CHALLENGE: LACROIX'S SHINY PRETTY GARBAGE
by Libby Smith Singleton
 
DISCLAIMER: These are not my characters. Permission to archive at  
fkfanfic.com as well as the corresponding 'fkfanfic' sites and Screed's/Greg  Kramer's 
semiofficial websites. All others please ask first. No, this was not  beta 
read. Yes, you can send comments directly to me at _Libratsie@aol.com_ 
(mailto:Libratsie@aol.com) 
 
CHALLENGE: In celebration of Greg Kramer's March birthday. The challenge is  
to write a story, song/filk or poem about Screed and his birthday suit. Any  
definition of birthday suit is allowed as long as it follows FKFIC-L's list  
rules.
 
****
 
    "I do not want this carouche rummaging through my  garbage," LaCroix said 
through clinched teeth.
 
    "It's just garbage, LaCroix," Nick said.
 
    Urs stepped slightly forward, shifting slightly  from foot to foot 
nervously.  "If... if it's the mess, I'll clean it  up."
 
    "That is not the point although I do not appreciate  empty cans and 
bottles littering my alley.  It attracts vermin."
 
    Screed stuck his head out from beneath a  table.  "And fattens the 
squealers up right nicely, too. Gives them a taste  h'as sweet h'as wine from the 
vino.  Ya kin't blame a droog fer..."
 
    "Shut up, Screed!"  Nick, Urs, and Vachon said  simultaneously.  LaCroix 
was much too old and powerful to say "shut up," so  he demanded, "Silence!"
 
    Vachon scratched his head.  His head as in  Vachon's head, not LaCroix's. 
Vachon was a slacker, not stupid.  "What if I  have a talk with Screed?" he 
asked.  "Screed's stubborn, but maybe if you  let him live this time..."
 
    "And let ol' Screed keep 'iz prezzie," Screed  interrupted.
 
    Vachon shrugged, "And let him keep it this once.  I'll convince him to 
keep his dumpster diving away from The Raven."
 
    "Besides, LaCroix, you threw it out because it was  worn out," Nick said. 
 "One man's trash is another man's treasure."
 
    "That," LaCroix pointed at Screed's hiding place,  "is not a man.  It is 
not even a proper  vampire. It is a  carouche!  It drinks animal blood, 
Nicholas, much like you."
 
    Urs and Vachon looked everywhere except at Nick.  Screed, however, looked 
directly at him, grinning.  "'Ey, defect-a-tive  Knight-night, makes us 
practically brudders, eh?"
 
    What resembled a growl escaped from LaCroix's  mouth. "No, it does NOT!"  
A threatening glare in Screed's direction  caused the carouche to retreat as 
far back under the table as he could  manage.
 
    Urs moved silkily to LaCroix's side, running a hand  up his chest while 
gazing up into his eyes.  "Please?"
 
    LaCroix sighed.  "Okay, he can keep it if you  insist. This one time."  
He took Urs' arm and led her towards his living  quarters.  Right before 
reaching the door, he looked over his  shoulder.  "That... thing is not to wear the 
suit here.  In fact, he  is not to wear it within two kilometers of The Raven. 
 Is that  understood?"
 
    "We'll make sure he does," Nick agreed.   "Thank you."
 
    Without acknowledgment, LaCroix opened the door for  Urs, then slammed it 
behind them.
 
    Screed scurried out from beneath the table, nearly  crawling out of his 
pants in the process.  He stood, grinning and holding  up the suit trousers 
with one hand while brushing the stained jacket's lapel  with the other.  The 
Armani suit was very baggy.  "A bit o' wear an'  tear an wine ta be sure," Screed 
admitted.  "But never did a droog 'ave a  better birfday suit, eh?!"
 
    "Happy birthday, Screed," Nick said.
 
    "Tha' ol' Screed will do, you kin put a fiver h'on  it ta win, place an' 
show."  The carouche left the Raven, holding up the  pants with both hands in 
order to walk.
 
    "Thanks, Nick," Vachon said.  "You've made his  day."
 
    "Not a problem," Nick assured him.
 
    "Anything to get under LaCroix's skin, huh?"
 
    Nick smiled slightly.  "No comment."
 
-end-