There are many ways of tampering with a man's head, one of which is to plunge him into a waking nightmare of belonging to the wrong century…

Screwed over by a Hexenbiest (again), Nick gives his buddies a whole set of new things to worry about.

This is very, very silly. But more like a short story than a ficlet, than usual. The next one will be really short, as usual.

I hope you enjoy ;)

Tig xxxx

X x X

Monroe had his hand around the buzzing cell in his pocket already when Rosalee creased her face into an expression of rigid fury and leant, stiff-backed, across the tablecloth. Even the waiter scuttled away, leaving the wine half-poured. Monroe knew why she was doing a real good impression of an enraged drawbridge, but was it his fault that everyone called him with their wesen problems? He flicked his wife a nervous smile and scrambled the cell to his ear. "Bud, we're in the middle of a really significant meal―"

"I-is there some kind of p-potion that p-puts a guy in the wrong era?" Bud spluttered from the other end of the line. "J-just hypothetically?"

"In what parallel universe is that a valid hypothetical question?" Monroe spluttered. "And what kind of era, exactly?" He almost sniggered at the thought of Nick dressed as a confederate renegade, then the horrible image of Nick wearing a cloak and heating a branding iron hit his brain like a mortar bomb, blowing a great hole in his flippancy tanker. He didn't even have to dip his voice as he replied: it came out all throaty. "Bud, he's not re-living the Endezeichen days, is he?"

"N-no…. it's a little weirder than that. I-I can't even begin to explain, but Nick's getting totally out of hand! He got into the store though your secret back passage, so he's contained, and I've called everyone to g-get themselves over here, but the situation really needs the R-Rosalee touch."

Rosalee rolled her eyes almightily, slammed her fork down onto her plate hard enough to send goats cheese tartlet flying everywhere, and shot her hand in the air to get the check. Monroe winced and threw her the car keys as he stood, struggling with his coat. Then something occurred to him. "Bud, we don't have a secret back passage!"

"T-tell Nick that when you g-get here."

Lord Burkhardt stormed through the dimly lit passage at the back of Hunter House, his steward bustling after him in a twitter. The inequities of life plagued him: why a good man like Wurstner should have his wife thus insulted by a man of the supposed 'quality' and have to stand by and take it, was beyond him. He stomped up the narrow stairs that led to the back of his armoury and unlocked the thin panel at the back of his cabinet. The swords lined the inside of the cabinet, but they were not the weapon of choice. "Pistols… where are the pistols?"

"Sir! It's no responsibility of yours to call a man out because he put a hand on my wife's shoulder!"

"And kissed her cheek," Burkhardt reminded him. "It's not to be tolerated. You should've landed him a facer."

"No! Th-that's to say… it's not my place to kick up a dust on Jane's behalf. She would divorce me if I challenged him to a duel!"

"It's a tyranny," Burkhardt snapped. "So long as the Wolfm- Blutbaden are faced with timidity among the lower orders, they will continue to take shameful liberties." Ignoring Wurstner's exasperated whine, he snatched the axe from his Cabinet and placed the pistol case in a stout-handled leather bag. He then marched through the back of the triple Cabinet that served as his armoury and pressed through to his bed chamber, where books loomed down from every shelf in every corner.

There hadn't been so many in his father's day, but then, the Hanoverian influence was strong in England now. He must learn and use the new German wesen names if he were to be respected as a modern Grimm – up to snuff – however much it chafed him to do so. He flicked his steward a smile, lowered himself on the edge of the bed and stuck his foot up. "If you wish to be of help, help me with my boots. I cannot appear before his Grace in all my dirt."

"Very good, Nichol— Sir," Wurstner said faintly and applied himself to removing the boots. His assistance made the chore of changing costume the work of a mere ten minutes: stockings, white shirt, biscuit pantaloons, boots, necktie and all. "Shall I ask Rabe to order the carriage round to the front of the house?"

"Thank you, no. I'll walk." Nicholas smoothed his burgundy coat over his shoulders (an excellent tailor's, Scott's), and strode off down the stairs. A stroll would do him good. He could cut through St James' Park while there was still twilight, and catch his Grace before he went out to dine or head for one of the clubs.

"W-WAIT!"

"Yes?" He turned at the bottom of the stairs and Wurstner nipped the axe from his hand, replacing it with the leather bag with the pistols. "Ah! Yes. Thank you indeed. Almost forgot those. Vergeer will need those, if he is to be my second."

"You can't ask a Duke to act for you! It's madness!"

"No need to wait up for me!" Nicholas cut in amiably, but forcibly, bounded past his bemused Butler and out into the clement evening air. If he'd stayed around to hear out all the arguments about natural wesen animosities and the right of Blutbaden rogues to manhandle ladies of the Eisbiber persuasion in a public place, he might have remained there all night.

His rapid pace carried him almost to Queen Anne's Gate before a squat, oafish figure in huge hat and a muffler over his face brought the barrel of a gun up between his eyes. "Hand us your worthies, then you can pike on the bean. I'm not a man for violence, but there's a toll for wealthy gagers like you to get through this here park."

Nick thought he recognised most of the individual words, but, put together…. "Pardon?"

"HAND US YOUR READIES!"

"I'm sorry. I really can't take your dire threats seriously with that muffler rendering you incomprehensible. If you could tug it down a little-"

The enraged Hasslich snatched his scarf down, met Nicholas' twinkling eyes under lamplight, and then tried to run away. Nicholas grinned and took chase.

Bud hurried to the door as Wu got out of his car, never so relieved in his life to see a cop. Well, that wasn't entirely true – but this was a close second to the time that Nick and Hank had rolled up in time to stop psycho-kid getting too lively with the branding torch. He ushered Wu in hastily and locked up after him. "I w-won't explain. Just…. L-look!"

Wu glanced through the double-door gap between the shop-front and Rosalee's front room, where Nick strode up and down, his shoulders pulled back, talking to himself like he was rehearsing for a Mr Darcy tournament. Then he stopped abruptly in front of a bookcase with all the reflective powers of a logpile and rearranged his neck tie. "What's he doing? Whaaaat?"

Nick addressed the left-side door with a dashing smile. "Very well, I'll wait in the parlour." Then he strode through the store front and disappeared through a side room.

Wu continued to goggle. "Where's he going!?"

"The p-parlour, I guess."

"In this century, I mean!"

"I don't know this place so well! At least he's locked inside, now," Bud protested. "I lost him for f-five minutes and caught up with him going toe-to-toe with a Hell's Angel. Hasslich. I managed to yell a little sense into him – Nick, that is, not the Hasslich – and he agreed to come 'home', marching right over to Rosalee's place."

"What did you say to him?"

"I told him that his behaviour wasn't seemly."

Wu snorted. "Wow. How stern."

"H-hey, it worked, alright? I was appealing to his sense of p-property. No, not property. P-pr-prop.. propriet-"…

"Manners?"

"That's the one," Bud agreed, relieved.

"Alright, whatever works. Did he recognise you?"

Bud scratched his head. That was all a little weird. "He called me Wurstner when he thought I was his valet. But I'm n-not so sure he clocked me when I was trying to yell at him in the street. And he's back at the store, which was his own home earlier, but now he thinks he's at Jan's place, so… I r-really don't know what's going on in his head."

They stuck their heads round the corner of a few rooms before Bud tracked Nick down in the kitchen, where he was having an indignant argument with a Monroe that they couldn't see. A Monroe with poor butler training.

"Don't tell me 'he's not here.' You're only supposed to say that to his sisters!" Nick's face and voice suddenly changed in perfect imitation of Monroe, still with his own accent. "As unsisterly as you may be, his Dudeness is still out. He's not in. Totally non-present, like I said, but he'll return… presently."

Bud watched Wu breathe out a huge sigh of relief, which confused him. "W-what was good about that? He's doing both sides of the conversation!"

"The 'dude'. Good to know that he has at least a fingertip in the twenty-first century." Wu walked over to Nick and waved a hand in front of his face. "Hel-lo?" With no response, he rejoined Bud at the kitchen door. "Monro-salee coming?"

"C-called them as soon as N-Nick dragged us here. Jan's coming too. And Denny."

"For physical back-up?"

"N-not specifically. Denny can translate the more archaic stuff, and could p-probably improvise it, too." Bud still looked at Denny and thought 'ARMY' rather than 'HISTORY TEACHER', but the guy knew his stuff. It wasn't just for muscle power he'd called Jan, either, even if he wasn't pleased to get hauled out of the office in his second week of being Captain at Gresham. "Nick's built Jan into his little regency universe. I figured… even if Nick heard me, he m-might not pay attention because he thinks I'm a valet, but but he might listen to 'His Grace', Jan."

"Jan's a Duke?" Wu chuckled. "Of course Jan's a Duke. I'm surprised he hasn't become the Prince Regent." He darted forward, gently removing the kitchen knife/sword that Nick was trying to tuck into his belt. "Called Renard?"

Bud bristled. "Yeah. He laughed a little, said 'Anderer Veld G-G-G-Gedrank' – God, I hate German sometimes – then he hung up. I wrote it down to show Monroe and Rosalee in case it means s-something to them."

"What might mean something to us?" Rosalee asked suddenly from behind, making Bud jump. She took the little scrap of paper Bud handed her and groaned. "Oh no. Andere Welt-Getrank. Or, 'Other-worldly drink.' Ok, show of hands – is anyone surprised to hear that it's a hallucinogen?"

In the quiet moment during which none of them raised their hands, there was the sound of stamping as Nick marched up and down, slamming his feet extra hard to make his very quiet sneakers sound more like hessian boots on the vinyl flooring of the kitchenette.

Monroe watched Nick for a long moment, then met Rosalee's eyes appealingly. "Shall we go back to the restaurant? Can we? I just have this feeling that this is one of those situations that I'd like to sit out."

"Uh uh.." Bud protested. "You can't go! I've had three hours of this!"

"Monroe!" Nick barked suddenly, "I can't keep kicking my heels here. I need paper, pen and wafer!"

"What happened to 'please'?" Monroe gaped. "Who does he think he is? Some kind of Earl?"

"Some k-kind of Viscount, I think," Bud corrected.

"Don't hang around like a stock, man!" Nick protested to real-Monroe. "I'll leave his Grace a note and try my luck with Leftenant Griffin."

"Humour him!" Rosalee whispered urgently.

Monroe bunched his fists, and smiled tightly. "Ugh… this is so beneath me. What's said in the room, stays in the room, right?" He raised his voice to penetrate Nick's fog. "IF HIS LORDSHIP WOULD CARE TO COME THROUGH TO THE LIBRARY, HE WILL FIND A WRITING BUREAU."

Nick blinked a few times, rubbed his ear, and followed Monroe from the kitchen. "Much obliged. No need to shout."

They managed to corral him over to the bench by Rosalee's potion bar, handed him a biro and some printer paper, and trusted him to keep quiet there for a moment or two as Rosalee started mixing stuff up. Bud, Monroe and Wu conferred quietly by the couch.

Dearest Jan, Nick began, delighted at the beautiful behaviour of his pen, and the expensive silkiness of the paper.

I have today encountered an encroaching dog (or Blutbad), who took it upon himself to pay improper attentions to my valet's wife. Wurstner is not of a combative nature, and is in no position to force a quarrel upon a member of the quality in any case. By proxy, I have offered this scoundrel a fight, and he has elected pistols. I will leave them with Monroe. Grateful if you might continue the duties of a second, securing the location and hour of the meet. Perhaps I have missed you by moments, but you might (if you do not spend hours changing, as is your wont), find me at Brooks with Griffin.

Ever your friend, etc, Nicholas.

PS: There is an inert Hasslich behind the nearside Oak, just within Queen Anne's Gate. I would be grateful if Miller could dispense with the footpad in his customary fashion of flinging him into the Thames.

Satisfied with this missive, he folded it, handed it to Monroe – who appeared unusually restive, this evening – and headed back out into the cool evening breeze. He stepped out into the road, considering: would Griffin be at White's yet? Possibly not – his purse was over-stretched until quarter day, and his Lieutenant's salary could not withstand the deep-play gambling of the club for more than an hour. If so, he wouldn't arrive until ten. Nicholas chose to head to The George for a light supper, and then repair to the club, when there was some chance that a few of his cronies had already arrived.

He heard a shout and clattering over cobbles, and didn't even have time to look sharply left to see a curricle and four bearing down on him.

"We had outside c-catering – awful catering – for a diplomacy lunch at the lodge. Two new Hasslich families in the area, and Nick and Renard just w-wanted to introduce us early. J-just to make sure that there wouldn't be traditional troubles, you know? Well, the tiramisu dropped Nick, and had Renard sprinting for the guy's room, which wasn't so strange at the time because the quiche eaters didn't feel so hot either."

Monroe groaned, now remembering where this kind of potion had been used before: on wieder friends of his to restore them to their more natural, aggressive selves. It was supposed to be an attack on the limbic system of predatory wesen, restoring factory settings, so to speak, but never had worked quite right in execution. In Nick's case, it looked like he'd simply accessed Grimm racial memory… with a little help from an over-active imagination. There was probably a Hexenbiest behind all this, somewhere… "Let me guess… there was a pretty waitress?"

Nick suddenly leapt to his feet and stuffed his letter into Monroe's hands. "This must be with his Grace as soon as he walks in. Tell him I've gone to track down Griffin at White's. I'll call in the morning if I don't see him before." Nick zipped through to the front of the shop and paced out there, instead. This suited Monroe – he felt tired just looking at Nick.

"Yeah, there was a waitress…" Bud recalled. "She wasn't so subtle about hitting on Renard when she gave him his food either. Anyway, the Captain went home, Nick got over his cramp and we all stalked out to c-carry on the m-meeting at McDonald's. He started getting confused on the ride over there, telling me to 'slow the hell down'. I was doing 30, by the way. Then we got our f-food and he stared at his Big Mac like it was a dancing panda. And that's when he started talking… archaic. Then Janie's slime-boss at work – Ernie – saw her through the window and came in to say hi. He gave her a kiss on the cheek, and Nick went nuts. He belted the guy round the face with a pile of napkins, called him an impudent dog, then called him out for me."

Wu frowned. "Called him out?"

"Challenged him to a duel. He kept demanding that Ernie named his seconds, told him that Captain Vergeer of Gresham would pay him a morning call… and that was his last proper grip on present day. Jan's become a Duke since then."

Monroe imagined Nick looking for gloves to hit the guy with and having to settle for a bunch of paper towels. "Hooo boy. Why regency?"

"Immersion," Rosalee called over to them from the potion bar. "You'd gone out to teach Cello last night, so I made Nick sit through Persuasion, the Madness of King George III and Master and Commander."

"Why?" He tried to keep disapproval of the first item in the playlist out of his voice, but from her flinty stare, probably wasn't successful.

"It was his punishment for dragging you off halfway through our anniversary dinner last week! Let's just focus on undoing the effects of the Tiramisu from Hell." She added a half-can of Rock Star to the gunk in the blender. "This stuff takes half an hour to 'settle', so don't let him leave."

There was a screech outside which reminded them all that he wasn't aware of vehicles with a much more vigorous form of horsepower… vehicles like cars. And Monroe remembered he hadn't locked the door when he came in…

"WHOA!"

The shout of panic came to Nick's ears just as, fired by self preservation, he leapt into the air and jacked his legs behind him, landing on his feet with the shying horses hooves belting the air where his head had been. Nicholas' heart hammered a drumroll inside his ribs, drowning out the oaths of the irate groom, who leapt down from the carriage to soothe the fretful bay horses.

"You daft bloody Grimm!"

"Evening Miller," Nick said placidly, never one to irritate the over-sized, under-polite Siegbarste, and shot a broad smile at his tardy friend, who was sliding shakily from the carriage perch. "Coming to White's, Jan?"

"Never mind White's! Good Lord, Burkhardt! Why were you dawdling in the middle of the road like a moonling? I nearly mowed you down!"

"Would've taught him a salutary," Miller muttered as he rubbed the horses' heads. "P'raps a hock in the nads might learn him to use his eyeballs."

"Perhaps," his Grace agreed faintly. "Stable them, would you, Miller? I shan't need them again, tonight."

"We're walking to White's," Nicholas corroborated, bent on his purpose to get both his friends to act for him in the duel. Frankly, it was them… or no-one. Being a Grimm didn't afford him a huge circle of trustworthy friends. He tried not to be offended as Miller rolled his eyes to the heavens and shabbed off with the carriage, muttering 'dim Grimm' over his shoulder in tones intended to be heard.

"Not just yet, we're not. I'm walking nowhere in this shirt." Jan whipped his cape aside to show a blemish the size of an infant's fingernail, hidden partway under a button. "Come on in and have a glass, then we'll set off."

Nicholas groaned inwardly, all the adrenaline pooling miserably around his knees, and followed Jan back indoors.

Monroe huffed a great sigh of relief as Jan swept Nick back into Rosalee's front room onto the couch, and responded to Jan's loud offer of a glass of Burgundy by scouting out a brandy glass and a gas station bottle of Malbec, pressing it into Nick's hand.

Nick sipped and winced, but didn't complain, choosing instead to read the paper upside down. Jan slung his bespoke King and Allen jacket over the back of his chair, still a little frazzled from having to do an emergency stop in his Spyder.

"Right," Jan murmured to Monroe round the corner, I'm getting the gist of what the problem is. What do you want me to do?"

"Keep talking to him," Monroe murmured. "And, while you're playing nice on Planet Nicholas, try to prevent him from leaving the store – but in a natural way. We don't want him to turn violent."

Jan pulled a doubtful face. "How do I stall him?"

Monroe shrugged, running a little short on imagination, and really wishing he were still out on his attempt2 anniversary dinner with Rosalee. "Act like 'damned macaroni'."

"A.… what?"

"You're the wrong shape for a Macaroni," Denny said as he stomped in after re-parking the car. "Too athletic, by half. I'd go for a Corinthian air, personally. Sports mad, expert horseman, super-fit… but still not able to leave the house without redoing your neck-cloth six times."

"You are NOT going to re-do your neck-cloth six times!" Nick protested in the corner, suddenly tuning in. "I need to speak to Henry Griffin before Napoleon finds an escape route from Elba!"

"I'll do it as many times as necessary!" Jan protested. "My dear boy, I cannot be expected to scramble myself into my clothes in the space of a moment. It's intolerable. What's the damned hurry, anyway?"

Wu leant into Monroe's left, murmuring. "Isn't it a little freaky how quickly Jan got into character?"

"What d'you mean 'got' into character?" Denny murmured from the right. "Have you ever tried to get Jan out of a room in under half an hour when there's a mirror in it?"

It was a lowen thing, Monroe figured. All that pride. He wondered how many of the Corinthians in early 1800s London had really been Lowen. And how many dandies, coxcombs or macaronis, Klaustreich. He moved away while Jan disrobed like a pro and consulted with Rosalee, who was stirring the gunk and watching the timer. "How long left?"

"About ten minutes."

He peered dubiously into the gloop. "What's this stuff going to do to him? Because antidotes… they bring a whole new meaning to the term 'side effects'."

"He'll have a migraine for about a week."

"Ah, crap. That's not good." Monroe turned, seeing Nick and Jan in exasperated debate as Jan, stripped down to boxers, presented several invisible waistcoats to Nick, and begged him to give an opinion on his preference between the cherry-striped affair, or the pale yellow one. Nick was clearly seeing invisible clothes, but he was responding very definitely with a real, life voice. Monroe frowned. "I wonder…"

"What?" his love snapped, in a voice that still longed for goats cheese tartlet.

"Look… he's interacting more and more. I think he's kind of half in our world and half in his, and I guess his Grimm means that this potion's not going to last too long. So… if we're just a little patient…"

"Are you a Potentate?" Nick asked Wu in the background, apparently noticing him at last.

"Uh… sure! I'm a potentate all over, right down to the ground. That's me. A potentate." Wu shook Nick's hand, then ran away to join Monroe and Rosalee by the potions bench. "Cure! Give him the damned cure!"

Rosalee's eyes glittered a little madly. "Honey, he's right. We shouldn't wait. And even if he does have a migraine for a week, he can't get up! That means he can't out and get into complicated…. things, and THAT means that we can have an uninterrupted dinner!"

"That's… a little mean," Monroe said.

"I'm feeling a little mean! Two dinners wrecked. Two!"

The splintering crash of the storefront door breaking down couldn't have startled Monroe any more than a cannon fire through the front of his VW. He raced round to the shop front, instinctively flinging his arms to the side to keep Rosalee behind him as he saw the enraged, leather-clad Hasslich swaying in the door frame and blocking out the light. Jan froze, stared between their unwanted guest and Nick, glanced back at Monroe, then improvised to the best of his ability, addressing the Hells-Hasslich in a towering rage.

He woged to Lowen and back, keeping his teeth out even as the rest of him retracted. "What the deuce do you mean by bursting in on me like this!? I'm not dressed! Nicholas, do you recognise this unsavoury individual?"

"I do, your Grace." Nick got up and strode towards the door, his arms folded across his chest. "This is the reprobate I encountered in the park, earlier."

"I'm the… what?"

"Reprobate! Get out!" Jan folded his arms imperiously. "Monroe! Miller! Please help Viscount Burkhardt to remove this door-shattering character this instant! I will NOT brook interruptions by leather-clad heathens halfway through my toilette!"

"Shit. Half-dressed historical people…." The Hasslich stepped back from Jan's furious glare and hovered uncertainly for a moment, clearly wondering whether he was having a really bad nightmare of his own after a nasty crack around the head, or whether he was in danger of inhaling the same mind-altering gas that had overtaken everyone else in the building.

Nick pressed the Hasslich outside, giving Denny the chance to muster up some kind of straight face before following them out. "Was there something you wished to speak to me about?"

The Hasslich finally registered that the top of Nick's head just about reached his chin and smirked down at him. "About that little punch-out earlier? I'm here for a re-match." The guy picked up a pipe that he'd left against the wall and smacked it against his palm.

Denny sauntered up to the door and loomed over the Hasslich, cheerfully adopting a character of his own. "In your shoes, I'd piss off, guv. Lest 'course you want to go eyeball-to-eyeball with a Grimm. Wouldn't, if I were you. He's compact, but he's got a wisty castor on 'im. He'll mill your canister down to the gravel before you even remembered what your name is."

"….huh?"

Monroe bit his lip and hid behind Denny until his giggles subsided. He'd never heard the guy's native Eastender accent applied to such good use before.

"You're a Grimm?" The Hasslich guy regarded Nick disdainfully. "Really?"

"Indeed."

"Right." The guy laughed, but it sounded more uneasy now. "And… these guys are…?"

"No more and no less than people escorting you off the premises. Good day, Sir," Monroe announced with icy dignity, pushing the Hasslich further down the road.

For a long moment, he stood and stared at the three of them, not quite knowing whether to go back and fight or not. He was outnumbered, but something in his soul appeared to tell him that he couldn't be outnumbered by 19th century freaks wearing denim, suits and sneakers. His instinct for violence seemed to overcome him, for he sprinted back towards Nick. Denny and Monroe stood back politely, allowing Nick to hand the Hasslich his ass in the most decorous way possible.

They stood as a three as the wretched Hell's Angel trudged down the sidewalk, a little giddy, dejected, his head hung between his shoulders at having been overwrought by a miniature, metrosexual Grimm.

Monroe chuckled and glanced at a text from Hank. Lost the Captain – might show up at your place. Will be there in five myself. Monroe blinked, then shrugged. Lost the Captain? Renard was pretty hard to lose, by most people's standards. Nick suddenly lurched against him, and Monroe grabbed Nick's shoulders, wondering if the kid had taken a hit that he'd missed. He didn't seem to be hurting, though.

"Thanks." Nick blinked. "What's up with that guy? With the leathers? He doesn't look too steady."

"Noooo… no, he's not very steady, because you hit him a few times."

Nick stared at him, shocked. "I did? Why?"

"Had it coming, Nick, don't worrit yourself. Just a footpad. You need to land that type o' gager a bit of a facer just so they understand who they're rubbing up against."

"Eh…." Nick met Monroe's eyes in concern and dropped his voice to a crappy whisper. "Is Denny ok?"

Denny laughed out loud. "I can stop the archaic bollocks now, can I? Good! That can get a bit tiring after a while. You feeling alright, kiddo?"

Nick shook his head. "I remember a Tiramisu. After that… nothing."

The three of them jumped at the sound of metal hitting metal with the ferocity that could only come of two cars smashing together. A car alarm went off. Denny cringed. "Bloody hell. Please don't tell me someone's stacked the Spyder? Jan'll go nuts!"

They jogged up the line of cars to where the Spyder was parked, and dented, and Monroe's heart sank as Renard climbed out of his CMG, all smiles, his hands in his pockets, his Beretta clearly showing in the holster at his waist under his bespoke suit. Renard smirked. "Damn it. Was that damage me? I think it was. Don't you worry. I'm Cap'n round here. I'll put it to rights, if I feel so inclined."

"It WAS you," Jan confirmed coldly, as he stomped up, inspecting the damage. "Was there some kind of steering problem?"

"No, no… not that I can recollect," Renard drawled. "No, the only problem as I collect, is overcrowding."

"There are plenty of spaces."

"Pardon me – my fault. I mean, an overpopulation of people. Two Captains? Not going to work." Renard grinned menacingly. "See… this town ain't big enough for the pair of us."

X x x

Silliest Grimmoire ever? Lol. Let me know. I hope you enjoyed!