Author's Note: It seems like the more work I have in real life, the more my impulse to write crack fiction manifests on the Internet. I'm sorry, guys; I honestly didn't intend to post again so soon. The thing is, though, I can write something like this in ten minutes, whereas a chapter with characterization and plot and stuff . . . well, that's not such a quick write.

I like the idea of the teams possibly becoming discontented with their role—constant death does tend to wear on you, after all—and maybe even fighting back against the Administrator. However, it's unlikely that they could get anywhere, since the Administrator could probably do things like withhold respawn privileges. This could probably be explored in more detail in a serious 'fic, but me . . . I don't have the ability to write a serious 'fic. And honestly, the first two lines were just begging for it.

The Administrator swears a lot in this. It didn't seem quite in-character for her, but we never really get to hear her reaming the hell out of her employees, so I took a leap for humor's sake.

Rating: T for lots of bad language.

Disclaimer: Team Fortress 2 and all associated characters and concepts belong to Valve. "The Night Before Christmas" was written by Clement Clark Moore, and is now in the public domain. This parody is solely for entertainment purposes and I derive no profit, monetary or otherwise, from it.

'Twas the Night Before Battle

by Totenkinder Madchen

'Twas the night before battle, but all through 2fort

Half the BLUs were still stuck in Stage 1 rigor mort.

The respawn machines weren't on, it was seeming

And only the Pyro was upright and breathing.

He didn't mind much if his comrades were deadish

Or a little bit smelly and lacking-of-headish

He rather liked quiet, and it seemed like his turn

To go through their quarters and find out what would burn.

When out from the loudspeaker came such a racket

Of the smacking of palm against cigarette packet.

The Pyro jumped up, for he heard that sound clear

And despite his surprise, 'twas a sound he held dear--

For it meant the Administrator was on-line

And ready to summon them up one more time

To jump and to sneak and to scuffle and brawl

And leave a charred outline or two on the wall!

He didn't know why his team didn't respawn

But he knew for quite certain they'd never be gone.

So the Pyro rejoiced, and he gave a small squeak

When the Administrator was then heard to speak:

"Hey, Sniper! Hey, Soldier! Up, Heavy and Scout!

Enough of this 'being dead' lazing about!

Wake up, Spy and Medic! Hey, Engineer! Up!

And Demoman—get drunk again and you're fucked!"

As quick as the flame dancing over a match

Or the sparks when the piles of gasoline catch

So up jumped the Pyro, and eagerly flew

To prepare for the slaughter of RED versus BLU.

And then, in a blur of blue light and quick motion

The BLUs started appearing—and god, the commotion!

"You maggots gone soft! Fall out in a jiffy!

No slacking! No stalling! NOW DROP! GIVE ME FIFTY!"

The Soldier was first to emerge from the huddle

And didn't seem to mind the confusion or muddle

Or that he'd been stone dead, with his insides turned out

"American spirit! Walk it off!" he would shout.

Next was the Demoman, now put on probation

On account of his long-standing intoxication.

In fact, the whole team seemed quite deep in the shit

And to judge by their grumbling, they warranted it.

It's true: war is hell, and the Pyro ne'er knew

Of the tensions and arguments pervading the BLU.

About worries re: ethics, and questions unasked

And if each should run, or just cover his ass.

"Listen up!" the Administrator loudly snapped

"It's only because of the fight that you're back.

There's too much dissension. You're leaving your grooves.

So the deaths will continue 'til morale improves.

"I wanted a crack team of killers and fighters

Not wimps who'll whine about years of all-nighters!

Hired a scout. Got a bitchy little boy.

Hired a crazed gunman-" Said the Sniper, then: "Oi!"

"Oh, shut up, you kangaroo-fucking disgrace

This whole team of jerks need to stay in their place.

The only one doing their job, and that's flat

Is the fire-loving loony. Now how sad is that?"

The team loudly objected, but what had been said

Was completely over the Pyro's masked head.

He hoisted his weapon, lit its small pilot light--

"Mhrry rehpawhh hu ha, anh hu ha ha guhh fighh."