Author's notes: This is a rehash-er, I mean, repost of a story I wrote several months ago for Rayden and can also be found on her site if you're masochistic enough to want to read it twice.

It helps if you've seen Silence of the Lambs, Loaded Weapon, and Tango and Cash, since much of this story was stol-er, I mean borrowed from those movies.

Soon to be a major motion picture directed by Steven Spielberg, starring Sylvester Stallone as Jim Ellison and Gary Coleman as Blair Sandburg.

This is dedicated to Duranee and the senslash group for having a sense of humor. This isn't strictly speaking based on romance or great literature, but it's in the ballpark.

Jack Palance sat at his desk, playing with his rats.

"Jim Ellison," he said, holding one rat up to the light.

"Blair Sandburg," he held the other one up.

"Sandburg and Ellison, Ellison and Sandburg," he whispered, juggling the rats. "I don't know which one of you I hate more. You've been hassling my pirated Barbie operation for long enough. I think it's time to take you out."

Jack picked up the phone. "Hello, Detective Ellison, would you like to go out with me tonight? No?"

He slammed down the phone. "Well, there goes Plan A. Plan B won't be quite so subtle."

He wiped rat piss off his hands and laughed maniacally as only a cut-rate bad guy in a cheesy parody can.

DAMMIT ELLISON, I WANT THAT HOT BARBIE RACKET SHUT DOWN BY THE END OF THE WEEK, DO YOU HEAR ME? Captain Simon Banks yelled. "IF YOU SCREW UP ON THIS, YOU'RE GOING DOWN! IF YOU EMBARRASS THE DEPARTMENT, YOUR JOCKSTRAP WILL BE DANCING WITH YAKS! UNDERSTAND ME?"

Ellison frowned. "All but the jockstrap-yak thing."

"GOOD! NOW GET THE HELL OUT AND GET THOSE BARBIES OFF THE STREET! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?"

"ABSO-absolutely, sir."

Jim pulled down his pants and walked slowly through the precinct.

"What are you doing?" Blair asked.

"Just taking an unmotivated 'butt-in-the-fluorescent lights walk." He pulled up his pants and turned to Blair. "We have to do something about that Barbie ring,Chief."

Blair flipped his long, silky curls, pursed his delicious lips, and batted his deep blue eyes. "There's only one man who can help us ... but since he died yesterday, we'll have to settle for someone who's a really good guesser."

Jim paled. "You mean..."

Blair nodded slowly. "Yes...him!"

The basement of the Cascade Asylum for the Criminally Overdramatic was dark, damp, dreary, and that's where my thesaurus ended.

The guard unlocked the door. "Sorry, but I'll need to confiscate your weapons."

Jim handed him his pistol. His brass knuckles. His katana. His flame-thrower. His slingshot.

"Is that all?"

Reluctantly, Jim handed over the peashooter that he kept concealed in a secret holster. "I have a permit for that," he said defensively.

The guard, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Bull from Night Court, or Slan from Highlander, or that big, bald guy from that movie no one saw, nodded. "You boys know the rules: no spitting, no running in the halls, no farting near an open flame. Good luck."

Jim and Blair walked slowly, reluctantly, fearfully, incontinently toward the last cell on the left ... I mean the right!

Kicking Jodie Foster out of the way, they stared silently at the man in the cell.

Without bothering to look up from the Snoopy picture he was coloring, Dr. Lecher spoke. "There somebody out there again, isn't there? A bad boy with Barbies."

Jim swallowed nervously. "Dr. Lecher, we need your help if we're going to keep those Barbies off the streets."

Dr. Lecher inclined his head. "Quid pro quo, Detective Ellison. Ad hoc e pluribus unum via con dios ex post de facto."

"What does that mean?" Blair squeaked.

Dr. Lecher shrugged. "I have no idea."

"Are you really a doctor?" asked Jim suspiciously.

Lecher glared. "Of course! Well...I know basic first aid...Mr. Sandburg, tell me about the worst pair of shoes you've ever worn."

Blair winced at the memory. "They were saddle shoes...in 1978...they gave me blisters...oh, God!" He dissolved into tears.

Lecher nodded solemnly. "His name is Jack Palance."

"The actor??"

"No, but he looks remarkably like him, and coincidentally, even has the same name."

Jim frowned, clenching his manly jaw. "Where can we find him?"

"Tell me about the worst movie you've ever seen," Lecher demanded.

Jim fought the bile that rose in his throat at the memory. "It was a David Carradine movie...Death Race 2000...it-it sucked...oh, God!"

Lecher regarded him calmly. "Look under the Golden Arches."

Blair stopped crying long enough to ask, "Is that where Palance is?"

"No, but McDonalds is having a sale on chicken mcnuggets this week," Lecher replied. "Palance is listed in the phone book. Look him up." He turned back to his coloring book.

Jim pressed his face against the glass. "If you're lying, I'll be back."

Lecher narrowed his eyes. "Do you know what I did to the last man who got nose prints on my window? I ate his liver with baked beans and a nice, chilled Mad Dog. sluuuurrppp"

Blair started to cry again.

Back at the station, deep in thought, trying to figure out how a phone book worked, giving each other coy glances that supposedly went unnoticed, Jim and Blair were suddenly jolted out of their state of semi-consciousness.

Here it is: Palance, Jack, 555-5555." Jim picked up the phone and dialed. "It's ringing! Hello, Mr. Palance? Is your refrigerator running? Yeah, well you better go catch it!"

Jim slammed down the phone and nodded in satisfaction. "That should keep him on his toes."

Blair stopped crying long enough to comment. "That's not departmental policy, Jim."

Jim waved him off impatiently. "Yeah, yeah, I know! Policy clearly states the use of the 'Prince Albert in a can' prank, but sometimes you have to bend the rules a little, Chief. Now, let's go get him."

Jim and Blair crept quietly up the front steps. Jim rattled the doorknob. "Damn!Locked!"

"What do we do now?" Blair asked.

Jim thought for a moment. "There's an ancient Chopek technique I learned when I spent 18 months in the jungles of Peru where the fight for survival heightened my senses..."

"Jim, the plot is starting to drag."

"Okay, now lemme see...it's been so long...it takes exact observance to time-honored ritual..." Jim reached out and pressed the doorbell. "Avon calling!" he shouted.

The door opened and the bad guy of the week peeked out. "Oh thank God! I'm almost out of concealer --- Ellison!"

"Palance!"

"Palance!"

"Sandburg!"

"Sandburg!"

"Ellison!"

Blair looked around. "Is that everyone?"

"Okay, Palance, you're under arrest!"

Palance laughed. "Not so fast!"

Jim shrugged. "Okay. You're...un...der...a...rrest," he said slowly.

"No, I mean, I have someone here whom you may know," he laughed evilly.

Jim glared. "If you've kidnapped Blair...."

"Uh, Jim, I'm standing right next to you," Blair pointed out.

"Oh, sorry. It's just a habit I guess."

Palance gestured impatiently. "Are you coming or not?" He retreated into the house.

Jim bent over to whisper to Blair. "Careful Chief, this might be a trap."

Blair stepped over the bear trap on the carpet. "Thanks, Jim."

They followed Palance into the house.

"Excuse the mess," Palance said self-consciously. "I'm remodeling. Eventually, I want to put in a wet bar and maybe a little jacuzzi right over there. And these walls --- ugh! Can you imagine anyone actually painting walls ecru!"

Jim nodded sympathetically. "You know, a nice ivory would open up this space and really make a statement."

Blair agreed. "Or a kind of dusty rose for a more intimate feel."

"Hmmmmm....I'll consider that. Where were we....? Oh yes, I have someone here you might know." Palance yanked open the door to reveal Leslie Nielsen chained to the wall.

Jim frowned. "I don't know him! You lied!"

"Did not!" Palance protested. "I only said you might know him. But seeing as you don't, can I kill him?"

"Wellll.....," Jim considered.

"Pleeeeease?"

"Well, all right, but only if you show me where you're hiding the hot Barbies."

Palance pointed to a closet. "In there."

That's when Jim made a fatal mistake. He turned his back, leaving the bad guy unsupervised with his oft-kidnapped partner.

"Hey! There's nothing in this closet but Jesse Helms!" He turned around and gasped to find Blair being dragged into the backyard.

Jim raced into the backyard senseless with worry. //Did I remember to turn off the iron this morning?//

He pushed the frantic thought away, turned up his senses, and scanned for his cute little sidekick.

"I hear....glug glug noises....I smell....wet hairspray....I see --- Oh no!"

Blair was floating face down in a wading pool, motionless.

Jim rushed to his side and plucked him out of the plastic pool. "Oh God, no! Oh no! Oh please Lord, not Blair!" It suddenly occurred to Jim that he should start CPR. He laid Blair gently on the ground and began compressions.

He was suddenly aware of Simon beside him. Simon laid a hand on Jim's shoulder. "He's dead, Jim."

Jim shook him off and continued compressions.

"Jim?"

Jim ignored everything but the cold, wet body of his beloved Guide.

"Uh, Jim," Simon broke in, watching Jim's CPR critically. "The heart is on the left side of the chest."

"Oh." Jim thwacked Blair's left side and Blair sat up perkily.

"Oh God!" Jim wailed. "Oh God, Blair! I almost lost you!" He reconsidered. "Well, I didn't lose you; I mean, I still would've known where you were, but you wouldn't have smelled so good after a while." He hugged Blair enthusiastically.

The two of them stared into each other's eyes.

Simon cleared his throat. "What about Palance?"

"Who? Oh him." Jim sighed dreamily, beginning to stroke Blair's wet hair. "Got away."

Simon looked around, warily. "Then he's still out there...."

They all looked at each other. "Sequel!"

Jim went back to running his hands over Blair, kissing his neck.

Simon walked away, then turned back. "I've been meaning to ask you two: are you gay?"

Jim ran his hand down Blair's ass. "Nah."

Simon sighed, relieved. "Just checking."

-LATER, AT THE LOFT-

Jim finished the last bite of roast weasel and stood up. "I guess it's time for bed." He started up the stairs.

Blair grabbed him and kissed him violently.

"Why, fiddle dee dee, Blair Sandburg!" Jim cried, shocked into a bad Southern accent.

"By God, this is one night you're not turning me away!" Blair thundered, then slung Jim over his shoulder and carried him up the stairs. Jim's head hit each step with a thunk.

Jim lay on the bed and fluttered his eyes demurely. "Why, Blair, my reputation..."

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn!"

"Blair, I-I want you to know that I've been tested," Jim said hesitantly.

Blair waited anxiously. "And?"

"I got an A on the verbal section but some of the math threw me...."

"That's good enough for me!" Blair declared, launching himself onto Jim. "Oh my God, you are so beautiful!"

Jim smiled up at him. "No, you are."

Blair frowned. "No, you are!"

"You are!"

"You are!"

Blair glared. "Fine! Then you can sleep on the couch tonight!"

"But this is my bed!"

"Oh."

Jim touched his arm. "'Why can't we all just get along?"

Blair's eyes softened. "Oh Jim! I've loved you for so long, waiting, hoping, praying that you'd see...hey, where's that violin music coming from?"

Jim shrugged. "I want you to know I've never done this before."

"Don't worry, Jim," Blair soothed. "I bought a book, something to educate us in the ways of gay men."

He leaned his head on Jim's shoulder and began to read. "I Told You So, by Rush Limbaugh," he began.