This is never my fault, you know. It's not like he lets me read the script ahead of time or anything. Oh, well. I guess it could  be worse.

<Yes, you could find a Kronos muse in your stocking Christmas morning.>

Don't even joke about that.
 

"They're flat."

<Don't tell me your problems, I've got enough of my own.>

"Do you think if someone put a sword to Duncan's throat we could get him into the same key as everyone else?"

<No. I'd suggest they aim about three feet lower. And exactly which 'someone' were you thinking of asking?>

"OK, not someone -- YOU, Methos."

<I'm busy. Besides, the director shouldn't have to concern himself with petty details like that. Ask Kronos to do it.>

"I'm not asking Old Leather Butt for anything. I think he's still pissed at me."

<Imagine that. I wonder why?>

"Hey, how about a little gratitude here? You needed a Tiny Tim, I got you a Tiny Tim."

<And such a brilliant one, too. Did you see what he did to my goose wrangler this afternoon?>

"See it? I'm going to have nightmares about it for weeks. In glorious technicolor. With sound effects."

<Tell Amanda to remember that when she's preparing next year's wardrobe -- never dress Kronos in a costume that puts him on stage with a weapon. The footlights go to his head.>

"Sorry. How stupid of us not to classify a crutch as a weapon."

<You underestimate Kronos at your own risk, when it comes to bloodshed he's very creative. I once saw him gut an obnoxious camel-parking attendant with a melon baller.>

"Methos, it's not supposed to COME to bloodshed. It's a Christmas pageant -- carols, tableaus, and sweet little scenes from traditional plays. It's not Psycho Killer Theater. There's nothing in the script about giving the goose wrangler a prostate exam with a crutch!"

<Did you tell Kronos that?>

"I knew there was a reason I don't own a Kronos muse. Do you think we could get Kady Mae on the phone?"

<It wouldn't help. She just encourages him.>

"I'm getting a headache. I never get headaches."

<You think you've got problems? Do you know how hard it is to
find really good goose wranglers?>

<No, no, NO! How many times do I have to say this? Don't you people ever LISTEN? Angels, back on your clouds. Wise men, back on your camels. You don't enter until *after* the Sugar Plum Fairy's solo!>

"About that solo..."

<Don't start.>

"Methos, I really think you should give that solo a little more thought."

<I've given it all the thought I need to give it. I'm the director.>

"Well that explains the beret and the jodhpurs. Where'd you get the riding boots?"

<Why are you so obsessed with these petty details? I can't waste time and creative energy worrying about things like that, I'm responsible for The Big Picture. I'm the only one here who sees beyond petty ego and vanity and considers the artistic needs and values of the composition as a whole.>

"Say what?"

"No, not the blue spot. Use the pink gels! And bring it up slowly ...slowly ...sloooooowly...perfect! Do it just like that at show time and I won't have to hurt you.>

"Speaking of hurting someone -- Methos, put down the riding crop and talk to me."

<Are you still here? Why aren't you out getting me a beer? Go! Make yourself useful.>

"And miss all this delightful chaos? Not a chance. And quit changing the subject. Solo. Sugar Plum Fairy. Extreme pain. Permanent hearing loss. Lawsuits. Or are you planning to pass out earplugs at the door?"

<I told you, it's Art. One makes sacrifices for Art. The Sugar Plum Fairy's solo is crucial to my vision -- it's a delightfully whimsical bit of nuance that foreshadows the crisis in the third act.>

"It's crap."

<Of course it's crap. But it's beautiful, artistic crap. It looks deep and meaningful, and no one will understand it. As long as we spell it right and use plenty of semicolons, the self-appointed critics will love it.>

"Uh-huh. Giving him a solo was the only way you could get Duncan into the tights, right?"

<That too.>

"Methos, you've got to get over this thing you've got about putting Duncan in form-fitting outfits."

<Why?>

"Because...uh...well..."

<You think about it and get back to me. And while you're thinking, get me a beer.>

<Where's Richie? Has anyone seen Richie? Somebody cue Richie please.>

"I think he went out for coffee."

<Coffee? You THINK he went out for coffee? What does he think he's doing? Is he trying to ruin me? How the hell am I supposed to do a decent manger scene if my Ass keeps going out for COFFEE?>

"Which one of those questions do you want me to answer first?"

<Just shut up and find me a new Ass.>

"Easier said than done, Cecil B. deMethos. Your ass is pretty distinctive. Kind of like Hitchcock's profile."

<You're enjoying my pain, aren't you?>

"Does it show?"

<Fine. Go ahead. Celebrate my coming humiliation. Have a party if you want, just don't drool on my clipboard. We'll come back to the manger scene. Is the North Pole set ready yet?>

"Not quite."

<Why not?>

"We're having a little trouble with the reindeer."

<How can we be having trouble with the reindeer? They're STUFFED for God's sake!>

"Don't yell at me -- I'm not the one who cast Silas as Santa Claus."

<I don't want to hear this...>

"He thinks making them stand still under those hot lights for hours and hours is excessively cruel and inhumane."

<Cruel and inhumane? Silas said cruel and inhumane? Silas could pronounce excessively?>

"No, Silas said 'really, really mean and nasty.' I was interpreting."

<Well, don't. I prefer my Silas straight. What's he doing with my reindeer.>

"He keeps trying to set them free."

<How the hell do you free stuffed reindeer.>

"I'm not exactly sure, but it seems to involve throwing them out the window while crying 'fly away, little bambi, fly away!'"

<This isn't happening to me. Why is this happening to me?>

"Not my fault, sweetie. I was perfectly happy with the original idea -- a simple little Christmas pageant for Robin. That's all this was supposed to be. I'm not the one who decided we should be creative and adventurous. I'm not the one who thought we should -- what was that phrase you used? Oh, yeah -- explore new
artistic avenues and open ourselves to alternative methods of communication. I'm not the one who decided he needed revolving sets and the Sugar Plum Fairy doing fly-bys over the manger."

<Well of course, blame me for trying. I was just trying to expand their horizons a bit. And what thanks do I get? None. Not one congratulatory telegram from Spielburg, not one bouquet of roses from Coppola, not even a pat on the back from Tarantino. What I get is aggravation, dissent, and The Cast From Hell.>

"You have a very good cast. They're talented, creative, and patient as hell. Best of all, they work cheap."

<They're all plotting against me, aren't they? They're trying to ruin my pageant. They want me to fail.>

"Oh, please, Methos, get a grip. Who the hell do you think is plotting against you? You hand-picked the entire cast! Our Duncan and Amanda, Kady's Kronos muse, with crutch -- by the way, where'd he pick up the hockey mask? It's a nice touch. Spooky but appropriate, in a weird, Kronos kind of way -- Ladonna's Caspian
muse, Olympia's Silas, Lumi's Headless Richie, and Diana's Joe muse. Trust me -- this group couldn't plot their way out of a Sushi bar."

<Well, I never claimed they were GOOD at it, but they're muses. It's in their natures to plot chaos.>

"No. Really? Gee, who'd a thunk it."

<They're plotting something now, I can sense it.>

"They're plundering the buffet, Methos. The most controversial topic on their agenda is whether the meatballs should be stabbed with toothpicks or forks."

<It's not what they're saying, it's what they're NOT saying.>

"Uh-huh. Hon, are you sure that beret isn't too tight?"

<It's all in their tone. Do you think I don't know TONE when I hear it?>

"The man who dressed Duncan MacLeod in pink tulle and glitter, suspended him in midair, and told him to sing Over the Rainbow is asking me this?"

<I should have stuck to my original plan. A cast of nothing but Methos muses. It would have been a theatrical first -- a Methos Spectacular. Glorious.>

"Never would have worked, we couldn't have fit enough beer in the refrigerator. Besides, nobody will lend us their Methos muses anymore. They say they come back whining and bitchy. Except Zen and nan's, theirs comes home mute and has crying jags for days."

<Nobody appreciates true artistic genius these days. Homer appreciated me. Shakespeare appreciated me. Mick Jagger...>

"...liked your ass. I appreciate you, Methos."

<You do?>

"Of course I do. What would my life be like without you? Sane? Normal? Who'd leave post-it sketches of impossible sexual positions all over my computer screen? Who'd wake me up in the middle of the night complaining about his lack of motivation in the shower-sex scene? Who'd entertain me with hour long bitch-
fests because his slave collars weren't custom made by Gucci? All that peace and quiet would drive me nuts."

<How true. I am indispensable, aren't I?>

"Of course you are. And Methos?"

<Yes?>

"Give us both a Christmas present -- send the boots and jodhpurs
back BEFORE I get my Visa bill."
 

The End

Are we finished? Can we send it now?

<Not quite. Feedback: Please. She gets depressed if she doesn't get feedback, and when she gets depressed she won't write me sex scenes. Critiques: Why the hell would anyone want to critique a muse piece? Gratuitous public comments about typos and grammar: Life is short, and you'd probably spend longer writing the
message than we spent writing the piece, so why bother? NOW we're finished.>