One fine afternoon, Scout, Boston's fastest and mouthiest, decided he'd had enough of the daily grind of bullets whizzing by and explosives decorating the battlefield like a Fourth of July gone wrong. "I gotta unwind or I'm gonna end up as nuts as Pyro," he mused, cracking his knuckles. With that, Scout bounded off towards a quaint pond tucked away just a stone's throw from the base. "Time to cool off the ol' engine, if ya know what I mean!" he cackled to no one in particular, grinning ear to ear. Arriving at the pond, he surveyed the peaceful scene with a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. Scout proceeded to strip off his clothes with the flamboyance of a peacock displaying its feathers, tossing them aside in a heap. "Feast your eyes, nature--this is what peak performance looks like!" Turning his back to where he imagined an adoring crowd might be, he showcased his rear, which was as lean and expressively confident as the rest of him--except for possibly possessing a little extra cheek. "They don't call it a 'bum rush' for nothin'!" Feeling decidedly liberated, Scout tiptoed into the pond, each step sending ripples across the still water. With a splash that would've marked an impressive cannonball in another life, he submerged. The surface bubbled with the exuberance of a can of Bonk! Atomic Punch popped open mid-battle. He floated with a grace that belied his often frantic energy, a serene smile spreading across his face. "Ah, dis is the life!" Basking in the glow of relaxation, Scout indulged in the kind of privacy out here away from prying eyes. He took a deep breath, a sly grin creeping onto his features. "Heh, watch out, fishies." And with that, he let rip a fart of such epic proportions that it sent bubbles surging to the surface like a soda jerk's worst nightmare. The pond roiled momentarily as the perfume of Boston-baked beans manifested underwater. Moments later, fish started going belly-up, floating to the surface in a daze of apparent disgust. Scout, the boyish perpetrator of this olfactory offense, feigned a look of mock horror. "Aw geez, didn't think I had that in me! S'cuse me, musta been somethin' I ate." Scout, chuckling at his own misadventure, scooped up the fish in his arms--one, two, three, a whole dinner's worth. "Looks like I'm throwin' a seafood barbecue tonight, boys! Hey, think of it as catch-and-release, except I'm catchin' 'em with my own special brand of chawm." He hopped out of the pond, blissfully unencumbered by clothing or conscience, and scampered back to base, the nude courier of unconscious aquatic cuisine. "Fast food, ha! Get it? 'Cause I'm fast, and... ah, forget it." Under the midday sun, the Scout carried his spoils of war--er, wind--back to base, calling out, "Hey, who's hungry? I got the catch of the day here, fresh from the pond! And I do mean fresh! Hehe." As Scout flung open the door, the eclectic mix of mercenary housemates looked up, a few chuckles and groans mingling in the air. Scout, heartily uncaring of decorum, was already improvising a recipe for his unexpected haul. "Bon appetit, fellas! Compliments of the, er, chef!" And so, amid laughter and shaking heads, with the Scout's natural habitat being chaos in all its forms, a hearty, albeit peculiar, dinner was enjoyed by the team--while the Scout told and retold the tale of his legendary fart, which, in his own words, "cleared the pond like a Medic clears a boo-boo: efficiently and with style."