(no subject)
Throw Down Your Arms And Come
Fandom: Lost
Characters: Sawyer, Charlie
Rating: PG (language, bawdiness and dark humor)
Summary: What might happen if the series was written by Monty Python.
Spoilers: through “S.O.S.”
Word Count: 2,690
Disclaimer: Lies, lies, lies, yeah.
Feedback: Love it! Will feed it with cookies.
Beta: Better than green cheese on a skewer, themoononastick, and better than a mere 1/4 dutch, halfdutch! Thank you, ladies! <33
Note: For the words_fly_up challenge, using the quote, “They say all lovers swear more performance than they are able and yet reserve an ability that they never perform” (from Troilus and Cressida, III.ii).
Throw Down Your Arms And Come
One day, Sawyer fell off a raft and nearly drowned. Ever since then, he’d grown soft. His image had tarnished, and not to an aesthetically pleasing patina. He struggled to regain his reputation, but even his trademark snark failed to hoist him up from his fallen status. The other castaways saw through him now, saw his pretty pink underbelly. It made Sawyer nauseous. So did the slimy entrails of the boisterous tree frog that Sawyer had crushed in his hand-he had to paste on his wicked smile when inside he had been crying for the loss of that amphibious croak. Yet the one time Hurley had not gossiped to the entire island had to be the one time when Sawyer was relying on that typical blabbermouthing. Sawyer withered day by day.
Then a remarkable thing happened: Sawyer found guns. Little ones and big ones. Simple ones and ones with extra bits at the ends. Now he got an idea. Sawyer got a wonderful, awful idea. After all, why not? He had the ammunition-quite literally, in fact.
On the island, guns were like sceptres, and Sawyer waved his around, lording over all. Call him soft? One might as well call a jack a spade, for now he had a solid, slick 9mm in his hand for which no one would confuse a soft, squishy... thing. No one could argue when he said it was for the Others. He had to perfect his shot, to protect them all. And they’d already sacrificed every last gallon of ranch dressing. Even the mustard had succumbed. But no one appreciated Sawyer’s version of target practice.
“Dance, fools!” he sneered, and they did until they fell down. Sawyer never killed (not since Mr. Frog, never again since poor Mr. Frog, he swore). But the limbs grew scarce and, as everyone shared the communal pair of crutches, the hobbled castaways grew restless, albeit with barely a finger left to fidget. The time came for revolution.
One by one, the castaways rose up-except those who couldn’t-and faced their corrupt king. “Sheriff,” he corrected.
“Hey!” Kate said to quiet them down, even though they had quieted immediately the instant Sawyer pointed his huge, loaded weapon at them. They looked to Jack, knowing Jack had the only mouth big enough to take on Sawyer’s gun.
“That’s enough, Sawyer,” said Jack. “We’ve all lost something here. You have your pound of flesh and-” Everyone groaned. “And then some,” he finished.
“Well, you’re mostly intact!” interjected a legless man.
“Shut up, Scott,” said Jack.
“I’m Steve.”
“Whatever.”
Sawyer smirked. “Well, well, doc. Y’know, I can fix that right up.” He squinted one eye and aimed his gun. “Starting with that chip on your shoulder.”
“Have we forgotten about the Others?” yelled Locke, who was now armless. “They’re still out there. Do you think you can take them all on at once?”
“Just a minute now, Stumpy-” Sawyer began.
“Furthermore,” Locke continued, brazenly ignoring the comment. “Do you think we’ll come to your aid when they do return? And they will return. Rest assured.”
Claire looked warily toward the jungle, bouncing baby Aaron on her knee, which was especially easy to do as he was now just a head (although Charlie refrained from calling him Turniphead anymore as it seemed in poor taste and certainly would keep Claire from ever playing house with him again).
Sawyer, too, glanced at the jungle uneasily then looked back, lifting his chin haughtily. “So what’cha proposin’, then? What’cha got smokin’ up in that crystal ball of a head there?”
Locke winked one eye shut, even though the clouds covered the sun. “A streamlined strategy, James, that’s what I propose. By having all of us,”-he shrugged his shoulders to gesture toward the other castaways-“running around in fear of your gun, you put yourself at risk. However, if you take just one of us for target practice each day, the rest of us will be at ease, and we can watch for any signs.”
“Of udders,” Jin clarified.
“Shit, there’re cows on this island too?” Sawyer groaned. He scratched his chin. “I never did like them, always mooing and chewing cud like they were thinkin’ ‘bout stuff, plannin’ stuff. Shifty damn bovines.” He straightened up. “All right, you gotta deal. One a day.”
“Like the vitamins?” Ana-Lucia smirked.
“Man, that’s not even funny. You’re up first.” And Sawyer shot off Ana’s nose, catching it one-handed. “And,” he said, holding her nose between his fingers and gazing at the entire group of amputees. “If the person whose turn it is doesn’t show up, I’m gonna have to kill all of you.”
“All of us?” Kate asked.
“Sorry. Y’all,” Sawyer corrected.
With the new plan in effect, everyone was happier. And they were happier still that Ana-Lucia was first in line. The relief was double-fold, and there was much rejoicing.
On the seventh day, Sawyer did not rest, because he was not God. But he did visit Eko’s Shack of God as it seemed appropriate. This proved an unproductive day for Sawyer, however, for, by the time his gun was spent, he had succeeded only in reducing the length of Eko’s stick. Still, he felt pleased. Being bigger than any of his guns, the stick had intimidated Sawyer and now it was nearly the same length, cut clean off the end. Never the less, it was not the same as a real limb.
On the eighth day, Sawyer resolved to get his hands on a real limb. Or his gun, yeah. He’d get his hands on a real limb via his gun. Which was just a gun. Not any ordinary gun, mind you. A big one, and thick, and not at all crooked.
Eight days into the new order, it was Charlie’s turn. No one seemed sad to see him go off into the jungle, except Sayid and Eko, who hurried off into the church. Rose thought it a very nice gesture that they would want to pray for Charlie, although it surprised her that they would pray so loudly. Poor dear souls, she thought, to empathize so much that they’d cry out like that.
In the jungle, Charlie took his time, strolling leisurely toward Sawyer’s clearing. He’d woken with a brand new tune in his head, and he was determined to finish the chords before target practice in case Sawyer shot off any of his fingers. Charlie found he couldn’t think of the chords without curling his fingers into their shapes. But he knew this would be the big hit: when the next plane flew over (unless it was a Dharma food plane) and rescued them (unless it didn’t know they were there because Bernard had dicked around and not yet finished the S.O.S. in the sand), DriveShaft would get back together (unless his bandmates had already gotten back together and replaced him with Geddy Lee like Liam had threatened so many times) and make it big (unless they wanted to go for indie cred) with this song. It was a sure thing.
Suddenly stirred from his rock star musings, Charlie stopped in his tracks. Before him, shone a shimmery pond. “Bloody hell,” he exclaimed, though it was actually quite blue and heavenly. He bent over the pool of water, smiling at the fractured reflection of himself on the rippling surface. The effect was trippy. Only natural.
Just then, Hurley walked by, sucking on a finger that was sticky with peanut butter. Charlie wet his lips. His fingers twitched at the memory of peanut butter. But before he could ask for any, Hurley said “dude.”
“Dude,” he said. “Aren’t you supposed to, like, be somewhere?”
With a frown, Charlie turned back toward the water. His reflection frowned back at him. Then, suddenly, he smiled and his reflection looked pleased as well. “Fear not, mate. For I....” Charlie stroked a finger through the water. “Have a cunning plan.”
It was dusk by the time Charlie arrived at the designated location, disheveled and panting. The clearing looked deserted. But as he came nearer, Charlie spotted Sawyer sitting against a tree, eyes framed owlishly in old man glasses, reading a book. He could just make out the words “Sweet” and “Valley” on the pastel cover before Sawyer whisked the book away and pointed a pistol at him, coughing.
“You’re late, Tiny Tim. Took your time tiptoeing through the tulips, huh? Too scared to show your pansy ass here, so you had to stop and smell the roses?”
Charlie cocked his head and smiled. “Very poetic. But that’s not it at all.” His smile dropped and he sighed heavily.
“Man, it’s really too bad. ‘Cause now I’m gonna have to shoot you and everyone else.”
“What? I showed up!” Charlie wrung his hands quite vexedly.
“But late, case ya didn’t catch that part. And it’s dark now, so I can’t expect to get any good practicin’ in. Besides-” He made a show of scanning Charlie from head to foot. “You ain’t enough to practice on.”
“It’s not the size that counts.”
“That might be true... if the Others came from Munchkin Land.” He shrugged. “Sorry. Gonna have to shoot ya. All of ya.”
“But-but I couldn’t help it, mate. You have no idea what I went through to get here!”
“Other than the jungle?”
“Oi! You didn’t hear the gunshots?”
Sawyer sat up. “Gunshots? What gunshots?”
“Back there.” Charlie pointed behind him. “I barely made it here in one piece! Which is kinda ironic considering you’ve already taken a few off-”
“Get to the point,” Sawyer snarled. “What happened?”
Charlie’s voice grew more frantic. “I don’t know. There were three of us, y’know? ‘Cause everyone knew you wouldn’t be happy with just me. Then there were shots and somebody shouting stuff, all kinds of crazy stuff, and I started running. Just took off, man. And here I am.”
“Others?” Sawyer checked his clip and cocked his gun.
“No, not them.... I don’t... but you wouldn’t....”
“What, what?”
Charlie looked down at his hands, chewing his lip, then looked up at Sawyer and said, “It was Jack. He was saying he was going to take over, that he’s in charge now. He said you’re a liar and a thief-”
Sawyer smiled.
“And he’s going to take you down.”
Sawyer’s smile fell clean off.
“A-as I was running away, he yelled after me to bring you back, that he wants you to face him. Like a man.” Charlie met his eyes then looked away sheepishly. “So, I... I guess it’s your decision now.” He shrugged helplessly, but focused his gaze hard upon Sawyer, as if measuring him. Sawyer felt it.
“So, Jack’s playing hero again, is he? Shoulda seen this comin’.”
Charlie nodded his head. Sawyer scowled at him, focusing the aim of his gun. Charlie fiercely shook his head.
“But... how did that stubbly son of a bitch get his hands on a gun?”
“Erm. Rousseau?” Charlie suggested.
“The crazy French lady?”
Charlie nodded enthusiastically, a bit too.
“Hmm, you can never trust chicks like that.” Sawyer spat, “French!” Then he grabbed Charlie by the collar of his shirt and marched him back the way he’d come. “Come on! Show me where Doctor Screwlittle is.”
“You’re running out of nicknames, aren’t you?”
“Shut up, you... Washed-Up, Has-Been Bassist... Guy.... Arrgh! I’m gonna kick Jack’s ass but good.”
In front of him, Charlie grinned widely.
After a while, they came to a pool of water. The last rays of the day’s sun slipped away, barely reflecting off of the calm, clear surface. Charlie stopped, and Sawyer stopped too once he’d walked into him.
Sawyer said, “This is where he was?” Charlie had no time to answer before Sawyer began yelling, “Come on, Doc! I know you’re waiting!” He cocked his gun, beaming wildly. “Come out and play! I brought a new toy.”
“Yeah, well, keep it in your pants, Sawyer. No wants to play with your rusty old gun.”
Sawyer whipped around toward the pond, toward the sound of the voice. An unexpected voice. In the middle of the pond, Kate floated on her back. The waning light cast shadows upon her, but as Sawyer focused his gaze he saw her clearer. All of her. Much clearer. He stroked a finger down his gun.
“Well, shucks. You sure you don’t wanna play? ‘Cause I got the real thing, sweetheart.” He hooked his thumbs in his jean pockets, the gun cradled in his hand.
Kate disappeared under the surface, then reappeared a few paces closer to the shore, shaking water from her hair. “It may be real, but I bet it shoots blanks,” she said.
Sawyer let out a roar of laughter. He slipped the gun into a pocket and clasped his fingers loosely behind his head. “Why don’tcha come to target practice and find out?”
Kate did a languorous backstroke toward the shore, then stopped again, squinting up at Sawyer. “I already lost a foot and my ears, thanks to you. Besides, it’s not my turn.”
“Wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout that kinda practice. Doc’s not the only one who’s got a cure for what ails ya. ‘Fact, ya might say I’m a specialist in that kinda medicine. Best in town. You’ll swear ya never felt better.”
“Don’t go making promises you can’t keep,” Kate said, now rising out of the water.
Sawyer watched the drops falling from her skin, or rather the skin that the drops were falling from. “Oh, I can keep ‘em, darlin.”
“Can you?” She was halfway out of the water now and Sawyer’s smile was emerging just as she was. “Because... it seems to me, you lack the proper tool.”
Sawyer looked at her perplexed.
“Or-to use your first subtle metaphor-should I say: weapon?” Kate smiled over Sawyer’s shoulder.
He whipped around, only to face the short barrel of his own gun pointed straight at his mouth. Behind it, Charlie’s face loomed, proud as a peacock, only pastier.
“You want to play now, motherfucker?!” Charlie cackled maniacally.
Kate arched an eyebrow.
“Ahem. I mean, stick ‘em up?”
Sawyer smirked, albeit less smirkily than usual. “What? You gonna go gangster on me, Bugs Bunny Malone?” Sawyer moved to swat the gun out of Charlie’s hand and it went off, the bullet whizzing past his head, cutting a patch of fringe from his hair. “Shit!” Sawyer yelped. “That’s my hair, man!”
“That’s your warning,” Kate said.
“My hair!” Sawyer whimpered, staring at the dusky blond locks in his hand. “Chicks dig this. Or used to.”
Charlie grinned. “So you’re Samson now, eh? You’re worried about losing your strength, and I’ve not even gone for the muscle yet.” He pointed the gun toward the middle of Sawyer’s body.
“Charlie,” Kate whispered. “That’s enough with the metaphors. We get it.”
“Oh. Right.”
Charlie jerked the gun in the direction of the beach. Sawyer slumped his shoulders, even though they were already quite slopey, and started walking. Charlie followed close behind, with the gun ready at all times, and Kate joined him, now fully dressed.
“Aw, man,” Sawyer said.
“Seriously,” Charlie muttered, glancing wolfishly at Kate’s clothes, even though he wasn’t interested in textiles.
Back on the beach, everyone took turns watching Sawyer. Now everyone had a gun of their own, except him. They even took back his stuff, which was their stuff, except for the mangos which were the island’s stuff though Jack now claimed them as his stuff. With all his old weapons taken away, Sawyer was reduced to snark, and this amused everyone greatly. Sawyer became the island’s jester. Sun even made him a jester’s cap, with a bell made of papaya seeds. A good time was had by all: they danced merrily-or sat tapping whatever extremity was left or bounced in the case of baby Turniphead-free from the fear of any bullets bothering them again. And they lived happily ever after.
Until the following day when a polar bear came and ate them all.
The End.
Full quote from Troilus and Cressida (as spoken by Cressida):
They say all lovers swear more performance than they are able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing more than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one. They that have the voice of lions and the act of hares, are they not monsters?
Spurred on by this, I based the above fic on the fable of “The Lion and the Hare” (or, “The Cunning Hare and the Witless Lion,” as it is sometimes known) from the Panchatantra, an ancient collection of animal-based Indian myths. You may find one version of that fable (with pictures!) here.
And just for fun:
- a variation on the same Sanskrit fable (with subtle differences, including an upstart, revolutionary Hare)
- the Ethiopian folktale “The Lion and the Hare Go Hunting”
- and, possibly the best known of all, Aesop’s “The Lion and the Hare.”
Fandom: Lost
Characters: Sawyer, Charlie
Rating: PG (language, bawdiness and dark humor)
Summary: What might happen if the series was written by Monty Python.
Spoilers: through “S.O.S.”
Word Count: 2,690
Disclaimer: Lies, lies, lies, yeah.
Feedback: Love it! Will feed it with cookies.
Beta: Better than green cheese on a skewer, themoononastick, and better than a mere 1/4 dutch, halfdutch! Thank you, ladies! <33
Note: For the words_fly_up challenge, using the quote, “They say all lovers swear more performance than they are able and yet reserve an ability that they never perform” (from Troilus and Cressida, III.ii).
Throw Down Your Arms And Come
One day, Sawyer fell off a raft and nearly drowned. Ever since then, he’d grown soft. His image had tarnished, and not to an aesthetically pleasing patina. He struggled to regain his reputation, but even his trademark snark failed to hoist him up from his fallen status. The other castaways saw through him now, saw his pretty pink underbelly. It made Sawyer nauseous. So did the slimy entrails of the boisterous tree frog that Sawyer had crushed in his hand-he had to paste on his wicked smile when inside he had been crying for the loss of that amphibious croak. Yet the one time Hurley had not gossiped to the entire island had to be the one time when Sawyer was relying on that typical blabbermouthing. Sawyer withered day by day.
Then a remarkable thing happened: Sawyer found guns. Little ones and big ones. Simple ones and ones with extra bits at the ends. Now he got an idea. Sawyer got a wonderful, awful idea. After all, why not? He had the ammunition-quite literally, in fact.
On the island, guns were like sceptres, and Sawyer waved his around, lording over all. Call him soft? One might as well call a jack a spade, for now he had a solid, slick 9mm in his hand for which no one would confuse a soft, squishy... thing. No one could argue when he said it was for the Others. He had to perfect his shot, to protect them all. And they’d already sacrificed every last gallon of ranch dressing. Even the mustard had succumbed. But no one appreciated Sawyer’s version of target practice.
“Dance, fools!” he sneered, and they did until they fell down. Sawyer never killed (not since Mr. Frog, never again since poor Mr. Frog, he swore). But the limbs grew scarce and, as everyone shared the communal pair of crutches, the hobbled castaways grew restless, albeit with barely a finger left to fidget. The time came for revolution.
One by one, the castaways rose up-except those who couldn’t-and faced their corrupt king. “Sheriff,” he corrected.
“Hey!” Kate said to quiet them down, even though they had quieted immediately the instant Sawyer pointed his huge, loaded weapon at them. They looked to Jack, knowing Jack had the only mouth big enough to take on Sawyer’s gun.
“That’s enough, Sawyer,” said Jack. “We’ve all lost something here. You have your pound of flesh and-” Everyone groaned. “And then some,” he finished.
“Well, you’re mostly intact!” interjected a legless man.
“Shut up, Scott,” said Jack.
“I’m Steve.”
“Whatever.”
Sawyer smirked. “Well, well, doc. Y’know, I can fix that right up.” He squinted one eye and aimed his gun. “Starting with that chip on your shoulder.”
“Have we forgotten about the Others?” yelled Locke, who was now armless. “They’re still out there. Do you think you can take them all on at once?”
“Just a minute now, Stumpy-” Sawyer began.
“Furthermore,” Locke continued, brazenly ignoring the comment. “Do you think we’ll come to your aid when they do return? And they will return. Rest assured.”
Claire looked warily toward the jungle, bouncing baby Aaron on her knee, which was especially easy to do as he was now just a head (although Charlie refrained from calling him Turniphead anymore as it seemed in poor taste and certainly would keep Claire from ever playing house with him again).
Sawyer, too, glanced at the jungle uneasily then looked back, lifting his chin haughtily. “So what’cha proposin’, then? What’cha got smokin’ up in that crystal ball of a head there?”
Locke winked one eye shut, even though the clouds covered the sun. “A streamlined strategy, James, that’s what I propose. By having all of us,”-he shrugged his shoulders to gesture toward the other castaways-“running around in fear of your gun, you put yourself at risk. However, if you take just one of us for target practice each day, the rest of us will be at ease, and we can watch for any signs.”
“Of udders,” Jin clarified.
“Shit, there’re cows on this island too?” Sawyer groaned. He scratched his chin. “I never did like them, always mooing and chewing cud like they were thinkin’ ‘bout stuff, plannin’ stuff. Shifty damn bovines.” He straightened up. “All right, you gotta deal. One a day.”
“Like the vitamins?” Ana-Lucia smirked.
“Man, that’s not even funny. You’re up first.” And Sawyer shot off Ana’s nose, catching it one-handed. “And,” he said, holding her nose between his fingers and gazing at the entire group of amputees. “If the person whose turn it is doesn’t show up, I’m gonna have to kill all of you.”
“All of us?” Kate asked.
“Sorry. Y’all,” Sawyer corrected.
With the new plan in effect, everyone was happier. And they were happier still that Ana-Lucia was first in line. The relief was double-fold, and there was much rejoicing.
On the seventh day, Sawyer did not rest, because he was not God. But he did visit Eko’s Shack of God as it seemed appropriate. This proved an unproductive day for Sawyer, however, for, by the time his gun was spent, he had succeeded only in reducing the length of Eko’s stick. Still, he felt pleased. Being bigger than any of his guns, the stick had intimidated Sawyer and now it was nearly the same length, cut clean off the end. Never the less, it was not the same as a real limb.
On the eighth day, Sawyer resolved to get his hands on a real limb. Or his gun, yeah. He’d get his hands on a real limb via his gun. Which was just a gun. Not any ordinary gun, mind you. A big one, and thick, and not at all crooked.
Eight days into the new order, it was Charlie’s turn. No one seemed sad to see him go off into the jungle, except Sayid and Eko, who hurried off into the church. Rose thought it a very nice gesture that they would want to pray for Charlie, although it surprised her that they would pray so loudly. Poor dear souls, she thought, to empathize so much that they’d cry out like that.
In the jungle, Charlie took his time, strolling leisurely toward Sawyer’s clearing. He’d woken with a brand new tune in his head, and he was determined to finish the chords before target practice in case Sawyer shot off any of his fingers. Charlie found he couldn’t think of the chords without curling his fingers into their shapes. But he knew this would be the big hit: when the next plane flew over (unless it was a Dharma food plane) and rescued them (unless it didn’t know they were there because Bernard had dicked around and not yet finished the S.O.S. in the sand), DriveShaft would get back together (unless his bandmates had already gotten back together and replaced him with Geddy Lee like Liam had threatened so many times) and make it big (unless they wanted to go for indie cred) with this song. It was a sure thing.
Suddenly stirred from his rock star musings, Charlie stopped in his tracks. Before him, shone a shimmery pond. “Bloody hell,” he exclaimed, though it was actually quite blue and heavenly. He bent over the pool of water, smiling at the fractured reflection of himself on the rippling surface. The effect was trippy. Only natural.
Just then, Hurley walked by, sucking on a finger that was sticky with peanut butter. Charlie wet his lips. His fingers twitched at the memory of peanut butter. But before he could ask for any, Hurley said “dude.”
“Dude,” he said. “Aren’t you supposed to, like, be somewhere?”
With a frown, Charlie turned back toward the water. His reflection frowned back at him. Then, suddenly, he smiled and his reflection looked pleased as well. “Fear not, mate. For I....” Charlie stroked a finger through the water. “Have a cunning plan.”
It was dusk by the time Charlie arrived at the designated location, disheveled and panting. The clearing looked deserted. But as he came nearer, Charlie spotted Sawyer sitting against a tree, eyes framed owlishly in old man glasses, reading a book. He could just make out the words “Sweet” and “Valley” on the pastel cover before Sawyer whisked the book away and pointed a pistol at him, coughing.
“You’re late, Tiny Tim. Took your time tiptoeing through the tulips, huh? Too scared to show your pansy ass here, so you had to stop and smell the roses?”
Charlie cocked his head and smiled. “Very poetic. But that’s not it at all.” His smile dropped and he sighed heavily.
“Man, it’s really too bad. ‘Cause now I’m gonna have to shoot you and everyone else.”
“What? I showed up!” Charlie wrung his hands quite vexedly.
“But late, case ya didn’t catch that part. And it’s dark now, so I can’t expect to get any good practicin’ in. Besides-” He made a show of scanning Charlie from head to foot. “You ain’t enough to practice on.”
“It’s not the size that counts.”
“That might be true... if the Others came from Munchkin Land.” He shrugged. “Sorry. Gonna have to shoot ya. All of ya.”
“But-but I couldn’t help it, mate. You have no idea what I went through to get here!”
“Other than the jungle?”
“Oi! You didn’t hear the gunshots?”
Sawyer sat up. “Gunshots? What gunshots?”
“Back there.” Charlie pointed behind him. “I barely made it here in one piece! Which is kinda ironic considering you’ve already taken a few off-”
“Get to the point,” Sawyer snarled. “What happened?”
Charlie’s voice grew more frantic. “I don’t know. There were three of us, y’know? ‘Cause everyone knew you wouldn’t be happy with just me. Then there were shots and somebody shouting stuff, all kinds of crazy stuff, and I started running. Just took off, man. And here I am.”
“Others?” Sawyer checked his clip and cocked his gun.
“No, not them.... I don’t... but you wouldn’t....”
“What, what?”
Charlie looked down at his hands, chewing his lip, then looked up at Sawyer and said, “It was Jack. He was saying he was going to take over, that he’s in charge now. He said you’re a liar and a thief-”
Sawyer smiled.
“And he’s going to take you down.”
Sawyer’s smile fell clean off.
“A-as I was running away, he yelled after me to bring you back, that he wants you to face him. Like a man.” Charlie met his eyes then looked away sheepishly. “So, I... I guess it’s your decision now.” He shrugged helplessly, but focused his gaze hard upon Sawyer, as if measuring him. Sawyer felt it.
“So, Jack’s playing hero again, is he? Shoulda seen this comin’.”
Charlie nodded his head. Sawyer scowled at him, focusing the aim of his gun. Charlie fiercely shook his head.
“But... how did that stubbly son of a bitch get his hands on a gun?”
“Erm. Rousseau?” Charlie suggested.
“The crazy French lady?”
Charlie nodded enthusiastically, a bit too.
“Hmm, you can never trust chicks like that.” Sawyer spat, “French!” Then he grabbed Charlie by the collar of his shirt and marched him back the way he’d come. “Come on! Show me where Doctor Screwlittle is.”
“You’re running out of nicknames, aren’t you?”
“Shut up, you... Washed-Up, Has-Been Bassist... Guy.... Arrgh! I’m gonna kick Jack’s ass but good.”
In front of him, Charlie grinned widely.
After a while, they came to a pool of water. The last rays of the day’s sun slipped away, barely reflecting off of the calm, clear surface. Charlie stopped, and Sawyer stopped too once he’d walked into him.
Sawyer said, “This is where he was?” Charlie had no time to answer before Sawyer began yelling, “Come on, Doc! I know you’re waiting!” He cocked his gun, beaming wildly. “Come out and play! I brought a new toy.”
“Yeah, well, keep it in your pants, Sawyer. No wants to play with your rusty old gun.”
Sawyer whipped around toward the pond, toward the sound of the voice. An unexpected voice. In the middle of the pond, Kate floated on her back. The waning light cast shadows upon her, but as Sawyer focused his gaze he saw her clearer. All of her. Much clearer. He stroked a finger down his gun.
“Well, shucks. You sure you don’t wanna play? ‘Cause I got the real thing, sweetheart.” He hooked his thumbs in his jean pockets, the gun cradled in his hand.
Kate disappeared under the surface, then reappeared a few paces closer to the shore, shaking water from her hair. “It may be real, but I bet it shoots blanks,” she said.
Sawyer let out a roar of laughter. He slipped the gun into a pocket and clasped his fingers loosely behind his head. “Why don’tcha come to target practice and find out?”
Kate did a languorous backstroke toward the shore, then stopped again, squinting up at Sawyer. “I already lost a foot and my ears, thanks to you. Besides, it’s not my turn.”
“Wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout that kinda practice. Doc’s not the only one who’s got a cure for what ails ya. ‘Fact, ya might say I’m a specialist in that kinda medicine. Best in town. You’ll swear ya never felt better.”
“Don’t go making promises you can’t keep,” Kate said, now rising out of the water.
Sawyer watched the drops falling from her skin, or rather the skin that the drops were falling from. “Oh, I can keep ‘em, darlin.”
“Can you?” She was halfway out of the water now and Sawyer’s smile was emerging just as she was. “Because... it seems to me, you lack the proper tool.”
Sawyer looked at her perplexed.
“Or-to use your first subtle metaphor-should I say: weapon?” Kate smiled over Sawyer’s shoulder.
He whipped around, only to face the short barrel of his own gun pointed straight at his mouth. Behind it, Charlie’s face loomed, proud as a peacock, only pastier.
“You want to play now, motherfucker?!” Charlie cackled maniacally.
Kate arched an eyebrow.
“Ahem. I mean, stick ‘em up?”
Sawyer smirked, albeit less smirkily than usual. “What? You gonna go gangster on me, Bugs Bunny Malone?” Sawyer moved to swat the gun out of Charlie’s hand and it went off, the bullet whizzing past his head, cutting a patch of fringe from his hair. “Shit!” Sawyer yelped. “That’s my hair, man!”
“That’s your warning,” Kate said.
“My hair!” Sawyer whimpered, staring at the dusky blond locks in his hand. “Chicks dig this. Or used to.”
Charlie grinned. “So you’re Samson now, eh? You’re worried about losing your strength, and I’ve not even gone for the muscle yet.” He pointed the gun toward the middle of Sawyer’s body.
“Charlie,” Kate whispered. “That’s enough with the metaphors. We get it.”
“Oh. Right.”
Charlie jerked the gun in the direction of the beach. Sawyer slumped his shoulders, even though they were already quite slopey, and started walking. Charlie followed close behind, with the gun ready at all times, and Kate joined him, now fully dressed.
“Aw, man,” Sawyer said.
“Seriously,” Charlie muttered, glancing wolfishly at Kate’s clothes, even though he wasn’t interested in textiles.
Back on the beach, everyone took turns watching Sawyer. Now everyone had a gun of their own, except him. They even took back his stuff, which was their stuff, except for the mangos which were the island’s stuff though Jack now claimed them as his stuff. With all his old weapons taken away, Sawyer was reduced to snark, and this amused everyone greatly. Sawyer became the island’s jester. Sun even made him a jester’s cap, with a bell made of papaya seeds. A good time was had by all: they danced merrily-or sat tapping whatever extremity was left or bounced in the case of baby Turniphead-free from the fear of any bullets bothering them again. And they lived happily ever after.
Until the following day when a polar bear came and ate them all.
The End.
Full quote from Troilus and Cressida (as spoken by Cressida):
They say all lovers swear more performance than they are able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing more than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one. They that have the voice of lions and the act of hares, are they not monsters?
Spurred on by this, I based the above fic on the fable of “The Lion and the Hare” (or, “The Cunning Hare and the Witless Lion,” as it is sometimes known) from the Panchatantra, an ancient collection of animal-based Indian myths. You may find one version of that fable (with pictures!) here.
And just for fun:
- a variation on the same Sanskrit fable (with subtle differences, including an upstart, revolutionary Hare)
- the Ethiopian folktale “The Lion and the Hare Go Hunting”
- and, possibly the best known of all, Aesop’s “The Lion and the Hare.”