This Is Your Mime On Drugs

The original idea was that I would go undercover as a street juggler to help catch a drug dealer. My job was to observe. And juggle. Let the cops handle the bust.

That was the plan—but when I saw that creep handing over heroin to a kid—I kind of lost my focus. I gave the signal—tossed one club high in a triple flip—but when Lt. Murphy’s boys didn’t appear, and the guy looked like he was getting away—I threw the juggling club at him instead.

He didn’t catch it.

Well… not with his hands, anyway.

Helsinki Ambassador

I didn’t really think I was fooling anyone—I knew where the trail was—but I had to get out of that SnoCat. Away from her.

Years ago, in Helsinki, she had made me believe—and then had disappeared with the documents I had been couriering. Left me feeling like the fool I was, to go back to the Department in failure with nothing to show for the trip but a pocketful of matchbooks.

I hated her for her lies, but I hated myself more because I knew, if she had asked me, I would have just given them to her.

Burnt

Stuff like this only happens in James Bond movies. I really thought that she was on the level, that she really wanted me to help her uncle defect. But when I went to help the man, there was no one there—except for half a dozen KGB agents.

Exciting escape ensued.

When I got back to the hotel—I’d left her sleeping—she was gone, and so were the documents I’d been entrusted with.

I think what made me the angriest was that it was such a cliché—I was embarrassed to go home empty-handed.

Still… better that, than the gulag.

Ranger

I’m not really sure when I lost her… she was with me through most of my years in college. There were other girls—not a lot of them, mind you—but a few more than one, yes, I confess. I thought she was up for the adventure, up for the excitement... I never dreamed that she was just trying to keep up.

I guess she has good reason to be bitter. I don’t expect her to thank me for disappearing—but doesn’t the time we did have count for anything?

I wonder if she’d have been happier with her French windows.

Fabulous! I agree that there's room for something more in the Helsinki story . . . [hint hint]

YAY! Drabbles! Well done, as always, Lothi!

Love ALL yer drabbles, Lothi!
Entertainment in less than a minute!
Makes me wish they were longer, but then they wouldnt be drabbles.

the insatiable mind meets the unusable substance . . .


Useless

You’d think there’d be a use for the stuff. I mean, look at it. It oughtta be good for something – Lubricant? Glue? Bait? Pest control? Explosives? No, scratch that last one. Just thinking about it is kinda disgusting.

And forget nutrition. Not even in an emergency.

And it’s not like anyone’s gonna complain, the way they sometimes do when they find out that I’ve used the light bulbs or the salad oil or the barbeque fork for something else.

I’m known for – let’s call it ‘creative application of available resources’.

But I still haven’t figured out any use for lutefisk.

ROTFLMHO

I had no idea what Lutefisk was untill I looked it up on Wiki... now I'm rather sorry I did... *Bleah*

Obviously, lutefisk ranks right up there with Casu Marzu... and if ya dont know what THAT is, dont look it up if you have a sensitive stomach.
(a Gross out factor of +15 (On a scale of 1 to 10)

These things lead me to two conclusions:
1) Some humans will eat ANYTHING
2)There are some recipes that I definately DO NOT want in my collection.

However,I think that both Lutefisk and Casu Marzu have a few very specific uses...

1.) As a diversionary tactic: Throw either one at the bad guys and they will be so busy being sick, you can get away quickly.

2.) Torture: Tell your enemy your'e going to force feed him either of these items if he dosent co-opperate.

My former in-laws used to serve lutefisk at holiday gatherings. Fortunately, no-one was actually required to eat it; the lutefiskophages happily snarfed it, while the rest of us looked away. But it was one of the many things that I don't miss at all.

I take it that is part of the reason they are EX-inlaws!

Um... !

Love to Bear

I knew it the moment I saw her standing in the snow, with her furs and flushed face, golden glint on her collar. I didn't want to admit that I knew.

I’d been betrayed, robbed, nearly killed because I’d trusted her. She'd played me but good, and I'd left Helsinki convinced that it had all been lies.

And yet, here she was... still wearing it. A touristy trinket I'd once pinned on the fragrant cashmere covering her heart—proof that the love we’d shared at least had been an honest thing.

*wibble*

I just tackled my first prompt challenge, over at a fanfic writers' site that I recently joined, FanNation. The challenge was to write six drabbles, using a list of six beverages: beer, wine, coffee or tea, water, milk, and fruit juice. The drabbles did not have to be linked, but I made mine into a "drabble suite".

It was expected that the beverages would actually be consumed, but I took some liberties there.

Like all my drabbles, each of these is 100 words by manual count (digital word counters are not accurate enough), excluding the title.

-------------------------------------------
Six Points of the Compass
(drabble suite)


Somalia
(coffee)

Three tiny cups before MacGyver; three more for the woman who only spoke Amharic, but offered hospitality anyway.

She’d roasted the beans in an improvised tin pan, pounded them into gravel with an old iron pipe, brewed them in a painted gourd. The cups were half-full of the freshly-brewed black syrup.

If you measured coffee like booze, this stuff would be about 180 proof.

Her home was a shack, all possessions lost in the chaos that could barely be called a war. But she’d held onto her mother’s coffee gourd.

I’ll quit drinking coffee next week, I guess.



Afghanistan
(water)

Desert heat slamming into him, hard blows across his entire body. The blows came in waves, implacable as the surf when the sea-wind was at its fiercest. MacGyver longed impossibly for the distant sea. He was shivering from the heat as if from intense cold, but his body would not give up the sweat that would bring relief. He was so parched that his lips cracked.

Then the cool, slim hands brought the cloth to his forehead, dripping with water like the healing tears of a goddess. His fever finally broke, shattering in a crash that made him weep.



Mexico
(fruit juice)

The resort always used those fancy glasses, no matter what you had ordered to drink. Kate was holding it in her hand, sniffing the contents with a bemused expression. “I should’ve guessed – this place makes the best daiquiris and margaritas in the Western hemisphere, and you’re drinking fruit juice.”

“It’s really good,” MacGyver replied. He was in too good a mood to bristle at her tone. The sun had warmed his bones and baked away all thoughts of gun-runners, coups, and tinpot dictators. “It’s fresh-squeezed, right off the tree.” He lowered his shades to get a better look at her, and his mood improved even more. The swimsuit was new – what there was of it. “I thought you were flying back to the States today.”

Kate dropped a towel onto the warm sand beside him and sat down. “Are you wishing I had?”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” He retrieved the glass and drank. “You thirsty?”

“Not exactly.”

She took the glass from his hand, her fingers wrapping around his. Her skin was cool against his, and their stretch of beach, jungle-fenced and secluded, was a long hike away from the main resort. Her mouth tasted of pineapple.



France
(wine)

“Your French is bad, and your shoes are ugly,” the old farmer declared. “I do not like Americans. I hate American tourists.”

“Well – ”

“Damned good thing you are no tourist, mon espion. Drink up.”

“Um – please don’t take this wrong, but – you’d better drink this yourself.”

“What? It is not good enough for an American?”

“I don’t drink. I could drink it to be polite, but you’d’ve wasted some real good wine on me. If you drink it for me, you’ll appreciate it properly.”

A broad smile cracked across the seamed face. “I like a man who respects good wine.”



Kuwait
(beer)

“Mac, no!” Jack Dalton’s eyes were popping with horror. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get good beer in Kuwait?”

“Do I look like I care?”

Half the beer had already gone into the improvised still, to be reduced back to water – foul-tasting, but drinkable. The other half . . .

“MacGyver . . . that’s alcohol abuse!”

“You wanna get drunk, or do you wanna get this plane off the ground before we’re caught by the nearest band of nasties?”

“Both?”

Mac's head popped out, eyes blazing above smears of black muck. “Yeah? Maybe next time you’ll remember engine degreaser!”



California
(milk)

The milk carton was empty again.

It was living alone all those years. He still hadn’t figured out buying in quantities larger than what he could personally consume before rot set in.

MacGyver leaned against the open fridge door and eased his healing arm in its sling. The break had been a particularly bad one, but soon the cast would be off and he wouldn’t have to wince every time he saw how badly Penny had misspelled his name.

And then they could hit the road. For now, he smiled at the sleeping lump on the couch.

“Milk run, Sam.”

---------------------------------------

Afternote: the coffee ceremony in the first drabble is primarily Ethiopian, but there's been a horrific amount of wartime displacement in that sorry corner of the world. My first encounter with it was from an Eritrean, as part of a project mostly involving Somalis.

Awesome drabble suite! You have mastered the art!

Now I'm thirsty, though...

And would you believe that it took me until the next day to realise that "Mexico" is a double drabble, not a simple drabble?

Thought it seemed a little long... but I never complain when you write a longish chapter...

More is Better!

YAY! Well done, Beth! Nice drabbles - and along a theme, too?

You spoil me.

Awesome 'Beth!
Loved all the drabbles!
Heres an idea... make each one into a story! Sorry, cant get enough of all the great stuff!!

If they're done right, they already are.

If they're done right, they already are.

AMEN!

I get that review a lot for my drabbles, and I'm always like: Um...they are stories!

Teetotaler


Sometimes, when things are going badly, you get angry and do something stupid – you know it’s dumb, but you just do it anyway.

The thugs thought it’d be funny, while they were holding me down and hammering on me, to force my mouth open and pour in a shot of raw whiskey. That stuff really burns, y'know? Especially on a split lip.

When I spat it out – Harry taught me to spit like that – I nailed one, bang in the eye.

The punch I got in payment was the one that turned the lights out, but it was worth it.

Cheeky and defiant to the last... that's our Mac!

*squee!*

Okay, this isn't strictly a MacDrabble, but since 'The Man From UNCLE' plays such a great role in the inspiration (and appreciation) of MacGyver, I'm allowing myself to post it here! *chuckles*

Eastern Clock (Man From UNCLE)

Morning was just beginning to stain gray the panes and pavement. Shadows were softened, odors of exhaust and industry remote. Dew beaded like sweat on wrought iron railings.

Climbing the steps from Del Flora’s, Kuryakin’s senses shivered like a guitar string, taking in every detail of the scene; a flutter of paper, parked cars, an odd number of pigeons overhead. Nothing seemed out of place.

He turned his face toward the East, where light struggled against darkness to win the chance to caress his face with warmth.

New York City was not awake yet. Illya contemplated the possibility of sleep.

Finally..finally the sun allowed its passing cloud to shonen to the girl simply dressed she leaned back against the wooden building waiting hopeing and feeling the brezze swaying in and out of her hair, watching this man, tall well dressed and light hair to him, His name was MacGyver and she was too give him the film she stolen from her company, he moved up to her and she handed him the film with a nod and a smile he moved away, she too moved away, her hair danceing in the wind, then in a shot she was shot, falling...

As I pushed through the double doors, I placed my hand onto my wound, Jack my friend had just shot me not by his chooseing but brainwashed by a woman blood running as fast as my heart is at this very moment fear over washed me in some ways, my thoughts go to what if I can’t stop him from killing me? I ran into a wash of mirrors all around me all different sizes all in different ways in this fun house. I push back the pain in my arm to help free Jack from his brainwash Jack’s in.

I am on the edge of something. Looking down into the abyss somewhere, a cliff of a mountain, i am gazeing down upon my fallin’ friend, deep fall. As i look down my eyes blurr and melt around the images, reforming them over and over again, I struggle to breath, my chest in deep pain over the loss of my friend Mike. I couldn’t move i had to have someone to get me i was frozen in up on my Memories.
Images keep flowing through my head as i remember the happy times with my friend, how can I not?

Mr. Fix-It

Did it start with the things, and grow from there?

Or were the things really a substitute? Practice, maybe. Or placeholders – stuff I actually could fix, stuff that was fixable, till I could take a shot at stuff that really mattered.

I fiddled with stuff from an early age, of course. It was pure magic, getting that little whir or buzz or spark that meant you’d got it right, you’d put something back together that needed help.

Of course, you can’t really ‘fix’ anything that matters. You can’t fix people.

I know that.

But somehow, I’ve never really accepted it.