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Stirling 1297.
As the clans gathered to chase away the English hordes, spirits were low and the grim Scotsmen scanned the seemingly never ending English battlement lines.
"So Connor" said of the clans chiefs "Tonight we go to the great distillery in the sky?".
"Aye Duncan, I don't see what other option we have. What with that wanker William Wallace and his lackeys. Look how pale the lad is! I hope they have some good Scottish single malts up there, not that pansy blend the Irish drink".
...And suddenly, a single horn blurted out its war song, one which suspiciously resembled the yet-to-be-written tune of YMCA. A brilliant figure appears on top of the cliff, its hair marvelously done, its kilt colorful and freshly pressed, its great sword adorned with flowers. The figure lifted the sword above its head with a seductive wave and all the clansmen cheered in a surprisingly harmonious contralto.
"Connor, who in the name of Mrs. McCormick's haggis is that?"
"That, Duncan, is Sir Orian Mc57, lord of the merry clans of the North, and the most fearsome warrior of the highlands. Our victory is now assured!"
"Oi, Brian, look here. That must be the King of the Scots" whispered one of the English lords.
"How do you reckon?"
"Because he hasn't got shit all over him".
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