Jeb's face was aghast at the plate before him. Its contents steamed in gentle, meandering wisps, glistening from the oil and fat glazing its surface. Upon it was a steak, perfectly cooked, garnished with delicate curls of some type of vegetation that somehow made it a fancy steak. A pristine pint of grog sat in a clean glass next to it, bubbles excitedly rising to the surface where a thin layer of creamy head was quietly popping and crackling. The bandit who had just delivered the food and drink smiled, nodded, and departed, promising a return soon with the bill, but of course if they needed anything else they shouldn't hesitate to ask; customer service items such as bringing more food or drink, 10-minute small talk, and/or a shoulder to cry on were all available at reasonable prices, and did either Jeb or Orsen wish to see a menu of package options? They could bundle services into one to save money.

Reasonable prices. Package deals. This wasn't Smack-dab.

This was abhorrent.

"Cor, the service ain't half bad anymore, is it, Jeb?" said Orsen, whose face was almost instantly covered in steak juice and grog foam.

Jeb could only shake his weary head, eyes casting around the room. The same scene was playing out on every table: Quality products delivered on time, reasonable prices charged, and smiles on every staff member's face. That is, of course, with the exception of the many bandit soldiers who just sort of stood around, waiting for something to maim.

Sufficiently dissatisfied with the scene before him, Jeb poked at his steak with a fork - a fork, would you believe! - and much to his continued disappointment, but at this point unfortunately not against his expectation, it did not poke back.

"You're right, Orsen," he moaned, a deep sigh barging through the wisps of steam, "it sure ain't."

"Hey ... you alright, Jeb?"

"No, lad, not at all," the man replied. He shook his head again. "It ain't right. Smack-dab ain't s'posed t' have fancy food an' all this malarkey. Ya pay for what ya need, ya get somethin' that resembles it, an' then ya stay th' night or leave. Yer never asked if ya want t' pay more, or if ya want t' buy more things t' save money, but then end up spendin' more 'cause ya bought more things."

Orsen awkwardly put down the package deals menu.

"An' I bet..." Jeb narrowed his eyes, letting his voice trail off as he stabbed at the steak with his fork, lifted it whole to his chapped lips, and bit into it. Instantly he recoiled back, letting the steak fall back to his plate. He sneered openly, forcing the bite down his throat while he swilled back a mouthful of grog.

"Aye, I thought so," he muttered.

"What's wrong with th' steak, Jeb?"

"Extra salt, lad. They've salted th' bastard like there's no tomorrow. Makes ya buy more grog, ya see? Phoenix would never do that t' his food - he jus' used salt t' disguise the flavour, is all."

"An' Bert is already salty enough for the both of 'em."

"Aye, lad, yer not wrong there. What a disaster..."

He looked around the room, at all the soldiers lounging around, weapons in hand. Some stood to attention near the door and bar, and a smattering of others maintained a steady lookout outside, but mostly, they just lounged. The room had even been decorated in some of the colours from the fort: giant, heavy blue banners with the stitched face of Farmer Brown surgically attached somewhere in the middle. The material of the face looked to be almost an inch thick from the many times a new lord had sewn over the old one.

Jeb considered all the things he might do in this situation if he was back in the Orcklands - back chasing bad guys, kicking ass and, only occasionally, taking names. He'd probably be sitting here with some of the others, like Sievert or Grey, or maybe Moss and Parrot. They'd be plotting the downfall of Farmer Brown, thinking about all the ways to get out of Smacks guns blazing. Then they'd give the operation a cool name - Operation Smack Back - stand up from their tables, and kick some serious ass. Someone would round it all off with a sweet one-liner, too. "Looks like you're smack-dab ... in the middle of trouble."

But now, he had a lad to look after. He had to stay out of trouble - they both did. Life was safer that way.

Jeb sipped at his drink and quietly fumed behind his foam moustache. It would be a whole lot less frustrating if the grog didn't taste so much better, too.

Bloody Farmer Brown. Ruining everything.

* * *

Bert's army marched.

She led from the front, stomping along the Back Road with her attention firmly invested in a certain robotic fist. In particular, she was invested in the notion that she did not want it to be curled into a fist, but yet, it was resolute in its fistiness nonetheless. From the outside, it didn't look much more scratched than normal, but a few dents had wormed their way into the knuckles after the fight with Hurl. It was inside that she wanted to look at, but the flap for accessing most of the more important servos was currently buried under five stalwart fingers that were determined not to move. She needed her repair kit from Smack-dab - she'd have to pull the whole stupid hand off.

But on the bright side, she thought quietly to herself, a fist was certainly the most likely hand position she'd choose to adopt in her encounter with Farmer Brown. It's just a shame her middle finger had finally curled. That would have been a great conversation starter.

Voices flared up behind her, aggressive and posturing. Her attention distracted, she turned to see what the commotion was about. Somewhere a few ranks back, a Polite Bandit and his Bert's Battalion counterpart were having an argument over what was either a piece of cheese or something Bert most assuredly didn't want to know about. The dim smoglight glittered softly on something shiny, and suddenly there were axes waving around. Bert sighed and shook her head - a move she felt she was having to do far too often these days - and motioned for the whole group to stop. This was the third time today a fight had broken out.

Bert nodded to the three closest Battalion bandits, who promptly vanished into the bowels of the horde. She then pressed her fists into her hips and scowled into her army, foot lightly tapping at the dirt. She couldn't see much, but her ears told her that another commotion was taking place - a ruckus, some might say, or perhaps even a fracas. Shouting happened, then the distinct noise of metal hitting metal, then metal hitting something softer, then more shouting. A howl of pain pierced through the ambience of gusting winds, shuffling feet and the occasional cough, then the whole thing seemed to die down almost as sharply as it erupted.

In mere moments, the three bandits re-emerged next to Bert, one of them now slightly puffing and spattered with blood. Her axe hung loose in her fingers, droplets of crimson running their way along the edge and leaping off into the dust below. Bert looked grimly at all three.

"Juth one death thith time, Bert," said the blood-spattered woman, who spoke with a strong lisp on account of her teeth having been knocked out by an ex-boyfriend some years ago. Meanwhile, said ex-boyfriend couldn't speak at all - on account of being six feet under. Well, two feet. Six feet is a lot of hole to dig. Who's got the time?

"Good," Bert nodded in response, "we're getting better at this. Thanks for your help."

The three nodded back.

Yes, Bert's Battalion was certainly not an army to be proud of, necessarily, but it was still an accomplishment in a region where genuine accomplishments were as rare as clean water. Waste tribes around these parts operated in close proximity to one another, often even coming together for trade or drunken nights of rowdiness and sex, but they were far from inherent team players. You wouldn't typically find alliances long-lasting on the Highway, for sooner or later (often the former), something shiny would spark a fight and suddenly half the population of each tribe would be lying dismembered in the dirt. The absolute differentness of each tribe was what kept folks like Bert more or less safe from being overwhelmed by an army of madmen. So although this rag-tag group of grumpy anti-heroes could crumble into brutal civil war at any moment, the very notion that it existed at all, and that she was leading it, was what Bert could be proud of.

She was so proud, even, that she was beginning to like some of them, despite the filthy bandit scum that they were. Bert had discovered that there were select few within the group who seemed almost respectable, like actual human beings, until of course you asked too many questions about their past.

And so they marched on, Bert in front, not exactly smiling to herself, but at the very least not grumping quite as grimly. She was sore, she was tired, and she was sober, but she had an army to rival even that of Farmer Brown's, and Smack-dab seemed a little safer for it.

And then she saw Smack-dab, and her bubble burst with a comical pop. She stopped walking, sapphire eyes blazing alight. Her army stopped various seconds after her, those at the rear bustling into those in the front until the message to stop marching slithered its way to the very back.

Sir Robert appeared almost instantly, materialising through the throng with concern on his face. He had been leading from the rear thus far, making sure those who might take the opportunity of Hurl's death to seek another career choice were shown that there were currently none available.

"Something the matter, dearie?" he said, scanning Bert's face.

The blood-dripping bandit from earlier also stepped forwards. Her name was Sawface, and many in the Battalion saw her face as the voice of the unheard, the champion of the little guy. A union rep, you might say. "Ya look like thomeone jutht thhat in your hat," she stated.

Bert could feel the blood rising in her system, feel her face heating up, hear the blood pour past her ear drums. Someone had shat in her hat. Someone had dropped trou and let loose the wolfcats of war all through her wardrobe. Smack-dab, she saw, was covered in the distinct, dungarees-wearing figures of Farm bandits, with their ridiculous truck parked up on the verge. Its tyres must surely have been scoring great gouges in her lawn.

Not only that, but there were traders, too, exiting the building, meaning they had been inside it, meaning Smack-dab was not shut and locked as she requested. Meaning it was open. And people were inside it. And she wasn't there.

Her brow twitched.

Bert began marching again, a lot faster.

* * *

"Squaw, squaw!" sounded a voice from up high. It was Terry, a bandit, frantically waving his arms from his position in one of the truck's two machine gun turrets. "Squaw, ya buggers, squaw!"

Arnold, a pudgy little bandit on the ground below, scratched his bald head. "Wassat mean?" he called back.

"Ain't it th' signal f'r an incomin' enemy?"

"Naw, man, that was yesserday's. Today's signal is Tornado, tornado!"

"But what if there's a real tornado?"

"Oh, err, I dunno about that actually."

"Seems like a poor choice o' signal."

"You wanna tell that to Farmer Brown?"

"Fair, fair."

"Mmm."

"Aye.

The pair of them shuffled feet awkwardly and nodded in silence for a few moments.

Then Terry looked up suddenly. "Oh, right. Tornado! Tornado!"

* * *

C'mon, Terry. Squaw was yesterday! It's like some people don't even listen. Get with the programme, Terry. JEEZ.

If you'd like to get with the program, too, first, go scream TORNADO TORNADO at someone in your life. Then, Vote for this story and leave a comment!

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