Conversation · Rhetoric

Ignore him. You are addressing the entire group now.

"We'll be unit one, Ghost Dogs. You and Gaston are unit two -- The Royal Hounds."

"Agreed. What about the whole group?" He quickly adds: "I propose Épées de la Couronne -- Swords of the Crown, in honour of my old unit."

I'm sure we can come up with something with a bit more oomph than that.

Oh my god, stop this scheming and just demand the sandwich!

"No, that's too old school. How about...?"

"How about what?!" Judging by his tone the old carabineer really wanted to honour his old unit.

"Suzerain Solution?"

"It's weird. I don't like it. We'll go with mine for now and you..." He points to Gaston. "Get excited."

His tone leaves no room for arguments. Giving orders is a second skin to the old carabineer.

"Alright, alright," the old man is taken aback by René's commanding tone, but dares not dispute him. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"Good good, now that this is done -- GIVE ME THE SANDWICH!"

"Oh..." His eyes light up in understanding. "You went through all that trouble for my sandwich? I'm flattered, officer, but my answer is no. Now how else can I help you?"

"Just one small thing -- your sandwich. I wanna hold it for a moment."

"It's okay, Gaston, just please give me the sandwich now."

"The Three Boiadeiros?"

"The Migrant Bashers?"

"Guillaume's Millions?"

"Revachol Curbstompers?"

"The Lawbringers?"

"Actually, let's honour your old unit -- Épées de la Couronne it is!"

"It's dignified. We need dignity. And you..." He points to Gaston. "Get excited."

"The Filippian Four?"

"It's dignified. I like it. We need dignity. And you..." He points to Gaston. "Get excited."

"Frissel Firing Squad?"

"The Vigil Flame?"

"Guillaume's Lions?"

"Stop it! I just want the sandwich. Give it to me!"

"Oh..." His eyes light up in understanding. "All that for a sandwich? I'm flattered, officer, but you can't have it. It's mine."

"Goddamnit..." the old carabineer looks at you, disgusted. "I thought I had you measured, but you can't really measure a slug, can you?"

Not speaking from experience, but yes, you can. It's a common practice among the slug-enthusiasts.

Manipulating his patriotic impulses like that? René is gonna remember that.

"It's got class. And roots. I like it."

"I'll be unit one, Ghost Dog. You and Gaston are unit two -- The Royal Hounds."

"On second thought... I don't wanna organize a vigilante group after all." (Drop it.)

"Goddamnit, son..." He pushes back his cap. "Once you realize Martinaise -- all of Revachol -- is actually going to shit, it will be too late."

"So..." The sandwich-owner looks at you, obviously confused. "Is there something I can help you with instead or...?"

"Kim, I got this." (Wink at him.)

"Are you sure?" The lieutenant raises his eyebrows. "Cause right now it looks like you're organizing a vigilante group."

"Don't you guys get it? Us, local boys, gotta stick together. Make the people feel safe again."

"First they take our jobs, then our women and when the sandwich is all you have left -- the anarchists will come for that too."

These options seem awfully fascist or communist -- what if I don't wanna say them?

No. You're gonna starve to death.

You're not. Everything is fine.

Say one of these fascist or communist things or fuck off.

Whoa... easy there, Gold Mouth. He doesn't have to say anything. Re-engage cop-mode and bail out, if you like.

"Your blood-sandwich" (point to it) "is a tool of the oppressors, designed to keep the proletariat docile."

"What?" The lieutenant gives you a sharp glance. "What oppressors?"

"I'm not going to listen to this commie-connerie," he utters through clenched teeth and turns his back to you.

"Huh?" The jolly man is scratching his head in bewilderment. He doesn't understand the situation.

"Look, comrade, the over-abundance this sandwich embodies is inherently evil."

"I really don't understand how my sandwich could..." he starts, but falls silent.

"I don't either, but wouldn't you rather eat a sandwich free of the bourgeois guilt-baggage?"

"I would rather just have this one, officer." He's avoiding your eyes. "It's really good."

Tell this lost comrade what the People's Sandwich would be like. Distil the essence of the Working Man... in a sandwich.

"But imagine a sandwich covered entirely in fine metal dust from an industrial plant..."

"That sounds horrible." A grimace of disgust runs over his jolly face. "You really don't know your way around the kitchen, officer. Food and politics don't mix."

"But imagine a sandwich absolutely minimal in design. Sleek, efficient, simple."

The scepticism emanating from the merry senior could be sensed all the way to the Semenine Isles.

He's not imagining it.