They drank the place dry.
Taking one ginormous, final swig, Demo hollers a loud whoop as he crashes to the floor in a drunken stupor. He's knocked out instantly. All around is a wild crescendo of laughter from middle aged men, canceling the sound of the staticky jukebox, turning the old Teufort bar into a place of joy.
Or, for them, at least.
If the opening hook hadn't been clear as day before, here's a catch-up:
They drank the place dry.
"Are you freakin' serious?" Scout can't even believe his ears. Or his eyes. The place was perfectly fine when he entered a few minutes ago, he'll give it that, but now it just looks like a bunch of monkeys went apeshit in here! He knows proper hygiene when he sees it—his Ma pounded it into his brain his entire life until every speck of dust was annihilated. She'd die of heart failure just by looking at this!
"Holy crap," he says in his own drunken astoundment. "I literally just came back from da bathroom, what da hell happened in 'ere?"
"Toundamend…"
Engineer's a sorry sight. Scout quirks a brow at the man face down at their table, the rest of the team nowhere in sight. "Speak up, Jackhammer."
"Touna—hic—menn!"
"'Tounamen'? You hadda freakin' tournament? In what?"
"Drinken, boyyy…"
There's an on-cue wallop somewhere in the background. Abysmal stenches of nicotine and liquor reek the air, a bomb to the senses that makes Scout almost double over and retch. He'd come here in hopes of finding some lonely ladies to snatch up—or widows, he doesn't judge—but instead he got a bunker full of drunk old dudes who look like they haven't combed their hair or showered since last Smissmass.
Right. Teufort is the least classiest place in the world. How could he forget.
And yet the shock just keeps on coming like ammo rounds when Scout marvels at the clock. "It's been five freakin' minutes! We just got 'ere, how da hell is everybody wasted already?!"
"We have a winner!"
Scout turns to the main attraction up front, where the porky bartender—Chett Massachusetts, the weirdest name Scout's ever heard—is holding up the thick arm of a familiar Russian face. Heavy's usually stoic glare is wiped a clean slate, replaced by a level of pride Scout never thought imaginable. The split-second delay of silence briskly erupts into a full-on parade of cheers, people sobbing into each other's shoulders like it's armistice day.
"Teufort's 15th Annual Drinking Tournament has a biiiiiig winner!" Chett Massachusetts goads. If it weren't for the apparently insane amount of alcohol in Heavy's system, the stout man would be having a one-way ticket to the pain train.
Meanwhile Engineer, acting like his spine had decimated, cranes his neck to the front and ultimately topples over like a sack of potatoes on the floor.
"Yippee-ki-yaaayyyy…!"
"I have no words."
He really doesn't. Less he can figure out a good phrase to sum up this situation, he's got nothing. Scout's entire night has been ruined in less than ten minutes of getting here, and better yet, the only one with a brain got his lights knocked out. Engineer even told him on the way here that he tagged along because he didn't want things getting out of hand.
What the hell did he drink, anyway?
The thought processes, taking Scout's attention, the mess of empty mugs littering the wooden table being the key. A gallon-sized bottle rests innocently on its side, yet proven guilty when Scout takes it and finds it light as a feather.
Devil Springs Vodka.
Its contents are completely drained.
Eyes blown wide, Scout nudges Engineer with his foot. "Hey, you ain't tellin' me ya drank dis, right?"
"Disssspenssser."
"Da whoooole freakin' thing?"
"I am the god of ponies."
"Ya didn't drink it straight from dis, didja...?"
"Hot damn!" the hardhat hoots, abruptly realizing he isn't sitting in a chair anymore.
The Scout may have no idea what his times tables are, but he's been alive long enough to know nobody should drink this stuff straight from the cap. The Engineer may as well have just chugged pure ethanol.
"You have got be kiddin' me."
"WRRRONG, MAGGOT!"
The Soldier's four-hundred-decibel voice barges in out of absolutely nowhere and startles Scout to high heaven. His scream draws in unwanted attention, the Scout clinging to the rafters as laughter bellows across the land.
Soldier laughs too, all high and mighty taunts interrupted by hiccups and awkward movements. What throws Scout off was the fact that the man had gone to the bathroom with him, entering at the same time but leaving a minute or two before. How much did he miss?!
The frightened runner drops right on top of the drunk patriot, winding him as the floorboards creak beneath. "WWWATCH IT, Cottontail!" His words are slurred and sloppy, a stew of gross profanity. "Or I will shove thisss foot right up yourrrr footlocker…"
Oh god no.
Soldier drops like a deadweight. The Engineer's impression of Seabiscuit is pain in the form of sound.
Oh god, no.
Scout searches the room in a mild panic for the others.
No no no no no, no.
Heavy remains at the front, standing on the bar like a podium to sustain his accomplishment. Demo is out of this world, hanging off his barstool like a piece of laundry, not even aware of his surroundings. Scout wouldn't be surprised if he's dead.
Please, no.
He can't be the only sober one here.
Over yonder the sea of sweaty drunk dudes he struggles to locate the trademark glasses of his teammate. Medic had formulated an excuse that was somehow related to Engineer's reasoning, but Scout didn't care nonetheless. Please, for the love of god, please let Medic be here, please let Medic be here, please let—
There!
The Scout nearly tumbles to the floor again as he scrambles for his feet, keeping his eyes locked on that one speck of color in the far corner of the establishment. It's a horror maze trying to get there. The bodies reek of vodka and strong liquor. It twists his stomach upside down as Scout is shoved up against them, trying to squeeze through but getting squashed like old fruit.
"Medic!" he calls over and over again, which regresses less and less of a call for help and more like a cry of pain. "Doc, I need ya right frickin' now…"
Finally exiting that hellscape, his words drop dead at the scene before him.
The RED Scout stares.
The BLU Medic stares back.
"You… ain't my Medic."
"Nein…"