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Chapter Four: Miscellaneous Mirages and Squiggly Lines on the Horizon

Sheridan rocketed out of the clay hut at full tilt. Tripping unexpectedly over a rock, he fell— rather than let that slow him up he shuffled backwards on his bottom, seeking only to get as far away from his new wife as possible.

The size of the woman— it was incredible!

He couldn't do it.

Not only would he certainly without doubt be crushed on the— he shuddered— honeymoon, he'd probably be eaten as well.

Ah well, he had the money in his pocket, and he wasn't a turn-coat mercenary for nothing.

Stumbling to his feet, he ran for it.

As he escaped the village on foot, behind him he heard vague shouts that he didn't like the sound of at all— fervently he hoped that didn't come back to haunt him someday.

After several hours jogging along the African countryside, he finally sighted his first sign of civilization since leaving the village— quite unexpectedly, it was a McDonalds.

He stopped, stood and stared at it for a minute, dumbfounded. Then he began to curse his bad luck. Obviously, anyplace with air conditioning would be welcome at this point, but couldn't he have found someplace with food that would be on his diet?

He shook his head and headed for it anyway. Sure enough, the greasy smell of the week-old fries bubbling in a vat of engine oil got his duct-taped stomach curiously excited— he patted it reassuringly as it crept nervously around his inside.

He opened the door and stepped inside. It was just as hot inside as out, and smelled worse to boot. He swallowed and forced himself to go up to the counter.

"Excuse me," he said to the person with the alarmingly fake smile who stood there, "can I get a water, please?"

"No," said the person with the alarmingly fake smile, "sorry."

"What? Why not?"

"Because this is a mirage," she said simply. "We do serve sand, sir, but that's all, I'm afraid."

Sheridan frowned at her and she shivered slightly with the grandeur of it. Then he squinted at the restaurant, to use the word loosely, around him. "It looks real to me," he said dubiously.

"Well, even so, it is a mirage, sir."

"But aren't mirages those little squiggly lines on the horizon?"

"No, sir, those are heat waves."

He squinted at her. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course. I am a mirage expert, I ought to know the difference between them and heat waves."

"If you're a mirage expert," he demanded suspiciously, "then why are you working at McDonald's?"

"Because," she said, her smile not wavering for a moment, "it's a mirage."

"Ah." He sighed deeply. "And if I just stay here and talk to you—"

"Eventually you'll die of heat and lack of water," she said. "That's right, sir."

"I see." He frowned in renewed suspicion. "How do I know you're a mirage? I mean, can you— change form or something?"

"I don't do party tricks," she said, her smile now looking a little fixed. "But if I weren't a mirage, how on earth do you think I'd be able to understand your thick Scottish accent?"

"Ah. You've got a point there."

"Of course," she agreed smoothly.

He frowned a bit more and chewed his lower lip. "Got a mirror around here somewhere?"

"Only a mirage one."

"That'll do."

"In the restroom."

He went into the restroom and located the mirror by dint of looking for it. He approached it a bit warily— after so long in the desert, who knew what the heat would do to his smooth, supple Celtic skin— and steeled himself to look in it.

An apparition looked back at him.

He yelled in alarm, then realized the apparition was Croft.

She stepped out of the mirror and stood before him.

"I hear you're coming to kill me," she said conversationally, whipping her long ponytail around like helicopter blades. He ducked.

"Yes," he said, "but it's nothing personal. Or rather, it is. Very personal. But you shouldn't feel bad about it. I mean, I'd like you to. I intend to inflict some serious pain on you before you die. But really I don't mean anything by it. I just hate you."

"Are you sure?" she said.

"No. Yes. Maybe."

"Is the heat making you indecisive, or are you normally like this?"

"No. Maybe. Yes. I don't know."

She sighed deeply and said, "Very well then, I don't see that we have anything further to say to each other." So saying, her hair rotated faster, stronger, and, with a sound like a freight train, lifted her into the air and carried her away. McDonald's melted away around Sheridan, leaving him alone in the desert, determined not to cry, but feeling a bit neglected.

Luckily, at that moment, a small two-passenger airplane landed for a moment.

He thought it was another mirage and ignored it, and it wasn't until the passenger in the back seat jumped out and shouted at him, and then tackled him, that he paid it any attention.

And then it took another few minutes to get him to realize that he was in fact, not walking across the desert, but was sitting on someone's lap in a seriously overweight airplane that was elderly and doddering to begin with, in imminent danger of crashing in the middle of nowhere, and so perhaps he wasn't much better off anyway.

They got him, in time, to a larger airport, where he spent a day or two in someone's house, in someone's bed, raving to himself about squirrels and offensive hamburgers. It didn't make much sense to him, and seriously disturbed the occupants of the house, most of whom had to go in for extensive counseling.

Such is life.

Sheridan's, anyway.