Richie, knocking at some ungodly hour, didn't do it. Duncan, rummaging around as he got ready to leave, didn't do it. Richie and Duncan, trying to convince Joe to go along, didn't do it. It wasn't until the suite was quiet except for the constant pen scraping against paper that Methos deigned to raise his rumpled head from beneath the covers from his position on the couch.

"Jeez, Joe. Couldn't that wait until a certain sleeping person was up and about?" Methos cursed.

"What are you complaining about now?" Joe asked as he continued to scribble away, not even glancing in the Immortal's direction.

Methos didn't notice not being noticed. He was tangled up in a sheet and was attempting to extricate himself. "I was trying to sleep. Unlike a certain someone, I had to sleep on a couch. A very narrow and uncomfortable couch, I might add. Didn't get to sleep for hours."

Joe shot him a 'poor baby' look before returning to his writing. "That's not my problem. Besides, it's eleven-thirty. All I'm doing is writing. If MacLeod's leaving didn't wake you up, then how can a little teeny, tiny pen?"

The Immortal could see this was going nowhere fun so he cut it short after finally getting his legs free. His hair was a little askew but other than that, he didn't look as if he'd just slept on a couch. Immortal constitutions were remarkable things. "Just forget it. Where did they go anyway?"

"Some breakfast buffet. They said they'll bring us something." Joe paused to turn a page.

Methos made a face. "How nice." He'd probably end up with some old moldy muffin or a crusty croissant. "And you, why aren't you partaking of the bounty?"

"Unlike you three, I'm not on vacation. I do have a job to do."

Methos was now sitting up. He glanced around the room to make sure everything was where he left it. Yup. Pants were on the floor by the door, right where he'd thrown them. His shirt was over by the window hanging off the air conditioner. His socks were by the television and his shoes were in the middle of the room where they'd landed after he'd thrown them at Mac's bedroom door. Nice bounce.

Standing, the Immortal ran a few fingers through his hair. Dressed in a pair of boxers he managed to make it over to his bag and root around for some clean clothes. "I'm going to take a shower."

Joe didn't even raise his head. As he said, ignoring Methos was always a good way to go. He soon heard the water running.

Methos didn't take very long. He emerged squeaky clean and dressed in a pair of faded jeans, white socks and a white T-shirt. Before he or Joe could say anything his stomach made a very loud announcement. He was hungry. A lopsided grin followed as the Immortal saw Joe give him an amused look. "Haven't eaten since the plane," he offered as way of explanation.

"Mac and Richie should be back soon."

"Forget them." Methos threw himself into a large chair by the phone. He picked up the room service menu and made a quick perusal. "You want anything?"

"Methos," said Joe, putting his pen down and giving the man his full attention.

"Yes?" Innocence he could do.

"Just wait for Mac and Richie."

"I'm hungry now," came the reply from behind the menu. Followed by, "Oh, look. They've got stuffed dove. Gotta love theme hotels."

An hour later, Joe and Methos were finishing up a rather large and expensive brunch, all on Mac, of course. The other two Immortals were still missing in action.

Reaching over for the hotel catalogue Methos glanced at Joe. "Pretty good breakfast, if I do say so myself."

"Wait until Mac gets the bill. You won't think it's so great then."

"Mac always complains about paying for things but the truth of the matter is he likes to pay. He likes to feel useful and he likes to take care of people. You just have to make it look like you twisted his arm. He always gives in." Frowning, Methos flipped the cover of the catalogue. "This place needs a new paint job. I mean, white, red, blue and yellow? This is not Greece. I don't remember Camelot looking like this."

Joe let the Camelot comment go. Methos was just baiting him. "Can't you leave the criticism behind for a few days? As a favor to me?" he asked.

Methos didn't hear him. He was too intent on his reading material. "Listen to this Joe. The Medieval Times theme hotel boasts 4008 rooms and suites, six theme restaurants, five bars and lounges, two pools with waterfall and slides, a whirlpool, a hair salon, a video arcade, two magic motion simulator theatres, medieval village shops, a showroom, two wedding chapels and a casino." He paused. "I definitely don't remember the Dark Ages being like this. They've even got a little map. I should memorize where the bars are. I wouldn't mind trying the pool slides, too."

Joe just sighed.

Picking up where he left off, Methos continued, "The restaurants include the Sherwood Forest Cafe, Sir Galahad's Prime Rib House, WCW Nitro Grill, Roundtable Buffet, Camelot Casual Fine Dining, Minstrel's Lounge and room service which, I must say, is quite good. Entertainment includes the 'Tournament of Kings' dinner show, strolling entertainers, and live variety acts at the Court Jester's Stage." Looking up expectantly, Methos caught Joe's eyes. "Can we go to the 'Tournament of Kings' dinner show, please?"

"You sound like a seven year old asking for ice cream."

Methos gave him a dirty look and continued to read the list of offerings. Something must have caught his attention, because he grabbed the phone and started dialing.

"What are you doing now?" Joe asked apprehensively. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"Wait and see. You'll thank me."

Holding up his hand, Methos gestured for Joe to be quiet as he placed his order.

Half an hour later, Duncan and Richie returned to Mac's suite laden with food for their companions.

"I wonder if the Old Man is even up," Richie said as he tried to balance the fruit he was carrying.

"He's usually up by now. That's why I didn't object when you took that detour to the roulette table."

"Beautiful women are hardly a detour. They are the main highway."

"I'm sure any woman would love to hear you compare her to a highway."

As they neared the suite, Mac noticed that the door was slightly ajar. Holding his hand up he waited for Richie to stop. A deep moan caught their attention.

"God that feels good," Methos said between groans.

"Aaahhh, right there," Joe was heard saying.

"We should have done this a long time ago," Methos told his companion.

"Mac's gonna kill us when he finds out," they heard Joe reply.

Mac gave Richie a startled glance.

"Forget Maaaaa...yes, yes." Methos' voice was loud and clear.

"Ohhhh." Joe's voice was a little muffled.

Richie dropped the fruit and stared at the door. "Oh. My. God," he whispered.

Mac placed a tentative hand on the door and pushed. He was greeted by quite a sight. Methos and Joe were covered only by towels, being massaged right there in the middle of the room.

"What the hell's going on here?" he asked, a little too loudly.

Methos turned his head as an older woman expertly massaged his back. "Hi Mac. Have a good breakfast?"

"What are you doing?"

"I'm getting a massage."

"I can see that, but why? And please don't tell me you charged it to the room."

"All right, I won't tell you. And as for the why, after a night of sleeping on that throwback to the Flintstones I needed some loosening up."

"Adam," was the growl which trailed off into a sigh. "We brought you some food." He waved in the direction of the scattered meal.

Richie just shook his head as he gathered up the fallen food. Mac should have left him behind. He was going to cost a fortune and ruin the vacation.

"No thanks Mac, we're not hungry."

The two Immortals sat in the well-furnished conference room among a small group of mortal, albeit well-built, men in cheap suits. The older of the two sat at the head of the table tapping his prosthetic left arm on the well polished surface of the long sleek table. His protege, sitting to his right, kept silent, waiting for his teacher to speak. Finally, Francis Benelli, once known as Frankie The Blade in 1920 Las Vegas mob circles for his affinity for swords and knives, tossed a printed-out version of a security camera's image onto the table where it slid silently and came to a stop in front of the other Immortal. Picking up the picture, John Mariner scrutinized the man laughing on its surface with his cold grey eyes.

"Who is he?" he asked Francis.

Brushing his thick black hair away from his forehead with his one remaining hand, Francis narrowed his dark eyes. "That is Duncan MacLeod, an old acquaintance of mine. Let's just say we did not part company on the best of terms." The gentle tapping of the plastic limb on the tables stilled. "He and three companions are staying at my establishment, providing us with an excellent opportunity to...invite Mr. MacLeod to an unexpected reunion."

"And the others?" John asked, passing the photo down to the next man sitting at the table.

"I don't care about the others; they're inconsequential. I only want MacLeod. With him staying under my very roof it shouldn't be too hard for you to apprehend him. You have the casino's staff at your disposal. Once you have him, contact me."

Nodding his head, Mariner rose, motioning for the others to follow. He had some planning to do. Before he disappeared from the room, Benelli called out to him.

"John." The young Immortal turned. "Be careful! He can be...difficult."

Tilting his head in acknowledgment, a serious look on his sharp features, the young man left the room.

He had been gone for a few hours and Mac was getting worried. It was only supposed to be a walk. The Old Man was tired of the 'ching-ching' of the slot machines and the never-ending buffet lines and had decided to go out on his own to absorb some less concentrated tackiness. Mac wanted to get away from Richie's constant sighs whenever the old guy was around. Those two did NOT get along. The latest round had begun when Richie started drinking. Loose lips might not sink ships but they certainly annoyed Methos enough for him to leave. Since then, Richie was certainly not taking it slow. In fact, he was way past that pleasant buzz where alcohol can be comfortably endured.

Of course, Mac's musings were cut short by the appearance of the missing man. Worrying was put away as puzzlement took over. What the hell was he carrying?

"Hi. Got a little present for Joe."

The older Immortal had a covered room service plate and a large plastic bag. From the contours of the contents of the bag Duncan guessed it was beer. No big surprise there; Methos had made a beer run.

"Joseph," Methos called, as he placed the beer by the door and shrugged off his coat.

The mortal peeped out from his room. "Yeah?"

"Got something for you." He held out the tray.

"What is it?" Joe asked, a little suspicious.

Methos just rolled his eyes and put the tray on the coffee table. He then moved back to his purchase and stocked the fridge. Taking a beer he settled on the couch to watch as Joe made his way into the main room of the suite and eyed the tray with more curiosity than suspicion. Lifting the lid Joe spotted oysters.

"Oysters?" He asked. "Trying to tell me something, old man?"

"I saw them and thought of you. I was trying to be considerate," Methos replied. A little hurt tinged his words.

Shrugging, Joe plunked himself down next to the immortal and proceeded to clean his plate.

Duncan watched the entire proceedings with a frown. This was just plain weird. Looking over at Richie, he saw the young man was fighting a losing battle. Alcohol was not a pleasant winner and tended to gloat.

"What the hell possessed you to drink so much so early?" Mac asked the prone young man.

Richie opened one eye and regretted it immediately. Closing it, he took a breath. "All-expense-paid trip. Mini bars are an expense. I went a little wild."

MacLeod closed his own eyes and, instead of taking a breath, he sighed.

Methos finished his first beer and walked over to get another. As he returned, he handed one to MacLeod who took it without comment, placing it on the floor by his chair after taking a sip.

Methos sat down on the floor by the coffee table. "I hate warm beer."

"Then why not wait until it cools off?"

"Because I hate no beer more than warm beer. Lesser of two evils, as it were."

Mac shifted in his seat. "Let's go out."

Richie groaned.

Joe shook his head. "I'm too full. Give me half an hour."

Methos rested his back against the couch. "I just got in."

MacLeod shifted again. "We're in Las Vegas for a few days. We're on vacation. And we've done nothing all day that we couldn't do if we were back home. We're defeating the purpose."

"I don't know about you, MacLeod, but it's not everyday that I bring Joe oysters or Richie drinks the entire contents of a mini bar. I bet he doesn't even have a mini bar at home."

"You know what I meant."

"Sure."

Methos noticed his bottle was empty. He eyed the fridge and the distance to said fridge. The effort to get up and walk all the way over there was daunting. Looking over, he spotted his answer. Why walk all that distance when he had a nice beer within easy reach? Stretching, he tried to grab Mac's beer without moving. He had to maneuver around the coffee table legs but he knew victory was only a stretched muscle or two away.

"Who'd have thought the Old Man was that flexible?" Joe observed.

"I knew," Mac replied.

Everyone froze. Richie actually looked up. A few seconds ticked by as Joe and Richie eyed Mac. Then Methos continued to make a grab for the Beer, breaking whatever spell had descended upon the foursome.

Mac glanced down. "That's my beer you know."

"No, it's not," Methos said as his fingers finally reached their destination. Straightening, Methos took a sip. "You were just holding it for me."

Richie felt his second wind gaining and managed to sit up. Standing took about a minute but once upright he made it to the door, no problem. "I'm going to my room. I'll be back later."

Mac waved and the younger man exited.

Half an hour later, Joe moaned, looking a little green. "I don't feel so good."

"You don't look so good," Mac pointed out.

"Oh, God!"

The two Immortals watched as Joe virtually ran to the bathroom. Mac gave Methos a vicious look before following Joe to see if he was all right.

"I don't think he's going to want you to hold his hair," Methos called after him.

Ten minutes later, Joe was tucked into bed with the ice bucket right by his head in case he couldn't make it to the bathroom in time. Mac placed a glass of water on the night stand and closed the door.

"This is all your fault. You and your damned oysters."

"How was I supposed to know he had a delicate stomach?"

Before MacLeod could reply, Richie came stumbling into the room.

"Mac, can I sleep here?"

"What's wrong with your room?"

"I had a little accident and they're cleaning it now. It doesn't smell that great and there's no way I'm sleeping in that bed."

"Not you too."

"What?"

"Noth..."

Richie didn't listen for a response and pulled a Joe by running to the bathroom.

"Don't look at me," Methos said.

Richie all but crawled out.

"Why don't you tuck Wretchie into your bed?" Methos volunteered in the way of sage advice.

Mac sighed and helped the younger man into his bed. Riche was out before his head hit the pillow. Closing the door, Mac threw himself into a chair.

Once Richie was safely and soundly ensconced in Mac's room, Methos walked over to his jacket and took out a clear plastic sandwich bag. "Look what I got us, MacLeod," he said shaking the baggie.

Mac looked over and frowned. "What is it?"

"Pot."

"What?" Mac's mouth was hanging open. And not in a nice way.

It looked like clarification would be needed. "Weed." He paused and still Mac said nothing. "Mary Jane. Marijuana."

Mac's mouth had once again taken on a remarkable resemblance to a slit. "I know what pot means," he almost yelled. "What the hell are you thinking?" he said, a little more quietly.

Methos sat down on the floor in front of the fireplace. "I'm thinking of getting high."

"Methos, put it away."

The older man shook his head and glanced up at his companion. "I'm surprised. I'd have thought a slut like you would have reveled in all that free love in the sixties. Free love and drugs go hand and hand. You really can't have one without the other."

Mac was looking a little apprehensively at the older Immortal.

Methos couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Are you telling me you've never, ever, done drugs? Not even pot?"

"Um..."

"I can't believe this. Over four hundred years old and still a virgin."

"I'm no virgin!" he replied defensively.

Methos snorted. "Got that straight. Well, we'll just have to remedy this little oversight in your tutelage."

"Forget it!" It came out forcefully.

"Come on, you're on vacation. You only live once...er..."

"No. I don't want to. I need to be of sound mind in case a challenger shows up." Mac had a problem coming up with good excuses on the fly. He could always come up with excuses; they just weren't good unless he had some time to perfect them.

"Oh, get off it. I've seen you so drunk you can't even stand, let alone defend yourself."

Mac was silent but Methos was pretty sure he was getting to him. Peer pressure wasn't restricted to teenagers.

"Come on MacLeod, everybody does it."

"Not this someone."

"I even got you the slow-burning rice paper so it lasts longer." He said brandishing a small packet.

"No," was all he said but a little argument was going on inside his head. 'If Methos jumped off a cliff, would you?' one side would ask; 'Umm, depends,' the other would say sheepishly.

Methos smiled. "This stuff's good. There are no stems; it's all bud. And it's dry, not wet. The guy doesn't cheat his customers."

"What guy?" He groan inwardly; he was weakening. Resolve be damned.

"The guy I bought the weed from. Nice chap. Smelt a little funny and his hair could do with a good wash, but he was very pleasant. Had a really nice moustache. Threw in the zags for free."

"Zags?" MacLeod found this strangely interesting. This was a side of Methos he'd never seen before. This Methos not only knew what 'zags' were but could use them correctly in a sentence. Pretty impressive stuff.

"The papers." Methos was getting the feeling tonight was going to be longer than expected. Although he liked to think of himself as a quasi- teacher to MacLeod, trying to get him to open his mind, think things through for a change, and learn that not everything and everyone was what it or they seemed, he never really thought he'd be teaching him about drugs, how to roll a joint and the list of terminology no neophyte drug user should be without. Life was a strange beast.

"Oh." Looking more closely, Mac sat down across from Methos so he could watch. "How much did you buy?"

"A quarter."

"A quarter what?"

"A quarter ounce," Methos clarified patiently.

"Oh."

Methos opened the bag and Mac smelled something like pine filtering out. He pulled out the papers before standing. Walking over to the phonebook he ripped off a piece of the cover.

"What's that for?" Mac asked, more intrigued by the second.

Methos resumed his earlier position and set the phonebook piece aside. "Filters. Well, not really filters. Just because I'm immortal doesn't mean I like burning my fingers. This way we can enjoy it to the last puff and keep our digits intact."

"Oh." Mac was reverting to one-syllable utterances, a sign that he wasn't sure what was going on but felt oddly compelled to see what developed.

Taking his role as instructor seriously, Methos tried to explain what he'd be doing. He was assuming Mac was along for the ride since he had stopped reacting and just said 'Oh' a lot. Eloquence had never been his strong point.

"I don't have any tobacco, not even a cigarette. So I won't be mixing and matching. That means they'll be stronger. I'll roll a few pinners to get us started and then some gaggers once you get used to it."

"Pinners? Gaggers?" Mac was rapidly getting lost.

Methos sighed. "Pinners are the small ones. Thin. Gaggers are the fatter ones. I don't want you getting sick so, we'll start small and build."

Before he began, Methos stood once more and grabbed an ashtray from one of the tables. He then entered Mac's bedroom and emerged with another. "I don't want any roach burns. I don't care about the carpet but my clothes take enough of a beating without my burning holes in them."

Mac watched Methos settle down cross legged. He reached into his pocket and removed his Swiss Army knife. He then proceeded to cut the buds. After a small pile had been created, he took out some paper and rolled the pinners by filling them with the cut up buds. He rolled the paper a bit to settle the insides and then licked the edge. He was careful to ensure that the edge caught and then licked over it once more for good measure. He then placed little curled, ripped-off phonebook pieces into one end to act as a filter and keep his fingers blister-free. Then he repeated the entire performance.

Satisfied with his work Methos sat back. "There. Two tickets to paradise."

Mac accepted his fate with a smile. "Methos' guide to debauchery?" He joked.

"Ten easy steps, MacLeod," Methos grinned.

Leaning back, Methos reached for the lighter and lit one for Mac. Handing it over, he reached for his own."Um..." Mac eyed the thing in his hand with trepidation.

Methos decided to let him observe and learn. Taking a drag, Methos held his breath, enjoying the smell and the feel and the light burn. It had been a while.

After Methos had taken a few more drags, Mac managed to get up the nerve to try it. The coughing didn't last too long. He used to smoke cigarettes after all. Within a few minutes, the first ones were gone and Methos was busy rolling more. A half hour later, they were both pleasantly gone.

Mac's mouth was dry and took a good pull from his beer. Eyeing Methos, he noticed the elder's eyes were a bit bloodshot and wondered if his own were. He ran his hand through his hair and tried to quiet his racing heart. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears and got distracted by the sound.

"MacLeod, don't buzz out on me," Methos said as he shook Mac's shoulder.

"Wha..." Mac stretched a little. "I'm hungry," he finally managed to get out.

"I'll call room service. What are you in the mood for?"

"I'm not sure."

"The munchies aren't exactly specific but you can definitely get a craving. So what are you craving?"

"Chocolate."

"Anything else?"

"Something white."

"White?"

"Yeah, white."

"Okay..." Methos thought for a moment before inspiration struck. He dialed room service and asked for graham crackers, chocolate and marshmallows.

Settling back to wait, MacLeod got bold enough to ask a question.

"Had a lot of experience with drugs?"

"I'm not an addict or anything, but I've been around them, used them occasionally and even prescribed them."

"Oh."

"I don't like the hard stuff. LSD - there's some weird shit. And talk about the wicked flashbacks."

"Tell me about it," Mac mumbled.

A knock at the door was ignored at first before Methos grumbled about being the guest and having to do all the work and actually got up and answered it. He signed for the food, giving the server a very nice tip on Mac's behalf, and closed the door. He set up camp by the fireplace. He'd started a fire half an hour ago when Mac complained he was cold. Now it would serve a greater good.

"What are you doing?" Mac asked as he crawled over to join Methos by the fire.

"I'm about to make us some smores."

Mac vaguely remembered a camping trip with Richie and a late night smore-making lesson. He decided to let the Old Man do all the work. So far so good.

They set out a couple of crackers on the floor, ready to receive their garnishes, and looked around for something to put the chocolate on while it melted by the fire. Spying MacLeod's katana not far off, Methos asked the Highlander to pass him the weapon as he broke off a chunk of chocolate. Curious, and not exactly on top of his game, Duncan handed his sword to the older Immortal. Turning the blade on its side and setting the chocolate on the flat surface near the end Methos moved to hold it close to the flames.

"Hey!" MacLeod's outraged cry stopped him half way.

"What's your problem, MacLeod?" Methos growled. He wanted his smores, damn it!

"It'll get all chocolate-y."

Methos scowled. "It's only food MacLeod; it's not like it's blood or anything. Now be a doll and go get those spare chopsticks from lunch; we'll use them to roast the mallows."

Duncan was going to say something more but he'd forgotten what they were arguing about. Hauling himself to his feet, he went to get the chopsticks. By the time he sat back down the chocolate was soft enough to smear onto the crackers. Holding out the sword for MacLeod to take some chocolate, Methos wondered if he should have waited until it cooled a bit before trying this.

Duncan reached out to grab some chocolate between his thumb and forefinger only to have the much too soft and very hot chocolate sink back to the warm steel of his blade. Jerking his hand back with a hiss, a large blob of heated chocolate plopped onto the floor. Before he even stopped to think MacLeod reached down to retrieve the wayward glob only to have the same process repeat itself, this time smearing the substance all over the carpet. Methos, the wiser for the entire incident, simply brought the katana down across his cracker, which he held in the other hand, and buttered the chocolate onto its surface without burning or soiling his fingers.

Next came the marshmallows, which were easily stuck on the ends of the chop sticks and thrust into the fire to heat up. Methos, a sage in such matters, made sure his marshmallow caught fire. He pulled it out quickly and blew out the flames, leaving a blacked and crispy outer-shell over the soft, unmarred center. Waiting a moment for the surface to cool, he proceeded to pull the burnt outer layer off and discarded it into the fire. Looking up at MacLeod, he smirked. Duncan, still a little upset over the entire chocolate fiasco, smirked back and, with a snap of his wrist, sent his gooey marshmallow sailing off the end of his chopstick to hurtle straight for Methos' face. With reflexes remarkable quick for a stoned man, the older Immortal batted the projectile away from him with the back of his hand. Half the marshmallow stuck to his hand while the rest of it flew off in the opposite direction and ended up mushed into the carpet to keep the chocolate company.

"That was hot MacLeod; it could have burned my face!" Methos yelled.

"Oh, boo-hoo! Would have served you right."

With a low growl the old Immortal lunged across, marshmallow tipped chopstick in hand, pointed directly at the Scotsman's head. Years of sword play allowed Mac to dodge the imminent by quickly tipping his head to the left. The makeshift sword barely missed his ear, embedding itself in his loose hair.

"Aww!" he cried, chagrined, as Methos sat back down in shock leaving the marshmallow and chopstick protruding from Mac's head. Pulling the chopstick straight out MacLeod saw a string of rapidly cooling white glue trail along with it. "You are soooo going to pay for that. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in a century, but someday..." he informed the other man matter-of-factly.

With that said, they left the marshmallow where it was for the moment and got down to the business of making the smores. Once all the graham crackers, chocolate and marshmallows, minus the ones ground into the carpet and stuck in Mac's hair, disappeared, the two men were well and truly full.

"I'll never eat another marshmallow again," Mac groaned.

Methos reached over to take a drag from the last joint. Passing it to Mac, he decided a road trip was in order.

"Lets go out. I bet the tracers will be wild."

"Tracers?"

"You'll see. Just stand up and help me put my shoes on." He paused. "Should probably put my pants on first."

After five minutes they were dressed and ready to go. Reaching into his pocket, Methos felt a little piece of paper. Removing it, he began to laugh.

The laugh turned into giggles which eventually subsided when he got a particularly wicked idea. Running over to the sink, he filled a glass of water, then tiptoed into Mac's bedroom and took in an oblivious Richie. Mac followed. "What the hell are you doing?"

Lifting the piece of paper, Methos showed it to Mac. "Got it in a cereal box. I put it in my pocket and forgot about it."

Mac got a good look at the paper and saw that it was a picture of the Honey Nut Bee.

"Two scoops of honey?" Mac whispered, except at this stage of the evening he wasn't really whispering. Good thing Richie was out for the count.

"It's two scoops of raisins, you moron."

"What's the song then?"

"There is no song. The bee is trying to get to the cereal but never does."

"Isn't that the rabbit?"

Methos shot him the 'shut up' look and proceeded to plaster the image onto Richie's forehead. Temporary tattoos were not just for kids. Giggling, he left the room after giving the young Immortal a good look. Too bad he didn't have a camera. The little bee was hula-hooping a cheerio right on Richie's forehead. It looked good there.

A slightly bewildered Duncan MacLeod followed the still chuckling Methos out of the suite and into the hallway.