The NatPackers walked warily into the beauty shop--er, styling salon. Linda Rose had driven the mangled limo until she found a salon. Actually, the still-blind NatPackers had first gone into two McDonald's (one to get Sharon food), a bookstore (not a quick stop; just getting Leslie out of the magazine section took half an hour) and some kind of clothing store that sold a lot of black leather and lace before they were able to find an actual salon.
"May I help you?" asked the receptionist, remarkably calm given that a mass of squinting, disheveled women who felt the need to continually bounce up and down had just entered her elegant little salon. She did back up a few steps, but who doesn't when the NatPack is around?
Maureen stepped forward. "I need help."
"Obviously," said the receptionist brightly. "But we don't treat group personality disorders here."
"I need help with my hair," hissed Maureen, and there was no mistaking the menace in her voice and in her eyes. "It is blonde. It should be red. It must be fixed, and fixed now."
"Let me see if we have any openings..."
Maureen's hand shot out and grabbed the receptionist's throat in a remarkably good imitation of a certain balding, egotistical vampire. "You...will...have...an...opening. And you will have it now."
The receptionist started to cry, yet another common reaction when dealing with large quantities of the Pack.
Jill stepped up to intercede. "Mo, sweetie, let me handle this." She smiled ingratiatingly at the terrified receptionist. "Dear... What's your name?" She offered the woman a lace-trimmed handkerchief (shaking off the brick dust first).
"Agnes," said the woman shakily, taking the cloth and dabbing at her eyes.
"Agnes. What a lovely name," Jill cooed. "Cherie, if you value your existence, I believe that you will find an opening for my diplomatic friend here. She needs hair dye. And I..." Jill examined her nails critically. "I need a manicure. War is just so difficult on the cuticles."
Agnes gulped. "MITCH!" she screeched, in a voice worthy of a true NatPack victim. "Get your tuchus up here!"
A man emerged from the back of the beauty salon, and the NatPackers were immediately struck dumb, except for a chorus of astonished gasps. Near-blind or no, there was no mistaking the man that stood in front of them.
"You're... You're..." gasped Kelly, unable to finish the sentence. Leslie collapsed to the ground in a dead faint. Jill started to moan, and Sharon began to sway back and forth slightly. Someone in the back of the crowd started mumbling something about "thin mints."
"What? What?" asked Linda Rose, puzzled.
The man smiled, though he looked a bit confused at the dramatic reaction to his appearance (confusion: yet another common reaction to the Pack). "I'm Mitch Wetmore. Who needs help?"
Given that the man was a dead ringer for FBI Assistant Director Walter S. (for "sexy") Skinner, nearly every single NatPack hand shot up (except Linda Rose's; she doesn't watch The X-Files--can you believe it?), and several starting hopping up and down in an attempt to attract attention.
Maureen shoved them back, smiling glassily at Mitch, who was oh-so-wonderfully attired in perfectly fitting jeans and a crisp white shirt (hey--my story, my fantasy, my fantasy outfit). "I do. I don't want to be a blonde any more." //I want to be your love slave,// she thought longingly, //but right now I'll settle for a dye job. Uninhibited nakedness and almond massage oil can come later.//
Mitch led Maureen away, he talking happily of all the different shades they could choose from, and she gazing at him like she was beholding the Eighth Wonder of the World. Jill headed for the manicure table (which had a good view of the Mitchly one), and several other NatPackers decided they might as well take care of some beauty issues. After all, War was hell, and a good haircut should never be passed up. Especially when it meant you could gaze at Mitch Wetmore at the same time. A chance to combine Raven tendencies and Cult of Skinner worship should always be taken advantage of.
Sharon was bored. After all, Mitch Wetmore was not The Guy. Only The Guy wholly commanded her somewhat limited attention span. She wandered the shop, checking out the framed pictures on the wall. Apparently the shop had a number of well-known clients, including political figures, actors, and Ribena vendors. Sharon thought she recognized a few of the faces.
Moments later, the quiet of the shop was broken by a howl of anger. "It's HIM! That rat bastard! I'm gonna kill him! Mutilate him! Teach him how to live as a quadriplegic!"
Leslie, who had her head in the shampoo bowl, was so startled by Sharon's sudden yelling that she sat up, smacked her head into the faucet, and was out cold. Again. Amparo, equally startled, kicked her pedicurist in the chin and sent her flying off the stool. Maureen leaped out of the chair and wrapped her arms around Mitch, begging for his protection or anything else he wanted to give her. Maureen, after all, had not yet experienced this newfound Rage of Sharon's (sorta like Rose of Sharon, except it wasn't a plant).
"Get off him, you slut," Jill hissed at Maureen. After all, Sharon would eventually calm down. They could worry about her later. Mitch was still unknown territory. Open season. Potential nookie. The loving (some might say Borg-like) togetherness of the NatPack only went so far.
"Not on your life," shot Maureen back, now halfway back to her natural state of redness. Well, semi-natural state. She ran one grateful hand (yeah, that's it, grateful) down his perfect arm.
Mitch just looked confused. Again.
Maureen and Jill stopped glaring at one another long enough to realize that Mitch Wetmore was probably one paper umbrella short of a cocktail. They resumed glaring when they realized that they didn't really give a damn. With shoulders like his, who needed brains?
"Lye! Carbolic acid! We'll find out how the hell to actually kill a vampire in FK canon! We'll make our own canon!" Sharon scanned the salon, breathing hard, daring anyone to disagree with her. "Suffocation-- let's answer the question of if vampires need to breathe or not! Wrap his nasty bulbous male-pattern-baldness head in Saran Wrap (tm) and MICROWAVE the sorry son of a bitch!"
Sharon was really worked up, and Amy realized in horror what had set her off. There was a framed picture of Nick on the wall. A head shot, actually, signed "Thanks! Nick Knight."
"Epilady! Let's Epilady his undead hide!" Sharon was continuing her tirade. "He hasn't seen pain until that machine sucks off all his body hair! I'm going to rip his chest hairs out one by one and then his nose hairs and see how much pain a vampire really feels!"
Amy approached Agnes, who was hiding under her desk, and was careful not to breathe directly on her (gin fumes are lethal). "Agnes? You have a picture up there of Nick Knight. He's a cop. How do you..."
Agnes was pretty much a basket case at this point--she had a salon full of screaming, fainting, hissing women, most of whom were not well-dressed. She managed to muster up enough courage to whisper, "He's one of our best customers, though he keeps strange hours. He's been decorated for bravery, you know. He's a good cop." She grinned vacantly. "Lady Clairol is his friend. He's such a nice man."
Agnes was obviously a Knightie.
Amy stumbled back over to Alora and Kelly. "Why would Nick hang out here?" she reflected. "Nick? A customer at a beauty salon? And who is Lady Clairol?"
An evil smile spread over Alora's face. "Nick's a blonde, right? Or so we think?"
The NatPackers stared blankly at one another, then started to laugh. "He's dyed!" shrieked Amy, her face turning red from laughter (and possibly from the gin, although capillary breakage usually takes longer to develop even in incipient alcoholics). "Nick dyes his hair!"
"Oho, this is
Sharon, meanwhile, was not getting the humour out of the situation. She
had moved on to discussing ways of damaging Nick that involved dry
cleaning equipment and solvents, and was being so graphic that one of the
manicurists had to run to the bathroom, holding her stomach.
"Thank you, Sharon," Jill said calmly. "Now my nails will not have a top
coat."
Sharon, understanding the dire consequences of Lack of a Top Coat, was
distracted from her ranting about Nick (which was a good thing,
since discussions of bubbling vampire skin are guaranteed to make most
mortals feel pretty damn nauseous) and sat down next to Jill, deflated.
"Sorry."
"'S OK." Jill waved one non-top-coated-but-perfectly-manicured hand.
"I'll manage--somehow."
A bit later, most of the NatPackers were done with their various beauty
treatments. Leslie had a headache from the combination of passing out and
spending time in the same room as Mitch Wetmore, so she was lying down on
the couch in the waiting area. Mei was going through some books and
magazines she'd found on the floor, hoping to find something in large type
to read.
"Hmm." Mei turned a brown object over in her hands.
"What's that?" asked Amparo.
"Oh, it's some book," said Mei, uninterested. Amparo took it from her
hands, opening it.
"Ooooh," she gurgled, "This belongs to Nick! This is his
signature!" She gazed at the book raptly, apparently transported at the
very presence of something Nick had owned.
Mei looked at Sharon nervously. Luckily, Sharon hadn't heard That Name.
"Shhh," Mei admonished. "Hide it. We'll give it to Jennie later on."
"Ta da!" cried Mitch, ushering out the once-again-red-haired Maureen.
Maureen did a slight curtsy to the waiting throng of NatPackers, who
applauded in appreciation. Well, all except for Leslie, who started
hyperventilating at the appearance of the Mitchly one.
As if by an unspoken signal, Kelly adroitly grabbed Jill before she could
shamelessly plaster herself to Mitch, Sharon grabbed Maureen, and they
headed for the door followed by most of the Pack.
"How much do we owe you?" asked Alora. Someone had to be fiscally
responsible, after all.
Agnes stuck her head out from under the desk. "Nothing! You don't owe us
anything! Get out! Out! Shoo!" She dissolved into tears again.
Alora sighed, pulling cash out from her purse. "Here." She peeled off
several large bills, setting them on the counter. "Worth every penny."
She snuck one more glance at the retreating tuchus of Mitch. "Hell, I'd
have paid for that view alone."
Running out to the limo, Alora rejoined the Pack and they headed back to
the NatPack hostel. As usual, destruction was left in their wake.
Sherman going through Atlanta had nothing on the NatPack.