Some people may ask, why didn't the Sniper throw the whole jar instead of just the liquid? That question comes within your purview of conundrums of philosophy, but I conjecture that he didn't want to clean up broken glass as well as the liquid.

Day Five

"I've got Friday on my mind."

The RED Soldier had his groove on today, brandishing the pointer stick at a large map of the RED and BLU territories and generally being as incoherent as possible as he articulated his latest strategy.

"Can you give us the 25 words or less version?" the Scout said flatly. The Sniper had noticed a dip in his energy. He'd been rubbing his arms and muttering darkly about the Doc 'cutting into my bones' all breakfast. He's also been strapped to the Doc's bed-o-pain for, Christ, three days, no wonder he's feeling crook...

In fact, the news about the delivery van had the opposite affect he'd hoped. Instead of pasting smiles on their faces, it just made them pissed at the manipulative old bag and at the message carrier (aka the Sniper).

The Soldier poked his finger into the boy's chest. "You, offense. So get the power plant control point. Of course, wait for the Medic to ubercharge yours truly so we can clear out the sentry nest!" The Soldier loved to make himself the recipient of ubers. It was the only time he (conveniently) forgot that the Medic was a damn kraut.

Good. This means he wouldn't be rocket jumping around like a maniac. Accidental amputations happen when Digger tries to precision jump, and the Doc doesn't need extra help.

"Pretty self explanatory, kid," said the Engineer. "What are we gonna do about their uber against my sentry? The dang Pyro got himself bedridden, so we don't have a compression blast."

"The Demoman will have to handle uber separation tactics today! And no complaining, maggot!" Spit peppered the Demo's face and he glowered. They usually gave the sentry blowing-upping job to the Demo and he strongly felt (to put it in nice terms) that the Soldier had usurped his position. But with him being ten kinds of pissed right now, and drunkeness not being one of them, neither Sniper nor anyone else trusted him with this important task.

At least his broken nose had been medigunned away before the battle.

"Hey man, pass out some of that gum," said the Scout, snatching the gum from the Spy.

"Give that back!" the Spy hissed, his voice so venomous that the Scout meekly complied. The spy unwrapped another three pieces of gum, shoved them into his mouth, and chewed like each piece had personally done him a wrong. How can a Spy work in these...uncivilised conditions? he thought miserably. My nerves are, as the brat would say, freakin' shot.

"I didn't want your gum anyway. You're smelly. Like that 'oh dee co-loan' stuff." The Spy shuddered involuntarily.

This group is so bloody glum, the Sniper thought. I hope this won't affect our performance. We can be the stupidest team in the world, but we shape up when we go all professional. I still guess I could give cheering them up a shot.

He straightened his trusty felt Akubra. "Alright team, I say let's give this a good go. Afterwards we can have a bonzer party. Bonk and Scrumpy raining from the ceiling and all that."

Eh. The speech wasn't too inspiring. Then again, Soldier says that anyone who says good speeches is Hitler.

"That's the spirit, Snipes!" roared the Soldier. Everyone edged away from the Saliva Factory. Or SF for short. Soldier liked to think that stood for Soldier of Fortune.

"I do hope there won't be anything else raining down from the ceiling at the party," said Spy, giving Sniper a withering stare that would have killed lesser mortals.

Suddenly, the phone rang. They'd all forgotten they even had a phone in the Battle Room. Or that telephone wires reached this base at all. All the communication they ever had was the disembodied voice of the Announcer screaming their eardrums raw. They all stared at it the vibrating black receiver until the Sniper decided to take the initiative and pick it up.

"Hello?...Dad? How on earth did you get this number?..."

Everyone else started holding their sides with laughter. Oh for crying out loud. Of all times the reloes had to call. Gah. Ngggh. Arrgh.

"Mission begins in ten seconds."

"I'm a little busy right now dad, so I'm going to have to call you b- Chrissakes, we've been over this-"

Meanwhile the Pyro waddled up to the group as the countdown started, fully suited. He was bored with looking at the Medic's old copies of Spiel Boy and Penthaus (he'd given Heiß Gewachst Bayerische Männer a miss, though). He wanted action.

"M'm mmkmm."

"No you're not, get back in bed!" The Medic approached the Pyro warily. His syringes didn't work so well against the asbestos suit, and the Pyro was clutching a flamethrower defensively.

"Five."

The Engie, Spy and Demo, and especially the Spy, were giggling at the Sniper, who was growing increasingly flustered.

"What kind of shade of red would you call his face? Scarlet?"

"More like magenta. I painted my bedroom at home that. Nice cheery colour."

"Four."

"Shut up you Stooges. No, I wasn't talking to you, dad..."

"Three."

"Don't have a cow, Mao, you can burn people at the next battle. I promise, man." The Scout held out his hand for a high five. The Pyro reluctantly slapped it.

"Two."

"Up high." Slap. "Down low." Slap. "Both hands." Slap. "From behind." Slap. "Diagonally." Slap.

"Can you quit it, Abbott and Costello?! The countdown's over!"

"Oh. Right you are, Hard Hat." The Scout tore away. "BONK! This is for my Bonk!"

Simultaneously, the Sniper slammed the receiver down mid-sentence and started pelting away to his position.