Hi thanks so much to my reviewers and to the people who have added me to their favourites. I'm really grateful, especially as this is my first fic. Here's another bit of Vince torture but it won't be going on too much longer, don't worry.

As usual, I don't own the Mighty Boosh. I also cannot claim ownership of the tiny snippet I used out of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, or the Vortex Jazz club - that's a real place in Dalston. You can google it and everything!

Vince stared glumly at the piece of blank paper in front of him, and then at the wastepaper basket of rejected plans on the floor by his feet. He was all alone in this mess – completely and utterly without help. He had tried talking to the teapot a while ago but they hadn't really got on. He couldn't think of the last time he had been really alone. Even throughout this whole mess with the curse, when he had felt more distanced from Howard than he could ever remember, he still had Naboo to talk to, or Leroy and the rest of the random people he went out partying with, to pass some time with. Being on your own was pretty boring, he concluded, unimpressed with his own company, which in itself surprised him, as other people always loved spending time with him. 'They didn't love it enough to stick around though, did they,' he muttered angrily, thinking of how the people he had invited round earlier had trashed the shop, 'borrowed' all the money out of the till and then had all drifted away when he'd needed help. 'Please', he'd begged to the empty shop, falling to his knees as the last of them had walked out the door, a look of disgusted pity on her face. Honestly, it was like none of them had ever seen a Shaman use someone as a conduit before. Naboo did it all the time if he didn't have any credit it on his phone and wanted to pass a message on to Vince or Howard. Once, Vince had even done a pretty passable impression of Naboo and got Howard to go down to the shops to get a packet of chocolate hob nobs when he was too lazy to go, although after that they had both started asking Naboo security questions.

He dragged the pen across the page in yet another attempt to formulate a plan. It looked exactly like the last thirty-four plans he had drawn – four words scrawled messily across the page: Go and find Howard.

He weighed it up in his mind, battling with himself over what to do.

Would Howard even forgive him? He's always forgiven you before, you and him are a team, what would he do without you.

Naboo had told him to stay away from Howard – he'd probably be pretty annoyed when he got back. If Howard isn't around to come up with a plan to get the juice off that fox, Naboo won't be coming back at all.

What if being near Howard finished him off, he was pretty weak already.

Vince was surprised how long his brain cell took to think of an objection to this one. Truth be told, he was sick of living in limbo and just wanted it to be over one way or another - the sickness and the Shaman Juice was starting to affect his mind as well as his body, as Naboo had told him it would – hell, the fact he was sitting here having a conversation with his own brain cell was enough to let Vince know that he had gone wrong.

He'll only be around for a few hours to fix everything and then if you're still ok, Naboo can send him away again.

IF I'm ok!? Besides, either way, that's not really fair on Howard, he doesn't deserve that. Silence

Vince picked up his pencil again.

An hour later, he wasn't much further along. He could taste the bitter edge of desperation coating his mouth, like burnt toast or coffee without six sugars in. Naboo and Bollo were due to be executed in ten hours – he had received an invite to the event, embossed on thick black card – at first he had thought it was an invitation to a Goth wedding. As a clock ticked loudly from somewhere in the shop, he could feel his arguments against going and finding Howard getting smaller and smaller. Looking down at the page in front of him, he sighed, 'Go and find Howard', this time in pink crayon. Childishly he scribbled the picture of a pony over the top of the letters, before grabbing his cape and going to find Howard.

He walked the streets for what felt like hours, stumbling on his wasted legs and tripping over his own feet in exhaustion. He had searched all the places that he thought he might be – Lester Corncrake's house, the Vortex Jazz Club, but no one had seen him all day. He had resorted to just stopping every person he passed and asking them if they had seen him. He had had a photo to begin with until he showed it to a strangely dressed guy with bad hair that smelled of fish and Baileys who had run off with it. After that he had resorted to describing Howard, with just as poor results. That was the problem with searching for someone with such a bland, ambient face, Vince realised – no one was too sure whether they had seen him or not. Even when the tramp told him that he was just down the alley, he was sceptical.

It wasn't until he was face to face with Howard, feeling rooted to the spot and suddenly overcome with nerves that he realised that he had found him at last. Howard must've heard the approaching footsteps but didn't look up from his task. Vince paused for a moment, taking a deep breath and planting his feet squarely on the ground before calling out in a tone that was as confident as he could muster,

"Hey Howard, you eating out the bins again?"

"What do you want?" Howard finally looked up, his eyes were cold and emotionless. Vince attempted to keep the sunshine on his face, despite the dark rainy fear in his heart that was threatening to cloud it out; the fear that Howard had really meant it this time; that he would never forgive him.

"How's it going?"

"It's going great thank you very much," he began gathering up the bags and making to leave. Vince asked the first thing that came into his head, in an attempt to keep Howard near him for a few more minutes. Unsurprisingly it was about fashion,

"Why you wearing that outfit?"

"Because I'm a bin man, because these guys welcomed me back with open arms"

"Who are they?"

"They're my crew, they're my street brothers," He called to the waiting refuse collectors with a resounding 'Yo' and a salute for effect,

"What are they all about?"

"They're real people Vince, they don't toss me aside for a silver cape," Vince looked at them sceptically. They certainly did seem to at least know who Howard was, which ranked them higher than the majority of his acquaintances. They all stared back at Vince with their surly, pudgy faces. He didn't like them, he decided, even if they had looked out for Howard. He felt shame paint his face at the way Naboo had forced Howard out the shop earlier because of him.

"I'm sorry Howard, you know how I am about clothes – remember that time I pushed that toddler in front of a juggernaut because he stood on my TopShop voucher – I can't help myself,"

Howard nodded in acquiescence and agreed to help him grudgingly – now days everything Howard ever did where Vince was concerned seemed to be grudgingly. Of course, with Howard on board, everything fell into place and it seemed like only moments later, they were speeding towards the Shaman Council in a black cab. Vince dreaded to think how much it was going to cost – after what he had given Donny earlier, he only had seventeen Euros left in his account. After the adrenaline of the adventure started to wear off he began to realise how terrible he felt. Sweat was sticking his hair to his forehead and his bones ached, on top of the normal weakness. The pressure in his head had come back so badly he was considering asking the driver to pull over so he could throw up in the gutter. Howard hadn't said anything the whole journey, just sat with his chin in his hand, gazing out the window. Although it upset Vince that he obviously wasn't really forgiven, the whole not talking part of it suited him fine. He couldn't really breathe anyway and he was pretty sure that you needed air to be able to talk. In an attempt to clear his constricting airways he coughed discreetly, covering his mouth with his hand in an attempt to hide it from Howard. Feeling something warm and wet hit his hand, he looked down, horrified to see blood. More than before. If this was anything like last time, he only had a minute or two before he passed out, and with no Naboo there to save him, he wouldn't wake up. Except it wasn't Naboo that had saved him before, it was the….Shaman Juice! Vince couldn't decide whether he was more excited about the fact that he might not die on the floor of this cab, or that he had finally come up with a plan of some sort. He dipped his finger into the bottle of Shaman Juice and put it to his lips. Almost instantly he could breathe a little easier and his vision started to swim back into focus. After a couple more dips into the bottle he felt like he might even be able to hold his own weight when he got out the taxi. The green liquid tasted almost like absinthe and burned his lips. He shivered in spite of the fire that was spreading through his veins and he suddenly understood what Naboo meant. His breathing eased and he sucked air gratefully into his lungs, only to find that it felt like he was breathing in red-hot grains of sand. The feeling returned to his extremities as the blood started pumping again but it was agony, as though his blood had been replaced with battery acid.

The Shaman Juice had removed the cause, but not the symptoms, Vince thought wryly. The power running through him was too much for his tiny frame; he was almost vibrating with it. He took a sharp intake of breath, causing Howard to look up at him,

"Y'alright?"

"Yeah," Vince hissed, gritting his teeth with the effort of pushing air over his vocal cords, "I just really miss that cape,"

Howard snorted and went back to looking out the window. Vince stuffed his knuckles into his mouth and bit down in order to stay silent.

When they arrived, he painted on another layer of sunshine in an effort to look happy and relaxed, unwilling to let the Shamen see the effects of the Shaman Juice that were so apparent to him. After all, he was fairly certain it wasn't the loss of the magical artefact that was the real issue that had landed Naboo and Bollo in so much trouble here – Naboo used the Star of Astaroth as a coaster and he had definitely seen Saboo using a fairly important looking scroll as a rolling mat for his joints – it was the fact that Naboo had been using it on him that was the issue. And even if it wasn't, Naboo had told him he couldn't have any more of the Shaman Juice and he had disobeyed him. All the same, he could feel the eyes of the Shamen boring into him, silently interrogating him as he twirled his hair as innocently as he could.

That night, when they had got home, Vince tried to apologise again to Howard. Naboo and Bollo had stayed with the other Shamen for a massive party (Vince had heard Tony Harrison shout 'We're gonna have it large!' after their retreating taxi). The side effects of the Shaman Juice had subsided slightly, whilst leaving him still strong enough to be in Howard's presence. He had been almost glad when Dennis took the potion out of his hand - he wasn't sure if he could make the choice between dying and feeling like that again.

"Howard, look. I didn't mean to tell Naboo it was you that put the rubbish out the back. I just got confused and then – "

Howard cut through his words with his hand,

"It's alright, no one can say that Howard Moon doesn't know how to forgive. I warn you now though, you pull anything like that again and I'm going to come at you like a bee. A swarm of bees. Look out Vince, they're angry," He said, waving his fingers around Vince's head, "you've stolen their honey and now they're coming for you,"

"No way!" Vince exclaimed, batting Howard's hands away, "Bees love me. I'm like their Queen Bee. We'll probably go off and start a colony together. Besides," he said, nudging Howard's arm playfully, "You wouldn't come at me,"

"No I wouldn't," Howard hung his head. His humiliation was tangible in the air, "I'd leave. Leave and not come back. You would never hear from me again,"

Vince swallowed nervously, unsure of what to say. After all, didn't that sound like not such a terrible thing? In the end he had mumbled his excuses about it being a busy day and how he needed to go to bed, leaving the Maverick looking bemused in the lounge.

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