Disclaimer and et cetera: Please see Chapter 1…
DANGER DENTISTEpilogue
Vin cracked open one eye and realised the white expanse was the pillow his face was buried in. Risking both orbs he cranked up his eyelids and flopped over onto his back with a groan. It wasn't fair. His mouth no longer hurt for the first time in months but now the inside of his skull was hosting Aerosmith in Concert. He recognised "his" bedroom at Chris's ranch. Maybe he should just get Chris to shoot him now?
He vaguely remembered going to the dentist's yesterday, which would explain why he now had this monster headache and a mouth like the inside of a chicken coop. He had tried to tell Fredericks what that stuff did to him but nooooooo – nobody listened to ole Vin!
Finally he managed to get all limbs moving in the same direction at roughly the same time and shuffled into the small bathroom, stripping of his boxers and standing under the water for several minutes to let it pound him back to consciousness; he knew it was unlikely he would use all the hot water and frankly didn't give a damn if he did. Vin knew Chris was secretly pleased that the big old ranch house was once again used by people – not that the grumpy cuss would ever admit it – and his friend had made several alterations to make things more comfortable for his six most frequent houseguests, such as a specially large water heater to cater to seven showers of a morning.
All of Team 7 kept changes of clothing at the ranch and Vin was a frequent enough stay-over to have built up an entire second wardrobe. Changing into fresh jeans and shirts, Vin pulled on his boots and made his way downstairs as the scent of fried sausages grabbed his taste buds and frogmarched the rest of him towards the kitchen.
As he had surmised, Chris was already up, dressed in jeans and T-shirt that were – well, not white. Chris turned and Vin smiled as he saw that this black T-shirt was his recent present to Chris. Under an exploding mushroom cloud, the T-shirt bore the ominous warning: Armageddon has nothing on me.
"Sit down," growled his imperious leader, placing a big mug of aromatic coffee and a plate heaped with cholesterol-laden fried pork products in front of Vin. "You'll eat all it."
Hiding a grin, Vin picked up his knife and fork and tucked into what appeared to be the components of two entire deceased pigs – bacon, sausage, ham, gammon, plus biscuits, beans and tomatoes. Vin knew he had always been underweight for his height even as a small child when his mother was alive, a situation not improved by foster carers who chose to spend his upkeep money on booze, cigarettes and/or their own kids, followed by his time as a homeless street kid.
One of Vin's quirks was a tendency to wash his hands immediately after a meal, something he had never given any thought to until Chris brought him into Team 7. He had been getting a mite worried about the way Nathan Jackson seemed to follow him to the men's room after the group had had a meal, until the African-American delicately broached the subject of eating disorders, having been worried that Vin was leaving the table to regurgitate his food. Everything had been sorted out, but of course a shamelessly eavesdropping cuss named Chris Larabee had made it one of his missions to put some meat on the Tanner bones.
As a matter of fact Vin had to admit that Aerosmith seemed to have left the cranium and he began to feel more human as he ate the deliciously cooked food. Over the years since Team 7's inception in March 1998 and especially since Vin had joined it eight months later, Chris had gradually rejoined the living, easing away from his shadow-world of devastating loss and pain, though he would always bear the marks of such overwhelming grief. Chris was now able to remember happy times with his wife and son that were not accompanied by soul-tormenting agony.
During one such reminiscence he had let slip that he had actually done most of the cooking. As a kindergarten teacher, Sarah had a busy schedule and while she did not mind doing most domestic chores seen as traditionally female – ironing, cleaning, etc., - she drew the line at cooking, declaring it boring and too messy to bother with; only Sunday dinner, 'the day of dumplings' did Sarah cook, following the tradition of her mother, it had appeared. Sarah had found a ready ally for her cause of "perpetual take-out" in the form of Buck Wilmington, and so it had been left to Chris to get nutritious food from all the food groups down their gullets, instead of just pizza, Chinese and Indian.
"Can I go play now, Daaad?" Vin whined in perfect imitation of a six year old once he'd cleaned his plate.
He sniggered as he received a silent one-fingered reply, taking his coffee into the other room and settling down on the big old couch as he flicked the TV on and began to channel-hop. Diablo came and flopped down beside it, the more agile Sam clambering up and sprawling across Vin's abdomen, enjoying the chance for a bit of fussing before his master entered and ordered him back onto the floor.
About to reach for his coffee, Vin's attention was caught by the words, "… dramatic arrest of Denver's Danger Dentist…" Sitting further up, he hit the volume increase button on the remote and watched in astonishment as a local TV news station filmed a familiar looking figure on a police bike. He looked up at Chris Larabee who was lounging against the kitchen doorframe. "This is for real?"
"Yep."
Vin turned his attention back to the TV. The video footage of the "chase" wasn't very clear, as the media had been kept well back, but Vin certainly recognised himself on the bike being tailed by Chris's Ram as the TV reporter's voice-over described how George Fredericks DDS had been arrested yesterday after ignoring an "unidentified ATF agent's repeated warnings" that he "was violently allergic" to the anaesthetic and then compounding his hubris by letting the agent leave his premises while high from the drug's effects.
Vin winced as the reporter related how the agent had stolen a police motorcycle and led the ATF and Denver PD on a high-speed chase through and out of Denver City, shaky footage of the TV news van bouncing along in the wake of the pursuit vehicles flashing on screen. One enterprising sound man managed to tune into the police band in time to hear Vin's excited encouragement to ride up Widowmaker Peak and Vin recoiled as Chris's awesome bellow to stop sounded over the TV speakers.
"Ah wuz gonna try the Widowmaker?" He muttered incredulously, such a stupid stunt having never ever entered his head.
"Yeah." Chris's tone didn't disguise the remembered fear.
Vin watched the remaining fuzzy footage, but then choked and turned to look at Chris with an expression of absolute horror as his address to Chris was clearly delivered into the room. "Ah didn't…?"
"Yes, you did."
Vin groaned and flopped back onto the couch as Chris turned off the TV. It was a miracle Chris hadn't shot him! But…maybe… "Can ah point aht that this is really all yer fault, since yer wuz th' one who made me go t' th' dentist in tha first place?"
Walking back into the kitchen, Chris stopped and then turned slowly to face Vin's self-righteously pleased expression.
His eyes narrowed. "Tanner, you called me Chrissie. In public." He let the naked edge of steel tinge his voice. "Twice."
Vin watched him walk back into the kitchen and fell back with a fresh, deeper groan. Aw hell…
© 2002 & 2012, C D Stewart
All rights reserved
Update 31.05.2003: A big thank you to Jodi who emailed that she had found the story I describe below. The author is Heather F, the title Changes In Attitude and the quote below is about halfway down page 2 of the story. It's at Blackraptor.
Original author's note 2002:
NB – If the * paragraph on page 13 has familiar-seeming wording, you are not imagining it – I wanted to put in something regarding Vin's phobia about being restrained, then found the paragraph I have reprinted below in an ATF story on the Blackraptor site - I thought it was so well written that I decided to use it here - although I have "split" the paragraph up and made some minor word/grammar changes. Unfortunately, I have lost the bit of paper that I wrote the story title and author on, so I cannot credit her as of this posting. If any reader recognises the author who wrote it or the title of the story from which it came, please let me know so I can credit her:
Everyone knew Vin didn't tolerate any kind of restraints. He would go ballistic, completely irrationally, mad and act out accordingly. No one ever made light of the fact, no one even dared make fun of the Sharpshooter and no one ever even joked about confining the young Texan.