Christmas Day, 1973. Roughly 25-35 degrees outside in Rustvale. The fires of war were all over in Frank's mind. "Fuckin' Dunbarton! Fuckin' Pogo!" Ranted Frank as he downed can after can of White House beer and watches Colt Lugar's Christmas episode. He began to scream in anger and fury at his suffering, pain, and humiliation, that had one word. Unemployment.
Meanwhile, back at Mohican Airways, the airport was closed for Christmas Day. Bob Pogo, hungry, thirsty, putrid, cold, and tired, had been trying all day to get to his keys. His fingers were starting to feel very numb, and it wasn't his condition that was causing it. Dolores, his wife, had been afraid all night. His sons had been unhappy. They didn't get what they wanted for Christmas: their father. Some time later, Dolores had waited long enough. She dialed 911. "Hello 911 emergency. My husband has been gone since last night. He was at the airport last time I saw him on TV. Please, find him." she said. The operator paged the Rustvale Fire Department. Around 11 AM, another call came in. It was the fire marshall. "Dolores Pogo, we found him. He's been at the airport the whole time, but now he's stuck in his car. And he smells like shit. We're trying to get him out." the phone said. Dolores grabbed the kids and quickly drove off to the airport. There they saw Pogo's car, covered in brown, horns honking, and him cursing and screaming. "Hang in there, we're getting you out!" said the fire marshall. They chopped the door open with the axe. "For christ's sake you fuckin' animals! Watch where you're choppin' my goddamn fingers are froze as shit!" Bob Pogo whined. With mutiple men, they took the door out, and pulled Bob Pogo and his entire 400+ fatass out of the vehicle! Bob, with very little strength left, gravely injured from the cold, fainted. The firemen helped get Bob back home. "Wake up Bob." Dolores said in a firm voice. "This whole "eat all the fried foods and other trash" fiesta is over. You're going on a crash diet. No exceptions." she scolded. "Suggestion... noted." Bob Pogo said. His fingers were bandaged, and heated.
At the Murphys', Frank continued to drown his sorrows the best way he could: in anger. He spent the rest of Christmas Day in an office, writing down plans to assault Dunbarton. "I'm gonna lay siege to that bitch's house and put him through that fuckin' wall! I fucking hate you Dunbarton! I'm gonna lead an assault on your fuckin' property you piece of shit!" He raged. Sue, his wife, heard all the commotion. "Frank what's... THIS?" she said, holding a picture of Roger Dunbarton's head chopped off and his house burning with a crude drawing of Frank laughing. She also read the list saying "Siege of Dunbarton: Gasoline and matches, burn Dunbarton and his bitch, put them through fuckin' wall." in complete horror. "You're seriously planning to kill Dunbarton? Why? I thought you helped him!" she exclaimed. Frank said "Dunbarton, being the bitch he is fired me Christmas Eve because I "insulted" his poor sorry-ass face! So I'm gonna teach him who's boss, man to man! Frank's army is going to be me! Just me, no one else!" Sue gasped in horror. She couldn't believe that Roger Dunbarton, the man who agreed to sign the contract last night, had betrayed Frank. "Pogo will realize what Dunbarton's done and-" Sue tried to explain but Frank said "No no no no, Pogo isn't gonna do shit! He's Dunbarton's bitch! He could've intervened. But NOOOOOOOOOOOO, he decided to just shove more of that nasty fried chicken down his throat! I hate him!"