Your challenge, should you choose to participate, comes to us courtesy of Birthday Girl SBO: Write a short story, scene or origami about an Immortal's birthday. You MUST incorporate at least three of the following elements in your work:

Barbed wire; a violin; peanut butter; burning leaves; sun dogs (look it up); camels; Route 66; Benjamin Franklin

For the man who has everything.

It was a quiet afternoon at the Bonded Blade pub; those few customers who sat around the tables at this time of day were either Immortals or Watchers. At the bar, Duncan, Deb and Methos were gathered for an activity that would shock any outsider. Methos had become something of a regular at the Blade, sparking a friendly competition with Dave the bartender. Dave was determined to put the Old Man under the table, offering up concoctions that were exotic, illegal and potentially deadly. Methos, in turn, swore that he could take anything the chemist could dream up. The rivalry had escalated to such a degree that Deb didn’t even want to think about what was going into the drinks now.

Today’s challenge took the form of two glasses of innocent-looking clear liquid, with instructions to down both in quick succession—no sipping. With something akin to a sneer, Methos swallowed the first in a single gulp; it wasn’t anything special, slightly bitter was all. Dave just smiled and pointed to the second glass. The chaser went down as easily as the original and nothing much happened…until the second drink hit the first and started a reaction.

Methos’ eyes bulged, his knees wobbled; the whole world seemed to shimmer for a second like a mirage. Sundogs haloed every light in the room. He turned to MacLeod for assistance, but instead encountered Benjamin Franklin, complete with powdered wig. The hallucination gave him a wink and a smile, before tucking a kite under its arm and walking away, twirling an iron key on a string.

"So, what do you think?" asked a voice from far away. It took several hard blinks before reality reasserted itself. Dave leaned casually on the bar and grinned. "Do you like it?" Methos tried to speak, but he could barely choke out the words. "Not… Bad," he wheezed, as a stream of blue smoke poured from his mouth. The bartender’s grin grew wider; "I think we’ll call this one a tie." The Elder hadn’t recovered enough from his ordeal to protest.

As the trio left the bar for a more private table, Deb chuckled to herself. "You really shouldn’t encourage him like that. Dave is, as Queen liked to put it, slightly mad." Methos just shrugged; Deb decided that the two of them were quite incorrigible. There wasn’t much conversation at the table while they settled down, making Methos’ sudden declaration all the more noticeable. "You know, that stuff really wasn’t half-bad. I might get him to make me something special next month."

Deb was curious. "What’s next month?"

"Why, my birthday of course."

Deb almost choked on her Mike’s; "Your birthday? You’re five bloody thousand years old; you can’t even remember your first death, nevermind your birthday!" Methos shrugged casually; "That’s why I pick my own birthday, a new date every millennium. Just to be fair."

Deb’s look of pure disbelief prompted Duncan to answer. "He’s right; I was there for the last one. It involved, if I remember correctly, a calendar, a darts set, a blindfold and a case of beer."

"And the reason for the case of beer was…?"

"To ensure a true random choice," Methos said, mock seriously. "As you said, I’m 5,000 years old. I have to find my amusement somewhere." The rest of the evening continued uneventfully and Deb forgot all about birthdays for nearly a week.

The Northlander and the Highlander were sharing a quiet dinner at Deb’s apartment (Duncan’s cooking) the next time the subject came up. When asked if she had any ideas for a gift yet, the author responded with an exaggerated sigh. "What do you get the world’s oldest man for a present? He’s the original Man Who Has Everything; if he doesn’t have it now, then he had it a thousand years ago and watched it turn to dust. I wouldn’t know where to begin."

"It’s the thought that counts, and I’ve never known you to be at a loss for inspiration." Duncan’s smile always put her in a good mood and in the back of her mind churned a sea of half-formed ideas.

For some unknown reason, Deb had allowed her apartment to be a mailing address for several of Methos’ identities; the next time she met up with the Old Man was when he dropped in to pick up his mail. He seemed a bit nervous and she said as much, bluntly. "You’re even more paranoid than usual; is there something I should know about?"

Methos glanced around warily, but shook his head no. "It’s probably nothing; I’m just a little worried about the Birthday."

Deb quirked a smile; "Aren’t you a little old to get excited over your birthday?"

"It isn’t that; it’s—" Methos stopped with a low sigh. "Get me a beer and I’ll tell you the story." Deb rolled her eyes and walked over to the kitchen. Just about all of Methos’ friends kept a supply of beer in their fridge, whether they liked the stuff themselves or not. Deb went one step further though, providing a potent Quebecois brew called appropriately enough, La Fin Du Monde ("The End of the World"). That, as much as the mail calls, was the main reason for the Old Man’s visits.

Settling down on the couch with a glass of Fin du Monde, Methos started his tale. "I don’t even remember how it all started, but it’s become a kind of tradition. Cassandra and I give these outrageous gag gifts for each other’s birthdays. It isn’t that bad; I mean, no one’s died yet…"

Deb hid a smirk behind her hand; "A tradition… kind of like the IRA has become a tradition? No wonder you’re nervous. What kind of gifts are we talking about?"

"Oh the usual stuff. Once I sent her a live camel; the poor thing was quite ill, had a horrible intestinal problem. Then she sent me a Stradivarius violin."

"That doesn’t sound too bad."

He looked at her down that hawk-like nose. "It was filled entirely with peanut butter."

"Oh." Deb tried and failed to stop herself from giggling.

Methos gave up all attempts to be serious, grinning at the absurdity of it. "I think my best work was the year I sent the witch a life-sized highway sign: ‘Warning: Dangerous Curves’."

"That almost sounds romantic, in a depraved sort of way."

"I think what set her off was how I added an extra number to the ‘Route 66’." He paused to take another sip of his beer, looking completely unrepentant, almost proud of himself.

Deb found the idea of Methos the Trickster to be even more disturbing than Methos the Horseman. She reminded herself to stay out of his path come April 1. "Route 666? You do realise that you’re just asking for trouble. You deserve anything you get." A brief pout crossed his face, which she ignored. "Sooo," she asked, trying to sound casual, "whose turn is it this year?"

His voice dropped to a whisper, "That’s the problem, I don’t remember."

Oh Boy. The man was a walking bull’s-eye. Debra picked up the unfinished drink and shooed the Elder out the door. "Well, I’m sure I’ve already kept you too long; we’ve both got important things to do." She kept him moving despite his sputtering protests. "Here’s your mail; if I get any parcels that tick, or hiss, or smell funny, I’ll be sure to forward them straight to you unopened." Methos finally conceded, allowing himself to be pestered out of the apartment.

Despite the cloud of doom that seemed to hover above Methos’ head, the auspicious day arrived without incident. The Bonded Blade would have been perfect, but instead the celebration was held in Methos’ tiny apartment of U of A campus. Deb didn’t even bother to ask if he was a student or a professor this time. The party was small but energetic; Duncan and Deb were there to celebrate with Methos, however artificial the date may be. Amanda arrived without any introduction, having an innate ability to track down a party, anytime, anywhere. It didn’t take long for them to discover one uninvited guest.

Deb noticed a lampshade that hung slightly crooked and made a beeline for that corner of the room. She politely excused herself from her conversation, letting out a piercing shriek directly into the lamp. A muffled curse sounded from another room, and Watcher Savage stumbled out, headphones on his ears and a dazed expression on his face. Deb was livid; "You, get out. Right now. We’re here to relax and enjoy ourselves. No Watchers!"

"You can’t stop me from doing my job!"

"Your job? What exactly are you going to put in your report? Subject was invited to a party hosted by the world’s oldest man, who bears a striking resemblance to Mr. Pierson.  They wouldn’t know whether to fit you for a straightjacket or a coffin, not to mention what Methos himself would do to you. For your own safety, get out of here."

"I at least deserve a drink."

"We won’t get into what you deserve, but you may have one drink."

Savage was absconding with a full bottle of Fin Du Monde when he literally ran into the host of the evening. "Do you want to find out what the end of the world is really like?"

"Uh. No…"

"Then leave."

Savage pointed to the bottle; "She said one drink." In response to an icy glare he continued, "I’m half Irish, half Scottish and all military."

"Just take the damn thing!"

Shortly afterward, Sheila arrived with a supply of fresh mead, which she explained was both catering and gift. The Old Man’s eyes went wide at the sight and Sheila pounced on the advantage immediately. She began to make broad hints that the brew was an old family recipe and, knowing that she would have no family of her own, she would need to find someone to whom to pass it on. A close companion, or… a mentor.

Methos feigned shocked indignation; "What kind of a person would take a gift and try to make it into a bribe?"

Sheila merely smiled, "A shrewd negotiator, with a devious mind." The Elder chuckled warmly; "I like your style. We’ll talk." The rest of their negotiations would have to wait, as some of the guests offered gifts.

MacLeod presented a small, but unusually heavy box. Unwrapping it, Methos discovered a coil of barbed wire, still embedded in a chunk of concrete. His quizzical expression demanded an explanation. "It’s an authentic piece of the Berlin Wall; a reminder that change is always a possibility, even in the face of the most adamant opposition. That what was once an Evil Empire could become an ally."

Methos shook his head with a sigh; "That was the most awkward, most backhanded apology I have ever heard, but I accept. I thank you."

It was Deb’s turn next, and she offered a thick manuscript. Methos looked at it for a moment, frowned, then broke into a grin. "Is this—"

Deb returned the grin in kind. "The pilot episode to The Methos Chronicles. I called my agent in Toronto, who called my publisher in New York, who called another agent in L.A., who at this moment is pitching the concept to Rysher, Panzer, Dimension, Lion’s Gate, and anyone else who would listen." She paused to point at the pages; "Oh, and if you look closely, you’ll notice a Mr. Matthews, listed as Historical Consultant and Continuity. That’s you." Methos’ grin threatened to overwhelm his entire face, but the moment was interrupted by the feel of a new Immortal. Everyone in the room turned in confusion; except Methos, who rushed straight for the balcony. He was lucky; most of the so-called Campus Closets didn’t have a balcony.

He arrived in time to see a flash of red hair disappear in the distance, and a most impressive display in the back courtyard. A hawk-nosed scarecrow roasted above a cheerfully glowing fire of burning leaves. Cursing "that damned witch" in several languages, Methos rushed out the room, headed for the back exit. The crisp autumn air coming in through the open balcony was tinged with quite a stench. Duncan wrinkled his nose distastefully; "It smells like she spiked that bonfire from a compost heap."

Deb frowned for a few moments, lost in thought. "Didn’t I read somewhere that fertilizer could be used to make—" WHUMP! –"simple explosives?"

Duncan held up his hands to get everyone’s attention, using his Leadership voice. "Alright everyone, the party’s over. You all know the drill by now; let’s disperse before Campus Security shows. Sheila, you go pull your new mentor’s bacon out of the fire; I’ll start cleaning up around here."

He turned toward Deb with a warning glare. "And you, don’t you dare say what you’re thinking right now."

"What? I was just going to say that only Methos would have a party that ends with a bang."


This challenge seems to prove that there is a fundamental difference between the way Canadians and Americans think. Of all the responses to this MWC, I was pretty much the only person who didn't use money to fulfill the Ben Franklin requirement. In fact, to this day I couldn't tell you for certain which denomination has Franklin's picture.

Besides completing all the requirements for the MWC, I also took the opportunity here to expand Sheila's storyline. Every young Immortal needs a mentor, and Sheila's personality is a perfect match for Methos.
 
 

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