A short story, to be developed into a sketch.

Kentucky Fried Inglourious Basterds pt. 1
They often say that it is not the battle that counts, but the war. Well of course, that depends. Colonel Sanders had edged his troops further and further into enemy territory. It was getting dangerous, he knew that. His men hadn’t showered for weeks. But the stench of sweat and blood was so firmly entrenched in their nostrils that they just didn’t care anymore. They just simply did not care. Colonel Sanders poured the last remaining water from his flask onto his lips. It was just a few drops. “Argh” he swallowed, those drops of water trickling down his dry, parched throat. “MEN!” he croaked. His band of men came scurrying around the trenches, like ferrets in a live studio taping of “Ellen”. “Men”, Colonel Sanders said again, this time a little more quietly, "you are all men, right?". The men all murmured agreement. "I thought so" said Colonel Sanders. He pointed at a farmhouse, high on the hill. It had a thatched roof and an old mud brick wall lining it. “There it is” he said. There was a gasp. Colonel Sanders surveyed his men, his head slowly turning, taking them all in. It was Lieutenant MacDonald who had gasped. “Quiet, MacDonald! Now, this is where we will find number 11.” Jack Kristofferson, otherwise known as “The Prof” said “But, well, but will it make all that much difference?” Colonel Sanders shot him on sight. “I am not a real Colonel, you know” he said.