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Red Team had a mission and the best part of being in charge was giving orders.
“We need eight kinds of cranberry sauce. Three of them should be extra chunky. One of ‘em should be jello! All of them should be red!”
Lopez obediently wheeled a cart down the appropriate aisle.
“Simmons! Get the biggest bird you can find, even if you have to go out into the parking lot and shoot it dead yourself! Fresher the better!”
“Yes sir!” Simmons saluted. Good ol’ Simmons.
“Grif! The list!” Sarge held out his hand expectantly.
“Uh…”
Simmons paused from following his order and came back, sensing there was a way he could rub in how incompetent Grif was and make himself look better. “Grif, we went over this during our Thanksgiving Strategy Session. Your only job was to hold on to the list. I handed it to you. I saw you take it and put it away. What did you do with it?”
Grif made a big show of patting down his armor. “Uh…”
Simmons threw his hands up.
“Hey,” the dirtbag said hopefully. “Since we don’t have a list anymore, that means we can buy whatever, right? We need sixteen pies at least.”
“How much gravy do we need, Sarge?” Donut interrupted. “We want the turkey nice and moist!”
“We don’t need gravy! We’ll be using the blood of our enemies on our mashed potatoes!”
The boys paused, waiting for an answer.
“Five cans of that standard stuff,” Sarge grumbled.
“Speaking of our enemies,” Donut said brightly. “What time should I tell the Blues to come over for dinner?”
“They’re not invited,” Sarge grunted.
“Aw, but Sarge! Thanksgiving is all about uniting groups of people who hate each other to make awkward small talk over turkey! It’s tradition!”
Sarge glared at a can of green beans.
“Besides, the Blues love shooting that Church guy. A fight will definitely break out. I know how you love violence!”
Sensing a good argument, Simmons immediately started whining. “Sarge, are you really going to let the Blues into our base?”
“It’s perfect,” Sarge nodded. “We lure them into a false sense of security, and once their bellies are full… BLAMO!” He aimed his shotgun at a squash. “And once Grif is dealt with, we can kill all the Blues at once.”
“That’s not even funny anymore.” Grif said, his cart piled high with desserts, including some monstrosity covered in marshmallows.
“Great! I’ll tell them three o’clock! BYOB! Oh— We’ll need whiskey for the eggnog!” Donut beamed. “I can’t wait for all of us to get stuffed together!”
“[This is going to be a disaster. I’m not doing the dishes],” Lopez lamented as Sarge got bored with shopping and started using Grif as target practice in the produce aisle.
Bonus:
Donut hovered while Simmons stuffed the turkey. “Firm thrusts. You have to put your whole fist up there, Simmons!”
“Someone get him away from me!” Simmons wailed.