Notes: Spider linked me to this pic (http:/ mcdalek. deviantart. com/art/ Gee-thanks-Dad- 165633993?q=boost%3 Apopular+kurt+hummel&qo=153) and I was then bitten by the rabid crack-bunny. And wrote this. Where Burt is a bear, and everyone is cool with that. /facepalm
It's badly written, includes random bear-noises, and ends on an odd note. Enjoy! While I go sit over here in shame and hope that a sequel doesn't come to me.
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At first glance the town of Lima in Ohio was nothing out of the ordinary. A nice, small slice of suburban sprawl that spiralled out from the centre of main street like a river that had spilled from its banks. It was a weird place to get transferred to, but as upheavals went it could have been a lot worse. At least Lima had what looked like a pretty decent golf course, Paul noted as he drove past in his swanky little convertible. That would make the weekends out of the office just this side of bearable.
He was just about to pass what looked like the local country club when the convertible's engine spluttered, shuddered, and died on him in the middle of the road. Paul swore. He managed to guide the car to the shoulder before it slowed to a complete stop, the engine light blinking ominously. It was quickly followed by the petrol light, and (inexplicably) the seatbelt light.
Paul swore some more, violently, and unbuckled his seatbelt so he could get out of the car and kick the front tyre. As if it would actually do him any good. He considered taking a look under the hood, but he knew from experience that just being a male wasn't a guarantee that he would know what was wrong. Paul whipped out his cell phone, and cursed when the damn thing couldn't find a signal.
As luck would have it that was about the point when a friendly voice asked; "Hey buddy, need a little help?"
Paul turned, frankly more relieved than he should have been to see a pair of middle-aged men in sweater vests and golf shoes standing near the fence. "Car broke down," he explained, gesturing at the convertible, "and my damn phone isn't picking up a signal."
One of the men whistled. "That's a beauty of a car there, mister. She's, what, a seventy-two?"
"Seventy-one," Paul replied, glancing back at the convertible. "She's sweet when she's running."
"I'll bet. Listen, you'll want to come up to the club and use the phone to call Hummel Tire and Lube," sweater vest guy #1 advised him, his friend nodding. "Burt Hummel's the guy you want, he's the only mechanic in town I'd trust with a classic like you've got."
"He's good then?" Paul asked.
"The best," sweater vest #2 said. "Decent price, and there's a towing service included."
"Alright," Paul nodded. "Thanks. I appreciate the help."
Just a few short minutes later Paul was hanging up the phone at the front desk of the country club and being press-ganged into drinks. The few men in the club were nice enough, typical good ol' boys who were a little suspicious of Paul until he told them that he was moving to town for a job and it turned out that his new boss was a member. One and half beers later the tow truck from Hummel Tire and Lube showed up and Paul had been invited to come back for a round of golf on Saturday.
Not a bad town, he thought, and greeted the tow-truck guy with a smile and a handshake.
"I reckon I'll leave this one for Burt," the tow-truck guy said after a quick look over the car, "I'm not much of an expert on the classics."
"Everyone says he's the best," Paul replied, making polite conversation.
"The guy's a genius with engines," two-truck guy (Ernest - if he believed the embroidered name on the guy's shirt, which he hoped was a joke). "He'll have you fixed up in no time."
That was the fifth good review Paul had heard in a row. Evidently this Burt guy was pretty damn good. Paul kept his mouth shut for most of the drive in to town, making polite small talk with Ernest until the truck finally pulled to a stop outside a modest-looking shop with the sign 'Hummel Tire&Lube' out front. It was the kind of shop that couldn't have employed more than three or four guys all told, but Paul was willing to take the chance.
The truck backed into the yard out front and pulled to a stop out of the way, the convertible close enough to the shop to look as though it were waiting patiently in line. Paul jumped out of the truck and straightened his suit before he followed Ernest inside.
"Hey, Boss," Ernest called. "I've got a seventy-one Corvette for you to look at."
"Grrrrmmbbrrr."
"Yeah," Ernest agreed, "dashboard's all lit up like a Christmas tree."
Paul frowned. He could have sworn that wasn't even English, but apparently Ernest hadn't had any trouble with the translation. He followed the tow-truck guy into the back of the shop, and then stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh my God,"
Paul said, and would later insist that his voice had not been a few octaves higher than usual.
You couldn't really blame him though, given that there appeared to be a bear standing with its front paws braced against the bumper of a shining silver Nissan, peering down at the engine. The bear looked up from the engine, its gaze settling on Paul. "Grrm mrr rrrr?"
"Out of towner," Ernest explained with a shrug.
"Rrrr. Grrb rrff." The bear whuffed, fell to all fours, and trundled out of the shop and to the convertible sitting outside. As it passed Paul he couldn't help but notice, with surreal clarity, that the bear was wearing a navy blue baseball cap. Paul stared, open-mouthed, as the bear popped the hood open and stood on its hind legs to get a good look at the engine.
"Grrrrrffflbrrrr rrrrr."
Paul realised the bear was looking at him again, head cocked to the side expectantly. "Uhhh..." He looked at Ernest for help, silently considering pinching himself just to make sure he hadn't somehow fallen asleep while sitting in the tow truck. "What did..." (it?) "he say?"
Ernest gave him an odd look. "He says your fuel line is busted, must have come uncoupled on the road. It's a pretty quick fix, but you should get it replaced just to make sure."
Paul looked at Ernest. Then looked at the bear in the ball cap. Then looked back at Ernest. "That," he said slowly, just in case the man didn't already know, "is a bear."
"Well, yeah."
"Burt is a bear?"
"Yeah."
"Rr," the bear grunted.
"That's a bear," Paul said, pointing to the animal - who was apparently Burt Hummel - that was standing by his car. "A bear that owns a shop and fixes cars. A bear? And this is perfectly ok with you!"
"You sure you haven't been drinking?" Ernest asked him seriously. "'Cause I know it's none of my business, but drinking and driving is a dangerous combination."
"Rrrrmble rrr grrrrff," the bear said sternly, and patted the corvette with one of its huge paws.
"Burt's right," Ernest nodded. "I'm afraid we can't let you drive out of here if you've been drinking."
Paul gaped. Terror had been temporarily eclipsed with outright confusion. He pinched himself, just to be sure. A moment later he had discovered, to his horror, that he wasn't dreaming. There was actually a big brown bear tinkering with his engine, and how exactly it was holding that wrench was completely beyond his comprehension.
"But," Paul said helplessly, "it's a bear." He looked around the rest of the shop for help, only to discover that another mechanic had appeared from somewhere and was giving him a disapproving look.
"You're not one of those anti-bear racists are you?" the newcomer asked. "Because if you're going to start telling us that a bear can't run a shop then we might have a problem."
"Now, Jason," Ernest shook his head, "I'm sure he didn't mean to come off sounding racist..."
"Rrrrrrmm," the bear piped up.
"Aw, come on Burt," Jason replied, "bears got enough crap back in the eighties and now -"
"Rrrgrrr rrm rrr." The bear waved a paw, then actually nodded at Paul. "Grrrmph."
At this point Paul had pretty much no idea what was going on here. He'd like to believe this was all some kind of elaborate hoax, but at this point - with a bear actually fixing his engine while two of his employees acted as if this were completely normal as well as seeming to actually understand the bear's growls and grumbles - Paul really didn't know what to think. "Uh, no," he said, holding up his hands. "It's fine. I'm not, uh, anti-bear... It's just that we don't really get many" (he meant 'any') "bear mechanics in the city."
"Don't see why," Jason said, hands on his hips, "most bears are really good with mechanics. Like Burt here, taught me everything I know."
"Everyone did say that Burt is the best," Paul conceded, having decided it was probably in his best interests to just play along.
Jason nodded. He walked up to Paul and offered him a hand. "Hey, sorry about calling you racist before. It's just that we know a lot of people don't care for bears, so we can get kind of protective. Not that Burt needs it. But we like to look out for each other around these parts."
"Oh, no. I understand." Paul didn't understand at all, but he shook Jason's hand anyway.
"Dad, I'm borrowing the car to go to Mercedes' house for a movie night," a young voice suddenly piped up as a pale, effeminate boy emerged from the back office, a set of keys dangling from his fingers.
Burt the bear stood up on his hind paws and turned to face the boy, who walked right up to the big, shaggy creature and kissed its cheek. "Rrrmble rr," the bear said, and Paul could swear it raised an eyebrow.
The boy rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know. No boys allowed." He gave the bear a quick hug and then trotted off. "I'll be home before midnight."
"Kurt Hummel," Jason explained. "Burt's kid."
"Uh..."
"I know," Ernest nodded, "you can really see the family resemblance."
"Rrr grrrrmmm rrrrrm," the bear announced suddenly, and shut the convertible's hood. It nodded at Paul, then trundled through the shop and to the back office, where Paul could see it through the grimy window as it took a seat at the desk and picked up a pencil. He could barely find it in himself to be surprised that the bear knew how to write. The bear came back a minute later with an invoice, which Paul found himself taking from its huge, shaggy paw. "Rrrrr."
"Um, thank you," Paul said, and looked down at the paper to see how much he owed. He pulled out his wallet and, after a small hesitation, handed a couple of bills over to the bear. "Uh, just keep the change. Thanks for getting me up and running again."
He hightailed it out of the shop as fast as he could, and prayed to god that the convertible didn't crap out on him again before he got to where he needed to go. Bears, he thought to himself, slightly hysterical. Real, actual, honest-to-god bears.
When Paul went to work the next day he had almost managed to convince himself that it had been some kind of hallucination. Until his new manager came into his office and asked him about his car. "It's fine," Paul replied, "I had it towed to Hummel Tire and Lube like you suggested. They had it fixed in a jiffy."
"That Burt Hummel is the best," his boss said, nodding. He patted Paul's shoulder. "It's just such a pity that he's a bear."
"A bear," Paul repeated weakly.
"And his son is queerer than a rainbow turkey."
Paul cleared his throat and asked delicately; "So nobody finds it just a little bit strange that the town's best mechanic... is a bear? A bear with a human son."
"Frankly, I think it's a travesty. This town has really gone to the liberals." Paul's boss shook his head and started to walk off, leaving Paul sitting alone in his office, beginning to think that Lima was really more than he'd bargained for. And that next time the head office wanted his to transfer to some tiny office in the middle of suburbia he was going to tell them to shove it.
