March 2014….
To fund the further development of the ER wing of the Wesen Wellness Centre, Monroe has become Nick's biographer and recounted his more gallant exploits in true, loyal style. Of course, the 'Limitless tales of Grimm Incidents' requires marketing to get off the ground in the Wesen community, which involves Monroe giving talks and signings at bookshops, which involves Nick tagging along (with supportive friends) as the hero of the piece…
A couple of these unfortunate Grimm shenanigans were covered in the Wesen Wellness Centre's sick files (chapter 4 of the Grimm Grimmoire) and I'm just filling in silly backstory….
Any stylistic similarities to 'a series of unfortunate incidents' by Lemony Snickett are entirely deliberate. I hope you enjoy! Thanks a million to all who have read, reviewed, followed or favourited thus far.
X x X
Nick and Hank took their places at the back of the bookstore, both giving a cheery thumbs-up to Monroe as he sat at the very front of the intent crowd, looking sober and respectable yet completely shit-scared in his satin smoking jacket and corduroy trousers. He lowered himself into the Victorian leather chair with gravitas and solemnity. Nick leant over to Hank, curious, keeping his voice quiet and out of pitch of the Captain – who sat to the right of Hank.
"That was a slow sit. Has he developed piles?"
"He's been grave and solemn since he got an agent, man. Painful stuff. But it's pulling the funds in and it's helping emergency-struck wesen, so – whatever. They probably need the funds for your dedicated room, alone."
"Ha." Nick straightened as the lights dimmed and Monroe pulled the leather-bound book from the coffee table onto his lap, looking very upset. Nick frowned. Had he died and someone forgot to mention it to him?
"I have been told," Monroe began, "that the only way to prepare an audience for the difficulties to come is to use some kind of clue in the title of one's work that gives some clue of the sadness yet to unfold. Much of what I must describe of the valliant efforts of our mutually-friendly Grimm is too painful for me to articulate in the invented word. So I must recourse, I fear, to the slack yet strategic borrowing of movie names from popular culture, to give a hint of what lies ahead. Thus, this first tale is called 'The Swarm'.
Nick scratched his head and hid behind his beer, not liking the sound of this. Perhaps he should have read and reviewed the FedExed galley proof of the transcript as offered, rather than pelt off through the night in search of the drunken Koningschlange.
"Most people know a sinister shed when they see it. The cobwebs, glowering trowels in the windows and 20-watt bulbs give it away. Most people would shy from such a shed, giving it as wide a berth as possible. But they, while undoubtedly wise, are cowards – unlike the Grimm hero of this tale."
Nick shrugged. Ok – a bit heavy-handed in the language, but not bad on the moral marketing.
"No, this Grimm, having heard tell of an agoraphobic resident bearing arms and terrorising the neighbourhood, strode straight into the shed of the home of said resident in search of the terror himself and his weapons. He was poised with gun, ready to take him down if it proved sadly necessary to do so. For, I must report, this Grimm was no ordinary Grimm but a law-abiding member of the Portland Police Department, authorised to take down such an individual with deadly force."
There was much muttering around the bookstore along the lines of 'never!', which Nick found quite gratifying. He swigged his beer, and shared a pleased glance with Hank.
"No sooner had this shed door closed, clicking firmly with the uncompromising snick of the Yale self-slamming 2001 special, a great swarm of bees rose up around the flimsy outbuilding, giving our fair Grimm the creeps. For it is no secret that the youngster cannot be abroad without his Epipen for fear of an untimely sting. The swarm showed no sign of abating and many of its number slammed pointlessly yet alarmingly against the flimsy window, demanding entry. With an anxious view of the size of the shed's keyhole, our hero called me in a manly state of wilfully-contained panic.
"It was a difficult conversation – I will not mislead you on this point. I asked if he knew to whom the bees belonged, and he reported that ―alas ―he had no clue, for the bees elected not to wear collars or name tags. I initially suspected a shade of sarcasm in his tone, but overlooked this in the gravity of his situation. His first suggestion was sound. He asked that I tracked down another apiarist, ideally not agoraphobic, bearing arms or angry, and requested their assistance in gassing the bees temporarily to aid his escape from the shed. It was then that I surmised, from the struggling at his end of the phone, that the agoraphobic apiarist had appeared from beneath a table in the shed and had threatened him with all manners of unpleasantness if he did a single thing to harm his bees."
Nick's recollection of this particular nightmare pinged into nasty, technicolour life in his mind's eye and he was tempted to take cover under Hank's jacket. Hank's jacket was full of Hank, sniggering quietly into it.
"Recognising the cluttered features of the woged Mellifer, our mild-mannered Grimm sought to assure that no harm would come to the bees if at all possible. For this gentle and non-violent communication, he won a shovel around the back of the head and a swift, undignified undressing, followed by a handcuffing at the rear. It was an unrewarding exchange, explained to him upon his awakening that the bees were not ordinary, and that great harm would come to any who attempted to gas these bees. Our Groggy Grimm retorted that great harm had come to him anyway, and could he please have his clothes back, but the apiarist was unrepentant and booted him out of the shed, clad only in underwear and an ancient fur coat used erstwhile as a shed rug.
"It was awful for me to have heard this exchange second-hand, unable to assist, as sounds of his fur-clad distress echoed from the floor of the shed from his unattended and forgotten phone. Luck was with me slightly, for I was able to contact the tireless Detective Griffin, who carried out an exercise upon the phone which is known to those in the know as 'triangulation' to work out where the bloody hell the captive Grimm was. Thusly, a rescue attempt was underway, instigated by yours truly.
"I am relieved to report a brief interlude of luck in the Grimm's tidings. The bees had never seen a slowly-moving hairy rock, were surprised by it, and much inclined to leave it well alone. Hence our brave Grimm was able to creep two metres undercover towards the house to seek help without stinging molestation from the mellifer's confused compatriots. But there his luck ended, cruelly, for the wooden slats covering the agoraphobic's underground sauna gave way under his hunkering gait and he dropped six feet into 115 degrees of unforgiving, blazing steam, unable to escape. It was in such an underdressed yet wildly hyperthermic condition that I found him, draped limply over the pine decks, cuffed and wreathed in fur. I hesitate to admit the immediacy and selflessness of my response as I arrived with the tireless Detective Griffin, but steam holds no fear for even the twitchiest of Blutbaden, and I whisked our friendly Grimm out of there in a trice through the simple art of abseiling and upward flinging of barely-dressed patients. There was much enforced showering with tepid water, and grave murmurings about his welfare. It is a fortunate, yet unexpected thing, that he continues to sit among us today."
Monroe's short, sorrowful pause was followed by a smattering of awed applause, and a barely-silent snort from the Captain's general direction. Nick was having second thoughts about this. Gallant he may be, but also the complete pillock to Monroe's unhesitant and heroic blutbad. He grabbed a second and reserve beer from the tray as it was passed around. There was a fractional interval, and then Monroe plunged on.
"This story, I regret to report, is full of misery, agony, and onomatopoeic expressions of pain as suffered by a young Grimm," Monroe intoned. "I do not wish to tell this story."
"Well don't, then!" Nick offered hotly from the back of the room, still steaming at the indignity of 'the swarm', and was immediately encircled by Jagerbar security, warning him respectfully that they had been given instructions to remove unruly or interrupting Grimms from the premises.
"This story is called the thirty-nine steps."
Groaning inwardly, Nick pulled his dark green hoodie over his face and slunk down his seat.
"It is said that Grimms are murderous and ungallant souls. Not so this one. For he heard that a vertiginous Maushertz was stuck, adhesive with fear, to the outside of the North Portland water tower while on a harmless sightseeing excursion. Being pure of spirit, he ventured upwards to his aid, having been made aware that the Maushertz' degree of mortal fear prevented his ears from retracting naturally as they should do. There was to be no natural form of rescue for this Maushertz while his aural appendages protruded thusly. Sadly, disaster struck for our luckless Grimm."
"What, more disaster?" Hank hissed.
"For while this sweet-natured and gallant soul had persuaded the Maushertz gentleman to look askance from the edge long enough to bring him safely away from this perilous panorama, such was the shreddedness of this gentleman's nerves that he trod on the fair Grimm's shoelaces at the very top of the tower steps."
Nick's cheeks flamed on cue as the reading group turned as one to regard him piteously, while Hank displayed his solidarity by concealing his helpless laughter in his coat sleeve.
"It is fortunate that he rolled at such a speed that he did not hit every stair. Not as fortunate, perhaps, as failing to fall down the stairs in the first place, which would have been far more beneficial for all concerned. But we must count our blessings where we can find them. As it happened, our hapless hero bounced off every third stair. While I was in no position to record the moment for the veracity of my reports, I am satisfied that there is a sufficient degree of accuracy in me relating the audial quality of the Grimm's plummet with the following and proximate sequence of sounds: Unh, ow, agh, oof, gnn, uhr, gah, 'fuck', ow, agh, ah-ah, AGH, OW, crump."
There was much wailing of sirens and we were all very, very concerned."
The Captain leant over quickly and apologetically. "I'm afraid I need to make a move, gentlemen. I'm in grave danger of being caught…chortling. No offence, Nick." And off he shot.
"Finally, because an evening can only contain so much angst, my last tale shall go by the name 'the Silence of the Lambs'. It is a dreadful tale of one man's brave attempt to overcome the terror of flock behaviour."
Nick frowned. Hang on – wasn't Monroe the rescuee in this particular scene? And – in fact ― weren't half the perps in this particular scenario well into their middle-years? Hardly 'lambs'? he folded his arms and glared silently at Monroe, who ignored him, wearing his wistful expression determinedly. Hank shared his gaze of discontent ― they both had vivid memories of an alarmed, albeit unhesistant, Blutbad standing on the edge of a bank of seats overlooking a row of painful pews, being hedged over the edge by a group of twitchy Seelenguten. They had done the ass-saving on this particular occasion.
"This is not the tale of a thankless, endangered Blutbad facing the insensible wrath of a group of Presbyterian Seelengut led astray – no."
Ok, so not that story. Nick unfolded his arms slowly. Then what…
"This terribly sad escapade came some months later, emerging deep from the bowels of a death enquiry in the North Portland Trappist Seelengut Youth Church, during which our beloved Grimm suffered a terrible flashback of sheepish-following and succumbed to terrible feelings of dread and paranoia at being pursued."
Oh fuck. This story. Nick climbed over the top of Hank and tried to make his exit through the military history aisle, which was blocked by a Schakal re-living the Second World War. This story was still in Monroe's medical records for the Wesen Wellness Centre – confidential, surely? He backed up into cookery and nearly concussed himself with a falling stack of heavy volumes about light dinners. He was not sticking around for this.
"Our fair-mannered Grimm's reputation for expelling unsuitable church leaders had spread far and wide and thus the Trappist Youth Church had invited him ― invitation sadly mislaid ― to their silent and signed production of Nosferatu. Such is the timing of fate that he arrived during the dress rehearsal, where all faces were white, sheepish and ghastly, and not a sound was spoken, even when he dropped his carkeys in horror and they gathered around helpfully, gesturing wildly at close quarters that he may pick them up again. Not one to make a fuss or display panic, our disconcerted Grimm ran screaming down six flights of stairs and through the carpark, pursued persistently by those determined that he might be able to get in his car and drive away, if he found their acting that appalling. They helpfully pursued him by cab, foot and boat, never once catching up with him, until he arrived heaplike upon our doorstep, gibbering and heaving and needing a bit of a lie-down. Thus was the wretched horror of the silence of the lambs. Sedatives were required, hair was repeatedly ruffled, and we were all very, very worried."
The lights flicked back up in the main reading area as Monroe's narration trailed off, he won vigorous applause, and Nick got to his feet before anyone caught him grovelling through the pile of truffle-hunters monthly periodicals. He fumed. Now… there was fund-raising, marketing, telling the truth, and then just plain embarrassing him. Hank joined him round the corner in the foraging section, unsurprised to find him steaming and plotting his own on-going autobiography, with all the gallant bits removed.
They darted round the corner and out of the bookshop before the signing started, armfuls of unsigned books clutched between them. Hank shrugged behind his pile.
"He had one thing right –pick names of stuff that's already been done. Why re-invent the wheel?"
Why indeed? Nick headed for Monroe's publicity beetle, put the books on the ground, and removed the front wheels, bricking them up with the books. Chapter 1 of the 'Grimm Grimmoire' – to be entitled 'Cry Wolf….'