The Outlandisher - Chap 10- Chickens You Say?

June 12th, 2009

Chap. 10  

"Verra well ye crazy fuck!"

Chickens You Say?

Sometimes life has a way of handing you a lesson you thought you had learned before, but knowing deep in your gut that you had only played lip service to having learned it, while not really having learned it at all and knowing full well that little error was eventually going to cost you big time.

This was one of those times for actor Gerremy McButler. Had he been in a state of oneness, which he constantly aspired to be since his many visits to India, he would not be here now, bent over a table and hog tied and trussed like a Turkey ready for the oven and the cook being none other than one deranged and sexually frustrated English Captain named F. Neil McRandall.

Allaine had told him his big mouth would one day get him into real trouble and he was wondering if this was the moment of truth. While he had occasionally given thought to hypothetical situations where he might one day be the victim of some deranged fan, he never envisioned this scenario in a million years. And what bothered him on top of all of it, was the fact that he was serving as a second string understudy for one Jamie Lee McFraser, he of the red hair and know it all wife, for a man who didn't even know or cared who the devil Gerremy McButler was.

How the hell was he going to get out of this? He had played the big hero in many a movie and he should be able to call upon some of his training to help him. But of course, there was no script here to show him the way and with all his gifts of blarney, he hadn't been able to sweet talk this particular antagonist to come around to his way of thinking.

When he had seen the man at his door, the alarm bells should have gone off immediately. But, of course, they hadn't. He had anxiously answered the knock, thinking it might be McFraser, or even the lovely Claire herself. But when the Captain had told him he had something he wanted to talk to him about, he had invited him in, glad to see a familiar face.

Things had gone from bad to worse after he had offered the Captain a drink and treated him to a few of his dirty jokes, which were always a good way to bond with his fellow males. He had even shared a story about a cross dresser he had tried to pick up at a bar once, quite unaware that it was a man at the time. The fact the captain had smiled wickedly at this story and run his boot up his leg under the table should have been the first clue. Unfortunately, by the time he realized what was going on, it was too late.

Said antagonist was at present, taking off his sword and looking him over like he was "literally " the last supper. McRandall was also absently rubbing the big lump on his forehead where he had been the recipient of a McButler Glasgow kiss. He himself had a matching one on his own forehead, when to his chagrin, he'd come to find out that said Captain had an equally hard head and, apparently, an even larger pain tolerance.

A couple of other things the Captain had, that he himself didn't, was a very big and very sharp hunting knife, which he had threatened to plunge into McButler's breast immediately after cutting off his testicles and stuffing them in his mouth if he didn't cooperate, and one very polished, if antique looking, silver pistol.

McButler, hands aching and going numb, thought he'd better come up with something fast or he was going to be the man's dinner. He had visions of being carved up like the turkey he felt. He'd better use his talents quickly and the only part of his talent that wasn't tied up was his mouth.

GMcB: Now let's be reasonable about this mate. Ah get it that ye like blokes an' specifically me at the moment. An' though ah dinna normally go that way, ah'm perfectly willin' tae help ye out in a bind, since ma dear cousin Jamie's no' available at the moment....But thare's really no reason tae tie me up like this. Ah mean, ah might enjoy it a little more if ma wrists werna tied so tight.  Besides ma scraped knees are rubbin' against the table an' , tae be frank, they hurt like hell. Could ye no' see past lettin' me wash them off a bit before we proceed?

McRandall's laughed diabolically and the sound of it made McButler's hair stand on end.

McRandall: You are missing the point entirely, my dear man. It is your pain that gives me pleasure. Besides I thought you said you and Jamie were not related?

McButler was really scared now, but that would only make matters worse, so he struggled to control it and went on matter of factly, trying to sound as reasonable as one could in his situation.

GMcB: Well, yeah, ah get that. Ah dinna mind a little pain maself, but it all depends on what kind o' pain an' where it is,  if ye know what ah mean?

Suddenly getting an idea, he follows that tack.

GMcB: Ye know what would really tarn me on tae this whole thing? Hows about we play doctor?

McRandall is taking off his coat and hanging it on the chair.
.
McRandall: (curious now) Doctor?

GMcB: Aye. Ye know doctors make ye feel better before they make ye feel worse sometimes? Well, furst ye could clean up ma knees an' say soothin' things tae me, an' then ye kin tie me up again an' dae what ye want wi me?  It's more fun if it's a game, wi' a little role playin' , ye ken?

McRandall: (looking dubious) Role playing?

GMcB: Yeah, ah'm really guid at that stuff.  As a matter o' fact, if ye untie ma hands ah could even show ye how grateful ah am, while ye doctor ma knees.

Gerremy can see the wheels turning in McRandall's brain.

GMcB: Ah'd be foolish tae make a break fer it, since ye have all the weapons an' ah've none tae speak o'.

McRandall: You have a point. Very well. Just give me your word as a gentlemen that there will be no more of that childish head butting?

GMcB: (grinning) Ah gie ye ma wort as a gentlemen.

Taking his knife, McRandall cuts the rope tying Gerremy to the table.

GMcB: What dae ye say tae another drink? Ye barely touched yers an' ah could surely use one.

McRandall looks at him and reaching over for the bottle on the other end of the table, pours out a drink for him.

McRandall: Sit down a moment and let me see what I can find to clean up your knees.

GMcB: Arna ye goin' tae untie ma hands?

McRandall: Not until I'm good and ready.

GMcB: Verra well (lowering his voice) ye crazy fuck!

McRandall: There is nothing wrong with my hearing. What is this "fuck?"   I heard you use it earlier.

GMcB: Ye're no' familiar wi' the wort?

McRandall: (narrowing his eyes) Never heard it used.

GMcB: (unable to suppress his ironic humor, even now) It's what ye call a real piece o' work.

McRandall: (pleased with this explanation) How appropriate.

As soon as McRandall's back is turned, McButler fumbles in Jamie's sporran for the Ambien he had tucked away. Struggling to get the cap off with the limited motion his tied wrists allow, he manages to pull out several pills and drop them in McRandall's drink with a fervent prayer that the high alcohol content of the whiskey will dissolve them quickly.

Seconds later McRandall returns with a small piece of the sheet he has ripped off and kneeling before Gerremy, he turns up the bloody kilt. Dipping a corner of the rag into the whiskey, he starts harshly rubbing it on the open abrasions of McButler's knees.

Giving out a blood curdling scream, McButler bites his lip when he notices the ecstatic look on McRandall's face and the rising bulge in his trousers.

McRandall: Mmmmm. I'm starting to see your point in this role playing thing, but I thought you said you liked a little pain?

GMcB: (through clenched teeth) Yeah, but how about that drink now?

McButler tries to push down his kilt as McRandall picks up the glasses and hands him one.

McRandall: Let's drink a toast to "playing doctor." I think I like this game.

Raising his cup, he downs the contents in several gulps and sits there waiting for McButler to do the same.

McButler sees no choice but to go along with the game and takes several swigs of the amber liquid.

McRandall: Drink up man. There are many more pleasures ahead here.

McButler: If ye dinna mind, ah think ah'll save the rest fer after some o' em, aye?

McRandall: Suit yourself. Now where were we?

Carefully, he starts unbuttoning McButler's shirt, while Gerremy watches him closely for signs of the drug and alcohol taking effect. There was enough there to fell a horse, and he should start feeling it any minute.

Taking the knife from it's shield, McRandall illustrates the sharpness of his tool by shaving off a band of McButler's chest hair and holding his hand in the air, letting them float down like a shower over his head.
Dreamily, he repeats the motion again, only this time a little lower and, watching Gerremy close his eyes, he thinks it is from the pleasure he feels.

GMcB: Ohhh fv-ck!

Gerramy McButler's chin falls to his chest and several seconds later when the first snore comes, McRandall realizes his "patient" has fallen asleep.

Insulted, he shakes him harshly, only to get a low moan and another snore.
Angry now, he jerks the snoring McButler to his feet and roughly drapes him over the table, pulling his kilt up around his shoulders and slamming the knife into the table near his head. McButler opens one eye to see it, then passes out again.

McRandall: You bloody, damned Scot! There is no way you are going to sleep your way through this. I shall have you asleep or awake!

Stepping back he drops his trousers and leans against the mirror to step out of them, directing his rage at the snoozing McButler.

McRandall: We'll see if you can sleep through what I have in mind for you, you stupid...Scottish (fumbling for a word, he tries a new one) fuck!

The mirror behind him turns shimmery as the vortex opens up and sucks him in, bare ass first, before it closes behind him leaving Gerremy McButler completely alone again, indignantly exposed, and snoring like a baby.


New York City

Caffe Falai

Sitting at a table at Caffe Falai on Lafayette Street, Rusty Elvaino was having lunch with Allaine Siegelson, who had flown out late the night before to figure out what to do to track the missing Gerremy McButler. Not wanting to alarm anyone, he had counseled Rusty not to call the police in just yet and decided it would be prudent to make the trip and see what could be done.

Digging into his Agnolotti Formaggi with gusto, he was watching Rusty pick at the aromatic Linguini Vongole, while they sipped a nice vino rosato the waiter had recommended.

Siegelson: Stop worrying Rusty. He's bound to show up soon. Perhaps he went to some weird retreat where they don't let you use your cell phone. You know how some of those things are.

Elvaino: I wish I could. You know Gerry. They'd have to pry that BlackBerry from his cold, dead hand to get it away from him.

Sielgelson: I suppose you're right. But you never know. He's really into this Indian stuff at the moment.

Elavaino: You don't suppose this Preyanker chick he's in love with knows where he is, do you?

Siegelson: (shaking his head) I called her people. Said she hadn't heard from him.

Elvaino: What about his mom?

Siegelson: First place I called. Hey, you know this pasta isn't half bad. How's yours?

Elvaino: It's good. Very tasty. (looking around) No wonder Gerry likes this place. It's full of women.

Siegelson: Nice, eh? I like the decor. Good vibes. By the way, have I told you the latest funny from Gerryland?

Elvaino: Now what?

Siegelson: (laughing) You remember the comment Gerry made after The Hangover premiere?

Elvaino: How can I forget? I laughed my ass off when I read it.

Siegelson: Well my assistant was checking out some of the fan sites for feedback the other day and she stumbled onto one who was having a fundraiser. Digging a little deeper, she discovered that one of the fans had knit these little things she called the "Gerry Butler Cock Cozy" in the shape of a chicken and was selling them on e-bay, and apparently making a killing too.

Elvaino starts laughing uncontrollably.

Siegelson: (grinning) And you haven't heard the worst of it yet. Her pitch was "For the Gerry Butler fan who has everything, this is the one item your significant other can wear to turn you ON! After all, every cock needs a chicken!"

Elvaino: Oh my God. Where do these women get these ideas? Can you imagine a bunch of grown men running around naked wearing knitted chickens on their pecker?

Siegelson: From Gerry, apparently. (laughs) And you'll never believe what charity the proceeds are going to?

Elvaino: Save The Chicken...Buy a Cozy?

Siegelson: (with a straight face) Gerry's Herd: Goats for Appalachia.

Elvaino: (laughing) Even when he's not here, the man is funny. I wonder where the hell he is?

Siegelson: Hopefully keeping his pants on and staying out of trouble.

Elvaino: Well, this morning when I checked the news headlines on my laptop I saw the headline "Star's Strange Activity Stuns Scientist" and actually clicked on it, thinking they might be talking about Gerry.

Allaine: (laughing) And they weren't?

Elvaino: Naaah, it was about a shrinking star in the Orion constellation.


Hollywood TMZ Headquarters

"Let's bring out the big guns."

  
Misc.Pap: Hey Harley, there are some serious rumors floating around that Gerard Butler has disappeared. He hasn't been seen out at any of the clubs lately and we've got all the usual spots covered.

Harley Levine: I wonder if he's gotten tired of our little piece on him and is taking extra measures to avoid us?

Misc. Pap: No, seriously. The rumor mill at IMDb and the fan sites have been going crazy trying to dig him up. If those people can't find him, no one can. His management is not commenting. 

Harley Levine: Okay. We may have to outsource this. Let's bring out the big guns. If she can't track him down, no one can.


Scotland

Late that night Gerremy McButler awakened in the dark, still lying over the table with his hands and feet bound. He was disoriented and freezing his arse off, literally. His hands and feet were numb and his back ached. As the situation he was in slowly came back to him, he wondered where the crazy dragoon was?
His arse was so cold, he couldn't tell whether anything had happened to him or not, but he was still alive and that was something, under the circumstances.

Trying to piece together what had happened he realized he had drunk the cup with the Ambien and that was the last he remembered.

He turned his head to the other side with difficulty, as his neck was stiff. Luckily, though numb, his hands were tied in front of him. He tried to straighten up and finally managed to do so with some difficulty. Opening and closing his fists, he tried to work some blood back into his fingers. After a few minutes he remembered the last thing McRandall had done was slam the big knife, point first, into the table a few inches from his head to scare him. If he could find it in the dark he could try to cut his bonds loose, hopefully without cutting himself and bleeding to death. Groping around in the dark and careful not to move lest he fall over, his hands found the blade end of the knife first and felt it slice into one of his fingers.

GMcB: Ouch! Damn it!

Carefully sliding up the blade, he was able to put his hands over the hilt and using all his strength, pull it out.

His wrists were bound so tightly, there was no way to cut through his bonds, but at the angle he was holding the knife, if he could find the bench, he could sit down and cut through the leather strap binding his ankles. Once he could walk, he could find someone to free his hands.

Taking a little jump backward in the direction of where he thought the bench was, the back of his legs came in contact with nothing but thin air. He was still a little disoriented, but perhaps McRandall had moved the bench? He took one more little jump backwards and then another larger one, only to drop the knife as he plunged backward, bringing down the privacy curtain that hid the chamber pot, which overturned contents he was now lying in.

GMcB: (angry and frustrated) Fv-ck! Fv-ck! Fv-ck!

Although the curtain had broken his fall, he was now drenched with urine and thinking that matters couldn't get worse. But if there was a bright side to this whole horrible nightmare he was living, he rationalized that it indeed could have been worse, had the contents of the chamber pot been more of the solid variety. Well now he would have to find the knife again and figure out how to get up without the use of his hands. This was perhaps one way staying in shape with yoga and being pounds lighter for this movie coming up, if he was ever to return to his world, that was, was going to pay off.

He easily brought himself into a sitting position. Bringing his bound wrists down to the floor on his right side and letting his elbows drop to the floor, he was able to get on all fours and, with some effort, push himself to a standing position.

Once standing he remembered he hadn't looked for the knife.

GMcB: This is a test, isna it God? Ah know ah shoulda spent less oan that bluidy mirror an' given' some o' it tae that homeless shelter, eh?

He felt like crying, the frustration was so strong.

Crouching down and getting on his knees again, he starts carefully feeling for the knife. Luckily, this time he came upon the handle quite quickly, picking it up and as he moved forward on all fours, banged his head on the bench he was looking for.

Laying his arms, elbows down, across the bench, he pushes himself up. Turning around, he sits down on the solidness of the bench and takes a deep breath.

By this time his already abraded knees were raw and stinging furiously and he was shivering with cold from being wet.

GMcB: (grumbling) No one is ever goin' tae believe this *beep*

Reaching down carefully, knife securely in his right hand, he starts cutting through the bond around his ankles, freeing them with a few strokes.

GMcB: Whew! Now if ah kin figure oot....

Standing up and walking to where he thinks the table is, he holds the knife towards his body, blade up and with a very light pressure against it, he manages to cut the strap around his wrists without cutting into his flesh.

GMcB: (sighing in satisfaction) Okay, God or whatever ah'm tae call ye, ah owe ye one.

Feeling his way to the wall, he flings open the shutters and thanks to a three quarter moon, he is able to see the room and ascertain there is no one else there with him.

GMcB: Well ma arse is about the only thing that isna sore. Ah wonder where that screw loose idiot went to? (moving towards the door)   If ah ever run intae him again, ah'm goin' tae show him what real pain is, an' he isna goin' tae enjoy it either.

Putting his hand on his chin.

GMcB: Hmmm. Whare have ah heard that line before?

Bolting the door securely and putting the big knife on the table next to the bed, he strips Jamie's urine soaked clothes off and plunks down on the straw filled mattress, groaning. Anything more can wait until daylight.

He turns and smells the bedding with distaste and shivers.

GMcB: Ah naiver in ma life thought ah'd say this but....Scotland stinks! ....Big time!

Next: McRandall Does Manhattan! 

Disclaimer: This is a work of pure fiction that exists only in the twilight zone of the writer's mind. Any and all resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

Songs out of tune, the words always a little wrong...Canzoni Stonate

The Outlandisher - Chap. 9 - An English Captain

June 6th, 2009

"Lice?  Oh ma Gude!"

Chap. 9

An English Captain

On the carriage ride back from Inverness Castle Gerry McButler was fitfully dreaming he was being pinched to death by a gaggle of overzealous fans who had wrestled him to the ground. Flailing his arms and crying out, he awakes to find that the carriage has stopped and Claire is shaking him vigorously.

Claire: Are you alright? You looked like you were in the fight of your life.

GMcB: (scratching himself, he shivers) Brrrr. Ah was havin' a bad dream.

Seeing they have arrived back at her cottage, he opens the door and helps her down from the carriage and over the threshold.

Claire looks at the carriage and back at McButler.

Claire: (reluctantly) I suppose you'd better stay here for the rest of the night. I'll start a fire and ye can sleep on the floor near the fireplace.

GMcB: On the floor? Ye got tae be kiddin'. Ah dinna think ma body kin take the floor. Ye've no' got another bed?
Claire: (laughing) Are you serious? This is 18th century Scotland, remember? And Jamie is a laird without a castle. 

GMcB: (scratching his head) Well then ah think ah'll take ma chances leukin' fer the room wi' the bluidy mirror. Ah know there was a bed in it.(shrugging) Ah dinna remember the name o' the place, but if ah found ye, I kin probably find it if ah walk around a bit an' get ma bearings.

Claire: (incredulous) In the dark? Are you mad? You'll probably be set upon by thieves and get your throat cut.

Thinking it over and not finding the prospect attractive, he eyes the fireplace again, then goes out and dismisses the driver.

GMcB: (scratching under his arm ) Have a heart. Kin ah no' share yer bed if we put some pillows between us? Ah promise no' tae touch ye. Since ah made this movie about the Spartans, ah gat a touch o' arthritis in ma shoulders an' when it flares up, there's the devil tae be paid.

He scratches himself vigorously again and Claire frowns.

Claire: You know that little romp of yours with yon lassie back at the castle?

GMcB: (blushing) Er, what about it?

Claire: By the looks of you, I would wager you have picked up a few bugs here and there.

GMcB: Bugs? Ye mean like an STD kind o' bug?

Claire: STD?

GMcB: A sexually transmitted disease.

Claire: Interesting..... In 1945 we were still calling them venereal diseases.

GMcB: (nervous) Ah repeat, how dae ye know fer sure the lass wis infected wi' one? She seemed fine tae me an' dinna leuk tae be more than 17 or 18.

Claire: Dear man, the kind of bugs I was referring to are the crawling kind, as in lice.

GMcB: (jutting out his bottom jaw) Lice? Oh ma Gude!

Suddenly he starts scratching again and looking down at his clothes.

Claire: And there is no way you are sharing my bed like that, no matter how many promises you make. It's hard enough keeping Jamie deloused with all the scrapes he gets into....

Gerry is too busy scratching himself furiously to pay attention to what she's saying.

GMcB: (scratching his crotch) Lice er crabs?

Claire: One and the same.

She wants to laugh, as he shudders at the thought.

GMcB: What dae ah do? Ah know a shower is askin' too much for this backward place, but dae ye think I could get a bath at least before they bite me tae death? ..... Please? Somethin'. Anythin'?

Claire: As luck would have it, Jamie spent all summer carving a bathtub for me out of a solid tree trunk. It took him forever and almost cost him a finger. Good thing I was able to sew most of it back on. It was tricky, but...

GMcB: (humoring her) He did say ye were guid at patchin' people up. Ye're a woman o' many talents. Now what about that bath?

Claire: It's up to you, but you're likely to freeze to death trying to bathe this time of night. The water is cold enough in the day time.

GMcB: (eyes wide) Cold water?

Claire: (thinking it over) I suppose I could heat up some water for you in the cooking caldron. Do you now how to start a fire?

GMcB: Ye got a lighter?

Claire: (laughing) Sure. Here.

She hands him the flint box.

GMcB: (looking at it blankly) What the hell is this?

With a facsimile of one of Jamie's guttural sounds, she snatches the flint box from him.

Claire: Never mind. Give it to me!

She hands him the large caldron hanging over the fire.

Claire: Go to the rain barrel in the back and get some water. I'll start the fire.

She goes to the fireplace and starts mumbling to herself.

Claire: I can't believe I'm doing this for another Scottish clod head. You're an idiot Claire McFraser!

An hour later, in a room lit by several candles, Gerremy McButler is sitting in a small, half filled tub of tepid water vigorously scrubbing himself from head to toe with lye soap . He was also thinking that he was hungry again and wondered if Claire had anymore of that boiled beef she had served him this afternoon? He was craving a hamburger with french fries, but anything would do at this point. A cup of tea might be nice too. At least with boiled water he didn't have to worry about picking up another kind of bug.

What he wouldn't give for a coca cola right about now.

Face full of soap, he closes his lids to keep the stinging soap out of his eyes. Hearing a knock on the door, he opens one eye to see Claire coming in with another caldon full of water so he can rinse himself. Instinctively he covers up his genitals and getting soap in his eye, quickly closes it.

Carrying the container of steaming water Claire smiles at the sight of him, hair thick with soap, eyes closed and hands in his lap covering himself. She couldn't help admiring the big muscled arms and shoulders, but clears her throat loudly as she approaches the tub to warn him.

Claire: Are you ready? The water's nice and warm.

GMcB: Aye, please hurry! Ma eyes are burnin' an' ma skin is about tae fall off. What is this soap made o' anyways? Turpentine?

Claire: You're close. Ready or not, here it comes.

Lifting the large caldron over his head, she pours some of the steaming water over him.

A little hotter than either of them expected, he jumps up with a loud yell, banging his head on the caldron and almost knocking it out of her hand, then grabbing his privates in an attempt to shield them again.

GMcB: Damn it wumman! Furst ye try tae geld me an' now ye're tryin' tae cook me. What is it wi ye? Dae ye hate all men or is it just me?

Claire: (laughing) Oh for God's sake sit down, you sissy! A little hot water never hurt anybody. Besides, it will help kill the lice.

GMcB: (under his breath) Yeah, an'  their host too!

Chastised and still covering himself with one hand, he lowers himself down into the tub again and obediently lets her pour the rest of the water over him while he awkwardly attempts to rinse the pungent soap from his body with the other.

Putting the kettle down, Claire notices the smooth skin on the back of his neck and back. She can't help but compare it to Jamie's equally broad, but badly scared one and feels momentarily guilty for having the thought. Dismissing it just as quickly, she turns around to leave the room.

Claire: When you've finished drying yourself, here is one o' Jamie's shirts you can slip on. Come downstairs and I'll check you for any strays.

GMcB: (wiping the water from his eyes) Ah hate tae ask, but ah'm really hungry again. Dae ye have anythin' tae eat an' maybe some hot tea or sumthin'. Ah'm thirsty.

Hands on her hips, she turns around to face him again from the door.

Claire: You're determined to eat me out of house and home, aren't you?

GMcB: Ah'll pay ye back somehow. Ah promise.

Claire: Very well. I'll see what I can find.

GMcB: (giving her his most angelic grin) Ye're an angel.

Claire: I've been called a witch, but never an angel.

She goes out the door and leaves him to his privacy, thinking how easily this almost perfect stranger managed to get his way with her. She wondered if maybe by some quirk of fate he might not really be related to Jamie McFraser.
Ten minutes later, Gerry McButler (for he had asked her to call him that) is sitting near the fireplace while Claire combed through his hair looking for any signs of live lice. She thought it might be a little early for any nits. They had emptied the tub and while there were plenty of dead ones in the water, she couldn't find any on his scalp. The fact he wasn't squirming or scratching any other body parts was another good sign.

Putting out several bannocks with gooseberry preserves and some vegetable soup she had made from the few vegetables she was able to grow in her garden, she cut him a piece of cheese.

Gratefully, he ate in silence, lulled into a stupor by the warmth and the sudden sense of well being. Realizing there was little he needed to do at the moment, he was looking forward to an untroubled sleep. He would worry about his present circumstances in the morning and return to the inn and the mirror and see if he could find his way back to his own time. He knew there had to be a way. He just had to find it. He wished he could recall the name of the inn now. He'd know it when he saw it.

Meanwhile, he found himself enjoying the company of this straightforward woman who, though married, was very easy on the eyes. He could clearly see her charm for someone like Jamie McFraser and thought he would have given her more than a second look himself, had he run into her in his own time. As it was, it was nice not to worry about having to make a conquest of her and just be himself.

Finishing up his plate, down to the last crumb, he drinks what is left of the soothing mint tea she had freshly brewed from leaves gathered from her garden.

Claire: I don't know about you, but I think it's time to go to bed. The sun will be up soon. Do you think you can bank the fire here, while I see what arrangements I can make upstairs?

Unconsciously getting up and stretching himself in front of the fireplace, he doesn't realize that the long linen shirt he is wearing becomes almost transparent.

GMcB: Ah don't suppose ye have a spare toothbrush, dae ye? (grinning) Ma dentist , Dr. Zoom, says ah gotta brush an' floss every night before bed if ah wanna keep my movie star smile.

Claire averts her eyes to keep from staring at the outline of his manly contours.

Claire: Floss?

GMcB: Yeah, ye know...the bitty thread, tae get in between the teeth to keep yer gums healthy. If ye've ever had a root canal ye'd know the importance o' it. Though it's a pain in the arse, ah'm no' about tae go through that again!

Claire: Well I've got some silk thread I use for medical purposes, but you'll have to reuse it, as it's hard to come by. As for the teeth, you'll have to make do with some salt you can apply with these leaves. They work if you are diligent.

She hands him several leaves and some grains of salt and going to her medical box, cuts a small length of silk thread and lays it on the table. It was nice to see a man who cared about dental hygiene for a change. She had taught Jamie and his family how to brush, and also how to eat a variety of greens to keep their gums healthy. So many of the eighteen century citizens lost their teeth at a young age to tooth decay. It was unfortunate and ruined even the nicest smile.

GMcB: Well, it's not ma Sonicare, but ah guess it will have tae do.

Claire: Sonicare?

GMcB: Ma electric toothbrush that spins an' does everythin' but wipe yer arse.....The stuff we take fer granted is amazin' isn't it?

Claire: Yes. I'd settle for a good old l945 brush and some mint tooth powder I didn't have to make myself.

GMcB: Ye know, in ma time they even bleach yer teeth tae whiten them. There are all kinds o' tricks fer gettin' a Hollywood smile. (giggling) If ye only knew.....

Claire: (yawning) You'll have to tell me more about it tomorrow. Right now I'm going up and get ready for bed. Knock on the door before coming in, will you?

GMcB: O' course.

Ten minutes later, after rinsing his mouth and his little piece of precious silk thread in a little of the water left in the kettle, he carefully put it away in the sporran she had loaned him. He also banked the fire, as she had shown him and, taking the candle left on the table with him, goes upstairs.

He didn't think he would need an Ambien tonight. Better to save them for another day. God knew how long he was going to be here.


New York City 

Letting himself into Gerry's loft , Rusty Elvaino is greeted by Noly, padding in to see him, followed by Gerry's cleaning lady Marta, who is carrying a mop.

Nodding at the woman, he bends over to lift up the little dog now rubbing up against his leg.

Elvaino: What's wrong girl? You happy to see me?

Marta: I'll bet she is. Where the devil is Gerry? I found this poor thing practically starving to death and little puddles of her urine and something else all over the hardwood floor.

Elvaino: I dunno. Wish I did though, because it's not like him not to call someone to feed Noly and take her out if he can't do it himself.

Marta: Well I called Mr. Baines to come an' get her and I'll leave a note for Gerry telling him, cause if he doesn't show up soon and she keeps peeing on that floor, he's going to have to refinish it again. ..... Besides, I told him I don't pick up dog poop.

Elvaino, Yes, well, I'm sure he knew you were coming today, so he didn't worry. I'm going to check around with a few people this afternoon if I don't hear from him by then. Tell Baines to keep her until he hears from me, okay?

Marta: Were do you think he's gone off to? He left all his Scottish finery sittin' around his room, so I though maybe he'd just stepped out.

Elvaino: I have no idea Marta, but I'm going to leave this little box on his desk. If he shows up while you're still here, tell him to call me, will you?


Claire's Cottage - Scotland

It's late morning and Gerry McButler awakens gasping for breath and flings the pillow sitting on his face aside. Suspicious, he looks over to see the other side of the bed is empty. 

Claire was fast asleep when he entered the room the night before to find the bed had been divided by a big lofty quilt down the middle. Thinking how pretty she looked lying there, he had tiptoed in quietly, blown out the remaining candle, and slipped in under the top quilt to quickly sink into the feather mattress. After sneezing several times in the darkness and listening to Claire's quiet breathing for a few minutes, he had fallen into a deep sleep.

Wondering about the pillow on his face, he vaguely remembered someone shouting at him and telling him to turn over, once or twice, but deep in the arms of Morpheus, he had been unable to respond.

He stands up and scratching his bottom absently, he disappears behind the curtain and pees in the chamber pot. 

Thrusting open the shutter to a sunny, if crisp day outside, he shivers and hugs himself. As he stands in the light of the window, he looks down at the shirt he is wearing and realizes you can see through the fabric. Grinning to himself, he decides he'd better get dressed before going in search of Claire.

He eyes a bowl and pitcher of water across the room and uses it to wash his face and rinse his mouth, careful not to swallow any. Looking around for the clothes he was wearing before going to the castle, he sees that she has put out a fresh, if worn kilt, another white linen shirt and a pair of striped socks next to his boots. There is a warm, tartan folded next to them as well. He dresses quickly, feeling the draft up his thighs and wishing mightily he had his comfy designer underwear again, not to mention a pair of his jeans.

Once downstairs, he discovers Claire is nowhere in sight but has left some bread and cheese covered with a cloth and a glass of what looks like fresh buttermilk for him. Quickly wolfing it down, he decides it's time to do a little more exploring and see if he can find his way back to the inn. Not finding anything to leave her a note with and figuring he will stop by later and thank her properly, he goes on his way.

He hasn't gone far, when he realizes that some one is following him. It is that second sense he has developed over the years of having to watch out for stalking fans and paparazzi that now alerts him to the stranger, dressed in what looks to be some kind of red military coat, who is curiously dogging his steps.

GMcB: *beep* What the hell is this guy tailin' me for? If ah dinna know better, ah'd think he was a pap.

Speeding up to try and lose him, he ducks behind a stack of barrels being unloaded from a wagon. The wagon driver, sees him and barks out menacingly...

Wagon Driver: Binna ye leukin fer mischief thare, ah expect ye tae be movin' awa maister.

Stepping back quickly to avoid the beefy man, he decides to duck into what looks like an alley, only to startle a huge black Mastiff who immediately bares his teeth and growling deep in his throat, starts inching slowly towards him. Reminded of the mechanical wolf from 300, Gerry has enough sense to be scared.

Thinking it prudent to stay calm, he talks to the dog in a soothing voice.

GMcB: Calm doon thare boy! Ah'm no' interested in yer business, whatever that is.

Deciding to take his chances with the stalker, he slowly backs out of the alley and runs right smack into the man.

Frank Neil McRandall was not as tall as Gerremy, but lean and compact, with a sensual mouth and dark eyes. He wasn't a bad looking man, but the look on his face as he address McButler, gives one the impression of hidden dangers.

McRandall: (condescendingly) Ye clumsy oaf! (pointing) Look what you've done to my boots!

GMcB: (angry at his tone) Well if ye hadna been breathin' down ma neck I wouldna have stepped on yer, f-uckin' dirty boots!

McRandall: They were clean before you put your big, ugly feet on them, you menace! (putting his hand on the hilt of his sword) I should teach you a lesson for assaulting an officer of the King's army.

GMcB: (angrier still and balling his fists) Ye've the nairve tae call that an assault? Ah'm thinkin' ah should really give ye somethin' tae write home about, ye imbecil.

In their argument they had both forgotten the big Mastiff, who was now inching forward, drooling profusely and growling loudly at them.

They both turn to the large dog at once and looking at each other with fear, start backing up slowly, watching the dog carefully and hoping he is not going to give chase.

After a few feet they both slowly turn and start running in different directions.

As luck would have it, the dog tears off after Gerry, who has no weapon to defend himself with. Not used to running in the ill fitting boots, he trips on a cobblestone and flying through the air, lands on his stomach with a thud, while the dog, who had just leapt in the air to attack him, sails right over him, landing in a water trough used for watering the horses.

Only momentarily deterred, the dog jumps out and is busily shaking the water from his thick coat. This gives a winded McButler just enough time to get to his feet and see Frank McRandall, who has appeared next to him, raise a musket and fire at the animal. The shot whizzes past the dog, just close enough to scare him, and he takes off with a yelp. 

18th century dragoon

McRandall: Are you alright?

GMcB: Aye, thanks. (dusting himself off) Cep fer the knees.

The words between them forgotten, Gerry looks down at his bloodied knees and notices a big tear in Jamie's worn kilt, which is now hopelessly smeared with blood and mud.

GMcB: Crap! Ah ruined bluidy McFraser's kilt.

McRandall: McFraser? Jamie McFraser?

GMcB: (looking up) Yeah, ye know him?

McRandall: Well, to be truthful, I saw you coming out of his house. You've a look of him about you. Are you two related?

GMcB: Not saes ah know, though ah guess anything's possible. Ye a friend o' his?

McRandall: (grinning) We've had our moments.

GMcB: Ah dinna ken where he is, if that's why ye were followin' me.

McRandall: I wasn't following you, but perhaps I was a little curious. You say you don't know his whereabouts?

GMcB: I havena' a clue, but thanks fer scaring off that mutt. He was as big as a bul......

Suddenly, as if a light goes on in his head, he remembers the name of the inn and blurts out...

GMcB: Say, ye ever heard o' a place called the Red Bull Inn? I wis tryin' tae retrace ma steps from Claire's house, but now ah'm confused.

McRandall: It's two blocks over and one block down. (with interest) You staying there?

GMcB: Ah guess ah am....

Eager to get going now that he knows his way, he turns to McRandall and puts out his hand.

GMcB: Hey, thanks again, mate. Sorry aboot yer boots.

McRandall: (pleasantly) It's forgotten already. Think nothing of it.

GMcB: Cool. Well, ah'd best be goin' now. See ye aroun', aye?

Seeing the palm of Gerry's hand is muddy from his fall, McRandall takes his fingers lightly and shakes them with something akin to distaste.

McRandall: (under his breath) Sooner then you think.

McRandall watches him walk away until he is well out of sight.

Not one to fret and happy to have escaped another catastrophe and gotten his bearings again, Gerry McButler takes off whistling a tune.

GMcB: (singing low) ...." kickin' down the cobble-stones,..... lookin' fer fun an' feelin' groooooo ...vy ..."

Suddenly he stops, sure he's forgotten something he should remember.... but not remembering what it is, he decides it must not be important and continues walking to his destination with purpose.

Next: "Chickens You Say? 


Disclaimer: This is a work of pure fiction that exists only in the twilight zone of the writer's mind. Any and all resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

Songs out of tune, the words always a little wrong...Canzoni Stonate

The Outlandisher - Chap. 8 - The Pissing Contest

May 31st, 2009

Chap. 8
The Pissing Contest


New York City

The phone in Gerremy McButler's loft is ringing off the hook. It was the third time that day that it had done so, with several cell phones sitting on a nearby shelf in succession following suit.

The first time this happened little Noly had run around barking, but it had been a whole day and her master still hadn't returned. Sitting near the ornate mirror from where he had departed, she looked up with her mournful eyes as she again heard her master's voice on the outgoing message.

After a few moments, she put her head back on her paws and closed them.


Rusty Elvaino hung up the phone for the second time that day. Perturbed his friend was not answering any of his many cell phones, he'd resorted to leaving a message on the land line. Thinking it over, he smiled to himself and shrugged. Ger is probably tied up somewhere, either literally or figuratively and would get back to him when he came up for air. They were to meet at Raoul's for dinner tonight and he was excited to show his friend the carved paperweight he had picked up at auction which was the perfect companion for the snuff box they had purchased a few days before. He was positive his friend was going to love it, but if not, he would be able to sell it elsewhere. He wasn't worried. He'd try him again later.


Los Angeles

Allaine Siegelson had also been trying to reach the actor. He needed to run something buy him regarding a script they were considering for production. Impatiently he closed his cell phone again as he and his partner got ready to leave for breakfast.

Siegelson: I'll just leave a message so he can get back to me. (frowning) I hope he's not playing games again. Since the new Guru in Bengali told him about the dangers of EMR's on his damned aura and his psyche, he's gotten in the habit of turning off his cell for hours at a time.


Inverness Castle

A new face to the room is leisurely moving towards the group in Claire's sights and it is one she would rather not see at the moment. Watching his walk, Claire had to admit that Jamie's Uncle Google McGuinness was a very good specimen of Scottish manhood, like most of the McGuinnesses. However, at this moment she could only hope that he did not spell trouble for Gerry McButler, who, between trips to wherever he was going when he left the room, was doing his darndest to keep up with the conversaton of war and weapons the group of Lairds was indulging in between gulps of the flowing whisky.

She had already overheard several of them comment on the newcomer's inability to stand still and had detected some snickers about his many absences, as they seemed to be chalking them up to the size, or lack there of, of his bladder or perhaps a bad case of indigestion, due to the sloshing noise his stomach made every time he laughed.

Thankfully he was nowhere in sight at the moment, so Claire decided to position herself to catch him and warn him about Google.

Fortunately, McButler, who had been caught in the act of spitting the whiskey into the pig's bladder hidden in his shirt by one of the young, raven haired scullery maids, had quickly sweet-talked her and, swearing her to secrecy, was in the stables this very moment, showing her why he was considered one of Hollywood's biggest flirts as well as getting a lesson himself on one of the many advantages of the native Scottish dress.

By the time he returned 20 minutes later, with several pieces of straw clinging to his bonnet, a part of his kilt turned up at the hem and a big grin on his face, Google McGuinness had delivered his message and departed without laying eyes on Jamie McFraser's, father's second cousin's first son's bastard offspring.

Claire hadn't been so lucky, with Google sarcastically inquiring about her health and that of his absent nephew and had, as usual, left her with the ominous warning that Jamie had better be careful about his Clan loyalties.

Still angry with McGuinness, she sees McButler returning from the barn and almost hisses at him.

Claire: Where the hell have you been? I was getting worried.

GMcB: (grinning) Nae need tae worry. Ah wis gettin' some fresh air an' takin' a break from all the hot air in the room.

Claire Avoyant McFraser had one of those noses that come along once every hundred and fifty years. Even with all the unpleasant and pungent smells of the 18th century, she could pick out any single one that had the unfortunate happenstance of being in the vicinity of and/or made contact with her pretty nose.

As a matter of fact, after several whiskies, Jamie had once unguardedly let slip that his men teased him that the only reason he stayed faithful to her was that he was afraid of her nose, not to mention her temper. He had smiled sheepishly at her and told her that it wasn't true, of course, but she had questioned him mercilessly, trying to find out which men specifically had said it, because she was going to put salt peter in their grub next time she saw them. He had declined to enlighten her.

But, comments apart, this sense of smell had served her well (and made for good story filler for some authors) and, at the moment and unbeknownst to the hapless McButler, she could smell the recent encounter with the maid on his person. Of course the straw in the bonnet was a clue, as she didn't think he was in the barn communing with the horses.

She plucks the straw out of his hair and yanks the hem down on his kilt. Giving him the evil eye, she decides it's not her business what he does in this regard, but can't help recognizing the small speck of jealousy that she feels when he grins at her, a recognition that he knows she knows very well what he has been about.

GMcB: (making a joke) Ye know this bluidy thing is stairtin' tae get full. (touching the pig bladder hidden in his shirt) They're goin' tae think ah'm pregnant pretty soon.

Claire: (crossly) Better you than some poor 18th century girl!

Letting it sink in, the look that crosses his face tells her she's hit home.

Before he can reply they are interrupted by the elderly Laird Boney Flanks of Loch Lomand.

Lomand: Weel laddie, are ye ready fer yer match wi' young Killem? Archibald is takin' bets on the outcome an' though ye leuk like a strappin' fella, Killem's got a reputation o' bestin' even the best o' em, cep fer yer cousin Jamie, o' course. Are ye as guid as he?

Several others have approached them, including said Killem.

Kilmarnoc: Aye, McButler McFraser, are ye up tae par wi' yer cousin, cause I'm thinkin' o' putting ma money on ye?

Killem: (grinning through several missing teeth) The only reason yer cousin beat me is kis ah wis under the weather an' recoverin' from this!

Killim McQuinn pulls up his kilt and we can see a long ropey scar running across the length of his right thigh.

Claire watches the actor blanch and his lower jaw come out, then marvels as he takes control of himself again and daringly smiles at McQuinn.

GMcB: Well ah willnae get intae a pissin' contest wi' ye over which o' us is the better swortsman, but ah think ah kin hold ma own if ah haveta.

Kilmarnoc: A pissin' contest? (brightening noticeably) I havena been in a pissin' contest since I was a young man. What a marvelous idea!

Claire's eyes light up. Seeing a solution to the problem in Kilmarnoc's innocent response, Claire pipes up prettily.

Claire: Yes, isn't it? (coyly) You know the ladies have been talking about how boring all these sword fights are lately. I mean, they're all the same. It's soooo passe.
(covering a pretended yawn)

Claire: (brightly) But now a pissing contest between all of you distinguished Lords would be quite amusing and a real way of separating the men from the boys. I am sure Jamie's cousin here could hold up the McFraser honor in that regard....
(turning to Gerry)

Claire: ...couldn't you?

The ladies in the group, who have gathered around, start applauding her suggestion.

Kilmarnoc: I think that sounds like a splendid idea! What dae ye say Killem? McButler?

Before anyone else can chime in, the now totally inebriated Charles Stewart steps in.

Charles Stewart: Man yer weapons mates....(pulling his sword out of his scabbard) Let's retire tae the courtyard! Set up the markers!

He turns to the ladies present.

Charles Stewart: (bowing mischievously) Ladies, pick yer champion (raising his glass) and place yer bets wi' Archie there.

They all turn to go to the courtyard and Lomand puts his hand on McButler's shoulder.

Lord Lomond: Comin' lad?

GMcB: Ah'll be along in a moment. I need a wort wi' ma cousin Claire here.

Left alone, Claire smiles at him.

Claire: How was that for saving your little ass? You've got a good a chance as any to win this kind of contest and no skill required.

GMcB: Nae skill required? Says ye! (shrugging) Ah guess ah should thank ye, but ah got a wee problem wi' it....

Claire: Now what?

GMcB: Ah'm no' sure if ye noticed, but ah'm dry as a bone. Ah've na' had anythin' tae drink since ah got here cep fer that foul tastin' stuff ye gave me fer the runs....an' the rest ah left in the bluidy chamber pot back at yer place. I'll be lucky if there's a trickle o' fluid left in me.

Claire: (thunderstruck) Jesus, Roosevelt and Churchill, I hadn't thought of that!

GMcB: Yeah, well ye shoulda...an' no' even that trinity ye're callin' up kin help me. These guys ha' been drinkin' whisky like water an' anyone o' em is goin' tae pee like a horse. The McFraser honor is goin' tae suffer by me.

He starts to walk away.

Claire: Where are you going?

GMcB: Tae leuk fer somethin' potable. If ah were ye, ah'd bet on Prince Charlie. That sucker kin put em down, that's fer sure!


New York City

After waiting an hour at Raoul's for Gerry to show up, Rusty Elvaino had finally ordered McButler's favorite lobster risotto and the steak au' poivre from the waiter and eaten alone. Once outside the noise of the restaurant an hour later, he dials a number. Not getting an answer, he dials another.

Elvaino: Hi Marco. Rusty, here. Have you by any chance talked to Gerry today? He was supposed to meet me for dinner and never showed. I've been calling him all day.

Marco Shickelgroper: Nope. Haven't seen him. Didn't know you were still in town. When you going back to L.A.?

Elvaino: Not until next week, but I'm worried about Gerry. It's not like him not to at least call if he can't make it.

Marco S: (laughing) Not always. Remember the time that wacky broad handcuffed him to the handicap bar and left him sitting in the tub at the Four Seasons? How long did it take him before he could free himself to get to the phone? He had to pull the damn bar outta the wall and then had to pay for a whole new tile job. It wasn't cheap either, according to him.

Elvaino: Yeah, I'd forgotten about that. Didn't she flush his BlackBarry down the toilet too?

Marco S.: Yep. She told him he was lucky she wasn't gluing it to his ear since that's where it spent most of the time. Then she threw his clothes out the window and left.

Elvaino: (chuckles) Do you ever wonder how he manages this stuff?

Marco S.: I used to, but not any more.

Elvaino: I just hope he's okay.

Marco S.: I wouldn't worry. He's probably in love again this week and we won't see him for a few days until the girl does something really dumb to turn him off.

Elvaino: You're probably right. I think I'll stop by his place anyway. I've got something I want to leave for him. Hey listen, take care, man. See you around.

Marco S.: Yeah, you too.

Inverness Castle

Back at Inverness Castle the "pissing contest" was progressing at a loud, if leisurely pace. Several men had already done their best and their efforts were firmly marked by arrows stuck in the sand. There was no accounting for age, as would be expected, and some of the older Scots held their own against their younger, healthier counterparts, depending on how much whisky they had put away.

Watching the proceedings with amusement, Claire could predict which of them had or were headed for prostate trouble by the strength and flow of their streams. Each contestants efforts was followed by collective pats on the back from the group and hoots from those watching.

Some of the elder lords were not shy about concealing their genitals, but turned their backs to the few women present before hiking up their kilts to leave themselves unencumbered for the task. The younger males were more discreet in the way they went about it, able to tuck parts of their kilts in a way it would conceal their members. But in all her days of practicing as a nurse, she had rarely gotten a glimpse of so many penises at one time.

As McButler had told her to, she had put her money on the Prince. Had Jamie been there, she would have bet on him, of course. But she kept wondering where Gerry McButler was, as the line was getting shorter and he had yet to appear.

Laird Kilmarnoc had just had a turn and, for his years, had put all the others to shame. Eminently pleased with himself and the hand he was getting from his peers, he approached her.

Kilmarnoc: Whare the de'il is young McButler McFraser? 'Twas his idea an' we've yet tae see what he can do. Where's he disappeared to?

As if in answer to his question, Gerremy McButler strides out of the castle at that very moment, stretched to his full height and smiling pleasantly.

Besides himself, only Killem McQuinn and Charles Stewart remain to take a turn...and the still heavily sweating McQuinn suddenly hikes up his kilt to momentarily display a horse size phallus, now firmly grasped in his right hand.

A collective giggle goes up from the group of women and a groan from some of the men that had gone before him

Claire watches, fascinated, as she had a pretty good idea how this contestant was going to fare, despite the size of his equipment. He had been indulging in several sword matches and has perspired profusely throughout, so it was not without surprise that she watched a meager size stream of urine sprout from him.

Surprised and disappointed, the Killem sits down on the ground, non the wiser that all the whisky he had consumed had been perspired away during his combat.

Charles Stewart: Ah, McFraser. You've arrived just in time. Would you care to go first?

Bowing cavalierly to the Prince.

GMcB: After ye, ma Lort.

Charles Stewart: Very well.

Stepping up to the line and cautiously lifting his kilt so as to cleverly conceal himself, Charles Stewart spreads his legs, leans his hips forward, reaches underneath and showing nothing to those present, a long, thin, but powerful stream comes forth. Everyone applauds as it surprisingly surpasses any that have gone before him, including Kilmarnoc.

When he is finished, very pleased with himself he takes a bow.

Gerry McButler who has been watching the Prince carefully, catches Claire's worried look and smiles confidently at her.

Taking his place, he takes a cue from the Prince and spreading his legs, plants his feet firmly in the sand, thrusts his pelvis forward and without so much as pulling up his kilt, he reaches underneath with his left hand and a large, straight stream of urine lifts his kilt and flies through the air reaching, but not quite surpassing, the marker set up for the Prince.

The applause and pats on the back are numerous, as his marker is put down by one of the servants. They all hurry up to the arrows to see who has won the contest.

Kilmarnoc: Well lad, ah see ye've got nothing tae envy yer cousin Jamie at all.

GMcB: (diplomatically) Aye, but in all fairness, ah wis standing a wee bit o'er the line, sae ah think the prize rightfully belongs tae the Prince here.

Tilting his head toward Charles Stewart, Claire catches the wink he gives her.

At that moment Lord Lomand gives him a strong pat on the back and shoves a whisky in his face.

She can see the momentary panic in his eyes. Seeing no choice now, he lifts his cup.

GMcB: Tae yer health ma Lort!

As they all drink to the winner, he swallows a little of the whisky, letting the rest dribble down his chin and onto the ground. Using the back of his hand, he wipes it off his face, as he's seen the other men do.

Watching him with admiration, Claire has to admit that this strange actor from the future has managed to pull it off and then some, throwing the glory to the Prince, who is pleased with him and winning the grudging respect of the others present for his confident display.

As they all reenter the castle surrounded by the others, she catches his smile

A few minutes later, McButler approaches her from behind and whispers in here ear.

GMcB: Let's git oot o' here, please. Make some excuse. Whateiver.....

She nods her head and after collecting her winnings from the tall, thin Archie, she returns to McButler. Taking his arm, she steers him towards the Prince.

Claire: Prince Charles, we must take our leave if we are to arrive home before sunup. It's been a long day.

Charles Stewart: Ye will not stay wi' us this evening, madam McFraser?

Claire: I'm afraid not, your lordship. My cousin has some affairs to attend to in the morning, so it would be prudent for us to return tonight. We thank you for your hospitality, nonetheless.

Charles Stewart bows over her hand.

Charles Stewart: My regards tae yer husband when he returns. Please tell him tae come around an' bring McButler McFraser wi' him too.

He pats Gerremy on the back.

GMcB: T'will be ma pleasure tae accompany him ma lort. (bowing) Until the next taime.

Taking their leave of the others, they walk out to the awaiting carriage.

Claire: (between her teeth) I want to know how you managed it?

Seeing the young maid standing nearby with the others, Gerremy stops and puts his hand out.

GMcB: That money ye won. Kin ah have it?

She is about to protest, but seeing the seriousness of his request, she drops the coins in his hand.
He turns and walking up to the young girl, he puts the coins in her hand.

GMcB: Take care, lass.

Giving her a kind smile, he walks back to the waiting Claire and puts out his arm for her.

GMcB: Ye were sayin' ?

She smiles at him, deciding she likes this man.

Claire: I want to know how you pulled it off.

GMcB: (grinning) Smoke an' mirrors, Lady McFraser.....an' the help o' a verra sweet lass, a couple o' her garters, an' one verra full pig's bladder.

Claire: What?

GMcB: (shrugging) Ah told ye ah wis an actor.

Grudgingly, she starts laughing, as he takes her hand to help her up into the carriage.

GMcB: Get in, please....

He gets in after her and slams the door, telling the coachmen to go.

GMcB: ....an' tarn yer head.

He physically pushes her chin in the direction of the opposite window and lifting his kilt removes the garter holding the narrow end of the pigs bladder closed and tightly wound around his penis and then untying the second one that is holding the bladder to his right thigh.

GMcB: (mumbling) Ma erection is long gone and this bluidy thing is strangling me tae death....

He turns to look at Claire as he throws the now almost empty bladder on the floor of the coach.

GMcB: ..... an' that, ma dear Lady Fraser, is one thing ah'm not prepared tae sacrifice fer ye....or yer precious Jamie's reputation!

Turning to him in surprise, she starts laughing heartily. Appreciating her for that laughter, he joins her.

Next: An English Captain

Disclaimer: This is a work of pure fiction that exists only in the twilight zone of the writer's mind. Any and all resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. 

Songs out of tune, the words always a little wrong...Canzoni Stonate

The Outlandisher - Chap. 7 - "An Actor?"

May 27th, 2009

William Wallace Swort

Chap. 7
"An Actor?"

Claire: You're an actor, you say?

GMcB: Aye...

Seated near the hearth once more and nursing a second glass of the same sour tasting remedy after another rapid trip to the chamber pot, the uncomfortable McButler glances sheepishly at Claire McFraser.

GMcB: ...although if ah were a better one ah might be able tae hide the mortification an' flush that seems tae ha' taken up permanent residence on ma face since ah walked in yer door.

Waving away his embarrassment with a gesture, she can't help herself from adding...

Claire: (grinning) I did tell you it wouldn't stay with you long, didn't I?

Before he can answer, she continues on.

Claire: Are you a stage or a screen actor? Or like Lawrence Olivier, do both?

GMcB: (taking the bait) Well if we're talking antediluvian, ah have tae say ah'm more in the mold o' Errol Flynn than Sir Lawrence.

Claire: Errol Flynn? You mean you do swashbucklers?

GMcB: In actual fact, ah do a bit o' everything but ah guess ye could say the "swashbucklers' ha' been ma bread and butter in the past.

As she questions him, McButler fills her in on his career to date, trying hard not to embellish in his usual exuberant manner, as his own words had occasionally come back to haunt him when he let his enthusiasm go too far on movies that had been less than stellar in hindsight. Selling movies was part of an actor's job and, depending on the movie, not always his favorite part.

Wiser now, he tried to save his superlatives for the truly rare ones, walking a fine line between losing the enthusiasm with which he tackled every role at the risk of appearing hopelessly naive or, on the other extreme, becoming cynical and jaded in a business that bread that in some. Truth be told, he loved what he did, though not always some of the fools he had encountered along the way.

Having to massage other egos, he tried hard not to become like some of them, but not always succeeding. It was a business built on hype and press and it was an easy trap to believe in your press, whatever way it went...and hard not to go through the peaks and valleys without building a shell around yourself that sometimes kept you out of touch with reality...which in Hollywood sometimes meant that yesterday's star was tomorrow's has been. It was hard to keep it real...but he kept trying.

On the other hand, he had met some exceptional and generous souls along the way...who shared some of his insecurities, yet had managed to build a solid career in a field they loved. These were his heroes today... and included friends who maybe caught a glimpse of the boy from Glasgow and recognized something of themselves in his drive for the pieces of the dream they all clung onto with some part of their being...because there was really nothing else they wanted to do or be.

In the end, Gerremy McButler had decided he just had to be himself and he tried to live that way, again, not always succeeding.

As he stared at Claire McFraser now, he knew he had not conveyed all that to her, when a loud, insistant knock on the door stopped his wondering mind in its tracks.

A startled Claire, who had been observing the dance going on in his face, went to answer the summons.

After several minutes of conversation with the party at the door, she sat back down, frowning and lost in thought.

All of a sudden, as if struck by lightening, she smiles at him.

Claire: (narrowing her eyes) Just how good an actor are you, Gerremy McButler?

GMcB: (hesitating) Good enough...ah think. Why dae ye ask?

Claire: Because I find myself in need of your talents at the moment.

GMcB: (grinning) Ma talents? Kin ye elaborate a little? That's a very invitin' statement...since ah got several talents...er...so ah'm told.

Claire: (looking him over critically again) I've not much room to maneuver at the moment...so I need to trust you as perhaps Jamie did.
(exasperated)
And since that scoundrel has seen fit to disappear, I've no one else to turn to for help.
(giving him her prettiest smile)
If you are willing to be put to the test, I've got a part for you to play.

GMcB: (returning her smile) Is it a good one?

She nods, happy to see his quick grasp of the situation.

Claire: Quite juicy, in fact... But you must be discreet and very good because instead of losing out on another role if you are bad... you may end up losing your head......and mine, come to think of it.

Nervous now, but smiling nonetheless.

GMcB: Want to tell me about it?

Claire: As much as I can....but at some point, and hoping you know your history...you may have to fly by the seat of your pants.

GMcB: (wryly) Well, since ah'm lacking in the pants department at the moment....
(looks down at his kilt)....ah shall rely on ma Da's gift o' blarney, which I'm told I've inherited.

Claire: Fair enough. You see, it's like this......


An hour later, costumed in the best of Jamie McFraser's clothing...Gerry McButler appears every bit the part of the great Scottish laird he was about to play.... in perhaps the toughest challenge of his career.

He was now one Ian McButler McFraser, second cousin, once removed, of Jamie McFraser. Supposedly well skilled in the art of swordsmanship and strategic warfare, he was to step in for the absent McFraser and attend a gathering at Inverness castle, where his highness, bonnie Prince Charlie and his followers were holding court to drum up support for their beloved Jacobite cause.


Inverness Castle

If one were a fly on the wall, the entrance made by Claire McFraser and Ian McButler would be judged a grand exercise in humor and audacity on behalf of the pair. Dressed in Jamie McFraser's best Kilt and tartan, down to the bonnet with the colorful feather, the actor does his best impression of Johnnie Depp's Libertine, as he bows saucily in front of the Scottish pretender and the lairds in attendance.

He glances quickly at Clare to see if she's watching, to find an appreciative smile on her face.

Emboldened, he stretches to his full height, trying to look dangerous in the company of the rugged looking Highlanders and thankful the pinching new boots he is wearing give him an extra two inches of advantage.

Lord Kilmarnoc: (narrowing his eyes) So ye are McFraser's cousin? I wis sure ah knew the McFraser family tree, but I dinna hear tell o' the likes o' ye.....tho ye are another big fellow..... Who'd ye say yer mother was?

GMcB: (not skipping a beat) Well sir, that would be cause ah dinna happen tae mention it tae ye...

Putting on his best impression of haughtiness:

GMcB: ...But if ye must know, ah'm the bastart offspring o' McFraser's father's second cousin's first son.

Showing confusion, Kilmarnoc pretends to understand, not understanding at all. He looks the actor over cautiously, trying to take his measure.

Kilmarnoc: Weel, ye certainly have a look o' the McGuinnesses about ye. Are ye sure yer mother dinna hook up wi' one o' them prior tae marryin' yer father?

Now confused himself, he looks to Claire?

GMcB: (shrugging his shoulders) Weel, anythin's possible...

Suddenly realizing this might be an insult to his mother, he hardens his stance and raises his voice.

GMcB: .....though ah take exception tae ye speakin' o' ma mum in those terms, Kilmoron! The woman was a saint!

Prince Charlie and several others laugh under their breath as the older Kilmarnoc's face goes a florid color.

Kilmarnoc: (eying McButler's biceps) No need tae get nasty.  I meant no offense. Tis just yer looks, cep fer yer eyes, yell McGuinness.   'Twas a natural mistake on ma part.

GMcB: (his hand on the hilt of his sword,he bows) Apology accepted, sir.

Trying to hide his satisfaction, McButler turns to another of the Jacobites.

GMcB: What was it ye were askin' mate?

Claire rolls her eyes at the close call and deciding he's holding his own well enough for the moment, she slips away to pay her respects to some of the others present.

Observing him from across the room, she had to admit that this Gerramy McButler cleaned up quite well and certainly did justice to Jamie's clothes, although where Jamie was smaller through the waist and had a rounder arse, McButler's bulkier figure and smaller ass, was not altogether unpleasant.

Once in character, she also noticed the difference in his posture and carriage. He might not be a highland laird, but he sure looked the part, despite his short locks and refusal to wear a wig....much as her Jamie had often done.

As for the actor, with his watch and bottle of pills now tucked safely away in the sporran at his waist, there was little to give him away as anything other than what he appeared.

Charles Stewart had been talking to several of the other lairds, when he turned to address McButler again.

Charles Stewart: Well McFraser, any relative of Laird Brook Troutrack is quite welcome here. It is my understanding that like your cousin, you are well versed on the use of the broadsword and other weapons. What campaign saw you test your metal sir?

GMcB: (thrusting his chin forward) Campaign?

Thinking quickly, he takes his time to reply.

GMcB: (casually) Weel, in actual fact, ma lord, ah am a student o' history and it's strategic battles, wi' special attention to the skills o' great warriors like Attila the Hun as well as the tales o' the great Viking killing machine otherwise known as Beowulf.

Waiting for the words to sink in, he continues.

GMcB: Another favorite o' mine is King Leonidas of Sparta.

Charles Stewart: (raising his eyebrows and clearing his throat) You don't...say?

GMcB: Ah do say. As a matter o' fact, ah'm also a fan o' the skills o' William Wallace an' have even had the good fortune tae swing his swort a few times.

Charles Sewart: (looking over at Kilmarnoc with surprise and not a little amusement) You certainly get around. William Wallace's sword, is it?

GMcB: Proportedly....

Claire has wondered back and, pretending to make polite conversation with others, is evesdropping.

Charles Stewart: And the Spartans ye say? What can we learn from these austere Greeks?

GMcB: (grinning mischievously, as the import of the situation strikes him) Tae distract yer enemies by showing em yer teeth?

Charles Stewart: (bewildered) Your teeth?

GMcB: (giggling) Tis a joke, yer majesty. The genius o' the Spartans was protecting their mates wi' shield and body, in some sort o' strict formation. They were a formidable force!

Chalres Stewart: Why yes, I've heard your cousin Jamie mention the importance of fighting as a group of one or two of your comrades to protect each other's flanks.

GMcB: One impenetrable fightin' unit. (grinning) O' course it would be helpful havin' some o' those f-uckingly big and heavy Spartan shields, but....

Kilmarnoc has been listening intently.

Kilmarnoc: Attila? I've no' heard of the lad. Not one of ours, I take it?

GMcB: (smiling) No, yer lordship. Most definitely not one of' ours....but no less a fierce warrior. He fought the legions o' Rome an' carved out an empire tae rival the Romans.

Kilmarnoc. Just so. An' what would ye say was the secret o' his success on the battlefield?

GMcB: (lowering his voice) One hell o' a stunt coordinator, some green eyeliner, an' a plastic swort.

Kilmarnoc: I beg yer pardon?

GMcB: (raising his voice) The Huns were skill horsemen in addition to their archery skills, though like the Scots, they probably scared the crap out o' their opponants wi' all the racket they made during an attack.

Seeing that McFraser has no whisky, Kilmarnoc pours out a generous cup and hands it to him.

About to protest, he catches sight of Claire nodding her head in the negative.

Kilmarnoc: (raising his cup) Tae yer health, McFraser! Ah understand ye are going to show us a demonstration o' yer skills wi' young Killem McQuinn there....

He points to a hugely muscular young man out in the courtyard who has just vanquished a bloody opponent being dragged away by his friends.

Kilmarnoc: ....an' a man cannot be expected tae have a clear head wi'out a drap o whisky, can he now, laddie?

His eyes bulging at the sight in the courtyard, McButler absently takes a swig from the cup handed him and chokes. Trying not to make a face...he promptly bows, excusing himself.

Grabbing the nearby Claire by the arm, he pulls her out into the hall.

GMcB: (his face suffused with color) Are ye crazy? I dinna sign up tae be fuckin' killed when I agreed tae this!

Claire: But you said you could handle a sword. I just assumed....

GMcB: Handle a swort, sure...but not tae risk bein' cut intae little pieces in the prime o' ma career! Ma mum wouldn't like it an' neither would I!

Screwing up her face in thought, she tries to reassure him.

Claire: Okay. Go back in there and drink with them until I can think of something.

GMcB: I dinna drink!

GMcB: (horrified) What? Whattaya mean you "dinna" drink?

GMcB: It's ma poison. Ah'm a recovering alcoholic. Ah've not had a drink in 9 years until now an' ah'm not about to risk 9 years o' sobriety fer one f-uckin' , horrible nightmare.

Claire: (surprised) Are you allergic to it or what?

GMcB: It nearly kilt me...that's what. And besides, once ah stairt, ah canna stop. Dae ye understand? Ah'm not responsible fer what happens tae me when ah indulge. Ah get crazy!

Seeing the panic and determination on his face, Claire laughs at the absurdity.

Claire: And that makes you different from most of these men? How?

GMcB: What?

Indicating the room full of Highlanders.

Claire: (with anger) They're beautiful and brave and fierce and foolish, thinking they can prevail by the sheer will of their bravery and their stubborness, when we both know they don't stand a chance in hell!
(philosophically)
In eighteenth century Scotland....whisky is a part of their bravado before they go down in flames.

GMcB: (serious) Well that's one thing that hasna changed much. The reasons may be different, but....
(he shakes his head, becoming pensive) ...Ah've tasted oblivion an' it didna work fer me. Ah got enough devils doggin' me wi' out that old one.
(turns to her, pleading)
Help me here?

Claire: (eying him with sympathy) Alright. Give me a few minutes!

She disappears in the vicinity of the large kitchens, desperately looking for an answer.

After several minutes she returns and pulls him aside again.

Claire: Don't swallow it!

GMcB: (looking at her like she's insane) Don't swallow it? That's yer answer?

She pulls him into the hallway again, looking around to make sure they are not being observed, and hands him what appears to be some kind of bag, shaped like a balloon she has been hiding in the folds of her skirt.

Seeing the blank look on his face, she continues.

Claire: It's a pig bladder I found hanging in the scullery. They dry them out to use for making bagpipes.

He makes a face and is about to hand it back to her, when she continues.

Claire: You'll raise suspicion if you don't pretend to drink. When no one is looking, spit the whisky into this!

She proceeds to tuck it into his shirt.

GMcB: Ye've got to be fuckin' out o' yer mind! How dae ye propose ah do that?

Claire: Keep your conversations short and your swigs manageable!

GMcB: Have ye noticed how they're pourin' the stuff?

Claire: You'll just have to manage. I can't think of everything.
(testily now)
Besides, you're the fucking actor, not me. Just do it!

Patting the bag, she pushes him back into the room.

Finding a quiet corner, she swigs down a glass of whiskey herself and watches him with mute fascination.

Next: The Pissing Contest! 

Disclaimer: This is a work of pure fiction that exists only in the twilight zone of the writer's mind. Any and all resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.


Songs out of tune, the words always a little wrong...Canzoni Stonate