Danger Dentist Chapter 1, a magnificent seven fanfic

Disclaimer: This story is "fan-fiction", based on the Television programme: The Magnificent Seven, the 1998-2000 TV series 'reimagining' which remains the intellectual property of creators/producers Trilogy, Mirsch, MGM et al and CBS Channel, although whether the latter deserves same after finding that they had a ratings hit on their hands and still cancelling the show...well, 'nuff said.

It is not owned by "The Cat's Whiskers"; no money is being made, and it is purely for the enjoyment of fans of the show, etc., etc. Legal counsel has advised that "fan-fiction" falls within the bounds of "fair use" as defined by UK law (1740) and US law (1976). All 'Original characters, plots and story-settings remain the intellectual property of 'The Cat's Whiskers' and may not be reproduced or continued or expanded without her express permission to reproduce, continue or expand same. The Cat's Whiskers may be contacted at any time via fan fiction .net Private Messaging for this purpose. All excerpts of and reference to on-screen dialogue and aired episodes (including deleted scenes, episode commentaries, gag reels, additional content) and on-screen named characters remain the property of the screenwriter(s).

Notice: You are expressly and explicitly permitted and encouraged to save this story to your personal computer and/or device for your personal reading pleasure if you so wish. Some years ago I suffered a serious loss of much of my works due to a computer software malware issue, and luckily I got 60 percent of it back thanks to other writers and readers who had saved my stories on their computers or knew about "web caching". Since I err on the side of paranoia, if I one day need to go through that process again for any reason, you may be the reader who is able to help. Please do not, however, circulate the stories without asking me first.

Summary: Vin has toothache. Vin is ignoring his toothache. Chris takes the typical action of autocratic command style – after all a quick trip to the dentist…what could possibly go wrong?

Rating - important: for site purposes only: T+ to M for mild references to illegal narcotics. (I do not believe that written works should be age-rated; it is a foolish and cruel form of censorship that discourages and de-incentivises reading at all, for both knowledge and pleasure which is disastrous for the hope of producing the next generation of Keats, Milton, Twain, Shakespeare, Christie, Dickens, Bulwer-Lytton, Cavendish, Blyton, C.S. Lewis, Joss Whedon, John Sullivan, Ian la Frenais & Dick Clement, James Perry & David Croft, Roy Clarke, Ronnie Barker & Ronnie Corbett, Eric Kripke, Jaime Paglia, Kyle Killen, and so on.)

The above rating is listed so it conforms to ' ' requirements to rate all stories. This story contains mildly intemperate language entirely in context by very stressed people and sundry mild references to violence, drugs and rock 'n' roll, all of which can be seen and heard on daytime soaps (how's that for pre-watershed) by anyone from toddler age upwards. Unfortunately Western social culture today after forty years of the liberal bigotry of Political Correctness is a pornographic and paedophilic society where promiscuity and selfishness are glorified as "good" and self-control, self-respect and personal responsibility are vilified, and as a result most of this stuff is now pre-watershed TV or actually watchable for free as live-action porn anywhere you spot any group of 12-25 year olds at about 11:00pm on a weekend. The content in here is very tame compared to sexting, hook-ups, misogynistic and misandrist supposed 'erotica' and the casual daily porn viewing most third graders and older are now accessing from their smartphones in the school lunch break in between mainlining heroin as an expression of their 'right to self-expression' and dealing smack to the Babies and Toddlers group, because hey, if mum and dad are happy to dose them up with Ritalin to keep them quiet, quiescent and out of the way whilst they focus on their career, retail therapy, golf weekend or whatever's really important, what's wrong with big sis or bro getting in on some of that pocket money supplementing action? I kid you not – according to police research data by 2013 one of the world's most successful 'new' online .com businesses (founded 2011) was "Silk Road" which sells illegal drugs by mail order direct from the manufacturers to any customer who can pay, cutting out the 'middle-man' drug traffickers/gangs/lords. They saw 200 percent growth in the first 18 months of business.

Setting: This story is set in the modern-day Elite ATF AU/MCAT AU. The ATF AU was created M.O.G., whose stories can be found at www (search under Author 'M'). MOG very kindly lets other writers play in her sandpit, for which I am grateful. After 9/11 a spin-off of the ATF AU was created, where the ATF teams became 'MCAT' – Major Crimes And Terrorism Taskforces.

This story fits both; I have updated it slightly since I originally wrote it in 2003 when it was ATF AU, to take place in the 'present' day when the boys are MCAT ATF AU, but that status doesn't really impact on the story.

Unfortunately, I cannot remember the name of the author who created ATF Team 7's closest friends, ATF Team 8, particularly the character of their team leader, Ryan Kelly or other team members such as Khera. In MOG's AU, ATF Director (retired Judge) Orrin Travis originally created ten 'elite' ATF Teams of which our boys were number 7. Travis then refreshed his ten elite teams into MCAT teams in the post-9/11 spin-off/update.

This story is not a crossover, though it does briefly reference Danny Williams (Scott Caan) from the 2010 Hawaii 5-0 and also that old TV series CHiPS, starring Larry Wilcox as Jon Baker, and that other guy…

Story content note: As with all my fan-fiction, I have tried to keep this story as accurate as to "canon" as possible. I have no option but to avoid the whole "pot-kettle-black" thing because I teach Creative Writing and wrote a textbook; Writing Fan-Fiction for New Writers (Is it 'Real Writing' and is it Useful?) © C.D. Stewart 2010-2012 and I am, therefore, very keen on 'Taking Your Writing Seriously'. My view is that fan-fiction is an excellent 'primer' for someone who has just started out writing (whatever type) and for anyone moving into fiction writing from another writing field, as was the fact in my case.

If you are writing an AU story, you do have leeway, but otherwise it is only courteous and respectful to your readers, and a good way of honing your research skills, to make as much effort to be as accurate to canon as possible – if you are serious about being a proper writer, you need to learn and practice doing proper research and getting facts right – otherwise you will end up being a "must read" for all the wrong reasons – like people only watch Ben Hur for the centurion wearing the wristwatch, or Braveheart for the battle scene where the man falls over to reveal a pair of very modern jeans under his kilt – or the collectible historical romance set in 17th Century England where the hero invites the heroine to 'freshen up' in his indoor bathroom…with flushing WC.

It also shows your respect to the creators of the show, the scriptwriters and production crew who film the series and work long into the night editing it all together, often in atrocious weather or stuffy little mixing suites but who never get the glory; remember the cameraman and boom operator are also out there filming in the howling gale/downpour for fifteen solid hours and they never get any red carpet treatment. If you've ever gone to a fan convention/Comic Con have you ever taken ten seconds away from salivating over Michael Biehn or Laurie Holden, depending on which way you sway, to let Frank Q. Dobbs or Melissa Rosenberg bask in the fan-love? For another example, all those shows in Vancouver, where the weather is wet or wetter - and the actors themselves, who work very hard and put a lot of time and effort into getting their on-screen characters "right" and again work through illness/injury (e.g., Jared Padalecki's broken wrist in Supernatural, and Alex O'Loughlin's shoulder injury in Hawaii 5-0) or things like pregnancy (e.g., Erica Cerra in A Town Called Eureka) and other stresses to give the viewer good value.

As well as being respectful to everyone involved with the show you are writing about, adhering to canon tropes also gives you great story material. Shows like A Town Called Eureka is very good for giving you snippets of plausible sounding 'real life' Scienceze, without drifting into Star Trek techno-babble. One of the best things about Hawaii 5-0 the 2010 reimagining is that because all the episode titles are in Polynesian, and both Polynesian and Pidgin are used in the show, is that it really makes you think about words and context and language – making sure that character 'A' really does talk like that does a great deal for honing your ear for dialogue and helps you create fictional realisms by giving your characters 'authentic' voices – Danny Williams uses words like 'ergo' and 'commensurately' in context and with precision, even in the midst of a cargument or Danno-rant, but he does not use words (unlike Steve McGarrett/Chin Ho Kelly/Kono Kalakaua/Kamekona), such as 'brah', 'hoa', 'lanai', 'aloha' 'da kine', 'pakalolo' etc.

I have tried my best in this regard, but it has been a bit difficult: dark colours, especially dark eye-colours, don't show up well on screen And of course, that doesn't account for the fact that in Real Life, every person's eyes change colour several times a minute, depending on the amount of literal light reaching the eye, the individual's emotions, their physical level of tiredness or alertness and so on; any accurate/true-to-life novel would never contain anything else other than 400 pages of what colour a person's eyes were every twenty seconds or so. The same applies to everyone else – if you have ever watched any TV shows regularly and then met or seen some of the cast in real life you will know that moment of surprised 'Huh' because the camera really does change how a person's height, weight, body posture, hair-colour, eye-colour, skin tone and voice tones appear to be from what they actually are, as well these also being just as much affected by the person in question being ill, tired, happy, alert, etc.

Credit/shout-out/blame-placement: The plot bunny that wouldn't die was inspired by a 'drabble' stand-alone companion story by Brigitta B. in her EM7 AU, titled 'His Decision'. That story can be found at her current website, Brigitta B's Corner – Recent stories posted. If you go to www aussie-lass com, then from the side Menu click on the Wanted EM 7 fiction poster, scroll down and click on the bullet-holed "for stand alones click here" box and then scroll down again right to the bottom until you get to "His Decision." As you may have realised by now, this is about dentistry gone bad...although not in the way you are probably thinking…

NB – This story was originally posted on my personal website which became defunct after my ISP turned out to be a nightmare. I have posted it to until such time as I have time to refurbish and recreate my personal website. This story is also posted to the Magnificent 7 fan-fiction Blackraptor site.

DANGER DENTIST

Chapter 1

Patrolman Pedro "Pete" Garcia cautiously eased of his motorcycle and squared his shoulders. This was his first day on the streets as a fully-fledged traffic control officer and he was determined to make Sarge proud, flicking back in his mind through the older man's patient instructions and picturing the man in his mind's eye to imbue confidence. Very big, very bulky, but without any fat, Ron Josephs was one of the most respected men in Denver PD, despite having not risen above the rank of Sergeant in his twenty-five year career. His ability to train up rookies into fine, honourable officers was legendary, and Pete knew he was the latest in a long line of graduates of the Josephs School of Life. He certainly wasn't going to flunk now!

With just a hint of satisfaction, Pete knew himself to be one of Sarge's favourite trainee partners. Ron Josephs had married a younger Hispanic woman at a time when inter-racial marriages garnered more hostile reactions than just disapproving looks and enjoyed two blissfully happy years of wedlock until his wife died of leukaemia the day after their second wedding anniversary. Since then, Sarge had dedicated his life to the PD, his colleagues knowing he was patiently awaiting a reunion only death would bring.

Following the litany of instructions he could hear inside his head - in Sarge's voice – he cautiously approached the man standing on the sidewalk who had been staring at the display in the jeweller's window as if it held all the secrets of the universe. Pete's hand was on his gun and he was prepared to use it – traffic cops and meter maids tended to bear the brunt of other people's frustration about the crappy day he or she was having; and for their own safety had to assume everyone they met was a homicidal maniac.

He'd gone on a training course with Sarge, who despite his reserved nature had gotten on well with Sergeant Dan Williams – a loud-mouthed New Jersey street cop from Weehawken, and to his own surprise Sarge had nodded in sage agreement to Williams' rant that having a wife and baby daughter, whom he clearly adored, he was not going anywhere near the motorcycle division as immortalised in CHiPS because traffic officers had a mortality rate five times higher than any other division. On the way back home, Sarge had reinforced Williams' view by suggesting that Pete stick with traffic only 'as long as you have no family responsibilities'. As ever, he had taken the words to heart.

As Sarge taught him, he swept his eyes over the man's body, seeking concealed weapons and clues he could use to anticipate the man's moves.

The flat-heeled Western boots were scuffed and well worn in, the denim jeans faded and soft with lengthy wear, their tight fit showing he carried no weaponry there, unless he'd got one tucked into his crotch…but that would have to be in a very painful location, so no – not even the most viciously macho thug was psychologically comfortable with having a deadly weapon next to his most loved anatomical feature. The tasselled tan buckskin jacket was too bulky to be able to detect a weapon underneath but it too was definitely headed towards battered. His head was bare, but his hair was long, almost to his shoulders in a dark gold-bronze tumble.

Now take a second look, Sarge said in Pete's head, and see all that don't fit. Unconsciously Pete nodded to himself, seeing the incongruities – scuffed and worn boots yes, but genuine leather and expensive, tailor-made items when new. Jeans and jacket worn and faded, but like the boots, clearly very clean and laundered. The jacket itself was genuine buckskin, not some fancy chain store imitation, and you could see the quality of the stitching in the seams – genuine Indian manufacture made for tribal member or someone accepted as such, not the commercially 'pseudo-authentic' Native American pap palmed off on the tourists.

His hair was shiny and brushed, not lank with grime, and what skin Pete could see – one hand and his face in profile – was a healthy brown colour, not sickly grey or covered with an unhealthy sheen of perspiration which would have indicated 'strung-out-druggie'. The unevenness of the tan told clearly that this man spend considerable time out of doors in the real world, not in some fancy gym's sun shower. Not a vagrant, and his confident stature lacked the furtiveness of the small time crook, the petty, opportunist criminal who would take the risk of tossing a half-brick through a jeweller's window, grabbing what he could before running for it. In which case, what was so fascinating?

"Sir, could you step back from the window?" Pete spoke loudly and clearly.

The guy turned to look at him and his face broke into a wide, incredibly sweet smile. "Hi! Ain't them colours pretty? All swirly…"

Uh-oh. Pete's instinctive response to return that incredibly gentle, somehow irresistibly nice smile was aborted as he met the deep sapphire blue eyes. The man's body was present and correct, but his brain was AWOL. The eyes were twinkling and happy and terrifyingly vacant of anything resembling rational thought. He's so high he's practically in orbit with the International Space Station, Pete realised and swallowed the sudden lump of alarm in his throat. His first day on his own patrol and he had to find this!

"Uh sir, could you come over here a minute? I'd like to talk to you?" Pete eased back to where his bike was propped by the kerb, wondering if he should jump the guy immediately. He decided against it as the guy immediately followed him like a puppy without a qualm. Right now this guy was calm and friendly, but if Pete messed up the take down he would go berserk.

"Uh, can you tell me your name?"

"Viiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnn!" The guy beamed at him with that damned infectious smile, "Vinnie-Vin, Vino, Vinton, Vincento, Vinnebago Vin Vin!"

Okay…Vin what? "Vin…?"

"-?"

Okay… "Vin do you have any ID?"

The blue eyes were blank; ID was obviously too complex a concept –

"Oooh – this yer bike?" The man gazed adoringly at the big, polished police motorcycle. "It's right purty!"

"Thanks!" Purty, yer bike? Pete finally pegged the man's peculiar accent – the base was Texas, overlaid with Colorado and several mixed layers of other places in between. The guy had obviously been in Denver for long enough to pick up that peculiar hybrid tone. "Hey, Vin, look what I got!" He waved his driver's licence in front of the man. "Do you have one?"

"Yeah." Blue eyes continued to make love to the bike then turned to focus on him. "Can't let yer see it, pard. Cowboy'll be mad at me; he yells 'n' stomps like an ornery prize-bull when he's mad at me!"

Cowboy? Hmmm. "Betcha don't!"

Scowl. Followed by a pout that could not be described, even by a red-blooded American male like Pete Garcia, as anything other than 'adorable'. "Do too!"

"Yah!" Pete scoffed, uncomfortably reminded of the fights he used to have with his bossy big sister.

Hands scrabbled frantically for several minutes as his fingers and his spaced out brain tried to co-ordinate with each other on the concept of "pockets", but finally 'Vin' produced a black wallet thing that he beamed down at.

"This is very nice," Pete admired, deftly removing it from the guy's palm. "Very nice indeed –" He stopped as he saw that he had no need to keep up the patter, the man's attention was back on his bike. So who are you, my goofy frien-

The world stopped. Pete stared down at the shiny badge and laminated card in the wallet, identifying ATF Agent Vinton Tanner. Pete looked at his bike and the radio, then at happily smiling Vin Tanner and an overwhelming sadness made him blink. Damn. Making a decision, he moved to the payphone only a foot away, keeping a weather eye on Tanner, who merely continued to mysteriously commune with the motorcycle. He dialled the precinct and asked for Sarge.

"Pete?" The word was curt and edged with worry, the unspoken question, 'Why was Pete not using his radio or work cell phone?' clearly audible.

"Sarge…" Taking a breath, Pete filled him in.

Over the line came a heavy sigh that Pete echoed, as he glanced sadly at the tall ATF agent now babbling nonsensically to his bike's gas tank. Pete was young, but not stupid. American law enforcement agents had the highest rate of alcoholism, drug addiction and suicide in the Western world. Grossly overworked, shamefully underpaid, they did a near impossible job with such incredible courage that it was often forgotten that they were only ordinary human beings like everyone else, in full knowledge of the fact that their only reward for their heroism would be either an early grave, permanently debilitating injury, or growing old alone after spouses and children finally moved to new pastures.

Denver was the base of several law enforcement agencies – the FBI, US Marshals, DEA and the ATF; a few years back that had expanded to include then new Supreme Court Justice Orrin Travis's ten elite "unconventional" ATF teams – after 9/11 those teams had been expanded into MCAT – Major Crimes Anti-Terrorism. Sure, there were incidents of friction with the Police Department, but no law enforcement agent worthy of the name rejoiced when he or she discovered a colleague that had become a battle casualty of the eternal war between good and evil.

"Should I call a squad car?" Pete asked grimly.

"No." Sarge sighed, "You know how the tabloid vultures – and the left-wing liberal bigots - monitor the police bands. Let's not destroy what's left of him by having him plastered on News at Eleven – 'junkie ATF agent taken to the precinct in cuffs'. Does it say what ATF department he's with?"

"Uh…MCAT Team 7." Pete read aloud and heard the Sarge's bitten off curse. "Sarge?"

"I guess it had to happen. Even the Magnificent 7 are only human." Sarge said in a tone of weary defeat.

Pete's eyes widened. "Hold it, you mean – that ATF Team 7, the MCAT ATF Team 7? He's one of the Magnificent 7?" For a moment the enormity of the tragedy could not be comprehended. ATF Team Seven, nicknamed the Magnificent 7, were building a legend from the Canadian border to the Rio Grande in law enforcement circles. Created originally as one of Orrin Travis's ten elite, nationally-operating ATF teams, right from the start they had been the most controversial, unconventional, dangerous – and successful. When Travis upgraded and restructured the ten teams as MCAT ATF their reputation and success rate only increased.

Their team leader Larabee – no other name was needed – was a black-dressing alcoholic infamous for his psychotic fury and unpredictable, volatile rages. Team 7 seemed to spend as much time snapping and snarling at each other as they did at the bad guys. Larabee and Ezra Standish had had several actual, brutal fights that required minor hospitalisation! Josiah Sanchez had tried to throw one of his teammates from a four-storey window. They were a savage, growling wolf pack that could not be controlled by anyone or anything except the black-clad hellhound that ruled them with iron fists and on at least two still talked about occasions, well-placed bullets. But the way they tore at each other was only matched by the insane, psychotic over-protectiveness they displayed. Any outsider who threatened one was immediately and mercilessly turned upon and savaged by the entire group. Some hadn't lived to regret causing harm to one member of the bizarre but unbreakably bonded together group.

And now one of them was strung out in broad daylight in the middle of Denver. Pete shook his head as Sarge quietly ordered him to stay put and said that he would discreetly give the nod to Team 7's leader, Chris Larabee; Pete tried to imagine the intolerable pressures that had crushed and drained and exhausted Tanner's spirit to the extent that he sought solace in narcotic oblivion –

ROOOORAAAAWWWWWAHHHHHH!

"HEY! HEY!" Pete yelled futilely, belatedly aware of Sarge's loud demands for a report. "Sarge, Tanner's got my bike, he's gone! He's got my bike!"