[Growltigger]

Right, outnumbered 3 to 1, surrounded by foes, ganged up on by nasty Americans and a Cumbrian, it is time to get creative......

OK, dealing with foes in order of posting...

Strike 1

General Woundwort obvious forgets that there is a dampening field in place over all the cantina, which means that all electronic gagdetry has no effect....

Mongooses briefly fly in all directions when said Woundwort stands up, but we are talking about the 3rd light infantry of the 5th Legion, the fearsome "knacker nibblers" and hell hath no fury like an armoured mongoose denied his knacker nibbling for a second... the mongooses dive back in, and Woundwort is encased in a writhing mass of knacker nibbling anger...

GT strides out of the lines and kicks said virginian in the bonce. "Listen sunny jim, you know the terms for the old cantina, you read the contract. This is what is called an event of default, the event is what is happening now, the default is what is going to happen next"..

A killer mongoose greek fire team marches up to the great kat, and at his directions, inserts the nozzle of their bellows up Woundwort's rectum.

"Old business pardner (I believe you Americans say), this is going to hurt you more than its hurts me.. mongooses away, fire crew shoot."

Woundwort leaves the cantina in a bottom related inferno....

the pinwheel robots, being technological devices, clatter forward two feet, and then fall over on some were-gerbils.

Strike 2

GT walks over to the strange figure, sitting in the corner of the cantina, and smoking what can only be described as the hugest reefer known to mankind.

"Power Man old chap" says the mighty, but considerate cat, "I do not know what type of mary jane you have in that thing, but it has scrambled your marbles, and you are hallucinating, may be you should sit this one out"

GT leaves the wretched old druggee snoozing and toking out in his corner...

And by the way, mongeese has ablative armour

Strike 3

RD dives to the left, right into the path of the buzzsaw shuriken launched from a particular unpleasant rodent crewed cannon.. the paint balls bounce of the armoured torsos of the Byzantine legions mailed warrior mongooses who, it is true, are slightly alarmed by the gibbering cumbrian sausage scoffer being awfully strange in front of them..

true, the marshalled hordes retreat from the censors, but not when GT fires up the betsy the bloody hot and painful battle axe and charges into the fray.

Gore sprays everywhere, that's for my mum, that's for my dad, that's for my aunt nelly, that's for my aunt lucy, that's for uncle jim bless him, that's for grandpa albrecht, that's for cousin gale (grrrrr), that's for my bro, that's for my step-bro, that's for cousin susan.................................... that's for cousin brian... that's for my sis...

Pity for the censors I have got such a big family....

Gore is spread all over the cantina, the censors are annihilated and splattered in bits all over the shop...

GT signals the artillery corp, the damn great red hot poker 4000mm pain howitzer fires, and this Maliki person disappears in a bLast of ash, cinders and a rather quick scream of "ouch"...

RD living proof that Cumbrians snog otters