Once upon a time, a cross-stitching faction in Forever Knight fandom was born. One of the members, who shall remain anonymous, innocently posted a message to the list asking if cross-stitching the logo on a sweatshirt for her own use would be illegal. Well, don't ask how, but that one, quite normal question led to a round robin fan fiction story of a most unusual nature...

Good evening, gentle listeners. Welcome, once again, to MY realm. Tonight the topic is a sharp one, a subject which crosses many a man's path, needling at his very soul... Our lives are like threads of floss...of varying lengths and colors, and they become so easily entangled and knotted before we know the cause...

Realizing that as time grows short, we can never possibly complete everything we start, we continue to begin anew, even as the burden of discarded dreams continues to taunt us, daring us to finish what we've started. And in moments of imagined strength, we believe that we can.

As we bump along through the project of life, dear friends, it becomes quite simple to miscount... leaving us on a path far short of our final destination. When this misfortune strikes, what can we do but rip out the very stitches we toiled so very long to achieve? To fully realize our goals, we must properly blend all the colorful fabrics of our lives, you understand. After all, when you limit yourself to common threads available to any Tom, Dick or Harry, your life will forever be monotone, lacking many adventures with promising shades and combinations, as it were...

There it was again. A slight raspy sound outside the glass doors, muffled no doubt by the heavy draperies. One quick step towards the sound, then another. She was almost there, holding her breath against what lurked in the dark.

With a swift, sweeping motion that set her long hair swinging, she flung the curtains aside to see a scrawny, bald-headed man holding a cross-stitching project loosely fitted into a warped wooden frame. The material was stained, as was the man's face and very worn clothing. Squinting, Flossie made out a half finished sailing vessel manned with what appeared to be rats wearing sailor's uniforms.

"'Ey, there, baby cakes! Me name's Screed, it is," her visitor said with a strong Cockney accent. "Got one o' them con-ver-si-on chartie things fer doing DMC threadies to J n' P?"

Screams rent the night. First a woman's voice pierced the air and ricocheted off the high ceiling of the room. A man's high pitched squeal joined in as both figures, stunned by their unexpected meeting, leapt back from the door in mutual shock.

She grabbed at the metal handle of the massive glass portal and scrabbled at the uncooperative latch. Slapping at the lock frantically and breaking two fingernails in the process, she finally succeeded in wrenching it open and slammed the door heavily back into the frame.

"Sic 'em, Cleo!" she shouted and darted quickly aside.

The enraged tabby sprung up from the floor where moments before she had lain so peacefully. Cleo recognized a hunter of her chosen prey and was prepared to defend her territory to the death.

Screed put up his hands to fend off the spitting, snarling seven pound terror as Cleo launched herself at his throat, but had forgotten he still held the needle between his thin fingers. The needle stabbed what Screed mistook for a terrier in its upper lip. The creature yelped, then backed quickly away. Screed snorted with satisfaction. "Ain't me favorite, you dogsie wogies ain't," he said. "Too much drool. An' you terrier types make a big dent in me ratsie pop-u-lation."

Turning his attention back to the woman, he yelled, "Come on lady! Wanna get this here pro-jecto done, I do. Been working on it fer a 'undred years. Ain't been easy... some o' these rows got more stitchie witchies than Ol' Screed's got fingers n' toes. Ain't ya gonna 'ave no mercy on a fellow stitcher type?"

"Well, it would help if you wouldn't sneak up on a person in the middle of the night. Where'd you learn the social graces, anyway?"

She ran a discerning gaze over her uninvited guest and her lip began to curl in distate. Bet he never learned any. Geez, what's that smell? Swallowing once or twice and trying to breath through her nose, she stepped back from the door and gestured to the rat king. "Come in, I guess." Screed hopped into the room and started to settle his posterior on the brocade couch. "NOT ON THE FURNITURE! Just hang on a minute and I'll see if I have what you need." Yeah, a bath, clean clothes, manners, taste...oh, give it up, girl.

Screed fidgeted with the wooden frame still clutched tightly in his grubby hands and looked around. "Nice place ya got here, missie. But, I'll be knackered if that ain't the fug-ugliest doggie ol' Screedie's ever latched his peepers on." The two-legged rat-catcher bent down and peered at the animal that was still crouched in front of him, teeth bared and snarling.

"And, I'd appreciate it if you'd stop calling Cleo a dog. She's a purebred CAT and VERY sensitive." She straightened from her rummaging in the oversized project bag (that looked like it should have wheels and be labeled Samsonite) and brandished an object in his direction. "Here. Maybe this will help..."

"Tha's a kitsie witsie? Vicious brute it is," Screed said suspiciously. "Don't fancy them beatsies either - too much spit an' the fur gets stuck twinxt me fangs..." He hissed at the cat who returned the gesture, fur standing on edge.

"Do you want this or not?"

"This won't do ol' Screed no good..." he snorted.

"But you wanted a conversion chart. Here it is!"

"Nothing but scribblin' to me," he explained. "Can't read much past me own name, I can't. Mind sittin' down 'n givin' it a goin' over with me?"

"No!..." Her protests were suddenly interrupted when the door was kicked in. Outside stood numerous men in bullet proof vests carrying what looked like high powered weapons. "Wha... what's going on?"

THE LOGO POLICE..."Open the door ma'am... we're here to confiscate any items containing illegally reproduced logos."

Screed squealed loudly, dropping his project to the floor. Before she knew what was happening, she had a filthy, smelling, shaking carouche in her arms. "I dinna mean to do nothin' wrong, I didn't," he said, his breath smelling like... like... well, like dead rats. "Ol' Screed only wanted to..."

"NOW look what you've done!" Drawing herself up to her impressive height of five feet four inches, Flossie jutted her chin at the officers and prepared to give them a well deserved tongue lashing. She took a deep breath to give the so-called Logo Police a piece of her mind and a wracking coughing fit took her as she inhaled a lung full of Screed's Eau de Sewer. Gagging, she dropped the still cringing carouche to the floor and put her head between her wobbly knees.

"Sorry, miss. It's him we're after. Been tailing him for days...er, nights." The burly officer was doing his best Joe Friday imitation. His best wasn't very good, but then how good would a good Joe Friday be, anyway? "Just let us take him off your hands, I mean floor, and we'll be on our way."

The second officer reached for the carouche who was now attempting to crawl away between Flossie's legs and make an escape. All her maternal instincts rose to the fore as she raised her eyes to the bleary ones of the officers. Determinedly, she stepped over the body at her feet.

"I think you've done quite enough here. You should be ashamed of yourselves, picking on creatures weaker than yourselves. It's cowardly. You've haven't any courage at all."

Step by step, she faced down the officers and they began retreating towards the broken door. This was all starting to sound too familiar. Childhood recollections of wicked witches and yellow brick roads came to mind. The officers glanced quickly at each other.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" the senior officer asked.

"Nope, wrong show. Well, anyway, Joe, let's get out of here before little people start coming out of the woodwork and haul our asses off to see some wizard." Back pedaling in earnest now, the Logo Police checked their exit route to make sure it was all clear.

"But, what about...that?" The junior officer pointed at Screed who had made it to the open sliding door and was inching away on all fours, his dearly beloved project clenched in his teeth.

"Leave it...him...it...whatever. Nobody'll believe this anyway. Let's bail!"

He didn't have to tell his partner twice. With much the same speed that they had arrived the two officers were gone.

Smiling to herself in bewilderment, Flossie muttered, "People come and go so quickly here."

Turning to the sliding door, she saw Screed look at her over his shoulder. His eyes were wide and pleading beneath his bright orange eyebrows. Sighing, she gestured for him to come back in.

Screed jumped to his feet, taking his project out of his mouth. "Well, well," he said. "Somebody cares a bit 'bout ol' Screed after all."

"Cross-stitchers have to stick together," she muttered, not believing what she was saying. "Otherwise it can be a long, forever night if you run out of thread or lose your needle in the sofa.... There's just one thing I want to know..."

"Anything, baby cakes!" Screed said, putting his arm around her. She tried not to flinch too much when he brushed her hair away from her neck.

"Exactly WHY were the Logo Police after you?" Flossie asked. "Where'd you put it? On t-shirts for resale or something?"

"Not 'xactly," he said, untangling his arm from her body. He stepped away, using his free hand, the one not holding the project, to unfasten his overalls. Turning around, he let the black denim fall to the floor, revealing a pair of ill fitting boxer shorts. Across the back of the stained, maybe once white, material was "Forever Knight".

Her eyes widened as she beheld her dear and beloved logo emblazoned across the backside of a lowly carouche. "Jeez, I've heard of wearing your heart on your sleeve but your fandom on your a...?"

Screed shrugged the overall straps back across his bony shoulders and turned to face her. "And why not, I'd like to know? Potato, po-tah-to, whatever whistles the ol' wind up yer bloomers, dearie."

"Okay, okay! I guess this makes us, uh, friends, doesn't it?" She looked into Screed's bloodshot eyes and smiled a little. "I mean, you showed me yours..." She held up one hand as Screed leaned closer to her, leering.

"So's you gonna, show me yours, dearie?"

"Not what you think, ratboy." She turned away and pulled Cleo's blanket out from under the wary tabby cat and spread it on the couch. "Here. Sit. Don't exhale, just sit."

Watching for a moment to make sure Screed was obeying and seeing that he was indeed being very good and sitting quietly, Flossie rummaged once again in her Mary Poppins-like project bag. Finally finding what she'd been looking for, she walked slowly to both doors and every window, checking for lingering signs of their visitors. No one remained. Finding that they were indeed alone, she returned to the couch and sat companionably next to the waiting carouche.

"Whatcha got in the big ol' bag, dearie? A surprise for ol' Screed?"

"You might say that. We have something in common after all." Grinning from ear to ear, she pulled her own beloved project from the bag with a flourish. There in all it's glory was the Forever Knight logo in stark, beautiful black against a blood red background. "The Logo Police would have gotten me for sure if it hadn't been for you distracting them. Thanks, Screed."

Screed plastered a huge toothy grin over his own features. "Anytime, sweet cheeks. Now, how's about that thingie-ma-bob..."

Cleo watched as the two-legged ones sat, heads together, voices droning on together into the night. Mortals or vampires, when they got to talking about cross-stitch, it didn't matter. The tabby yawned and settled head on her paws. Back to dreaming about catching her next meal. That's if her human's new friend didn't get to it first.