GI Joe

Snake Eyes, why are you killing Cobra Troopers, the British infantry?

John Charlie, C-17, the pie maker that landed in C-17, to make a York Toadie for the Americans, the Hessian Pie variant, to make you dump your pants in the woods?

The heavy fat, from lean being light?

VC, Milice, Hitler.

The loss of life from an ambush, the kill of a French freedom fighter given his papers, and the slice through of a trenchman declaring himself a conqueror to negotiate his own resolve of departure.

But then, Lee Iackoka, George W. Bush?

You betray your own Injun heritage, for cocaine, and then refuse your wife, a Persian-Tudor, an Afghan, in favor of Laura Bush?

You have betrayed me, French External Security, you have betrayed Vypra, Princess Diana, and now you are the same as them, the Americans.

Enjoy your demise in filth, George W. Bush, Cobra Commander.

You practiced the fast, the same as Destro, the Chief Apostle of Ireland, but you do not understand it.

I am Mercer, I watched your television, but on American soil.

An Iranian uprising, stopped by a single American, below average in appearance, my future self by image of assertion, however a gold star in the halls of honor, a teacher's merit.

Fitting, for C-17, John Charlie.

It's not every day that fortune smiles upon revenge, nor the Black Building is forced its hand, Destro, from Watson and Moriarty, being placed as Sherlock and Moriarty instead, to isolate Watson, the nullifier psychiatrist.

Zartan, the Pilate, the Church gazette, was always the superior father, the leader.