Disclaimer. I would like to sincerely apologize for this fic. While my Betas firmly chastised me to be PROUD OF MY CRACK(Fic), I still shake my head.

Request: Jack O'Neill. George Hammond. Washington, DC. Zombies. Gen.

Disclaimer # 2. There's a little sexual tension in this… but NOT between George and Jack. (ick!) I hope this still classifies as Gen. I also added as many zombie clichés as I could to this poor, sad little fic. I think at last count there were eleven or so.

Many Thanks to Lizardbeth & Tricia for betaing. This is my entry for the 2007 apocalypsekree ficathon. My prompt was George, Jack and Zombies attacking Washington, DC. Read at your own risk.

The two Generals had decided to meet at the top of the Washington Memorial for one last fond look at the Nation's capital together. The old war horse was finally retiring and in his seasoned opinion, it was long past time for new blood to take over. Naturally, the universe being perverse had decided to put a kink in George Hammond's well-earned retirement plans.

"Zombies? In Washington, DC? About to march on the Capital for Zombie Rights? For crying out loud, Sir! You've got to be kidding me!" Major General O'Neill insisted to his Superior Officer of only four more hours, thirteen minutes and twenty seven seconds more.

Lt. General George Hammond, soon to be exceedingly, happily retired in only four more hours, thirteen minutes and ten seconds, growled at the slightly younger man.

"This is my face when I'm not laughing!" He barked, and Jack stepped back from him.

Jack's face wore a distinctively hurt 'Someone's a little cranky' look. God above, O'Neill was about to be promoted to Lieutenant General O'Neill, and he needed to learn that a LT. GENERAL DID NOT POUT. LT. GENERALS threatened, roared, grimaced and had intimidating stares. They did not pout like a three year old denied ice cream!

"After working with you for as long as I have, Sir, I know when you're not amused. I'm just... Zombies..." O'Neill grimaced in disgust. "I hate Zombies. They creep me out. Why couldn't it be Goa'ulds? I can handle them. Give me a zat, shoot them, they die. Not Zombies, they just keep rising from the dead."

Hammond ignored O'Neill's comment, knowing that Jack was about to go into a soliloquy that would do Hamlet proud. The older General shook his head in disbelief, as the Zombies were wading into the Reflecting Pool of the National Mall. From where the two men were stationed at the Washington Monument, they had a picture perfect view of hundreds of zombies slipping into the water, and tripping. Their zombie cohorts, uncaring that they were stepping on their fellow zombies' shoulders, continued to mindlessly march on, until they too tripped and slipped, and became part of the Inner Zombie Beltway.

Good God, didn't they think to go AROUND the Reflecting Pool?

Then the brain dead zombies would no doubt continue on the path of most resistance and shuffle their way into the National World War II Monument. What an unbelievable desecration for those poor souls who had paid the ultimate cost to save the world from tyranny!

Zombie Slime.

"Zombies, Sir. Why Zombies? Goa'ulds were so much easier to deal with. Drop the Symbiotic poison... " Jack continued to talk, and Hammond nodded his head in the appropriate spots to make it appear like he was listening. "No more problem!"

Obviously, Jack had never watched a zombie movie. It was always the yakking side kick that got Zombified in the movies, leaving the older, grizzled, SILENT, war veteran to grieve the loss.

Yeah, he'd deeply mourn Jack's loss, as it would probably delay his retirement.


God knows Henry Hayes had repeatedly lost his retirement requests. Damn glad he had never voted for Hank.

But then again, before he got too cocky in his highly probable survival rate, George needed to remember that zombies liked Fresh Brains. Damn that thought straight to hell, he had often thought over the years that Jack should get on his knees and give profound thanks to the Lord Above that he had Daniel Jackson and Samantha Carter on his team. Those two eggheads enabled him not to do any thinking whatsoever.

What if the boy's brain had ossified from lack of use? Maybe the zombies would want his brain instead. After all… he used it.

Damn. He felt like that skier going down the slope on the ABC Wide World of Sports, the one that exemplified "The Agony of Defeat" as his body went one way and his skies went the other, causing him permanent neurological damage and eternal ridicule.

Fortunately, George Hammond had seen enough Zombie movies to know the routine.

He had a Glock, enough magazines to hopefully get him through this mess, and then he could go home, shower and change and not miss his hot date with Janet Fraiser. Now that he was no longer her superior officer, she had promised to give him a little TLC in her hot little doctor outfit that she had worn to the SGC Halloween party. In order to go on the date, and get some lovin' from the frisky Fraiser, he'd have to retire at exactly 1700 hours today. Which meant he had roughly four hours to figure out a way to save the world and keep Jack O'Neill alive. Then he'd have time to shower and change, and pick up some flowers for Janet.

His cell phone rang, and he answered it. It was on hands free speaker, so Jack could hear the conversation. Wasn't like the boy would add much to it… but at least he'd be informed.

"Hammond," he barked.

"And O'Neill," Jack added helpfully.

"Sir, it's Colonel Carter."

Yeah, like he didn't immediately recognize her dulcet tones.

"Report." His tone was crisp, commanding… not allowing any of his plaintive thoughts of "I only had four stinking hours to retirement, damn it" to surface.

"It's what we feared, Sir. The Telchak device." Her voice slowed... and then she quickly spit out the bad news. "ItseemssomeoneputitonEbay…"

It took him two minutes that he didn't really have in order to figure out what Colonel Carter had just combined into the world's longest word.

"EBAY?!?!? Who is the complete IDIOT that put a piece of alien equipment deemed as critical to Planetary Security on EBAY?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Jack O'Neill was looking innocent.


"Well… we needed money for the SGC Sunshine fund."

"Sunshine fund?" Oh crap, this truly sounded like one of O'Neill's stupid ideas. He had gleefully taken his new position, as he had figured that at last he'd be free of Jack. Yes, there would be some poor soul acting as a gatekeeper between the two men. Then Hank had PROMOTED Jack. 'You two work well together, so let's keep the band together! It would be like breaking up the Beatles.'

If they were Beatles, he was Paul McCartney and Jack was Yoko Ono."

General O'Neill… he thought it would be a good idea to have a Sunshine fund so that everyone who gets hurt gets some flowers and a card."

"Let me guess, Siler bankrupted the Sunshine Fund and this general idiot decided it would be a fabulous idea to raise money by selling off stray bits and pieces that Area 51 couldn't figure out. And you decided on Ebay because…." He shouldn't ask. He shouldn't... but he was asking!

"Lower commission rate than what the base charged for our tag sale."


Migraine. He had a migraine. Oh God, he had a migraine. He was never going to get lucky with Janet Fraiser. All those years of her mercilessly taunting him with those short, non-regulation length skirts and her six-inch heels, and he was going down faster than the Hindenburg.

Oh the humanity!

"We did pretty well at the tag sale; actually… we had a hot dog vendor who also sold cotton candy and pretzels."

Probably powered with a naquada generator, he thought darkly.

Lord above, and the devil below, he was long past migraine... yes, indeed, he was gonna have a stroke.

He wouldn't have to worry about the Zombies getting him as his brain would shortly implode from the pressure and drip out of his ears.

"Who bought it?" Hammond growled.

"The Smithsonian, Sir. A friend of Daniel's stopped by, recognized it as Mesoamerican, and bought it for the Smithsonian. We think it's in the National Museum of American History, Sir… which is…"

"Yes, Colonel, we cross 15th Street NW, take Madison Drive NW and then after we cross 14th Street NW, we take a quick left and there we are…. Yes, Colonel, I know my way around Washington D.C."

"Well the problem is, Sir…. " Colonel Carter retorted.

"Besides the Zombies? There's more problems?" O'Neill retorted.

"The Museum's closed for renovations. Nobody's supposed to be in there. But we…"

Samantha Carter then began to babble technospeak with all the enthusiasm of a nubile Texas Cheerleader about to happily lose her virginity on the night of her high school senior prom. Not that he would admit any familiarity with nubile Texas Cheerleaders. He pressed his hand against his aching temples, sternly warning his brain not to implode. Come on, we've got all of four more hours, nine minutes and twenty two seconds until I retire. Don't Stroke out before then! We're gonna get lucky tonight!

"Colonel Carter, could we possibly get the Reader's Digest Condensed Version of this? Once we've saved the world as we know it, and if the authorities don't press charges, we'll all get together so you can dazzle us with the science involved on how you managed to locate the device."

"Oh." Colonel Carter was obviously sulky at not being able to complete her science spiel, and Jack O'Neill was doing the "Yes!" gesture with a lot of hand waving and shaking of his caboose as he was just so happy that Carter got shot down in mid-gush. "We triangulated the frequency… and it's in the main lobby. We're sending the Marines in… but you two are the closest… and President Hayes…. Yes, you can certainly speak to him, Sir!"

Henry Hayes, shyster, hot shot pilot, general all around goof off and now Leader of the Free World…. God help us, began speaking. He was using his official voice and Hammond sighed.

"We just finished the World War II Monument, so I don't need to remind you that you must get this problem resolved before all those WW II vets decide to vote against me in next week's election, George… I've got faith in you. Go with God, Son."

Click went the phone.

"Ok, elevator's that way," Jack pointedly out helpfully.

George sighed, but then he stopped as Jack looked entirely too cheerful. He always hated it when Jack looked that happy. Usually meant that Kinsey, the Tok'Ra, the Nox or some people would arrive in his office and start screaming about the Q$#!#$ O'Neill!

"What's on your mind, son?" He drawled.

"I was worried about running really, really fast, Sir. But then the thought came to me…. I just have to out run you, Sir!"

Hammond growled, and Jack looked nervous at the sound coming from Hammond. It sounded like a rabid dog about to tear someone limb from limb. Yes, it was sad to admit that with the current situation that it was Every General for Themselves.

"You forgot one thing, son," Hammond retorted.

"What's that?"

He kicked the boy in his new knee. Damn it, he was from Texas, and rule number one was… Don't Fight Fair if it's Down to Your Life or His. You could always pray for forgiveness later.

"My knee's the real thing… not like yours."

"That hurt, Sir! That really did!" Jack protested. He limped toward the elevator, bravely struggling.

"I'm sorry, Jack. I've got grandkids. I want to see them again. You've got…. What… your dog?"

"I've got Carter…. I've got Daniel…. And I've got Teal'c…. Not all on the same night, you understand as my bed's not big enough for that… but it's still more action then you've seen in the last ten years, Grandpa."

Hammond's eyes narrowed and then he growled, "Says you. Did Carter ever get the mole removed from her…."

Jack paused and then looked incredulous. Or perhaps horrified was the better description. "You know about her mole on her………"

"Everybody at the base knows about it, son. You just had to wait until you were wearing stars to find out."

"And JACOB Didn't SHOOT YOU??!!? I had to wait until he and Selmak Ascended in a Ball of Glowing Light to get so much as a kiss!"

"He said it was better me than you," Hammond retorted. "But if you don't mind, Jack. I think we need to worry about saving the world as we know it. Then we can discuss Samantha's unique locations for her moles at a later date."

"She's got more than one?"

George sighed and grimaced. "Maybe she had a couple removed... but let's get to the elevator, fight our way to the National Museum of American History against overwhelming odds verses that horde of Brain Sucking Zombies, and then we can discuss this. We do really need to save the world, Jack. Else the entire issue of where Samantha Carter's moles are located is a rather moot point."

"Yes! You're absolutely correct, Sir." Jack then sprinted down the hallway. "Last one there is Zombie food!"

Bastard. That's what O'Neill was. A complete and utter bastard. If he survived this mess... No... When he survived this mess, he was going to take Janet Fraiser to bed and Jack O'Neill wouldn't be able to contact him for the next month because his phone would be ripped out of the wall! He trotted after the boy, having decided that slow and steady would be the better course. That way he'd have enough energy left to do a sprint that would impress Carl Lewis.

Jack beat him to the elevator and the boy gave him a cheesy smile. "Going down?"

George growled. If he survived, he was gonna beat the boy like a rented mule.

It took a few long, nerve wracking minutes for the elevator to descend. When the elevator opened with a loud "Ding!", each man gingerly peered out of the elevator door. Each man had their gun ready to fight their way out if necessary. They were hardened, seasoned warriors and they knew that exiting the elevator was life threatening.

The way seemed clear, and George nodded his head.

"After you, Jack."

"No, you first, Sir!"

"Very well, we go together. On the count of three. One... Two... "

George then pushed Jack out of the elevator on the count of two. Young men always wanted to be heroes and wear bright shiny medals. Old dogs like George didn't care for medals as it meant more than likely you were dead. Except if you were Cam Mitchell.

How the hell did that boy ever rate a CMOH?

No screaming, no gun fire... no... just Jack O'Neill pouting.

"That wasn't nice, Sir."

George heard a hiss. A moan... He motioned the boy to stop talking. The moan continued... what was it saying?

Yes... Holy Hannah! It was saying... "Brrrraaaaiiinnnnnssssssss..."

He grabbed the boy's arm and pulled him in the opposite direction that he planned on running.

"Run! Run like hell," he ordered.

The boy ran, and then he sprinted in the opposite direction. It wasn't that he was trying to get Jack killed, but somebody needed to get to the National Museum of American History and turn off that damn device. They'd probably have better luck if they separated.

"Hey! Wait for me, Sir!"

George growled as Jack's insubordination.

'It's about 1500 feet, sir. We can do it!" Jack said. "Just a short jog, cut across the road and we'll be there."

"Then we try to find out where the damn device is, and we shut it off. I can't believe you sold it on Ebay," retorted Hammond.

The two men jogged across the lawn, each giving the other one gun fire cover before they made their way to the next spot of safety. If they had dashed across the lawns and the vacant streets of DC, they probably could have gotten to the Museum within five minutes or so… but the zombies were everywhere, and they needed to be careful.

As it was, they were delayed on 14th Street NW by a wild eyed, white haired man with a noticeable limp. He appeared from behind a large tree, and he was waving a Bible.

"The Day of Supreme Vengeance is Here! So Sayeth the Lord! You should have voted for me! You wouldn't be in this mess… but you voted for the WRONG GUY! It's not too late to repent! Vote for me next week!"

"KINSEY?" Jack questioned.

Holy Hannah, it was Bob Kinsey, former Vice President of the USA. Yes, the very same Bob Kinsey with a snake in his head.

Hammond groaned in disgust. He couldn't help it. The fates were against him! He was retiring, had a hot date with Janet, and then ZOMBIES… and then Snake Head Kinsey had decided to crash his retirement party.

Bobby's eyes glowed and then he spoke in the voice of a Goa'uld.

"YOU!" Kinsey then turned to face another direction. He whistled as though to a pack of well trained dogs and yelled, "Over here Boys!"

There was a low rumble, the sound of a few formerly humans voices crying, "Brrraaaiiinnnnsssss?"

"Yes! Fresh Brains! Grade A Brains! Never been used!"

"HEY!" O'Neill protested, insulted by the truth of Bob's comment in his particular case.

Kinsey then turned back to Hammond. "I'll say a prayer, boys….WHAT? Now let's not be hasty, boys."

Jack O'Neill had his glock positioned under Kinsey's chin.

"You're coming with us. You're shutting down the device, and then we'll discuss whether or not we're voting for you. Now MOVE!" Jack roared, as Hammond nodded approvingly. NOW the boy was acting like a General.

Kinsey shuffled across the empty highway, his pace only slightly faster than the zombies.

"Damn arthritis," Kinsey complained.

"You're a Goa'uld. They fix that stuff like that, remember? You've got a 50,000 light year warranty now. So put a burst of speed on, Bobby, or I'll pull the trigger."

Kinsey spat something obscene and Jack shook his head.

"You shouldn't say stuff like that, Bobby. You're religious, found God… errr… found a God… remember?"

"Stop jawing! They're on to us!" Hammond protested.

The three men made a heroic dash to the front door of the National History of American History. When they got there, they found the door padlocked with a large note that said, "Under Renovations! So sorry we missed you! We'll be reopening in 2008!"

The zombies were only meters away from them, and Jack was attempting to pick the padlock.

"I saw this TV show once, and this guy could do such amazing things. He literally made a nuclear reactor with a piece of gun, plastic wrap, tin foil, salami and kitty litter. I think I can open this! I remember seeing him do this."

"Hurry! They're getting awfully close!" Hammond protested.

"Give me a gun!" Kinsey ordered.

"NO! Not on our side," retorted Jack. "Besides they're under your control!"

"Since I'm smarter than the two of you, they'll be eating my brains first! GIVE ME A GUN!"

Jack was struggling with the padlock, and the Zombies were slowly shuffling on the front lawn. If they didn't get the door opened and SOON, their brains would all be sandwich spread for a Zombie High Tea.

"Give it to him," George urged.

"I don't trust him," Jack protested. "But here!"

Kinsey grabbed the gun, and he smiled demonically.

"Try it, and you'll be dead, you idiot." Hammond informed him. "Once they stop munching on us, they'll be looking for more. That's you."

Kinsey realized that Hammond was in fact correct, and so he turned to face the shuffling Zombies. For a moment, George was uneasy as Bob Kinsey was being too cooperative.

"They're almost in range, Bob. Aim for their foreheads. On the count of three… fire… one…. Two…. THREE!" Hammond commanded.

He was firing his glock, wishing that he had a nice, heavy AK-47. Damn it, first shot he missed! All those zombies and he couldn't hit one! He vowed then and there to give up the caffeine as it was making his hands shake. Next shot got a sad looking zombie right in the forehead, and he crumbled to the ground. The loud noise of guns made the zombies slow down and they appeared confused.

"Brrraaaiiinnnsssss?" They moaned in a rather sad, despondent tone.

"NEXT DOOR!" Jack yelled. "Lots of fresh brains next door!"

"Braaaaiiiinnnnsssss!" The zombies said cheerfully.

Cheerful zombies? Not a good sign. Not at all.

"Bwains!" The formerly despondent Zombie had apparently taken a Prozac or something, as their collective mood appeared to have brightened. "BWAINS!"

"Damn it, man. Didn't you realize MacGyver was a TV show?" George roared. "Just shoot the damn lock."

He pushed Jack out of the way, aimed his handgun and shot the lock all in one fluid motion. The lock exploded, glass and shrapnel flying everywhere and then Jack cried out in pain from friendly fire. The boy had his pinky in his mouth and he was pouting.

"I'll put you in for a Purple Heart," George snapped. He opened the door and bodily threw Jack into the room, then Kinsey. He felt someone grab his leg and he realized that the zombies had gotten him. "What are you WAITING FOR, O'NEILL? A PHONE CALL FROM THE PRESIDENT! SHOOT THEM!"

Yes, he was panicking, but there were a good reason. Two girl zombies had grabbed his leg and were busy pulling. He had his arm wrapped around the door frame and Kinsey and O'Neill were just standing there, and watching all the action.

"Oh! Right!" O'Neill agreed.

The two men aimed their hand guns and neatly shot the SAME zombie in the head. Leaving her friend to be quite upset and rather angry, the resulting rage produced an inhuman burst of strength from the zombie. He was being dragged off to where the rest of the zombies were waiting for him, and so he grabbed his gun and desperately aimed even as he was getting a bad case of 'road rash'.

The female zombie looked confused when he blasted a hole in her head.

"Bwains?" was the very last word she ever whispered before she fell over, not just a little bit, but extremely dead. On top of him. So he scrambled out from underneath her flaccid body and ran like hell.

The bastards had decided to barricade the door, so he threw himself into the small open hole that they had left for him, which was barely big enough for Janet Frasier, which naturally left him wedged like Winnie the Goddamn Pooh with his upper part of him in the National Museum, and the rest of him where the zombies were.

"Pull!" he roared, as he felt himself sliding out from the quasi safety of the National Museum of American History.

"Someone had too much honey," Jack sniped even as he and Kinsey pulled hard on his arms.

"SHUT UP! I should have left you out there," George snapped. "You're NOT getting your purple heart if I die."

That threat caused Jack to actually expend enough effort to break out in a cold sweat. Before long, he was completely inside the building. The two men quickly finished barricading the door and beamed proudly when George told them that they did nice work. When they realized what they were doing, and that God Forbid, they were acting like a team, O'Neill and Kinsey both looked sickened.

"Where's the device?" Hammond questioned.

"What's that SMELL?" O'Neill said, gagging.

"Zombie Brains. Zombie Slime." Kinsey explained. "It's not that bad once you get used to it."

"Eau de Zombie, George. You should copyright it! The latest perfume from Paris!"

"Where's the device?" George questioned.

There was a loud noise, and the three men turned toward the barricade. The zombies had opened the door to the National Museum of American History and were busy whimpering about brains.

"THE DOOR OPENS OUTWARDS?" George asked. "So that means…"

There was the sound of impact as one zombie slammed into the barricade. The all too light barricade shifted slightly, as it was made out of what had been readily available. A few chairs, six tables, a Pepsi Machine, a Washington Post newspaper box and what seemed to be a life size cardboard replica of former President George Herbert Walker Bush with Texas Governor George Walker Bush perched merrily on top of the pile of debris.

"Down the hall!" Kinsey explained.

The three men trotted toward the device, when Jack was ambushed. He was surrounded by six or seven zombies who had appeared out of nowhere. The soon to be Head of Homeworld Security gave a plaintive wail as he was dragged down a long corridor.

"If we turn off the device?" George questioned.

"The Zombies immediately stop!"

"Can you tell your little friends to stop?" The General asked.

"I could… but I hate O'Neill."

"Can't blame you for that," Hammond confessed, trying to ignore Jack's mournful cries for help. "Crap. I have only four bullets left and there are at least six zombies…"

"Eight actually," Kinsey informed him. "Before you decide to kill yourself needlessly saving his worthless life, he's the one that did the Winnie the Pooh stuck in a window stunt on you. I wanted to make the hole bigger, he wanted it smaller… thought it would be funny to see you get stuck."

"Sorry Jack!" George called out, not sounding at all sad. "One man verses many. It's an quintessential ethical decision."

At last, the two men came to a small broom closet, where the device was merrily playing havoc. George brought it out of the closet and stared at the alien glowing box. It was smaller than a bread box, and it was creating all this chaos. God, how he hated alien tech!

"Why are you helping me?" He questioned Kinsey. "You're being remarkably helpful."

"Well… to be honest… I'm not really helping you. You see… there's no off switch for the device. So that means I get to laugh manically while you freak out. Because, George Hammond, I don't particularly like you either, and there's a dozen zombies coming down that hallway looking for you. I get a front row seat when they tear you apart. The Zombie Children of Kinsey won't attack me, as I'm their Daddy."

"At least I rate more than Jack," George philosophically stated. "That's good to know."

"They should be here momentarily."

Bob then began laughing manically but stopped right after George winged him with a single shot. The Go'auld turned Zombie Overlord dropped to the floor like a ton of bricks and grabbed his knee.

"Laughing gets on my nerves," Hammond barked. "There must be an off switch."

"Nope!" Kinsey called out in between gasps of pain. "You're doomed, and your little dog too!"

Hammond pressed buttons. He twisted the glowing box like it was a Rubik's Cube. He slammed it against the wall to see if something would pop open. Naturally, since it wasn't made in China, nothing happened.

There was shuffling down the hallway, and our hero heard a happy chorus of "Bwwaaaiiinnnnsssss?"

The Undead were in the hallway, their shuffling growing ever closer when George Hammond abruptly dematerialized.

He found himself on Thor's ship. The Supreme Command of the Asgard Fleet gave him a friendly wave. Hammond was about to explain the situation to Thor when the Asgard interrupted him.

"Hi, George. Thought you might need some help. Put the cube over there."

The alien pointed one elongated finger over to where Samantha Carter was standing. She waved cheerfully and gave him a double thumbs up.

"Hi, General! Thor and I have come up with a solution. You see if we reverse the angular polarity of the sub-atomic nexus of the Chlorine atoms and combine them with a Jigger of Jägermeister…" The blond continued to explain and George sighed.

"Short VERSION, Colonel?" He said that with a long suffering sigh. After today, he would never have to listen to another technobabble speech ever again, as he was refusing to even watch STAR TREK in his retirement.

"Oh. We can turn it off and everyone's back to normal. Plus we've got a great drink for your retirement party. Thor said he's bartending tonight. That reminds me! I heard from Dad and Selmak! They're attending your party too! Just don't tell Oma!"

"Make is so," he gratefully ordered. A smart man knew when he needed help. But damn it, his inner voice was nagging him, reminding him that no Jack meant no frisky Fraiser. "Can you beam up O'Neill? He's about to lose his brains."

Even as the Telchak device was turned off with a slight hiccupping noise saving Washington DC from Kinsey's Zombie Kids, Thor beamed in Jack O'Neill plus three new female friends of his. The zombies were tugging at his pants even while Jack was screaming, "In spite of what you heard, my brains AREN'T located there!"

Alas, Samantha was rather disgusted with Jack shagging a few female zombies when the Earth was at risk, so he lost and any all chance of finding out where exactly Carter's illusive moles were located.

But ask Thor, he knows!

And that my faithful readers, is how George Hammond and Jack O'Neill plus a few other familiar faces saved the world once again, and still made it to George Hammond's retirement party.

The End