By: Mizhowlinmad (HBF), 2008
Summary: The Team's on their way to rural Tennessee to bust a dogfighting ring, and they're crankier than usual. But that's nothing next to what ails Murdock! An A-Team Halloween treat.
Rating: PG-13 for some discussion/depiction of animal cruelty, profanity, and, um, purely comic nudity.
Warnings: None aside from the above.
Disclaimer: The A-Team has always and will always belong to SJC and Universal. I'm just borrowing them for fun and no profit whatsoever. Sit back, relax, and HOWL!
"Pass me another cigar, would you, Face?" One gloved hand reached back in anticipation.
Barely looking up from The Life and Times of Marie Antoinette, Face obliged. "My last one. Make it last, Hannibal, all right? I'm not exactly sure the stores here are well-stocked with El Capitans."
"Get yo' directions right next time, Faceman. I went south on 41 like you said, and we've been lost for at least an hour," growled B.A., staring ahead into a panorama of darkness and trees. A bullet-punctured "Deer Crossing" sign was momentarily reflected in the van's headlights.
Hannibal's Zippo clicked shut. "Go easy on him, B.A. I'm a little lost in this part of the country myself. Where are we, exactly, Lieutenant?"
A deep sigh, and Face marked his place with reluctance. "I'm following the directions the client gave us. We're…" He hesitated, peering at the map under the watery overhead light. "somewhere along 41, between Nowhere and Nothing. Looks like the next available stop is the bustling metropolis of Tyrell, Tennessee. Look, you think I actually know my way around here?"
"It was either you or Crazy Man as the navigator. What's he doin' back there, anyway? Sleepin'?" B.A.'s voice held more than its usual share of disdain. "I keep hearin' weird sounds, like he's snorin'."
"Just leave him for now. He'll be fine," assured Hannibal. "Now, what are we looking like on fuel?"
B.A. pointed to the dash. "Jus' under a quarter tank, not countin' the reserve cans." He glowered. "I ain't goin' back there with that fool to get those cans."
Hannibal patted B.A.'s muscled forearm consolingly. "Relax, Sergeant. Even these one-horse towns always have a pump or two. Worst case is we pull over till morning, I take watch, and we all get up with the sun and some roadhouse coffee, right?"
"You had to mention coffee, didn't you?" Face groaned. "To think I could be spending this weekend with a beautiful gypsy and her sister, sipping Moroccan espresso on a veranda and watching the sunset…" His eyes took on a dreamy look. "Instead, I'm on my way to Possum Lodge, USA, which isn't even on this map, I might add."
"True, Face. But just think: Possum Lodge's own Beatrice Hawkins paid twelve grand, up front, in cash." Hannibal waved his cigar back and forth in the air. "Guess which client Mr. Lee picked for us?"
"I thought you said this was a special interest case, Hannibal," said B.A., still looking for any sign of civilization through the darkness. "What's so special 'bout a flyspeck town in Tennessee?"
"Not special to me; to Murdock." He gestured to the rear of the van. "Isn't that right, Captain?"
A sad, keening sound, more animal than human, was the only response.
"That crazy fool ain't right."
"But he did leave Billy back at the hospital this time, right, B.A.?" Hannibal grinned.
"Don't you be humorin' him, Hannibal…"
Face sighed, his mind someplace else. "Ah, Cyan, Rochelle. I hope they'll remember me when I get back."
A few more minutes passed in silence. There was only more gloom, trees, and an occasional weathered, hand-painted billboard. The keening sound had turned to an almost frantic yipping.
"What are we doing out here, anyway? You were a little vague on the details," said Face, the gypsy girls momentarily forgotten. "And how exactly did Mrs. Hawkins of the Possum Lodge Hawkinses get her hands on that kind of cash?"
Even B.A. seemed curious. "Yeah, ain't we a little outta place here?"
Hannibal turned in his seat. "Mrs. Hawkins' husband is the mayor of Possum Lodge. They came into an inheritance after her aunt died. They've been having a problem with some local slimebags running a dogfighting ring and stealing kids' pets, using them as bait. She told Mr. Lee it's a big event every Friday, lots of betting and dealing drugs at the same time. It's got her and her husband in a bind, because their constable, one Trey Prescott, also runs the ring." He puffed at his cigar, eyes filled with the antipation of a challenge. "She just needs some help to take out the garbage. I told her it was our specialty."
"Ah." Face looked disappointed. "And, oh, a blood feud between two rival gypsy clans in Newport Beach isn't as deserving of our help, right?"
B.A. scowled. "Hey, man, we talkin' 'bout kids here. Now, I don't care none for dogs, but them kids and their pets gotta have a safe place to grow up."
"That's the spirit, Sergeant. Always look on the bright side."
"You guys mind if I eat that last blueberry muffin?" Face asked, his stomach rumbling.
"Already did, Faceman. Ain't nothin' left but beef jerky," B.A. said, holding out a greasy, half-empty plastic bag.
Face stared at it in revulsion. "Oh, just remembered, I had jerky for lunch." In desperation, he fumbled around for a packet of Oreos or animal crackers that Murdock might have missed. Nothing but empty wrappers littered the floor. "C'mon, where's an all-night grocery when you need one?"
"There." Hannibal pointed to a hand-lettered sign that read Tyrell, 10 Miles. "Think you can hold out that long?"
"When have I ever not held out for ten miles?"
B.A. and Hannibal shared a quick, knowing glance. "You worse than that fool Murdock sometimes. We gotta stop soon anyway, 'cause we're runnin' low," said B.A. He pointed to the gauge again, now hovering just over "E."
"Captain? You still awake?" called Hannibal. "We'll be in for a pit stop pretty quick here."
"Colonel, I think it's gettin' worse." Murdock's voice was raspy and strained. "I better just hunker down here in solitude, lest I infect my brothers in arms…" There was a moan, as if he were in great pain.
"Infect? Infect with what?" Face was suddenly alarmed. "They are still giving you all those shots at the VA, right?"
"You better not be gettin' us sick, Crazy Man. I don' wanna be runnin' a fever, coughin' everywhere…"
"No, no, no! You just don't understand!" Murdock's baseball cap and one pale hand appeared over the rear seat. He continued in an ominous, melodramatic tone. "When the moon shows her full, wan face through the firmament of the heavens, and a man feels a strange, inhuman urge coursing through his mortal veins…"
Face put on a nervous half-smile. "Let me guess, Murdock. You've been reading Tales from the Crypt on this trip instead of Fantastic Four, right?"
"Foo' probably been eatin' them overripe peaches, and bellyachin' now."
Only Hannibal seemed unbothered. "What exactly is your problem, Captain?" he asked with genuine concern.
Murdock's head popped up like a prairie dog. A prairie dog that was snarling in an almost comical way. He'd glued one of Face's false mustaches to the spot between his eyebrows to make a single, unified strip of dark brown.
"Some say it's a tale told by grannies to frighten naughty children late at night. Others say it's a mere fabrication to cover up the grim reality of four-footed beasts run amok, or more terribly, the evil in the hearts of men. But it isn't." His gaze was haunted. "It's lycanthropy…"
The van swerved suddenly, either because B.A. had just seen a rabbit darting across the road or maybe because he was taken aback. "Say what?" he growled, unable for the moment to turn around and glare at Murdock.
Face wore an expression somewhere between horror and sheer confusion, and Hannibal was speechless for a moment. "Lycanthropy," Hannibal finally said. "That one's actually in the DSM-V, isn't it?"
"Yep. And it's no laughing matter," Murdock continued, clambering into his usual seat next to Face, who was discreetly edging away. "You see, there's this new fella at the V.A., name of Lukas Kugelsilber. I know, real mouthful. He's right next to me in 105. So we're in the mess line last Thursday, and I notice ol' Lukas got these real hairy hands, and eyebrows that knit together. One strange guy. So he's weirding me out pretty bad, ya see, and I drop my tray, and…" Murdock buried his face in his hands and stifled a sob.
"Go on, Murdock. What happened?" urged Hannibal, ignoring B.A.'s expression of distaste.
"He…he…"
Eyes wide like a child listening to a campfire story, Face gulped. "He bit you?"
Murdock scowled. "Bit me? You kiddin'? No, he didn't have to. He shook my hand."
"Shook your hand? Why would he do that?"
"Maybe he was just trying to be polite," suggested Hannibal.
"Maybe he's just as crazy as you, fool!" spat B.A.
"You guys don't seem to get it! I've been cursed, doomed to transmogrify into lupine form, helpless under a full moon…" He started keening again, louder now.
Face tried not to wince. "The moon's not full, right?"
"No." Murdock stopped, and fixated him with an intense, strangely sane gaze. "But it will be on Saturday." He pointed to his deep brown eyes. "They're turnin' yellow already, aren't they, Faceman? I know they are."
"You're sure this is going to take four days, Hannibal?" Face asked, his tone begging for sympathy. "I can call Cyan and Rochelle back, you know."
"An' I ain't puttin' up wit' this jibba-jabba for four days," added B.A.
"We're going in, guys. I promised Mrs. Hawkins we'd be there early today. We're almost there, anyway," said Hannibal, taking a last deep puff on the end of his cigar. He rolled down the window, flung the butt out, and pointed. "See? Civilization, at last." A single lamppost appeared through the gloom.
The lamppost, and one lonely traffic light blinking yellow, were about the only things lit up in Tyrell in the witching hour. A stray dog trotted alongside the road in search of scraps. A large, handpainted mural on the side of an abandoned brick building urged people to Take Sum Pride 'N Keep Tyrell Kleen!
"So much for an all-night Safeway," Face muttered. "I guess even the Golden Arches missed the Land that Time Forgot here, Hannibal."
"We ain't goin' anywhere unless we fill up pretty quick," B.A. pointed out.
"Oh, for a taste of rare meat upon my palate," Murdock pined, as if rehearsing Shakespeare.
Hannibal just grinned. "Nope. We're in luck. Have a look," he said, indicating the billboard right next to the poorly spelled cry for civic cleanliness. The Happy Catfish! Gas, Home Cookin', Beer, and Bait. Open 24 Hours. Y'all Drop In!
"Isn't it good to know there's a place for the weary traveler even in this late hour? Come on, B.A., it can't be more than a mile."
