked past Mark the Bugler, who was being operated on by Reverend Armstrong for a painful ass wound. He screamed, "DAMN IT TO BLOODY MESSENGER HELL!"
"WHAT!?" screamed his cousin Tim, who sit nearby with a minor shoulder wound.
"Sorry, cousin," Mark said.
"He's alright, Doctor," Tim said to Armstrong. "He'll live forever and have a hundred children. But if time and battle prove you have a weakness for being shot in that vicinity, I'd wear an iron board inside my pants."
Still limping slightly, Mark walked off. Armstrong turned to Tim and began to operate on his shoulder.
"Well, Tim," Dundee said, "I don't believe you've ever been to Mexico before."
"Not really," Tim replied.
"Okay then," his commander said curtly. "So, did you hear about the French involvement in this country."
"I did," Tim said. "President Chirac reclaimed Maximillian's authority over the Mexican throne, and has sent over some 500,000 French troops to occupy the country - everyone knows that."
"Well," Dundee said, "I think that we'd be well-advised to avoid them."
"Well, duh!" Captain Tim replied.
"Don't 'duh' me, Captain," Dundee said. "I'M the commander here."
"And you're also a bloody asshole," Tim replied. "Major, we can't follow the Apache."
"Why the hell not?" Dundee replied.
"Because more people could get hurt," Tim replied, "that's why not."
Dundee turned away from his subordinate and scanned the remnants of his force behind him. Nathan rubbed his ankle wound uncomfortably; Sergeant Harriman poured a water bottle on her head wound; Garfer and his men solemnly viewed their dead comrade-in-arms; Border Trash, his Razorback flag torn and dripping blood; Mr. Smit, examining his Winchester legs, both of which had been struck and damaged by enemy fire in the battle; even Dave Jenkins seemed subdued by the carnage of it all. And where in the hell was Sergeant Kimmel?
After all this, Dundee looked up and saw buzzards circling over his encampment - an ominous portent of doom. He then turned back to Tim.
"Fuck you," he said to Tim. It was fast becoming his favorite phrase, violent, insulting, and dismissive all at once. Dundee walked away; he would not move out until he got word from Sergeant Kimmel. But, to kill time until then, he decided that he would survey the carnage across the river. He turned to the nearest fit man beside him - Marco Leone, who's brave five second stand had gotten his attention.
"Marco," he said to the gunslinging online trooper.
"Sir?"
"You and me are going to take a ride," Dundee replied. He then walked over to Peacemaker, Frisco, Armstrong, and Kermit and said the same thing. They would move out within the hour, to do some reconnoitering of their own. . .
It was still very early morning when the command rode up to the river crossing. There were no bridges or boats, so the HUMVEEs couldn't cross - being non-amphibious models, after all - and the command had to use horses again for the time being.
"Remember your dispositions," Dundee said to his men, before turning to Tim. "Captain, take twelve men across as bait - I mean, skirmishers."
"First twelve men, follow me!" Tim shouted. The aforementioned twelve followed him across the river. Dundee watched them, then directed Sergeant Harriman's column into position. He then turned to Starbuck. "Joe, you hold your men until everyone else is across. If something is to happen, throw 'em in when you deem fit."
"Yes, sir."
After this, Wrong-Way Preston unsheathed his Canadian flag, but still held it upside down. Garfer smacked him with his hockey stick until he had it right.
Across the river, Tim ordered his men to split up, himself going straight towards the center. However, Michelle sensed something wrong, and lagged behind. She nervously fingered her shotgun. She heard someone come up behind her. Fearing it was Dave Jenkins or an Apache, she turned, but saw someone in a blue uniform. She breathed a sigh of relief, but still felt very nervous. The Apache in blue rode up behind her and screamed out "Bitch!" before sinking a knife into the back of her neck.The young scout toppled to the ground, dead, and soon another Apache appeared to root through her stuff.
Tim, meanwhile, reached the top of a plateau, seeing Aimee, Bill, and Sandra to his right. He waved his hat to Dundee, who acknowleged him by raising his pistol.
"All right, Sergeant Harriman, take 'em through," Dundee said.
"Yes, sir."
As Harriman's men began to ford the river, Tim began feeling more nervous. Maybe it was gut instinct; maybe it was the sounds he kept hearing. He saw two men in Union uniform ride up to him. He whistled Dixie, they didn't respond, and in the nick of time, Tim levelled his rifle and fired.
On the river bank, over a hundred Apache suddenly sprung up, firing arrows and rifles. Men began falling among the crossing party. Tristan was killed almost instantly; Dantethe1st was hit in the face with a rifle bullet and fell off his horse, mortally wounded, screaming unconvincingly. For the first minute, the command was in chaos, as several members of Dundee's party began falling before they could respond. Nathan took a bullet to his ankle; Lennie was shot in the head; Stubb's horse was hit and he fell into the river. The casualties were beginning to mount.
But by this time, the command had rallied somewhat, and were now bringing their superior firepower in return. Snake fired his assault weapons, taking out a nest of Apache riflemen singlehandedly. Mr. Smit, firing his Winchester legs with inhuman speed, skill, and precision, killed at least a dozen by himself. The men were starting to rally, and by now the Apache were starting to suffer heavy casualties. Armstrong fired his shotgun, knocking an Apache from a high tree; Harriman tried to take aim as well, but her horse fell over on her; she fell into the river.
At this point, Tim and his skirmishers appeared. "BACK TO THE RIVER!" he kept screaming as his men joined the fray. More Apaches pursued behind them, and several of their number fell killed or wounded as well. Marco Leone, however, made a suicidal last stand, firing his two Colt .45s at the dozens of Apache warriors. It was a hopeless gesture, but Marco held his own for five seconds before he finally decided, to hell with it, I want to live.
Just when the command seemed on the verge of getting it together, a second wave of Apaches attacked, war whooping, from the command's right flank. For a brief moment, it looked like the command would again be routed. Then, Joe Starbuck, with Garfer's command and his own brother still on the far bank, panicked and threw his men into the fray. One of Garfer's Canadians - Jacques Shellac, the French speaking Quebecois - fell, lanced, but the rest of the command pushed back the Apaches. Garfer's men actually performed better than most others of command, their hockey sticks proving to be quite deadly hand-to-hand weapons.
At this juncture, Dundee was trying to regroup his men and withdraw them back across the river. Even though they seemed to be doing rather well, they were still in a disadvantegious position. As he rode, Dundee's horse was shot out from under him, or so he claimed; actually, he couldn't ride worth a shit and just slipped out of the saddle. He was shaken but not badly hurt; he made it back to the far bank.
"Try and regroup on the far bank!" Dundee shouted.
"Marco, run them out!" Tim shouted to his subordinate.
Dundee looked around him as the last shots were fired; the Apaches had melted back into the wilderness; and his command began pouring back across the river.
"Keep moving, Joe," he said in disgust to his subordinate, "There's no one left to shoot at out here."
Dundee watched as the remnants of his command poured back across the river.
"Happy Thanksgiving!" he muttered in anger.
(Note: don't get upset or think your character died, until the next entry; I'll clear up who's all been killed, and who was just wounded, in the next chapter.)
After Sergeant Kimmel (with her ten-liter thermos of Mountain Dew) left in her helicopter to go scouting, Dundee waited for hours for her to return. She didn't, though he could hear vague exploding and machine gun sounds far in the distance. Finally, at about midnight, he decided to go ahead without her.
Before we get to the battle proper, the dispositions of Dundee's troopers should be noted. Dundee very carefully divided his force into three main wings, plus those absent. The resulting battle line is as follows:
Commander: Groggy Dundee
Scouting: J. Potts Ben
With Whiny Rostes Pricks: Sergeant Cullen Lyle Gorch Tector Gorch
Fucking Around With Helicopter: Sergeant Kimmel
Skirmishers: Captain Tim O'Brien Bill Sandra Daniel Marco Leone Peacemaker Border Trash Michelle Shumaker Keith Richards Nicole Ashley Lorelei
First Wave: Sergeant Harriman Tristan Nathan James Finnegan Stubb Mr. Smit Frisco Plasmotic Snake Grenouille Dave Jenkins (under close watch) Danethe1st Herpes Girl Tom Reverend Armstrong Shaulis Walker Lennie Kermit Mark the Bugler
Reserve Wing: Joe Starbuck Alex K. Starbuck Garfer and his Canadians Cavalry Guy
Instead of being grateful for being rescued, the annoying little prick Rostes children would not stop whining about their mommies and material possesions. They couldn't wait ten seconds before reverting back to their greedy American middle-class selves.
"You'll eat Jell-O, or I'll kill you!" Stubb roared.
Michelle drew her shotgun on the hulking cook. "Try it," she said cooly.
Border Trash, a heretofore silent character, came in with a small pistachio ice cream cone. "I was able to scrounge this together," he said as he handed it to one of the kids.
"I want Rocky Road!" one of the kids screamed.
"I want Chocolate Chip!" another whined.
"I want Cherry Ripple!" another bitched.
Border Trash walked off, sighing angrily. He threw his cone to the ground in disgust.
Tim took out his earplugs as he walked away from the children, then turned to Dundee.
"Well, Major," he said to his commander, "Are you going back now that you've got what you came for?"
Dundee stared thoughtfully into the distance. "Everything points to that old man talking straight," he said thoughtfully. "Potts is half-convinced. Me, I'm not at all convinced, but what the hell, we need to get an action scene into the story."
"Did it ever occur to you," Tim asked the Major, "that the Apache gave you what he wanted because he intended to take it back again."
"Tim," Dundee said, "I want you to send two of your best men - the Gorches, maybe - with Sergeant Cullen to escort those kids back to Fort Benlin. Oh, and while they're there, maybe they can see if Captain Waller's woken up from his coma yet."
Tim chuckled slightly. "We'll still outnumber you, Groggy," he said.
"You surely will, Tim," Dundee replied. "Now do as you're told."
"Yes, sir." Tim paused. "But only Until The Apache Is Taken Or Destroyed."
At this, Tim walked off.
"I want my Britney Spears CD!" the eldest Rostes kid screamed.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!!" Stubb roared.
Dundee then turned away from this; he couldn't stand it. "Sergeant Kimmel," he called to his subordinate.
Dundee's explodey subordinate walked up. "Sir?"
"I want you to take the helicopter and scout the area across the river," Dundee instructed. "If you see anything suspicious, start firing."
"Yes, sir," Kimmel called. She saluted and walked off.
As the Rostes kids continued to scream and bitch behind him, Dundee looked off into the distance, towards the river crossing. Unbeknownst to him, staring back at him were the eyes of his archenemy, Sierra Charriba. The stage was set for an epic turkey day showdown - and I don't mean the Detroit-Atlanta football game, that's for sure.
It was a cold, clear, crispy day in northern Mexico as the expedition around the ruins of some old rock stadium. J. Potts and Ben were in the middle of a high-spirited, brotherly bout of wrestling. At stake was Mr. Potts' gold railroad watch and the scout's new Texas Instruments Graphic Calculator. It is a friendly contest.
Some of the more manly men of the command watched this fight. Potts got his ass handed to him on a silver platter by Ben, and Dundee seemed very satistified in the result as he chewed on a pretzel rod.
"I think he's going to take you, Jed," Dundee sneered to Potts as Ben got him in a headlock. "Do you know why? Because the Canadian's betting on you. Garfer bet five dollars on you."
Garfer looked upset over this remark, but said nothing.
"Canadian, and a goalie to boot. Did you ever know a Canadian to win a battle or a girl when there were Americans or. . . men about?" Dundee asked.
"What about hockey?" Potts said.
"Hockey's for girls," Dundee sneered.
At this, I.P. Molson grabbed his hockey stick and began moving it to strike Dundee, but Garfer restrained him.
"Who bet against me?" Potts said.
"Me," Dundee replied.
At this, Potts kicked Ben in the testicles. As Ben fell to the ground, gasping for breath, Potts began kicking him in the parts over and over again. After a minute, Potts stopped. He walked over to Dundee and simply remarked: "Ya lost."
At the other corner of the camp, some of the more girly members of the command were holding a karaoke contest. Michelle, who had suggested the contest, went first. Her beautiful, delicate voice (and it was quite beautiful, as even her main competition, Mr. Richards, had to admit) almost carried the day, as she sang a heartfelt rendition of "Strawberry Fields Forever". But, Keith ended up taking the day by singing his own epic anthem:
"Chantilly Lace had a pretty face and a ponytail hangin' down A wiggle in her walk and a giggle in her talk Make the world go 'round Ain't nothing in the world like a big eyed girl To make me act so funny, make me spend my money Make me feel real loose like a long necked goose Like a--oh baby, that's a-what I like!"
A few other competitors, most notably Bill and Sandra, who tried a duet of "Beyond the Sea", competed, but were booed off the stage in the end. The young female scout and the aged, drug-hazed rocker were the only two serious competitors in this sport of drunken losers.
Despite his like of Michelle and dislike for Richards' drunken antics, the Major didn't give a shit about the karaoke contest. After the wrestling match was concluded, he sat stoically under a tree by himself, chewing his cigarette candy. Then - he heard a strange whistling noise, followed by an even stranger song. It sounded like this:
"Hot blooded, check it and see, I've got a fever of 103."
As the hard rock song droned on, the lights in the camp were extinguished, the karaoke stopped, and every leapt to attention. Potts, Ben (still trying to recover his breath), and Sgt. Cullen ran out with guns drawn to the source of the sound. They found an old Apache nearby, with a portable CD player. A Hard Rock Cafe CD was playing loudly, but Potts shot it, despite Cullen's protests.
"There's just one, Major," Potts said. "He wants to talk."
The Apache was gibbering loudly in an unintelligible language.
"Is he a Chiracahua?" Dundee asked.
"He surely is," Potts answered, grinning, unaware that the Apache was actually a Mescalero.
"He says he's a good Apache, and for nobody to shoot at him," Potts continued.
"He was with Charriba," Cullen added.
"Why would an old man like that be raiding with Charriba?" Dundee asked.
Translating for the Old Apache, Cullen said: "He says, Why not? It's their land - all of it."
At this, Michelle walked up to the crowd and began conversing with the Apache.
"She's just being reacquainted with an old friend, Major," Potts informed Dundee.
"I knew him when I was with Charriba," Michelle said to Dundee.
"I don't give a hoot in hell if he's your long-last grandpa," Dundee rejoindered. "We're busy here."
Potts looked upset over this, but continued translating. "He'd like some soft food, as his teeth are no longer with us - preferably some Swiss-Miss pudding cups."
"He'll deal with Jell-O," Stubb said, walking up with a big pot of green gelatin, "Or I'll beat his face in."
"Only if it's cherry," Michelle translated for the Apache.
"Do you think cherries are green!?" Stubb asked, on the verge of attacking.
"Why did he quit?" Captain Tim asked.
"Charriba said he's too old to fight any more," Cullen informed him.
Dundee walked up to the Apache, still unsure of his loyalty.
"He says Charriba's camp is across the river," Cullen translated, seemingly in astonishment. "He'll lead us there. They'll be asleep."
Dundee's features remained unchanged.
"Does he expect me to believe that?" Dundee responded. "Let him lead us into an ambush?"
"He says his heart is true, Major," Potts reported, "And he brings proof."
Potts, Ben, Cullen, and Michelle all had looks of astonishment on their faces.
"What kind of proof, Mr. Potts?" Tim inquired.
"The children," Potts said, still in amazement. "He's brought the children."
A Reason As Per Why Posting Has Not Occurred For A Week
Okay, just so you guys know, my MSN software is fucked up, so I haven't been able to get on the Internet much at all over the last week or so. I have a new AOL account, but it won't let me access Blogger! If I can get back on MSN, I'll post, BUT I'm not guaranteeing anything. If I can't, one of my good friends will have to. . .
With the threat of his relieval a very serious possibility, Potts put his act together and led the command to Tijuana. After three days of hard marching, Dundee's tired, bedraggled command finally reached the small border town. Dundee ordered his men to set up camp outside the town before they moved in. Dundee rode up to Potts, with Michelle and Ben close behind.
"Mr. Potts," Dundee exclaimed.
"Major."
"I'm a long way from Pittsburgh. Any suggestions?"
"Uh, yeah," Potts said, drawing his shotgun from its holster. "Let's, uh, go have a look. . . slow and easy."
At this, Dundee, Potts, and the other two scouts moved into the town. Behind him, Joe Starbuck and Tim deployed the rest of their men in a tight circle around the town.
Potts and Dundee rode through the gates and saw a bunch of drunken hobos lying on the ground. They then came across a bar, where another man lay outside, with a switchblade at his side. As Dundee and Potts rode past him, the man began to stand up, shifting his knife into a throwing position. Potts leveled his shotgun and fired - and missed, blowing out the bar window. It took a volley of shots from Michelle and Ben to dispatch the would-be assassin, who fell to the ground, his body literally blasted apart.
"Mr. Potts," Dundee rejoindered.
"Yes, sir," Potts said, trying to reload his weapon.
"I want you and Ben to go back and get me some good gunslingers."
"Got anyone in mind, Groggy?" Potts asked.
"How 'bout Marco, the Gorches, Peacemaker, Frisco, and Mr. Stubb - if Tim'll loan them out," Dundee said. "They should have experience in this area."
"Yes, sir." Potts began to ride off.
"Jed," Dundee called after him.
"Yeah?"
"Don't get yourself killed. That would. . . inconvenience me."
With a slight smile, Potts and Ben rode off. Dundee and Michelle lashed their horses to a fence post outside the bar. Dundee pulled out a pistol from his saddle bags and put in it his belt, then pulled out his Winchester pump-action riot gun. Michelle reloaded her sawed-off shotgun and put it under her right arm.
"You be alright?" Dundee asked his female scout.
"Who are you, my father?" Michelle asked with a smile.
Dundee smiled at her for a moment, then loaded his gun and checked it.
"Let's go," Dundee said.
Dundee and Michelle walked into the bar. It was a crowded joint, the air was filled with smoke and the smell of stale beer. About two dozen desperadoes were all over the place, seated in chairs or lying passed out on the floor. The walls and ceiling were stained with blood, spilt alcohol, and tobacco juice. Dundee and Michelle walked up to the bar, with several desperadoes leering after them.
"Fuck off, fellas," Dundee exclaimed to them. They moved to answer him, but Michelle leveled her shotgun at them. The men backed off, still leering at her.
Dundee turned to the bartender. "What have you got to drink in this here joint?"
"Tequila and beer," the bartender, a short, portly man with a greasy mustache, said in a thick Hispanic accent.
Dundee took a swig of his drink, then without a moment's hesitation spit it in the bartender's face.
"What's the problem, Senor?" he said in a nonchalant voice, as three hoodlums came up behind Dundee and Michelle, knives drawn.
"You let your bull piss in your beer, eh?" Dundee said. Michelle had a worried look on her face; she had noticed the three guys behind him. They were just about to start stabbing Dundee when the bar door swung open. It was Mr. Stubb, who came into the bar completely unarmed. Several bar patrons turned to him; Dundee's would-be killers turned to the door as well.
"No, not the boy," Stubb said, nonchalantly cracking his knuckles. "Me. You try me."
The leader of the banditos chortled. "Sorry, Senor, but it's not three against three. . ."
At this, at least twenty people sprung up, armed with knives, blackjacks, clubs, and brass knuckles.
"It's twenty-three against three. . ."
The bartender calmly ducked under the bar and hid. Dundee and Michelle stared at each other, than at Stubb, and finally at their assailants.
"Then I guess these guns wouldn't be sporting, then," Dundee exclaimed. He turned and suddenly smashed the butt of his shotgun into the face of the lead bandit. Michelle ducked as a knife flew by her head. The fight was on.
Two men rushed Stubb, who flattened them both with a single punch. Dundee leapt behind the bar as more knives flew at him. He grabbed a beer bottle and broke it. Michelle dove onto the floor, drawing a Bowie knife, as one of the men swung his knife at her. Michelle leapt to her feet, and then faced off against the man.
"You're a pretty girl," he said mockingly. "I'll try to make it as painful as I can!"
"Hey, dickhead!"
The banditos turned again to the door as several of Dundee's men flew into the bar. Several entered through the window and others the door.
The bandito looked at Potts, who stood at the door with his knife drawn.
"Leave the girl alone," he said.
In through the window came the Gorches, Peacemaker, and Marco Leone. Ben, followed by Tim and Frisco, came in through the door.
"I, uh, brought the cavalry," Potts remarked sheepishly.
"You surely did," Dundee remarked.
"Michelle, get out of the way," Potts demanded. "We don't want you to get killed."
"That would be a tragedy," someone else remarked.
Everyone turned once more as another man - an evil, diminutive Mexican - walked into the bar with six men, some armed with knives, others baseball bats through the back door.
"Now, it's a fair fight," the man said.
"Hardly," came a voice from the front door.
Now entering bar were Sergeant Cullen, Joe Starbuck, and Sergeants Kimmel and Harriman.
"Hey motherfucker," Kimmel shouted to the Backdoor Man. "I wouldn't say eleven against thirty is fair, would you, guys?"
"Not hardly," Harriman rejoindered, batting a board in her hand.
After them, Lorelei and Shumaker entered the bar, followed, finally, by the last three men - Plasmotic Snake, Grenouille, and Mark.
"It's still not a fair fight," Kimmel remarked, pulling out a switchblade. "But, fair enough. . ."
"And we've got more outside," Cullen called to their opponents.
There was a tense standoff for a moment, no one sure of what to do. Dundee, not wanting to wait any longer, grabbed his bottle.
"Let's just start the ball," he said, stabbing one of the three Barstool Banditos with his broken bottle.
Then, an apocalyptic barfight unlike any ever seen on the face of the Earth errupted. Knives, stools, chairs, blackjacks, sticks, beer bottles, fists, and anything else you can imagine started flying. Every single fragment of the glass in the bar was ultimately broken.
For twenty minutes the issue was in doubt. Dundee managed to keep the two other Barstool Banditos at bay with his beer bottle, then smashed in the bar and kicked one in the stomach. The other started to move in on him, but Tim cracked him over the head with a bullwhip. The Gorches were literally hurling men through the bar, but were ultimately cornered, as only Tector carried a knife. (It was not sporting to use a gun in such a situation; drunken barfly code of honor, and all.) Potts stabbed one man, wounding him, and held off six more before he and Ben were finally slammed to the ground. They were saved by Mr. Stubb - the greatest hero of this epic battle - who single-handedly took down the whole lot.
Marco Leone did not have a knife or blunt instrument, but he did have his trusty Henry '66 Carbine, and starting smashing Mexicalis en masse with it. On the other side of the bar, the weaker members of the expedition were projected from the establishment - Grenouille, for instance, was hurled out the window, flying almost half a block into another store. He found himself surrounded there, too, by angry, knife-wielding Mexicans, but was fortunately saved by Plasmotic Snake, who had tracked him there and mowed down all of Grenouille's would-be killers (code of ethics not applying in a dry goods store).
As for Michelle? Well, she didn't do too much fighting, but she did hold her own fairly well, even though she was backed up against hte bar, almost alone, for most of the time. She received a slight wound to her stomach, however, and might very well have been killed were it not for Lorelei, whose skill with an unload Winchester rifle was second to none in the world. Sergeants Harriman and Kimmel seemed to find the whole thing rather amusing; during lulls in the fighting they drank beer and tequila from the banditos empty glasses, then using their mugs as weapons.
Finally, after about twenty minutes of such fighting, Dundee realized that nothing was going to be accomplished. Both sides had done plenty of bleeding, but neither was gaining a distinct advantage, so he decided to withdraw. After a costly rearguard fight, Dundee and every single one of his men and women managed to extricate themselves from the bar.
Dundee, panting, stood next to Joe Starbuck, who had been hurt by a bottle which had been cracked over his head. Joe observed the toughs of the bar organizing from through the broken window, ready to go out after their query. "Sir," Joe said, "What do we do now?"
There was a brief hesitation as Dundee struggled to catch his breath, but he had a very good idea. He nodded silently to Starbuck and Tim. After a few moments, several of the men were assembled.
The roar of the AR-15 assault weapons tore through the air. Hundreds - no, thousands - of rounds tore through the bar. Saunders also ordered his tank, two artillery pieces, and all available machine guns to join in the barrage. Finally, his men ducked for cover, as Sergeant Kimmel, flying her long-sought after Apache helicopter, leveled what remained of the bar with some well-placed Sidewinder missiles. For yes, the command had found their weapons - right outside of town - or did we forget to mention that?
Dundee stared at the smoking wreckage of the bar for a moment. "Captain Tim," he shouted to his online subordinate.
"Sir?" Tim walked up, bleeding from a few wounds on his head and body.
"How would you assess the fighting ability of our men?" Dundee asked calmly.
"Well, they're pretty damn good in a bar scrap," Tim said, "But it will take more than that to fight Charriba."
"All right, Tim," Dundee said to his lieutenant. "Get the men camped out. Let's see if we can't find another bar to celebrate." He wiped his brow from sweat and blood. "God knows everything drinkable there was destroyed."
Dundee walked off, and sat down in a quiet hammock. Keith Richards walked up to him, a furious look on his face. "What is it, Mr. Richards?"
"Two things," he said furiously. "One, you fucking excluded me from your barroom brush up! Two, you fucking destroyed all the liquor! Now how am I going to get loaded?"
Dundee ignored Richards and began humming to himself.
"Well, fuck you, mate," Richards said to his command. "You're one lousy commander."
Richards stormed off, horribly upset, but Dundee quickly fell asleep, despite the hustle and bustle of his men reorganizing themselves. It was his first barroom brawl, and he had held his own. That, at least, he could be proud of. . .
It was a clear night. A half-moon gave a faint glow over the shrubby Mexican countryside, with the stars providing a miniscule amount of illumination. At the center of a copse of trees, Dundee and his men were camped at night, with several men on picket duty a short way away.
The men were just lounging around, not doing anything in particular. Dundee was looking over a map of Mexico; Potts and Ben trying to sleep (Michelle was on picket duty); Mark writing in his diary; Garfer and his men were practicing using their hockey sticks; Joe Starbuck was going around, inspecting the pickets and the perimter; Plasmotic Snake and Grenouille sit quietly under a small tree; Mr. Smit and Frisco cleaning their rifles; the Gorches, having a go with Herpes Girl; Tim, inspecting the horses; Sondra and Bill chatting quietly; Peacemaker, playing on a harmonica; and Mr. Stubb was cooking a big heaping pot of Spaghetti-O's - having forgotten the ingredients for his killer beef stew.
Joe Starbuck walked into camp and complemented his Canadian colleagues on their conduct. As he walked into the center of the camp he was given a small bowl of Spaghetti-O's by Stubb. He sat eagerly on a small rock, and then saw that the O's contained not a single meatball.
"Boy. . . boy, I'm speaking to you!"
At first, this call echoed through the camp, but no one was sure who had said it, or to whom it was addressed. Then Garfer, turning away from his men, saw Tom.
Tom was a bigoted, nationalistic member of the command. Nominally he was a "real-life" person, but Dundee had no particular affinity - or direct authority - over him. Now he sat, his feet grotesquely outstretched towards Garfer.
"You're forgettin' your manners, Canuck," he sneered.
At this slur against his nationality, Garfer bristled and put down his hockey stick. He instinctively began reaching for his sidearm, but fought it off, and slowly began advancing towards his antagonist.
"Come on over here and pull off my boots."
At this, Garfer looked at Dundee, who seemed passive about the whole thing. Now the whole camp's attention was rivetted on the confrontation. Joe Starbuck finally got up and tried to walk into harm's way.
"Joe. . . check the pickets," Dundee said softly. After a moment's hesitation, Starbuck walked off.
"Did you hear me, boy?" Tom asked Garfer. "Do it boy, now!"
Garfer was about to beat the shit out of his antagonist when Reverend Armstrong went over to Tom. "Let me, son," he said to Garfer, roughly pulling off one of Tom's boots.
Tom fell to the ground and drew his knife. After a brief scuffle, the Reverend ended up on the ground, bleeding. Tom, grinning evilly, turned to plunge his knife into Armstrong, who picked up the nearest available weapon - his unabridged pocket version of the New Testament - and swacked Tom on the side of the head. Tom fell backwards, knocking over the pot of Spaghetti-O's.
"My O's!" Stubb roared. Before anyone else could move, Stubb moved his massive bulk towards Tom and threw him out of the way, then he began rushing towards Armstrong. Armstrong threw a lucky punch - it was only that - and the giant Stubb fell backwards, landing face-first in the scalding hot soup.
"MY FACE!" Stubb screamed. The pasta and tomato sauce burnt his face, until Alex Starbuck rushed on the scene with a fire extinguisher to cool off Stubb. Some of the command thought this was amusing, but Stubb got up for another round with Armstrong after this.
Trying to stop the fight from escalating any further, Tector Gorch, emerging from his tent, grabbed Tom and threw him at Stubb's feet. "You started it," he said, "now finish it."
"No, we're gonna finish it!" said Dave Jenkins. Despite his painful knee injury, Jenkins was still game for mischief. He had his long knife drawn, and began advancing on Armstrong. "By doggies, preacher, now we're gonna get in line for you!"
"I'm gonna cut a piece out of you first!" exclaimed Lyle Gorch.
At this, Sergeant Cullen stepped behind Armstrong and said, "You online trash, sit down!"
At this, Tector stood up, his gun drawn. "Was you talkin' to me, Sergeant?" he said to Cullen. "Now maybe you dunno it, but you're a-fixin' to get tried."
At this, Tim began walking into camp. Mark grabbed a cavalry carbine; Garfer and his men wielded their deadly hockey sticks and began moving in. Dundee still sat, passive, on the sidelines.
"You, and the rest of you real-lifers," Tector finished.
At this, most everyone in the camp began reaching for their weapon. Potts aimed his shotgun carefully at Tector; Stubb grabbed his revolver off the ground; Sondra ducked for cover as Bill pulled out his rifle. Every man and woman, it seemed, started reaching for their gun. . .
"TROOPER!"
Tim shouted out, and then slowly walked over to Garfer.
"Mr. Garfer," he said slowly, "I am - we would like to compliment you and your men for your spirited rendition of 'O Canada' at the river crossing this afternoon."
Garfer looked at Tim for a long moment before answering. "Thank you, sir," he finally said.
Tim smiled slightly, then walked back past his own men. The situation was defused, for now. Dundee walked after him.
"Nice work, buddy," Dundee said, patting him on the shoulder.
"Is that all?" Tim said.
"What more is there for me to say?" Dundee asked. "You want some intricately-written, ham-acted speech about what I see as your place?'
"Well. . ."
"You're an online cavalier," Dundee rejoindered. "You're an Internet chatter fighting for a high-speed connection you never had and you never will."
Tim looked at Dundee. "How exactly - how exactly do you see yourself - Groggy Dundee? Have you ever stopped to consider why you spend all your time online, instead of with a girlfriend?"
Groggy stared at Tim for a moment, then walked off.
Back at the camp, everyone was calmed for the moment. A coyote howled in the distance. Stubb, his face still smarting, looked at the spilt Spaghetti-O's. Maybe I should've brought some Chunky Soup, he thought to himself.
Before we continue with our enthralling account of this expedition, Garfer, leader of the Canadian contingent, has kindly provided us with some further information on his force. Enjoy.
An update on the Canadian supplies
After having given it up as a loss the Canadian contingent found one of their pack mules bogged down in the river. They wer able to retrieve some of their supplies and weapons. Since these supplies and weapons do differ from the American counter parts, we should explain their usage. Unlike tents that are standard in the USA and CSA armies the Canadians use portible igloos. Bright white in colour they are easy to find in the dark. They are also quite comfortable keeping a low temperature, however they do seem to fade away in hot climates.
Our primary weapon is not the sabre as carried by the American armies, but the hockey stick. It is a devastating weapon any where from 56 to 74 inches in length. It is made of solid wood and the stick is square in shape, about one and a half inches in all directions. On one end is a curved blade about 10 inches long, also made of wood. It resembles a farmer's scythe. This weapon can be used trip, hook, and slash the enemy, forcing him to the ground where he can then be hacked by the blade or pummeled by the stick itself. It can also be used as a spear, running the blade into the enemys' mid-section or turn around and used to butt end an enemy in the head or groin. Shorter versions have turned up and are wielded like an hatchet, axe or tomahawk. It's poplarity has caused it to appears in several sporting events in Canada. Many of our Canadain have eqarned the title of "Hatchet Man" in reverence to their skill with the stick. As a back up weapon we have another stick. Smaller and made of hickory, It has a rawhide pouch at one end. The lacrosse racket, as it is called, is use to hurl paint balls at the enemy. Upon contact the paint balls explode into serveral coloues, making pretty pictures and scaring the hell out of the enemy. We do not kow if the Major will let us use our weapons but we will serve until the Apache is taken or destroyed.
The Canadian Contingent - The members 7 + 1
garfer -
A befuddled man, whos children were stollen in infancy by pirates. He has joind the fight against the Apache after fearing reprisals for the citizens of his home town of York. garfer has been rooting for the champion hoser team from Mount Royal in the province of Quebec. This has infuriated the people of York who seem to think that a team dressed in blue fatgiues and wearing a white maple leaf on the front are superior hosers. garfer is going to prove that you can be a good hoser regardless of the team colours you wear.
Black Jacques Shellac -
Volunteering to fight the Apache was an excuse for Jacques to personally witness the clash below the border between the blue and the grey. An old trapper from the most northern part of Quebec Jacques is a fierce and nobel fighter. He hopes to learn enough to help him in his cause to separate his beloved Quebec from lower Canada. "Sacre Blue and to hell with you" is his motto for all English speaking Canadians.
Goofy Newfie -
Although not to bright Goofy, from a little fishing village on the island country of Newfoundland is eager to fight. Home sick and unable to figure out how to get back to his native island, the newfie has joined the expedition to prove his worth and learn enough about tracking in order to find his way home. He has gotten lost several times while seeking out his return home, only to find out that bread cumbs do not make a good map to find your way back. Goofy arrived in lower Canada a couple of years ago, when playing hockey on the frozen Saint Lawrence river he intercepted a pass, took control of the puck and found himself on a breakaway to the goal.
Wrong-way Preston -
The standards bearer for the Canadian contigent. At one time Preston was a sargent in the North West Mounted Police. Stationed in the Yukon Territory, Sgt. Preston performed his duties well in the Great White North. He was cashiered out of the regiment for the infamous "flag flap" that occurred recently. At a conference between the USA and the Dominion of Canada Sgt. Preston inadvertently place the Canadian flag upside down on the flag pole. While this wasn't serious enough to dismiss him. It was his insistence that a company of American Marines were the ones that hung the flag upside down that got hime cashiered. You will also note that for this expedition we have modified the flag that Sgt. Preston carries. There is an arrow pointing upward on top of the leaf and a new motto added. "This End Up.....Eh".
Dortmund Hoffenmuller -
Our interpreter. Dortmund hails from Prussia where he had a distinguishing carreer althroughEuorpe. He comes from a long line of Prussian calvary men who fought against Napoleon and some with Napoleon. His one wish was to cross the English channel with serverl of his fellow countrymen. Dortmund speaks, reads and writes several of the "Germanic" languages as well as Austrian, Norweigan, and Finnish. He also speaks several of native tongues such as Ojibway, Huron, Erie, Mohican, Wendat. It is our hope that on this tour he will learn English so that we can communicate with him.
I. P. Molson -
Once a memeber of the famous Molsons brewing family, I. P. joined the continget after falling out of favour with his family. Assigned as a master sampler of the ales and lager brewed by the Molsons, it was found out that I. P. was severly drinking away the company profits. In hopes of finding a good beer in the USA or Mexico I. P. was eager to sign up. We have given I. P. the job of being our company lookout and spy. He has spent a great part of his life standing behind trees, bushes, fence posts in near silence and has commented several times that he was greatly relieved while standing behind the trees, bushes and fence posts.
Old Sam -
Now Old Sam is an Indian. One of the last members of the He-Kaw-Wie tribe. It seems that the tribe had a booming souvenir business in the old west until the closure of Fort Courage caused the business to close down and the tribe to disperse. Old Sam made his way into Canada and wandered for several years. Now Sam is looking for a final resting place. He tried to get a room in the Boot Hill cemetary home, but was told he was not fit to be buried. Angered with the preduice shown to him he has come to fight and to go out in a blaze of glory.
Calvary Guy -
JC as we know him has adopted the title bestowed on him by Dundee. That of Calvary Guy. Maltese by birth and educated in England JC was assigned by her majesty, the Queen of England, to studied the tactics of the American calvary and to return to England with knowledge that will be used by the English in the battle with their Indians. The dreaded renegade MyHat MyCoat has started a war against the British in a bid for independence for his country. But secretly JC has let us know that he intends to use the knowledge he has gained against the British for his own purpose. He is always telling us that in 1241 or so his family was booted off the throne of Malta, and he intends to return to take his rightful place and restore the monarchy to Malta.
Now that we have given names and faces to the men in this command, we can perhaps move on to the next tumultuous episode of the expedition.
(Note: these posts are NOT going in the same time frame as the movie, just so we don't have a week or two between each entry.)
The air was still, calm, and quiet. Visible was the Rio Grande, shining in the bright sunlight, visible almost two miles off from a hillside. Major Groggy Dundee sat nervously on his horse, waiting for his scouts to return, with reports of border patrol or Minutemen about somewhere. Behind him was his troop, lined up in a straight, orderly column - or most of them.
Underneath a shady tree, several of the Misc - people whom Dundee felt rather poorly towards - had set up a Playstation 2 and were playing Dance Dance Revolution. The annoying, mindless tunes that poured out of that machine were matched in their level of annoyance only by the loud screaming of the players as they partook in what they saw as great fun - Dundee, in his slightly obnoxious way, as a waste of time. Right now, Plasmotic Snake - the last person you'd expect to find interest in this - was taking his turn, and the various scoundrels and ragamuffins watched contentedly as this otherwise silent and collected man danced to a remix of an old song by "Kool And The Gang".
Underneath another tree, Tim nervously picked at a piece of bark. He was unsure of what to do. Dave Jenkins had layed bare his overall intentions through his rash and impetuous action. Jenkins claimed that he was simply trying to get the Major to inspect his blade - like he bought that. Tim could only hope that Jenkins' action did not reveal to Dundee his overall plan. Hopefully, it wouldn't.
At this point, Dundee surveyed three dots on the horizon. Within a minute, Potts, followed by Michelle and Ben, rode up to him.
"Well, we've got some bad news," Potts drew.
"What is it?"
"We're - nowhere near Tijuana."
A brief pause as Dundee took this in.
"Oh?" he said finally.
"Yeah - Tijuana's on the California border, and we're in Texas."
A long, tense pause, as Dundee marvelled at the stupidity of his supposedly adroit trailmaster.
"Well, you're not too far off," he said sarcastically.
"Well, this is probably the safest place to cross," Potts said defensively. "We can cross here, and then move to the west, be in town in two or three days."
Dundee pondered this for a moment before answering.
"Suppose our weapons and supplies arrive in that town before we do," he said thoughtfully. "What do you think will happen if we were to drop fifty assault weapons, machine guns, and dozens of armored vehicles, tanks, artillery, and helicopters - with full ammo loads! - into that shithole, with them being unguarded for two whole fucking days?"
Potts shrugged. "Some drunks will have a great time," he said, smiling.
"I'd rather use those shells and ammunition for practical purposes than watching dead-brained college kids blow each other up."
"I understand, sir," Potts said.
"Mr. Potts," Dundee said, rolling his eyes, "there is not much use in having you on as trailmaster if you can't fucking tell the difference between California and Texas." Dundee then turned to Michelle. "Michelle, you probably know this region well enough to tell that the difference between California and Texas. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well then, maybe we should relieve our current trailmaster of our position."
There was an awkward moment of silence, as Potts took this in.
"We'll get you where you're going, Groggy," Potts said with a hint of anger in his voice, "and that's all that'll matter."
"Anyone guarding the border?"
"A couple of drunken idiots," Potts said. "I think they're Minutemen."
"Well, then we'll blast 'em to hell and back!" Dundee shouted enthusiastically. "MARK!" he shouted to his bugler, Tim's cousin.
"Sir?" Mark rapidly rode over, away from the DDR matt.
"Let's let those vigilante sonsofbitches know that there's an army come a-callin'!" Dundee exclaimed.
"Yes, sir!" Mark played a brief march, and quickly - though not quick enough for their leader - the command was assembled.
"Mr. Starbuck?"
Joe Starbuck rode up to the Major. "Sir?"
"Get all of our men, along with some of the others, and go across. Get Lieutenant Tim to assemble his force next, and Garfer and the Canadians will bring up the rear," Dundee told his subordinates. "You lead 'em across."
"Yes sir!" Joe saluted and began assembling the troops.
"Sergeant Harriman!" Groggy shouted.
"Here, sir!" Harriman rode up beside her commanding officer.
"Go and get the following people: I want Sergeants Cullen and Kimmel, along with Ms. Lorelei Jones and Aimee up front with me. Everyone else can fall into line."
"Yes, sir!"
Dundee turned to Mark. "Of course you're staying up front, too, Trooper."
"Yes, sir."
After a long minute, Dundee's force was assembled in the appropriate columns. Aimee rode up beside Dundee. "Hello, Major!"
"Aimee," Dundee said with a smile flowing over his face. "It's been awhile since we've formally spoken."
"Yes, sir."
"How's Florida treating you?"
"I hate the weather," Aimee replied, returning the smile.
As she said this, Sergeans Harriman, Cullen, and Kimmel rode up, with Ms. Jones right behind them.
"Sir!" Sergeant Cullen saluted.
"Sergeant Cullen, you are going to oversee the crossing. Stay on this side of the river, until everyone is across. You come running for me if anyone straggles."
"Yes, sir." Cullen galloped ahead.
"Mr. Potts?"
"Major?" Potts said, somewhat apprehensively.
"I'll see you in camp tonight," Dundee said simply, saluting.
Potts and his two scouts then rode towards the river.
"Miss Jones," Dundee said to his distinguished colleague.
"Sir?"
"Think you're able to fight for an indiscernable cause once again?"
"My cause is for the fighting, sir," Jones said, saluting.
"Good girl."
At this, Joe Starbuck again rode up. "All present and accounted for, sir."
"All right, Joe. You take your men in right after us. Sergeant Harriman?"
"Sir?"
"I want you to stay behind and direct the advance."
"Yes, sir."
"Anyone straggles, you start shoooting."
"Yes, sir."
Dundee looked at his command, then turned to his young bugler. "Play us a tune, son," he said.
"YES, SIR!"
A martial tune played as Dundee and his escort moved out. Potts and his men were already across the river, and Dundeeand his entourage quickly covered the open ground behind the hill and the river. Behind them, Starbuck, followed by Tim, and finally Garfer and his Canadians went into motion. Things were going very well so far, Dundee thought to himself.
After a few minutes, all of the command was across, except Tim and a few of his officers - the Gorch Brothers, Peacemaker, and Marco Leone - hanging back on the far side. Sergeant Harriman remained on the hill, her rifle aimed tentatively on Tim and his men. Dundee recrossed the river, then told Sergeant Cullen to cross and join with the rest of the command. He rode up to Tim and his band of men, keeping an eye on Sergeant Harriman.
"Having trouble, Lieutenant?" he asked.
"No, sir," Tim said. "Just waiting for the water to clear up a bit."
"45 men of this command got across without any problems," Dundee replied. "Surely you can. . ."
Dundee began to ride off. "Your word's about as good as your website," he sneered.
"Then why don't you release him from it?" Lyle Gorch asked.
"What do you want from us, anyway?" Tector demanded.
"I have what I want from him, Tector," Dundee said. "I have his word."
At this, Dundee signalled for Harriman to lower their gun; the Sergeant complied, and began descending the cliff. Dundee was recrossing the river. Tim saw Dundee's back turned to him, and his hand instinctively began moving towards his sidearm, but he fought off this impulse. He looked behind him, seeing nothing but Sergeant Harriman - clumsily descending the hill on horseback - standing between his men and freedom. Tim paused for a long moment, unsure of what to do. It was painful to let such a golden opportunity slip away, but it was a matter of honor - and in his mind, Tim had no choice.
"Which way, Cap'n?" Peacemaker asked.
After a brief pause, Tim said, with self-disgust dripping from his voice: "To Mexico, you bloody idiot!"
Within five minutes, Sergeant Harriman crossed the river, and the whole company was across without incident. Tim's men looked longingly at the empty, abandoned far shore - but he comforted himself by thinking, It's only a matter of time.
As for the Minutemen? Well, they had to take a pee, and the nearest portipotti was a half hour away, so. . .
(Note for foreign readers: the Minutemen are a group of individuals that are trying to enforce border control by themselves, without government jurisdiction. Basically, they're vigilantes. I don't have a problem with them in particular, some do, but we're not here for a political discussion.)
For those of you reading this blog, it may strike you as curious that in 2005, a military command is running around on horseback and with guns of all sorts of non-uniform variety. This can be explained simply - it has to do with Grenouille. It is not his fault, but it is he who is responsible for ordinance.
After several planning sessions it was agreed upon by the various parties that the force in question would have the following: 12 HUMVEES, 20 Jeeps, one tank, and maybe an Apache helicopter or two, plus some horses, two artillery pieces, several RPGs, and a uniform arming by AR-15 assault weapons. With these weapons and supplies, Groggy Dundee's army would've been a formdable foe - even against 250 marauding Apache warriors.
However, something went wrong with the ordering - the weapons and supplies never got to the fort on time, and now must be airlifted to an undisclosed location - hopefully in Tijuana, the first target of the expedition (as Potts has reported their presence there). But for now, the command had to rely on their own weapons.
Now this was quite tricky. Some people did come prepared. Plasmotic Snake, for instance - the silent Loyalist - brought an FAMAS assault rifle, with a FNP-90 submachine gun as backup. Snake could take on quite a few Apache on his own; however, sadly, most of the rest of the command had not brought their weapons, and the Major was forced to equip them with whatever was lying around the fort - from Henry rifles and muskets to shotguns to M-16s and so on. It was quite a poorly prepared group.
This is just for the information of the readers, is not meant to amuse you, and explains why, in 2005, these people are running around Mexico on horseback with repeating rifles.
Well, there was one creature that the bizarre cacophony of songs, national anthems, popular music, and classic rock did not scare away.
Now this kid was great. I swear to God. He'd make your shoes look like fucking mirrors - excuse my language. We used to call him "Spitshine Frisco".
But Frisco had now grown up. Despite his diminutive appearance, he was in reality quite a tough hombre. He had been riding since literally from birth. He knew how to ride, how to shoot. He'd killed dozens of people in his days. And he was the sole member of El Indio's gang to escape the massacre in Agua Caliente at the hands of two bounty hunters. . .
Now this solitary figure was riding hell for leather to catch the column. He had heard Major Dundee's proclamation, but had some "business" to take care of before he could join with him. He was afraid now that Dundee would not accept him in the expedition, or that at least he may have to prove himself for being tardy.
Suddenly, he heard a faint rustling in the trees.And after that he heard an annoying doorbell sound, like this: Frisco slowly reached for his rifle, slowing his horse to a trot. . .
PFFFH! An arrow flew by his head and landed in a nearby tree. Frisco, with lightning-quick reflexes, levelled his rifle and fired. His attacker let out a loud scream: AAAAAGH!
With lightning speed, Frisco cocked his rifle and fired three more shots. More screams were let out: AAAAAGH! AAAAAGH! AAAAAGH!
And his attackers dropped to the ground. Four Apaches lay dead, bullets in their hearts. As always, Frisco's aim had been impeccable.
Then - wham! Another arrow whizzed by Frisco's head. He vaguely saw two figures aiming at him, but before he could act - he heard two loud reports, almost simultaneously, and then: AAAAAGH! AAAAAGH!
Frisco looked over, and saw this bizarre legless man, carrying a Winchester in each hand. To Frisco's shock, he quickly placed one in his left leg - but kept his right gun out, firing again as another Apache emerged from the brush: AAAAAGH!
This man - the aforementioned Mr. Smit - kept his right "leg" out for the time being. "Come along, amigo," he drawled, leading Frisco back to Dundee's camp.
He saw about fifty people, armed with various weapons, standing at attention, as the twosome rode into camp. A trim young man in a Confederate army uniform stood up and saluted Smit.
"Mr. Smit!" Tim shouted.
"Sir."
"What happened?"
"This here man was tracking us, he came across the Apache, and we took care of 'em."
Tim eyed him for a moment, suspicious. "Where ya from?"
"Tucumcari."
"Where are you really from?"
There was a slight pause, before Frisco answered. "The Internet."
A slight grimace appeared in Tim's face, as he gestured for him to come and have a seat.
"What's going on here!?"
Tim, Smit, and the new recruits looked on as Dundee walked over, his revolver still drawn.
"Who in the hell is he?" he demanded of Frisco.
"The name's Frisco, sir," the bandito replied, awkwardly saluting the Major.
"He just wasted seven Apache singlehandedly, sir," Smit assured him.
"Yes, sir," Frisco answered.
Dundee glared at them both. "What qualifications does he have?" he said finally.
"He killed each man with a single shot," Lieutenant Tim chimed in.
Dundee glared at for a long moment. "You're a bit late," he said after a pause.
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, sir, but I believe I could be useful to your expedition."
Unsure, Dundee continued to glare at him, resting the muzzle of his pistol thoughtfully on his chin.
At this moment, Dave Jenkins appeared behind Dundee with his knife drawn, about to plunge it into his commander's neck. . .
Frisco's rifle roared, and Jenkins fell, a bullet in his knee cap. He winced as three of Tim's men rushed him and dragged him to a tent. Dundee simply stared at Frisco, his rifle still smoking, before finally turning around. "Come on," he said finally. "Have some coffee."
"Yes, sir!" Frisco saluted and complied. Tim stared after them with a mischevious grin on his face. One more man for me, Groggy, he said to himself.
"Mr. Smit," he said to his rifle-legged subordinate, "back to your post."
"Yes, sir."
As Smit rode back towards the picket line, Tim continued staring thoughfully into the bush, before finally moving back to the comfort of his tent. A slight rain began to fall as the sun dipped over the horizon.
The troop was assembled, and everyone ready to move out from Fort Benlin, when Captain Waller, Dundee's subordinate, started trying to talk him out of the whole thing.
"Frank, I can't give up now - we're leaving in two minutes!"
"Groggy, you're going to get everyone killed! This is a suicide mission, launched for YOUR personal aggrandizement-"
At this, Groggy snapped his fingers, and Mr. Stubb appeared behind Waller. He politely tapped on his shoulder, then smashed his gargantuan fist into Waller's face. Waller falls to the ground, blood spurting from his nose and mouth. Stubb continued beating on Waller as Dundee rode over to Potts.
"Mr. Potts," he said to his tracker, "I want you to ride about a half-mile ahead of the column at all times. Take your scouts."
"Yes, sir."
As Potts rode ahead, Saunders stopped Michelle and chatted with her amiably. "How are you doing today?"
"Not bad, except I'm about to go into the field," came her smiling reply.
Ben rode up to Saunders, silent. Potts had ordered him to keep his mouth shut at the pain of death.
"Well, good luck to you, Michelle. I'd hate for such a pretty face as yours to be ruined by a bullet."
Michelle saluted, a big smile on her face, and rode up with Potts. Then came Ben, an amused looked on his face - he seemed to find the Major's discussion with his female scout - amusing. Dundee then signalled to Stubb, who still was beating on Waller, who was very nearly - if not quite actually - dead. Stubb walked up to Ben, then tackled his horse. As Ben fell to the ground, Stubb sprang up and started kicking him in the head.
"Stop him, Major," Potts cried out. "I'll need him."
Stubb stopped, and walked back to his horse. Ben slowly stood up and mounted his horse.
"See you in about six hours, J.," Dundee called after him.
"Yeah," came the retort.
As the scouts rode off, Dundee turned to his command. He surveyed them, and saw an endless row of bizarre faces - some smiling, some grim, some just plain idiotic. Dundee rode out in front of his command. He ordered Sergeants Cullen and Harriman, and Grenouille, to ride with him. He ordered this followed by Joe Starbuck, then the rest of the "Loyalist" contingent, followed by Tim and the Internet-ers, then Garfter, with the misc. at the rear, and Plasmotic Snake (?) bringing up the very rear of the column.
He then went over to Tim. "Are your men ready to move out, Captain?"
Tim smirked at him. "Yes, sir. But only until the Apache is taken or destroyed."
Dundee then turned to Waller, saying to him, "Give my regards to General Franks." Waller, being unconscious and all, did not answer.
At this, Keith Richards rode into the fort, and curtly saluted Dundee.
"Mr. Richards!" Dundee shouted. "What in the hell are you doing? I told you we were leaving at eight o'clock sharp!"
"Iinteresting day today," Richards began. "I was riding through Duso El Nipple and I spotted some smelly looking bandits, I was looking for a fix and thought, what the hell I'll see what these guys are made of. SO, I walk over to these guys and say hello and they shoot me 9 times repeatedly in the face, not a good sign imo. They start walking off thinking I'm dead but of course I cannot be killed, all the bullets went in through my nostrils and out of my ears, so I get one of my special ciggerettes and shove it up one of these banditos arses real good, take his pistol out of his holster and by the time he's returned to earth after taking off like a rocket, his amigos are dead. After this incident I will never visit Duso El Nipple again, shithole."
"Get into line," Dundee replied to him.
Richards, unsheathing his acoustic guitar, rode into line behind Reverend Armstrong. He stared at Armstrong, smirking.
"Onward Christian soldiers! Kick some red man's ass!"
"Rock music is looked down upon by the Lord," Armstrong replied, "as a tool of Satan."
Richards looked at him for a long moment, then said, "Fuck you."
Dundee rode to the front of his men. "I have but three orders of march," he said. When I signal for you to come, you come. When I signal for you to charge, you charge. And when I signal for you to run, you follow me and run like hell."
Sergeant Kimmel raised her hand. "Where's my Apache helicopter?"
Another person farther back complained, "Where's our HUMVEEs?"
"Tim's cousin," Dundee shouted, "Up front!" He complied.
Dundee looked back at his "men", watching them get ready. Mr. Smit removed his legs and loaded them; Sondra and Bill - *gag!* - kissed each other romantically; Aimee rode up beside Joe Starbuck and the two began a conversation; Richards began tuning his guitar; Garfter and his men unfurling their Maple Leaf flag; Dave Jenkins moved to stab Alex Starbuck in the back with a long, long knife.
"All right, Lieutenant," Dundee said to Tim, "move 'em out."
"Two's right!" Tim shouted.
"Two's right!" The call went throughout the command, and as the command went into line, they began moving out of the fort.
Dundee turned to his young bugler. "Play us a tune, son!"
"YES, SIR!" Enthusiastically, Ryan began playing a jaunty marital march on his bugle.
At this, Tim and a few of his men began singing:
"Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton, Long time gone, but not forgotten, Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixieland!"
At this, Sergeant Cullen and a few others began: "Oh, mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!"
At this, Keith Richards strummed his guitar, and began singing his own song, being joined by a few classic rock fans among the expeditioners: "Hot stuff Hot stuff Hot stuff Hot stuff Can't get enough Hot stuff Hot stuff Hot stuff Hot stuff Can't get enough That music is mighty fine"
At this, Reverend Armstrong began: "Shall we gather at the river? Where bright angel feet have trod? With his crystal tide forever? That flows from the throne of God?"
Then, Grenouille, being a tasteless purveyor of popular music, started his song: "A few times I've been around that track So it's not just gonna happen like that Cause I ain't no hollaback girl I ain't no hollaback girl"
At this, Dundee could've sworn he heard a sixth song striking up from somewhere further back the ranks: "Stacy's mom has got it going on!"
And then, from somewhere in the din: "O Canada! Our home and native land! True patriot love in all thy sons command. With glowing hearts we see thee rise, The True North strong and free! From far and wide, O Canada, we stand on guard for thee. God keep our land glorious and free! O Canada, we stand on guard for thee. O Canada, we stand on guard for thee."
"SING LOUDER!" Dundee shouted to his Union men, hoping to drown out the hapless cacophony behind him.
As the command, hopelessly divided in its taste in music, moved out into the countryside, with six and maybe more songs now blaring from their mismatched vocal chords - for Dundee could swear he now heard strains of "We Will Rock You" and "Yellow Submarine" somewhere in the vocal mess - the noise they generated scared all men and beasts for almost fifty miles around.
Last but not least, we come to the Internet people, who have agreed to sign on only until the Apache is taken or destroyed.Some are more loyal than others.
The Internet People - Skilled Artisans In The Field Of Fighting, Psychopaths, Necessary Evils, Canadians, and Gunfighters
Tim the Bugler - Dundee's second-in-command, he's been promoted to Dundee's immediate subordinate recently, and his cousin has replaced him. He is also a newspaper man who is planning to cover the expedition. - A
Tim's cousin - The new bugler. - A
Marco Leone - A British gunslinger and Spaghetti Western enthusiast who is at turns good, bad, and ugly. He's also one of my bestest Internet buddies. - B
James Finnegan Stubb - A great cook and a rough-houser. Also goes by the name Chum - Grandpa Chum. - B
Garfer - The leader of the Canadian contingent, seven Canadian soldiers who have been left behind because some feel they'll be too busy watching hockey and drinking Moosehead Beer to go and fight with the American hosers, eh? I'll trust them - for now. B
Garfer's six Canadians - Ah, expendables - I mean, valued members of our fighting force! - D
Cavalry Guy - Garfer's friend who has studied American Cavalry tactics extensively. He assures that "I am damn fancy sir. and A big fat pain in the ass." Welcome aboard, buddy! - C
Mr. Smit - Guy who lost his legs to Apaches and his replaced them with two Winchester rifles. A guy like that has got to be worth something. - C
The Peacemaker - Prefers to call himself "Death", he's damn good with a Colt .45 Peacemaker, and that's all you need to know. - C
Herpes Girl - A promiscuous IMDB slut who plans to sleep with everyone in the command. - C
Keith Richards - Either the one from the Rolling Stones, or someone pretending to be him. He assures me that he cannot be killed, so that's definitely worth something, if true. - C
Lyle and Tector Gorch - If you aren't familiar with the Gorches from "The Wild Bunch", that's your problem. - B
Angel - Jaime Sanchez's character from "The Wild Bunch". Apparently he managed to survive that rather brutal throat slashing. - C
Dante the 1st - Misc. IMDBer. - D
Dave Jenkins - He assures me he's very good at stabbing people in the back. Keep an eye out for him. - C
Lorelei Bascomb Jones - A veteran of many Old West gangs, wars, and campaigns. Go here to see her completely history. - B
Kermit - A legendary member of the Leone board who is coming along, thankfully. He's a living legend who needs not be described; it would be pointless. If we can make your role bigger, we will. - C
Border Trash - Southern-born Southerner who lives along the border and is spoiling for a good fight. He also appears to be a graduate of the University of Arkansas. - C
Quite a motley crew I've assembled, eh? Fifty in total, it should be a blast.
Now along with the miscellaneous individuals found by myself to sign up. Most of these people are likely to be minor characters and used primarily to absorb bullets, but one or two (or three) may survive. . . we'll see.
The Misc
Reverend Armstrong - Yes, our very own R.G. Armsrong-type has agreed to sign on with our expedition, providing fire and brimstone, though he's a bit weaker - dare I say more effete? - than Dahlstrom was. "Any man with a just cause should travel with the word of God." - B
Sondra and Bill - A pair of *smooch smooch* lovers who have decided that both them will come along. When Sondra said, "Well, you go along with Lieutenant Brannin then. Well, you'll go along without me," Dundee almost wishes this were true. - C
Tom - A neurotic nutjob who goes along for fun and adventure. - C
Shumaker - Plans to bring down an Apache helicopter and blow the shit out of everyone. - C
Ashley, Nicole, Walker, Lennie, Shaulis, Nathan, Tristan, Daniel - misc. people who are - dare I say it? - expendable. - D
Well, here are your scout characters. If you cannot divine their purpose on your own, than that's your problem, not mine.
The Scouts
J. Potts - Potts is a small but tough scout formerly of residence in Arizona who is also an egotist who wants Dundee to make him into his second-in-command. He lost one arm in a fierce game of soccer, but has managed to adapt. Saunders, however, feels that his estimate of Charriba's strength and whereabouts may be off. One may indeed question whether he has any usefulness at all. - A
Ben - A slight, athletic young man whose qualities as a scout are questionable. - C
Michelle - Michelle is a girl, if you're too dumb to have guessed that on your own. She has lived in Arizona and New Mexico with her parents, and was kidnapped at a young age by the Apache, riding with them for two years before she was rescued. Now, she's got a personal score to settle. Seems old Charriba wouldn't take her along with him on this last raid - said she couldn't be trusted. Now she's got her mind set on killin' the old man.- C
Do I expect you to believe these Apache would turn against their own families, track down their own people? Well, why not? Everybody else seems to be doin' it. . .
