****Note From Jinzle: This Chapter belongs to Dust. Hopefully I won't mangle it like I did poor 80sarcade (Sorry dude, I'm old and senile.) Hope you enjoy it as much as I did.**** (Apparently I did muck it up. Sorry Dust)

I do not own any of the characters from the series "Hogan's Heroes".

Cleaver Greene (played by Richard Roxburgh) appears in the Australian series "Rake". I don't own that, either.

I also don't own...well, never mind. You'll find out..

"An ostrich?"

Cleaver Greene raised an eyebrow at the client sitting opposite. She gazed back, half anxious, half defensive.

"That part's not right," she said. "I didn't actually send them off to chase an ostrich." After a momentary struggle with her conscience, she added sulkily, "It started out as an emu. But it read better as an ostrich, so I changed it."

"And the giant spider?"

"It was only a huntsman, it was perfectly harmless. I don't know what all the fuss was about."

"And what about the night bird? What exactly was that?"

"Well, I never actually made up my mind. It just worked better that way."

Cleaver sighed. He was pretty sure he'd had one hell of a night, if only he could remember. The headache was a doozy, at any rate. "So what's with you and Regnum Animale, anyway? You can't write a story without sending the livestock in? I'm surprised you haven't infested the poor bastards with crabs." His eyes narrowed as he noticed her discomfiture. "No. Tell me you didn't."

"I didn't," protested the client. Then, after a pause, "Not yet, anyway."

"Oh, for Christ's sake!"

There was an uncomfortable pause.

"You know, Ms...is it Ms Dust, or Ms Wind?"

The client shrugged. "Just call me dust. They all do."

"Okay, whatever you say. The thing is, I'm a criminal barrister. This isn't the kind of case I take, as a rule."

"Yes, I know, I saw the cannibal episode," she replied sourly. "I'd have thought you'd welcome the change of pace."

"I'll admit, it's different." Cleaver read through the documentation again; leaned back in his chair, considering the implications; glanced at the list of story titles on the computer screen; and finally spoke again. "All right. If you want my professional opinion, you're screwed."

"Could you put that into layman's terms?" said dust. "I'm not really up on all this legal jargon, you know."

Cleaver wasn't letting himself be distracted. "You can't win," he went on. "It's all a matter of public record. My professional advice is, throw yourself on the mercy of the court, and don't make any short-term plans."

"Oh, thanks. Thanks heaps. You better not be charging a fee for that."

"Well, there's always Plan B," Cleaver went on thoughtfully. "I wouldn't normally recommend it, but in this instance..." He trailed off.

"All right, what's Plan B?" said dust, after a few seconds.

"Plan B is where we - that is, you - take steps to reduce the amount of hostile testimony at the trial, by...let's say, giving the participants something else to worry about."

"You mean, nobble the witnesses?"

"Please," said Cleaver, holding up a hand in protest. "That'd be unethical."

The client leaned back, gazing at him with disapproval. "More unethical than letting your teenage son use your place to knock off his English teacher?"

"Hey, there's a difference between unethical and morally indefensible," Cleaver shot back. "Besides, I didn't know he was knocking off his English teacher, I thought it was just some girl in his class. Look, leave my private life out of this, okay? You've got my advice. Take it or leave it."

She paused for a moment, considering her options. They were pretty limited. "How exactly do we set about it, then?"

"You're a writer, for God's sake," Cleaver retorted. "Write something. Think up some situation that'll keep everyone occupied, and then drop them in it."

"Pardon me for questioning your professional judgement," said dust, after a few seconds of stunned silence, "but isn't that what got me into this mess in the first place? If I start posting now, don't you think they might get cross?"

"That's why you make sure you put in a good helping of deniability," sighed Cleaver patiently. "You'll need a pseudonym..."

"Got one."

"I mean another one, a second pen name."

"Got one," said dust again. "Don't you ever pay attention? I'm signed up separately as Magnum Mysterium."

Cleaver regarded her with suspicion. "All right, why do you already have a second name?"

She looked him straight in the eye. "I'm writing an epic poem on the third season of Masterchef Australia," she replied. "In the style of Beowulf."

Cleaver's deadpan was a perfect match to hers. "Never lie to your barrister. It makes it harder for him to lie to the judge."

She shook her head, and pursed her lips. "I reckon they'll still know it's me. Writing style's not that easy to disguise, you know."

There was a short silence, while Cleaver considered the problem. "What kind of stories do you write?" he asked.

"All different kinds. You read them, didn't you?"

He shrugged. "I only skimmed the one about the choir," he admitted. "For some reason, only the Kommandant's complaining about that one. Something to do with a song about him... Okay, let's put it another way. What kind of stories don't you write?" He picked up a pen, and prepared to take notes.

She straightened up, folded her hands on the desk, and laid out her manifesto. "I don't do pre- or post-war, although I'm prepared to consider it. I don't write angst - well, technically, anyway, sometimes it just happens. Don't do hurt/comfort/friendship, I'm not good at soppy stuff. I don't do crossovers, alternative universes or slash, not because I disapprove, but because I don't think I'd be able to keep a straight face. I don't write crackfic. I don't kill off canon characters, or if I do, they recover before the last paragraph. Any Mary Sues are entirely accidental, and I don't write stories with zombies in them."

Cleaver, slightly stunned, fastened on the last item. "Are there a lot of zombie stories there?"

"None as far as I know," replied dust, "but you can't be too careful."

Cleaver let it go. "Right, this is what you do," he said. "This is the list of hostile witnesses. This other list is of story genres. You're going to write outside your usual style, and publish under your other pen name. And to be on the safe side, you'll split them up, just have two or three in each story. These guys seem to be really good at teamwork, and we don't want them getting out of trouble before your court date."

"It seems a bit mean," remarked dust, perusing the two lists. "And it's not that easy. How am I supposed to decide who gets written into what?"

Cleaver sighed, opened the drawer of his desk and after some searching produced a pair of scissors. "Names in one pile, story types in the other. Pick two or three names and a genre, at random. Agreed?"

"It isn't going to work," she persisted, scowling.

"Well, if you have a better idea, let's hear it." Cleaver gave her a brilliant smile, knowing he had her there. "Or you can front up at court, and take your chances."

She sat in silence, pondering, while he finished cutting the two pages into strips, folded each one in half and placed them in two heaps on the desk. For a few seconds she did nothing. Then she shrugged, and drew two slips from the first pile.

Cleaver, craning across the desk to peer at the names, uttered a chortle of sheer delight. "Oh, this'll be good," he said.

dust took a deep breath, and reached for the second heap. "Please, not slash," she muttered. "Not with those two.Please, pretty please, not slash." She closed here eyes as she unfolded the slip, then opened one to peer at it in trepidation. "Thank goodness for that," she said. "Dodged one bullet, anyway."

Then, as she looked again, her face fell. "Oh, globbets," she added. "Crossover. I could end up summonsed by two shows at once."

Cleaver was still laughing. "I think I'd better leave you to it. I'm due in court in twenty minutes. There's a coffee shop across the street. Go get yourself a macchiato and a blueberry muffin, and see if it helps." He glanced at the scraps of paper on the desktop, and added, "Better make it a double espresso."

Fifteen minutes later, fortified by coffee and cake, dust opened the laptop. She typed in the two names, gazed at them anxiously, deleted them, then typed them again, the other way round. They looked no better.

"Crossover," she muttered to herself. "I don't need the aggravation, I really don't. I knew I should have gone to Rumpole of the Bailey."

She rested her elbows on the table, and propped her chin on her hands. It had to be something unlikely, something out of left field. Something completely ridiculous...No. That was going too far. But still...

A little smile formed. She straightened up, and began typing...

Meanwhile, in a coffee shop somewhere in Sydney...

dust on the wind leaned back in her chair, and picked up the half-full cup which stood next to the laptop. The coffee was cold. Obviously some time had passed, while she was immersed. Still, she'd got there. At least two of the plaintiffs trying to call her to account – and the two most dangerous, at that - were going to have other concerns for some time.

She brought up the website, and signed in as "Magnum Mysterium", her so-far unused secondary identity. Who'd have thought I'd be operating under cover? she thought, as she uploaded the finished chapter.

For a moment she hesitated. Yes, the situation was desperate, but this was too cruel. Then she steeled herself. All's fair in love and war...whichever this is. And she clicked the "Publish" button...

In the Nightmare Garden, a Hogan's Heroes fanfic

Wait a minute. Somebody's not in bed.

Who's not in bed?

Colonel Hogan's not in bed...

In the Night Garden...two men crouched behind the trees to one side of the path, listening.

"Hogan, this will never work." growled the shorter man, turning a sharp, ferocious look on his companion. "And if it does not, then I will take great pleasure in shooting you. Personally."

Hogan suppressed a sigh. He liked it much better when he and Hochstetter were on opposing sides; but the situation in which they had unexpectedly found themselves necessitated a degree of mutually suspicious co-operation. "Don't lose your head, Major," he replied. "I'll admit, it's a tricky situation, but these guys don't seem to be very bright, so we're in with a chance."

With a cynical grunt, Hochstetter subsided, and both men returned to their vigil. For a couple of minutes, the only sound was the song of those weird birds, up in the treetops. Hochstetter hunkered down, directing a glare towards the canopy that promised no good to the first Tittifer to show its beak; but Hogan's attention was focused elsewhere, and he was the first to detect the approach of their adversaries.

"Unnnnnn!"

"Oooooooo!"

"Eeeeeeee!"

The high-pitched cries heralded the appearance of three short, dumpy figures, their brightly coloured clothing clearly visible through the trees. Hogan gave a nod to the Gestapo major, and slipped away to take up his position a little distance further along, where the path curved between billows of artificial-looking flowers, while Hochstetter rose to his feet, his back against the tree trunk which hid him from sight. As the tiny voices approached, he braced himself, then with unexpected grace – he'd played left wing in his school soccer team – he delivered a well-placed kick to the large bouncy ball at his feet, sending it down the path with just the right amount of curve.

The distraction worked perfectly; with squeals of excitement, the three creatures toddled after the ball; two slightly ahead, the third dropping behind as its trousers started to fall down. As they reached the bend, Hogan caught the ball, and launched it forward with a perfect volleyball serve.

All three were now having trouble keeping their pants up, but they had no thought of abandoning the chase. The ball bounced over a dip in the path; the pursuers tottered forward, uttering squeaks which became even shriller as the ground beneath their feet gave way.

Hochstetter joined Hogan at the edge of the pit. "Well, Major?" said Hogan.

"All right, I will concede," grumbled Hochstetter. "It seems you do know how to make a Tombliboo trap, after all."

He turned away, impervious to the noises of distress from below. "So, Hogan, what now?"

Hogan drew a deep breath, and pushed his cap back. "Now we try to find our way out of this crazy garden. There's gotta be some kind of...what the hell is that?"

A weird squeaking sound gave notice of the approach of yet another of the bizarre entities of which this strange place had an apparently endless supply. This one, coming into sight, was the oddest yet; barely taller than the flowering plants on either side of the path, its face wider than it was long. There was something deeply unsettling about its fixed stare and amiably empty smile. The noise was produced by the small three-wheeled contraption the creature was pushing along.

It came to a stop at sight of the two men. "Makka pakka," it mumbled to itself; then, more assertively, "Makka pakka."

Hochstetter smiled a nasty smile. "I think I can deal with this, Hogan."

As he strode forward, the creature unhooked a small trumpet from the handlebars of its little machine, and blew a single atonal note. Then with fussy care it replaced the instrument, and rummaged in the basket on the front of the trolley.

The next moment both men dived for cover. The air seemed to tremble with the after-echoes; and further along the trail, there was a crashing noise as one of the Tittifers tumbled from the branches.

"Well, don't blame me, Major," hissed Hogan, as they took refuge under a bridge. "How was I to know the little creep had a gun?"