Date: Fri, 2 Aug 1996 17:05:18 -0400 From: "(Ruth Dempsey)" Scratch as Scratch Can-- By Ruth Dempsey, Anglofans@aol.com These characters aren't mine. The story is Carrie Krumtum's fault. The tall Spaniard resisted the urge to pace. There wasn't enough room in this section of tunnel for one thing and he didn't feel like banging his head on the pipes for another. He'd sought his friend's underground home to sort out the mess he'd just gotten himself into. "Sa blow ye winds 'eigh-ho, a-rovin' Oi dew go- Oi'll stay n'more on Angland's shore sew let th' music play-ay-ay Oi'm auf on da mornin' train, across the ragin' main -- Oi'm auf t'me lurv wif a boxin' glurv ten thousand miles away!" Vachon winced. Screed must've made some money in Las Vegas. The old sailor didn't usually bellow off-key chanties unless he was feeling dreadfully pleased with himself. A rat ran squeaking overhead. It stopped and shook itself. Vachon gave it a disgusted look. Absently, he began to scratch at an itch that cropped up at the back of his neck. Screed rounded the corner and stopped, scratching at his left ear. "'Ere, phwat da 'ell yew doin' 'ere, mate. 'Ad a bite o' fruit, did jer?" "No," said Vachon crossly, his stomach rumbling at the memory of Tracy Vetter's delectable scent; equal parts apricots and calla lilies. "The Inca's dead." "O! Well, thar's a reason t'celebrate, that is!" Screed reached into the sack he carried over his shoulder and held out a large dead cat by its tail. "'Ave a drink on me!" "Madre de Dios! How can you live like this?!" Vachon took a step backward. He instinctively scratched at his left arm. "Can't complain, mate, leastways n'bloody enforcer-types is comin' after *me*," was the retort as Screed stuffed the cat back into the bag. He scratched openly at his crotch and burped. "That's part of my problem," Vachon shrugged. "I let her go..." "Ya wuss." "Will you let me finish!" Vachon continued. He'd let the resister go, only to find himself collared by her cop partner -- who was smaller in size but a helluva lot bigger on mean than he was. "Now," Vachon complained, "suddenly I'm this blonde's 'protector'." "There's a larf! OO's gonna pertect her from *yew*?" "The Inca's dead, which is one weight off my back," Vachon paused. "But he died doing our long-gone master's bidding." For some reason, that thought made him feel very uncomfortable. "Sa now yew fink yew gotta run aron savin' th' worl?" Screed snorted. "Gawan! Go 'ave a nippy at one a' th' local tarts an' clear yer head! Stop the violence! Ha!" Vachon rolled his eyes and fled, scratching surreptitiously at his back pocket. ****** "AAAARRRGGGHH!" came the piercing howl from within the old church the following night. Inside, Vachon alternately swore and writhed as he scratched at his skin. "Damned old fool and his damned rats!" He jumped out of his bed and did a naked war dance around the sanctuary trying to get away from the maddening itch. It failed, although he could swear the old statue of St. Ann wasn't smiling *that* way last night... He needed help. He considered Urs, but realized she probably wouldn't know what to do anymore than he did -- and the last thing he needed was to have *her* crying and scratching on his hands. He didn't know where to turn to among the undead. So, maybe he should try the living. He paused long enough to yank some clothes on. Now the statue of the Blessed Mother also seemed to be smiling in a peculiar fashon... Trying and failing not to scratch, he fled into the night. ***** The phone rang three times. Natalie dropped the kidney she was holding into a dish and grabbed the reciever. "Doctor Lambert," she said, shoving Sidney's head out of the dish so she could put it on the floor. Bad enough he insisted on breakfast on the table, she was *not* going to start dinner on the stove! "Hi, Natalie? It's Tracy Vetter. Listen, I have a friend -- well, I'm sort of baby sitting her -uhn- cat." The growl Natalie heard in the background sounded more like a tiger than a cat. "And -er- well..." Tracy took a deep breath. "I think he's got fleas." "Oh, God," said Natalie. "Whatever you do, don't go into work! No, I'm serious. You'll have the eggs on you and you'll give them to Nick and all the other officers and the K9 corps and Nick will bring them over here and I've *just* gotten everything cleared up from the last time. Got a pencil and paper? Good, here's what you need...." ***** Tracy struggled with the two stuffed bags. At least she didn't have to worry about opening the door -- it all but flew off its hinges and she was snatched in. "What did you get?" Vachon eyed the bags warily, digging methodically at his chest. He was wearing only a towel and tiny pink welts were rising around the line of hair on his breast bone. "Everything they had on the shelves," Tracy pulled bottle after bottle from the bag. "I know I probably bought too much, but I don't know how much flea shampoo a five-foot ten-inch vampire needs. I didn't even know you could *get* fleas..." "Shut up and give me those," Vachon growled, scratching the back of his neck again as he disappeared into the next room. Tracy heard the shower start up. Pulling out another canister, she began to generously sprinkle it over the rug. ******* "...And I'm having the place fumigated right now," said Tracy as she pulled the completed arrest warrant from the computer printer. "Luckily my friend agreed to pay for it." "Hmm," Nick shook a finger at her. "See what happens when you take in strays?" Tracy groaned. "Nick, you have no idea." ******* "Oi wunt! An'yew can't make me!" "Do you have any idea what I went through last night?" "Yeah-- got nekkid in front of th' crumpet....gak!" Screed choaked as Vachon yanked hard on the flea collar, cutting off his air. "And you are going to *keep* wearing this, you understand?" "O-right, o-right, yewr th' boss guv'nor. Cudn't yew'a gotten one o' them fancy designer ones, hey? I got's me reputation to up'old..." END