“Look out!” cried Jack, suddenly swerving the dilapidated van to avoid hitting the incredibly tall figure walking stolidly down the center of the highway. Unperturbed, the figure turned to survey the band as the tumbled out of the van in various stages of collective heart failure.

            “I could have killed you!” Jack yelled at the figure, which stood at least seven feet tall and wore red plaid flannel and a hat with earflaps.

            The man, for so he was, stared at the bodhran player for a moment, the lifted an ear flat so as to see him better. “Don’t have a moose, eh,” he remarked, flipping the flap back into place. With that, he turned and walked away, dismissing the musician entirely.

            Jack flushed, quite unused to being dismissed. “Which is not to say that I may not kill you yet…” he muttered darkly, stalking through the snow in pursuit, armed with a Neon Lites tour schedule and a bodhran beater.

            Hamish hauled him back by the collar. “Keep your kilt on, laddie,” he admonished. “`’Tis only a Canadian.”

            Halting in his tracks, the towering stranger turned around, bristling. “Only a Canadian, eh? ONLY a Canadian?” he demanded. “What do you mean by that eh, You kilted hoser…”

            Hamish was appalled. “You leave my kilt hose OOT a’ this!” he growled, quite prepared to stomp out an impromptu boxing ring in the snow.

            Mollie sighed and shook her head, nodding at the others. “Cloudy with chance of testosterone,” she predicted, climbing resignedly into the van. Shrugging, the rest of the women followed her example, fully intending to stay warm while the men prepared to beat each other unconscious for no apparent reason.

            Hamish glared. “`Twouldn’t be manly tae back doon!” he protested at their retreating backs. “Isna that right, Craig?”

            Craig sighed and glanced longingly at the warm van full of women. “Er…I guess so…” he muttered unhappily.

            The Canadian looked quite prepared to pick up Jack and club Hamish with him without turning a whisker. “What are you, eh?” he demanded. “I’ve seen your kind before! Beady eyes, shifty expressions, van full of instruments! I know musicians when I—“ His eyes narrowed, then brightened suddenly. “Do any of you play the fiddle, eh?”

            There was a thud as Hamish threw down the gauntlet…er the fiddler…at the feet of the Canadian.

            Craig grinned weakly. “Er…I…umm…Yes?”

            The Canadian stepped closer to Craig, towering over him (blocking the sun) and hauled him to his feet. “I love fiddles!” he bellowed happily, giving Craig a friendly slap on the back that sent him headfirst into a snow bank. “Are you any good, eh?”

            Craig sputtered and crawled weakly back to the highway. “You mean BEFORE you dislocated my spine?”

            The Canadian laughed loudly. “Hey, I like you, eh? Names Mandell – I’m the coordinator for the First Annual Winner Takes All High Stakes Winter Fiddling Contest.”

            Hamish’s eyes gleamed. “Winner take all?”

            Jack grinned broadly. “Where do we sign the boy up?”
            The Canadian grinned back,” I can set you up, eh? But say…can I catch a ride with you?”

            Hamish stared doubtfully at the van already crammed to bursting with musicians, accessories, accoutrements and instruments. “Well…”

            “Sure!” Jack grinned, pulling a length of rope from his pocket (don’t ask…) “No problem!”

Within moments, the Neon Lites tour van was speeding down the highway with the large Canadian tied to the top, while Tasha applied more Band-Aids to Craig’s much abused fingers, and Hamish and Jack napped contentedly, dreaming happy dreams of prize money and tax evasion.

By nightfall they had arrived at an isolated convention center and they all piled out of the van, Craig foremost with his Band-Aids and his fiddle.

A voice drifted from the darkness at the top of the van, as the Canadian realized where they were. “We’re HERE! The home of the First Annual Winner Takes All High Stakes Winter Fiddling Contest!” he crowed happily, straining against one of Jack’s better knots. “Let me down, eh?”

Within the hour, Jack (as self-nominated interim tour manager and bookie) had signed Craig up for the first heat.

Craig (who had scooped the last of the snow from his ears and was cognizant of the situation for perhaps the first time in the chapter) looked up as Hamish returned from his initial foray with food for all of them. A moment later, Jack returned bearing a set of contest rules and a very cagey expression.

“Uh…Craig?” he muttered as the Canadian waved cheerfully and headed for a tent marked “Officials”. “Are you…uh…COMFORTABLE with this whole idea of `high stakes’?”

Hamish slapped Craig on the back, causing an uncomfortable nosedive into the fender. “O’ course he is, aren’t ye lad? He’s a fine fiddler is our Craigie! An excellent…” His eyes narrowed at Jack’s expression. “Why?”

Jack shifted uneasily. “Well, you know, it’s just that it’s a really big contest and, er, well…there are going to be a lot of fiddlers here, playing, you know, for fame, fortune, glory…and, er…to the death…”

Craig paled. “WHAT!?!?!?”

Jack flushed and waved the list of rules defensively. “I didn’t read the fine print, OKAY?”

“WHAT!!!!!?????“

“Look,” Jack scrambled. “There’s nothing to worry about. You’re a WONDERFUL musician!” He rattled a Neon Lites press kit under the fiddler’s nose. “It says so – right here!”

“WHAT????!!!!”

“All you have to do is what you do best!” Jack struck a nonchalant pose. “You know…move mountains, touch souls, make magic…that sort of thing…”

Craig looked faintly hysterical. “I.JUST.PLAY.THE.FIDDLE,” he bawled.

Hamish looked thoughtful. “But ye do play it WELL lad.”

Craig glared. “And I would LIKE to keep doing so! For a LONG TIME!!!” With that, and with a practiced underarm swing perfected years ago in New Glasgow (on the Scotsman Planet, remember? – RK), he attempted to take off Jack’s head with his fiddle.

Hamish sighed. “Right then…” he said wearily, and exited the van with Craig gripped squalling in one hairy bicep. “Oot ye go.” With that he calmly buried the fiddler in a snow bank. “He’ll cool doon,” he assured the others, climbing back into the vehicle, “at least by spring. Meanwhile—“ Rummaging through Craig's fiddle case, Hamish set aside four sets of strings, one ice scraper, four sticks of gum and a commemorative pint glass from the Saint McCusker Pub in New Glasgow before removing a small and deadly looking bottle labeled with a red skull and crossbones and the incongruous word: “Fiddlebinkies”.

Jack frowned. “Fiddlebinkies? What are they?”

Hamish grinned. “Energy pills for fiddlers. 45% pure sugar, 55% caffeine and 10% rosin.”

Jack cocked an eyebrow. “That’s 110%”

Hamish grinned again. “That’s right.”

Jack grinned back. “Why rosin?”

Hamish shrugged. “In case the bow needs it durin’ a long fiddle set. As long as ye can spit at a moving target, ye niver have tae stop playin’.” He eyed Jack narrowly. “And I may as weel warn ye noo lad – Craig can spit at a movin’ target.”

With that, he put the bottle in his pocket and went to unbury the fiddler.

Fortunately for all concerned, Craig WAS a wonderful musician. Fortunately for all concerned, Craig was wearing his Saint McCusker medal for good luck. Fortunately for all concerned, Craig was so souped up on espresso beans and Fiddlebinkies that his first three bars knocked the judges off their benches. Fortunately for CRAIG, just after his second three bars, there was a complete power failure. The music stopped abruptly in the darkness, and there rose the unmistakable sound of a bodhran player being tied on knots by a fiddler.

By the time the lights came back on, the Neon Lites were back in the bandwagon and headed for their next stop on the road to fame and fortune and continued plans for not getting killed.

The road lay before them; an uncharted adventure seeking the destiny fate had mapped out for them in…

“Boise, Idaho,” Hamish finished, reading from the Tour Planner (oblivious to obvious geographical discrepancies between this chapter and the last – ed.).  “At th’ Boise Underwater Basket Weavin’ Festival.”

At that moment, the women woke up yawning and peered out the windows of the van.

Tasha fluffed her curls. “Hey! We slept through a whole chapter! Did we miss anything?”

Craig groaned.

Just then, Hamish stamped his foot. “I’ve had it!” He vowed, taking care to draw his boot back in through the hole he had just stomped through the floor. “I’m nae goin’ t’ do it! I’m nae goin’ to play anymore hole in th’ wall tiny little gigs at…”

Mollie peered over his shoulder at the Tour Planner. “It says here that the band drinks for free…”

Hamish took the wheel of the tour bus. “I’m there!”

Denara yawned and stretched before climbing to a better vantagepoint on top of a pile of haphazardly flung equipment. “How do we get there?”

Jack snorted. “Hel-lo! First you get on the Interstate…”

Craig glared. “One more squawk outta from you and you’re flyin’ in baggage all th’ way to Sydney!”

Sparki perked up. “Primo! Like, we’re going to Sydney?”

Tasha blinked. “Who’s Sydney? I thought the authors agreed there were too many people in the band already…”

Mollie peered at the Tour Schedule once again.  “We’re playing the Outback Pancake Flipping Convention in…”

“Ya KNOW, children,” Jack intervened, flashing entirely too many teeth. “What YOU guys need is a manager! Someone who can organize things, make arrangements—“

“Take over for Jack after he’s dead and stuffed into a banjo case?” Craig grinned, pleased.

Jack squinted. “Do I sense hostility in this van?”

“Like, totally give it up, you two!” Sparki advised, popping open a Mountain Dew and climbing into the Driver’s seat, dispelling Hamish. “Why don’t we just………”

C   R   A   S   H !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The sound was sharp and sudden, and left the band sprawled all over the van.

“That sounded ominous,” Jack said, carefully checking various parts of himself for damage.

Craig sighed and removed a bagpipe drone from his ear. “Aye,” he sighed wearily, pushing himself upright. “And by now, rather familiar…”