Back in West Point, we take our cameras to a busy brothel that reminds us of a biblical-era rendition of hell. The walls appear spattered and stained by some vicious cocktail of human fluid. A fetid air wafts throughout. Bloody rags and condoms lay strewn across the floor. The half-dozen girls on call accuse some UN members of flagrant sexual misconduct. When chaos breaks out in the whorehouse, we hit the road. In the car, General Rambo sends us a text telling us to hurry back to our hotel where General Butt Naked awaits.