As one, the Neon Lites turned towards the compelling voice, each of them fearing someone and/or something utterly ghastly to be the source of it. The lone figure dressed in blue jeans and a black T-shirt turned out to be rather a letdown to most of the band (especially Tasha, who was really hoping for a villain with more fashion sense).

            “And who would ye be thinking ye are, lad,” growled Hamish, “tae be ordering us aroond?”

            The dark-haired young man grinned broadly. “Who do you think you are to be ignoring my orders, Tartan Cheeks?”

            Two wisps of steam escaped the large Scotsman’s ears. Most of the band took two steps away from him. “I dinnae like that mouth o’ yers, smart arse.”

            Again the stranger’s white teeth flashed in the dimly lit scroll room. Most of the band cringed. “I didn’t ask you to kiss me, just do what I say,” the young man smiled.

            As Hamish’s whiskers began to bristle, most of the band began to take cover under the heaps of ancient (and cheap tourist-quality reproductions of ancient) scrolls. It was at this point Mollie noticed that only “most of” the band had been participating in the several reactionary sentences since the beginning of this chapter, and she wondered why this was so. Looking around the room, Mollie noted that there were three figures still standing – the stranger with the lovely deep voice, the red-faced and snarling Hamish; and between them, the wide-eyed and slack-jawed…SPARKI???

            “Sparki?!” cried Mollie, wedging herself under the table, “what in the bloody blue blazes are you DOING? Get away from those two!” The rest of the band looked up in amazement from their literary hiding places. Denara was secretly pleased to observe that Sparki was staring not at her beloved Hamish, but at the cocky stranger. Mollie was alarmed. Tasha was appalled (he was, after all, barely average looking!). Craig started a fiery rendition of “Bolero” but was quickly silenced by a cascade of scrolls.

            Heedless of the as-yet-unidentified danger of the as-yet-unidentified man, as well as the all-too-identifiable danger of the enraged Hamish, Sparki remained rooted to the spot. It was if some mysterious power had her in its grip.

            Billions and billions of Star Trek episodes played through Mollie’s brain, popping out the conclusion that Sparki was a hapless victim of some overwhelming psychic control of the blue-jean clad alien before them. How would Deanna Troi handle this…?

            Before anyone could say “make it so”, the situation took a decidedly nasty but not at all unpredictable turn. Hamish, easily pushed to the edge of his sharply edged temper, bellowed a Pictish war cry and charged at the stranger. Mercifully, even in the midst of his rage the huge Scot had the presence of mind to swerve around Sparki’s unmoving form (or perhaps the sequins just blinded him momentarily).

            The stranger patiently waited until Hamish was inches away before performing an amazing arial act of leapfrog over the boiling piper (there’s a band name for you: The Boiling Pipers!) followed by a gainer with a half twist that brought him to land inches away from Sparki’s blank face.

            “Hello. Give me the backpack.” He grinned again in a borderline goofy way.

            “Whoa…” breathed Sparki, and looked deep into the strangers eyes. For the first time, the stranger looked deeply back. It was all getting pretty deep.

            At that instant Hamish (remember Hamish? This was a fight about Hamish…) suddenly met up with a large and surly wooden chest across the room, and promptly began to argue physically with is regarding his intention to keep moving forward and its intention to remain stationary against the stone wall. Despite his valiant heritage, Hamish lost.

            “Crud!!!!!!!!” the dazed Scotsman bawled from beneath a heap of scrolls and splinters.

            Fairly secure in the knowledge that no one was about to spontaneously combust and/or trample them, the rest of the band picked up their scattered wits (or in Tasha’s case, scattered lipstick samples) and leapt forth to the aid of their comrades.

            Mollie reached Sparki first and grabbed her by the arm. “What are you DOING??? He wants your backpack!!!” Shaking her vigorously only resulted in a light sprinkling of glitter falling to the floor. “Snap out of it!!!”

            Tasha dodged the glitter (how gauche!) and glared at the stranger. “Why don’t you go buy your own backpack? You look like the basic denim and vinyl type anyhow. Why ruin the, er, look? There must be a mall around here SOMEwhere!”

An awkward pause followed, punctuated by Hamish’s grunts and growls as Denara and Craig pulled him from the wreckage. Sparki and the stranger looked at one another. Mollie and Tasha looked at them, then at one another, then back to them. The other three walked over and looked at Tasha and Mollie. Everyone looked at one another in turn, except for Sparki and the stranger, who were still looking at each other. Things looked grim.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!!!!!!!!” bellowed Denara at the top of her formidable lungs. “WILL YOU GET ON WITH IT ALREADY??????????? WE’VE GOT WORK TO DO!!!!!!!”

Sparki finally blinked. “Whoa…like, I…totally…forgot to…like, intro…” she slowly raised her hand to the potential backpack burglar. “I’m, like—”

            (“Senile,” muttered Denara.)

            “Sparki. I heard. Cool.” He took her proffered hand. “My name is—“

            “Jack Russell. Totally.”

            (“Like the terrier?” Mollie guffawed.)

            “Huh?! How did you—“

“We were most awesomely at the same party once on SK Dominion VI, dude. Like small universe. Rad…” More staring ensued. Denara scoffed in disgust, Tasha babied a cuticle and Mollie wondered if the psychic link could be broken with a good swift kick to the behind. Craig, in true straightforward fiddler fashion, to this opportunity to smite both of the offending parties on the noggin with his sturdy bow. “That’ll be enough clishmaclaver oot o’ you!”

            Sparki broke eye contact long enough to rub the bump on her head. “Like OW! What was that most bogus move for, Fiddle Dude?”

            Jack looked a bit stunned. “You hit me? I can’t believe he hit me! You’re not supposed to be able to hit me! I was distracted. Oh man, if this gets out…”

            Denara jumped in between the two complaining partygoers. “Look, let me get this straight. He partied with you. You like him. But he wants to take your backpack. AND EVERYONE IS OK WITH THIS?????????!!!!!!!!!”

            “Denara, calm down!” interjected Mollie. “Let’s find out why he wants the backpack.”

            Jack was still whining at Craig, who fiddled several defiant strathspies at him from behind Hamish’s large, still-dazed form. Mollie poked him in the ribs. “Hey Dogboy, what’s with the backpack thing?”

            Hamish smiled through his daze. Jack looked even more indignant. “Look, it wasn’t anything personal, OK? It’s what I do. I get things from people who don’t want to give them up yet and give them to people who pay me lots of money. “He turned back to Sparki. “In between, I play chess and provide technical support to personal PC users. I like long walks on the beach, cappuccino and –“ The fiddlebow was swift, but Jack managed to dodge it in time.

            “You’re a thief!” snarled Denara.

            “And you’re a loony,” Jack replied brightly. Denara flew at him in a pint-sized rage, but was stopped by Hamish’s massive paw.

            “Leave off, lass. I see his type well enough noo. He’s a bodhran player and no mistake.”

            Everyone’s eyes widened. Jack looked defensive. “I only play the bodhran,” he sniffed, “when I’m very, very lonely…”

            “Is that what they’re calling it nowadays…” Mollie muttered to herself. Loudly she added, “So who’s paying you for the back pack?”

            “Some guy with a really big hat collection. Mega bucks rich. Says he’s related to a Lawyer in ancient Greece.”

            “I always thought lawyers were greasy,” Tasha scowled, happy to join in the conversation.

            “What are we going to DO with this creep?” seethed Denara. “He tried to rob us! He knows too much! WE CAN’T LET HIM LIVE!!!”

            Everyone stared at her. “Shut up, you little drama queen,” Mollie groaned. “We don’t KILL people. We’re the GOOD guys, remember?”

            “Och, aye,” nodded Hamish. “His kind are a trial to withstand, but ‘tis in their blood, in canna be helped…Besides, the poxy bastard’s not even armed.”

            Jack blinked indignantly. “Thanks for the heartwarming terms of endearment.”

            “Dinna mention it!” said Craig, slapping him on the back in a musicianly manner.”

            “You hit me again.”

            “Couldna be a lick amiss.”

            “Will you stop touching me??”

            “BOYS!” Mollie bawled, putting her hands on her hips, “we DO have some things to sort out, OK? I call a band huddle!” Everyone promptly circled up. “Now, who thinks we can trust this Jack person?”

            “I do. He’s a gem. One hell of a guy. Trust him with my life. Plays the bodhran, too—“

            “Jack will you please leave the huddle?” sighed Mollie. Crestfallen, the former coveter of backpacks slunk across the room and sulked into a pile of scrolls containing abstract quantum-particle plumcake recipes.

            Mollie eyes him suspiciously. “I don’t trust him.”

            Tasha groaned. “His clothes are just TOO 80s rock-n-roll high school retro! Yuck!”

            “He’s a bodhran player,” said Hamish and Craig in unison, and shrugged.

            “Can’t we kill him? WHY can’t we kill him?” grumbled Denara.

            Everyone turned to look at Sparki, waiting for some lame, mushy-hearted comment, but she hadn’t even noticed the implied question. She was, instead, staring intently at the side of Hamish’s face.

            “Oh no you don’t, you floozy!!!” shrieked Denara, lunging across the circle. With a weary sigh, Hamish once again restrained the angst-ridden adolescent.

            “Like lighten up mondo majorly, Drama Dudette,” Sparki grinned, reaching up to pluck a tiny scroll from its perch behind Hamish’s ear. “Heinous most resourcefully found the bitchen Icon Scroll!”

            “Well, there’s that done,” said Craig happily. “So what about the bodhran laddie?”

            They all turned to look at Jack, who was busily making an origami crane out of a scroll with the words “Dead Sea” scrawled in Hebrew across the top of it. The rest of the band then turned towards Sparki, who had already folded the Icon Scroll into a cunning paper airplane.

            “A match made in hell,” prophesied Hamish.

            Sparki turned a few shades of mauve (not unlike Tasha’s battered nail polish). “OK, like, I know I was just totally doing a major `duh’ thing, but I am, like, radically susceptible to awesome pheromones sometimes, OK? Don’t have a bovine, dudes! I am mondo copasetic, fer sure.”

            There was no time to discuss the issue further, as Jack chose that moment to tap Mollie on the shoulder. “Don’t look now, Coach,” he whispered, “but I think SOMEone in this room is NOT a team player.”

            “Meaning…?”
            “The big honkin’ ugly one eating that table over there.”

As one, the Neon Lites (plus two erstwhile bodhran players) turned to behold a huge, slobbering mass of teeth and fur that vaguely resembled a 5-legged loch monster, chewing merrily away on the last bits of an enormous granite table that had taken up most of one wall.

            “Like, I think I speak for us all, totally, when I say BOGUS,” whistled Sparki.

“No, I had a completely different word in mind,” Jack opined.

            “What’ll we DOOO?” squeaked Tasha, “It’s going to mess up my HAIR!”

            The group began to back slowly towards the exit while the monster nosed around the scrolls, drooling profusely. All was going well until Denara stepped on a scrap of wood, which broke in two with a loud snap. The others stared accusingly. Denara smiled sheepishly. The monster roared hungrily, and began to lumber their way.

            “‘Tis another fine mess ye’ve gonna us inta!” barked Hamish.

            “Most Laurelandhardian of you, Heinous Dude, but not to transudate profusely. There are some most mondo useful thingies in my pack which will give the monstrous dude a radical shakeup whilst we split like the Beatles.” Sparki began to dig through her backpack at a furious pace. “There are these totally bitchen beans…”

Hamish and Craig stared at one another, eyes round as saucers. “Uh, lass,” began Hamish, “I…er…Craig has sommat he wants to be tellin’ ye.”

The fiddler lunged at the piper, who tried to hit him with a bodhran player, and a messy Celtic jam ensued. The ruckus was abruptly halted by a bloodcurdling howl from the approaching monster, who had interposed itself between the band and their escape route.

Sparki looked accusingly at the tangled knot of musicians on the floor. “Did you like totally ska with the beans, dudes?” The knot nodded mournfully. “Whoa. Bummer.”

Jack crawled out from under Hamish and moaned. “Help, I’ve been run over by a folk festival and I can’t get up!”

“Guys,” Mollie began in a remarkably sane tone, “we really need to do something fast. We are approximately ten feet and two gulps away from being a LATE bebop bagpipe band…”

“Talk about your Ungrateful Dead.” Overwhelmed by the baleful glares, Jack stopped brushing off his T-shirt. “What?!”