Disclaimer: The
usual applies here; we don't own them, we just play with 'em.
Author's notes - Mele: This is all Peregrine's fault.
Just so we're clear on this. She is the one who sent me the link to
the Cheeky Squirrel Network - Squirrel Name Generator (the link is http://cheekysquirrel.net/squirrelname/index.php
for those who like such things). And yes, the names we used are genuinely
from this service - though we did take some creative license and used the
form of the characters’ names that made the best translation. But still,
it's all her fault - she started it and she did all the best bits of it.
I just went along for the ride and for the occasional burst of hysterical
laughter. After all, one does not mess with a woman whose name translates
to Countess McTwitch.
Author's notes - Peregrine : Lies, all lies, I tell you! Don't believe
a word of it, especially when HER name translates to General Bushytail! She
started it off by laughing hysterically and then saying the fateful words
of 'There has to be fic material there somewhere'. Well, who could resist?
And I think you'll find that her sense of humour is the worst of us both.
It was fun writing this anyway; we hope you enjoy it and don't call the men
in white coats for us both. Please? Pretty please with peanut butter and jelly
on top?
Author's Notes - Joint: A big thank-you to Dagmar Buse who
beta read this for us.
Warnings, etc.: Hmmm ... well, warnings for somewhat bizarre humor,
bad puns, overall strangeness, massive overuse of ellipses, some bad language
and innuendo. Rating: Oh … I dunno … hard PG, soft R? Something
like that.
A
Hard Nut To Crack
By Peregrine and Mele
Blair shifted uncomfortably
on the couch, moving his laptop so it rested primarily on his uninjured right
leg. His left leg was encased in a rigid brace from ankle to mid-thigh, and
his left arm was supported by a sling to protect his recently dislocated shoulder.
His newly-acquired collection of injuries were sending out enough pain to
make it hard to concentrate on anything serious or form anything like a coherent
thought, and he knew any work he tried now would end up as complete babble.
Jim, of course, would say no one would notice, but he preferred to think
he had certain standards of babble he liked to maintain. There was a fine
line between sounding like he knew what he was talking about (even if he
didn't), and talking complete crap.
Crap was most definitely where he was at right now.
Sighing in frustration, he logged out of his favorite Anthropology chat
room and on a whim entered 'squirrels' into a Google search.
Part of his brain wondered just why he would want to find out anything about
those excessively furry rodents from hell, since it was all a squirrel's fault
he was in this mess. An Evil Squirrel. The Proverbial Squirrel from Hell,
complete with the glowing eyes and probably 666 tattooed on its furry little
butt. Number of the Beast, yeah. He'd get that beast’s number all right!
Perhaps that was the point. His general reaction to anything new was to find
out more information, in this case if only to prevent a repeat of the humiliating
and potentially disastrous experience.
Damn assassin squirrel!
Satanic Squirrel Spawn.
He liked the alliteration on that.
Maybe it really was time to cave in and take the meds Jim had left out so
alluringly.
Reaching over to grab his bottle of water, he glanced over at the two innocuous
white tablets on the table and gave vent to a grimace of disgust at himself.
Pain meds. His dislike for Western medicine battled the waves of pain that
flowed through his battered body ... and pain came out the winner.
"You're weak, Sandburg! Think of the chemicals! The processing ... all those
side effects," he chastised himself weakly. "Remember what Mom used to say
when you were a kid about taking pills making you a mutant. Healthy, natural
options are better ..."
And on the other side of the loft. Whereas the two rather heavy-strength
pills were there – just there, within arm’s reach – and the arm that was thinking
about reaching was in a lot of pain.
Just this once his principles could go stuff themselves. Or go a couple
of rounds with the Squirrel of Doom and see how they liked it.
Grateful only that Jim wasn't there to gloat over his weakness, Blair reached
for the pills and then downed the Vicodin with a healthy swig from the water
bottle before turning his attention back to the Internet.
He couldn't help but snicker at some of the results of his search. Psycho
Squirrels. All Squirrels Must Die. (He cruised into that one out of spite.)
Disco Squirrels Sing "Disco Sauna". (Too scary, even for an anthropologist.)
He scrolled along through the lists, chuckling a bit, clicking on sites that
interested him. Seemed there were a lot of squirrel fanatics out in the world.
He'd never actually given them much thought until two days before, when one
tried to kill him. He was also discovering he was not alone in his squirrel-related
pain as he turned up article after article of hostile squirrel attacks.
Okay, okay, so it wasn't exactly a nefarious plan worthy of a James Bond
movie, but still … the effects were much the same. If nowhere near as impressive
to tell as a story, particularly after most of his death-defying injuries
that had earned him an amazing amount of cool factor and credibility with
his students. He remembered very clearly cruising down the highway after indulging
in a bit of outdoor meditation, singing loudly along with his radio – Jim
wasn't there to tell him to shut up – when suddenly a flurry of fur and claws
exploded from beneath the seat between his legs and whirled up his chest
and over his head. Anyone who thought a squirrel was 'cute' should undergo
the experience of seeing their rather enormous teeth roughly half a centimeter
from their left eye as they settled in to apparently savage his head!
Even as one part of his mind identified his 'attacker' as a squirrel in
the split second of the Furry Animal Attack, the bulk of his mental faculties
shut down immediately in terror as he automatically slammed on the brakes,
and lost control of his Volvo and crashed broadside into a roadside tree.
All he remembered was being slammed roughly into the door on his left, the
squirrel being stunned by the impact against the back seat, and even the tree
seemed somewhat startled by the whole event.
Jim had rushed to the hospital with Simon, but as the details of the accident
started to come clear his concern and solicitude turned to barely concealed
hilarity. It seemed the squirrel had been 'foraging', which Blair now realized
was a code word for Evil Squirrel Reconnaissance, and had found an old bag
of trail mix under the driver's seat. The Assassin Squirrel had been happily
munching away when its cafeteria suddenly went mobile. Apparently it just
wanted a better vantage point to enjoy the trip, hadn't anticipated Sandburg's
overreaction ... and now suggestions were being made about it mistaking Blair's
hair for a treetop.
By the time Blair was discharged from the hospital the next day, all the
crew in Major Crimes had been by to offer their 'well wishes' in their own
characteristic fashion. At last count he had received six stuffed squirrels
of various sizes, no less than a dozen bags of trail mix, as well as a 'Squirrel
Crossing' sign and a CD of Alvin and the Chipmunks’ Greatest Hits. Plus, the
bad puns about squirrelly drivers going nuts behind the wheel were getting
old fast.
Unfortunately, there was no way Major Crimes would let something as choice
as a fluffy animal-related incident go without milking it to death and long
into its afterlife.
It irritated Blair that the Squirrel had managed to get away with only a
minimal concussion, though he wasn't sure how that diagnosis had been reached
on the fuzzy-butted rodent.
And here he was worse than he had been after encounters with assassins and
terrorists! Maybe the 'cuteness' was a facade, an evil ploy ...
Those Vicodin really were doing the trick. Wow.
His attention was caught by a listing he just couldn't resist: The Cheeky
Squirrel Network - The Squirrel Name Generator. There was a box at the bottom
of the page where one could type in a name and have it converted to a 'squirrel
name'. Feeling a bit foolish, he typed in 'Blair Sandburg' and couldn't repress
a chuckle when the results came back as 'Captain Nutkins.'
It really shouldn't be funny, but it was. And if it was funny for his name,
then what might the others be? Yeah, revenge could be sweet. Which meant it
was basically unhealthy, but everyone had a sweet tooth every now and then.
Figuring there had to be a degree of satisfaction possible from the generation
of squirrel names, Blair typed in all the names of his tormentors, taking
almost demonic glee in imagining the situations where this knowledge could
come in handy. Maybe he could have them made up into name tags. Rhonda might
help. Yeah, he could have them made up into fake Cascade PD visitors badges
with some creative use of ...
Something. Yeah, something. Laminating machine. Or something.
He yawned even as he kept typing and chuckling to himself.
That'd teach them all.
He'd gotten down to the point of putting in the names of some of the criminals
they'd put away when the Vicodin kicked in and his eyelids grew too heavy
to keep open ….
~*~
"Captain. Captain! You are needed in the Major's office!"
Blair's eyes sprang open in surprise, looking around in puzzlement at the
loft until his gaze fell on the source of the voice that awakened him. Then
he was just too stunned by what he was seeing to actually do anything
else aside from having a passing thought that perhaps one Vicodin would have
been enough after all.
"Huh?" he said intelligently, unable to manage more at the shocking sight
before him.
"Come on, you know Major Dances-With-Chipmunks gets impatient if he's kept
waiting."
"Henri?" Sandburg squeaked out, staring in astonishment at a rather rotund,
tall, black squirrel sporting a loud Hawaiian shirt. It ... he ... had a fluffy
tail that curled over in a laid-back sort of quiff, and a badge of rank or
insignia pinned to the offending shirt.
Offending really was the word. He'd always told Henri some of his shirts
were criminal.
"Who's this Henri you're speaking of? Come on, Cap, you know damn well I'm
Brigadier Wobblebottom. Now come on, the Major is waiting."
"Of course he is. Lead on, Wobbly," Blair muttered, letting the large man
… um … squirrel … lead him out.
Drugs. Just say no, he reminded himself frequently.
They went down one floor to the Major Crime bullpen (which was rather amazing,
considering they were normally fifteen miles or so apart) where he was immediately
hit by Simon's lilting bellow.
"Where the hell is Nutkins?"
"Right here, Major Dances With Chipmunks, Sir," H announced breathlessly,
thrusting Blair toward an impressively dark squirrel that stood nearly six
and a half feet tall and was apparently chomping on a thick cigar. Closer
inspection revealed it to be a roll of bark, which meant he was leaving a
trail of wood chips wherever he went. Eyes bright with impatience glared at
Blair from behind gold-rimmed glasses.
"It's about time! We have a situation on our hands. Now get me Nutty Nibbles
His Nuts, on the double."
"Sir, Yes, Sir!"
"Wobblebottom!" Blair jumped at Simon's shout, wondering how the man … squirrel
… could say that – let alone bellow it – with a straight face.
"Yes, Sir!" He might be a squirrel, but this version of Henri Brown was
nothing if not properly respectful.
"Send in Scratchy Drunkenpaws as well. She may be able to shed some light
on this situation, even if she is on an exchange."
"Um … Sim … I mean Major … what is this situation, anyway?" Blair ventured
at last.
"Oh, for pity's sake, Nutkins, where have you been the last few days? We
have a perpetrator or perpetrators dressing up like Mr. Peanut and running
amuck at retirement homes throughout Cascade! For God's sake, man, do you
know what the sight of a seven-foot tall peanut in a top hat does to
geriatrics? Do you???" Banks raged at Blair, his very impressive tail twitching
with every word.
"Nothing good, I'm sure," Sandburg replied, any further comment cut off
by the arrival of another dark-pelted squirrel who desperately needed to
lose fifty pounds or so.
"Nibbles, it's about time you got here! I need you to organize a task force
to capture this rampaging impersonator before anyone gets hurt. Take as many
men as you need, but get this illegal legume off the streets. The last victims
all had to be hospitalized after they tried to store it for winter! The type
of nut that preys upon an old squirrel's hibernating instincts is not
the type I want on my streets! Move it, people!"
Joel … no … Nutty Nibbles His Nuts … beat a hasty retreat, nearly knocking
over the biggest Red Squirrel Blair had ever seen. Though the mere size of
the critter was secondary to the fact that it was wearing high heels and a
horribly familiar pink coat.
"Ah, Scratchy Drunkenpaws, your paperwork has all cleared, so you're ready
to hit the streets. For your first few weeks I've decided you'll be partnered
with Dr. Furrycheeks," the Major decreed. "It could be worse, but you could
be partnered with the General, but since Nutkins has been ... Well, he's lone
rodent right now. Narrow escape, Drunkenpaws. " He pulled the ever- present
bark cigar out of his mouth so he could roar unimpeded.
"Furrycheeks!"
Blair was so busy trying not to fall about laughing hysterically that he
almost missed the entrance of a brown squirrel attired nattily all in Armani.
He was towing a smallish squirrel dressed in black leather and an attitude
that being covered in fur did nothing to diminish. Squirrels really were not
designed for lipstick. It was all too easy to get on their teeth.
"What the hell is this???" Major Dances With Chipmunks demanded patiently
… not!
"This is Nibbles McTwitch, who has added a new trick to her trade, so to
speak. She … ahem … gets her clients relaxed, if you catch my drift – then
relieves them of their nuts."
Sandburg goggled at that report, hands instinctively going down as if to
protect the family jewels. Neither of the other two men(?) in the room seemed
affected.
"Well, book her and cage her, we have bigger cashews to cook. Now!"
Major barked, sending both Dr. Furrycheeks and Scratchy Drunkenpaws scurrying
– literally – out of his office.
"So … uh … why did you need me?" Blair hazarded at last, wanting nothing
more than to find someplace nice and quiet to have a complete breakdown in.
Squirrels.
"Well, Captain, the General isn't going to like this, but … you fit the
profile for the victims of our newest assassin, so you're being assigned
to bait duty," the big squirrel informed him solemnly. "You're going undercover.
Secret Squirrel, so to speak."
"What profile? What are you talking about?" Even rodentized, Simon Banks
did not have much of a poker face and that look of sympathetic concern was
freaking Blair out. Squirrel faces were not designed for sympathy. It made
them look a little drunk. Well, unless there was something more to that bark
cigar after all.
"Listen, kid, we all admire how you've dealt with the effects of the accident,
and I really hate having to throw it in your face like this …"
"What accident??? What are you talking about?" Sandburg was getting
more worried by the minute. He did sort of half remember some sort of accident,
but it seemed very vague and a bit like a dream. Right now all his attention
was being taken up by his detour into the Squirrel version of the Twilight
Zone.
Picture a man ... or a Squirrel ... going on a journey beyond sight and
sound ...
He was so not owning up to this being something even his brain could come
up with! This was some bizarre intrusion by the invading squirrels into his
head. He had to repress an urge to leap up and yell, 'Hey Squirrels! No parking
in the Sandburg Zone!"
Gentleness did not sit well on a six foot six squirrel. The bark cigar was
practically shredded as the Major's discomfort increased and twitched his
nose in a form of embarrassment. "The baldness. The loss of your tail. The
deformities … damn, I'm sorry to be so blatant about this …" Were those tears
in his eyes?
"Baldness?" Blair's hands flew to his head in a panic, relieved to feel
the familiar mop of curls. Hair? He had hair up the wazoo. Well, not literally
– that was for the squirrels. "I'm not bald."
Major Dances With Chipmunks sighed, his whiskers twitching with concern
at the younger man's denial of his condition. Still, now was not the time
to worry about the effectiveness of the therapy process. He had an assassin
to catch! The most notorious cereal killer they had seen in a long time and
he knew he needed his recently traumatized member of staff to complete the
mission.
"Of course you're not, Son," he soothed, not quite able to look his deformed
friend in the eyes. "I know the General isn't going to like this plan, but
it's guaranteed to work. I hope."
This was not very encouraging.
Blair cleared his throat. "Uh, sure, Si- uh, Major. Set a nut to catch a
nut eh?" he said, giving a short laugh even as his mild attempt at humor fell
flat. So who was the General? "Um, who is it we are trying to catch again?"
"Stay with the program, Nutkins. We are after Lord Crazypaws, recently escaped
mental case. Killed his therapist Professor McNutty, and has been on the loose
ever since. What is wrong with you today?"
Aside from being an apparently deformed squirrel? Absolutely nothing! Was
he a man dreaming he was a deformed squirrel, or a deformed squirrel dreaming
he was a man? Hey, that was almost Zen. Next thing he knew he'd be contemplating
his nuts or something. At least that would work no matter which was the case.
"Aftereffects?" he hazarded vaguely. "Lord Crazypaws, right. Of course.
So we want to catch the guy and put him back in the Nuthouse, right?"
Blair congratulated himself on getting the hang of squirrel speak. Cool.
"Nutkins, you are about one more comment from being declared unfit for duty.
No. We do not want to take Crazypaws out to dinner; what kind of weird
game do you think you're playing here? This is dead serious!"
Or maybe he wasn't getting the hang of it after all. Mental note, the Nuthouse
was obviously not slang for a mental institution. "Sorry, uh, Major," he said
hastily. "So what do you need me to do? And where is the General?"
"Who knows where the General is or what he does? That's your job. And Lord
Crazypaws likes life on the wild side, so you're being set up as a magician
at the 'Barkless Bistro' on Fifth Street. They have series of running floor
shows besides the ... ahem ... usual entertainment." The Major turned away,
not wanting his familiarity with that particular establishment to become common
knowledge.
"A magician?!" Blair couldn't restrain himself. "But I don't know how to
do any magic, hell, I couldn't even pull a rabbit out of a hat!"
"Nutkins! I do not want to hear that kind of talk in my precinct!"
Oops. Rabbits were related to rodents, weren't they? That probably was a
little like suggesting pulling a baby out of a hat. Not in the best possible
taste. "What I meant, Major, was how am I going to be convincing when I've
never done magic in my life?"
"I'm way ahead of you. I borrowed my son's amateur magic kit, it should
be enough to keep that crowd entertained. Let's be honest here, it's not
like anyone is really going to be paying attention," the big guy commented.
The Barkless Bistro was that kind of place. Plenty of tail on display,
so to speak, and could those gals hug some tree! It was enough to curl a grown
squirrel's tail in a permanent wave. Only their elusive cereal killer with
a penchant for the maimed or deformed unfortunates would spare him more than
a cursory glance.
"I'll try not to wreck it," Blair replied, getting up, feeling a strange
sense of familiarity. "When do I start? Do I get any back-up?"
"This afternoon at four is your first appearance. And I'll be sending Furrycheeks,
Drunkenpaws and Wobblebottom as backup. I'll try to get word to the General
as well. Just in case."
"Thanks, uh ... yeah, thanks, Major," Blair got up and took the box of tricks
that had somehow materialized on the desk in front of him. "I'll get right
on it! I'm sure it will be fine and we'll have that ... Lord Crazypaws off
the street in no time!"
Furrycheeks, Drunkenpaws and Wobblebottom? How the hell was he going to
keep a straight face long enough to do anything constructive?
The bad guys got most of the cool names, that much was obvious.
And who was the General?
~*~
It seemed he'd barely had time to gather his scattered thoughts before he
found himself in a large enclosed area dominated by a wooden stage and lit
by miniature spotlights. He had some unrecognizable paraphernalia scattered
about on a table in front of him, along with an oversized champagne class
labeled 'tips'. By the looks of it, he had been tipped a pistachio, a Brazil
and half a dozen hazelnuts. Closer examination revealed that he had been stiffed
on one of them, as the shell was empty. Damn cheapskates!
There were a lot of large squirrels around him, most of whom seemed to be
giving him strange looks even as his hands ... paws ... whatever performed
these mystifying tricks with cards and coins that actually weren't bad. But
Simon ... uh, the Major had been right. Hardly anyone was watching him. Most
beady bright eyes were fixed firmly on the main stage behind him, where ...
whoa ...
He didn't know how many bras female squirrels needed, but she was wearing
zero, which had to be ... uh ... four less than decency required!
Blair's eyes boggled at the sight of eight mammaries swaying in time to
the music (a sexed-up version of the Macadamia by the sounds of it. 'Heeeeeey
Macadamia!. Yeah.), and was so distracted that he dropped two of the three
balls he'd been juggling and didn't even notice their absence.
"Hey, Nutkins ... Nutty mate, mind on the job, huh?" Drunkenpaws sashayed
past him with a tray of juice, wearing a skimpy gauzy waitress attire as she
waved her stunning red tail alluringly. Bundles of folded greens – leaves,
from the looks of it – were tucked in the strap of her thong. Blair
didn't know whether to be amazed or jealous. At least, Blair was pleased to
note, she was decently – if barely decently - covered. Properly chastised,
he retrieved his missing balls from under nearby tables and resumed his act.
"Gotta keep a grip on your balls, mate," Drunkenpaws observed, pausing a
moment to talk. "Or you lose people's attention. Lost your crowd, Nutty. You
doing okay out here?"
She offered him a glass from the tray. "On the house, mate."
Sandburg took a tentative sip and only his innate politeness kept him from
spitting out the vile brew. "What the hell is that?" he demanded of Drunkenpaws.
"Lichen Shake on the Rocks. If you were looking for something stronger,
don't let anyone catch you having a wildseed crush, okay?" She hesitated
before turning back to him. "Wouldn't blame you if you did. Wobblebottom
told me about you and ... the General and what happened."
"And what exactly was it Wobblebottom said happened?" Blair demanded, trying
his best to sound outraged at a friend telling tales behind his back whilst
hoping to finally get a clue as to what was going on. Like he even had a vague
clue about anything right now. He was in a squirrel stripper joint, undercover
and bait for a cereal killer. He wondered if cereal killers mainlined muesli
or something. He had a mental image of them darting off to shoot up on quality
Alpen or something.
She looked at him very sympathetically, her whiskers trembling with emotion.
"Nutty, he said none of you have talked about it. About Countess McBushy?
How the General freaked and threw you out and then ... Nutty, it must have
been horrible for you. Drowned in a pool of depilatory fluid. Oh, my teeth
and whiskers, Nutty ... I'm amazed you've come this far!"
"It's all right, Meg ... um ... Scratchy. Don't get all upset, you'll make
your face fur all spiky or something." Ugh, fancy poking yourself in the eye
like that. How did squirrels manage? And split ends. Wow. ”It's okay ...
I know the General wasn't quite himself then, and ... and ... things are
getting better now, right? So we concentrate on catching this nutcase before
he can kill again, okay?"
Scratchy seemed distressed and her voice dropped to a murmur. "Where is
the General? Fluffycheeks was saying he blames himself. Mind you, Fluffycheeks
also says that the General can sense ... other people's nuts ..."
It was half questioning and in the same tone of voice he remembered her
asking about his non-squirrelly Jim's abilities. Obviously he was a sentinel
squirrel even here, and ... Well, he was pretty sure Jim could sense somebody's
nuts ...
He nearly choked on the thought of that one.
"Well, um, Fluffy is right, actually," Blair murmured, trying desperately
to remember just who Fluffycheeks was. Oh, right. Rafe. "The General has a
really good ... nose. And ears. And eyes. Really good."
"You are kidding, right? I thought Fluffycheeks was pulling my tail!" Scratchy
looked amazed. "Bloody hell, no-one can do that. He must be some type of super
squirrel or something. So where is he?"
"I'm not entirely sure." Understatement of the century there, he thought
wildly. On the other hand, he didn't even know where he was! "Doing
his whole 'Lone Squirrel Ranger' thing, I guess. He'll show up eventually."
He hoped. He had a nagging suspicion he wasn't getting out of here until he
tracked him down.
"Well, you take it easy, Nutty, I won't be earning my tips like this. Wobblebottom's
on the door and Fluffycheeks is in the crowd. We've got you covered, okay?
Just watch out for anyone taking a big interest in you." She flicked her red
tail provocatively, winked and preened her whiskers, then continued her trek
across the club floor.
With some effort Blair dragged his attention away from Megan's tail – and
whoa boy, didn't she have a nice one? – and back to the matter at hand.
A glance toward the entrance showed Henri doing his best to blend in to the
background, a rather difficult feat in a shirt as loud as the one he was wearing.
It took a while longer to find Rafe, but once he did he realized that H was
actually doing a better camouflage job. Who the hell would wear a designer
suit in a strip joint? Aside from the Armani Squirrel, of course.
He was distracted from this fashion critique by an apparently drunk patron
who stumbled into his table, upsetting the house of cards Blair had been erecting.
The drunk managed to rescue Sandburg's drink before it went over, but the
building was a complete loss and damn if his balls didn't roll off again.
There was most likely something very Freudian about that particular predisposition.
Or sometimes a cigar was just ... uh . ..a rolled up bit of bark.
Hmmm. Probably best to stay clear of the psychosquirrelbabble.
"Sorry, Dude," the drunk slurred, stirring a vague memory in the back of
Blair's mind. But before he could trace it down the squirrel had wandered
off.
Grumbling to himself, Blair neatly stacked the cards and set about reclaiming
his strewn props. Downing the last of his Lichen Shake with the vague realization
that it got a mite better tasting as he went along, he realized he was feeling
much more at ease than he had been earlier. Worst places to be than
right here, right now. Even if he was being paid peanuts. Literally.
Hey, he was on a groove now. Whoa, man, look at that juggling he was doing
– anyone would think he knew what he was doing ...
One of the juggling balls ricocheted out of control and beaned a belligerent-looking
gray squirrel in the center of the forehead.
Ah. Scratch the being-in-control part of things.
Oh hey, there went his pack of cards all over the place. Whee! A pack full
of squirrelly-looking jokers. Squirrel jokes ... hah! 'A Grey Squirrel, a
Red squirrel and a chipmunk walked into a bar ..
Ouch! No, wait, that wasn't the punch line, that was him walking erratically
into the table. He had a sneaking suspicion the way the room was moving was
not normal. Well, as normal as things got here in Squirrel central. Hmm. He
was feeling just a little dizzy, unsettled, and a bit nauseous.
Suddenly grateful that he'd not had a chance to eat yet today, he stood
unsteadily and made his careful way toward what he hoped were the restrooms.
Oops ...
Well, now he knew where the kitchen was. And knew he'd be better off
not ordering any food here. He was sure that they should be wearing hairnets
or something. Body-nets possibly. Think of the shedding! Health and Safety
and environmental health would have a fit.
Taking a hard left turn, he followed a trio of lady squirrels to a pair
of doors adorned with nothing more than a black or purple squirrel cutout.
Deciding the black ones must be for men – since the ladies ... went in the
purple – he pushed the door open to a world as out of whack as everything
else had been so far.
He supposed it made sense. It was like a ... ‘does a bear shit in the woods’
moment. Where else would a squirrel indulge their natural bodily functions
but up a tree? Or out of a tree. What the hell was he meant to do? Scamper
up the side of the bathroom up the fake bark and ... uh ... yeah, he didn't
feel so good.
Wait, wait ... his luck was in! A disabled squirrel cubicle. Hey, he qualified.
Thank god for political correctness in the realm of squirrels. He wondered
if they had elaborate laws about nut discrimination or squirrel ethnic minorities.
Yeah. Could squirrels 'come from the wrong side of the bark?' Or did they
have a campaign for Equal Heights – of trees? Maybe there was a public debate
about whether to legalize crunchy nut cornflakes.
He giggled to himself softly as he staggered to the ground level door. Woo,
yeah. Lichen Shakes rocked! He could just feel that nutritional goodness flowing
through him, mmm mmm!
Grateful the cubicle was unoccupied; he stared with some amazement at the
largest commode he'd ever seen in his life. Good gosh, did he wander
into the horse stall in error? Well, maybe it had something to do with
the squirrels' oversized tails. Yeah, that was it, he sniggered to himself
as he fumbled his jeans open. Big potty for big tails. Well,
at least it took the challenge out of aiming.
There was a rattle at the cubicle door even as he sorted himself out. "Hey,
man ... occupied, right? Plenty of branches free."
There was some additional rattling that pricked at another memory and he
found himself all of a sudden with a desperate need to find a phone. And to
phone Jim .... uh ... the General. He didn't even know his damn name here!
He should know his name, if only he could remember it!
"Back off, man, I'm not done in here!" he called out again. "All that tail
to, uh ..." What did Squirrels do with their tails, anyway? "... flick. Yeah."
Ew. Bad mental picture. Very bad.
Another rattle was all the answer he got, then blessed silence. For
about fifteen seconds, then the door to his cubicle was kicked in and the
drunk from earlier filled the doorway. "Let's be friends," the surprisingly
sober attacker said before grabbing Blair and silencing him with a chloroform
rag to the face.
And now his memory decided to kick in. Instead of, oh say, about five minutes
ago when it would have been … useful … Lord Crazypaws was Lash! If he could
just call Jim before ...
No, wait. When had he ever been able to call Jim before it was too
late? It was like a law or something. And of course yelling for Jim here wouldn't
do him any good, not here and now. He didn't even know any more than he was
the General.
Nevertheless, simply because he wanted to at least show some bravura in
the face of a Psycho Squirrel, he struggled manfully – uh, squirrel-fully
before he folded up and thumped to the floor. Too late.
~*~
He awoke to a world of pain and confusion, which considering how he had
started off was a pretty impressive achievement that he could get even more
confused. Where in the seven hells was he? The floor was wood,
but the walls appeared to be ... leaves. A slight breeze rustled his
curls, and the overall atmosphere of the place was not exactly indoors or
outdoors. A tree house? God, he hated tree houses! Last
time he'd been in one it had belonged to old Mrs. Danbush, and the results
of that little foray was a broken arm. Curses, but he hated climbing
trees! Well, the climbing part was okay, it was the falling part he
could give a miss.
He seemed to be having some difficulty moving his arms and legs already,
and he hadn't even attempted falling out of the tree! Then the Sandburg automatic,
'oh hey, I've been kidnapped by a complete lunatic, what a surprise!' checklist
kicked in.
Mortal peril - check.
Possibility of escape negligible - check
Absence of anyone remotely resembling a Blessed Protector, squirrelfied
or otherwise - check.
High potential for high level of terror - check
Crazed Psycho arrival imminent and presumably some terrible fate pending
- check and double check.
Everything seemed to be in order.
He shifted a little uncomfortable and looked around. Wow, this must be the
Squirrel equivalent of an abandoned warehouse.
Peanut shells everywhere, pistachios, brazils, cashews and hazelnuts, walnuts
like tiny little brains scattered across the planking. He wondered if they
were honey-roasted. Mmm. Perhaps his terrible fate was to become a processed
nut. After all, he had already been assaulted.
Okay, time to think about a hasty exit. How hard could it be?
Rather hard, indeed, he discovered as he fingered the chains that bound
his arms and legs. Great. All the other details are altered,
but leave it to the Sandburg Zone (in which those pesky squirrels were due
a parking ticket for overstaying their time any moment now )
to have actual metal chains in every universe. What butt-ugly God did
he piss off in an earlier life to deserve this? His karma ought to be spotless
by now.
Without being able to see it, he still figured his gag must be a yellow
scarf, but even knowing he was gagged; knowing Jim probably didn't even know
he'd been taken yet, even not knowing Jim's name ... he shouted
it as loud as he could.
"Jim!!!"
Well, okay, it came out more like 'hmmmmmmm' which could be about anything
from a cry for help to a stifled expression of sexual release. That
was so not a good thought to be having now, he realized, willing his mind
back to the task at hand. Said task being ... what? ... oh, right
... panicking. Check.
He'd just worked himself up to a nice level of terror when Lash ... Lord
Crazypaws ... whoever the hell he was ... came back and with little effort
slung the bound anthropologist over his shoulder. Which was somewhat
amazing as Sandburg hadn't realized that squirrels even had shoulders. Did
they shrug? Were there a lot of thwarted diffident squirrels, desperate for
a way to express themselves, who had never realized they had shoulders to
shrug with? Did anyone really care?
He made a mental note to not allow for any further squirrel abductions as
a thick, bushy tail was NOT a pleasant thing to have in one's nose while being
carried over a person's shoulders and the blood rushing to his head made
him way too random.
"Careful of the step, man, that's for party crashers," Lord Crazypaws
said in an imitation of him that frankly ... sucked. "Man, it's going to suck
shaving off my tail but ... gotta stick with your tragic past. You want to
meet my friends? They've all been waiting to meet you ... I've been doing
this for a long long time. I don't die, Nutkins, I just keep on moving ..."
For a moment his insane squirrel eyes held a flicker and an echo of every
time he had looked into the eyes of death and danger. He was more than Lash.
Underneath the surface of this crazy dream he had ripped a hole and peered
through into a nightmare. He was Lash, he was Kincaid, he was Alex Barnes.
There were hints of Veronica Sarris and Lee Brackett and – god help him –
even a touch of Maya in those inhuman depths. Who knew a seemingly
benign-looking critter could house so much evil? He barely noticed
Lash's actions as the psychotic killer flung him into a decrepit dental chair.
Any time now, Jim. Any time.
He could seriously believe in a Squirrel Spawn of Satan, looking into those
eyes. The eyes of his past all mixed up in this disturbing blend of surreal
darkness and ridiculousness.
The hilarity had a twisted sourness to it, even as he noticed the serious
nature of the chair he was in. Obviously going to the dentist was a really
big deal for the squirrels. He'd hate to have a root canal done on one of
those. Man, that would give a phobia a serious grip. Man, imagine the drills!
He really wished he hadn't imagined the drills.
Where the hell was Jim?
"Now then, shall I introduce you all?" Crazypaws turned around even as he
settled on a wig that resembled Blair's hair. A Squirrel in a wig. Blair didn't
know whether to laugh or whimper, even as he gestured to the indistinct objects
that surrounded him, half lurking in the realms of the dark rustling leaves.
"Look at how many there are ... all of them. Taking a piece of you and leaving
you with fear – I'm just going to finish things off. That'll be nice, won't
it, Nutkins? You are a hard nut to crack, I'll give you that. Who would have
thought it would take so many? Remember Arch Bishop Honeynuts? Had you and
the General dancing to his tune and you didn't know if you were the guide
he said you were? I was him. And I was in General Acorn Short of an Oaktree
when she was threatening to blow up Cascade ... oh and all the others. I was
in every moment you were unguarded and alone ... I was the one stealing the
breath from your body through Countess McBushy. I have stolen you piece by
piece and now, tonight we end it."
Though the names were undeniably weird, Blair could still recognize the
references. Now here he was facing death again in the person of a giant
squirrel, how weird was that? There weren't many people who could claim to
have been abducted by a psycho squirrel. That was going on his claim to fame,
along with the whole held hostage by terrorists, threatened by mafia bosses,
oh ... oh yeah, possible death by poisonous spiders! That was animal-related
at least. Put it in context and it didn't sound that far-fetched,
if the context was the life of Blair Sandburg.
He pulled senselessly at his bindings, shouting into his gag, knowing
– but still not convinced –that Jim would arrive in the nick of time to save
him. Right? That was Jim's job after all; save the Guide with
less than a second to spare. No ... wait ... that was what he
did on the rig. Oh, man, he was so confused. It was the same,
but it was different and would Jim make it this time? Did Squirrel Jim
have the same abilities his Jim had? Course he did, otherwise Meg-Scratchy
wouldn't have asked. Did he still care? Or had he given up on his deformed,
apparently crippled, partner? Cripes, he was going to be royally pissed
if a rodent version of Lash took him out.
"What? I can't hear you. I don't understand. I need to hear your voice more
anyway," Crazypaws stared at him and then took off the gag.
Stubbornly Blair kept quiet, just to spite the wretched creature in front
of him. Screw it. If Lash wanted to be him, let him try. It would
be even less convince considering his terrible 'baldness'. Hah!
The man and squirrel stared at each other silently for a few moments, then
Blair tipped his head back and roared at the top of his lungs. "Jim!
You get your ass down here now and rescue me!"
He wasn't picky on whether it was a furry ass or otherwise.
"Jim? Who is Jim? Or are you talking about the General?" Crazypaw's tail
twitched with a dark amusement. "You can get hurt without him there, you know,
Nutkins. He doesn't always turn up when you most need it, does he? It doesn't
even have to be anything dramatic, does it. A simple car accident for example.
Sometimes there just isn't a rescue waiting in the wings."
Blair glared back at him. "You're nuts, you know that?"
"What about them?" Crazypaws asked tilting his head in a squirrel fashion.
"No, I mean you are crazy. Crazy as a loon." Blair tried again
"As a seabird? And you are saying I am insane," Crazypaws, or the Psycho-formally-known-as-Lash,
said. " None of them thought I was crazy. But then after I'd drowned them
in peanut butter they weren't very chatty. Nutty, but not chatty. I always
forget the jelly for some reason, though."
"Them? They didn't have anyone in their corner, anyone to protect
them. And they had you, Mr. I-need-to-find-myself-a-new-me. What
kind of pathetic psychic vampire are you, anyway? You think you can
be me? You'd make a lousy me. Terrible. You don't know
me ... hell, you don't even know you."
Besides sometimes he didn't even know himself! And yuck, peanut butter and
jelly. He was not going for death by junk food. Nuh-uh, irony was not the
way he was looking to go.
"How much self awareness do you think a squirrel needs?" Again there was
that twitching tilt to the head. "Are you ready to die, Nutkins? I know I
am ..."
"Great idea. You first!"
"Always the joker," Crazypaws smirked, which was a fearsome sight on a squirrel.
"You have such a wicked sense of humour. You know ... Kind of hip ...
With a touch of the nerd. All in all, man ... Quite a piece of work. "
Okay, there was something strangely comforting about hearing the familiar
phrases there. Something that made him more and more convinced that Jim would
come.
Indeed, he fully expected his Blessed Protector to come barreling down the
stairs any second now ... stairs .... oh shit! "Jim, Jim ... if you're
out there ... there's a trick step on the way in here .. third ... no, fourth
...one down. Careful, man! And by the way, not to complain or
anything, but could you please hurry the fuck up??? I'd just as soon
bypass the whole sedative thing."
It was still probably more healthy than the peanut butter and Jelly. Or
Wonder Burger. Lard was healthier than Wonder Burger.
"Bypass the sedative thing? But that's the fun bit!" Crazypaws protested.
He listened. "Well, looks like it's just me and you. Open wide!"
"Jiiiiiiii ...*choke*" Damn but that crap tasted awful in any universe.
Desperately trying to keep from swallowing against Lash's massaging of his
throat, Blair wasn't quite sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing
... it looked like a big brown squirrel with the palest blue eyes he'd ever
seen ...
Ah, the General put in his rather belated appearance. About fucking
time! He managed to spit out the rest of the sedative even as Crazypaws, or
Lash or whatever, the giant Squirrel of Doom really, was turned to engage
in battle in with the Squirrel Jim.
Okay, this had to be a dream rather than some strange reality shift.
There was no real universe around where Jim had more hair than he did. Seriously.
Law of nature. Two extremes of hair- related polarity, and there was Jim,
moving a little awkwardly, as he leapt tail flowing as they hurtled at each
other.
What was he? A flying squirrel? An irreverent thought of wondering whether
if he was Rocky in this world made him Bullwinkle slipped through his mind,
but it didn't ring any bells. He should be able to remember his name, but
he kept being distracted by the thought of squads of flying combat squirrel
gliding with precision skill ... and ...
He really needed to wake up.
And what was with this thing Jim had for doing everything the hard way regardless
of what universe he was in. He couldn't just calmly arrive and take
Lash ... Lord ... whatever into custody. Oh, no ... not Jim of the Jungle.
Flying Squirrel Hero (not a phrase you wanted to say swiftly or after a few
beers,) No, Jim has to come hurtling in all manly and dramatic
and send himself and the bad guy falling three stories ... or levels, branches
... or whatever it is in a tree house. Gotta make it overly dramatic
and suspenseful and .... Shit!! Shots. It had damn well better
be Jim who comes back up those stairs ...
Where did a squirrel holster a gun anyway? Not that it would matter
with Jim. He usually threw his away before he did anything useful with it
after all.
The quality of his rescues could use work. Even in dreams. Maybe that would
be a new chapter in his Diss; The Tribal Guardian's Need to Complicate Situations
Needlessly. Yes, perhaps a couple of chapters. And speaking of
Tribal Guardians, who, incidentally are supposed to guard against all
these kidnappings and terrorizings and the like ... where is he? Wait
... was that a creaking of the stairs?
Through his woozy concentration he could see ... score one for the good
guys! Pale blue eyes, thinning fluffy tail. Jim, the General or whatever
his name was ...
"Chief? Nutkins?! ... Chief?!"
Well it sounded like Jim. Wait, wait ... it was on the tip of his tongue.
He knew what his squirrel name was! He closed his eyes in relief as it suddenly
came to him ... of course! Relief washed the terror away as his traumatized
mind finally brought up Jim's real name.
"General Bignuts," he sighed with relief, startled when a chorus of snorts
and chuckles came from around him.
~*~
Rather surprised, he opened his eyes again ,blinking. The concerned face
leaning over him was still there but now smirking with an irrepressible grin
and totally lacking in anything remotely resembling squirrel features.
Oh god. Had he just said that out loud?
With growing horror his gaze wandered around the room, spying Simon, Joel,
Henri, Rafe and even Megan. Oh, no, they were all here. Maybe
it would be a good time to point out he was under the influence of some really
good ... very legal ... drugs. And maybe a head injury.
And perhaps a bit of posttraumatic stress? How about Childhood trauma as well?
"You okay, Chief?" Jim said, trying very hard not to laugh, even as Blair
decided he was in some very bizarre Sandburgian form of the Wizard of Oz.
"Just a dream, man. But you were there, and you ... and you too.
All of you were there," he muttered, fingering the seam of his jeans rather
than look at his friends and colleagues.
Jim had crouched down so he was on a level with him, or thereabout. "You
must have heard us all coming in. I brought them all round to apologize. We
uh ... we haven't been that sympathetic about what happened.
Especially when we realized how hurt you actually are. You always seem to
skip that part of the story, Chief."
"Well it did seem a little ... strange ... the way it happened this time,"
Blair conceded, looking around at the others. "Um ... thanks.
It's good to see you guys ... see you looking so ... normal."
"Glad to see you're normal ... well, Sandburg-normal ... too," Simon grinned.
"But I have to ask ... WHAT did you call Jim?"
Blair flushed crimson. "Uh, nothing. It's stupid. I was just looking stuff
up on the internet and ... look, it was some freaky weird dreams about squirrels
and ... there was this thing about squirrel names and ..."
And he was digging that hole deeper and deeper. Megan would be able to take
the direct route home at this rate.
"Squirrel names?" Leave it to Rafe to cut right to the worst part
of the whole thing.
"Yeah, I told you it was silly," Blair muttered.
That led to some more barely suppressed chuckling.
"So whatever you said was Jim's Squirrel name?" Simon asked carefully.
Blair nodded, glancing over at Jim. The way he was grinning he had most
definitely heard exactly what that name was.
"I'm thinking of keeping it," Jim said grinning at Blair again. "I think
it has a certain fundamental truth to it."
"Well, it definitely does if you take off the 's' at the end," Blair muttered,
unable to suppress the grin when Jim whapped the back of his head lightly.
"C'mon, Sandy, spill it. You can't keep it a secret now!" Megan said, trying
to wheedle them both.
"Yeah man, that would be cruel and unusual," H chipped in.
Blair hesitated a moment and then looked up at Jim defiantly. If he thought
that he wouldn't tell them he was messing with the wrong squirrel ...
uh ... man. "General Bignuts," he announced. "Jim's name translates to General
Bignuts."
There was a moment where time seemed to literally stand still as the detectives
contemplated this announcement, then all hell broke loose in a wave of laughter
and guffaws.
Blair looked a little sheepish but it wasn't long before he realized that
the laughter wasn't directed at him but more encompassing him. He could
join in with a weak chuckle of his own by the end of it, realizing the humour
hadn't meant to be at the expense of him, but was just their way of dealing
with danger and injury.
"General Bignuts ..." Simon snorted to himself even as Jim ruffled Blair's
hair and grinned.
"What can I say Simon? Some of us have got it ... and some of us don't,"
Jim replied, smiling even as Blair relaxed.
"And some of us have inoculations every year to make sure we don't catch
it," Simon snorted, his cheerful expression belying his less than flattering
words. "With you two around I find preventative medicine is the best."
The rest of the gang joined in with good humor, settling down on various
seats about the loft to enjoy a bit of laughter and companionship, happy that
all were there to enjoy it.
Blair knew he'd never live it down, but he could make the joke his own and
run with it. He'd be the one laughing when they found all their ID badges
changed to their Squirrel names with the help of Rhonda and the laminating
machine. He really was a hard nut to crack.
The End
