Lumberjacks, Albatrosses,
and Spam
by Emily
DISCLAIMERS: All characters belong to R:PD. I’m not making any profit from this story, so don’t pick on me.
RATING: I would say G or maybe PG for very mild language. No sex. No violence. Well, not much.
NOTES: This is my very first Highlander fic. I’ve had the idea for one for ages and will get around to writing it eventually. This was a good way to get my feet wet.
I intended to write a nice, serious piece. But Siva and the little devil on her shoulder decided otherwise. The lyrics, listed below, are from Monty Python’s The Life of Brian. Thanks, Siva. It was quite a challenge, but I had fun writing it. Life’s too short to be serious all the time.
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It had been a pleasant, if somewhat dull, week at the beach. Methos was glad Mac had invited him. It had given them a chance to repair the damage done previously to their friendship. And it had helped.
But Methos had envisioned something a little more lively when the Scot had asked him to go on holiday with him to the beach house. Parties, booze, cheap thrills. None of that had materialized. At times things were downright somber.
He had been trying to lighten things up the night before, spinning a wild tale about the twelfth century monks with whom he’d crossed the sea. He almost had Mac convinced that these men of the cloth had witnessed a miraculous vision involving crustaceans, and, therefore, vowed never to eat them again. He enjoyed watching the other man’s facial expressions; they revealed his every thought. *I know Methos is pulling my leg, but perhaps there’s a little something to this tale. I don’t want to believe it, but maybe…*
Methos delighted in keeping the often-brooding man on his toes. It was nice to see him finally lightening up after so much tragedy in his life. He was at last moving back into the world of the living and starting to have fun again.
However, going crabbing at 5:00 a.m. was not Methos’ idea of fun. It was dark, damp, chilly, and just too damned early. Duncan knew he didn’t do mornings, and yet he had literally dragged him out of bed and insisted they catch that day’s supper for themselves.
“That’s why they have markets, Mac. So we don’t have to do it ourselves,” the older man whined.
“You’ve gotten spoiled, Old Man,” he teased with a smirk as they gingerly made their way to the end of the slick pier.
Methos replied by grumbling something unintelligible in a long-dead language. He did not look pleased. Actually, he didn’t even look awake.
Two hours later, they had more than enough crabs for a feast. Mac had done most of the work while Methos bitched and moaned. Secretly, however, he was glad to be there. Neither of them had so many friends that they could afford to take them for granted.
After yet another lazy day of long walks on the beach, reading, napping and light sparring, Mac set out to cook dinner. Methos volunteered to go into town to replenish their stock of beer.
He returned quickly and found Mac standing over a pot of boiling water adding herbs and seasonings. Opera was playing softly on the CD player, much to Methos’ distaste. The younger man peripherally acknowledged the other’s Presence, then went back to the task at hand.
A devious look crossed Methos’ face. Stealthily, he crept across the kitchen floor and stood directly behind the oblivious man. He waited until Mac had a crab in each hand and was about to drop the unsuspecting creatures into the boiling pot when Methos, in his best falsetto voice, shrieked, “Oh, Lord, please don’t burn us!”
Crabs went flying in different directions as Methos burst into laughter. He failed to see the vengeful look on the other’s face. Nor did he see him pick up another live crab until it was too late.
On the positive side, Methos now had another colorful tale to add to his arsenal. This one was about how he got the worst case of crabs in history.
The end
From Monty Python’s The Life of Brian:
Oh Lord Please Don't Burn Us
O Lord, please don't burn us.
Don't grill or toast Your flock.
Don't put us on the barbecue
Or simmer us in stock.
Don't braise or bake or boil us
Or stir-fry us in a wok.
Oh, please don't lightly poach us
Or baste us with hot fat.
Don't fricassee or roast us
Or boil us in a vat,
And please don't stick Thy servants, Lord,
In a Rotissomat.
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