Back in Phnom Penh, the rioting is now epic. The gendarmerie does what it can to keep them contained...alas, they grow stronger as Gen. DeJarro doesn't get better.

In his mansion, DeJarro sits happily, and cleans his firearms. Around him, his Khmer maids show off their asses and elbows, as they scrub the premises with bleach.

DeJarro just LOVES ogling them from behind. They're like wine; they just seem to get better and better with time...like that old French poem...and David Lee Murphy...

Ah, how he's reminded of the vineyards, back home in Mendoza province of Argentina. Like weeds, the grapes grew. The vines covered the hillsides, like a big juicy red tapestry. And every season, they'd be harvested, and made into wine. And they'd be stored in barrels, in cellars, for decades, before being sold to high-paying clients... The vineyards didn't make many sales very often. But then, they never had to, as long as all the resources they needed where growing right behind them, as they stood naked in their showers, with their ripe behinds to where the red grapes grew...

One of the maids, Kolab, only looks over her shoulder with a critical eye, while working. She hates DeJarro. She's not sure, but she thinks she thinks for all the maids here, when she thinks that DeJarro is war criminal who makes Adolf Hitler look like a high school doofus who goes around wearing his pants low over his ass, because he thinks it makes him look good.

From hooks on the wall, the dog tags of his late junta co-members hang. Taxidermy never looked better... DeJarro wanted to stuff and mount their heads as if they were animal heads, but he decided that he'd want visitors in this parlor at some point, so he decided against it.

Instead, he's opened up a Hall of Villains downstairs. It's down HERE he's had his junta co-members stuffed and mounted...

Near it, there's also a Hall of Sleeper-Mechs...which is also a barracks. The Sleeper-Mechs are robot clones of DeJarro's younger self...from when he first enlisted in the military as a buck private. DeJarro calls them the DeJarro Brigade.

On it, there's a Capt. Mendoza (DeJarro's favorite), a Capt. San Luis, a Capt. Santa Fe, a Capt. Córdoba, a Capt. Entre Ríos from the Argentine States, and a Capt. France. As his other connections to the white race, there's also a Capt. Ireland (i.e. an Irish version of his younger self), a Capt. Khyber (i.e. a Pakistani-Afghani version of his younger self), a Capt. Armenia (i.e. an Armenian version of his younger self), a Capt. Kosovo, a Capt. Greece, a Capt. Serbia, and a Capt. Flanders.

Capt. Flanders wields an F2000 rifle. Capt. Armenia's got an Armenian Orthodox Christian cross branded across the front of his armored vest. Capt. Greece dresses like an updated Spartan. Captains Kosovo and Khyber wear shemaghs, and wield AK-74s.

For DeJarro, life on top can be a bit monotonous. At least the armies are keeping the riots at bay well enough. It all kind of makes him wish he were a captain again, going on missions far away, risking his life for all of Argentina's provinces...all while looking fabulous in camo, body armor, and lots of armament. Ah, how he misses those years...

Outside, the sun sets. The shadows grow long. These days, they're always long in Phnom Penh...

A messenger comes upstairs to inform DeJarro. He has a pair of visitors.

DeJarro sighs, and makes himself presentable. He descends the stairs, takes a seat in the parlor, and addresses his brace of visitors...

It's Lake and Stoddard. They're back. They're not the same. Lake is covered in tropical vines, and is growing fruit under his armpits. Looks like he's growing a bromeliad, too, on his shoulder...

Stoddard looks MUCH younger than before. In fact...he reminds DeJarro a lot of those younger versions of himself, preserved via robots, downstairs...

"So," DeJarro says, "you're back." He breaks out a bottle of brandy, and pours three flutes. "Save any for me?"

Stoddard wears a gauntlet. He raises his other finger, and presses a button on it.

Below, several doors open. The drums of marching sound below. The noise gets closer, and rises.

At first, DeJarro panics. It sounds like the DeJarro Brigade is on the loose...

They arrive, led by Capt. France. They assemble in a rank, between the junta-slayer and their new masters. One the rank is formed, they all do a left-face...and confront DeJarro. DeJarro can no longer see Lake and Stoddard.

From behind them, Stoddard smiles. "Brigade," he says. "Make ready."

The brigade raises their arms. Capt. Greece has got a crossbow.

"Set," Stoddard commands.

Simultaneously, they all aim their armament at DeJarro. DeJarro screams like a girl, and rocks back on the couch, tipping it over backwards.

"FIRE!"

With that, the Brigade gives its ex-commander a volley. DeJarro tries to climb to the window...but in vain. Captains Flanders, Serbia, Kosovo, and Kyber mount the couch, and fill his hide with bullets.

From outside, the lights flash...but no one sees. It's just like when DeJarro killed the co-members of his old junta... Only this time, it's DeJarro himself who's paid...

Now, there's a new junta on the throne of Roman Austroasia. It's led by Stoddard...who now calls himself Captain Curaguay. Lake is his right-hand man...who now calls himself Lake-Thing. Together, they now command the DeJarro brigade; a new generation of DeJarro himself, at the command of a brace of bright new military minds, for Roman Austroasia.

For a moment, Stoddard and Lake both consider renaming the brigade the Stoddard-Lake Brigade, or the Lake-Stoddard Regiment... Alas, neither one of them can seem to settle for any new name they come up for it... Plus, they all still look like private-age DeJarro. And this, they both agree, is a MUCH more likeable version of DeJarro than the one who slaughtered that first junta...as defective as they all were as a team, before their violent murders... If they ever even were a team...