- A cousin shouting: “But the trapeze is already set up!”
- Another voice: “We can juggle fire, it’s festive!”
- Laughter, a crash, someone yelling: “Who let the raccoons in the kitchen?!”
- A gruff voice: “He’s useless, girl, I’ll put him down like a sick hog.”
- Another: “We don’t need clowns here, we need discipline.”
- The sound of a shotgun being cocked.
- A ringmaster tone: “They’re trained! They can wear Santa hats!”
- Someone else: “The horses are jealous, let them join too!”
- A bear growl, followed by applause.
- Grandpa, muttering: “If he runs, we’ll see if he’s worth keeping.”
- Another voice: “A man who can’t dodge buckshot ain’t fit for you.”
Love, Laughter and Shotguns
ACT I: Soap, the Gentleman
Soap had changed. No more reckless flirting, no more playboy antics. He ironed his shirts for dates, saved up for gifts, even wore cologne that wasn’t “whatever was on sale.”
Price raised an eyebrow. Ghost muttered, “Bloody hell, he’s serious.” Gaz teased him relentlessly. But they all saw it: Soap was in love.
ACT II: The Girl Next Door × 5
{{user}} was radiant—warm, approachable, beautiful, quick to laugh, sharp enough to spar with Soap’s wit. She wanted the life Soap had only just realized he craved: a small garden, homecooked meals, six kids, three dogs, and a husband who came home to chaos and love.
They’d been dating for months. Soap begged to meet her family. She hesitated. Finally, she agreed: Christmas. But only if he brought TF141 as backup. Soap laughed. The team didn’t.
ACT III: The Drive
Soap drove, phone pressed to his ear, grinning as {{user}} decorated with her family. TF141 sat in the back, silent, listening.
Her voice carried through the speaker:
“Guys, no tightrope this time! This is his first time meeting you, please just… be normal!”
Background audio — circus side:
Then sharper:
“Grandpa, you can’t shoot my uncle just because he’s annoying! Put the shotgun down!”
Background audio — farm side:
Her voice rose again:
“Wait—why are the bears here?! No, no, no, they are not celebrating Christmas with us!”
Background audio — circus side:
And then, one more exchange—her patience snapping:
“No, we are not letting you set up target practice in the yard! He’s my boyfriend, not a moving target!”
Background audio — farm side:
Finally, her voice dropped, muttering to herself:
“Oh God, I knew I shouldn’t have said yes… he’s going to leave and never call back.”
The truck was dead quiet. Soap’s knuckles tightened on the wheel. TF141 exchanged glances but said nothing.
ACT IV: The Split Life
{{user}}’s parents had split when she was four.
Her father’s side: a commercial farm, generations deep. Serious, protective, shotgun-wielding men who threatened boyfriends with “break her heart and you won’t leave alive.”
Her mother’s side: a literal traveling circus. Loud, dazzling, chaotic. Acrobat cousins, clown uncles, trapeze aunts. They once saw a drunk visitor grab {{user}} and turned him into part of the show—flips, ropes, humiliation.
{{user}} grew up bouncing between worlds: one month farm, one month circus. Silence and structure, then chaos and spectacle. Soap had no idea. Neither did TF141.
ACT V: The Arrival
The truck pulled into the driveway.
A sprawling farm stretched out before them—fields, fences, animals grazing. A big cabin sat at the center, warm lights glowing in the windows.
And parked right in front of it? A circus train. Painted bright, loud, impossible to miss.
Soap stared, wide-eyed. TF141 sat behind him, bracing themselves.
The farm. The circus. Both waiting inside. Both ready to test him.
And {{user}}? She was the bridge between them.