The Sun's Anvil

The sun slowly rose over the desolate Sonoran desert. It was very mild right this moment, but within hours - minutes even - the alkali sands would be too scorching hot for even the lizards, tarantulas and rattlesnakes which prowled the desert at night.

Through this vast expanse roamed Marie Wynter. Since her esacpe from Charriba, she had gotten desperately lost and was now roaming the deserts aimlessly. She had not seen a sign of civilization for days... well, seen is a relative term, as she had lost her eyeglasses somewhere back across the way. She had little water and there was only so much of the scorching heat and stinging scorpions she could take.

The sun rose gradually. By eight o'clock it was already unbearably hot.

As she stumbled forward aimlessly, Marie's mind wandered. She began thinking feverishly over the inexplicable events of the last few weeks, and began remembering her friends at Alabama, how hot it was there - but not THIS hot! - and her early life in Pennsylvania. She thought of her family. She thought of God, no matter how difficult the situation was. But now, it seemed even God might not be able to save her.

She had often fantasized, as most every young girl does, of being in an impossible situation and rescued by a dashing figure out of one of the trashy novels she read. A British duke of some sort, perhaps, would sweep her off her feet and take her as his own. But that seemed a very remote possibility at this point.

The sun beat down ceaselessly; Marie could not see more than a few feet in front of her. Thoughts swirling in her head, her body overcome by heat, she collapsed to her knees, staring at the ever-present sun. Then everything went black.

* * *

Groggy Dundee put on his old uniform as he arrived back at the camp. He felt his face. Damn it! he thought. I haven't shaved in weeks! And where the hell is my razor?

Even though several members of the command complemented him on his new look, Dundee hated it; and Tim assured him that he looked utterly moronic with that fuzz growing out of his face.

After minutes of shaving - which went beyond shaving, more along the lines of hacking and sawing at his face, unconcerned with how many grotesque nicks and scars appeared as a result - Dundee finally saw a clean-shaven face. Blood spurted through small holes in his chin, and cheeks, and neck - but he was clean!

Suddenly, Dave entered the tent, knife drawn, and cautious tapped the Major on the shoulder.

"What IS it, soldier?" Groggy asked, in a frightened yelp.

"Oh, I heard you were shaving..." Dave began, gesturing towards his knife, then noticed Dundee's face. "Nevermind." He saluted and exited, grumbling.

Dundee looked after him for a moment. That prick's been more trouble than he's worth, Dundee mused thoughtfully. I'll have to keep a close eye on him...

Groggy then returned to the mirror and saw - shit.

A small tuft of hair remained on his chin. Dundee cursed out loud and reached for his blood-soaked razor.

* * *

The sun beat down in the vast desert as Sergeant Cullen and Jed rode a mule back to friendly territory. How degrading! Their horses had been stolen, and now they were forced to share a mule.

The previously antagonisitic scouts, however, had grown a strong bond over bouts of whiskey and liquor whilst in Durango, so they didn't mind.

Potts knew - or thought he knew - that the quickest way back to the camp - if it was still there - was through the Sonoran Desert. Even though it was west of Durango, it didn't matter. Potts would have thought about it, if his mental capacity for thinking hadn't been ruined by five cases of hard Mexican whiskey. A stream of urine trickled down his leg as he tried to concentrate, leaving a moist trail behind the donkey. Or maybe it was Cullen's.

They were in the midst of a mild and friendly argument - which led to knives being placed at each other's throat - about Ben Roethlisberger's ability as a quarterback, when they discerned a small heap in the middle of the desert. It was scarcely visible, and the two men were lucky to have seen it, what with their glowering at each other and being hammered like two sailors. But they saw it, and as their mule slowly - agonizingly slowly - drew them closer, they could tell it was a person.

It was a girl, her pale skin badly sunburned. She was breathing shallowly, unconscious, and seemed near death.

Chivalrously, Cullen and Potts stopped their mule and picked her sunburned body off the ground. Potts put her on the mule and hopped up after her. The girl's body slumped against his back.

"Thanks for being so chivalrous, amigo," Potts exclaimed. Cullen, uncomprehending, stood staring, until it finally dawned on him: there was no room on the mule.

Cullen started reaching for knife, glowering. "You bastard!" he screamed.

"Ah ah!" Jed said, drawing his shotgun and levelling at the Sergeant. "You see, ol' Bessy here is real tired, and I think it's best if you lead her yourself for awhile."

Cullen glowered at Jed, but with the shotgun pointed at his head, and the girl on the back of the mule, there was little he could do.

Tyreen to the Rescue!

After more time wallowing his self-imposed exile of fast food and soft drink and burritos, Dundee found himself drinking a milk shake in a filthy Mexican McDonald's. As he sipped it, the portly Frenchman Petain watched him, chewing on a Quarter Pounder with cheese, ketchup running down his greasy chin...


Groggy must have dozen off, for he woke up to a familiar voice: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." He then felt someone kicking his foot. Groggy looked up and saw, dressed in shoddy civilian clothing, his old nemesis, Captain Tim Tyreen O'Brien.


"What are you doing here?" Groggy asked groggily. He absently scratched his week's worth of beard stubble which bristled on his indecisive face.


"We're here to rescue you," the Captain replied. "We've spent all night looking for you."

"Why?"

"So I can kill you myself..." Tyreen said simply.

"Makes sense," Groggy conceded.

"So, let's get out of here," Tyreen said.

As he said this, Potts came in with Cullen, completely drunk. They came up behind Petain and smashed a sledgehammer into his skull, flattening it. Cullen stupidly laid a burger wrapper over his skull and Potts and Cullen shrieked with drunken delight.

Tyreen smirked as Cullen and Potts carried the fat Froggy out with the wrapper on his head. "There goes our little watch dog!" he said proudly. "Now, let's get out of here!"

Dundee regarded a despoiled bag of old, greasy French fries. "I eat, Ben, did you know that?" he said. "That is the secret to my great success - I eat!" He popped the old cold fries into his mouth and looked at an ugly, hideous Mexican girl smiling at him.

"But I don't eat enough..." he trailed off, spitting the mushy fries all over the table. He turned his gaze from the hideous sight to his adversary. "What about you, Captain Tim Tyreen O'Brien? Don't you ever have any doubts about who you are?"

"I've been three men already, Groggy," Tim said. "That's enough for one lifetime."

Groggy began counting them off on his finger. "College student..."

"Journalism major..." Tyreen added.

"And Sergio Leone Web Board renegade," Groggy concluded. "I don't like any of 'em."

"Well isn't THAT a coincidence..." Tyreen acidly replied. "Come along, Major," he said, straightening himself up. "I have orders appropriate to your character... to bring you out the back door."

Tyreen suddenly sucker-punched the Major in the jaw. As he fell to the dirty floor of the McDonald's, he let out a maniac shriek which echoed through the still Mexican air... as if the Foley artist was injecting PCP directly into his heart.

This gave the signal. A group of grungy-looking Mexicans suddenly sprung up, revealing - GASP! - them to be troopers from Dundee's command. They included the gun crew, manning Lieutenant Joe's tiny howitzer. They fired a shot, which missed the French barracks completely and took out a Starbucks...

"Ah HA!" Tyreen screamed. "Lieutenant Starbuck will be a general before he's thirty!" He said as another shot was fired. Sounds of gunfire exploded outside, but as Tyreen celebrated the groggy Groggy punched him in the face, flattening him.

The firing outside became general. "Major..." Tyreen said impatiently, before slugging him in the jaw again.

Cullen ran over to the two. "We have to go!" he shouted.

"Leave me alone, all of you!" Groggy whined.

The firing continued. A French soldier ran in, only to fall, with a knife blade plunging through his chest. Dave looked around. "Well aren't you fellas coming?" he shouted.

"Come on, get OFF it!" Tyreen said, kicking Groggy.

Outside, Tom fell, a bullet in his brain.

"For God's sake, Tim, let me BE!" Groggy whined.

Tyreen stood up straight, regarding his adversary with contempt.

"Why not, Major?" he sneered. "You're not worth killing, anyhow..." He exited in disgust.

Outside, the firing had become general, and Tyreen's troopers were retreating. Tom's body was rapidly descended upon by vultures.

Tyreen mounted a horse, thoughts streaming through his head. What will you do now, old boy? he asked himself. You're commanding officer is sucking left-over French fries in some hellhole burger joint. What's our next move?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Groggy mounting a horse and defiantly facing him.

"Until the Apache is taken or destroyed!" he said, as a raucous filled the air.

The two rode off, back towards the command, with a renewed sense of purpose, their problems and personal conflict unresolved.

* * *

As the commanding officers slinked away under cover of dark, Cullen, Jed Potts, and Dave were covering the retreat. Well... unwillingly, because they kinda got trapped in the bar when the shit came down and about two hundred Froggies rushed into the McDonald's. It looked like curtains for the lot, until a friendly-looking face stepped in between them.

"These aren't the men you're looking for," she said to Captain Rolland, the French officer present. "They're just tourists who got caught up in the middle of the fighting."

It was kind of hard to take that a guy in a Union army uniform, a half-breed Indian in a white doeskin shirt with one arm carrying a sawed-off shotgun, and a maniacal guy holding a knife dripping blood were tourists, but Michelle said it so persuasively that Captain Froggy Pants ordered his men to disperse.

"Thanks, Michelle," Jed said after the French soldiers departed. "Dunno what we'd do with you."

Michelle was all-business for once. "Get going," she snapped impatiently. "I can stall 'em until you get away. Don't wait for me - I'll be back ASAP."

"Love you, girl," Cullen said. Michelle grimaced at him.

Cullen and Jed exited. Dave had already gone.

Jed looked around frantically.

"What's wrong?" Cullen asked.

"Uh... WHERE THE FUCK ARE OUR HORSES!?!" came the reply.

Groggy's Nightmare

After several days in Durango recovering from his leg wound, Groggy Dundee realized the horrible truth: HE WAS IN HELL!

He was trapped, in a dirty hellhole, filled with violent knife-wielding bar flies. French secret police were everywhere, watching his every move. . . (Cue soundtrack music.) His command was miles away, under the command of either a dolt or an untrustworthy traitor, and he had no way to reach them. And he had nothing to do but sit around and eat.

And eat. . . and eat. . . He must have gained sixty pounds in two days.

An attractive Mexican woman, Melinche, was tending to him. She wasn't exactly Groggy's type, but he didn't care so long as she gave him food. Groggy was fortunate that there was an Applebee's next door to the bar, and they had allowed take out. He was always got the same thing; steak and chicken fajitas, with Spanish rice, pico de gilo, sour cream, and guacamole. Melinche tried to talk him out of it - No, it's bad for the digestion, you'll be gassy and crapping all night - but Groggy didn't care.

Groggy's soda habit was also a problem; he was drinking so much Root Beer, Dr. Pepper, and Cream Soda that he had to get up to use the restroom four times a night. And after awhile, even Melinche got sick of helping him to the filthy, roach-infested latrine at 3 in the morning.

Finally, Melinche got sick of Groggy altogether and abandoned him. He was now trapped, alone, in the middle of Durango, with no way out and no one to turn to.

* * *

Groggy fell asleep fitfully, between epic bouts of Mountain Dew Code Red and Cheddar Cheese Goldfish crackers. He had a disturbing flashback to the beginning of the expedition, the massacre, Lieutenant Brannin and the burning Furbies. . . he then realized that it wasn't Lieutenant Brannin burning, but him!

Groggy sat up SCREAMING at the top of his lungs, but there was no one to hear. He was all alone, not sure of what to do next. He had done the worst thing imaginable - backed himself into a corner, with no possible avenue of escape.

* * *

Petain, the fat French spy, sat at the bar drinking. He was waiting for Groggy to come down and show himself so that he could arrest him. He had been given explicit instructions not to arrest Dundee unless they could be sure of his identity. It would have been very easy for the fat secret policeman to arrest him, but he wasn't allowed. So he just sat, and drank, and sat, and drank. . .

His agents picked Melinche the previous night. She was out looking for some fast food, and had gotten into a heated argument with the cashier over incorrect change. This continue until two companies of French soldiers, including a platoon of tanks, arrived to arrest her.

Melinche was treated roughly, but not tortured; she said that Dundee was who the French said they were, that they could capture him for all she cared.

Now, Colonel Chasse, commander of the French Groupment Mobile 100 assigned to track down Dundee's command, had explicit, frustrating, typically illogical orders: you can't arrest Dundee or that would cause a war with the US! Nevermind that Dundee's men had already engaged in the French soldiers in several skirmishes; we mustn't provoke them! Fuck that, thought Colonel Chasse, my country's more important than my fucking orders! But he was forced to follow them to the T; and so Dundee remained ensconced in a den of self-indulgence and contempt.

After several more hours of drinking, Petain was suddenly approached by a young woman. She was very young, with light brown hair and brown eyes, and was dressed in a casual civilian manner. She spoke French with just a trace of American accent; not enough to arouse suspicion at any rate.

After a brief conversation, the fat Froggy was told by this woman, who called herself Sofie, that she was an American spy for the French government, and that she would go upstairs to deduce the identity of the man in question. She knew Dundee very well, she said, and would arrest him if it definitely was him. Petain was too drunk to care, and nodded his assent.

* * *

Groggy continued drinking soda, and now had to hobble to the bathroom on his own. It took thirty minutes. Unable to sleep, he then started reading the one book he'd taken with him - "Day of the Jackal", which he STILL hadn't finished. He was up to the part where the British police inspectors discovered the Jackal's apparent identity, Charles Calthrop, and were trying to deduce his false name. . .

He must have dozed off while reading, because he next awoke groggily (as is appropriate to his name) to an angelic voice singing a song from his distant past:

You think you own whatever land you land on
The Earth is just a dead thing you can claim
But I know every rock and tree and creature
Has a life, has a spirit, has a name

Groggy rubbed his eyes. He knew the song, but couldn't place it. . .

Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon
Or asked the grinning bobcat why he grinned?
Can you sing with all the voices of the mountains?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?

Groggy reached for his gun as the chorus continued:

Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?

The figure now levelled a Colt .45 Peacemaker at his head. As Groggy's vision suddenly came into focus, he suddenly realized that the woman was - no, it couldn't be -

MICHELLE!

Yes, somehow Michelle had survived being stabbed in the back of the neck and (apparently) being buried in a mass grave. Groggy was always impressed by her extraordinary beauty, and astonished by the fact that she was alive, but was a bit perturbed by the gun she had pointed at his head.

"Hi, Groggy!" she said, chuckling her trademark chuckle.

"Michelle," Groggy grumbled tired. "I thought you were dead."

"So did everyone else," she said unemotionally. "So did I. But here I am."

Groggy was confused. "What's with the gun?" He asked.

"Just to be on the safe side," she said, putting it away. "I know you've been wounded and delirious." She looked at the empty soda bottles. "And drinking. . . quite a lot."

Groggy didn't answer. "Why are you singing Disney songs?" He had a horrendous headache.

"Why not?"

Groggy was still confused, still entirely sure he wasn't dreaming or at least seeing a ghost.

"I've been in touch with Captain Tyreen," she said, getting down to business. "He says there are too many French soldiers in town to rescue you - yet. But he and Joe are coming up with a plan to rescue you."

"I see," Groggy said. "Why not Joe?"

"The Captain seems to be in charge."

"I'd imagine," Groggy muttered, his voice trailing off.

"But anyway, they've recruited several more members, and are camped a few miles north of here," Michelle continued.

"Several more members? Who?"

Michelle shrugged. "The scum of the Earth?" She chuckled.

"I see," Groggy said. This perturbed him a bit, but what the hell - we need all the help we can get.

"I'll be back if I can," Michelle said. "I convinced the guy downstairs that I'm a French spy. Honnêtement, je n'ai pas pensé que mon français était cela bon. But I certainly, won't complain."

Michelle got up to leave. Groggy turned and looked after her. "How long do I have to wait?"

Michelle shrugged helplessly.

"It was great seeing you," Groggy muttered, still surprised.

"Just one thing," Michelle added hastily. "The French are ordered not to arrest you until they're one hundred percent sure of who you are. So be careful."

"Thanks."

Michelle exited, humming. Groggy called after her. "How high does the sycamore grow?"

Michelle smiled. "If you cut it down, you will never know."

Michelle exited, then reported to Petain, who was unsurprisingly drinking. She told him that the man upstairs was NOT Groggy Dundee, although he might be a member of his command. She advised him to keep doing what he's been doing until further orders. Michelle exited hastily as Petain passed out in a puddle of drool and whiskey.

* * *

After this visit, Groggy staggered around the town, trying to avoid the French soldiers who seemed to be everywhere. He travelled from Taco Bell to McDonald's to Chick-Fil-A to KFC. . . in a desperate attempt to avoid detection. His eating habits would remain a mystery to the fatass Petain, except he liked fast food places.

Groggy lay in the midst of empty soda bottles and fast food wrappers. His bladder was about to explode, but he was too tired and too much in pain to move. He tried to read his book again, but let it drop to the floor wearily.

"No. . ." he mumbled. "The war won't last forever."

Recruitment

Hoyo de Asno was a small, very dirty, and very violent town about sixty miles south of Durango. Conveniently located in the middle of nowhere, it was a perfect hiding place, AND a perfect place to find disgusting cut throats to use as body bags. . . no wait. . . reinforcements! Yeah, that's the ticket!

The whole of the command was camped outside the town, and while all were on liberty, only Captain Tim, the Starbucks, Sergeant Cullen, and Jed Potts were interviewing possible candidates. Sergeants Kimmel and Harriman were. . . well you can very well guess what they were doing! Herpes Girl was engaging in a vicious vendetta against the town's hookers, the Gorch Brothers were debauching in a wine cellar with a trio of Mexican cuties, and Dave Jenkins was busy formulating plots for revenge against the Major. Reverend Armstrong refused to take part in the expedition, giving a loud, long sermon outside which a few drunken hobos fell asleep to. Mark the Bugler, in an attempt to convince everyone he was MAN!, shaved for the first time and cut his cheek open. He ran from the bar, screaming.

The first sixty or so were vagrants who were completely unsuitable for the job. Even this expedition had SOME standards, and these people in question made Herpes Girl and the IMDB morons look moral and competent. Some scabby guy named Averill tried to challenge Tim to a fight, but passed out.

After rejecting the first so many individuals, Tim was about ready to give up and go somewhere else. A body flew threw the air and crashed on the other side of the table.

"This is a waste of time," Tim muttered. He put away his ledgerbook when a knife crashed down on the table.

"I hear you're looking for volunteers," a deep voice thundered down.

Tim looked up and saw a huge bear of a man, tall with shoulder-length hair and a scraggly beard. His brown eyes burned like coals, or some cliche like that. He smoked a large wooden pipe, and carried a huge fouling shotgun. He was dressed in a filthy brown overcoat.

"The name's McSwiggin. Anthony Michaelangelo Thomas O'Keefe McSwiggin," he said. "I'll fight Apaches, I'll fight Frogs, I'll fight you."

The Starbucks and Jed just about wet themselves, but Sergeant Cullen and Tim were unimpressed by this huge figure. "There's no money and little chance of survival," Captain Tyreen warned matter-of-factly.

"I'm in it for the fun of it," he said. "Plus, I have a friend who needs some help."

A demure girl appeared out from behind him.

"This is Carol," she said. "Her friend Marie was kidnapped by Charriba a few nights ago."

"You ain't Mexican," Potts said to her. "What's your friend doing in Mexico?"

"Her college was on a field trip to Durango," Carol said softly.

"Field trip!?" Cullen said incredulously. "What the hell's in Durango that you'd go on a field trip there?"

The conversation was interrupted when Stubb - huge, hulking, half-drunk - walked over, eyeballing the curiously similar McSwiggin.

"Mr. McSwiggin," said Captain Tim, "this is our cook and resident Muscleman Stubb."

The two stared at each other for a moment, sizing the other up.

"Where do you hail from?" Stubb asked.

McSwiggin thought for a moment. "My shack. I live alone and catch live birds with my hands. Sometimes I shoot bears and make them into jerky."

Stubb glowered at him. "One time, I bit a live gator's head off - with one tooth."

"Only the head?"

As the two continued to argue, the next recruit stepped up. "I'm the man your looking for," he said. He was thin, had a hawkish face, and looked like a tough bastard.

"Yeah?" Tim asked. "What's your story?"

"I'm Navajo Jim or N-word jim if you prefer," he began. "I carry an incredibly long revolver it can only fire one bullet at a time before i must reload, but i fire bullets as big as your fists. I also have pinpoint accuracy, not that i need it when you have bullets the size i have im not too fast on the draw but i try not to let my enemies get too close without receiving a sized bowling ball sized hole in the chest. My father was Mexican while my mother was a navajo. My father left after impregnating my mother and left off to join the federales. at the age of 2 my mother was raped and murdered by the apaches. Stranded, i was saved by some traveling frontiersmen. they raised me as there own teaching me all the skills id need to survive in the wild. They were robbed and murdered by federales when i was 16 yet again leaving me on my own.I have a hatred for both the apache and the mexican federales, to the point where these vengances conflict with one another."

"Sounds quite impressive," Potts said. "But, uh. . . what about the French?"

"I'll fight anyone."

"Your story sounds impressive," Tim said with a smile. "Stand over there with those two," gesturing at Stubb and Anthony, still arguing over who was stronger, or had the bigger dick.
Navajo Jim happily acqueisced, then drew his ultra-long pistol and fired a shot. A random drunk fell, a huge hole in his chest.

"Just so you know I ain't fibbing. . ." he said to Tim.

"Well, that's two," Joe said.

"Three," Alex corrected.

"What do you mean, Alex?"

Alex pointed at Carol, who was standing there staring at her friend Anthony, still arguing. Now Navajo Jim joined in the argument, claiming that he once lifted up a bison with his pinky finger. . .

"Well, beggars can't be choosers, I suppose," Joe said.

Another man, Mikey D., was recruited, but he didn't have much of a backstory - he was just some dude with a gun who showed up. He joined with the argument, got bored, and then started talking with Peacemaker and Dave Jenkins. Soon a furious argument errupted, this one over the "3:10 to Yuma" remake.

A fourth new recruit joined them. "My name is Pedro Lucio Sánchez," he said - "call me El Fuego. Fought in the Revolution for Zapata's Army, but I'm not an idealist, better a bandit who smells money. I'm very good with machete and I'm in love with machine guns. I robbed one from some peasants who came from a ghost town and they said: "We don't understand what happened. Suddenly came four crazy gringos and they killed everybody with this! They begun it with our beloved general, and then... everybody. Thank the Virgin they were slaughtered at the end!" No idea who those gringos were... After the Revolution I robbed trains, but times have been changed. Just imagine: damned soldiers on every train! It's really risky. But hunting Apaches, now that's my kind of adventure."

"You're perfect," Tim said, and then looked at his next prospective recruit. He was a toothless scumbag, and Tim dismissed him with a wave of the hand.

After several minutes, Tim began to put his ledger away, when suddenly another man entered in a mysterious cloud of smoke. "I'm the man you're looking for," he said loudly.

"Who the fuck are you?" Jed asked.

"I'm a traveling magician," the mysterious stranger answered. "The Great Sartana." He pulled a chicken egg out of his buttocks and cracked it on the floor. "I have all sorts of "smoke and mirrors" kinda stuff to confuse or distract an enemy or a group of enemies. Now, what are you up to?"

Tim then told a boringly long story about the expedition and its conflict with the Apache Sierra Charriba.

"Sounds like a jolly," Sartana said. He took off his hat and pulled out a headless chicken, which he then ate raw.

"What, uh, kind of magic can you pull?" Jed asked. "Just some stupid-ass parlor tricks."

"No," Sartana said quietly as a rabbit crawled out of his socks. Suddenly a knife came flying across the room, nailing the bunny to the floor.

"YOU BASTARDS!!" Sartana screamed. "Who threw that knife?"

Anthony McSwiggin fearlessly volunteered himself. "You're a magician," he said - "Make another one."

Sartana threw himself on Anthony, who threw him against the bar mirror. Suddenly, as always happens, a vicious bar fight errupted. It was a chaotic free-for-all, no discernable sides, everyone hitting or stabbing each other. Tim buried his face in his hands, shaking his head.

"Well, I say let's get in the spirit!" Jed said, before punching Sergeant Cullen in the face. Cullen stood staring for a moment, then tackled Jed to the ground. The two began wailing on each other. Tim and the Starbucks stood staring incredulously.

"Well, I guess we're done here," Tim said. He closed the ledger and stood up. "Come along, gentlemen," he said warily, "I don't feel up to this tonight." Marco Leone flew by his head as he said this, propelled by a huge bar drunk named Lee who stood seven feet tall and was built like the other musclemen in the room. He was fending off his opponents with a barstool, and held his own until Dave Jenkins sneaked into the bar and buried a knife in his back. Having heard the shouting and fighting, Sergeants Harriman and Kimmel rushed downstairs post-haste.

"After you, Sergeant," Harriman said to the other. They then threw themselves into the chaotic melee.

* * *

As the fighting raged inside, Tim and the Starbucks joined the rest of the command - those not alcoholically inclined - outside. Reverend Armstrong was yammering on and on, misquoting the Bible, and the few drunk peasants shook their heads sleepily before nodding off. Plasmotic Snake sat in the grass, cleaning his weapon. The few others remained encamped.

"Assuming no one gets killed," Tim said, "We have six new recruits. Pity."

"Were you hoping for a regiment?" Joe asked him.

"I was hoping for enough to make up for our previous losses."

Over the sound of the fight, the high-pitched squeals of Mark the Bugler were heard. He had tried to put a Band-Aid over his shaving cut, and now peeled it off, the Band-Aid sticking to his day-old beard stubble.

The Next Move

Groggy Dundee grimaced as the drunken Doctor Merde hacked and sawed at his affected leg. He was destroying most of the flesh around the wound, and kept taking swigs of pure tequilla every minute or so. It hurt.

Dundee's entourage, Cullen and Jed, looked on.

"If you're thinking of cutting off that leg, Doctor - don't," said the Major holding a gun up to the Doctor's head.

"I am only concerned about the loss of blood," Doctor Merde replied. "Though much of it is Dr. Pepper. . ."

Cullen smiled at this, then looked at his commanding officer and stopped.

"I figure you'll walk in seven days and ride in twelve," the Doctor said.

"I'll walk in five minutes and ride right now," Groggy said defiantly.

"You'd better rest here, Groggy," Jed said. "Stay off the streets - you'd make an unlikely looking Mexican. Adios, amigo." And then, they exited.

Groggy watched as the inept Doctor sawed on his leg like a lumberjack and then took a swig of Cream Soda - NOT Dr. Pepper. He noticed the Doctor was starting to cut a little too high. He then looked at the gun in his hand, and then at the seemingly demented doctor. . .

* * *

Back at camp, Captain Tim Tyreen O'Brian called a meeting of the other non-commissioned officers. Sergeants Kimmel and Harriman, Lieutenant Joe Starbuck and his brother Alex, and Mr. Stubb, the hulking cook, all assembled to discuss the situation and what they should do next.

A role had been taken, and aside from the three in Durango, two of whom would be returning, the command was missing many members:

- Grenouille, plus Garfer and the Canadians, believed to be POWs to the French;
- Cavalry Guy, last seen dying by charging a French column;
- Keith Richards, who had flown to Hollywood to film his cameo for "Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End", snorted some coke, and never returned.
- Mr. Smit, who was dead.

"We face a grave situation, gentlemen," Captain Tyreen intoned. Even though Joe was the nominal commander, Tim's natural charisma and understanding of the situation made him the natural leader.

"We are too far from the border to just escape back to America. We are too few in number to continue fighting the Apache, we cannot stand up to the French, and we have no idea where the fuck we are. We are in a bit of a pickle."

"So, what do you suggest we do?" Joe asked.

"Well, there are many options. We could flee for the border, and probably die along the way; we could stay and fight, but we'd be annihilated, we could disperse but what good would that do us? Or we could surrender."

A long, solemn pause passed over the assembled officers.

"Let's KICK SOME ASS!" screamed Stubb.

"Let's get DRUNK!" shouted Harriman and Kimmel in unison.

"Let's. . ."

Suddenly, there was a sound of gunfire from the picket lines. The officers scattered, grabbing their weapons, and rushed out to see the pickets bringing in a strange-looking man, dressed in traditional Scottish regalia, riddled with bullets. Tyreen bent down to him.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he demanded.

The dying Scot took a blood-stained letter out of his kilt. "This. . . is. . . " He died without saying anything else.

Tyreen opened the letter and began reading it. The text read:

Major,

Seargent Kimmel and I are still alive. We're on our way back to camp. We found this random Scottish guy who says he hates the French, and hepromised to give this message to you. We need someone to find us, goddamnit!

WE'VE GOT NO BOOZE!

Seargent Harriman

Tyreen looked at Kimmel and Harriman, who waved nervously at him. He then crumpled the letter up and threw it on the ground.

"No, gentlemen, there is only one course of action we can take. We must recruit more bullet fodder so that none of us has to die. Who's with me?"

"AYE!" the cry went up at once.

"And I know just the place!" said Sergeant Harriman suddenly.

Everyone looked at her.

"Well. . . I. . . um. . ." She couldn't think of the words. "Let's get drunk!"

* * *

At the Rio Nazas, the bridge being constructed by Grenouille and the Canadians was almost complete. The stubbornness of Garfer and Grenouille's architectural know-how led to the bridge taking only sixteen months to construct.

* * *

Marie Wynter ran like she never had before. After two days of captivity with the Apaches, she was losing her mind. She couldn't live as an Indian, and she didn't want to be a hostage. She just wanted to be home, back in her college dorm, where no Indians (except her friends from Spanish class) would burst into her dorm and take her away.

The Apaches seemed curiously disinterested. Sierra Charriba debated what he should do with the hostages. The raid had been conducted by his subordinate Guerro, and was thus not officially sanctioned. He could kill them, but he'd be wasting ammunition. He could hold them for ransom, but from whom? He could let them become Indians, but they were too old. What then would become of them.

Finally, Sierra Charriba slapped Guerro across the face and told him to let the hostages go. The hostages were all sent on transit busses back to the hotel from which they were kidnapped. The whole daring raid had been nothing but a farce that detracted from Charriba's main mission - running away.

Groggy Gets Hurt!

As the details of Hex's treachery came to light, the Major struggled with his feelings of inadequacy. Damn it! He thought. Just as he FINALLY got control of the situation, that asshole Tyreen has to ruin anything.

I don't even like Jenkins, he thought - too unreliable and shifty. I'd shoot him out of principle, but that wouldn't go over well.

Now Groggy wandered by the river, out past his picket line. He was all alone, and there wasn't even a hastily-writen romantic interest to comfort him. Even Herpes Girl steered clear of him, prefering to comfort Dave Jenkins instead. Exactly what he did while alone was unclear. Some say that he engaged in. . . self-pleasure. Others that he just got drunk on Cream Soda and Root Beer. Others that he tried to finish reading "Day of the Jackal", a book which had eluded his grasp even more than Charriba had. Others that he took a dump, and some say he went swimming.

Regardless of what exactly he was doing, he had wandered outside his picket lines. And this, as we know, is not a very wise thing to do. But Groggy needed some alone time, and who are we to judge him for doing so?

* * *

Marie Wynter had been held captive for over twenty-four hours now, and she was getting restless. She and her fellow captives were at the mercy of Sierra Charriba, who did not seem the merciful type.

Sierra Charriba spoke little English. She noted several young boys being held by the Apaches, and how they were being trained to shoot arrows. Due to their young age, they would be inducted into the tribe

Marie was horrified as to what fate might await her and her fellow captives. She had always dreamed of - and subconsciously wished for - a great adventure, being swept off her feet by some dashing gentleman or being rescued from nasty bandits. She could even be captured by a handsome bandit or pirate who would catch her fancy - but not this guy. He had slapped her! And that was unforgvable. Besides, Charriba was not exactly the romantic type; she and the other captives watched as the Apache skinned one of the captives alive and nailed him to a tree. Somehow, Charriba didn't strike her as a particularly virtuous man.

Suddenly, one of the Apache scouts arrived and began chatting with the other Indians. Marie couldn't get too good of a look at her, but she was a female. And she looked vaguely familiar. She was speaking Apache, rapidly and quickly, and suddenly, a huge whooping went up. Marie looked on impassively as about a dozen Apache grabbed their war gear and rushed into the brush.

How the heck did I end up here? Marie wondered aloud. She then began to pray.

* * *

Groggy was laying against a log when it happened. He was sick of his men, wanted to be alone, and whatever he was doing, he had his shirt off and his pants unbelted when an arrow suddenly thunked into his leg.

"SHIT!" he screamed in pain.

More arrows thudded into the log as Groggy ducked for cover. He dropped his pistol and had to hide like a child. It seemed like the Major, the initiator of this long, bloody, and increasingly confusing expedition expeidtion, was going to meet an inglorious, lonely end.

Just then, there was a loud clomping noise. Suddenly, a horse leapt through the air, as if out of a bad dream, and landed amongst the Indians. The horse knocked down most of the Apaches, and the horse's two riders - yes, two! - staggered to their feet and began dispatching Apaches left and right.

Now the pickets had been alerted. More shots were fired, and the small handful of remaining Apache were either killed, or fled the scene.

Tim entered and saw Groggy, an arrow in his leg, with his pants down and his shirt off. He was quite ugly. Tim smirked as he saw his commander's less-than-perfect physique.

"DAMMIT, IT HURTS!" Groggy whined.

"You need a Doctor, Major!" one of the two mounted saviors cried. It was none other than Sergeant Harriman, who along with her colleague had gloriously left Cavalry Guy to die fighting the French.

"Cut it out!" Groggy said through clenched teeth.

"Alright!" Sergeant Kimmel drew a huge knife and began to set to work.

"NO! Nevermind, Sergeant," he said, reconsidering.

"You'll have to go to the Doctor in Durango," Sergeant Harriman exclaimed. "And he charges very high rates."

"For quite shitty service, I might add," Sergeant Kimmel added, her eyes gesturing towards her knife.

"I'm not going to Durango," Dundee insisted. "I'm not leaving the command."

Tim took control of the situation. "Mr. Stubb," he called out to his hulking subordinate, "get a stretcher for the Major."

Defiantly, Groggy cracked the arrow on his thigh.

Tim turned to his commander, his voice full of contempt. "You're getting leave, Major," he began. "And it's time you did. In fact you'd ought to give up soldiering altogether!

"You were trapped at the river!Ambushed like a shavetail! You hired a bunch of idiots to act as scouts - why? Because they asked you to do their homework assignments for them in 9th Grade? You armed us with 19th Century weapons! You gave us dial-up connection! What the hell are we supposed to do, plug our computers into trees? And worst of all, you're so lazy you abandon us in the middle of Mexico for fifteen months of idleness! And what are you doing outside your own picket lines? Jerking off?"

Groggy stood up to punch the defiant Rebel, then collapsed.

"Just what the bloody Hell are you doing here in the first place, Groggy?"

Groggy looked up at him helplessly. "I came. . . because. . ." he gasped out. "Because. . . I was bored." Then he collapsed, the world turning to black around him.

* * *

Matt the Bugler wrote in his diary that evening:

"September 20th. The execution of Private Smit has affected us all. Nobody knows what in the hell is going on, or what the point of this whole expedition is. Are we fighting the French, or the Apache, or each other, or two of the above, or all three, or none? My head hurts. Many are bitter against the Major, but I feel I cannot pass judgment on him, for he alone bears the burden of command, and I'm just some dipstick who can blow air through a metal tube."

The Trial of Dave Jenkins

After a lengthy trek, through a wormhole and into another dimension, Sergeant Cullen and Ben finally found Dave Jenkins. He had been sitting at his computer screen typing up a scathing review of "3:10 to Yuma" when the Sergeant used Ben's head as a battering ram, breaking down his door, and beat up Dave with him. Ben was slightly hurt.

Now Dave was on trial. Captain Tim Tyreen knew that this would divide his command; Groggy Dundee just wanted to move the story along, and didn't care.

"Come on, guys!" Dave pleaded to his felow internet friends. "You all would have done the same thing! I mean, what kind of dork listens to the 'Footloose' soundtrack, huh? I mean. . . okay, I like Ennio Morricone. . . but. . . come on! He's a dweeb!"

Dave's pleadings fell on deaf ears.

"I was just going back to that village to sell these crappy CDs and. . . and. . . buy you some new ones! Yeah! That's it!"

Groggy turned to Frisco. "Frisco, would you say it was common knowledge that that village had been burnt, people scattered?"

Frisco just glowered at him.

Mr. Smit stumbled forward on his Winchester legs and shouted. "Yes, I know that, Major!" He seemed nervous and jittery, his eyes darting back and forth like a rat on caffeine.

Ignoring the freak, Tim knew what was going to happen, and turned to the Major. "Look, Major, forget about the book."

"The men of this command risked their lives so I could get an MP3 player!" Groggy insisted.

"It may have slipped your mind, but the MP3 player is out of style," Tim said. "The iPod is what you want, you backwards hick."

"I was just about ready to upload these songs onto my laptop, when someone stole my CDs AND wiped a magnet over my computer!" Dundee said, ignoring him.

Dave looked stunned at Groggy, uncomprehendingly. "What? So you can listen to 'Let's Hear it For the Boy' while we attack Charriba's camp? Yeah, that's appropriate." It was a lame attempt at a riposte, but it was the best he could come up. His usual cranky and sarcastic manner was replaced by callow snivelling.

Groggy shook this off and turned his attention to Dave, glaring at the pathetic figure nastily.

"Trooper. . ." he said in a matter-of-fact way, "You're gonna be shot."

At this, the online people stepped forward. Groggy's real-life contingent grabbed their weapons, and Sergeant Cullen held up his rifle.

"JENKINS!" Tim screamed, restraining his men. He would not let the situation descend into bloodshed - yet.

"Major, hand him over to us - I'll deal with him," Tim said. Then he added: "I'm not going to let YOU kill him!"

"You used to be a board member - do you know what you're saying?" Groggy asked incredulously.

"I know what I'm saying," Tim replied insistently. "I'm saying if you kill that boy, that's the end of the story, and NOT the beginning!"

"You're wearing out, Tim," Dundee said nastily. "You were a rock once, now you're crumbling like old chalk. Lieutenant Starbuck," he said to Joe, "select a firing squad by lot - exclude the online."

At this, the Internet folks stepped forward, but Cullen and the rest of the Loyalists leveled their weapons. It was a standoff, and the situation was about to explode.

"I HAVE SAID WE WILL SERVE UNDER THIS COMMAND, AND WE WILL SERVE!!!!!!!" Tim screamed to his men. "But only until we have caught the Apache."

Tim turned and glowered hatefully at Dundee. "And then, Major," he said, his voice full of venom, "I'm going to kill you!"

Groggy smiled incredulously. "Are you, Tim?"

Tim nodded. "Yes! Yes, Groggy. And I'll send a virus to your hard-drive too."

As Tim pulled back, he happened to look over at Mr. Smit. Smit seemed curiously nervous, and then suddenly, a thought hit him.

The last person he had seen with Groggy before the CDs went missing was - Smit! YES!

And the day that the Internet connection went down due to the network being flooded with spam - YES, YES, the only person who GOT connection was -

It was the obvious answer! SMIT was involved in all of this! But it was too late.

Nonetheless, Dave continued grovelling over his fate. "Hell, Major, you're just doing what you gots to do-"

Tim couldn't stand it, and he would NOT let Groggy kill Jenkins. There was only one thing to do. He started to reach for his gun. . .

"But damn your soul for it! And God bless

The deafening sound of a gunshot filled the air. Everyone looked over at Dave -

Who looked over at -

Smit, who fell, shot between the eyes. His Winchester legs went off as they hit the ground.

Tim stood, his gun-hand trembling. He slowly lowered and holstered his weapon.

Groggy stood, staring incredulously, then looked over at Smit. He was too stunned to react.

"Look in his pants, and you'll find what you're looking for, Major," Tim said.

Groggy didn't know WHAT to think of that, so he just stared as Tim walked off. After a moment's hesitation, he walked off too. The two antagonistic camps were puzzled as to what happened.

Finally, Jenkins got off his cowardly ass and skittered over to Smit. He looked in his back pocket and found. . .

A large magnet. And a to-do list:


Smit's Day:
1. Breakfast
2. Troll the Leone Board
3. Steal Groggy's CDs
4. Erase Groggy's hard-drive
5. Kill Groggy
6. Troll Some More
7. Lunch

The first four were checked off with a black pen. He never made it to lunch.

Raisuli Charriba

While Groggy Dundee and his men tracked down their crew of deserters, an eighteen year old girl named Marie Wynter entered the picture.

Marie was a very pleasant, very naive college student who was on vacation in Mexico with her group from the University of Alabama. It was a fun-filled trip exploring historical sights throughout Mexico, and getting to brush up on her Spanish. At night, she hung out in the hotels with her friends, drinking bottled water so that they didn't throw up all night long. Life was fun. She apparently didn't think to question why France had invaded Mexico, since no one on Earth seemed to have the slightest clue.

Marie sat on the porch of the hotel in Durango. She played with her blonde hair, braiding it and under-braiding. It was a nervous habit of hers, one she always did when bored. She had nothing to do except re-read her favorite novel, "Pride and Prejudice". It was a warm, peaceful night, the insects chirping, it being twilight - the last hint of sunlight on the horizon. She sipped her Iced Tea and applied some hand lotion before returning to her book. Just then, there was a knock on the door.

"Hey Marie!" a male voice called from inside.

Marie recognized the voice as that of her friend Ben. She opened the door and Ben entered.

"Hey, Marie," he said. "Listen, there are reports of hostile Indians around here. We've got to leave."

"Indians?" Marie was confused, and more than a bit incredulous.

"Yes, Indians. I know how crazy it sounds, but - hey, this is Mexico, isn't it?"

Marie laughed, calmly. "That's very funny. Now, about the meeting tomorrow -"

Her words were cut short by a strange sound:


Then, their teacher, Mr. Gates, came onto the patio. Before Marie or Ben could say anything, he collapsed, spiling Beth's iced tea everywhere.

"He's got a knife in his back," Marie gasped.

Before either could react, a horseman lept through the laticework bordering the patio. A small party of armed Indians in full war paint followed him in. They began charging towards Marie and Ben. Marie screamed loudly.

Ben whipped out a .38 caliber pistol - where he got it from is none of your business or mine - and began shooting down the attacking Indians. One fell and smashed his head on Marie's massive Spanish dictionary, the next fell onto the table, and a third went flying off the patio to the ground below.

"Ben, let's get out of here!" Marie screamed.

"Get down, Marie!" Ben said, coolly, firing another shot into the next Indian.

Another Indian came charging up. Ben aimed his pistol and fired. It was empty.

"Damn!" he exclaimed as his skull was cleaved by a hatchet.

As Ben fell, Marie turned to run, but she was scooped up by several Indians. While others rode through the hotel, abducting more college students, killing hotel staff, and genuinely making a nuisance of themselves, Marie was taken outside.

She then saw, seated, a man with longish hair and war paint. He turned to face her, solemnly.

Marie was too bewildered to do much of anything. Indians, here? In this day and age? What the hell was going on? Oh, sorry - what the heck. Marie was never the kind of person to use such. . . dirty words!

Sierra Charriba uneasily entered a new car - a crappy old Ford Taurus. He revved the engine and looked solemnly at his men, nodding, then drove it into a tree.

Marie was stunned, then began laughing. One of the tribesmen put a knife to her throat.

Charriba exited the car after scalping the air bag, walked over to Marie, mounted, and slapped her across the face.

"I am Sierra Charriba - do not laugh at me again!"

And so the Indians rode off with Marie and a host of other captives, into the desert. Loud horn music plays on the soundtrack as the camera pans down to focus on. . . the empty iced tea bottle.

Welcome Back!

Groggy Dundee will resume shortly, as soon as I have time to think up a new storylines. New characters, shocking character developments, lots of drinking, swearing, stupidity, and violence. If I can remember how to use the HTML for the Apache beep, then that will be back too.