Standard Disclaimer. Special Disclaimer: Blame it on lack of sleep, the phase of the moon, PG's potty humor and Shannon. These short stories are the kind of thing you come up with when you live directly across the hall from a bathroom you share with 18 other people and their guests, and the cafeteria decides to do a Mexican Night. Silvina wanted to post it for April Fool's Day and I wanted to save it for Paul Gross' birthday (April 30), so we compromised and decided to post on the 15th, her little sister's birthday. Please send comments, questions, compliments, and otters to sdelcul@mail.com and/or clyoung@learnlink.emory.edu or visit http://www.members.xoom.com/dueSou.
Warning: Excessive use of the word fart lies ahead. We don't actually admit to having written them, but we think that whoever did write them did a pretty funny job, in spite of the potty humor. If you're in a silly mood, you may enjoy them.
Warning #2: Three of these eight pieces are actually Sentinel fiction, but since they fit with the rest of them, and since we know that there are a lot of other Sentinel fans on this list, we went ahead and put them in at the end.
by Catvina (the pre-seperation surgery Catherine (Acer canadensis) and silvina)
Thanks, Shannon, for the name. It's spreading. Thanks a whole lot.
For once in his normally hectic life, Ray Vecchio was on time to pick up the ever-punctual Benton Fraser. And equally shocking, Mr. Punctuality, Mr. I'm-Emotionally-Stable-And-You're-Not, was late. To complete the round of strangeness, he even found a parking spot right in front of the Consulate.
Whistling a jaunty tune, Ray ascended the stairs and let himself into the building. Hearing voices, he walked towards the conference room. He could see the back of the Dragon Lady's head and hear her giving orders for tomorrow night's banquet. Catching Turnbull's eye first, he smiled at the shy man. Then he stepped to one side and spotted Fraser, and the smile became a full-out, room-illuminating grin. On duty until he was dismissed, Fraser maintained his professional Mountie expression, but only the most hardened cynic could miss the love shining behind the sudden warmth of his eyes.
Glancing at his watch, Ray decided to give Thatcher a few more minutes before interrupting and dragging his partner away, and to pass the time he began thinking about all the things he had planned for tonight. In his mind they'd just finished dinner, when a loud noise broke the air as the ice-cold Dragon Lady broke wind. He bit back a yelp at the sudden rude awakening from his daydream.
Recovering from his initial surprise, he realized that neither of the two Mounties standing at attention had so much as batted an eyelash, and he rolled his eyes. He had just licked his lips in preparation for mouthing "I'll wait for you in the car" when a sulfurous wave stopped him in his tracks.
Catching Fraser's eye, he made a great show of holding his nose and pantomimed gagging. The corner of Fraser's mouth twitched, and he looked away. Turnbull noticed the slight movement, and without breaking his attentive stance, turned his eyes to see what had caused it. Noticing Ray, who was now giving a Broadway-caliber performance of a man choking and fighting for air, he turned the color of his uniform and studied the floor. And the Dragon Lady kept right on lecturing.
His luck had always been horrible. Thatcher had given him the rest of the week off after he'd spilled another coffee and then ordered him back when she remembered that both Fraser and Ovitz would be out that week. He wasn't really klutzy, not normally. It was just that Inspector Thatcher made him nervous, very nervous. The madder she became, the more nervous he became, in a vicious circle. Sergeant Frobisher had been kind enough to send him the recipe for moose hock rolled in wild boar tongue, smothered in Gorgonzola cheese, and thinking he had the entire weekend, he attempted to capture the feel of the recipe even though he didn't have all the necessary ingredients and had to approximate it with a hot dog wrapped in bacon and smothered in Velveeta cheese sauce. It hadn't worked.
In fact, this approximation was sitting in his stomach rather unpleasantly, creating a similar aftereffect. And he still had four hours on guard duty. Somehow he made it to the very end, although the last fifteen minutes were endless. Cooper smirked at him as he relieved him, aware that his extra turn at guard duty was a punishment.
Not wanting to defile the Consulate with such a profane act, he walked down the street to the dumpster. Moving to the far side, he checked to make sure no one was around. Alone, he slowly relaxed certain muscles in order to relieve the pent-up gas slowly and quietly. Even though only the most sensitive ears and noses would have picked up anything, Turnbull was horrified at his body's betrayal and he turned as red as the uniform he wore.
As soon as the blushing went down he began walking quickly back to the Consulate to continue his shift. He passed Morgen as the homeless man was packing his things. He stopped to drop a loonie in his cup, necessitating the inevitable conversation about the color of the money. Somewhere in the conversation, Morgen did the unthinkable. He broke wind so loudly that Turnbull could almost swear he heard a window rattle. The accompanying stench had his head reeling. Unable to speak, he stumbled away as Morgen bid him a cheerful adieu without a hint of embarrassment. The odor clung to him like stale cigarette smoke all the way back to the Consulate.
Head and eyes down, he tried to walk past Cooper, fighting the urge to run far away. He hoped to avoid Inspector Thatcher until the smell dissipated but that was apparently too much to ask for because immediately she turned and headed straight for him.
"There you are, Constable. The sink in the Queen's bathroom is clogged again." She sniffed. "Oh, and call the gas company. I think there's a leak somewhere."
Ray Kowalski had had just about enough. "Look, I'm gonna say this once, and I'm gonna use short words so I won't have to say it again. I. Do not. Need. Your Federal butts. On. This. Case." In his exasperation, he punctuated the statement with an accidental burst of flatulence.
Agent Henderson halted in the middle of a long, expressionless speech about exactly why Ray had been removed from the Williamson homicide. He shared an uneasy glance with Agent Parker, and then the two of them gave Ray twin nervous, sidelong stares.
After a few seconds, Ray recovered from his temper enough to notice that the room had grown silent. He glanced from one darkly suited figure to the other. "What?"
The two agents looked at each other again, eyebrows lifting. Agent Parker muttered something about the heat and turned to open the window.
It was Ray's turn to stare, and when neither agent would meet his eyes, he exploded. "What is this? What, the FBI puts a cork up your ass when they give you the trench coat and the shades? Don't you guys fart? I can't believe this. I'm talkin' to pod people." He slammed his open palms down on the tabletop and stayed there, shaking his head in disbelief, as Agent Henderson quietly excused himself from the room.
Okay girl. You've got to calm down. You've finally gotten a date with the Mountie and it's in five hours and if you don't hurry up and finish getting ready you're going to be late. Okay now, what are you going to wear? What about-no. He's seen that one. Too long! Too loose! Too drab! Too high cut! If you've got it FLAUNT it, especially tonight. Nothing to wear. It's okay, if you hurry. Pick up the phone and call Elaine . . . No! You can't ask her to help you find a dress to wear on a date with Benton! Although you can tell her all the yummy details later. But wait, this means that you can't get help from anyone unless-No. There's no way you can ask your brother what Benton would like, he's got a crush on him too, although he'd never admit it. Fine. You'll just have to go on your own. Just HURRY! . . .
Ooh! There he is! BREATHE! No, be a lady, let him seat you. "Hello Benton. You look wonderful." wonderful . . . those eyes, those lips, on mine, moving over me . . . Pay ATTENTION girl! He's talking to you! Remember, talk about his interests . . .
Why are we talking about Ray? Time to bring the conversation back on course. Flash him a little cleavage girl! Drop your napkin, bend over gently and-he's a man, he'll get the point . . . NO!!! TELL me you DIDN'T!!! "Excuse me, uh Benton, uh, I'm just going to make a quick trip to the ladies room." InOutInOutInOutInOutInOutInOutInOutInOut In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. That's it, breathe.
Look at you. You farted in his face and now your mascara's running and your eyes are red and you've got a RUN in your pantyhose and you'll never be able to look him in the face again! Maybe you can just get the waiter to tell him you got sick and had to go home . . . Yeah. That'll work.
Ben took a sip of ice water and glanced at his watch. Francesca had been in the rest room for eleven and a half minutes, and while he had to admit he was somewhat grateful for the respite, he was beginning to worry. He cast his mind back, looking for clues. She had arrived at the restaurant a few minutes late, and as he recalled she had been looking slightly uncomfortable before she'd spotted him and produced that too-bright smile. At the time, he'd attributed it to the inappropriate tightness of her clothing, but was it possible that she was ill and had been too polite to cancel? She'd experienced some flatulence just prior to her disappearance to the rest room; perhaps she had some kind of gastrointestinal distress. They hadn't even ordered yet; he really ought to call her a taxi and, he thought reluctantly, reschedule the evening.
He got up, smiling apologetically at the waiter's disapproving scowl, and located the telephone. Just as he reached it, Francesca hung up the receiver and turned around with a slight gasp. "Benton!"
"Francesca. Are you all right?"
"Yeah, um, look, I'm not really feeling very well, so if it's not too much of a disappointment, I'm gonna have to go home. I just called Ray to come pick me up. I'm sorry." She fiddled with her purse, unable to meet his eyes.
"Oh, no, no need to apologize. I hope you're feeling better soon."
"Yeah, thanks. So... I guess I'll see you around, huh?"
"I certainly hope so. I believe Ray has invited me to your home for Sunday. I sincerely hope you'll be well enough to join us."
"Yeah." She gave him an awkward smile, and left.
Ben was beginning to get the hang of this. Bite. Turn head, chew while listening to Francesca. Swallow and respond. Turn head in opposite direction to compliment Mrs. Vecchio on the food, casting an appealing glance at Ray en route. Pick up next bite while listening to Maria complain about the Valentine's Day gift Tony had given her. Chew and swallow; offer diplomatic opinion. Send thank-you glance Ray's way for putting a stop to Francesca's flirting. Smile as Ray's foot rubs against your ankle to signal you're-welcome, while listening to Maria's eldest daughter's story about the finger paint accident that day in kindergarten. Turn back to Francesca, now talking about work and thankfully avoiding innuendoes. Snatch a bite of pasta along the way and try not to stab the side of your head with the fork. Yes, dinner with the Vecchios was an art, and he was pleased to find himself mastering it.
Midway through the meal came one of those lulls that always occur in a crowded and noisy room, and into the silence, Mrs. Vecchio farted loudly. The room was silent for a moment more as the middle generation blinked in surprise and the youngest stared in awe at their grandmother, whose expression had not changed in the least. With an effort, the conversation resumed, and the children hid their mouths with their hands and giggled.
A glance at Ray confirmed that in this respect, his upbringing had held true. The Master had successfully weathered his latest challenge.
These were his favorite moments: late Saturday mornings spent largely in bed, slow sleepy sex, breakfast in bed, and having the time to actually read the morning paper. At least Jim was taking the time to read the sports section. No other section was worth the time away from studying Blair as he finished reading for his lecture on Monday.
Blair was on the last few sections of Josh Macin's Mythology and Science Among the Peoples of the Trobriand Islands, (Josh Macin the anthropologist, of course, not the porn star) when he realized what was going to happen. He was going to fart, completely ruining the lazily romantic morning. Stealthily he glanced at Jim. Not surprisingly he was fully into an article on the Jag's last game. They'd had tickets but some crazy guy had robbed a bank, requiring their presence from tip-off until the end of the overtime finish.
He looked back at his book and glanced at Jim again, reassuring himself that his lover might be too caught up to notice his indiscretion. He tried to be as quiet as possible and was grateful when he didn't hear anything. Relieved he returned to his book, staring at the pages for several minutes until he felt sure that Jim hadn't noticed. He quickly became reabsorbed in his book again, another possible crisis averted.
Exactly two minutes and thirteen seconds later, Jim Ellison, Sentinel of the Great City, felt something tickling at his nose. He looked over at Blair, who was reading one of his dusty, boring tomes of anthropology, and, mentally shrugging his shoulders, he turned back to his newspaper. Then he caught a better whiff of the smell. Nose twitching, he recognized the aroma. He turned to Blair again, interrupting his reading. When Blair turned innocent-seeming eyes to him, he couldn't fight it. "Dammit Chief, I told you to use the spray!"
Blair sighed and turned the page. It had been a long day, and he had brought the last few essays upstairs to grade in bed. Reaching the end, he scribbled a comment at the bottom of the page and tossed the paper in the "done" pile. A hundred and nine down, eleven to go. He closed his eyes for a moment to relax. He could hear the sound of running water, and he wished he could drop the essays and join Jim downstairs in the shower. He could almost feel the hot water pounding on his shoulders and running down his back, washing all of his tension away. He smiled and stretched luxuriantly, accidentally farting as he did so. The slight noise recalled him to the present, and he opened his eyes, ventilated the blankets with one hand, and picked up the hundred and tenth essay.
He was halfway through the hundred and thirteenth when he heard footsteps on the stairs and a towel-clad Jim appeared. Blair glanced up and waved his pen in welcome, then went back to his work. He finished the essay and tossed it aside, then noticed that his partner hadn't joined him in the bed. Come to think of it, he wasn't anywhere in the bedroom. Must have forgotten something downstairs, Blair figured, and picked up the hundred and fourteenth.
After a minute, Jim reappeared, and Blair repeated his glance-and-wave routine. He noted absently that Jim was holding a can of room deodorizer, then went back to his grading. He just had to get this finished. Realizing that Jim was still spraying, he looked up, puzzled. "Hey, Jim? What's up? You're gonna totally destroy the ozone layer, man."
Jim looked at him pointedly without interrupting his spraying. Not smelling anything but room freshener himself, Blair searched his memory. Light dawned, and he rolled his eyes. He so did not need this right now. "Dammit, Jim, it was a fart. A natural bodily function. Everybody does it. You're not THAT anally retentive, are you?"
Eyes fixed unwaveringly on the screen, Blair reached into the popcorn bowl and frowned as his fingers scrabbled among the hull fragments, salt, and unpopped kernels at the bottom. He picked up the bowl with his non-greasy hand, and when the TV went to commercial, he stood up, farting silently as he did so.
"Yo, Jim. I'm going to pop another bowl." His partner glanced up at him and nodded, waving the remote in his general direction. Blair disappeared into the kitchen, slipped a bag This Side Down into the microwave, punched the appropriate buttons, and settled back against the counter to wait. He wondered idly if it would be possible to bottle and sell Eau de Orville Reddenbacher. The perfume industry probably paid more than the PD.
The bowl once again full, fragrant, and steaming, he returned to the living room and sank back onto the couch. He waved the bowl in Jim's direction without looking, and when he received no response he took another handful and set the rest down on the coffee table, instantly reabsorbed in the show.
The salt made him thirsty, and at the next commercial break he got up to get himself a beer. He offered one to Jim, and when he still heard nothing, he turned to look. Jim's eyes were glazed, staring straight ahead. The beer was forgotten as Blair recognized the telltale signs of a zone.
Switching off the television, he settled into Guide Mode and patiently brought his partner back to the land of the living. Once Jim was responsive, he asked, "Hey, what did you zone on? We were just watching TV, man."
Jim shook his head to clear it. "I dunno. I was just watching the show, and the last thing I remember was Fraser pulling the phone out of the wall when Francesca was trying to call in, and then you were bringing me out of it. And I missed the rest of the show, and that's the last time they're going to air it!"
Blair waved this off. "Hey, don't worry, I was taping it. But first we have to figure out what you zoned on. Let's run down the senses. Ok, sight. Did you see something that made you zone? Hear something? You probably didn't taste anything, since you were just watching TV and we were out of popcorn. So, did you smell something? Feel something? No, that's probably not it, you've felt the couch before, and--"
Jim interrupted, nose wrinkling in concentration. "Smell ... I think ... Dammit, Sandburg, USE THE SPRAY!"
THE END