A/N: no idea who the song belongs to, if anyone. I heard it from Spencer Bohren, and he's the only one I know who has lyrics up on the Internet. If you don't know who Spencer is, Google him…the man is a virtuoso, a musical genius. He deserves more praise than I have time for.

This is just an experimental little one-shot. I was reading another X-Men comic the other day and Remy was begging to be written about…I obliged. What can I saw? I'm a sucker for those devil eyes…

Remy had learned a lot of ways to survive on the streets. He had been a child prostitute and pick-pocket; he had even done another short stint as a rent-boy while stranded in L.A. and unwilling to ask Jean-Luc to wire him money. Thankfully, two nights of that were enough to get him back on his feet. He had learnt several kinds of street performing, mainly for use as distractions while another member of Fagan's Mob would pick the crowd clean.

But his favorite wasn't card-tricks or parlor magic. It was music, had always been music. As an eight-year-old kid looking for a cheap instrument to steal, he'd hit a second-hand music store, to case the joint before he went for the grab. And that's when he saw it, the funniest looking guitar he'd ever seen.

"Y'like de lap steel, petit?" the proprietor asked in a gravelly N'Awlins twang.

"Dat what it called?" Le Diable Blanc raised an eyebrow like he'd seen the older boys do.

"Ouais. A Lap Steel Guitar…dey don' hardly make 'em no mawh. Was all replaced by 'lectric guitars…but de lap steel, she got 'er own sound, special soun'."

"Yeah?" Le Diable Blanc asked challengingly. "Show me."

And the old man took the lap steel out and plugged her in to an amp. And he took a lump of metal and made the guitar whine and moan, sounds that made the hairs on the street urchin's neck stand up.

"Lemme teach you a song, petit," the old man smiled.

The price of the guitar was much reduced, and the boy stole as much in cash easily. That song was a little beyond his fingers and his voice at this point, but he'd play it someday, he promised himself. In the mean time, he paid the old man what he could sneak from under the Mob's nose for decent lessons in his creepy new instrument.

When he was exiled, the lap steel was relegated to a storage unit belonging to the Thieves' Guild, but it arrived just before his New York hotel was about to forcibly eject him.

It kept him sane and helped him survive, when he could swing coffee shops and other electric venues. The perils of an electric instrument.

The blues bar was far from his normal scene. He was playing for a meal, a drink, fifty bucks, and whatever he could get in tips.

He purred into the mic, "Dis ol' lap steel, she ain' much of a blues fan. But mebbe we got somethin' else f' y'all." He tuned her up and tapped out the introduction, making her thrum and whine like the old man had, so many years before.

"Stalkin' through New Orleans in the middle of the night,

Red eyes flashin'

Hidin' in the bushes, always stays outta sight,

Violent passion

You never hear 'im comin' 'cause he don't make a sound,

Like a shadow passin'

He's the witch doctor

Put a spell on you

He's the witch doctor

Put a spell on you

Stirrin' up the gumbo on the Bayou St. John,

Mojo lightning.

Gator teeth and finger-bones, he stirs until dawn,

Owh - it's so frightenin'.

Never let 'im catch ya 'cause he'll give you a dose

Feel your jugular tightenin'

He's the witch doctor

Put a spell on you

He's the witch doctor

Put a spell on you

Pelebe mi tobe-o
Pelebe mi tobe-o
Ba uba-a ba uba-a
Pelebe mi tobe-o

Ibarajo mojuba
Iarajo mojuba
Irere-ay sho-sho-abe
Ibarajo mojuba

He's the witch doctor

Put a spell on you

He's the witch doctor

Put a spell on you

He's the witch doctor

Put a spell on you

He's the witch doctor

Put a spell on you"

The crowd looked stunned. Remy's sexually provocative voice and inherently exotic Acadian accent were bound to draw interest, but when coupled with good singing and the bittersweet tones of a well-played instrument, he was irresistible.

He noted the tip hat filling with more than three hundred in cash, and smiled to himself. To one reluctant listener, he tipped his head down to peer at the man over his sunglasses – red eyes flashing.

The man took a sharp breath and sat up straight.

He dropped a twenty and rushed away, making Remy laugh, a warm, charming sound that piqued the ladies' interests.

Put a spell on you.