Celedon The Mickey “Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Exhibit A,” said a man sitting around a card table with several other men and women. He flourished a fat stogie so that all could see it then slowly pulled it across under his nose so that he could get a good smell of it. “Ah, Cuban!” His voice reflected his British upbringing; the clipped accent of his youth though was now softened by exposure to other cultures and languages.

“Hey, Bancroft! Where’d ya get the stogie? They’re illegal here!” one man said as he watched the man clip the end of the stogie and placed it jauntily in his mouth.

With a wicked gleam in his eye, Bancroft glanced from one face or another then lit up, puffing heavily upon it so that a blue cloud of smoke soon surrounded his head like a halo. He ignored the question put to him then said, “I will bet you each a fivver, that when Dawson comes down here and sees me smoking this delicacy, he will hit the roof!” He glanced from one face to another in a challenging fashion, then leaned back in his chair. “Any takers?”

Slowly, one by one those sitting in the chairs surrounding the table began to mischievously grin. They tossed the money onto the middle of the table, some muttering, “that this was going to be good!”. All eyes turned towards the freight elevators as they slid open, revealing the man who they had just placed a bet on.

Joe paused a moment taking in the scene before him and sniffed at the air. Instantly, his eyes zoomed in on Bancroft and he limped into the room holding tightly to his cane. “God damn it, Ian! You trying to shut me down? I’ve told you all before about that smoking ordi—“ He paused as he saw his guests struggling to keep in the laughter at his expense and then shook his head in disgust.

Bancroft picked up the loot on the table and grinned at his old friend. “You worry too much, chappie! And you’re much too predictable!” He threw a glance at the others and smiled smugly. “And all of you are so easily taken!” He chuckled and took another draw on the cigar.

“Take that outside or put it out, for God’s sake! Je-sus!” Joe shook his head again then headed over to the table and set down a small tray full of drinks forcefully. “I don’t know why I put up with all of you!”

“Because we buy your liquor!” one man drolly remarked then picked up his cards to check his hand so he could avoid looking at his host. He began to shuffle his cards about then smiled.

“Because, Joe, we know you love us—besides, we gave you the money for this place! We need you—you seem to have a knack for drawing our assignments out in the open. You and MacLeod, that is.” Bancroft replied seriously as he looked across at his friend who had taken a seat. “Pass the beer.”

Joe frowned and began passing out the drinks. “Deal me in, will ya? Give the man the cards, everyone and let’s play!”

Don Saltzer quietly tossed him his cards after shuffling them thoroughly. He swept up his cards into his burly hands and looked at them. Casually, he remarked, “I’ve always wondered something about them. We’ve all seen them in different states at different times of the day and night, right?”

All glanced at the speaker and nodded. “So?” said one of the few who had left his money in his wallet when the bets on Joe had been made. “We may have, but you haven’t except in your textbooks, Don. What’s your point?”

Don threw out a card, drawing another from the deck to replace it before going on. “Oh, I was wondering just how much it would take them really to get out and out, down in the gutter type drunk? I mean, think of the metabolisms they have as far as regeneration is concerned. Watchers have known that fact for centuries but do we really know what it would take to keel them over so that they stayed that way for a while?”

Joe listened intently and glanced at his hand. “Gimme one. Well, you’re the scholar here, Don. It’s your business to know this kind of stuff. What do the Chronicles say?” Deftly, he scooped up the card that slid towards him on the table and placed it in his hand.

“That’s the point, Joe. They don’t say!”

“Not at all?” Bancroft asked incredulously. When Saltzer shook his head, “no” he muttered, “Bloody hell!”

Don’s wife, Christine, spoke up. “I don’t suppose one could get close enough to find out, either. “ She tightly smiled then went back to reading her paper. It was shop talk, something she cared nothing about.

The hum of the elevator heading upstairs led all eyes to it then they shifted to each other in curiosity before landing finally on Joe. “You expecting someone else Joe to join us?”

Joe sipped at his whiskey, nodding as he did so. Setting the shot glass down he replied, “Pierson said he might stop by. Maybe it’s him now.” He half-turned in his chair as the elevator started its downward trip.

“Pierson, eh?” Don inquired then quieted as the doors opened on the lift, revealing a youngish in appearance, perpetual college grad student sauntering off it.

“Hi guys, what’s up?” A lop-sided grin accompanied the greeting as Pierson made his way to one of the empty chairs and bonelessly slid into it. He nodded to each and everyone, then looked at Dawson holding his gaze a moment longer than the others. “What subject are we discussing today? Anything earth-shattering?”

Jean-Claude, one of the quieter of those there, smiled shyly and said, “We’re talking about, how you say, fairy tales.”

“Fairy tales?” Methos said as he popped open a beer from the table. “Kind of an unusual subject for a bunch of Watchers, wouldn’t you say?”

“Don’t know about that, Pierson,” Bancroft replied. “Suppose it would depend on the story told.”

Saltzer spoke up, the warmth and friendship evident in his voice. “Good to see you drop in, Adam! Any luck with that lead you thought you had on Methos?”

Adam shook his head ruefully. “Nothing—as always. But I did find a reference in a very obscure Sanskrit manuscript that may be worth looking into.” He swiveled his head towards Dawson. “Just what story were you discussing, Joe?”

“Actually, it wasn’t a story per se, Adam,” said the older of the men there, who was named Nbob. “More like it was something that isn’t in the Chronicles. Don brought up the fact that no one really knows what it takes to get an immortal dead-in-the-gutter drunk—enough so that he or she stays that way for a period of time. If we could ever just have a chance—just one, perhaps we could find out the answer!”

Pierson let out a long, low whistle as he looked long and hard at Dawson again. “Rather like the children’s story, ‘The Princess and The Pea’, right? Best immortal shows no signs and/or recuperates faster despite being out of it.” He craned his long neck back towards the others at the table. “Not necessarily a good idea.”

“Yeah, you all do remember that they carry sharp pointed objects on them, don’t you? And they know how to use them!” Joe said as he laid his cards down on the table, all thoughts of the game long forgotten, as was the case with the others. “Besides, just which one would you get to be the so called ‘princess’ and where would you all be when this happens?”

“Well, Dawson, this would be a perfect spot to try out our little experiment. And since you asked, we could perhaps use MacLeod as our little guinea pig for our experiment,” Bancroft said matter-of-factly. “You said he comes here a lot—you could maybe give him a few mickeys…”

Joe quickly replied in a rough voice with hands extended in front of him, “OH NO! Not my place you don’t--you leave me out of it!”

“Well, Dawson, if you don’t do it, then maybe Mike will.”

“You leave him out of it too! You don’t have anyone here who would be foolish enough to even try to do it to him. We already know he’s good with a sword—and I’ve seen him firsthand using it.”

“Well then, I guess that leaves me to do it, “ Bancroft quietly said as he gathered up his cards. “I used to be quite a mean barkeep in my youth, at some of the toughest pubs on my side of the Atlantic! And I learned some very potent things one can drink while in ‘Nam and Southeast Asia that no one can resist or stand up after you drink them.”

“Ian—“ Joe answered in exasperation. “You can’t do that to him! Hell, it’s not fair to even try—remember, he’s human?”

“It’s for the Chronicles, Joe! Think of what we can learn from it! I could use your help however, in getting him here…”

“Well, you aren’t gonna get it!” Joe turned to Pierson in appeal. “Adam—“

Instantly, both Pierson’s hands were raised as if to ward off anything that was to come. “Leave me out of it—I’m in research, not field ops.” His face looked as if it held all innocence and light; it made Joe scowl even worse than what he already was doing.

“My ass….” Joe half-snarled then caught himself. “Just what are you going to do about this?”

“Me?” Adam asked. “I’m not going to do anything about it. I’m going to do what any good Watcher researcher does when this happens.”

“And that is?”

“Observe and record, Joseph. Observe and record.” Adam leaned back in his chair, then clasped his hands upon his stomach while crossing his long legs. He looked over at the other man then smiled in a bemused fashion at his organizational superior.

Joe shoved his chair back away from the table and lumbered upright in disgust. “Just don’t mention my name when he comes for you, OK?” He threw a final disgusted look at everyone and headed back upstairs. “You all know the way out—clean up after yourselves, afternoon’s over! Gotta get back to work!”

After Dawson’s departure, everyone slowly left one by one, until only Pierson remained in the dimly lit basement corner where he sat. Pursing his lips, he let loose a merry tune then smiled broadly. “This should be very interesting to see! Very interesting, indeed!”


The dark-haired man paused as just inside the doorway as his eyes got adjusted to the low lighting. He smiled broadly at the older man approaching him then called out to him. “Joe!” His smile faded once the other man reached him and concern replaced the smile. “Something wrong?”

Joe turned his green eyes fully upon the man before him, and shook his head slightly “no”. “Listen, I--ah, “ he began then hesitated. “I have to go for a bit. Don’t wait for me, OK Mac?”

Duncan MacLeod carefully scanned the older man’s face looking for clues as to what was going on then took a quick glance at the patrons of the bar. For the day it seemed unusually full but then again, it was lunchtime. Maybe that was it. “I thought we were going to have coffee.”

Joe shifted uncomfortably under the younger looking man’s steady gaze and shrugged. “You see how busy we are? I have to go and get a few things for the place so that we don’t run out. Go have a drink on me.”

“You sure that’s all that is wrong?”

“Yeah. And don’t drink anything you don’t know about, OK?” Joe threw a glance back over his shoulder to the man behind the bar who was intently watching the two of them.

MacLeod’s eyes followed Dawson’s and noted the man. “Someone new?”

Joe nodded, clearing his throat as he did so. “Yeah, new bartender. I’d watch what he serves you.”

“Where’s Mike?” MacLeod carefully noted the man’s appearance then shifted his attention back to his friend.

“He had to leave suddenly—some kind of emergency. Ian’s just filling in for him.” He turned to look back at the new man behind the bar and sighed. Under his breath he muttered, “Hope to God you’re a prince underneath it all!”

“Sorry?”

Joe moved to go outside and shook his head again. “Nothing, just talking to myself. Later, MacLeod.” He then ambled and made his way out the door.

For a moment MacLeod hesitated. Then he moved forward towards the bar with his duster billowing about his legs. Once reaching it he toyed with the toothpicks as he watched the new bartender approach.

“Afternoon, sir! What will it be?” Ian Bancroft had to restrain himself from catching his breath and holding it. He’d watched immortals nearly all his life but had never been close enough to actually interact with one--until now, that is. And this bugger was almost excruciatingly handsome—the photos that the Watchers had didn’t even begin to do the man justice!

“Single malt, on the rocks.” MacLeod eyed the new man. “British, aren’t you? New in town?”

“You’ve got a good ear, sir!” Ian replied as heartily as possible while his heart sank. He flicked his eyes over to the small crowd that had gathered at one end of the bar and were seemingly nursing their drinks all at the same time. “As for being new in town, I can’t say that is the case. I decided to have a bit of a change in career. I always admired the barkeeps back home in the pubs—such colorful characters they were!”

“So I remember,” MacLeod absently agreed then looked over at the crowd on the end of the bar. “Busy day?”

“Don’t know, my first day on the job as it is.” While MacLeod’s head was turned, Ian jerked his head at the observers were hanging onto every word. In a moment they dissipated, some not even bothering to hide their disappointment at the dismissal. He frowned, then got down to business when the man finished his drink and sat the glass back down. “Pardon me sir, but I was wondering if I might be able to impose upon your kindness.”

MacLeod raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

Ian leaned heavily on the bar, trying to be as convincing as possible to the man before him. “Well, you see, sir. I’m due for a big test before the Alcohol Licensing Board and a part of the test is to concoct some new drinks that use the ingredients at hand.

MacLeod waited. There had to be more to this. He was rewarded in just a moment’s time with the “more”.

Now lay it on thick, Bancroft, Ian thought to himself. He had to get the immortal before him to start drinking and heavily too if the plan were to succeed. “If I might get you to try some of what I’ve come up with, I’d be most grateful to you, sir! Most grateful!”

MacLeod stared at the man behind the bar for a fraction of a second then looked about him. Someone was coming and they weren’t necessarily mortal. He held his breath as the door snicked open and closed, revealing someone he didn’t consider a threat. Most of the time, that is.

Methos.

Almost imperceptibly, Methos shook his head and studiously went to join the crowd as if he had no care in the world that there was an immortal about. He hoped that MacLeod caught the instruction and was relieved when the Scot turned back around to face the bar.

“OK, fill her up.” MacLeod said in amicable agreement to the new barkeep forgetting for the moment the warning that his friend had given him before he left the bar.

Instantly, things flew about behind the bar and in a flash, the shot glass was filled and downed. Hour after hour, different drinks were tried in a wide range of glass sizes and colors of concoction. And hour after hour, the crowd watched and waited, some discretely taking notes on a small notepad.

Yet Duncan MacLeod still stood after all the different concoctions and high levels of alcohol. In a normal person, he had drunk enough to be killed by it but MacLeod wasn’t a normal person. Nor was he in any sense of the word apparently inebriated. He talked without a slur to his words, his hands didn’t show any signs of tremors, his hand-eye coordination seemed intact much to the crowd and Bancroft’s surprise and chagrin.

Methos/Adam had sat back and watched it all, knowing full well that there was one thing the Watchers there hadn’t thought of or had counted on.

MacLeod was a Scot. And as such, had probably started early as far as his alcohol consumption was concerned. And the man had been drinking for centuries, as had most immortals in whatever alcohol tastes were the immortal’s preference. His tolerance levels would be astronomical compared to a mortal.

Methos smiled smugly for a moment and looked at his companions at the table. “Well, I think the question has been answered, ladies and gentlemen. I think it’s time to go home.”

“But—“one of the Watchers began then fell into silence.

All eyes turned to Ian who returned their look and shook his head in amazement and a bit of exasperation at the man before him. He then busied himself with polishing one of the last clean glasses remaining in the bar. He had tried every recipe and every liquor he had learned in Southeast Asia and several other points on the globe. Nothing had even touched the man. He was defeated and he knew it.

Snapping the bar towel in mid-air, signaled that everyone should go home. The show was over and the Watchers had lost. He removed the small apron and sighed heavily. Looking one last time at the immortal, he stuck out his hand. “Thank you kindly, sir. Really appreciated the help you’ve given me this afternoon! I didn’t catch your name.”

“Duncan MacLeod. Thanks for a rather interesting afternoon.” He reached out and took Bancroft’s hand and shook it firmly. “Time for me to go too.”

Bancroft left just as Joe was coming through the door with a load of groceries in one arm. He paused and looked around at the emptiness and then made his way down the stairs so he could set down the bag. Once that occurred, he turned to the two of them and asked, “Well?”

MacLeod looked at him with a quizzical expression on his face then he lurched outside without saying goodbye, followed closely by Methos who lagged a few feet behind him until he quick-timed his step and caught up to him.

MacLeod paused in the parking lot then turned to him and demanded to know what that was about. “And who were all those people?”

“You just saved the world again, Duncan. You saved all the immortals honor—you’re a true prince!” Methos shoved his hands further into his pockets then continued. “Don’t you ever get tired of playing the boy scout?”

MacLeod began to answer then turned a few shades of green. “I don’t feel so good.” He stumbled into Methos’ arms and both fell to the pavement with Methos falling nearly on top of his friend.

“MacLeod—get up!” Methos hissed in his ear. “People are watching!” He attempted to lift the other man up but fell back down to the ground. Too much dead weight this time to even try it!

But MacLeod never heard him for he had passed out cold.

Methos rolled him over and took a look at him and then ran a hand through his hair as he pondered what to do. Finally, he muttered, “Never trust a Scot who’s been drinking, to finish the job!”

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