The Leopard’s Spots
This one happens soon after Bad Hair Day, and therefore somewhere in the
third season.  My thanks to my sisters, Megan and Chris, for their positive
feedback, at least until I got nearer to the end.  Also, thanks to Libs, for
once more, translating my Screed-speech.  (she didn’t know what was going to
happen either.)  I don’t own ‘em, I just enjoy ‘em more than them what do.

Screed whistled happily and fairly tunelessly as he wandered back to his
hole.  He had collected quite a few little treasures to share at the swap
meet and was feeling good about himself.  Sure, that last guy might not have
meant to throw out his rollerblades, but you shouldn’t just leave them on
the bench like that!  Any ol’ droog could come along and grab them.
Dropping his bags through the opening, Screed hit a random high note just as
he threw himself into his abode.  The note, along with his presence caused
several rats to jump and scatter back into tunnels.  Grinning viciously, he
quickly chased several down, stunning them and throwing them into a box for
safe keeping.
“Shouldn’t run when you’re startled.   Gives away your po-sittin’.” Screed
chuckled under his breath and got to making himself comfortable.  Kicking
aside a few bottles, he chuckled even harder, then began to laugh furiously
as he remembered the get together that had generated all these bottles.
Vachon had been feeling unloved, so to show his support of his friend,
Screed helped him become completely smashed.  As a result, odd things had
been done.  The day culminated in Vachon shaving his head.  He had come back
as soon as his hangover disappeared, ranting about how stupid he had been.
Screed could only grin and nod.  Now Vachon was downing a lot of blood in
hopes that it would speed his hair growth, and had taken to wearing a hat.
Tracy had thrown several of them away, but finally let him settle on a
baseball cap.
Vachon suddenly appeared at the bottom of the steps.  “Speak of the devil
‘isselfishness!” Screed smiled broadly, “Ol’ Screed wuz just jammy-jammin’
‘bout your pre-dictator-ment with me friends here!”  He jerked his thumb at
his rats.
Vachon eyed them cautiously. “Screed, are you talking to dead rats again?”
“Nah, the ones in the box.  They’re not rolled o’er an’ died, jest asleep.
Thought it’d be a noice story-loike for beddy-bye.”
Vachon nodded vaguely, looking around the gloom, his eyes easily piercing
the darkness.  Screed levered himself up from his seat. “Speakin’ of, ‘ow’s
the hair doing?”
Vachon wordlessly took of his had, showing what looked like a very short
crew cut.  Screed stifled his smile.  Glaring, Vachon muttered “I’m going to
get you for this.”
Screed threw up his hands defensively.  “Wuzn’t me idea!  This is your own
fault, h’it is!”
Putting the cap resolutely back on his head, Vachon muttered, “Yeah, yeah.”
Then, changing the subject, “Hey, my guitar string snapped, can you hunt me
down a new one when you go to the swap meet?”
“Sure, no problemo.  Which jammer?”
“A”
“A-ok!”

“I want a hay-pluckin’ thingee!” Screed growled in frustration. “You carry
git-tar-n’feathered cat guts, don’t’cha?”  There hadn’t been any guitar
strings at the swap meet, so he had ducked down to the underground at dawn
to find a music store.  Unfortunately, he couldn’t seem to get the idiot
behind the counter to listen to him.  Screed began muttering angrily when a
soft voice interrupted.
“He wants an A string for a guitar.”
Screed swiveled around and the clerk spoke to the small, mousy looking woman
who had spoken. “You can understand this guy?!”
The woman cleared her throat and adjusted her glasses.  “Of course I can.
He has a heavy cockney, rhyming slang accent, originating from England, with
strong old naval influences, though it’s not a form I’m familiar with.  And
he wants an A string for a guitar.”
The clerk seemed powerless to dispute against her soft voice.  There was
power, and a very definite command hidden in that proper, educated tone.
“How’d you know Oi’m from Jolly Old?  You trot o’er the waters from there,
tew?” Screed asked, still perplexed.
“No, I just recognize all ranges of accents.  You could say it was a hobby
of mine.”
The clerk came out with the guitar string, which Screed paid dutifully for.
“Weird sort o’ ‘obby, if’n ya don’t mind my jabberin’.”
“I suppose so.  By the way, I would like you to take this tape and listen to
it.  I think you might like it.”
Confused, Screed took the tape and looked at it.  “Wot are you, a
music-physician?”
Walking out, the woman threw the last answer over her shoulder. “No, I am a
speech therapist.”

Vachon landed in Screed’s doorway and looked around.  Humming a song, he
spotted Screed in a corner, listening to something on his headphones, and
absent-mindedly sucking on a rat.
“Screed?” Vachon called out. No response.
“Screed?” Vachon called louder.
Hearing him, Screed sat up quickly, switching the tape off and shoving it
behind him.  “’Ey, innyun ever learned ya tew knock?”
Non-pulsed, Vachon blinked. “Never bothered you before.  What’cha listening
to?”
“Well, Oi don’t see how it’s inny o’ your bizzyness.”
“All right, all right, I just came by to see if you found an A-string.”
Screed dug through his pockets, unearthing several bits and pieces until, at
last, he found the thin wire.  Screed lobbed it at Vachon.
“Yew owe me, mate.”
Vachon stared at Screed. “Are you all right?”
“Course Oi h’am, why dew ya h’ask?”  Screed shifted uncomfortably.
“You’re acting a little strange.”
Screed flashed him a quick smile. “Jest thinkin’ o’ bein’ h’only the second
baldest fangy-sort in Toronto.”
Vachon snarled and pulled his cap low over his eyes. “Sure, rub it in.”
“’Eey, found something for ya.” Screed stood and grabbed a hat off a chair.
“Saw it an’ thought o’ you.  Peace offerin’.”
Vachon caught it and examined it closely. “Think Tracy would approve?”
“Wot dew Oi know?” Screed shrugged expansively. “Prolly more than tha’
sombrero ya tried before.”
“Thanks Screed, it’s really great.” Vachon switched hats, stuffed his cap
into his pocket and turned to go.  “Thanks again, see you later.”
“Snore-a-tomorrow.” Screed watched his friend’s back disappear, and waited
until he couldn’t hear his footsteps any more.  Reaching down, Screed
grabbed his walkman and slipped his headphones back on.  Glancing around, he
saw one of his rats peering over the edge of his box.  Snapping on his tape,
Screed glared at the rat. “Don’t put yar peepers h’on me tha’ way!”  Soon he
was lost in his own world again, mouthing along with the words on his tape.

Outside, Vachon looked around, reflexively pulling his new hat down over his
eyes.  Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he sauntered down the street.
It was a nice night, and he let the rush of humanity wash over him.  He
mulled over the conversation he had just had with Screed.  There was
definitely something going on.  Screed just seemed touchy.  And what was he
listening to when…
His thoughts were interrupted by a low whistle.  Glancing around, he was
three girls smiling and laughing.  The girl who had whistled called out.
“Hey, handsome, going my way?”
Smiling slightly, he loped over to the group, enjoying the surprise in the
other two girls.  The one who had called to him stood her ground, even when
he stood close enough that she had to look up at him.  He paused.
“Depends on where you’re going.”
The girl smiled smugly. “We’re headed to a club.  Three girls, out on the
town, we might need an escort to show us around.”
Vachon leered at her, then glanced at the other two. “Well, we can’t have
that now, can we?  The city can be a dangerous place at night.”  He held out
his elbow to the ringleader, who took it and began walking.  As if snapping
out of a trance, on of the other girls grabbed his other arm, while the
third hooked on the end.  Gathering her courage, she looked at Vachon in the
eyes for the first time that night.  “By the way, that’s a really great
hat.”  The others agreed quickly how dashing it made him look.  Disengaging
his hand long enough to adjust his new fedora, Vachon replied “Really?”
“Yeah, it makes you look hot.” Smiling smugly as he sauntered down the
street with the three lovely ladies, he mentally thanked Screed.
“I don’t suppose this means you know how to swing?”

A week later, Vachon ran into Screed again.  He hadn’t seen him for a while.
  It was almost like the caroche had been avoiding him.  He was wearing the
earphones that had recently become a permanent feature, and packing his bag
in a hurried and absent-minded manner.
“Hey, Screed…”
“Sorry mate-o-mine, gotta run away.  Lots tew do, I’m runnin ‘gainst the
tick-tock to.”
Vachon blinked. “Ok, where you going?”
Not looking at him, Screed shrugged on his bag and patted his pockets as if
making sure he had everything.  “H’out an’ h’about.  I’ll see ya later.”  He
adjusted his headphones, reminding Vachon why he was there.
“Hey, what’re you listening too anyhow?”  He asked Screed’s disappearing
back.
“None o’ your bizzy-bodyness!”  Screed’s voice floated back.  Vachon stood
in the middle of Screed’s nest, blinking vacantly.  What had just happened?
Screed was definitely acting weird.  And was that aftershave he smelled?
Another week passed before Vachon caught Screed again.  While passing by, he
noticed sounds coming from his hole, so Vachon dropped down.  Screed was
humming aimlessly, hidden by his curtain.
“Hey Screed.”  Vachon tried.
Screed hummed an assenting note.
“Got a little to talk?”
Screed hummed a negative.
Vachon blinked in surprise.  “Going out again?”
Screed hummed an assent.
Vachon cast around, trying to find something to get words out of his friend.
  Spying the mysterious Walkman, he picked it up. “Hey, mind if I listen to
this tape?  You sure seem interested in it.”  To his disappointment, Screed
hummed an assent.  There was more rustle of movement behind the curtain.
“So you don’t mind if I listen to it?” Vachon tried once more.  There was a
sigh from behind the curtain, and Screed stepped out, adjusting his tie.
Vachon blinked, adjusting his mindset.  TIE?!  It was true.  He let his eyes
take in the astonishing sight.  Screed stood there, freshly bathed, in a
well tailored black suit.  His maroon tie exuded a soft power.  His shoes
shone dully in the soft light.
Grinning at Vachon’s jaw scraping the ground, Screed chuckled softly.
“Frankly, I do not care if you listen to my audiocassette at this time.  It
has served its purpose.”
Not listening, Vachon tried to blink his jaw into place. “Screed… You
look…respectable!”
Screed chuckled.  “Thank you for your astute observation.  That was, in
fact, the impression I was attempting to achieve.”
Vachon’s mind locked into something else. “Screed!”
“Yes?”
“Screed!”
“Yes?”
“You’re talking!”
“Actually, you are the one who is speaking the most.”
Vachon’s mind couldn’t digest what he was hearing.  “But, but, I can
understand you.”  Screed smiled wryly.  “Are you insinuating that you could
not understand me before?”
Vachon stammered, “Yes, I mean, no, I mean you’re talking…you’re speaking…”
“Clearly and concisely.” Screed tugged on his suit coat and adjusted the
collar and hankie in his pocket. (He had a little silk hankie!)  “I realize
that old friend.  Now, if you will pardon me, I have a soiree to attend.”
“Soiree?” Vachon blinked. “You’re going to a party dressed like that?” His
mind was still two shocks in the past, and wasn’t ready for a new surprise.
“The invitation did request that all attending be attired formally.  Do you
think this is appropriate?”
Vachon, still dazed, said, “You look great.”
Glancing in a mirror one last time, and placing a freshly brushed bowler hat
on his head, Screed winked at Vachon.  “In that case, I beg your pardon to
take my leave.  It would not do to be tardy.”  With that, he swept out of
his hole.  Seeking an explanation for the inexplicable, Vachon put the
headset on.  A gentle woman’s voice filtered out.  “Thank you for listening
to “improve your self image by improving your speech.”  Inside the cover to
this audiocassette you will find a listing of charm schools to help you
further this process of self improvement.  Remember, if you want to be
heard, you must speak clearly and concisely.”
Vachon’s eyes widened as the implications of this hit him.
Several streets away already, Screed was whistling tunelessly and thinking
of the richer part of town he was headed for.  The rats were always fatter
there.  Idly, he wondered if he could filch some silverware at the party.

Please, let it end!
Please contact dreamerextrodanar@hotmail.com with  comments.  I really
appreciate them!