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 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?
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 MeleBlair 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
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