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fandomweekly2022-04-24 09:52 pm
mxcatmoon) wrote in fandomweekly2022-04-24 09:52 pm
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[#133] Forget the Alamo, Remember Fort Courage (F-Troop)
Theme Prompt #133 - Storytelling
Title: Forget the Alamo, Remember Fort Courage
Fandom: F-Troop
Rating/Warnings: G. (Warning for silliness)
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 896
Summary: When drilling and fighting get them down, they know they're morale can't droop, as long as they all relax in town...
Pull up a chair and let me tell you a little story about Fort Courage. Otherwise known as F-Troop, probably because they always got a grade of F on their inspections. They definitely weren’t A-Troop, but they somehow managed to stay alive, so let’s call that a win. Come to think of it, whoever named it Fort Courage must be having a really good laugh, too, but like I’ve always said, better a live coward than a dead hero. No worries here.
It was a summer night in 1866 when the whole fort trooped into town to the local saloon. Well, except for Vanderbilt, and since they had him keeping watch, it was perfectly safe to leave Fort Courage empty. Who was going to attack? Certainly not the Hekawi, who were pacifists, but I digress. They deserved it after the day they’d had. The troop, that is, not the tribe. A visiting General had insisted on proper pomp and ceremony, including a cannon salute. Well, that went about as well as you’d expect. The canon wouldn’t fire until Dobbs kicked it, and then the wheel fell off, and the cannonball hit the leg of the lookout tower, launching Vandy into the air. Luckily, a hay bale broke his fall, but the General was not amused. He’d obviously never heard about Fort Courage. Either that or he was being punished for something.
So, there they were, killing time by tossing back whiskeys until the ubiquitous brawl started. Well, except for Captain Parmenter, who really shouldn’t be allowed to drink. Luckily for them, Wrangler Jane had taken—forced—coerced—convinced—okay, tricked, she tricked him into going out on a moonlight picnic with her. It’s not that he didn’t like her; truth be told, he was just as sweet on her as she was on him. Wilton was just bashful. That’s another name for shy. They called it bashful in those days.
Well, where was I? Oh yes, the town saloon, which just happened to be owned by Sergeant O’Rourke and Corporal Agrarn, under the moniker of O’Rourke Enterprises. I need to point out here that Agarn is supposedly from Passaic but doesn’t know how to pronounce it. We Jersey natives notice things like that. Their business partners were the Hekawi, who supplied the whiskey and genuine authentic trinkets for the tourists. The less said about that, the better, of course, but no one had even heard the phrases politically correct or cultural appropriation in those days, so try not to judge them too harshly. It’s not like they were a bastion of authenticity in any area. It’s a secret, by the way, who really owns the saloon. It turns out it’s not entirely legal for Cavalry officers to have side businesses. In that case, you’d think they wouldn’t name the company after Sergeant O’Rourke… but then you’d think a top-secret alien-fighting organization wouldn’t drive around town with ‘Torchwood’ emblazoned on the side of their SUV either, so what do I know.
So, there they were, enjoying a night drowning their sorrows. O’Rourke and Agarn were at the bar, keeping an eye on the bartender to be sure he watered down the whiskey just enough – but not too much.
“There’s one good thing about flunking the inspection today, Sarge,” Agarn said.
“Yeah, what’s that?” O’Rourke asked.
He elbowed his partner and nodded to the room full of patrons spending liberally on the liquor. “We’re making a killing tonight!”
The Sarge chuckled, and they clinked shot glasses.
“I hope Cap’n Parmenter don’t get in trouble for what happened today,” Dobbs lamented into his sarsaparilla. He was the Captain’s orderly and was very attached to their inept but sweet leader. Sarsaparilla is an old-time soda, btw, similar to root beer. You can still find it if you’re curious.
“This reminds me of the Alamo,” Duffy piped up, and the whole bar groaned in unison. Not just the patrons but the bar itself. Hopefully, it wasn’t termites.
“Oh, here it comes,” Agarn warned, plaintively looking up to the heavens.
“There we were!” Duffy continued. “Me and Davy Crockett, shoulder to shoulder and backs to the wall!”
Agarn downed his shot and signaled the bartender for another. “Dear Diary, tonight I heard Duffy tell the story about him and Davy Crockett – again.”
O’Rourke elbowed Agarn and inclined his head. “Let’s go find a table. Away from the Alamo.”
“Good idea,” he agreed, following the Sarge. “How you suppose he managed to be the only one to get out alive?” he wondered after they’d sat down at the furthest table from the bar, where Duffy was still going on about the siege.
“I have a feeling that’s just a tall tale,” O’Rourke told him.
“Or else he died, but nobody told him. His official record does say he’s dead.”
“I think that’s a mystery for another day,” the Sarge stated. “Unless you wanna go over there and ask him questions.”
“There’s not enough watered-down whiskey in this whole town for that!”
“I thought you’d say that.”
“I say we forget the Alamo.”
O’Rourke touched his glass to Agarn’s. “Here here.”
Well, we’ve come to the end of the story for now. Not because there aren’t plenty of amusing adventures, but mainly because we’re almost to our 1,000-word limit. Maybe next time, we’ll hear the entire Alamo story…
Or maybe we’ll just skip it.
Title: Forget the Alamo, Remember Fort Courage
Fandom: F-Troop
Rating/Warnings: G. (Warning for silliness)
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 896
Summary: When drilling and fighting get them down, they know they're morale can't droop, as long as they all relax in town...
Pull up a chair and let me tell you a little story about Fort Courage. Otherwise known as F-Troop, probably because they always got a grade of F on their inspections. They definitely weren’t A-Troop, but they somehow managed to stay alive, so let’s call that a win. Come to think of it, whoever named it Fort Courage must be having a really good laugh, too, but like I’ve always said, better a live coward than a dead hero. No worries here.
It was a summer night in 1866 when the whole fort trooped into town to the local saloon. Well, except for Vanderbilt, and since they had him keeping watch, it was perfectly safe to leave Fort Courage empty. Who was going to attack? Certainly not the Hekawi, who were pacifists, but I digress. They deserved it after the day they’d had. The troop, that is, not the tribe. A visiting General had insisted on proper pomp and ceremony, including a cannon salute. Well, that went about as well as you’d expect. The canon wouldn’t fire until Dobbs kicked it, and then the wheel fell off, and the cannonball hit the leg of the lookout tower, launching Vandy into the air. Luckily, a hay bale broke his fall, but the General was not amused. He’d obviously never heard about Fort Courage. Either that or he was being punished for something.
So, there they were, killing time by tossing back whiskeys until the ubiquitous brawl started. Well, except for Captain Parmenter, who really shouldn’t be allowed to drink. Luckily for them, Wrangler Jane had taken—forced—coerced—convinced—okay, tricked, she tricked him into going out on a moonlight picnic with her. It’s not that he didn’t like her; truth be told, he was just as sweet on her as she was on him. Wilton was just bashful. That’s another name for shy. They called it bashful in those days.
Well, where was I? Oh yes, the town saloon, which just happened to be owned by Sergeant O’Rourke and Corporal Agrarn, under the moniker of O’Rourke Enterprises. I need to point out here that Agarn is supposedly from Passaic but doesn’t know how to pronounce it. We Jersey natives notice things like that. Their business partners were the Hekawi, who supplied the whiskey and genuine authentic trinkets for the tourists. The less said about that, the better, of course, but no one had even heard the phrases politically correct or cultural appropriation in those days, so try not to judge them too harshly. It’s not like they were a bastion of authenticity in any area. It’s a secret, by the way, who really owns the saloon. It turns out it’s not entirely legal for Cavalry officers to have side businesses. In that case, you’d think they wouldn’t name the company after Sergeant O’Rourke… but then you’d think a top-secret alien-fighting organization wouldn’t drive around town with ‘Torchwood’ emblazoned on the side of their SUV either, so what do I know.
So, there they were, enjoying a night drowning their sorrows. O’Rourke and Agarn were at the bar, keeping an eye on the bartender to be sure he watered down the whiskey just enough – but not too much.
“There’s one good thing about flunking the inspection today, Sarge,” Agarn said.
“Yeah, what’s that?” O’Rourke asked.
He elbowed his partner and nodded to the room full of patrons spending liberally on the liquor. “We’re making a killing tonight!”
The Sarge chuckled, and they clinked shot glasses.
“I hope Cap’n Parmenter don’t get in trouble for what happened today,” Dobbs lamented into his sarsaparilla. He was the Captain’s orderly and was very attached to their inept but sweet leader. Sarsaparilla is an old-time soda, btw, similar to root beer. You can still find it if you’re curious.
“This reminds me of the Alamo,” Duffy piped up, and the whole bar groaned in unison. Not just the patrons but the bar itself. Hopefully, it wasn’t termites.
“Oh, here it comes,” Agarn warned, plaintively looking up to the heavens.
“There we were!” Duffy continued. “Me and Davy Crockett, shoulder to shoulder and backs to the wall!”
Agarn downed his shot and signaled the bartender for another. “Dear Diary, tonight I heard Duffy tell the story about him and Davy Crockett – again.”
O’Rourke elbowed Agarn and inclined his head. “Let’s go find a table. Away from the Alamo.”
“Good idea,” he agreed, following the Sarge. “How you suppose he managed to be the only one to get out alive?” he wondered after they’d sat down at the furthest table from the bar, where Duffy was still going on about the siege.
“I have a feeling that’s just a tall tale,” O’Rourke told him.
“Or else he died, but nobody told him. His official record does say he’s dead.”
“I think that’s a mystery for another day,” the Sarge stated. “Unless you wanna go over there and ask him questions.”
“There’s not enough watered-down whiskey in this whole town for that!”
“I thought you’d say that.”
“I say we forget the Alamo.”
O’Rourke touched his glass to Agarn’s. “Here here.”
Well, we’ve come to the end of the story for now. Not because there aren’t plenty of amusing adventures, but mainly because we’re almost to our 1,000-word limit. Maybe next time, we’ll hear the entire Alamo story…
Or maybe we’ll just skip it.
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