Disclaimer: The Immortals belong to Davis/Panzer, who have decided not to use them anymore.   As I find the situation intolerable, I'm taking them.   Don't try to stop me.

Goths, Witches, and
Creepy-Crawlies

©, HonorH

Methos heaved another box onto one of the tables protruding from his garage.

"I still don't get why we can't just put this stuff on eBay," he grumbled.

Robin Elaine Wecks Adamson, also known as Mrs. Methos #69, gave her husband a wifely look of patience.  "Three reasons.  One, there's just plain too much of it.  Between Claire growing" and she nodded toward their three year-old daughter, who was poking around her father's books "and me shrinking two sizes, we've got more stuff than  I'd care to list online.  Besides, the whole world simply has no need to know what size I used to wear.  Two, it's a great way to meet the neighbors.  And finally, have you ever done this before?  In five thousand years, have you ever had a garage sale?"

Methos gave it some thought.  "Come to think of it, no."

Robin wafted her hands in triumph.  "There you have it.  I'm giving you a new experience.  Think of it as payment for all the new experiences you've given me."  She gave her husband a saucy wink and continued setting out clothes.

Grinning, Methos idly flipped through one of the James Michener books he was tagging for fifty cents apiece.  "By the way, I told my students about this sale.  You may have a whole crop of very strange college kids stopping by to haggle."

"Bring 'em on!" Robin glanced over at a box Methos had filled and squawked suddenly.  "No, you are  not selling my Sting CDs!"  She snatched out  Ten Summoner's Tales.  "You sell off a single one of these, I'll give away your whole Queen collection for a buck."

"Oops," commented Methos.  "How did that get in there?"

Robin gave him a "Don't push me" look and went back into the house, leaving her husband with an admonition to "Watch the baby."

The morning went smoothly.  A passel of little old ladies with an allergy to buying anything for the price it was marked bought out a bunch of Robin's old clothes and two Methosian sweaters.  A young couple expecting twins left with most of Claire's baby clothes and two boxes of toys.

Around noon, Methos' students started making an appearance.  Gina and Delia, a set of roomies, bought an old computer desk and the sad remains of Robin's experiment with in-line skating.

"We've got enough room to set out the rest of the stuff now," decided Robin.  She went back inside and grabbed a box.  At that moment, another car pulled up and the most unusual person got out.

He was dressed in black from head to toe -- literally.  His hair was dyed black and he was wearing black open-toed sandals that revealed his toenails had also been painted black.  His face, by contrast, was pasty white.  Except, of course, for his black eyeliner and lipstick.  Methos recognized him at once as one of his students.

"Vince the Goth," the world's oldest college professor said.  "How are you doing today?"

"Mired down and slowly sinking in a dank cesspool of dark despair," intoned Vince.

Methos raised his eyebrows.  "What's got you in such a good mood?"

Vince's eyes lit up with unholy delight.  "My band just signed with a record label."

"Ah.  Congratulations."  Methos had heard Vince's band before.  Privately, he thought their sound was somewhere between "Lunchtime with Caspian" and "Live from Hell."

"Yeah, except the record Nazis want us to change our name."  Vince glowered.  "You can't go back on sheer inspiration, man.  I keep telling them that, but nooo -- sell out to appease the masses, that's their credo."

"You mean they didn't like 'The Unbearable Folly of Existence' as a band name? I can't imagine."  Methos worked hard at projecting perfect sincerity.

"Don't mock me, man," hissed Vince.  His eye caught on something behind his teacher.  "Ooh, ugly ties.  Me want."

With that, Vince went poking around the clothes table.  Methos could hear him muttering under his breath about possible band names.  "Dregs of Humanity" was one that kept popping up.  Methos chuckled inwardly as he reflected on what Darius would have thought of modern Goths.

"Hon?" called Robin, carrying another box out for display.  "Would you go and get the rest of the boxes? They're too heavy for me."  She looked around.  "Where's Claire?"

Methos pointed to the garden, where Claire was contentedly yanking flowers up.  Not waiting to witness Robin's pained look, he walked back into the house and inspected the boxes his wife had filled.  One contained yet more sweaters.  He shook his head.  Much as he loved his wife, he wasn't about to give up some of his oldest friends for her.  A ratty cable-knit white wool sweater and a grotty dark brown one escaped their fates.  In the other box, he discovered several bits and pieces of Springsteen memorabilia.  They joined the sweaters.  Thus satisfied, Methos stacked and lifted the boxes, then walked back out to the garage --

--and froze in horror as the Immortal buzz hit and he saw the owner of it in the same instant.

Cassandra was standing there discussing the price of a set of hot rollers with Methos' wife.  The ancient witch didn't even look up when she felt the buzz.

It wasn't like they hadn't seen each other since Bordeaux.  MacLeod had, in his typically interfering way, made the two talk.  Well, "talk" wasn't strictly accurate.  More like Cassandra had screamed insults P.  Miano would have paled at in various languages while Methos had simply sat there and taken it.  In the end, though, the witch had apparently decided to give taking his head another pass and left.

That didn't mean Methos was entirely happy seeing her chatting up his wife.  After a few moments of sheer terror, Cassandra glanced up, gave him a smug grin, and paid Robin ten dollars for the rollers.

"Cassandra," Methos finally managed to get out.

"Oh, you two know each other," said Robin, smiling.

"As a matter of fact, yes."  Methos had to clear his throat twice in order to get that out.

"Old friends?" Robin inquired.

A snort from Cassandra answered that.  "I wouldn't go that far," said the witch.  "Actually, the truth is, I was a bit curious about what . . .  Matthew was doing with his life nowadays and thought I'd pay a visit."  She looked around at the house, yard, wife, child, and dog in evidence.  "Very charming.  Domestic."

Methos belatedly sat down the boxes he was carrying.  "Perhaps we could go and talk somewhere," he suggested.

Cassandra waved him off.  "Not necessary.  I've got all I came for."  She patted the box of rollers.  "Great deal on these, too."

Methos moved down toward her, warning Robin off with a look.  His wife retreated, somewhat unhappily.

"What are you really here for?" he whispered.

"Just what I said."  Cassandra gave him an iron-hard look.  "You insisted you'd change, so I came here to determine if that was so.  As far as I can tell, it actually is -- much to my shock."  She jerked her head in Robin's direction.  "She's too good for you, by the way."

"Well, I know that."  Methos was about to say more when they were interrupted.

"Hey, Doc," called Vince the Goth.  "I'll take this."

Methos' jaw dropped.  Vince was holding up a half-skull bronze mask.

"How in Tartarus did that get into a box?" Methos demanded.

Robin looked guilty, but determined.  "Well, honey, you don't keep it with your museum stuff, it's not one of our display pieces, it's certainly not decorative, and you don't seem to think it's worthy of going into storage, and besides, it gives me the creeps.  Why not sell it?"

"Sentimental value?" Cassandra suggested acidly.

"No," huffed Methos.

Vince looked around in approval.  "Angst.  I like it."

"Shut up, Vince.  Robin, it's very old.  It's valuable."

Robin waved a hand.  "So eBay it or something.  Just get it out of the house.  It's hideous."

"Yeah," agreed Vince.  "It'll look great on my guitar."

"Offer him ten dollars for it," Cassandra told Vince in the Voice.

"I'll give you ten bucks," offered Vince gamely.

"Will you  not do that?" snapped Methos testily.

"Maybe if you were his slave for a year he'd let you have it," Cassandra suggested to Vince.

"I see you've taken one of his classes, too," said Vince.  "Hey, my band's got a concert coming up.  An angsty chick like yourself would be more than welcome."  He proffered a handbill with a picture of his band to Cassandra.

Cassandra took it and made a face.  "Goddess!  It's the Junior Horsemen's League!"

Vince grabbed his temples.  "Now  there's a band name!"

"Claire!" called Robin after her child.  "Look, Matthew, I don't care what you do with it, just keep in mind I don't want to be seeing that monstrosity anymore."  She hurried off to keep Claire from getting into the roses.

Cassandra raised an eyebrow.  Methos had a feeling this was yet another test and groaned inwardly.  Well, what did he need with money, after all?

"All right, Vince," Methos finally said.  "Twenty dollars and the Death mask is yours."

"Evil," commented Vince.  He dug out a twenty, passed it to Methos, and walked off, muttering about "Junior Horsemen."

"I hope you're happy," groused Methos.

"Very."  Cassandra turned to leave.  As she did so, though, the hot rollers she was carrying slipped.  She caught them before they hit the ground.  Unfortunately, it cost her three fingernails.  She swore in Egyptian.  Methos guffawed.

A set of green eyes fixed on the ancient.  Deliberately, Cassandra picked up the broken-off tips of her nails, lifted them to her mouth, muttered something in a language even Methos didn't recognize, blew on them, then tipped her hand so all three fell into a box marked "Doc Adamson's Books."

"I remember the old days very well, Pony-Boy," she hissed.  "Including some things you'd rather I didn't.  Good day.  Oh, and if I ever hear about you not treating your wife right, keep this in mind."  She turned and strode away.

"Zeus on a crutch," breathed Methos as Cassandra got into her car and drove away.  He walked over to the box of his books, curious as to why she'd put her nails in it.

As he moved the books, three bright green, golf ball-sized spiders scrambled out of the box.

The sound Methos made wasn't a manly yell.  It wasn't even a decent wail of anguish.  No, it was an out-and-out screech.  One that could be heard for close to two miles.

"What is it?" cried Robin, alarmed, and hopped over, carrying Claire.

"Thpider!" said the three year-old delightedly.

Robin, the house's designated Warrior Babe and Spider-Smasher, relaxed.  "Oh, honey, don't worry.  They're not even poisonous.  We'll just shoo 'em outside."

"Don't worry?!? About gigantic radioactive mutant spiders?" Suddenly, the ancient turned whiter than Vince.  He yanked off his shirt, spilling one of the spiders on the ground.

"&%^$!" yelled Methos.

"&%^$!" yelled Claire

"Honey!" scolded Robin.

Methos obsessively brushed at his skin to make certain no spiders remained anywhere near his vicinity.  He turned around, examining the ground around him, making certain none of the evil creatures remained.  On his third circuit, a hand proffering one of the spiders suddenly appeared under his nose.

"Can I keep it?" asked Vince the Goth.

Methos screamed again.

Robin sighed, deciding that next year, they'd just do eBay.

--end--

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