Date: Wed, 3 May 1995 21:58:05 -0700 From: Catherine Boone Subject: Bye-Bye, Schanke I thought I'd start off the fics sending Schanke to Never-Never Land with a little something that you'd never see in an episode... but well hey, I liked it, so I wrote it. Comments/flames/nitpicking/chocolate to catheboo@cco.caltech.edu Schanke vs. St. Peter by Catherine Boone Schanke was just not having the best of days. First the donuts were all gone by the time he arrived to work... But, darn it, he'd cut himself shaving and Nick always got this wierd look on his face when he came in with a dab of kleenex on his neck, so he had to stop and clean it spotless. And after deciding he would console himself with a measly cup of coffee, he discovered that the coffeepot _and_ the jar were empty and SOMEbody forgot to go get more. "Jeez!" he complained to no one in particular, "Come in five minutes late and you might as well not come in at all!" And just when he finally made it to the end of his shift and was getting into his car, a call came in for assistance in a hostage situation invoving a small bomb. In the time it took for him to roll his eyes skyward in hopes of some heavenly intervention, Nick was already slamming the car door and calling, "Schank, what are you waiting for? Let's go!" "Man, I am repaying my karma in a big way today." But they did arrive at the scene in time to hear a too-angry-frightened voice calling out through the window of a suburban home. "Back off, man! I want my money, and I wanna copter to get me outta here, or I'll blow the place! I mean it, man! I'm gonna do it!" "How many we got in there?" Schanke whispered to the officer with the loudspeaker. She looked almost as nervous as the guy inside, as she whispered tersely, "Two. I dunno if they're going to make it, though. He's making outrageous demands, and is too spiked on adrenaline to wait long." Schanke and Nick glanced at each other, trying to decide what to do. "Alright, then I guess we should..." Schanke's sentence was cut off by a flash of blinding light. He hit the floor hard, and through pure instinct, came up with his gun out and ready. But there was no one there. In fact, he wasn't where he was a second ago. He blinked, but the big golden gate still stood before him, shining brightly. A kindly old man looked out over a desk piled with papers and smiled at him. He hesitated, then muttered to himself in confusion, "And I thought Candid Camera was only an American show..." He shook his head as if to clear it, and went to talk to the old man, just for the heck of it. "Hi, my name's.." "Donald G. Schanke." He stopped and looked at the guy rather queerly, but decided to overlook it and continued. "And I'm..." "Dead." The old man's smile got a little bit bigger. This got his attention. "What? What the heck are you talking about? I am _not_ _dead_! Hungry, tired, annoyed - yes. But not dead!" "Oh, I'm afraid it's true. That bomb was actually much bigger than the police were led to believe. It killed you instantly." Schanke still had one more leg to stand on, and he used it. "But what about Nick? If I died, wouldn't he be here, too?" The man (St. Peter, of course) looked troubled, and said, "Well, besides the fact that everyone comes into Heaven alone, you will not see him inside the Gates." Schanke looked hopeful. Maybe something good could be scraped out of this situation. "Because he didn't die?" Peter corrected him. "Because he _cannot_ die. Except under special circumstances." He shrugged. "And at any rate, he won't be coming here when he meets his end, anyway." By this point even Schanke was nearing his wierdness quota, and wasn't really sure he wanted to know. But he decided to bite. "And whyever not?" he asked in his most polite tone. "Because," Peter paused for dramatic emphasis, "Nicholas is a vampire." "That's it? The man can't stand in the sunlight for..." he glanced at Peter. "800 years." Schanke paused a beat, then kept ranting, "800 years, and you think that's not enough? You gotta make him suffer in the afterlife, too?" Peter began to look a little defensive. "Well, he wasn't exactly sweetness and light for most of those 800 years. At times, he was downright sinful. No two ways about it." Schanke leaned over the desk to poke Peter in the chest. "I will have you know that Nick Knight is one of the best officers I've ever served with, and I don't want to be part of any country-club Heaven that's too snooty to let someone like Nick even in the door!" Peter looked skeptical. "Are you sure? You know what the alternative is." Schanke was thoughtful. "Yeah, I know." Then he crossed his arms and looked determined. "But it's better than hanging around this popsicle stand." Peter raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Suddenly Schanke appeared in front of an entirely different set of gates, made of fire instead of gold. But he noticed they shone just as brightly. The devil, pitchfork in hand, glanced at him, looking really bored. "Whadda _you_ want?" Schanke, putting on his best aristocratic air, replied, "Yes, I would like a room please. Wake-up call at six, continental breakfast at 8:30." He paused. "For two." And smiled.