Deal With It
The Holy Ground Highlander Forum Midweek Challenge
Archivist’s Note: The stories and vignettes offered here from various Rysher Forumlanders have not been edited or changed other than having a spell-check performed and being reformatted for this website.
MID-WEEK CHALLENGE: Deal With It
Posted by Leah CWPack on Wednesday, 28 June 2000, at 6:46 a.m.
Courtesy of RAB.
Your challenge, should you choose to accept it:
Yard Sale, Garage Sale, Rummage Sale, Jumble Sale. Any variation thereof, involving at least one HIGHLANDER Immortal (not necessarily of our acquaintance). Try to keep it to a brief vignette, for focus. Script form is just dandy, if you prefer.
I see a lot of potential for evil in this set up. I know you guys will make me proud!
MWC: The Garage Sale
Posted by HonorH the Arctic Wolfe on Wednesday, 28 June 2000, at 8:53 a.m.
Okeeday, here--I got struck with inspiration last night (and boy, did it hurt). I'm borrowing my own characters here. Methos is currently Dr. Matthew Adamson. His wife is Robin, and his daughter is Claire. That's really all you need to know--I hope.
I also used the two things Rab mentioned as possible add-ons to the story: someone breaking fingernails and spiders in a box. Hope you enjoy!
The Garage Sale
Methos heaved another box onto one of the tables protruding from his garage.
"I still don’t get why we can’t just put this stuff on eBay," he grumbled.
Robin Elaine Wecks Adamson, also known as Mrs. Methos #69, gave her husband a wifely look of patience. "Three reasons. One, there’s just plain too much of it. Between Claire growing" and she nodded toward their three year-old daughter, who was poking around her father’s books "and me shrinking two sizes, we’ve got more stuff than *I’d* care to list online. Besides, the whole world simply has no need to know what size I used to wear. Two, it’s a great way to meet the neighbors. And finally, have you ever done this before? In five thousand years, have you ever had a garage sale?"
Methos gave it some thought. "Come to think of it, no."
Robin wafted her hands in triumph. "There you have it. I’m giving you a new experience. Think of it as payment for all the new experiences you’ve given me." She gave her husband a saucy wink and continued setting out clothes.
Grinning, Methos idly flipped through one of the James Michener books he was tagging for fifty cents apiece. "By the way, I told my students about this sale. You may have a whole crop of very strange college kids stopping by to haggle."
"Bring ‘em on!" Robin glanced over at a box Methos had filled and squawked suddenly. "No, you are *not* selling my Sting CDs!" She snatched out "Ten Summoner’s Tales." "You sell off a single one of these, I’ll give away your whole Queen collection for a buck."
"Oops," commented Methos. "How did that get in there?"
Robin gave him a "Don’t push me" look and went back into the house, leaving her husband with an admonition to "Watch the baby."
The morning went smoothly. A passel of little old ladies with an allergy to buying anything for the price it was marked bought out a bunch of Robin’s old clothes and two Methosian sweaters. A young couple expecting twins left with most of Claire’s baby clothes and two boxes of toys.
Around noon, Methos’ students started making an appearance. Gina and Delia, a set of roomies, bought an old computer desk and the sad remains of Robin’s experiment with in-line skating.
"We’ve got enough room to set out the rest of the stuff now," decided Robin. She went back inside and grabbed a box. At that moment, another car pulled up and the most unusual person got out.
He was dressed in black from head to toe—literally. His hair was dyed black and he was wearing black open-toed sandals that revealed his toenails had also been painted black. His face, by contrast, was pasty white. Except, of course, for his black eyeliner and lipstick. Methos recognized him at once as one of his students.
"Vince the Goth," the world’s oldest college professor said. "How are you doing today?"
"Mired down and slowly sinking in a dank cesspool of dark despair," intoned Vince.
Methos raised his eyebrows. "What’s got you in such a good mood?"
Vince’s eyes lit up with unholy delight. "My band just signed with a record label."
"Ah. Congratulations." Methos had heard Vince’s band before. Privately, he thought their sound was somewhere between "Lunchtime with Caspian" and "Live from Hell."
"Yeah, except the record Nazis want us to change our name." Vince glowered. "You can’t go back on sheer inspiration, man. I keep telling them that, but nooo—sell out to appease the masses, that’s their credo."
"You mean they didn’t like ‘The Unbearable Folly of Existence’ as a band name? I can’t imagine." Methos worked hard at projecting perfect sincerity.
"Don’t mock me, man," hissed Vince. His eye caught on something behind his teacher. "Ooh, ugly ties. Me want."
With that, Vince went poking around the clothes table. Methos could hear him muttering under his breath about possible band names. "Dregs of Humanity" was one that kept popping up. Methos chuckled inwardly as he reflected on what Darius would have thought of modern Goths.
"Hon?" called Robin, carrying another box out for display. "Would you go and get the rest of the boxes? They’re too heavy for me." She looked around. "Where’s Claire?"
Methos pointed to the garden, where Claire was contentedly yanking flowers up. Not waiting to witness Robin’s pained look, he walked back into the house and inspected the boxes his wife had filled. One contained yet more sweaters. He shook his head. Much as he loved his wife, he wasn’t about to give up some of his oldest friends for her. A ratty cable-knit white wool sweater and a grotty dark brown one escaped their fates. In the other box, he discovered several bits and pieces of Springsteen memorabilia. They joined the sweaters. Thus satisfied, Methos stacked and lifted the boxes, then walked back out to the garage—
--and froze in horror as the Immortal buzz hit and he saw the owner of it in the same instant.
Cassandra was standing there discussing the price of a set of hot rollers with Methos’ wife. The ancient witch didn’t even look up when she felt the buzz.
It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen each other since Bordeaux. MacLeod had, in his typically interfering way, made the two talk. Well, "talk" wasn’t strictly accurate. More like Cassandra had screamed insults P. Miano would have paled at in various languages while Methos had simply sat there and taken it. In the end, though, the witch had apparently decided to give taking his head another pass and left.
That didn’t mean Methos was entirely happy seeing her chatting up his wife. After a few moments of sheer terror, Cassandra glanced up, gave him a smug grin, and paid Robin ten dollars for the rollers.
"Cassandra," Methos finally managed to get out.
"Oh, you two know each other," said Robin, smiling.
"As a matter of fact, yes." Methos had to clear his throat twice in order to get that out.
"Old friends?" Robin inquired.
A snort from Cassandra answered that. "I wouldn’t go that far," said the witch. "Actually, the truth is, I was a bit curious about what . . . *Matthew* was doing with his life nowadays and thought I’d pay a visit." She looked around at the house, yard, wife, child, and dog in evidence. "Very charming. Domestic."
Methos belatedly sat down the boxes he was carrying. "Perhaps we could go and talk somewhere," he suggested.
Cassandra waved him off. "Not necessary. I’ve got all I came for." She patted the box of rollers. "Great deal on these, too."
Methos moved down toward her, warning Robin off with a look. His wife retreated, somewhat unhappily.
"What are you really here for?" he whispered.
"Just what I said." Cassandra gave him an iron-hard look. "You insisted you’d change, so I came here to determine if that was so. As far as I can tell, it actually is—much to my shock." She jerked her head in Robin’s direction. "She’s too good for you, by the way."
"Well, I know that." Methos was about to say more when they were interrupted.
"Hey, Doc," called Vince the Goth. "I’ll take this."
Methos’ jaw dropped. Vince was holding up a half-skull bronze mask.
"How in Tartarus did that get into a box?" Methos demanded.
Robin looked guilty, but determined. "Well, honey, you don’t keep it with your museum stuff, it’s not one of our display pieces, it’s certainly not decorative, and you don’t seem to think it’s worthy of going into storage, and besides, it gives me the creeps. Why not sell it?"
"Sentimental value?" Cassandra suggested acidly.
"No," huffed Methos.
Vince looked around in approval. "Angst. I like it."
"Shut up, Vince. Robin, it’s very old. It’s valuable."
Robin waved a hand. "So eBay it or something. Just get it out of the house. It’s hideous."
"Yeah," agreed Vince. "It’ll look great on my guitar."
"Offer him ten dollars for it," Cassandra told Vince in the Voice.
"I’ll give you ten bucks," offered Vince gamely.
"Will you *not* do that?" snapped Methos testily.
"Maybe if you were his slave for a year he’d let you have it," Cassandra suggested to Vince.
"I see you’ve taken one of his classes, too," said Vince. "Hey, my band’s got a concert coming up. An angsty chick like yourself would be more than welcome." He proffered a handbill with a picture of his band to Cassandra.
Cassandra took it and made a face. "Goddess! It’s the Junior Horsemen’s League!"
Vince grabbed his temples. "Now *there’s* a band name!"
"Claire!" called Robin after her child. "Look, Matthew, I don’t care what you do with it, just keep in mind I don’t want to be seeing that monstrosity anymore." She hurried off to keep Claire from getting into the roses.
Cassandra raised an eyebrow. Methos had a feeling this was yet another test and groaned inwardly. Well, what did he need with money, after all?
"All right, Vince," Methos finally said. "Twenty dollars and the Death mask is yours."
"Evil," commented Vince. He dug out a twenty, passed it to Methos, and walked off, muttering about "Junior Horsemen."
"I hope you’re happy," groused Methos.
"Very." Cassandra turned to leave. As she did so, though, the hot rollers she was carrying slipped. She caught them before they hit the ground. Unfortunately, it cost her three fingernails. She swore in Egyptian. Methos guffawed.
A set of green eyes fixed on the ancient. Deliberately, Cassandra picked up the broken-off tips of her nails, lifted them to her mouth, muttered something in a language even Methos didn’t recognize, blew on them, then tipped her hand so all three fell into a box marked "Doc Adamson’s Books."
"I remember the old days very well, Pony-Boy," she hissed. "Including some things you’d rather I didn’t. Good day. Oh, and if I ever hear about you not treating your wife right, keep this in mind." She turned and strode away.
"Zeus on a crutch," breathed Methos as Cassandra got into her car and drove away. He walked over to the box of his books, curious as to why she’d put her nails in it.
As he moved the books, three bright green, golf ball-sized spiders scrambled out of the box.
The sound Methos made wasn’t a manly yell. It wasn’t even a decent wail of anguish. No, it was an out-and-out screech. One that could be heard for close to two miles.
"What is it?" cried Robin, alarmed, and hopped over, carrying Claire.
"Thpider!" said the three year-old delightedly.
Robin, the house’s designated Warrior Babe and Spider-Smasher, relaxed. "Oh, honey, don’t worry. They’re not even poisonous. We’ll just shoo ‘em outside."
"Don’t worry?!? About gigantic radioactive mutant spiders?" Suddenly, the ancient turned whiter than Vince. He yanked off his shirt, spilling one of the spiders on the ground.
"&%^$!" yelled Methos.
"&%^$!" yelled Claire
"Honey!" scolded Robin.
Methos obsessively brushed at his skin to make certain no spiders remained anywhere near his vicinity. He turned around, examining the ground around him, making certain none of the evil creatures remained. On his third circuit, a hand proffering one of the spiders suddenly appeared under his nose.
"Can I keep it?" asked Vince the Goth.
Methos screamed again.
Robin sighed, deciding that next year, they’d just do eBay.
(Wanna know more about Robin and Methos' courtship? Go to the following story.)
MWC Entry: Lucy, you've got some 'splainin' to do!
Posted by Chimera on Wednesday, 28 June 2000, at 7:45 p.m.
Amanda smiled at the young woman walking toward her carrying a music box. She just had to have a look, being something of an expert on antiques.
"That's a very fine music box you have there," Amanda said, accosting the woman on the busy street, and smiling graciously. The woman warily allowed her to take a closer look.
"Actually, it looks very much like one that I have." Amanda added, taking the box from her to examine more closely. "In fact, it is mine!" she cried. "Where did you get it?"
Alarmed, the woman snatched it back and pointed down the street toward her apartment building. "At a yard sale in front of that building. And I got taken too," she whined. "I paid over twenty bucks for it, and it's really old."
Amanda frowned at the young woman, pulling out her wallet, "Here I'll give you twenty-five for it."
"No, thanks. I kind of like it, even if it is a bit ratty-looking." she replied, hugging the music box closer.
"Ratty-looking! That's a genuine...well, never mind," Amanda scoffed, then shrugged. "Have you ever heard of the Antique Road Show?"
The young woman shook her head.
"Good!" Amanda left the woman staring bewilderedly after her as she ran toward her building where she could see a small crowd gathered.
Behind a long table covered in small items, she saw Lucy, talking with people and handling cash. And selling her stuff!
"Lucy, what are you doing?" she whispered harshly. "Have you lost your mind?"
"Oh, there you are finally, Amanda." Lucy gave her an arch look and added, "Three months you've been gone and not a word! We're behind in the rent, and they were going to lock the place and throw me out. What else could I do? I didn't have any money, and of course, you didn't think to leave any."
"I had to see MacLeod. He needed me, and of course, I couldn't tell anyone where I was. But, Lucy, some of these things are museum pieces," Amanda said, lowering her voice, "and you're practically giving them away."
"Well, that's the thanks I get for trying to help," Lucy whined as she turned and went inside the building, leaving Amanda alone with the bargain shoppers. She turned and scowled at the crowd, who were picking over the items on the table.
"Hey, lady, how much for this vayyse with the Chinese writing on it?"
"Oh, miss," an elderly woman said, tugging on her arm, "I'd like to buy this fake Faberge egg for my daughter, but it's chipped here, see. Could you knock a few dollars off the price?"
MWC: "pack rat"
Posted by Ghost Cat--Northlander on Thursday, 29 June 2000, at 10:21 p.m.
Well, I decided to give Duncan a rest for this week and try something different. The choice this time was obvious: who would need a garage sale more than Amanda? Methos may have more history, but Lady A would definitely have more "stuff".
With that in mind, I present to you...
When the shockingly blonde woman stepped into le blues bar everything stopped. She adopted a casual "what are you looking at?" attitude while carrying two bulging shopping bags to a corner table, but inwardly she cringed. Amanda always loved getting attention, but there was still a part of her that was truly horrified by the thought of being memorable. "That's it," she thought to herself, "the hair's gotta go. Maybe it's time to go back to the red again." It had, after all, been her natural colour; not that she actually had anything resembling a natural hair colour after nearly a century of dye-jobs. Immortality may keep a girl alive, and young, and healthy; but it still had its limitations.
The owner himself came over to the table, an older man, American, with greying hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Amanda secretly thought that the cane made him looked more distinguished. He greeted her with a warm smile and a soft chuckle, "Amanda, what brings you here?"
She returned his smile with a flippant laugh of her own; "Can't a girl just stop by to listen to a little music?" Dawson didn't believe her for a second. "I know you like the blues, but not that much. Besides, the bands don't start until evening."
Amanda gave an adorable little pout that really was wasted on the old Watcher. "Fine, be that way. Have you see Nick lately?" She waved a credit card. Joe thought he could almost see a wisp of steam coming off it, but then, he had always been a touch too imaginative. "I promised I'd return this."
Dawson looked twice at the light-fingered lady "Give it back? Are you sure you're okay?" This, of course, provoked another disarming sulk. "All right, He might have stopped by. I think he said something about some overdue spring-cleaning. He had a set of keys with him."
Amanda's eyes went wide with shock. The warehouse! He wouldn't; he couldn't. Damn him, he probably would. Leaping to her feet, she almost tripped over her loot. "Joe, can you have this stuff sent back to my place? I gotta go; it's an emergency! Thanks, you're a sweetheart, bye." All this and out the door before he could say a word. With a long sigh and a weary shake of the head, Dawson calls over one of his waiters.
Nick Wolfe checked the address again. The boxy steel warehouse looked out of place in Paris, but even the City of Light wasn't immune to rampant consumerism, and people needed some place to store their excess. Stepping inside, he saw that it was subdivided into smaller storage rooms that could be rented monthly, yearly or (in the case of certain unusual clients) by the decade. He passed by several doors looking for the one he needed; the name "MacLeod" caught his attention, but he couldn't for the life of him remember why.
When he finally fit key to lock, the sight that greeted him left Nick speechless. Forget the noble Raven, what we were dealing with here was a genuine Parisian pack rat. He was just starting to open an overflowing wardrobe when a piercing scream split the air. One hand twitched to grab his gun, but he already knew who he'd see when he turned around.
Amanda stood in the doorway like an avenging angel. Hell hath no fury like a woman whose stash is threatened. "Nick Wolfe, how dare you? This is all mine, and I worked hard for it. I earned it."
"Don't you mean you acquired it?"
"Acquiring things is hard work."
"Well, some of it has to go. This is ridiculous." He picked up an object at random from a pile, "Look at this, I don't even know what it is."
She snatched the item from his grasp. "That was my first lockpick, it has sentimental value."
"I thought a pick was supposed to be a delicate instrument, this looks more like a small crowbar."
"The locks weren't that delicate back then either." Nick ignored the attempt to lighten his mood.
"At least get rid of the clothes. What do all those Ladies magazines say? Anything you haven't worn in the last 6 months. I'd bet you some of this hasn't been worn in over 6 centuries!"
"Nick you're being totally unfair!" Amanda tried every trick she knew: she pouted, she sulked, she charmed, and she distracted-- all to no avail. If there was one thing more difficult to move than a Scotsman it was an ex-cop, and Nick Wolfe would not budge. There were tears in her eyes as Amanda settled in to sort through boxes.
The whole thing could probably be counted as the most bizarre yard sale in history. The place was all but taken over for several hours by an odd group who pawed through everything, exclaimed over the most trivial item, and asked too many questions. One of them, whom her friends called Honour H, seemed to be trying to cover up her T-shirt, when she wasn't staring at Nick. Amanda was almost certain she saw the word "Highlander" printed on it, but she had no time to think of such things. "What's this?" someone asked, examining a serrated throwing knife. "It's a ginzu," she lied easy, turning on the charm as they talked price. Bargaining wasn't her favourite hobby, but it was kind of fun.
By the end of the week, a drama school had a whole new set of period costumes, a hobby archaeologist had nearly had a heart attack, and Amanda's endless collection of Things had been pared down considerably. It had been hard letting go of her "treasures." Nevertheless, she felt that strange sense of selfless satisfaction that Duncan had been trying to explain to her for years. Besides, now she had enough money to go shopping again. Oh, and in all the excitement, Amanda never did remember to return Nick's credit card.
MWC.. The Garage Sale.. with apologies to everyone..
Posted by Lovie MacFru on Thursday, 29 June 2000, at 8:25 a.m.
for not coloring within the lines..
Posted by A. on Thursday, 29 June 2000, at 8:15 a.m.
Emerging from his barge on the Seine River, Duncan MacLeod looked irritably at the six tables lined up along the concrete to the side of the barge. On top and underneath, the tables were piled high with assorted antiquities. The morning sunshine glinted off jewelry, metal, lacquered boxes, and glazed ceramics, making Duncan squint. Methos had set up one table with two chairs, a cooler, and a cash box. When he reached that table, MacLeod sighed and plunked down in the chair beside his friend, continuing his annoyed assessment of the situation before him.
"You know, when I agreed that you could have a small sale in front of the barge of a few belongings, I did not expect you to show up with a whole truckload of items."
"Well, I may have underestimated a little."
Duncan snorted his disbelief. "A little?"
"Hey! Just wait and see how much junk *you* gather after five thousand years," Methos commented, sweeping his hand toward the sprawl of miscellany.
"And you call all this junk? Some of these things are priceless."
Methos waved a dismissive hand.
"I still can't believe you sold a Chinese vase worth 500000f for 500f. You should give some of these things to museums!"
"What? And deny people the chance to tell a great story on the 'Antiques Road Show'?
MacLeod got to his feet and started rummaging through a box of trinkets on the table next to him. He picked up a small light yellow button that asked in glaring red and blue letters, 'What is it? My nose?'
MacLeod laughed, "Well, I guess some of this stuff *is* junk."
"I've been telling you that all along, MacLeod. I mean, what's one more ancient Chinese vase to me? I don't remember where I even got the bloody thing."
"Do you remember where you got this? We may not even be able to *give* this one away."
MacLeod tossed the button to Methos, who caught it and glanced down at it. Methos' face fell slightly when his eyes fell upon it. "One man's treasure, indeed," he commented to himself and then looked back to his friend with wistful eyes, "*This* is not junk, MacLeod."
"What is it?" Duncan asked, puzzled.
Methos looked back down at the shiny plastic button, rubbing a couple of fingers across it and speaking quietly, "I do remember, very well. Alexa bought this in a shop gift shop at San Francisco International Airport. It cost $2.16... she had forgotten to take the price off," he chuckled softly, "she refused to get on the plane until I put it on."
"Oh?" was all MacLeod could think to say as he returned to his chair.
Methos looked back up and gave a small smile to his friend before pinning the button to his own shirt. "You were right, MacLeod, some of these things really are priceless."
MWC - Some Things
Posted by lynnann - a heart that's true on Wednesday, 28 June 2000, at 9:45 p.m.
This could be entitled “Rummage Sale – the Prequel”…
Duncan MacLeod was in Seacouver for an extended period on business, when one morning he suddenly decided it was time to lighten the load, at least the one in this part of the world. He would probably sell the dojo eventually, and it might be best to get started now. Dressed in a black t-shirt, faded jeans and well-worn boots, he took the elevator down to the basement below the dojo where he had stored his personal belongings, some dating from his first arrival in the United States.
It had been over a year since he had come down to what Richie had called the dungeon, and he had forgotten just how much he had accumulated. He almost turned around and left, the task somewhat daunting, but he straightened his shoulders in a snappy movement reminiscent of his military training. “Forward, men, into the breach!” He dug in, humming a tune from the world war…the first one, that is. The box closest to the door of the storage room included an incomplete table setting, thanks to Amanda trying to get her way over something long forgotten, a broken lamp he meant to fix someday, courtesy of Richie’s impromptu sword practice in the loft, and some old paperbacks, read once, and of no further use to him. The second box was another collection of paperbacks. They could all go, no problem. “Piece of cake,” he murmured the old pilots’ phrase. This was going to be easy.
By the time he got to the ninth container, he had the three distinct piles labeled in his mind: Keep for now, check with Joe, and rummage sale. He was pleased to see the third pile in the open area of the basement was bigger than the first two combined. He was making progress. The ninth container became a fourth pile all by itself: trash. Most of it was unusable clothing that he had thought to keep for rags, but there would be plenty more where that came from. Slashed shirts and perforated pants seemed to follow him wherever he went. Then he changed the mental label: incinerator. He would hate to have to explain the condition of the clothes to the police or anyone else. He was surprised he had kept it at all. Damn his Scots thriftiness.
Two more incomplete table settings, courtesy of the Immortal brat Kenny and his tizzy fits, two coffee makers that never really worked very well in the first place, and the mistake of the century, all went into the pile for the rummage sale. “What a bunch of junk,” the antique dealer thought. He took the shredded, air-conditioned clothes to the boiler room and disposed of them. During a quick trip back to the loft for something to settle the dust in his throat, he called Joe Dawson, also in town on personal and Watcher business.
“Rummage sale? Don’t get rid of anything without me, Mac. And I’m going to want details, too.”
“You always want details, Joe. You probably have more details written down than I’ll ever remember.” He studied the fingernail he had torn on a crate. It was too bad they did not heal as quickly as the rest of him.
“Part of the job, MacLeod, just part of the job.”
“You want details, Dawson? Fine. I bought the 8-tracks in a fit of insanity.”
“Damn! You too? I’m out the door.” MacLeod could hear him laugh before the receiver clicked into place.
In the dungeon once again, MacLeod moved three crates automatically to the keeper pile, because he knew exactly what was in them by the labels, and it was all over one hundred years old. It was then that he found a medium sized crate he did not recognize, only labeled as “Mac.” “Just like Christmas,” he thought. A clawed hammer made short work of the lid and he froze as his nostrils flared at the unforgotten scent of a perfume.
His hand trembled as he reached for the single piece of buff colored stationery lying on top. He knew what the note would say, because Richie was now part of him forever. “You never did listen to me,” he muttered briefly. He read the note, and then he began to empty the wooden box, slowly, lifting each moment of time carefully, afraid any sudden movement would waken him.
Dawson found him there, sitting on a sturdy crate, and Duncan appeared to be thinking, remembering. Items Joe recognized as things that Tessa had favored, sketchbooks, a backpack, and other mementos surrounded his friend. The Immortal held a brown leather-bound book in his hand, against his chest, and Joe suspected it might be a journal. The Watcher had seen enough of them in his lifetime. Joe stepped forward, wanting to console his friend, but he was unsure if it was necessary. “Mac?” he questioned.
Duncan looked up at his Watcher, at his friend, and he picked up a piece of paper and passed it to him with a single word, “Richie.”
Joe read the note on the letterhead, “Mac, I’m not sure if you really wanted me to get rid of these things too. You were hurting when you told me to; we both are right now, and I can’t do it. I think it would be better to keep it until some time has passed. I’d hate it if you decided you wanted something of hers after it was all gone. Sorry if I made something worse. Richie.” “I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm, Mac,” Joe said, “He was still just a kid when Tessa died.”
Duncan gripped Tessa’s journal tightly. When he spoke, it was with gratitude. “In some things, Joseph, Richie was wise beyond his years.”
thanks for reading
MWC - Rummage Sale. One day only everything must go!
Posted by stitches MacWench on Sunday, 2 July 2000, at 1:40 a.m.
This is what the ad said as I opened the Daily News to the classifieds. The paper arrived on time as it always did every morning. Folks say you can set your clocks to Jimmy. The sun was a welcome sight after three straight days of rain and the weather man was predicting sunny skies the rest of the week.
That's good news to me because my sale is in two days and the ground needs some drying time.
I bought this house as a fixer upper and the realtor was right it need it. I was also told that whatever was in the house was part of the cost. I was thinking furniture and appliances but what I found was unbelievable. In every room there were boxes and boxes of everything imaginable. From dishes to linens to clothes. Some boxes had your average knickknacks and others had the very unusual. I found mismatched shoes and stockings in one box and yet another box stored the biggest collection of pipes I have ever seen. But the most unusual item was a corset that had a pocket knife tied to one of the ribbons. I would love to hear about that one.
I've been at this for a week and know the time is here. All I have left to do is mark the prices and I'll be ready.
"CHEAP!!! Those things are not cheap! I would never own anything cheap."
"I think she means the prices not the items."
"Oh, but laddie she can't do this to me. She just can't sell all my things as if they were nothing. That's my life she has in those boxes and I don't want it scattered all over town. A piece here a piece there. I have to stop her before it's too late."
"And how do you plan on doing that. You're in heaven and she's alive and well I might add."
"With your help."
"Oh, no, not this time."
"But you helped me with MacLeod."
"That was a worthy cause. This is just plain personal. I can't do it."
"You must. You're my only hope! Oh laddie just give me one day, 24 hours. That's all I need."
"And if you can't convince her?"
"I will, you just watch."
"Ok. you have 24 hours."
"Now what." I said out loud as I went to check out the noise. I have this bad habit of talking to myself. One of the boxes must have fallen over but I took a bat with me just in case. Better safe than sorry.
As I entered the living room I stopped short and said to the man undoing what took me days to do, "What do you think you are doing and how did you get in here? But most importantly get out now or I'll use this bat on you and then call the police, NOW MOVE!!!"
(heeheehee)"Shut up." Fitz said while looking up.
"I will not shut up. This is my home and I want you out NOW!!"
"Yes you can and will." and at that I swung the bat but to my surprise it missed. I swung again and yet I never touched the man. The bat seemed to go right through him. This can't be happening, I'm not crazy but...
"No lassie you're not crazy and yes the bat went through me. You see I'm not alive, I'm an angel, well kind of."
"What do you mean kind of? Either you are or you're not. Hey stop taking those things out of the boxes and get out!"
"You can't stop or you can't leave?"
"You won't believe this and to make a long story short, I'm the previous owner of all this and I don't want you to sell it off. You see lassie, this is my life, the good the bad and the fun. I can't have it all over town for all to share."
"You're right, you are the previous owner but I own it now and I don't have room for it here so it must go so go away." At that I turned and started tagging things and told myself to just ignore him. But for every item I would tag he would untag, and that is how I my day went. Back and forth we went until I had just about enough and called a truce. It was way past time to eat and I had to rest for the next round. I went to the kitchen and fixed myself something to eat and almost collapsed in the chair. The man sat across from me and watched. "Are you hungry?" I asked.
"No, we don't get hungry. Thanks for the thought."
"Hugh Fitzcairn but my friends call me Fitz."
"Fitz. Tell me where did you get all these things?"
"Oh, here and there, this place and that."
"That's not an answer. One would think you were trying to hide something. Did you steel this stuff? I mean a lot of these items took like they belong in a museum or something. What gives?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Let's just say I've been around a while before I was killed and leave it at that shall we?"
"You were killed? Tell me about it."
"It involves my good friend Mac and an evil man named Kalas. Needless to say Kalas won." Fitz looks as if he were in another time and place and then the stories began.
He told me about MacLeod and how they first met and became friends. They did many things together one of which was learning how to read. He said Mac saved his life many times and he Mac's but my favorite story was when they stole the Scone of Stone and replaced it with a fake.
Amanda was another story all her own and he told me if I thought he had a lot of things I should look Amanda up and ask her what she has stored. The most beautiful woman in history is what he called her and from how he described her I tend to believe.
Fitz also told me about Richie Ryan and how his life was ended too soon, Joe Dawson and a group called "The Watchers" and of Methos who he called the oldest man alive and that he calls himself Adam Pierson and he was part of the Four Horsemen. The stories went on and on and I sat there thinking, man I wish I was recording this "cause this would make one hell of a TV series or movie.
In the end I was in all. Whether the stories were true or not I don't know but they moved me to ask for a compromise. "Why not sort through the boxes and you tell me what should be saved, sold, given away or thrown out. I can't keep it all but I'll keep what's most important o you. Deal?"
After what seem to take forever Fitz agreed to these plans and so we set out to do just that.
When we finished the last box I was exhausted. My entire body hurt but all I could think of was we were done.
Fitz had a few more hours on earth and I was dead on my feet so we said our good nights and I went to bed. When I woke up the next day I knew he was gone and I felt sad. For that short time of knowing him I felt like I had known for a lifetime and I'll never forget him and our time together. The rest of the day was spent setting up tables inside and out and arranging everything.
The big day finally came and as the weather man said it was sunny and dry. It seemed the whole town came to my Rummage Sale and I even overheard a couple of ladies say that they didn't intend to buy anything but was curious as to what the previous owner left behind. But minutes later they were paying me for a box of stockings they swore they could find mates to at home. Heehee, go figure.
Months later I find a letter in my mailbox postmarked Seacouver. Inside was a thank you from MacLeod for sending him the golf clubs and for reminding him of a dear friend and all the wonderful times he they had.
This made my heart glad. I'll never forget my friend Fitz either. As for the pipes? I have them in special display cases hanging in the dinning room. And the corset with pocket knife? The stories goes, A certain lady bet Fitz that he couldn't remove it from her person in less than 30 seconds. It seems her last conquest did it that fast. Well Fitz couldn't resist and took the bet and as you might have guessed won. It took him all but 10 seconds one sec. for every ribbon he cut. The lady rewarded him for his cleverness and gave him the corset with the knife tied to a ribbon. I have both items in my glass coffee table sitting on a cloth of royal purple for all to see.