Way back, when fic writers wrote fiction, not drabbles, and the sex was integral, and PWP stood for please write profusely?
Where we had lawyers and doctors and white collars and blue bloods and construction workers and therapists and geezers and dead horses? Where thirteen year olds kept their mouth shut and one line replies were killing offenses?
Back when wild and crazy was fun and not sickening?
It all started with the question of what happens after an Immortal loses his head (see? I can even spell it correctly!!) Then Wendy the Weasel (lawyer) somehow got involved with the clean-up crew and suddenly there was this whole infomercial starring Sally Struthers and…. well, you just had to have been there.
Anyway, to make a long story short (too late), I decided to take up the banner or ferrethood and write my own HL “behind-the-scenes” story. This is about as far as I got. I don’t remember where I was trying to go with this.
It Ain’t Over Until the Fat Weasel Sings…
or ‘Song of the Executioner’ from about knee-high
by Kevin H. Robnett
It was quiet in the office. Outside, the sun had just gone down, leaving the only illumnination the few table lamps scattered around the tastefully decorated lobbies. Whitfoot paused on his way out, noticing his boss’ door open, the faint smell of tobacco wafting out. He stopped, seting his leather breifcase down as he glanced in.
Seated in the leather chair as if it was a throne was the head weasel of Thurman,Barrett and Ragsdale. Mr. Thurman himself. A touch of gray shone on his fur, especially near his face, distiguishly framed by wire-rimmed glasses. He was absently staring at the ceiling, a large cigar placed in his mouth.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” Whitfoot commented, deciding a knock would be too formal at this time of day. “You know what the doctors said.”
Thurman puffed twice before bothering to look. Whitfoot had learned from years of experience this wasn’t an insult. It was a compliment that Thurman felt he could take his time around certain partners. “You know how I love a good challenge,” the old weasel replied, indicating two leather bound portfolios on the desk.
Whitfoot couldn’t help but smile. “Kurlow and Matlin’s estate. Quite a haul. Even though you gave Mrs. Wylie that huge settlement.” It was rare to have the assets and holding of two Immortals so tied together, but the odd pair Duncan MacLeod had just fought were rare indeed. Rumors of them being lovers were quickly squelched by the pair’s weasels. ‘Domestic Partnership’ was as far as anyone would go, enough to clear up the legal tangle of survivorships and such in the wills. The joint bank account in Switzerland didn’t hurt, either.
“How is that young one we got from all the fuss? Rainey, wasn’t it?” Thurmans’ voice brought Whitfoot out of his reverie, the *very* black balance sheets evaporating into the smoky haze floating about the room.
Whitfoot gulped, knowing his lapse of attention didn’t help his chances at making full partner anytime soon. “Uh, wonderfully,” he said after clearing his throat. “He’s got some amazing ideas about the Ryan problem.”
Thurman nodded, knowing he had found the only valuble weasel in the bunch left over from Kurlow and Matlin. It was getting so hard lately, trying to decide what to keep, what to sell, who to bring on board, all the myrid of choices each time MacLeod won a fight. They were now on the verge of floundering, their firm swelled to the seams in the past three years. Why, for the first time in four hundred years, they needed a computer network. Oh, for the good old days, Thurman thought, when it was four weasels, MacLeod, and a cute secretary.
“Uh, goodnight, sir,” Whitfoot quietly said, seeing his boss lost in a flashback. A quick check of his Timex, and he saw he was barely going to make the concert. Reaching down for his briefcase, he hurried to the stairs, leaving the old weasel surrounded by dark mahogany walls, and the memories that had made them.
—————-
The Seacover Convention Center sported many pavillions, including the small and cozy Marilou Theater for the Arts. Usually, it hosted small events like children’s shows and the odd college opera. Tonight, it was home for the newly discovered religious order, the Immicans. Found by accident by a rich record producer, they were starting a world tour to promote their new CD, Hymns Without Pance.
Whitfoot walked in, his jacket in the car, his tie somewhere around Fifth Street. It didn’t take long to find the crowd from the office. They had taken up the first three rows, way over on the left side of the auditorium. Popcorn was just starting to fly through the air as he walked up, shuffling into a spare seat next to Travis, from Litigations.
“Nice seats,” Whitfoot shouted, his voice barely heard as the popcorn fight broke out. Travis nodded, rolling his program up and whopping two junior staff in front of him. *WHACK* Quickly, the food stopped flying.
“One of Brother Paul’s contingent saved ’em for us,” Travis replied, giving a young weasel on the end of the row an evil eye. The mail clerk sheepishly handed the Jellybears back to the weasel he had grabbed them from. “Ever feel like trying that ‘how many weasels can fit in a blender’ stunt?”
Whitfoot tried to keep from laughing at the mental picture. “Tell me about it,” he whispered back as the lights lowered and the Immican monks walked on stage. They opened the concert with a lovely prayer of morning that enlivened Whitfoot’s soul. Beautiful voice meshed, sending their harmonius strains floating up to heaven.
“Hey, where’s the ring girls?” a voice whispered in front of him. “Where’s Kevin Sullivan? THIS AIN’T WRESTLING!”
*WHACK*
Ah, yes. A night out with the boys…
—————-
The end