ANST - Highlander Spoof
Faramond Darkfox
faramond at hotmail.com
Fri Sep 19 18:59:59 PDT 1997
I thought this would be cute for all you Highlander fans. (Don't worry,
I am included in the "Highlander fan" group) Enjoy.
HIGHLANDER: The Series
Episode 052396: "Storage Space"
Writer: Wendy Chatley Green
[usual opening shots: voice-over is a nasal, whiny tenor]
"He is Duncan MacLeod, the Highlander.
Born in 1592 in the highlands of Scotland,
he is still alive.
He is immortal.
For 400 years he's been a warrior,
a lover,
a wanderer,
constantly facing other immortals in combat to the death.
The winner takes his enemy's head and with it his power."
[shot of a plumb middle-aged bald guy in a powder blue polo
shirt tucked into tan Sans-a-belts. Over his shoulder is slung
a long slender case made of camouflage cloth and from his belt
hangs a cellular phone. The man is running along a Parisian
street, huffing and puffing as he chases a black Citroen. His
gasping for breath affects the rest of the voice-over.]
"I am a Carrier--*pant* *wheeze*,
part of a secret society of weapons shleppers who convey
and deliver but never get camera time.
We know the truth about immortals--they are a pain in the end,
especially Duncan MacLeod."
[break for inane commercials about fake granola, fake psyches,
fake sex on made-for-USA Network movies, and--just when you'd least
expect it--a truck ad with a Jim Byrnes voice-over.]
[the story begins:]
Clem Padiddle waited impatiently by the luggage carousel at
Corrigan Field, Seacouver's international airport. A brown mood
soured his expression and leaked into the atmosphere about him,
prompting passersby to veer away from him. In the gap left by
wary humanity, he stared at the slender canvas case laying on the
floor next to him and brooded.
What was taking MacLeod so long? All he had to do was leave his
cushy First-Class seat and get off the plane. Not like his Carrier,
who had to freeze his butt off in the cargo hold so he could keep an
eye on a stupid katana, who rode the baggage conveyer belt hidden
between a smelly dog crate and a cardboard bike carton, who evaded
Airport Security and found a back door into the terminal--one without
a metal detector.
"I tell you," Clem informed a young Marine who stood nearby,
"some people got it soft."
The Marine grabbed his duffle bag from the luggage
carrousel. "Tell me about it," he growled.
Clem drew in a deep breath, ready to unload a decade's worth of
grievances and complaints. Just then, a tall man with the grace and
muscles of a jungle cat walked past them. The man took no specific
notice of the plump bald man.
Clem shouldered the slender case. "Sorry, gotta go."
Despite his hurry as he shoved through the crowd, his
Immortal was already out the door and hailing a taxi. Clem
recited a litany of curses as he sprinted for the taxi stand.
Just as MacLeod entered a cab, Clem jumped onto the rear bumper
and melded into the peeling paint of the trunk. Long years of
training and practice ensured his virtual invisibility but did
nothing to make the ride through the ever-present Seacouver damp
a pleasant one.
As the cab headed toward the generic downtown locale of the
dojo, Clem reviewed again the cruel misfortune that had ended his
career as a Watcher.
"One mistake and they bust me permanently to Carrier,"
he groused. "It wasn't my fault that stupid Frenchman's accent
misled me when he said to 'show up in disguise.' Hell, they even
refused to reimburse me for my trip to the Isle of Skye."
Still, it easily could have been worse. His classmate at
Watcher Academy, Urname Hear, had been broken all the way down to
Disposer.
"I warned him--'you call Horton "Babyface," and you'll be in deep
doo-doo.' Now Urname hangs around abandoned buildings, waiting for a
head to separate from its body. Disposer--what a way to earn a
living!"
The cab screeched to a sudden stop. MacLeod got out and
tossed a twenty through the open window. His attention was not
on the cabbie or the overpayment as he scanned the street and
shop windows around him.
Clem jumped from his perch on the rear bumper. He quickly
loosened the Velcro seal on the sword case and made certain that
no fabric was caught in the zipper's teeth. Nothing would save
him from the ranks of the Disposers if his Immortal lost his head
thanks to a jammed zipper.
He noticed that MacLeod had caught the eye of a horse-faced
Briton in a long leather jacket. Both men nodded then the Briton led
the way into the ever-present abandoned warehouse. MacLeod followed,
paying no heed to Clem, who quickly chased after him.
The warehouse was hazy with disturbed dust and light from a
series of Klieg lights shining through the open slats of a row of
ventilation fans. The whirling shadows disoriented Clem for a moment
until he spotted MacLeod and the Briton facing each other at the
center of the warehouse. He unzipped the case and removed the
dragon-headed katana before he ran to stand behind his Immortal. When
MacLeod reached inside his duster to withdraw his sword, Clem stuck
the katana through the dorsal gap, waited for MacLeod to take it, then
he dashed out of the way.
Another Carrier joined him on the sidelines. His sword case was
a shiny brown leather golf bag. Striped knitted cozies protected the
grips of the weapons stored in the bag.
"I'm Tenzing Sherpa," the Carrier said. "My Immortal is
Colby Curd of Cheddar. Born 1321, first died in 1347 at Calais."
Clem gave him MacLeod's history. "Your Immortal sounds
older and more experienced than mine," he said. "Is he good?"
"Yes. Today, he's using a number five broadsword. The heft and
reach will serve him well against your Immortal's lighter weapon."
"'Today, he's using. . . .'" Clem repeated Tenzing's words,
wondering as he spoke what the other Carrier meant.
Tenzing pointed at the golf bag. "I Carry all these swords
for him--real heavy duty. I have broadswords for distance,
gladii for chipping, and a set of woods for practice."
"Does he also have balls?" Clem asked.
"I suppose so," Tenzing said. "Curd's an Immortal, not an
Eunuch. Carrying them is not my responsibility."
Just then, Colby Curd parried an attack and knocked MacLeod
off-balance.
"Oh--nice move!" Both Carriers applauded softly.
Curd's responding lunge, however, did not find its target.
MacLeod rolled clear of the blade, leapt to his feet, and took
the head of the overextended Briton. The usual fireworks ensued
while Clem and the now-unemployed Tenzing oohhed and aahhed
dutifully.
"Going to try for another assignment?" Clem asked as he
accepted the dead Immortal's weapons bag from Tenzing.
"I don't know," he replied. "I may take a few weeks off
first--maybe watch TV or see some movies. We don't get much
chance at a life while we follow these guys around, you know."
Clem nodded. "Not like those Watcher dudes," he said.
"They get families, regular nine-to-five jobs, and time off for
weddings and Bar Mitzvahs--I tell you, some people got it soft."
"Tell me about it," Tenzing said, "but later. I gotta go
before the Disposers show up. Sometimes, if they see a out-of-
worker Carrier, they jump on their cel phones and arrange an
immediate transfer."
Clem shuddered. "You'd better leave, then."
They shook hands before Tenzing hurried away. Clem waited
as his Immortal shook off the lingering lightning from Curd's
Quickening. When MacLeod's arm rose to sheathe his katana, Clem
rushed over and took it from his hand. MacLeod paid no attention as
his Carrier carefully put the sword away and zipped the case closed.
"Just once," groused Clem as MacLeod strode out of the
warehouse, "I'd like him to notice me. Maybe say 'Nice job,
Clem' or even hand me a tip--yeah, maybe a few of those millions
of dollars he has thanks to centuries of compound interest."
Footsteps behind him and the sound of a body being dragged
across the cement floor cut short Clem's tirade. He shouldered the
slender katana case, hefted the leather golf bag, and scurried after
his Immortal.
[Closing theme swells. Blue swirls start. Credits roll.]
Faramond Darkfox
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