Whoo, practically my fastest update ever! I must be extremely bored! Hope you guys are still reading this... oh by the way I'm thinking of changing the title of this insanely stupid fic— When I made up this chapter title I fell in love with the idea of a "Mercenary Diaries" kind of thing... so maybe I'll switch "Revenge of TS" to the other... then again, maybe I won't. You can tell me what you think but (ahem) its not like that'll make any difference. :)

Nikoru Sanzo: the Scottish Pout is pretty famous. So much so I hear Gerry's lips are lobbying for their own film career, since he keeps doing such crap movies (except "Phantom" of course...)

Sophie: really? The first time? Wow. Anyway the shirtless-and-a-squirrel thing kind of schlepped over from my Van Helsing fics. They actually belong to David Wenham, but he loaned them to the Scotsman because he's a nice guy. Also he's afraid of squirrels. And, uh, doesn't like going shirtless.

Darlian: Yes, I am, thank you (takes a bow) If you come up with a more appropriate word than "hilarious" please don't hesitate to inform my ego. She'll be very pleased. :)

Shauniwritesit: pretty fast, huh? (Does Hugh Jackman's one-eyebrow thing)

RogueCajun: (what's up, kid?) I'm beginning to wonder what kind of fatalistic character Gerard Butler is— he keeps taking on movie roles in which he gets killed. I just watched "Reign of Fire" last night, with him and Mr. Matthew "Gag Me With A Spoon" McConaghei (wait, how do you spell that bugger's name again? Oh well, heroic efforts and all that) and wisely turned it off as soon as Gerry died... sniff... I love Creedy...

Nickless: (which nick are you missing, exactly?) Love it when I get new readers... please return and read on!

Chapter Three: Mercenary Diaries 2: Royal Wedding

After some local glad-handing as he was recognized as the Sexiest Man Ever To Come Back From The Cradle Of Life Alive (Within Reason) (SMETCBFTCOLAWR), Sheridan attempted to hire a private jet but was prevented, first by the fact that he had no money with which to do the hiring, and secondly that when he said, "Private jet," to the local shaman, Henry, Henry put his hand to his ear and said, "Beg your pardon?"

"Curse this adorable Scottish accent of mine!" railed Sheridan at the sky, drew his gun, and then realized that he didn't actually have one. He stared at his empty hand for a minute, then rallied and pointed a finger at Henry. Croft must have taken his gun after she killed him— "Curse Croft as well!" he shouted as an afterthought.

"Sorry, didn't understand a word you said," said Henry serenely.

Sheridan nudged the finger at him.

Henry stared at it, and then with great ceremony took it in his left hand and shook it. "How do you do," he said, solemnly.

Sheridan dropped his hand, ran the other one through his hair, ran his hand through his hair again, ran his hand through his hair again, closed his eyes, ran his hand through his hair again, ran both hands through his hair— "Bloody Croft," he thought, "how could she resist this? Wouldn't the world be a lot easier, a lot more peaceful, if instead of shooting people we just ran our hands through their hair? Admittedly some people's hair is so greasy it would only aggravate the situation, but fortunately I have never had that problem— I wonder if there's a mirror around here somewhere?" Aloud, he said, "I have got to find some way of raising some money."

"Sorry," said Henry, who still didn't understand. "Did you say raisins?"

By some strenuous and imaginative sign language, Sheridan managed to impress upon the man that he wished to get the heck out of there so he could go and enact his revenge on the woman who shot him, and also on the writer who decided she would, and the director who enforced his obscene will on the public. By speaking calmly in clear, understandable English, Henry informed him that there was no way he could ever make enough money to escape the tiny little backwater scenic craphole they lived in unless he, say, sold off his body for medical research.

"But," said Sheridan, "I'm still using my body."

"Lots of other people would like to, however," said Henry.

"Yeah, well, I'm quite used to that, but really I think that bullet I took to the stomach messed up my insides a bit— it's doubtful anyone would find it at all functional."

"Sorry, didn't catch that," said Henry serenely.

Sheridan sighed deeply and went to find a pen and paper. This took him a great deal of time and by the time he got back Henry had apparently forgotten what they were talking about. This made Sheridan very mad and he shot Henry with his finger. This had no effect whatsoever, and so he settled for clubbing him senseless with it instead.

Then he sighed deeply and went to find someone else to talk to.

He'd not gone five steps (four and three quarters, to be exact) when a hand seized him around the wrist and spun him around. To his secret delight, the hand was attached to a body instead of just randomly floating around in the air. The owner of the hand was a wizened old woman with three nostrils and a gimpy leg.

"Ew," said Sheridan reflectively.

"I beg your pardon?" said the old woman. Her nostrils flared and Sheridan ducked.

"I mean, hi," he said from his position crouched on the ground. "What can I do for you?"

"I heard you say something about raisins."

Sheridan sighed, not for the first time. "No, I said I needed to raise some money."

"Money? Well, why didn't you say so?"

"I did say so!"

The lady froze and her nostrils twitched. Sheridan cowered on the ground. "Oh, that's right. Well, why wasn't I listening?"

"You are, perhaps, a very bad eavesdropper?"

"Of course not!" she said huffily. "I am the best eavesdropper in this entire village! Admittedly we only have a population of thirty-three— but that, dear sir, is beside the point."

"I should hope so."

"And so you would like to make some money?"

Sheridan leaned in. "Yes," he said, over-dramatically.

The old woman leaned in as well. "Would you like me to tell you how you can?" she whispered secretively.

Sheridan leaned in some more. "Not," he whispered back, "if it involves selling various body parts on the black market. I want revenge, but not that much."

"Oh no, oh no, oh no, its not that, not that at all. My way involves something rather different."

"What, exactly?" asked Sheridan, suspiciously.

"It's a simple process, payment upon delivery, and as soon as your contract is up you can take the money and run for all I care. There's little risk involved, and great potential for enjoyment provided you play your cards right. You'd better take the offer soon, though, there's others vying for the same position."

Sheridan stared deep into her eyes.

"Alright," he said.

And that was how he found himself added to a local girl's harem.

He thought it was quite ridiculous, and he was correct.