Disclaimer: Highlander, Immortality, Joe Dawson, Richie Ryan, and Duncan MacLeod belong to Rysher Entertainment. Trust us: this story is for fun, not profit. Elena Duran is (thank goodness) the property of Vi Moreau, who keeps her in check and doesn't often subject her to excursions such as this. Please check with the authors before you distribute, post, archive, or link to this story. Other fiction: Vi's stories are at http://users.erols.com/darkpanther/moreau.html Sue's stories are at http://home.att.net/~sef1029/ Acknowledgments: Thanks so much to our beta reader, Kat Parsons, and to the other ladies who gave us their varied opinions: Bridget Mintz Testa and Helene Lecuyer. Warning: PG-13 for language, especially if you speak Spanish. You might want to avoid this story if you're feeling a bit nauseated; on the other hand, perhaps misery truly does love company. This story is in no way meant to be taken seriously. It's a lark, a romp, a roll in the hay. Feedback: 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. Tell us where you laughed (or, uh, lost your lunch). We're at sef1029@att.net and vmoreau@adelphia.net ******* The Rescue Party Seacouver, September 1998, 9 p.m. Richie finished his whisky and tapped his glass on the bar, signaling Joe for yet another drink. He sighed. What a day. First Mac--who seemed to have forgotten that Richie Ryan was no longer his student-- had raked him over the coals for falling behind on his weightlifting routine. Then, no doubt to emphasize the point, the Highlander had tormented him throughout a merciless sparring session. Getting trounced repeatedly was bad enough; the gloating was damn near unbearable. Richie sat up on the stool and rubbed his lower back. Those muscles shouldn't hurt anymore, but they did. *Everything* hurt. Mac was of the opinion that mats were for mortals. Any Immortal who was clumsy enough to hit the floor should pay for it. And Scotsmen didn't pay for anything! Joe finally clumped over with a bottle of scotch. "Must have been a tough day," he said, echoing Richie's thoughts. "Haven't you had enough, Rich?" "Mac's got some bug up his ass, so he's taking it out on me," Richie complained. "He's probably bickering with Elena again." Joe stroked his beard and nodded thoughtfully. "Could be." Richie had the distinct impression that Joe knew something he didn't. As usual, Joe wasn't going to clue him in. A simple request would get Mac the home address--with cross street--of any living Immortal. Richie couldn't get directions to the bathroom. The bartender chuckled. "Hey, if I felt like picking a fight, I'd sure as hell choose you over that crazy goddamned Argentine." Insulted--and not on Elena's behalf--Richie took a big gulp of whisky. "Yeah, that's me," he agreed with an airy wave. "Easy pickings." Joe looked a bit dismayed. Geeze, Richie thought, the Watcher couldn't really think he would joke about the way Mac had whupped him during the Dark Quickening! He plunked his glass down on the bar and scrambled to change the subject. "Service sure is slow around here today." "Half the staff is out with the flu," Joe explained, "or I wouldn't even be here. I'm supposed to--" "Dammit!" Pain stabbed at Richie's head and shot down his spine. "Why the hell do I *ever* drink in here?" Normally, he'd have hoped the approaching Immortal was Mac. Normally. "Expecting company?" "Probably the high-and-mighty Highlander," Richie groused, but he turned toward the door. Let it be a social drinker, he prayed. Come on, God, how about a small, sexy, Immortal woman who was just dropping by Joe's in search of a cocktail ... and, perhaps, the opportunity to take a redhead home for a backrub. The door to the bar crashed open. Oh, *shit.* Elena Duran, dressed in a full-length yellow satin gown complete with train and multiple flounces, stomped into the bar. She grasped the train of her dress with one hand while the other held a long coat that undoubtedly hid her German broadsword. "Duncan MacLeod!" She stamped her foot, and the resulting reverberations made Richie put a hand to his head. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" Funny, God, Richie thought wryly. You're a crack-up. I know I'm supposed to be careful what I pray for, but this is your idea of *small*? "Jesus Christ," Joe breathed. "She looks like a Bulgarian weightlifter in a Barbie doll costume." "A one-eyed Bulgarian weightlifter," Richie corrected, at a volume he was sure Elena couldn't detect. She'd never been sensitive about her black eyepatch before, but, hey, he'd never seen her in ruffles before, either. "Where is that hijo de mala madre?" Elena demanded to know. Richie shrugged, indicating his ignorance of Mac's whereabouts. This was Joe's problem. After all, it was his customers who were cowering over their drinks. "Coward," Joe sneered at Richie, and bravely made his way out from behind the bar. "Why are you looking for MacLeod, Duran?" Elena shot him a hostile look. "Not that it's any of your business, but I am going to *kill him*," she said, in an accent that made Richie think of old Mexican bandido movies. She turned, kicked the skirt's train behind her, and advanced on the Watcher. Her shoes made a horrible clacking sound each time her heel or toe hit the floor. "And you, Watcher, are going to tell me where he is." "For God's sake, Duran, keep it down!" Joe raised his hands in supplication. Elena ignored Joe's warning. "Learn flamenco with me, querida*," she said, mimicking Duncan's baritone. "It's part of your heritage. You have the passion. Express it. "I have the passion!" she roared. "The cabron stood me up at his own dance lesson!" Richie choked on a laugh. Elena teleported across the room and was on him in a half-second. "You think this is funny?" She jammed the hilt of her sword, hidden beneath the coat, against his Adam's apple. Impatiently, she kicked the skirt back out of her way and began to tap an exotic rhythm on the footrail of the bar. "These shoes are soled with nails, muchacho. They will kick ass." "Ah!" Richie clapped his hands over his ears. The sound was deafeningly painful. "I haven't seen Mac since a couple hours ago, Elena! And I've already had my ass kicked once today, thanks very much. If I knew where Mac was, I'd come watch you kick his." Elena made a disgusted sound and removed her sword from Richie's throat. He sagged slightly, rubbing his throat. "The coward is not in his loft. He is not in his watering hole. He is not answering his cell phone. And his peeper is here, so he is not fighting, yes?" Joe's eyes narrowed, but any hostile response was cut off by the ringing of the telephone next to the cash register. He went to pick it up. Richie cleared his throat. "Um, right. Maybe Mac just couldn't ... " Elena was cursing softly as she attempted to adjust her petticoats. Richie had to look away quickly for fear he would laugh again. "Maybe he was embarrassed to go out in his costume." "*His* costume?" Elena put her hands on her hips and undulated. Richie noticed--again--that they were nice hips with very nice ... um ... undulation. "He preens in tight pants and blouse while I trip over my skirt and try to breathe in this torture apparatus! He slides across the floor in boots while I stomp like an elephant! !?Como carajos bailian con estos zapatos*?!" Richie made a sympathetic sound and slid off his stool. "Whoa!" He grabbed for the bar. He'd had more whisky than he thought. He looked down and grimaced. Uh-oh. He had marked the hem of Elena's garish yellow train with a muddy footprint. Her eye met his. She smiled grimly. "Not to fear. Duncan MacLeod is paying the rental company for this fucking outfit. All $275 of it." Good luck with that, Richie thought, but he nodded his gratitude and tried to edge around Elena. "OK, then, I think I'll just go home and see if there's any message from Mac on my machine. If there is, I'll call you, Elena, I promise." Joe returned to join the conversation. "Don't bother, Rich," he said somberly. "I know where MacLeod is. He's fighting for his life on a fishing pier in Little Portugal. Against an Immortal who's beaten him twice before." ******* Translations (Spanish): Any phrase or word not translated is a curse. querido/a - beloved !?Como carajos bailan con estos zapatos?! - How the hell do they dance with these shoes?