Cake, Canadian Style

Snowee gave a very specific instruction for a fight between Diefenbaker and Ray K over a pastry.

Ray, Fraser, Diefenbaker and Mort were in the morgue. Fraser and Mort were deep in dissection of and discussion about the body of a murder victim. Male. Black. Heavy set. Diefenbaker, as usual, sat patiently waiting for his pet to move on to something more fun. Ray was deliberately tuning out of Fraser's and Mort's discussion and thinking, as was often the case, about himself and his own psyche.

Ray's musings went something like this: he had always been squeamish around dead bodies, even the cleanest, prettiest, most intact ones. This guy on the slab, for sure he wasn't one of those pretty ones. He was one of the most messed up specimens of ex-human being Ray had ever seen.

Early in his partnership with Fraser, Ray had acted around corpses the way he always did. With revulsion and occasional fainting. Then, a few months into their platonic, friends-only relationship, Fraser had told him that the former Ray had always been perfectly at ease in the morgue. He suggested that Ray make an effort to be more like the previous Vecchio in this regard, the better to protect his identity. This made sense to Ray. Thereafter he tried very hard to control his behaviour and his gag reflex around any remains of Chicago citizenry they happened to come across.

Now, two years later, Ray was thinking how well his efforts had worked out. He didn't feel nauseous at all. In fact, his attitude was about the same as Dief's. Bored. Ready to go do something else now.

Ray's attention was re-focused when Mort said, "Oh, here's a piece of evidence I forgot to show you." Mort opened a drawer and pulled out a baggie. From it he extracted something in a plastic wrapper, about four inches square and about half an inch deep. He placed the object on an examining table for Ray and Fraser to peruse.

"Dief, look at this!" Fraser cried out in astonishment.

Dief jumped up and put his forepaws on the table to get a good look. Ray looked too. The wrapper was opaque. The writing was in both English and French. The biggest lettering said: 1/2 Lune Moon.

"What's a Loon Moon?" Ray asked. "And how come they don't sell a whole one?"

Fraser explained. "This is a Vachon cake. Vachon is the most popular brand of snack cake in Canada. Half Moons, Joe Louis, Flakies. Oh Dief," There was such longing in the Mountie's voice and on his face, "When was the last time we had a Flakie?"

Dief's answer, a pathetic whine, clearly said "Too long, my pet, too long."

"I haven't had a taste of something sweet from home since I got that maple candy in the hospital," Fraser continued, shamelessly and irrelevantly making an obscure reference to one of his own fics.

"They found this in his hand." Mort explained. "A witness said he refused to turn it over to his attacker. Said he'd rather die than part with it."

"The victim is a Canadian, then." Fraser nodded, understanding perfectly. "If I had a Half Moon, I'd never give it up." He picked up the object in question and gazed upon it. "If this weren't evidence... " It was clear that only the most intense effort was stopping Fraser from consuming the evidence on the spot. His self control was amazing.

Diefenbaker had no such professional image to uphold. All he wanted was the Half Moon. He could smell it through the wrapper. The smell was calling to him. (Being unable to speak human language he didn't care that this was a mixed metaphor.) It was too much for Dief to bear. He leaped up and bit his pet's wrist, just like he had that time in the dog pound when Fraser had been too stupid to understand what Dief had been trying to tell him about Maggie. Dief didn't want to hurt his biped friend, just make him drop the cake.

Fraser cried out in pain. Ray hesitated for an instant, deciding whether to protect the evidence or tend to his partner. No, wait. Mort's a doctor. He'll take care of Fraser. I'm the flatfoot with experimental hair. I'll get the evidence.

Diefenbaker had said evidence dangling from his clenched teeth now. He hunched his shoulders, lowered his tail and bared his fangs around his prize. Ray knew this meant business.

"Nice doggie, give Uncle Ray the cake."

As if.

"Fork over the Flakie, pal."

"It's not a Flakie, it's a Half Moon" Mort was bandaging Fraser's arm, so Fraser couldn't move to help him, physically. This comment was Fraser's own version of help in this situation, but Ray didn't find it very helpful.

"Come on, Dief, that's evidence. You're a police dog aren't you?"

"Technically no, he's not connected with the RCMP," Fraser offered, "and, technically, he's not really a dog but . . . "

"You're not helping, Fraser. Shut up and get bandaged."

"But, Ray . . . "

Mort helped out by putting a piece of wide, white, adhesive tape over Fraser's mouth. Then he taped the Mountie's now bandaged wrist to his other wrist so he couldn't pull the tape off.

"Grrrr. Grrrr." said Diefenbaker.

"Mmph. Mmph." said Fraser.

Ray had an idea. He pointed behind Diefenbaker and shouted out "Look, Dief, turtles!"

Caught off guard, Diefenbaker turned and loosened his guard and his jaw for only a fraction of a second. Ray lunged forward, grabbed the cake from him, and fled the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

A strange craving suddenly came over him. He didn't care that this was evidence; he didn't care it was from a dead man's hand; he didn't care about anything. All he knew was that the Half Moon was calling to him. He had to know what there was about this cake that made Canadians so crazy. Without thinking, he ripped open the wrapper, crammed the cake in his mouth and wolfed it down.

The others came out of the morgue. They all looked at Ray and realized what he had done. Fraser's mouth was still taped shut. Mort released his wrists and mouth.

Fraser slapped Ray on the back and announced with pride, "We'll make a Canadian of you yet!"

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