Simon "Ghost" Riley | John "Soap" MacTavish | König | John Price

Dangerous Ducks: Operation BBQ Inferno

The tension in the common room was still clinging to the air like smoke after gunfire—thick, silent, and humming with aftershocks from this morning’s... incident. Ghost hadn't spoken since dragging König out by the collar, Soap was poking his cereal in solemn contemplation, and {{user}} was nursing tea like it held divine answers.

That’s when Price stepped in.

He stopped in the doorway, nose twitching like a bloodhound catching wind of something unholy. He sniffed once. Twice. His mustache twitched.

“Smells like psychological warfare in here…” He raised an eyebrow. “Perfect time for a bloody BBQ.”

Silence cracked. Ghost side-eyed him. Soap blinked. König, somewhere licking his ego wounds, made a pitiful noise. But it was {{user}} who tilted their head with the slow, gleaming look of someone already planning vengeance wrapped in tin foil and skewers.

Price didn’t miss it. “You lot have the weekend. No ops. No limits. Full send.” Then he pointed directly at {{user}} and Soap. “You two. Shopping detail. And yes, you can make those punishment chicken skewers. In fact—make extra. Everyone should suffer equally.”

{{user}} grinned. A grin that said “I’m about to make God cry.”

Price’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to make them spicy aren’t you?” No answer. Just that grin.

“Fine. But bring a warehouse-sized pack of toilet paper, ice cubes, and ice cream. Sugar cubes too. I'm not explaining to command why half the base is hospitalized with flaming regret."

Soap launched himself from his cereal fortress, spoon clattering. “Aye aye, Captain! Operation Inferno Meal is GO!” He snatched The Important Black Credit Card™ out of Price’s hand and saluted like a gremlin on a mission. Grabbing {{user}} by the wrist, he dragged them toward the black SUV with the enthusiasm of someone going into battle for snacks and vengeance.

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The Supermarket Chronicles Begin:

First stop: the Spice Aisle.

Soap took it seriously—scanning spice jars like picking out grenades. Herbs, smoked paprika, thyme, oregano, even a wild cinnamon stick or two. Meanwhile, {{user}} silently built a doomsday list:

• Paprika tomato paste with chili
• Chili flakes
• Ginger jam
• German medium hot mustard
• Honey
• Steak pepper mix
• Lemon juice
• Paprika powder

Soap peered over their shoulder and whistled low. “You’re not makin’ chicken. You’re makin’ war crimes.”

Then: The Meat Aisle.

No soul was spared. Ribs. Chicken. Turkey. Pork. Beef. Fish. Even kangaroo. Because why not. They loaded the cart like they were catering for a WWE afterparty.

Next came:

• A pack of skewers that could double as fencing spears
• 2 massive family-sized towers of toilet paper
• Buckets of vanilla ice cream
• Ice cubes the size of a toddler’s fist
• Soft drinks by the crate
• Alcoholic drinks that could knock out a moose
• Cold bowls with strawberry, lemon, and mystery blue
• Tea bags “for emotional support”
• Jello shots—because someone (probably Soap) insisted
• Blonde beer, dark root beer, and
• Jim Beam—strictly for the rib glaze (probably)

By the time they were loading up the SUV, the trunk looked like a doomsday prepper's fever dream—if that prepper also had a vendetta and culinary skills.

Operation BBQ Inferno was in full motion. And somewhere back on base, Ghost was sharpening knives. König was sweating nervously. And Price… was already regretting giving them the black card.

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Dangerous Ducks: The BBQ Inferno – Prep Day

The Sauce of Redemption (for the Ribs):

While chaos gently brewed around base, {{user}} stood at the stovetop, calmly stirring a thick, glossy sauce that shimmered with smoky gold. The Jim Beam scent wafted up, mellowed by a swirl of honey, and brought together with an orchestra of not-spicy herbs and spices:

• 2 cups of Jim Beam
• 3 tablespoons honey
• 1 tablespoon smoked paprika
• 1 teaspoon garlic powder
• 1 teaspoon onion powder
• A dash of clove and cinnamon for depth
• Pinch of black pepper
• 1 teaspoon of dijon mustard
• And a splash of apple cider vinegar for balance

Simmered slowly until thick enough to coat a spoon like velvet. It was sweet, tangy, rich, and absolutely ruthless on the ribs. Once cooled, the pork ribs were lovingly tossed in the concoction and sealed tight to marinate overnight—steeping in liquid gold until they were soft enough to convert a pacifist.

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The Skewers of Fiery Vengeance:

In another pot—a darker pot—{{user}} was crafting something far more sinister. A marinade that looked like danger in a bowl. They didn’t even flinch when the chili fumes hit their face.

The Punishment Marinade:

• 2 tablespoons paprika tomato paste with chili
• 2 teaspoons chili flakes
• 1 tablespoon German medium hot mustard
• 1 tablespoon ginger jam
• 2 teaspoons honey (just to lull them into false security)
• 1 tablespoon lemon juice
• 1 tablespoon steak pepper mix
• 1 teaspoon paprika powder

All whisked together until it looked like molten sin.

Then came the victims: chunks of chicken and turkey, red and green bell peppers, and onion wedges—all dunked mercilessly into the hell-marinade, sealed away in a container marked “Do Not Touch – Unless You Want To Regret Every Life Choice.”

They’d marinate overnight too. Not for flavor. For judgment.

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BBQ Day: May the Flames Have Mercy

At sunrise, {{user}} stood in the kitchen with surgical precision, assembling the skewers. Each one threaded like a holy relic—meat, pepper, onion, meat—until they looked innocent. But the scent? Absolutely not.

Price entered the kitchen with his usual “been through five wars and two divorces” energy. He paused. Took a breath. Sniff... “Bloody hell, what the—?!”

He recoiled like he’d just inhaled mustard gas and death. “Smells like someone fermented a kimchi in the seventh layer of hell.”

{{user}} just kept assembling. Calm. Focused. Smiling.

Price shook his head, muttering, “I should’ve never said yes to this…”

Outside, Ghost was on grill duty, already arranging coals like a ritual sacrifice. His calm was almost eerie.

König, 6'10 of useful regret, was hauling massive trays of meat, drink crates, skewers, and probably three chairs at once—because yes, he could, and no one was stopping him. Punishment came in many forms.

As the grills roared to life, {{user}} placed the first two skewers—still sizzling from the marinade—onto a special plate.

King’s Plate.

The table went quiet as they were set in front of him. Everyone knew. These were not for joy. These were not for taste.

These… were justice.

König stared at them like they might bite first. Steam curled off the meat. Even cold, they’d be war crimes. But hot? Hot was a crime against the Geneva Convention.

Ghost, watching from the side, murmured: “Moment of silence for his tastebuds.”

And somewhere, faintly, a duck quacked in salute.