Nessie by: Raye

Category: Parody

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Based on a scene from 29 seconds

Summary: Finch is just tryin' to do his job.. too bad he's not alone...

Warnings: Just a little fun piece.. nothing serious.. nothing important.. just fluff and frill.

Disclaimer: Didn't create em.. don't own 'em.. and i'm just tryin' to have a little fun... so don't sue me or take pot shots.. i'm just human.

He was up to his knees in water. Now, on a hot day, that might be refreshing. But on an overcast day, such as today, the water was downright chilly even in his waders. If you were thinking about it, the very fact that he was wearing waders would tell you a ton about his mental character, but on a day like this he couldn't remember his own eye color.

'Buck up, old boy.' He heard his father's chiding tone as clear as a bell and it had the desired affect. Two more steps in and -

"Hellooooo!?"

Latimer felt bile rise up into his throat. Something... yes, some THING, had just brushed up against his leg and if his deductive skills were still in working order, it must have been at least five feet in length.

With a furtive glance at the waters around his legs, he struggled to force breath into his lungs. He couldn't be more than a few feet away from the deepest point of the pond and the water only came up to his knees. It was impossible to have something of 'that' size in a pond this shallow. It was impossible! Right?

'You're a Finch, boy. We don't back down for anything short of Armageddon!'

Right. Chin up. Lift knee. Place foot forward. Repeat and continue.

With another step and another... he marked off his paces in the water, while his eyes continued to search the flickering light bouncing off the water's surface. Since it was clear and uninterrupted for the most part he found his mind determined to ignore his earlier fears and forge ahead.

"No mystical beastie could phase this level-headed man of science, no sir!" Lifting the rifle to his shoulder and squaring the end flush against his chest he slipped his fingers with effortless elegance into the trigger guard and chambered a bullet with calm precision.

His sharp eyes narrowed as he sighted the target, dead center of the barrel. Drinking in a slow breath he drew back the trigger...

... and fired wide as something slithered past his other leg.

Without another thought, Finch dropped the rifle into the murky waters and quick-stepped out of the pond like the devil himself was hot on his heels. He didn't stop until he was safe within his room, a long wet, slug-like trail evaporating behind him. Leaning against the door, he dropped his waders to the floor and crawled back under the covers. How was he ever going to explain this to the Marshal?