Use the Spray   

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.  Use the Spray 

by Catvina (the pre-seperation surgery Catherine (Acer canadensis) and
silvina) 

Thanks, Shannon, for the name.  It's spreading.  Thanks a whole lot.  #1
Sublimation 

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.  #2 An Ill Wind That
Blows No Good 

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."  #3 Punctuated Equilibrium 

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.  #4 Walking on air; blown
down by the wind 

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.  #5 Artist in Residence 

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.  

 #6 Atmospheric Pressure 

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!"  #7 What's Your Function? 

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?"  #8 Take My Breath Away 

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