Sgt. Salty and the Misfits: Dublin BBQ Beatdown (Chapter 4)

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Sgt. Salty and the Misfits: Dublin BBQ Beatdown (Chapter 4)

Dublin—capital of Ireland, home of Guinness, Temple Bar, and tourists who pay €9 for a pint they’ll spill on the cobbles within five minutes. For most, it’s a city of laughter and late nights. For Ron Beefmaster, it was the next stop on his oily conquest.

Beefmaster’s latest plan was diabolical: replace Dublin’s Guinness supply with Beef Oil, disguised as a new “craft stout.” If he succeeded, Temple Bar would forever reek of grease instead of hops.

But before the battle, there was… the BBQ.

Misfits’ BBQ Chaos in Phoenix Park

Sgt. Salty insisted the crew take one evening off to “bond.” They set up camp in Phoenix Park, dragging out a battered BBQ grill that looked older than the Wellington Monument.

  • Ye Olde Large Lad loaded it with so much meat the grill legs buckled.

  • WhizzAir Winky strapped sausages to his drone, promising “sky-grilled bangers” (they landed raw on tourists’ heads instead).

  • Funji Squallshy insisted on grilling mushrooms that screamed when they sizzled.

  • The Govna drank all the BBQ lighter fluid, mistaking it for whiskey, then tried to breathe fire.

  • Sarah and Susan sighed, took control of the cooking, and produced actual edible burgers, earning Salty’s eternal admiration.

Salty sat by the grill, eyeing the smoke rising. “Nothing like BBQ in Phoenix Park to remind you life isn’t all doom and Beef Oil.” He raised a burger like a trophy. “To survival!”

Moments later, the grill exploded, sending sausages flying like missiles. One lodged in the Wellington Monument. Another struck a passing cyclist. Everyone cheered anyway.

Beefmaster Strikes Temple Bar

But respite never lasted. That night, Temple Bar’s pubs went dark—kegs had been swapped with barrels of Beef Oil. Beefmaster himself stood on the cobblestones, cape flapping, shouting:

“Dublin shall drink only my oily stout! From Guinness to grease—progress begins tonight!”

  • Whining Cole whined about the cobblestones hurting his feet.

  • Woodie Wood tried carving “BEEF OIL 4 LIFE” into the Ha’penny Bridge.

  • Candle of Spices lit torches along Fleet Street, declaring it a “festival of fire and fumes.”

The smell of burning beef oil wafted across Temple Bar, sending tourists into a panic.

The Dublin Showdown

Sgt. Salty and his crew stormed in from Dame Street, still smelling of BBQ smoke.

“Not on my watch, Beefmaster!” Salty bellowed. “Dublin drinks Guinness, not grease!”

Chaos followed:

  • Ye Olde Large Lad toppled barrels with one shove, flooding the cobbles with Beef Oil that smelled like burnt rashers.

  • WhizzAir Winky flew his sausage drone into Candle of Spices, knocking his torches into the Liffey.

  • Funji Squallshy unleashed fungal spores that grew out of the oil, sprouting glowing mushrooms in the gutters.

  • The Govna, still belching smoke from lighter fluid, stumbled into Woodie Wood and set his carvings on fire.

Meanwhile, Sarah and Susan commandeered a pub, distributing free pints of the real Guinness to rally the crowd. Soon, locals and tourists alike were armed with pint glasses, using them as missiles against Beefmaster’s goons.

The Oily Leprechaun

Beefmaster roared. “You think you’ve won? I’ve conjured Dublin’s true guardian!” From a barrel burst the Oily Leprechaun—a twisted, sludge-dripping figure in a ruined green hat, wielding a broken shillelagh. It slopped across the cobbles, terrifying the tourists.

But Salty stepped forward, megaphone raised. “Leprechauns don’t drink oil—they drink whiskey!” He hurled a flask of Powers into the creature’s mouth. The Leprechaun burped, staggered, and collapsed into a puddle of grease.

Temple Bar erupted in cheers.

BBQ Finale

With Beefmaster’s plan ruined, Dublin returned to normal: overpriced pints and street musicians playing Wonderwall.

Back in Phoenix Park, the misfits reignited their BBQ to celebrate.

Salty sat between Sarah and Susan, each handing him a burger. “To Dublin,” he toasted. “Still running on Guinness, not Beef Oil.”

Winky raised a burnt sausage. “To sausages that fly!”
Squallshy whispered, “To mushrooms that scream!”
The Govna snored loudly, holding a charred burger like a teddy bear.
Ye Olde Large Lad just bit straight into a rack of ribs.

And under the Dublin night sky, Salty realized—romance, BBQ, and chaos were all he needed to keep going.


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