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.