Kiss Me, I'm Irish!
by the SD-1 Spoiler Support Group
Disclaimer: They don't belong to us, and we don't claim they do, though we sometimes have strange little delusions of adequacy... anyway, we have sporks, we're definitely not afraid to use them, so don't sue! Enjoy!



"Well Sarkey, the CIA probably knows we're here. We need to flee the country."

"Mr. Sloane, please, please tell me that I'm hearing things."

"Now why on earth would I do something like that?" Sloane pondered.

"Sir, if I'm not mistaken, which I rarely am, I could have sworn that I heard you call me 'Sarkey'."

"Oh…I…I said that out loud? Well, that isn't the point. We need to get out of here. Where should we go?"

"Oh I don't care! Just pick a place."

"No Sark, I asked you."

"Why are you so intent on me picking our hideout? Pick one yourself!"
Sloane didn't think that it was the best time to tell Sark that he couldn't remember all the countries they were wanted in.

"Mr. Sark-don't make me call you Sarkey again- I'm in charge here and if I tell you to select a location, then you sure as hell better do it!"

"Fine! Why don't we just hang out in England for a while? I heard rainy season's over."

"Good thinking Mr. Sark. Good thinking indeed." Sark just shook his head and tried to remember why he was working with this guy again.

Later…

"Great! Just great. This isn't where we're supposed to be! Arvin Sloane, this is your fault!" Sark shouted, not even caring about the spit that just went flying into Sloane's face.

"My fault? You picked this place. I am completely not at fault."

"Yes, I chose England. This is Ireland!"

"So?"

"If you hadn't decided to kill the pilot we would have been there by now!"

"Hmm. Good point. At least we still have the flight attendant."

"No we don't. You killed her too."

"The passengers?"

"Dead."

"Cheer up little buddy. Look at all these lovely sheep all around us!"

"Don't ever-ever-ever call me little buddy. You know about that thing I have with Gilligan's Island.
"
"Sheesh…don't get your panties in a bundle now." Sark decided not to say anything about that. "And you said there was no rain here. It's pouring!"

"It's raining because we're not in the place we're supposed to be! And that's your fault!"

"Now, now…let's not … hey wait a minute… is it just me or did your voice change?"

"Well duh. Did you think that British accent was real? See, in order to seem intimidating and sophisticated, I switch accents whenever I enter a different country." Sark explained.

"I don't get it."

"Oh it's very easy to understand…I have the whole thing planned out. In the US my accent is British, but when I go to Britain you don't expect me to speak like everyone else do you? So that's when I put on a Russian accent. In Russia I speak with a southern drawl. But when I go to Guam, Spain, or Timbuktu, I…"

Sloane wondered when he was going to finish. He had lost him some where around his Russian accent, and he really wanted to pat the sheep.

"Now, what we need is a plan since all of contacts are officially dead, thanks to you, yet again," Sark announced as he started to type away on his laptop.

"So, I was thinking that perhaps – SHITE!"

"What?" Sloane asked innocently.

"Why are you precisely one and one half inches away from my nose?" Sark inquired, extremely alarmed.

"You're Irish," Sloane stated.

"I'm not!" Sark wailed, not entirely sure where this conversation was going; he sighed because he never knew where conversations were going ever since he had teamed up with Sloane.

"I have to kiss you; you're Irish. It's a fact, now stop wailing; you'll scare the sheep," Sloane stated simply.

"What? I AM NOT IRISH! We're in Ireland, therefore I'm Russian. Now under no circumstances in the plan will we be going to France," Sark said, backing away from Sloane.

"Why not?" Sloane asked.

"Because in France I'm Irish," Sark said, shaking his head.

"We're going to France!" Sloane declared.

"NO! Mr. Sloane, may I remind you that our relationship is strictly professional?" Sark asked.

"No, you may not," Sloane snapped.

Sark pouted and returned to his laptop.

After another few moments had passed, Sloane was yet again one and one half inches away from Sark's nose.

"Go. Away. We've already had this discussion, and frankly, sir, this is starting to remind me of my Gilligan's Island complex," Sark said as he started to back away again.

"I have proof that you're Irish this time," Sloane announced.

"What?! There is no proof that I'm Irish!" Sark said; he continued to back away until he stumbled and fell backwards over a sheep with Sloane still in pursuit of him. He shook his head to make sure his hair was at its normal level of messy and not the I-just-fell-backwards-over-a-sheep level of messy. He then noticed a piece of paper now attached to the sheep.

"Kiss me, I'm Irish," Sark read aloud, suddenly feeling quite nauseous, "I'm Russian! Stop this!" He then stomped like an angry child because… well, he could.

"Fine, fine, just go work on your little plan. I'll talk to the sheep…" Sloane said, pouting.

"Finally, a good idea, well except for the part about talking to the sheep," Sark announced as he returned to his laptop yet again.

After another few moments had passed…

"You know that Sydney doesn't like you, right?" Sloane asked.

Sark suddenly felt his evil, little heart break into tiny pieces. "And just how do you know that?" Sark asked defensively.

"Because I'm Sloane – I know everything," Sloane announced.

"Eh, not really. You think I'm Irish," Sark stated.

"Shut up. Sydney doesn't like you," Sloane growled.

"How do you know?" Sark asked.

"I talked to her," Sloane stated.

"Oh… well why doesn't she like me?" Sark inquired.

"You fell on her," Sloane explained.

"That's the incorrect preposition. I fell –for- her, not –on- her," Sark stated.

"No, you fell on her," Sloane pressed.

"I did not- wait, when did you talk to Sydney?" Sark asked.

"While you were typing the plan…" Sloane stated.

"But Sydney isn't here…" Sark said, suddenly frightened.

Sloane pointed at the sheep that Sark had previously fallen backwards over.

"You didn't name the sheep Sydney..." Sark murmured.

Sloane nodded and grinned his disgusting grin, "Sydney likes me. And you know what?"

"…What?" Sark asked.

"She let me kiss her; she's Irish," Sloane said, beaming.

"Mr. Sloane that's sick, really, really sick," Sark said, shaking his head, "In fact, I can't think of anything worse than that."

"Really?" Sloane asked.

"Yes, really," Sark replied.

"Ahem… Sarkey-poo," Sloane called.

"Oh my Sydney… never mind. That is much worse, sir…"
Sloane grinned.

"This might be a bad time to bring up the plan…" Sark murmured.

"What is it?" Sloane asked.

"We… we need to pose as an old married couple. But, sir, I don't want to go through with the plan! You're scaring me, sir!" Sark wailed.

"I'm assuming you'll be the girl then since you squeal like one," Sloane commented.

"Just how do you know what I squeal like?" Sark asked, and then he got eerily silent. "Oh shite…"