After Squad 51 had returned from their fourth run that afternoon, Roy had had just about enough of the new routine the crew had unconsciously adapted. For the past several hours, every time the tones sounded, Chet went into a trance, danced until someone shouted his name, then couldn't remember what happened. Whichever man was closest to Captain Stanley had the unenviable task of diverting his attention away from Chet. So far, it had been working, but how long could they keep it up? And what happens if we get a call at night, when we're supposed to be sleeping? Johnny, if you can't fix this, I may seriously consider hurting you… He put the vehicle in park, turned off the engine, and glared at his partner. "So. Do you have a way to 'unhypnotize' Chet, or do we now include waking Chet every time we get a call as part of our daily routine?"

Johnny drummed his fingers on the dashboard. "I'm workin' on it," he mumbled. "I guess I have to rehypnotize him, and try another post-hypnotic suggestion."

"At this point, I'd say you go for it, which lets you know how desperate we are," Roy muttered.

The tones went off again, and Roy groaned.

"Engine 51, trash fire, 451 East Sepulveda Boulevard.4-5-1 East Sepulveda Boulevard. Cross-street Marbella Avenue. Time out, 1555."

"GAGE!" Captain Stanley yelled as the engine crew hurried to the apparatus bay. "Chet, quit that," he sighed.

Johnny shrank back in his seat as much as he could. "Yeah, Cap?" he asked as the captain scrawled down the address and acknowledged the call.

"You will fix this when we get back, or so help me, you'll be on latrine duty for the rest of the year," Hank growled.

"Yes, sir," Johnny replied, chagrined.

-E!-

Thankfully, there had been no runs for over an hour after the engine crew returned from the trash fire. After he'd washed the dinner dishes, Johnny beckoned Chet over. "Hey, Chet. I'm gonna have to try to hypnotize you again…"

"Oh, because it worked so well the last time?" Chet snapped in an acid tone.

"Look, I'm sorry – I didn't know it was gonna backfire like that."

"You know what they say about amateurs…" Chet's eyes snapped closed as the tones went off again.

"Squad 51, man with chest pain. 2015 Brentview. 2-0-1-5 Brentview. Cross-Street, Lasalle. Time out, 1846."

Johnny scowled as Chet began dancing the funky chicken. "Maybe I should just leave him…"

"GAGE!"

"Oh, all right. Wakie-wakie, CHET!" he shouted on his way to the squad.

Once again, Chet snapped out of his trance. He sighed and asked, "Which one this time?"

Marco shook his head. "The 'Funky Chicken'. You know, you really need dancing lessons – your moves are terrible." He got up from the table, and headed outside for some fresh air.

Mike sat down next to Chet, quirked his eyebrow, and said in a low voice, "Just how long are you gonna keep this up?"

Chet looked at him, feigning innocence. "What are you talking about, Mike? Keep what up?"

Mike planted his elbow on the table, and rested his chin in his upturned palm. "Chet, I know you're faking it. You were right that Johnny probably couldn't hypnotize a golf ball. My cousin Allen, on the other hand, is a hypnotherapist by day, and a stage magician by night. He's taught me a few tricks of the trade, including how to select appropriate 'subjects' for his stage act."

Chet's grin was rueful. "Was I that obvious?"

"To the trained eye, yes. To the untrained eye…." Mike shrugged. "Nice acting, though – terrible dancing, but that actually helps the illusion along, so that was well done, I suppose."

"I guess I'm busted. Any idea on how to resolve it without ending up with latrine duty for the rest of my life?"

Mike's grin was devilish. "Well, I suppose I could just happen to drop one of Allen's business cards where John can find it."

"That will be great, thanks." Chet extended his hand and shook Mike's hand, then pulled back in surprise at the coin that had mysteriously appeared in his palm. "How did you do that?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you. Magician's Oath. 'The secret of an illusion should never be revealed – unless to a student of magic who also takes this Oath'," Mike replied.

"It's a pleasure doing business with you, Oh mighty illusionist." He gave the engineer a speculative glance. "How much longer do I get to play?"

"Let me think. It's Tuesday, right? Allen's got a show tonight at ten, so it will have to be between eight and nine. Just make sure you give as good a performance when he comes by, okay?"

Chet smirked. "You've got a deal. They'll give me an Oscar for this performance." He touched his fingers to his chest and intoned, "Ask not for whom the bell tolls – it tolls for thee, Gage… my favourite pigeon."

-E!-

Roy slammed the door to the squad and strode into the day room. He scowled all the way to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup, and drank deeply.

"Anythin' interesting?" Marco asked.

"Oh, just wonderful. Man with 'chest pain'. Stupid ass!" Roy finished his cup and poured another.

Marco stared, then looked at Johnny as the younger paramedic entered the kitchen, his lips pressed together to keep from laughing out loud. Muffled snorts escaped him, despite his best efforts.

"It's not funny, John," Roy stated in a flat tone, without turning to glimpse his partner.

"Well, yes, it is funny. Finally, a good excuse not to have chest hair!"

Roy cast him a look of disgust, scratched absently at his own chest, then shook his head and slumped down at the table over his coffee mug. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"But I don't mind talkin' about it," Johnny said with a grin. "You see, the 'chest pain' involved a zipper… and some chest hair…"

The others all winced; it seemed that, at one time or another, they'd had the dubious honour of succumbing to the 'teeth of doom'.

Hank looked at his younger paramedic. "Isn't it about time you fixed something?" he said, with a pointed glance over at Chet.

Johnny gulped, and nodded. "Okay, Chet. Time to de-hypnotize you."

Chet lifted his finger as if to protest, but was interrupted by the station's tones.

"Station 51, Station 16, Truck 127. Multiple vehicle accident with injuries. Intersection of North Lakewood Boulevard and East Wardlow Road. North Lakewood and East Wardlow. Time out, 1915."

"CHET!"

Hank sighed and headed to the engine. I'm sure I've had weirder days, but I doubt it.

-E!-

Johnny's jaw dropped as they approached the scene. "I see it, but I don't…"

"Believe it," Roy supplied. "Well, this is one for the books."

Johnny reached for the mike. "Uh, Cap… we have a bit of a … situation here."

"Would you care to elaborate on that?" came their captain's acid response.

"Uh… it's an MVA all right… there are three…" he was interrupted by the sound of grinding metal and tinkling glass, "… correction, four vehicles involved. Cap, there's a truck at the intersection with mirrors, and it's flashing light into the eyes of drivers in both directions." He winced as another vehicle crashed into the conga line of damaged vehicles.

"LA, this is Station 51, Respond police to our location. Station 16, approach from East Wardlow. We'll need all the salvage covers you've got." Hank turned to his engineer. "Mike, park it crossways – we've got to stop anyone else from approaching. Chet, Marco, take all our salvage covers and get those mirrors covered."

"You got it, Cap!" they acknowledged.

Hank picked up the HT. "HT 51 to Squad 51. Let me know if you need any help with the victims. Right now, we gotta get those mirrors covered before anyone else gets involved."

"Squad 51," Johnny acknowledged. He scooped up the biophone and the drugbox; Roy took the trauma box and a prybar.

Johnny pointed. "Look, you start from the two last cars, I'll assess the guy in the mirror truck, and then the driver of the ice cream truck. We can meet somewhere in the middle, to contact Rampart."

"Works for me," Roy acknowledged, grabbing the spare HT. "Call me if you need me."

"Likewise," Johnny said as he hurried to the first of the smashed vehicles.

-E!-

"Nice of that guy to give us so much ice cream," Johnny said as they backed into the station.

"Yeah. Smart of Mike to think of rigging the splint box with the leftover dry ice from that other truck. How many vehicles were involved by the time we were done?"

Johnny groaned. "I think there were eleven, altogether. But at least nobody was seriously injured, and I still don't believe that. I guess it was the fact that they all hit at such crazy angles."

"Well, I've had enough of this day. And we still have to finish writing up the logbook, to boot."

"Hey, at least we have lots of ice cream for dessert."

Roy wagged his finger. "Uh-uh. No dessert for you until you unhypnotize Chet."

Johnny folded his arms on the dashboard and leaned his forehead against his crossed wrists. "You had to go and ruin the mood, didn't you?"

Roy looked smug. "What are partners for, if not to keep everything grounded?" He looked at his notes for the day, then started to laugh. "This day really has been about bells and whistles, smoke and mirrors."

Johnny sighed, got out of the squad and stretched, then made his way to the day room.

"Okay, Chet, let's get this going…" he began, then stopped short. Roy, right behind him, bumped into him.

"What?" he asked, then looked at the scene before him.

Chet was seated at the table, his eyes closed, as the Great Mesmerlin whispered softly to him.

"One… you're at peace, and no longer feel the compulsion to dance… Two… your eyelids are getting lighter and lighter…. Three, you are awake!" he pronounced.

Chet blinked, then reached up to rub at his eyes. "Did it work?" he asked, his voice wary.

"I guess we'll have to wait and see," Mesmerlin replied. "And now, gentlemen, I really must be going. I hope you all have a magical night!"

"I'll walk you out," Mike offered quickly, before anyone else could. He managed to keep a straight face until they were at his cousin's vehicle. Then he lost it, and leaned on the roof of Allen's car, laughter wracking his thin frame. "Oh, you were brilliant. Well done!"

"Hah – I could never hold a candle to you when it came to the deception part… I guess that's why I'm so overly flamboyant when I'm on stage. Have you actually seen the ridiculous getup I have to wear?" Mesmerlin asked, cringing in embarrassment.

Mike took a deep breath. "Hey, we were watching the rebroadcast of your appearance on that variety show the other night. That's what actually started this whole farce in the first place."

"Well, I'm glad that our mentor never had to see that… I really do prefer the hypnotherapy, but it doesn't pay nearly as well as my 'guest' appearances do. Still, I guess we've all got a bit of showmanship in us, or we'd never have become illusionists in the first place."

Mike extended his hand to his cousin, glancing back at the station. Sure enough, Chet was watching and nodding. "Heh – got any firecrackers in your pockets?"

Allen gave him a sly grin. "I'm insulted that you think I'd show up for a gig without one of the very basic pieces of ammunition."

"How about a little 'flash' for Chet? He's unknowingly given me one of the funniest shifts of my life, and you could 'disappear' your car for him."

"It's a deal. Tell Auntie Vi that we'll do our usual show for the kidlets next month. After all, what would a birthday party be without a duelling magical act?" Allen asked. "Hey, is he still watching?"

Mike nodded. "Go for it." He stepped back, gave a whimsical nonsensical gesture meant to look like magic to the uninitiated, clapped his hands sharply and stretched out his arms to their fullest extent.

Allen, aka the Great Mesmerlin, tossed a handful of firecrackers on the ground, and 'disappeared' in the resulting bright flash of light.

Mike turned and walked back to the station, whistling "Do you believe in magic?" just loudly enough to bring a smile to Chet's face.

FIN

Author's notes: I blatantly stole from real life for one of the rescues – my own. Nearly thirteen years ago, while I was a volunteer Medical First Responder, I was involved in a near-fatal bicycle accident which pretty much destroyed my right leg, leaving me in a wheelchair for seven months. A friend, who was riding with me, ended up crashing into me after I'd wiped out, and it was because I was able to focus on his injuries instead of my own that I was able to delay the shock until they reduced the ankle dislocation in the hospital. It's truly amazing how adrenaline will help you get through something like that – not to mention the help and support of family and friends. After a follow-up with my third orthopaedic surgeon six years ago, and being on a waiting list for some five years, I've been back in physiotherapy for the ankle for the past two months, and as I've been pushing for more strength and flexibility, I've been reliving that accident over and over in all its glorious (and gory) details – and by far the worst part was when they relocated the ankle (which will forever be my frame of reference for 'ten out of ten' on the pain scale).