The shameless crime-fighting doublet decided that the best way to go was to simply shame poor Sniper. That's because everyone loves to shame Sniper for no apparent reason. Other than the fact that he's the shameful team scapegoat. Of shame.

Back to the kitchen it was – in a non-sexist sense – for Sherlock and Watson. In their mental space-time continuum, Sniper was probably still there in the kitchen and all was exactly the way it was about forty minutes ago. They subconsciously figured this because, of course, everything in life just had to go their way. Tee-hee, ta-ha.

Tempt not a desperate man with Sherlock Holmes remakes. (I can now proudly say I am personally acquainted with Shakespeare, nearly as well as Spy is.) Especially not poor, desperate Scout, who could be doing something better with his time.

Anyways, Dr. No would have been a more fitting movie for Scout and Pyro's little idea to capture Sniper.

Their evil plot is as follows:

Together they plotted to jump into the scene in slow-motion, holding up finger-guns (pretend finger-guns, of course) and shouting "PEW PEW!" – or rather "PHM PHM!" – and then exclaiming that they had Sniper surrounded. Sniper would go out of hiding, they would show him the picture, and he would cry out in agonizing fear and – the following being Scout's little addition – Sniper would piss his pants so hard he'd drown himself. A few facts were not taken account of by them, therefore making their plot completely ludicrous;

1. Sniper is a trained assassin and will most likely not cry out in agonizing fear unless they would blackmail him in the manner that Spy does about twice a week. And even then I doubt he'd cry out. After all, he's trying his best to be a Mann. He would most likely just groan. Spy would be the only one who could say that for sure, though. Because I bet it's pretty agonizing to...have Spy wear your shoes. Or your sunglasses or something.

2. It is physically impossible for any normal adult male's bladder to hold more than 16 to 24 ounces. Unless he is Saxton Hale, that is, whose urinary tract can hold more than Engineer's pickup truck. That's because Saxton Hale is the true Jarate Master and Sniper is just a fan-boy wannabe.

3. Even if it were possible for Sniper's bladder to be able to produce enough urine to fill the room, the doorways lacked a door because it was a modern form of architecture in the 1800's. His urine would just make a two-centimeter puddle all over the base at most, considering there were no cracks in the exit of the doors.

4. If Sniper were to drown, Scout and Pyro would drown too. Scout doesn't even know how to swim. And Pyro's totally screwed; a gas mask? Seriously?

5. Years and years of scientific research at some institute somewhere proved that pretend finger-guns don't go 'pew pew', they go 'pow, ha-ha'. Even Heavy knows that, and he can't make a pilmeni dumpling for his life (the entire team knows that). Read a book sometime, guys. Preferably a pretend finger-gun book. However, don't take my word for it, since I highly doubt those exist. Unless Heavy'll make one. But his nonfiction-novel-writing talent is most likely as bad as his culinary skills.

Frankly, their plans were not able to go as expected.

But I'd say one would already a bit curious to see what actually happened.

The doorway, as previously mentioned, was just a lazily-built arch. Lack of doors wasn't actually popular in the 1800's. Redmond just didn't feel like building another door, is all, and no one actually cared.

But now two self-proclaimed detectives were counting down the seconds until Sherlock Scout – who had two finger guns and a hippie photo in his pocket – and his proud hench-Pyro would burst into the room.

No stealth this time, as with the stealing-of-the-Private-Eye scene. Only ambush. And loaded finger-guns. And hopefully Sniper-urine-drowning. And...

...mystery.

But there really wasn't anything mysterious about showing someone a photo and then pretending to shoot everywhere.

Pyro and Scout were huddled right there beside the lazy archway with all these thoughts in mind. Except for the sensible ones.

Pyro, fair and square as the arsonist was, expected a countdown just as always. This made the RED crouch down and wait for some kind of signal from Scout to go, go, go, charge!

This wasn't done to the slightest, for Scout's psychological development was all sorts of conceited. Without warning, the young man bolted past the doorway and straight into the room, slow motion factor of their idea now completely gone. "PUT YER HANDS UP, MR. SNIPAH! WE GOT YOU SURROUN – "

The sentence was never brought to a proper close. As Scout ran in, hands drawn and ready to fire, his cleat didn't function in a fashion that any product-safety bureaucrat would allow. Instead of a skid to a stop, there was a loud squeak from both the Bostonian and his shoe, and before anyone knew it he flipped backwards and whammed into the floor with his back. The saddest moment of all of humanity – and probably for Scout's future chiropractors – could only be expressed in the most distressed vowel of all;

"AAAA...AAAAAAAAAAAA...AAAAAAAAAAUGH!"

Pyro leaned in from the doorway, sure that nothing was going according to plan when it wasn't Sniper who was bawling like a 6-year-old with a stress disorder. "SHMMRHLCK! NMMMMMMH!"

Tear ducts were squirted of their contents in a miserable fountain. "MY-BACK-MY-BACK-MY-BACK! MY-FUCKIN'-BAAAAA-AAAAAH-HAA-HAAAAACK!"

All became clear when Soldier clomped in, sloshing bucket of water in one hand and mop held with massive self-respect in the other. He ground to a clumsy yet orderly halt beside the Bostonian's head and began furiously scraping the floor with the sickly old mop. This method was likely to ruin both the tiles, the cleaning utensil, and any janitor's hope for military humanity. "Scout, is there a PROBLEM here? I am TRYING to wash the FLOORS."

No compassion was shown, for emotions are the work of needy housewives. (Because cleaning totally wasn't a woman's job at all.)

A sniffle sounded from Scout, whose eyes were still glossy with tears. "Y-y...y-ya coulda told me if yer gonna wash da fuckin' kitch'n floors like a fuckin' pussy. I hope ya fuckin' wash yer ass. Dickfag."

Perhaps it had been a sensitive subject, for Soldier's teeth suddenly bared in ferocity. "I am NOT a PUSSY! SOMEONE has to clean the floors!" Soldier raised the mop to its horizon and wrung the neck of the poor wood as if he were ready to snap the cleaning mechanism in a clean half. "AND NO ONE EVER DOES THE CHORES I ASSIGN YOU MAGGOT SCUM, SO I HAVE TO DO THEM ALL MYSELF!"

The accusation was found just a bit frivolous. "Whmmth mbhmmth thmmth tmmh Mmh clmmndh mllh thmm rmmhs?"

Soldier looked up in fear and grumbled uneasily; "Oh. Uh, right. And you were a...magnificent help, Pyro. E-especially when you burned the handle of the mop. It looks...uh, cooler that way." He nodded feverishly. "Yes. Yes, the...mop looks...great. Great when burnt. I just...I...I love burnt mops."

Prideful Pyro-Watson response; "Thmmkh ymmh!" Pyro giggled.

Sniffling that exaggerated his miserableness did not gain Scout any audible sympathy. When worst came to worst... "UH, EXCUSE ME? I AM FUCKIN' IN PAIN HERE. ANYONE GONNA HELP OR ANYTHIN'?" Anyone tutoring Scout of his little inferiority complex would have loved the following situation. "FEEL BAD FOR ME! FEEL BAD FOR ME, GODDAMNIT!"

"Nmmhd mmh Mdmhc?" asked Pyro.

The demand for pity, for some reason, did not accept sympathy. Scout's hiney muscles rose him up so he became a right angle that – during the course of his young life – had been wrong more often than not. "Naw. I'm a big man that don't need no help by dat ugly germy-German who caught us stealing his hat. Jeez.

"What a fag." (Let's at least hope that was wrong.)

As they say, curiosity killed the cadet. "Hey, look, a paper." Soldier pointed the soggy edge of the mop at the photo on the floor. "Don't remember seeing that there before."

Scout sprung up and in front of his shorter sarge, injury gone for good. "EV'DENCE! STAN' BACK 'CAUSE YER NOT A POLICE GUY OR FBI OR PRIME SUSPECTS!"

"EXCUSE ME, SON, BUT I WAS CUTTING BARBED WIRES IN 'NAM BEFORE YOU WERE CUTTING YOUR MILK TEETH!" Soldier plunked the bucket down beside him to send a plop of water plunking upwards like a mini-mushroom explosion. Yet again their plan had been foiled as the American knelt to pick up the photo.

(Steeee-rike two! Scout, Pyro; let me say it again. PLEASE don't be detectives.)

Pyro then spoke of the truth. "Wmhw, Shmmrlck, wm smck."

Minutes later and still nothing was discovered. Perhaps it was the low-brimmed helmet that disfigured his eyesight in such a way. For a long while he squinted at that photo, only then to ask, "Why you luggin' around a picture of hippies, boys? You into them or something?"

And now the secrecy was forgotten. "It ain't JUST a pictah, ya blind dumbass! It's a pictah a' Snipah bein' a hippie in 1961 and also dere's a smudgie."

Soldier jerked his head up at the word, sending his helmet bobbing atop his head.

Scout squinted. "What're you looking at?"

Soldier did not budge and continued on with his exaggerated panic attack. "WHAT! DID! YOU! SAY!?"

"A smudgie," repeated Scout, frown forming. "Why, is dere a problem wit dat? Fine, dere's a...a fuckin' stain on it. Dat better?"

Apparently someone else was actually able to cope with interacting with Scout. "No, the OTHER thing, you pathetic SWINE."

"Wow, really? I said fuckin' 1961, reta'd." Scout didn't appear to be insulted at all, but what goes around comes around; "I think you caught Alzheimer's, Sol. I'd tell ya ta get a hearin' aid that'd fit yer size, but it'd be so big it wouldn' fit undah yer stupid helmet!" Scout laughed nastily.

Pyro was standing somewhere behind the arguing two, head swinging to every word as if it were a legendarily epic rap battle of history. A one-person standing ovation sounded, and judging by the fact that there was only one other RED in the room it was quite obvious whose fireproof gloves were raising the baby ruckus.

"I MEANT WHO WAS IN THE PICTURE!" Soldier clenched both fists and rocketed them in front of him like a pro wrestler, ready to bash Scout's teeth right down his throat. "IT'S NOT MY HEARING THAT'S THE PROBLEM, BUB, IT'S YOUR SNAIL-SKULLED MALFORMED EXCUSE FOR A TWO-PINT BRAIN!"

Muffled hoots filled the kitchen.

Massive betrayal-anger followed as Scout snapped his neck around. "I THOUGHT YA WERE ON MY SIDE!"

His detective counterpart just shrugged helplessly, for the winning diss-team was quite apparent already.

Unfortunately, the lympics were interrupted by a certain grungy old Scott. "Whit's the yellin's all fer? Ye be achin' me eardrooms."

Scout forgot the current situation to plunge into his own little world of rapid mental connections. "OH MY GOD, DEMO! IT'S REALLY FUCKIN' YOU! GUESS WHAT? I SAW A LADY AND SHE TALKED JUST LIKE YOU IN A MOVIE. SHE DIED, THOUGH, CAUSE A RAPIST KILLED HER. THE MOVIE WAS SHERLICK HOMES: STUDY IN SOMETHING, I FORGOT. BUT NO, SERIOUSLY, SHE TALKED JUST LIKE YOU." A grin formed on his face, expecting some sort of reaction, though it was highly unclear what kind of response could be formed to such impulses.

Demo blinked his bloodshot eye.

"Uh, hoots, lad." Some scrumpy appeared from Demoman's back somehow – a good man must always have spares – and he gulped into a merry swig. Noticing the strange article of headwear, Demo gestured with the bottle's neck; "Aye, th' hat? Yer into the detective stuff now?" He sighed. "All thes' 'fads', hammerin' through all the young'uns. Whit's next, michty me…"

"Mnh mndh Scmmth mrh SHMMRLCK MNDH WSHTMN!" boastfully announced none other than our favorite muffled friend.

"Ya don't gotta sigh and say stupid stuff in Scotlandish," Scout grouched, hands on hips. "'Cause we actually did a case. And the case was called 'Why Sniper Is a Liar.' And guess why? He's a sneaky pete and he hid a big fat secret from us, dat's why. Only ya can't see it, no matter what ya do. 'Cause you ain't a detective, like me an' Pyro."

Things lead to things, and soon enough Demo snatched the photo from Soldier's hands and that was that.

Save your Aussie-pity-tears, readers. You'll be needing them.