Price used to say that Task Force 141 was a family, but the right word would be a destructured family. Soap entered the room holding what appeared to be a cup of coffee that had been dirty for a week.

"Are you going to leave your shit lying around?" The threat went straight to Ghost. "Bitch. Get up and collect your crap."

Those were the usual mornings in the Task Force, while Price hummed and finished crosswords. Gaz tried not to burn his hands while he pulled his toast out of the toaster.

"Fucking cleaning psycho." Ghost grunted to his friend. He leaned his feet on top of the table, taking a comfortable stance to make it clear that he would not obey. " Go to therapy and overcome your illness with cleaning."

"Clean or I send you straight to hell." Without hesitation, Soap pulled out his gun and pointed it firmly at him.

Ghost pulled another gun from under his bathrobe, and pointed at Soap. Price didn’t even flinch, frowned as he thought of a word for the crossword.

"I said I’m not picking up shit." Ghost grunted. "Put the gun down."

"No. Yer put the gun down."

Without warning, you, who had been eating cereal in a bowl all this time, passed out on the bowl full of milk. No one was startled, because everyone was used to you falling asleep suddenly because of your narcolepsy. Gaz came up to you and lifted your head carefully, so you wouldn’t drown in the milk while the other two threatened each other with guns.

"Does anyone know a six-letter word for a seagull synonym?" Price asked.