Closing Scene


Ballroom in Southern California


My associates and I had accepted invitations to a formal kilted gala. I had, of course, dressed quite traditionally in my formal kilt outfit, although it now included a miniature version of the Bronze Saltire that I had been awarded, as well as the medals I had earned from my short time in the United States Army.

The dresses my associates wore, however, were anything but traditional. Although the dresses were formal, and indeed did maintain their modesty, the dresses revealed enough that they were probably more appropriate for an establishment where the dancing involved poles.

Dirka, now known as Ms. Wren, still sported the bandages and sling from her wound, but she somehow managed to coordinate it with her attire in such a way that it was barely noticeable.

Many members of our forum were in attendance and they gathered in groups, talking. One group seemed engrossed in a conversation about military box pleats. I recognized many of this group as kilt makers.

A tall flame haired woman seemed to receive a fair bit of attention as different men danced with her. She seemed quite adept at the various Latin dances.

Across the room I spotted my old rival, Panache. He carried on a conversation with a man seated beside him, but also seemed to keep a close watch on the flame haired woman.

Just then, my associates pulled me to the dance floor to lead them in a conga line. We had great fun leading the line, encouraging others to grab the end of the line and join us. Panache spotted me at the head of the line, so I directed the line past him. I waved and gave him a sly grin as I passed.

I chuckled to myself. Apparently, Panache was taking a leave of absence from the Great Hall so that Mike could cool down a bit after Panache’s unauthorized mission.

After the song ended, my associates and I returned to our seats for another drink. In keeping with the Latin theme, I ordered another mojito.

The music stopped as a disturbance arose on the dance floor. It seemed that Panache had decided to attack the curly headed gentleman that had been dancing with his flame haired wife. Panache seemed determined to remove this gentleman’s curly locks with what appeared to be sheep shears.

I noticed something though that everyone else seemed to miss. I quickly signaled the band to play a rumba and made my way across the dance floor.

A certain flame haired woman needed a new dance partner.