The following post is the pilot episode of a little fun project I started as a pre-emptive fanfic. I know, it's early. I wanted to wait to post, but I keep getting encouraged by friends to go ahead and post and let you all laugh at me. They say it won't happen. To that I say "Humbug!".

It deals with a descendant of Mac (Like the proposed tv-show, but hopefully better and more imaginative). The descendant is NOT Sean "SAM" Malloy. I made this character up. If you want to know more on his origins, you'll have to read the following episodes, which will be posted as I finish them. The second is in the midst of production. The time-line of the story is present day (2007).

So here it is, me using my writing to dig my own grave and become the laughing-stock of macgyveronline.com
Remember, it's just a pilot. It (hopefully) gets better.

Please, be gentle with me.

JUNIOR
a MacGyver fanfic by Stephen Atwood
Episode One -- Inconvenienced





Growing up, my dad always seemed to have an answer to every problem. It seemed you could always overcome any obstacle in life, as long as you followed the Golden Rules. Whatever happened, he always wanted to make sure I could take care of myself, so it was really important that I took Judo lessons with him. And I have to say, I'm lucky for it.

Because Golden Rule number one is to never use a gun, and should I ever have the choice, never kill anything that need not die.

There was this one girl in our class, Tanya. Beautiful ebony skin, wiry frame, you never saw her muscles, so you kind-of had to find out how good she was when it was far too late to back off. There was a rule that you had to take off all of your jewelry before any sparring, but she had this one necklace that she refused to take off. I thought it looked stupid, it was just this nylon cord with a pen attached to it.

I must confess, when I saw there was a girl in our class, I figured she'd be the easiest opponent. Boy, was I wrong. The very first time I was paired up with her to spar and test out our moves, I became the Sun. The world was orbiting around me at thousands of miles an hour; I was a pure blur. Children were warned by their parents not to look directly at me, or they'd go blind.

After a few rounds of finding myself on the padded blue mats, cringing and feeling alone and afraid, I swallowed my pride long enough to ask her to teach me how she could manage such stunts. So over the weekends we would hang out and practice our lessons. When I asked her about the necklace, she explained to me that she was severely allergic to peanuts, and that if she ever ate anything with peanuts in them, her lungs would close right-up. The pen was called an Epi-Pen, filled with medicine that would let her breathe, if she ever needed it. During these weekends we worked together and became friends of a sort. That was a wonderful summer.

That was the summer that I learned how to throw like a girl.

I haven't heard from her in a while. When I turned 20, I got accepted into the University of Texas at Dallas, or UTD for short. So it was with high hopes and low spirits that I packed up and moved out to live on my own for the first time in ten years. A trip from Venice, California all the way to Dallas, Texas is quite long, and it's even longer when you're leaving the man who's been the best role model you've ever known.

As a going-away present, he handed me an ornate box, with a fascinating Victorinox "Spartan" Swiss Army Knife nestled in between a pack of matches and a roll of duct tape. The smile he had when he gave it to me tells me there's some kind-of joke involved. He never did really explain those matches, or the tape, for that matter. Only thing he did was remind me:

Golden Rule number two: Be prepared. A Swiss Army Knife is a trusty tool. Never leave home without it.

At any rate, the need for a knife was quickly forgotten under the duress of classes, tests, study groups, and having to learn how to cook for myself. I got a bit lucky, though. Not only did my room-mate in my dorm know a bit of how to cook, we enjoyed the same music. We made friends pretty quickly, and before long, we'd formed a small group of jazz enthusiasts, and each Saturday night we'd celebrate the weekend by pitching in for a cab to Deep Ellum, the Dallas neighborhood that hides away all the little jazz clubs.

It's fortunate that we had established this group, too, because Deep Ellum isn't one of those neighborhoods you want to find yourself alone in at night. Or at any time of day, really. Jerry laughs and says that nobody will try anything on a portly fellow his size, so we tell him that's why we keep him even though we're pretty sure we just love around, even though everyone knows we selfishly covet the feast he prepares for us all when we meet posthumously at our dorms. It's that Saturday Night Breakfast, where he makes these gargantuan waffles for everyone, and we all just sit around, laughing and being college kids.

You can imagine how important it was that we stop at the local convenience store, then, as we walk out of the jazz club with the music still in our ears until Jerry utters his own little curse and says "We're out of flour."

I was the only one with cash on-hand, so I had the rest of the guys stay in the car while I went in. That didn't stop Jerry from asking me to grab an energy drink while I was in. The whole deal seemed pretty straightforward walking in. Some guy around my age was buying a new pack of cigarettes -filthy habit- closely followed by some old guy. I had just passed a woman in her mid-thirties eyeing the selection of sodas and a shelf of dish soap when I found some flour.

The smoker was just on his way to the door when some inconsiderate driver had pulled right up in front of the door with his brights on, blinding the store for what seemed like forever before he killed the engine. That was when he and two cronies wearing stockings over their heads burst through the door, shoving the smoker to the ground and screaming for everyone to get down. Before you knew it, the other shoppers and I were huddled in the corner while they waved their guns at the poor guy behind the counter.

Poor cashier, he was so scared he couldn't get the register open- his hands were shaking too hard. Around the time they're screaming "NOW!" at him that I notice the woman had stopped her crying when she noticed the old guy was clutching at his heart. Out of the three masked men, the big one waved his gun around at us.

"Shut up! The next sound out of you gets you all killed!"

The old man was fumbling around in his jacket for something, probably his pills. We're all piled next to the drinks, so I slip open one of the doors to grab a bottle of water.

He points his gun at me, and I can tell he's not quite used to using it, but that doesn't make me want to take any chances all the same. "Did I tell you to move?!"

I try to swallow my pride, and this time it's a bit much going down, "This kinda neighborhood, the cops really don't give a crap about following some robbery of some convenience store. The old man dies, this whole thing becomes a murder case." It's hard to make eye-contact with him when I keep feeling the urge to stare at the gun. "If you let me keep him alive, it'll keep the cops from becoming too interested in your well-being."

He gives a stream of curses and tells me to do it. Then he turns his attention back onto the cashier. When I reach the old man, he's almost found his pills. I grab them instead, and my body's blocking the view from the other three guys. He takes two pills and swigs the water down while I take a look at the pill bottle. It reads "Tridil®".

I look at the old man and whisper "Angina?" He nods.

Think, MacGyver, think...

Golden Rule number three: There's no mess you can't get out of, if you just know what to look for. Be prepared to be unprepared.

I glance over at the guy next to me and whisper, "Hey, can I borrow your cigarettes?" He gives me an incredulous look, and I really don't have the patience to bother explaining myself. These guys are running a smash-and-grab job, so 'act fast' is the motto of the day. "Look, you wanna get out of here alive? I'll give them back, I promise". Slowly he hands over the fresh pack of cigarettes, fresh out of the factory, still plastic-wrapped. "And the lighter".

The old man's condition is slowly improving. "Sorry, fella, I need to borrow your pills, too". I'm pretty sure he's too busy recovering to protest, so everyone just watches me while my back's turned to the robbers. I quickly unwrap the pack of cigarettes and pull off the plastic wrapping. The bottom half makes a perfect back, so I slip in a good handful of the old man's pills before lighting a cigarette. I tuck the lighter into my pocket for later, and the cigarette has a nice, strong ember at the front.

The big guy sees a line of smoke raising from me and says "Hey!"

I pinch the open end of the makeshift back together and use the ember to melt and fuse the ends together, sealing the bag right before he grabs my shoulder and forces me to turn around.

"Did I say you could smoke?!"

I stammer out, "I'm sorry, i-it's just something I do when I'm under stress... I managed to keep him from dying, he'll be fine."

He looks at the old man, now breathing easy, and then looks back at me, with my hands clenching the bag of pills. "How'd you do that?"

I show the bag. "Ecstasy. A favorite for yuppie teenagers wanting to do something stupid, but a life-saver for the old man here. A heart-attack brought on by stress needs to be relieved by removing the stress. A handful of these party-animals flood his brain with enough serotonin and dopamine to put him in a nice little daze".

The big guy snatches the bag out of my hands and eyes it, "You're a dealer?"

I shrug, "It pays the tuition, y'know?" I have to keep calm when I see him give this smile, like he just won a prize, and then tear open the bag and swallow a handful. He sees us staring at him, and almost starts opening his mouth to yell at us, but I just hand the bottle of water to him. He gives a triumphant grin and turns back to his business.

There's a small beat of silence, and the smoker looks at me, "You gave the old man Ex?!"

"Not a chance, I just fed him a handful of lies. Obviously his parents never told him not to take candy from strangers." I nod to the old man, "his angina gives him a lack of blood in the heart, leading to horrible chest pain. The pills are nitroglycerin tablets."

"Nitroglycerin...as in explosives?"

I shake my head, "No, they're stabilized and used medically. Nitroglycerine is a wonderful tool for the gentleman here- it decreases blood pressure, increases the heart rate, and gets rid of the horrible chest-pains".

"However," I say while I nod softly to the robber, "for a man like him, taking that size of a dose, nitroglycerine's going to be the source of incapacitation in the form of the worst migraine he will ever experience". I glance at my watch, "And it won't be long now".

The smoker gives me another incredulous look, "You can't possibly think you're going to stop these guys... just what the heck are you going to do?"

I manage a glance at the others, busy stuffing the money away and terrorizing the cashier for the fun of it. "I've got a few ideas". As I head off towards the opposite end of the aisles, I manage to not mention that most of these ideas I probably saw in an episode of Looney Tunes, or something equally as amusing. I snatch a bottle of Lysol and two bottles of dish soap as I near the end. The lids from the dish soap come off, and I start covering the floor in the stuff, trying to be as unnoticeable as I can.

"C'mon, let's go, it's time to get out of here."

I bite my lip and watch them start heading towards the door, before the big guy turns and looks at those huddled on the floor. "I'm not sure we should leave any witnesses. Hey- where's that one--" And then he drops his gun, grabbing his head and shutting his eyes, letting out a loud moan. One down, two to go...

The other two are already letting out streams of curses and fervent promises to kill me, screaming out "Where is he?!"

The screaming only makes the first guy grab his head some more and whine as he falls to the floor, and I come out from hiding into the hallway, watching my step to avoid any dish soap. They have just enough time to lay eyes on me before I hold out the lighter, ignited, and stream out a fine spray of Lysol. The result is a beautifully distracting cloud of fire that I keep flying in front of them for a few seconds before aiming it up towards the fire-alarm on the ceiling.

The sprinklers kick in, and the whole store is soaked while I duck behind the aisle again. The second guy starts running towards me blindly, and all I hear is him shouting in surprise before I hear the linoleum floor make a dull crack. I stop moving, and I'm too shocked to think that it actually worked. That's when the last guy, in the aisle behind me, reaches over the shelf and grabs my shoulder, and I remember that he probably has a gun in the other hand.

I think what my dad loved most about Judo was it's practical use of physics. If you really wanted to grasp the technique the way Tanya did, you had to learn a lot about centers of gravity and leverage. You had to learn to move fast; to reach behind you and grab the collar of your attacker's shirt, to pitch him over your shoulder.

To really make Judo count for anything, you had to learn how to throw like a girl.

When the last guy finds himself on the ground, with me pinning his arms down, everyone gets that relieved feeling that everything's taken care of. Jerry's probably called the police, and everyone's safe. Well, except the fact that Mr. Migraine is back on his feet and promising to kill us all. I manage to see him aim at the old man and draw back the safety before my blood runs cold.

I try my best to take in my surroundings as quickly as I can. Think, MacGyver, Think!

That's when the guy I'm pinning down moans softly, and I realize that I recognize him as the driver of the vehicle. Parked right outside. I reach into his pockets, and I feel his keys. When the big guy seems he stand up, he starts aiming the gun at me, but I'm already holding out his keys and hitting the red "panic" button, and right behind him, their car's alarm goes wailing, and the headlights flare up behind him.

With a surge of migraine-induced sensitivity to light and sound, he can't manage more than clutching his head and writhing on the floor in pain, and the cashier kicks away his gun. Pretty soon the sound of the car alarm is replaced by the sound of sirens, and suddenly we all know things are going to be okay.


*****


It's almost sunrise by the time Jerry and I get back to our dorm, after I provided all the information I could to the police. Jerry spends some time talking on the phone while I sit at the edge of my bed. I reach underneath and pull out a small, ornate box, holding it carefully in my lap before removing the lid and gazing at the pocket knife inside.

I hear Jerry hang the phone up, and he walks over to me, eyeing the box. "That was the main office. They said that you've been cleared for the next two days- you don't have to go to classes if you feel you're not ready. They also wanted you to remember that they offer counseling, as well." He looks at the box again, "What's that?"

I pick it up slowly, holding it in my hand as if it were made of glass. "Swiss Army Knife... from my dad. I never thought it'd be useful, but I guess I had to learn the hard way that the expected happens a bit more often than you'd like."

"So...you gonna skip class these two days?"

I give a smirk, "Why would I do that? We have a test tomorrow, I don't want to miss it. Besides," I say, and I pull out a brand-new pack of flour, "you owe me some waffles."

Jerry bites his lip and rubs the back of his neck nervously, "Yeah, I suppose I should tell you..."

"What?"

He gives me a withering look, and finally says, "Turns out we weren't out of flour after all..."

I like!
Very MacGyver, coming across trouble whilst out shopping for flour.
Nice –isms.

* Slaps Jerry upside the head*
I'll be looking out for more.

I'll laugh at you if it will make you feel better.

*points finger* You SUCK!

Feel better?



You talented little poo! False modesty isn't very attractive, ya know?

Well done.

Alright... question. What's with the Think, MacGyver think? Is his name MacGyver?

One of these days I’m going to find myself saying that out loud in public!

I was presuming its his second name as his father is the one who passed on the knife and the MacGyver golden rules but, as Jazz is teasing us (meany!) by saying

its probably not the son of MacGyver.

Jazz, your avatar makes me feel sleepy. zzzzzzzzzz

Phew and Yay! They like it! They like it! And they want more!

I'm glad your friends weren't right (And we also do say Humbug in Germany, by the way)


I think this is very well written. I like the light sarcastic note in it, the humour. I think we really will like this guy, whoever he is, as we are getting to know him better.

I still hope though that the "real" Mac will make some appearances as well. Just to be the icing on the cake

It wouldn't be a Mac fanfic if he didn't.

Written just like a MacGyver ep. (I liked the days when RDA would narrate...)

I liked it! What's young MacGyver's name?

Anyway... More?

Yeah, yeah, I've been working on it. A few things popped up to get in the way (oh, the hazards of a real-life), but I'm hoping to be done with it before I go to sleep and dream of a wonderful world where I am the only person alive and I am surrounded by Velveeta cheese.