"Ray. Ray. Ray? Ray!"

"What?" Ray landed behind the dumpster with a muted plunk, struggling to wipe the rain from his glasses and reload his gun simultaneously. He succeeded, astounding himself.

"What, Fraser? What? I'm kinda busy over here." He sent two more shots in rapid succession around the sheltering corner, hearing first the clang of metal on metal, then a satisfying squish-thud coupled with a yelp. Then moaning. One down.

"Did you happen to look through the mail today?" Glint of polished brass against sodden scarlet as Fraser banked off a retired bicycle wheel to lever his way to the top of the dumpster, the lid of which he'd mistakenly believed to be closed. Ray heard the gentle plop of Mountie landing on bags of garbage. At least, he hoped it was bagged.

Another soft plop in the shadowed interior as Ray joined his fallen comrade. "The mail? Did I check the mail? You're a freak. You do know that, right?" Toddling the few unsteady steps to the far side, Ray-in-the-box jumped up and delivered another couple of rounds into the night.

"My foot! My foot! Goddamn bastard shot me in the foot!"

Two down, one to go. Ray hunkered against chilly metal, panting like Dief in July. "Yeah. Mail. There was something for you. A brown envelope. From… Canadian Traditions and Review. You waiting on something?"

Fraser was sifting through bag after bag of nastiness. More dry cleaning bills. Greatness. Maybe they could write 'em off.

"Would you, by any chance, mean Canada Customs and Revenue Agency?"

"Maybe… that the place you get your weird Canadian rituals and annual subscription to 'Inuit Story Gazette'?"

Despite dumpster-darkness, Ray felt mighty sure an eyebrow was being groomed. "That would be the Canadian equivalent of your Internal Revenue Service. Or 'I-R-S'." Ray's eyes had adjusted to the lack of light enough for him to see Fraser enact those annoying little finger-quotes. Ray feared he might have to shoot Fraser as well as the baddies. "I'm waiting for my tax forms, Ray. They're due April thirtieth."

"Yeah. Don't wanna piss off the Queen or anything. Gotta pay those tithings."

Fraser-silence. Gotcha! Score one for Ray and his word-a-day calendar.

Or maybe Fraser was listening to the sounds outside. Or lack of. Okay. Quiet in the dumpster good; quiet in the bad-guy areas, not so good. What're they up to? And, wham, a dripping gun-hand-wrist-sleeve appeared over the edge of the dumpster, haloed by sickly streetlight. Instantly, some sort of nunchuk-like contraption crashed down on the disembodied arm with just the right sort of crunch. A streak of lightning revealed Fraser brandishing a pair of dead toasters knotted together by frayed electrical cords.

"You always wanted a bola."

"Right you are, Ray." Fraser's smile reflected multi-coloured neon as he twirled the impromptu device overhead, looking like the addlepated ringmaster of a breakfast-themed circus. It might have made a satisfying swooshing sound, but it couldn't be heard over moans and cries of "My wrist!" "My foot!" And just "Ooohhhh."

Three down. Let's go.

* * *

Backup. Paramedics. Welsh. Reporters. Fraser and Ray sniffed and quickly granted permission to go home, clean up and email their arrest reports… only to find the Goat had been towed.

"Well, I did mention the 'no parking' zone when we stopped here."

"Fraser. We were being pursued by criminals, in case you don't recall. I parked where I could park and still be alive to own a car." He ran a sopping sleeve across his nose audibly, squinting at the spot where his car had been. "We'll just get a cab."

"I'm not sure we will get a taxi on a night like this, Ray. There doesn't seem to be much vehicular traffic in this part of town at present."

"Oh, c'mon, Fraser, we'll get one no problem. You know what they say."

"And that would be…?"

"There's only two sure things in life… death and taxis."

End