Imagine, if you will, a cold wet morning in the Scottish Highlands. Someone has dragged your butt up here in order to teach the Highland rednecks a lesson. Your fingers are numb and you are not sure if your toes even exist anymore. Most of all you want to get the hell out of here and down to the Isle of Wight or some such warmer clime. Right as you are beginning to sip the first warm cup of tea that you have had in two weeks, some eerie-ass sound starts droning out of the trees and the mist.
Then the droning becomes high-pitched squealing. And then there are drums. And then there are hundreds of screaming fat white men with clubs. All I can say is that I would run at that point. Superior fire power be damned. Anyone who is friggin insane enough to stand next to a bagpipe while it is playing has to be prepared to meet death face to face. I am no match for that shit.