**Author's Note** Sometimes you think you've seen everything... and then you read a bad fanfiction story. This is based on a gag from a monologue by Jimmy Fallon from his October 26th show of 2011, which went something like this: "You guys, I heard that Sylvester Stallone is being sued for stealing another screenwriter's screenplay to make Expendables[...] "Simba, one day all of this could be yours! Hakuna matata!" Mister Fallon, this is all your fault. As a last note, I haven't seen The Expendables or Rambo.


The crickets. Rambo hated the crickets. They chirped during awkward silences, during quiet hours of the night when he tried to sleep; they were always chirping and Rambo hated it. But he'd come to expect them, and so he relaxed in his hammock for a moment and recalled the events that had taken him to his current location on the continent of Africa.

The last thing I thought I'd ever hear was a baby crying. Who knows where it came from, if its mother dropped it as she ran away or what- but it was there. I didn't have time to think so I just scooped it up as I ran.

"Get to tha chopper!" It must have only been a few second's sprint to the 'copter, but it felt like forever. The baby was crying, bullets were flying across the clearing, couldn't get to the 'copter fast enough. I made it there first, strapped the baby in, jumped for the cockpit. Adrian fell in but he was hanging out the hatch. "Adrian? Yo, Adrian! Get in!" He just stayed there, so I unbuckled and kicked his corpse over the edge. I was shot at, so I fired a few rounds back before gettin' back in the cockpit. I flew off, kept goin' for what must'a been ten, thirteen hours. Ran outta fuel on some island in the middle of nowhere.

I felt like I shold give the baby a name; it would'a been messed up if it thought its name was "you". So I put a couple syllables together, called the boy Simba. I remember I used to shave coconuts with my bowie, and hold Simba and give him the milk. Started giving him fish and snake meat when his teeth grew in.

Must'a been around a year or two later when the ship came by. Lost in a storm, or somethin' like that. After I threatened the guy at gunpoint he agreed to take us on board. Didn't speak a word of English. Damn long voyage, 'bout what, two or three months? Ah, something like that. Think it was near the end of that Simba called me "Dada" for the first time.

So we made landfall, but I just see this big field of grain behind port, and all the buildings look run down- didn't look like Hawaii, or even Australia. "Where the Hell are we?" I asked the captain. At this point he could speak a little English, so he says,

"We near Dante. Land Africa." Africa? Dante? It didn't look like much, but me and Simba stayed there for a while. Got worked like a slave, paid less than the locals. So, I got an underground fight league goin' and made some nice dough, won some and lost some. Could Simba talk then? Yeah. Think we both learned a little of whatever language this is the locals speak.

Think Simba was about seven when the feds busted up my league. Real bloody mess; two of my fighters died and four other teams got shot up. The rest of us made a break for it, Team Gaddafi got a plane back to Libya, Sagat and my other guys left for the countryside. We lived like animals for that first got better when Sagat brought in some women- for a little bit. That's when the natives came for them. they knew the land, we had the firepower, shoulda been over in a couple days but they kept coming until only the women, children and elderly were left. Backtraced 'em, found their little village. Actually kind of a nice place, we've got that big rock formation.

John Rambo sighed. Since Sagat had left for whatever country, Rambo had assumed sole leadership of the village and surrounding area. The crickets were still chirping, but Rambo closed his eyes and went to sleep.

In the morning, there was the presentation ceremony. It was an ancient custom the women of Rambo's tribe still insisted on following. It took place in the early morning: the tribe gathered on and around Pride Rock, which was named so because of the lions that congregated there in the Winter and also because of a prominent oblong boulder that boys of a certain age laughed at.

A woman stepped forwards, carrying her baby girl and two waterskins. She stopped beside Rambo and he recognized her as the one he'd slept with on several occasions before she got too clingy and he ended the fling. Fortunately, the babe had a great resemblance to the woman's husband. Rambo nodded and took the goat waterskin. The woman held out her baby, and from the goatskin Rambo anointed the girl's head with the blood of a young lion, before bathing the rest of the infant in it. With that complete, he took the wildebeest water skin and washed off the lion's blood with water from the river.

Glancing up, Rambo saw the sun coming up over the horizon. Taking the girl he swiftly drew his knife. The women said the placement of the cut had great significance, like marking out the child's future. For a moment he considered making it over her palm, indicating skill with crafts, but then he changed his mind and drew his bowie across her labia, which supposedly indicated fertility, among... other things. Rambo nodded; considering his history with the girl's mother there were many ways the mark could be interpreted, several of which were less than pleasant. Deeming his choice appropriate, Rambo lifted up the girl towards the sunrise, making sure she was facing away, to the crowd- the first time he'd done the presentation ceremony the baby had been facing towards him, and peed in his face. The tribe below cheered and applauded wildly, and Rambo held her up for several moments before returning her to her mother.

"Nala!" Proclaimed the woman, naming the girl as she held her up to those on Pride Rock. They cheered just as enthusiastically as those down below, and the tribe lifted up their hands, Nala riding them down to join her people.

Afterwards, as always, Rambo stayed behind and looked down on the plains from the top of Pride Rock, arms folded across his chest. But Simba had stayed, too, and walked up beside Rambo. They stood side by side in silence for several minutes, taking in the view: far to the South were the outlines of the thatched roofs of the village, farther still was the river that ran to the ocean; to the Northwest was the canyon, where hyena howled and stalked their prey, and to the North was a sea of grass sporadically punctuated by thin trees.

Not sure how to begin, Simba said, "You never told me about my mother..."

Rambo looked over to Simba for a moment. He's what, thirteen now? Guess he's old enough. "Never met her... in all likelihood Simba, the woman's dead. I found you in the jungle as I was leaving the country."

"So I wasn't born in Dante?"

"No... and seriously, your eyes should'a been telling you that already."

"Well, then what if she'd just left me in the jungle for a few minutes when you came along?"

Shaking his head, Rambo replied, "That's not how things worked back there. She either dropped you as she ran and couldn't go back, or was captured and the soldiers didn't give a rat's ass about some baby."

"Then- then why..."

"Son, there are moment in every soldier's career when they just want to quit. I'd been fighting to leave because I'd had one of those moments, and then when we got to the island and I had to take care of you I guess I just got used to it; it made sense on some level."

"So I'm just an accident- is that what you're saying?"

"You'd be surprised how many kids are accidents. Listen- now Simba, the sperm that birthed you may not have come from my balls, but you're still my son. I think you've earned the Rambo name." Somewhat awkwardly, Rambo put and arm around Simba's shoulders. "This ain't a bad place to live, Simba. There's a river within a day's walk, plenty of wildlife if we need to go hunting... not a bad place at all..."

"...how far do our tribe's lands go?"

"Look out as far as the horizon- everything that the light touches is ours. Simba, one day all of this could be yours... hakuna matata."


"What's past is past, don't worry about it. You don't have a mother, but you got a father and a tribe. Now come on, let's go back to the village."

"Wait! Dad... where were you born?"

"...in a country called America."

"Could we go there someday?"

The thought was intrigueing to Rambo. He hadn't been back on American soil for over a quarter of his life; and then there was the matter of all the money he'd made from his underground fight leauge. Even accounting for the exchange rate, in America he'd be a rich man. He'd be a hero, if anyone recognized him; but if not, he could start over and have a new life with Simba. And John Rambo had a moment where he wanted to quit. He'd spent some time as a tribal lord, and now he wanted to go home and be a family man.

"Yeah. We could go."

The next morning Rambo and Simba were hunting down in the canyon. The wildebeest herd was at the mouth of the canyon, but they had spotted a pride of lions prowling in the distance beyond the herd and so took the canyon route. They were low on rifle ammo so instead they carried spears and bows. Two hundred, one hundred and less yards the father and son approached, silent as the crouched low and eyed their prey.

But it was not to be. Inexplicably a shot rang out, disturbing the peace. The wildebeest were spooked, but they didn't disperse to the savanna: they came straight back into the canyon!

"Start climbing! There's no time to run back!" Rambo yelled. He and Simba scrambled to the sides and hurled their spears up over the edge of the canyon, slinging their bows over their shoulders and jumping to get a head start on the climb. Halfway up, and the first of the herd thundered past beneath their feet; but this was not small herd and the danger of falling down into the stampede would be there until they escaped the canyon.

Rocks trembled and fell down over the heads of Rambo and Simba and tumbled into hte canyon, but theri grips held true and in a few moments that felt much longer than they actually were they arrived at the edge. Simba was the first over, and his eyes went wide as he stood: before him was the man who fired the shot that began the stampede, Nala's father! Liek a nightmare that kept getting worse, he smashed Simba with the butt of his rifle, and took aim at Rambo as his arm groped over the edge. His head buzzing and ear numb, Simba yelled, "No! Father!"

"Try fucking my first wife, Rambo. You should see her in Hell." The barrel inches away from his face, Rambo didn't even blink as Nala's father began to tighten his grip on the trigger. Like it was in slow motion, Simba looked on as his father reached up and grabbed the barrel of the rifle, and used it to pull himself onto the edge of the canyon, yanking it out of the grasp of Nala's father. Quickly Rambo rolled over and up, engaging in hand to hand combat. Heavy blows were traded, but neither was looking for the knockout- not with an option like a stampede just an arm's length away.

From their days training for the league, each knew the other's style fairly well: here and there, strikes and grapples were countered and reversed. Bit by bit Rambo gained ground on Nala's father, edging away from the canyon. Getting the enraged husband in a clinch, suddenly Rambo fell back into a picture perfect suicide throw, sending Nala's father over the edge and down into the wildebeest stampede. Dusting himself off as he stood, Rambo stared down into the chaos and said, "Hakuna matata..."

Later that day it was decided Rambo and SImba would leave for America. In certain parts of Dante the name Rambo still had some power; favors were called in, debts paid, and in a week they had passports and everything necessary to get back to the States.

The trip to the airport had been long and boring, there was nothing along the way you couldn't see that you hadn't already seen elsewhere in Somalia. With just one carry-on bag each they boarded the plane. There were several stops and a few hotel stays along the way, Simba eagerly taking in all he could of the countries they stopped in and buying as many souvenirs as Rambo would allow. That is to say, one or two from each stop.

Finally, at JFK International, a security guard pulled them aside. "What's the problem? These are brand new passports, good enough to get us through Europe. You need to see my I.D., what?"

"No sir, it's that for years you were assumed dead. There were some initial problems, but after checking your tickets things started matching up with your last known whereabouts and the rest of your record. I just wanted to congratulate you on making it back to America, and be the first to say this: welcome home, Mr. Rambo."

The End