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: Well, look what just dropped in, bruddahs. A hundred seventy pounds of air pollution! Mercer
: I've seen putty with more backbone. Taurus
: I do not like his face. Let us remove it, yes?
: You're not filling your brothers in, Mercer. What's Cobra-La? Mercer
: I've never heard of it. Taurus
: That answer gives me no comfort!
: AT EASE, DISEASE! I've been expecting you. My name is Sgt. Slaughter. Special drill instructor for G.I. Joe. Lt. Falcon
: That's terrific Sarge but, I'm tryin to cut back on the chicken sweat just now, so if you don't mind... Sgt. Slaughter
: You're going nowhere, space case. You're here because you're an industrial strenth foul-up! My job is to whip you into shape and I mean WHIP! There's only two ways out of my command, on your feet like a man, or in a ditty bag, an itty-bitty ditty bag. YOU GOT IT? Lt. Falcon
: Yes sir! Sgt. Slaughter
: That's better. Now straighten up and meet the Renegades. They're not real dependable now, but when I get through with them, what are you going to be? Mercer
, Red Dog
: Perfect! Sgt. Slaughter
: That's right. Perfect. Meet Mercer, an ex-Cobra Viper who's seen the light. Red Dog, booted out of pro football for unnecessary roughness. And Taurus, a circus acrobat with a few loose bats in his big top. Lt. Falcon
: Uh, hi guys.
: [after hearing the bell ringing
] Dinner already? Sgt. Slaughter
: Not unless you like snake burgers. We're gonna infiltrate the Terrordrome on Cobra Island. Mercer
: That's suicide! Taurus
: Yes. Horoscope say it bad day to travel. Sgt. Slaughter
: Think of it as an extra rough training exercise. Lt. Falcon
: Training, huh? Why don't we leave our weapons behind? Make it really educational. Sgt. Slaughter
: Now that's what I call a challenge! No weapons! Let's move out!
[Renegades growl at Falcon