by Dannell Lites
small southern woman leaned over and kissed the still sleeping Dick Grayson. The
hero stirred groggily and fell back upon his pillow. The pounding grew louder.
Dannell frowned in irritation and threw on a robe. Glancing at the clock she
noted that it was 4 AM. Who in the world ... ? Almost before she heard his voice
she answered her own question. There was, after all, only one.
"Open the door, babe!" ordered Sabretooth. The singer supposed that she really
should open the damn door. Otherwise he would only break it down. With a sigh
Dannell complied.
"Do ya'll have ANY idea what time it is?" she hissed. Creed ignored her, as
usual and pushed past her to fling himself down on her much abused sofa with a
black scowl. Tapping her foot in annoyance, Dannell lifted an eyebrow at her
sometimes lover.
"And to what do Ah owe the honor of this visit?" she inquired sweetly. "Mystique
busy, is she?" Dannell flung one hand up in negation. "No, don't tell me ...
Ya'll want my opinion on John Paul Sarte and existentialism and it just couldn't
wait until the morning." Creed glowered, darkly.
"I *hate* modern armies!" he sneered with a curl of his lip. "Spineless bunch o'
worms marching in neat little rows crawling around in the dirt keeping their
heads down! Where's the fun in that? No Glory! No challenge to it at all. Guns
are fer wimps." Dannell sighed. He was plainly angry about *something*, but
what?
"Can Ah expect a news bulletin anytime soon vis a vis whatever it is that seems
to have honked ya'll off *this* time?" she inquired, keeping her voice carefully
droll.
"Here!" he snarled, thrusting a plain white very official looking envelope under
her nose. "Read *this*!" Angrily, Dannell snatched the letter from his hand.
The belle ignored the many stains on the once pristine envelope. Holding the
letter by one clean edge Dannell avoided the legion of sticky fingerprints
clinging to the crumpled surface. She did pause for an instant to wonder if the
many unidentifiable stains could be chocolate or blood. It was hard to tell with
Vic. He was rather addicted to both. Noticing the postmark, the singer rolled
her eyes.
"Vic Sugah, this is postmarked two weeks ago! Falling a little behind in our
correspondence, are we?" Sabretooth crossed his arms over his massive chest and
sulked.
"I was BUSY!" he snapped. "Why do people send me mail anyway?" he fumed.
"Everybody knows I don't read!"
"Riiiiiight" said Dannell and began to read.
"Dear Citizen", it began
"Greeting from the government of Canada! This is to officially notify you that
you are to report to the office of Dr. Walter Langkowski on December 23, 1998
for registration, medical exam and other testing pursuant to your induction into
the Canadian Army.
Merry Christmas!
Thanking you in advance for your compliance with the law,
Ian MacAllister Secretary Of The Army"
Dannell looked up, dumbfounded.
"I been drafted!" Sabretooth spat.
******************************************************************
At The Doctor's Office
Sabretooth regarded Nurse Meagan Kinross out of two baleful blue eyes and
sneered.
"You want *what*?" he demanded.
"Sperm," said the mutant nurse, firmly. "We need a sperm sample." With a
flourish she handed the operative a specimen collection cup. Sabretooth
inspected the small container from all angles and handed it back.
"Ain't big enough," he grinned. "Got anything in a larger size?" Without even
cracking a smile the tall redhead reached for a large Erlenmeyer flask and
handed it wordlessly to the huge man. Trying again, Creed leaned forward within
inches of Meagan's face.
"I can think of a better container, pretty ..." he leered.
The nurse's eyes glowed red for an instant and Sabretooth could have sworn he
saw the beginnings of fangs tipple the corner of her lush lips. She pointed
toward the bathroom door.
"Go!" she hissed. The killer hissed back but moved toward the door.
"Muties," he muttered, "no sense of of humor ..."
*******************************************************************
The IQ Test
Chewing the rubber of his #2 pencil thoughtfully, Victor Creed began to read.
"If Billy has three apples and trades one to Johnny for two oranges but then
trades one of the oranges to Rick for a pear and a peach how many of each fruit
does Billy have?"
Sabretooth considered the question for a moment, then smiled.
"None" he wrote. "Rick whacks Billy and takes his two apples, one orange, his
pear and his peach, plus his new skateboard ..."
With a gay air he continued on to the next question:
"Decline the verb to be," said the instructions. "Be specific." Creed licked the
end of his pencil and began.
"*is* dead * has been* dead *will be* dead as soon as I get around to it"
"Who was Ghengis Khan?" it asked next. Sabretooth snorted and answered the
question truthfully.
"Timujin was a wimp," he informed them, "and his daughters were lousy lays.
Great screamers though!"
********************************************************************
The Minnesota Multiple Personality Index Test
"Do you hear voices?" asked the test. "No, I'm deaf ..." grinned Creed and put a
check mark in the "yes" box.
"Are people out to get you?" it inquired next. The operative considered his
current legal status. Wanted on four continents. With a chortle he again checked
the "yes" box. "But I usually get them first," he observed cheerfully.
"Describe one of your sexual fantasies." the test requested. Unrolling a much
abused "Supergirl" comic book from his back pocket, the big man made smooching
noises at the mini-skirted heroine and waggled his tongue.
"Supergirl," he wrote enthusiastically, "what a babe!! I'm gonna capture her,
chain her to a bed with chocolate smeared all over her body and then I'm gonna
lick it off. But first I need that little twerp Leo di Caprio as bait ... Here
Leo ... Here Leo ... "
"Does anything keep you from fulfilling your fantasy?" it wanted to know.
"Hey!" wrote Creed with a flourish, "Have *you* ever tried to find kryptonite
chains?? Got a hot lead in Addis Ababa, though!"
**************************************************************************************
"Well, Home Director, this is a proper ball's up, now isn't it?" said an annoyed
Ian MacAllister, stiffly.
"I'm afraid so," admitted a somewhat abashed Paul Graeves. "Not to worry,
Assistant Director, my office will have this imbroglio cleared up in a trice."
MacAllister frowned and nodded.
"I certainly hope so," returned The Assistant Director with asperity. "Dealing
as it does with the Army, this problem definitely falls in your bailiwick, Home
Office Director! Under NO circumstances is Victor Creed to be actually drafted
into the Army, is that understood? The Prime Minister was firm about that. We
have enough trouble with those bloody Gamma and Omega Flight cretins; we don't
need that giant mutant pain in the arse causing more trouble."
"Understood, Sir," said Graeves, smiling confidently.
**************************************************************************************
Paul Graeves stabbed at the intercom button of his phone angrily. "Casement!" he
shouted for his Assistant, "get IN here! NOW!"
In a fit of pique, the Canadian politico tossed his latest case folder onto the
other side of his desk. Damned vultures! Some blithering idiot makes a clerical
error and who gets the thankless job of pulling the national leaders' delicate
barks from the fire? Good to see you Paul old chap, how have you been; and by
the bloody way here's a little job we need you to take care of for us! Bloody
hell! The Home Office Director groaned. And of course, naturally, what else, it
just HAD to involve Sabretooth, didn't it? Not the most tractable of people,
Sabretooth.
Dominic Casement stuck his perfectly barbered head through the door. "You
shrieked, Director?" he drawled. Graeves frowned and gestured the civil servant
impatiently forward.
"Read that," Graeves indicated the folder lying before Casement. With a sigh,
the assistant gathered up the enclosed documents and began to quickly peruse
them. His superior watched in irritation as a large smile of amusement began to
spread over those aquiline features. Graeves often suspected that Casement took
secret joy in seeing him put on the spot, attempting to wriggle his way out of
one crisis after another. This was a most unwelcome reminder of those never
confirmed suspicions. Almost before he could credit it's existence the smile was
gone.
"Bit of a sticky wicket, Sir," Casement observed smoothly. "I assume that the
Army Admin admitting to a mistake is out of the question ...?"
"Completely," agreed the politician with a shake of his graying head..
"Surprised that you had to ask, old boy. What good would it do, in any case?"
"Well, it *would* solve the problem," Casement reflected wistfully but without
any real hope.
"No need for extreme measure, Casement!" snapped Graeves with an air of
reprimand. "That's why Administrations have people like you and I; so that they
don't have to admit to their mistakes. I'm certain we can find some other less
radical solution to the matter. Come, come man, how hard can it be?" Casement
sighed. He *had* tried, after all. No one could deny it.
"Well, then Sir, where shall we begin?" he inquired lightly. The elder man
frowned thoughtfully.
"Actually, Casement," he ventured, "I was was hoping *you* might have some
thoughts in that direction ... Just how many different reasons are there for
excusing a citizen from military service?" Casement pondered.
"He can be excused if he is his parents sole surviving heir," the younger man
said. Graeves drummed his fingers impatiently on his desk.
"That bugger is *no one's* son and heir," he sneered. "Mutants don't have
families, Casement! Think of something else."
"Yes, Sir," said Dominic. "If I'm not mistaken he can also be excused if he's a
student or is a worker in a vital war related industry ... " began the
Assistant. Graeves cut him off with a wave of his hand.
"Sabretooth failed Working And Playing Nicely With Others in kindergarten and
hasn't been back to school since. And as for employment, I hardly think that
marauding killer qualifies as a job vital to the Defense Industry. Try again!"
Casement smiled.
"Well, *tehcnically* if not politically correctly, he can be excused if he's a
known homosexual ..."
Graeves *looked* at him.
"Moving right along," continued Casement, "that leaves us with only a few
options, I'm afraid." Graeves leaned forward hopefully.
"Such as?" he inquired.
**************************************************************************************
< " ... if he were physically unfit ... ">
"Your joking, of course," said Langkowski; but it was plain to see that his
companions were not jesting in the least. Patiently, Paul Graeves waited for the
youthful Doctor to answer his question. Langkowski tucked his stethoscope into
the pocket of his scrubs and stared at the two men who had invaded his office so
abruptly on "official business".
"Bloody hell," he cursed roundly. "You're serious aren't you?" Dominic Casement
seemed to have a deathgrip on his ever present paper, carefully studying each
word before passing placidly on to the next. The humorless Paul Graeves might
have missed the spark of mirth in the man's hazel eyes, but Langkowski didn't.
"Doctor ..." Graeves snapped, "can you or can you NOT present me with evidence
that would allow me to declare Sabretooth physically unfit for military
service?"
"Oh, for God's sake!" the doctor cried, tossing a medical chart onto his desk,
exasperated with these bureaucrats, "The man is a mutant who's mutant power is a
healing factor that makes him practically invulnerable! Of course he's not
physically unfit! Even for a mutant he's healthy. I've seen *oxen* with frailer
constitutions."
"No fallen arches? Some ailment or affliction previous to the manifestation of
his mutant power?" Desperation crept steadily into the edges of the increasingly
harassed Home Office Heads voice. Dominic turned a page of his paper barrier and
Langkowski caught the briefest glimpse of a smile troubling the corner of his
full mouth.
"Not even a hangnail ..." The Alphan said firmly, putting an end to the matter.
Casement folded his paper.
"Well, then," he said merrily, "on to the next stop on our Grand Tour of
Canadian Bureaucracy, shall we, sir?"
Graeves stared at his Assistant and ground his teeth in acute frustration.
**************************************************************************************
<" ... if he has ever been convicted of a felony ... ">
"Are you telling me that in the past century Sabretooth hasn't committed a
crime?" demanded Paul Graeves. Dominic Casement smiled and raised his newspaper
higher. Graeves looked ready to tear his hair out by the roots.
"Not according to Interpol," Simon Ross said calmly, rather enjoying the
spectacle of the empurpled Home Office Director.
"Impossible!" came Paul Graeves explosive reply. Dominic Casement's newspaper
rattled momentarily and a small choked sound suspiciously like muffled laughter
wafted from behind the cynical assistant administrator's newsprint shield. Ross
smiled in sympathy.
"Why impossible?" asked the newly installed National Director of Police, a job
he felt to be much more conversant with his many talents than being stuck in the
basement of the Vancouver PD sorting through The Cold Squad files.
"We're talking about Sabretooth here, Ross!" cried Graeves. "Good Christ, he
must have killed hundreds of people! And you mean to tell me he's NEVER been
imprisoned for it? Absurd!" Simon Ross made an unpleasant face.
"I couldn't agree more Director," he said. "But the fact remains that he's never
been successfully arrested much less convicted of a crime." Swiftly Graeves
wiped his sweating brow.
"Never?" he inquired weakly. "You're certain?" Sadly, Ross nodded his head.
"Positive," he affirmed.
"Vehicular homicide?" His superior inquired hopefully, recalling the operative's
questionable flying skills and grasping at straws. There *had* been that rather
regrettable incident with the helicopter and the house in the Victoria suburbs.
His implicit plea was met with another shake of negation.
"Not even a traffic ticket," replied the Police Director unhappily.
"Damn it all!" shouted Graeves. "The beastly swine must have karked a dozen
people in Israel in 1986! Can't you convict him of something? Assaulting the
Queen Mother and a couple of corgi's, perhaps? I want his barks on a platter!"
Simon Ross held his temper rather well he thought.
"No," he said clearly.
"Well, why NOT, man! Why can't he be convicted of a crime?"
Dominic Casement lowered his newspaper.
"I'm afraid there *is* the small matter of Mr. Creed's unfortunate pardon, Sir,"
the assistant pointed out. "He was granted a blanket pardon for any and all
crimes committed. Services rendered to the State, you know."
"Bloody hell!" Graeves swore and Casement once again disappeared behind his
paper.
"Will that be all, gentleman?" inquired a piqued Simon Ross. Bureaucrats!
Silently, the Home Office Head rose and left the busy Police office.
"'Once more into the breach, Dear friends'," quoted Dominic Casement and closed
the door gently.
**************************************************************************************.
<" ... if he fails the IQ test ... ">
"IMPOSSIBLE!" thundered Paul Graeves in a very close approximation of his
problem child Sabretooth. Heather MacDonald Hudson, Professor emeritus at Ottawa
university adjusted her round professorial glasses, bringing them to rest higher
on the bridge of her sharp nose and looked put upon. Dominic Casement placidly
turned another page of his paper, absorbed in the fun and variety of the
personals Not quite as juicy as The Times, but then ... this *was* Canada, after
all ...
"The man is a a dense as a soddening *brick* for the love of God! He can't
possibly have passed that intelligence test!" Graeves rattled the test paper in
question under the mild Historian's nose. "I mean to say, *look* at this!" "
'Who was Ghengis Khan?'" he quoted . " ... 'Timujin was a wimp and his daughters
were lousy lays. Great screamers, though!' " Staring at the studious professor
and leader of Alpha Flight, Graeves thrust the paper at her. "Who the bloody
hell is Timujin?" he spat. , Hudson cleared her throat.
"Ghengis Khan, actually," came her sardonic reply. "'Ghengis Khan' is a title.
It's the rough Mongol equivalent of 'Great Ruler' ... but the man's *name* was
Timujin and he was born a slave." The bespeckled woman smiled and regarded
Graeves with enthusiasm. "I'll bet Sabretooth liked him a lot, really. And I'd
love to talk to him about it. Do you think he might ...?" The Home Office
Director's eyes bulged and his hands clenched spasmodically into fists.
"What about *this*!" he cried, ignoring the others query. "'Name the capitol of
France' ... The bastard's answer is 'Luetetia' ... " Graves snorted, sure of his
ground this time. "Sounds like some tart he picked up off the street, heh
Dominic?" Casement peeked out from behind his paper with a cynical smile.
"If you say so, sir," he returned sunnily.
"Look here, Hudson," Graeves pointed out firmly. "Now everybody knows that Paris
is the capitol of France. Bloody frogs wouldn't have it any other way!" The
Alphan ignored the slur and again adjusted her eyeglasses.
"Loathe as I am to be the bearer of bad tidings, gentlemen," she began with prim
irony, "But I'm afraid he's right ... 'Luetetia' *is* the capitol of France ...
today and three thousand years ago. The City of Lights began it's millennia long
existence as a simple Roman village named ..."
"Lue - bloody - tetia" snarled Graeves and massaged the bridge of his nose in a
vain attempt to stop the sharp pains crashing down from his temples.
Tucking his newspaper beneath his arm, Dominic Casement smiled.
"Onward!" he cried.
**************************************************************************************
In the office of the Prime Minister the midnight oil burned brightly. Or at
least the electric lighting.
"Well ...?" demanded the Canadian leader. "Would somebody like to tell me what
the hell we're doing here? Mac?" Glancing at the Secretary of the Army, the
politician crossed his arms over his thin chest and waited. A grim Ian
MacAllister came to attention in his chair and faced his superior stiffly.
"It has to do with The Sabretooth Affair," began the Secretary. "I believe Home
Director Graeves has a report for us."
All eyes turned to Paul Graeves expectantly. In truth The Home Office Director
did not look well. There were great dark circles under his eyes like wounds
gotten in battle. And the usually immaculate politician appeared to have been
wearing the same now rumpled suit for the last several days. The Prime Minister
noted with concern the presence of unshaven stubble on his usually smooth chin.
It was very unlike Paul, he knew. Silence reigned as all present waited for the
Director to speak. His shoulders slumped in defeat and his hand trembled as the
politician took a sip of water to ease his dry throat. Clearly, Paul Graeves was
a beaten man.
"Mister Minister," he mourned, weak voiced, "I must report failure. After many
diligent efforts my Office can find no valid reason for excusing Sabretooth from
military service ... we've exhausted them all, I'm afraid. It looks as if we'll
have to go through with this mess." Around the table a buzz of unhappy
excitement leapt like lightening. The Prime Minister frowned and gestured
broadly for silence.
"Paul, it was a bloody clerical error," he expounded. "Are you telling me that
we can't fix it? We can't have him in the Army, for God's sake! He's enough of a
problem where he is now. Christ, he's a riot waiting to happen! We may need the
Army to *deal* with him and the other mutants someday. We can't have them IN the
Army. Impossible!"
"The Army won't take him!" blustered General P. R. Murray. "I can tell you THAT
right now! Do you have any idea how hard it is discipline a mutant?" the career
soldier muttered. "Especially one like Sabretooth who's virtually impervious to
pain and has all the sunny disposition of a sore footed bullock in heat?"
MacAllister's one time CO ran his fingers nervously through his hair in
agitation.
"General," the Prime Minister soothed the martial fellows rumpled feathers, "no
one wants Sabretooth in the Army. We're here to find the best way to avoid that
if at all possible." Murray subsided but with no visible pleasure in the
direction the discussion had taken.
"Has anyone thought to consult his friend, that American woman - what's her name
- Dannell?" inquired Vindicator mildly. "Might she have some influence over
him?" Silver Fox barked laughter.
"Hell, Vic hasn't paid any attention to what women had to say since he bit off
his mother's tit," scoffed the former WeaponX Team member. The Indian woman
grinned like a shark. "I can tell you one thing," she informed them, "If you
draft him, Vic won't be a happy camper, that's gospel." She turned to face
Murray, chuckling evilly. "Might be worth it just to see your grunts trying to
handle him. I'd pay money for a picture of THAT!" Murray's face clouded over and
his lips parted in a withering retort. The Prime Minister hastily pounded the
long table for attention.
"Let's get a grip here, people," he ordered. When silence descended once more
the Prime Minister sighed.
"Are you *sure* you covered all the bases, Paul? There are no legal options left
to us?"
A dejected Paul Graeves shook his head, apparently too depressed for words. How
could something like this have happened to him, he wondered? After all these
years in office, here and in England, to meet disaster at the hands of a loutish
mutant and a simple clerical error. Life was so unfair! Oh God the Prime
Minister was upset! That angry fire in his eye had only one meaning. Briefly, he
wondered how it would feel standing in the unemployment line.
"Well my friends," the Prime Minister mused, "it looks like we may just be hosed
on this one. If we can't find a legal way to keep Sabretooth out of the Army ...
" Several people around the table paled at such a prospect. General Murray
looked quite ill for a moment. The sound of Dominic Casement folding his
newspaper and sliding it into his briefcase rang loud in the sepruchal silence
of the meeting room.
"Well, actually, there *is* one option left to us ... " the junior civil servant
smiled and his eyes twinkled with mirth. Every head in the room swiveled
anxiously in Casement's direction and waited.
"Well don't just sit there man!" shouted a suddenly revivified Paul Graeves.
"Out with it!"
"Yes, Sir," returned Dominic with a somewhat twisted grin. "I had a most
interesting conversation this afternoon with Dr. Michael Two Young Men, visiting
lecturer at Vancouver University. Technically, Victor Creed is a member of the
Sarcee Indian tribe." Several people looked quite surprised and Silver Fox
appeared to be very angry. Casement frowned.
"Don't look at *me*," he insisted. "*I* didn't do it! I suppose we had to find
*some* way to make him a citizen and that was the easiest way that sprang to
mind." Silver Fox's aquiline features fell into lines of deep disgust.
"The good doctor happens to have done quite a bit of research into the antiquity
Sarcee tribe recently," Casement continued unabashed, "and appears to have
stumbled across an astounding bit of information in the process. It seems the
Sarcee tribe has some rather peculiar beliefs regarding the shedding of blood
... They are quite specific about how and especially where and when it should
NOT be done ... "
All leaned closely so as not to miss a single word of his brief explanation.
When it was done, Paul Graeves almost wept for joy and General Murray breathed
rapidly through his nose.
"You can't mean ...?" Murray choked. Silver Fox began a full throated laugh that
threatened to continue for some time unabated.
"Absolutely," said Casement. "ONLY in ritual combat; never at any other time."
"The irony *is* exquisite," remarked Vindicator, "You must admit."
"Bugger that!" cried the Prime Minister. "The question is: Is it legal?"
"Oh yes," Dominic Casement assured him. "Binding as a big block of cheese."
**************************************************************************************
Dannell was actually awake this time when the pounding began at 2 AM. In fact
she heard Sabretooth stomping down the hall long before he actually arrived at
her door. It was amazing in her opinion how quickly and lightly the killer could
move when he needed and what a racket he could make when he wished. The
neighbors would be complaining again, she suspected. With a sigh, she lay Camus
reluctantly aside and answered the door while the thick wood still vibrated with
Sabretooth's second flurry of jarring blows.
Without a word, he stalked into her living room, snarling and growling ominously
in righteous anger. Barely pausing in his quest to reach her kitchen, he pulled
out her right hand and dropped a small much wadded piece of paper into it and
then disappeared. The singer was still trying to uncurl the hideously abused
correspondence when Creed reappeared moments later, fudge sickle in hand. Oh
dear. One of the Double Dutch Chocolate ones from Ben And Jerry ... This must be
serious ...
"Somebody is a dead man," the ancient killer fumed. "Soon as I find out who he
is, he's dog meat!" Thoughtfully, he sucked on his comfort food. "No one insults
me like that and lives!" Sabretooth muttered in indignation. "No one!" Gazing at
his smooth angular face, the small woman finally unfurled the letter in her
hands enough to reveal it's tart, clipped message.
"Dear Citizen," the letter read.
"Re: Your induction into the Canadian Army
Research has revealed that your people, the Sarcee, have strong religious
objections to the non ritualistic shedding of blood. It is, therefore, my sad
duty to inform you that you have been excused from military service as a
Conscientious Objector.
Yours In Condolence,
Ian MacAllister, Secretary of The Army"
Dannell began to laugh so hard that she almost missed the door slamming hard
enough to pull it from it's hinges as Sabretooth made his exit. She was still
laughing when Remy Lebeau stumbled his sleepy way into the living room,
energized playing card at the ready. Gambit was prepared for anything.
"What de hell was dat, chere!" he cried, looking sharply about for the source of
the great noise that had awakened him.
"Bureaucracy!" cried Dannell and continued laughing uproariously.
**************************************************************************************
Paul Graeves groped for the phone mussily.
"Sod it!" he barked. "What the bloody hell! It's 3 in the morning! Out with it!"
"I'm sorry, Sir," came the smooth obscenely chipper voice of Dominic Casement,
"but there's been an incident that requires your attention ..."
Graeves sat up on the side of the bed and ran his fingers through his disheveled
hair.
"Not bloody Sabretooth again!" he moaned.
"No, Sir," Casement reassured him hastily and The Home Office Director breathed
a sigh of relief. If it didn't involve that great bastard how bad could it be,
after all?
"I'm afraid that North Star and Element Lad have taken a fancy to one another
and have announced their engagement, Sir. The Premiere is waiting for you at the
capitol ... "
The Home Office Director dropped the phone, covered his head with a pillow and
whimpered.
The End!!
