"Is this really going to work?" I asked, hesitant and anxious. I'd never fought in a war before.

"You're got-damn right it will!" He spouted in my face, thick accent slapping me in the face. "Foor Scotland!"

We were stationed outside the ISIS central headquarters, where most of the group had gathered for their holy day and bomb prep classes. It was just the two of us and his 13 year old nephew against the whole of ISIS; our plan needed to work.

"Scotteh, are yew readdeh?!" Marty screamed.

Scotty had already pissed himself earlier, or he would've again.

"SCOTTEH, FIRE THE TREBUCHET! SCREAM WITH YOOR LOONGS AND SEND THOSE DIRTY CAMEL FOOKERS TO THEIR DEVIL!"

Scotty was basically crying. "F....for the glooory of Scotland....c-camel fookers," he wailed, garbled voice cracking through tears and mucus. He yanked on the lever and its massive wooden arm swung madly.

A thousand pork chops, braised in wine, sailed through the air. I had to marinate the whole fucking lot of them, and load them into the treebuchet. A rain of flesh slapped all across the ISIS headquarters, knocking out guards and breaking windows. Thankfully, they like to meet in large, open spaces rather than in buildings.

"SOORRY, HAV I HAMPERED YOOR LITTLE PARTEH, YA FOOKIN PIGS?"

Screams of pain echoed from thousands of ISIS members being battered with pork chops, bone cracking on bone.

One lone chop sailed through the air, slightly off target, and landed on a pile of remote detonators for their stock of suicide vests. A single vest detonated and triggered the rest, igniting the nearby mountain of propane tanks and gasoline pumps.

The entire headquarters was burning now, a sea of fire and smoke. The smell of flesh filled the air.

"Do ya smell that, Scotteh? That there's the most beautiful pork roasting the world's ever seen." A single tear rolled down his face and melted into his orange-red beard. "Scotteh, get the marshmalloows," he said, walking toward the blaze. "I'm havin me some smoore's."