"Open the door, babe!" ordered Sabretooth. The singer supposed that she really should open the damn door. Otherwise he would only break it down. With a sigh Dannell complied.

"Do ya'll have ANY idea what time it is?" she hissed. Creed ignored her, as usual and pushed past her to fling himself down on her much abused sofa with a black scowl. Tapping her foot in annoyance, Dannell lifted an eyebrow at her sometimes lover.

"And to what do Ah owe the honor of this visit?" she inquired sweetly. "Mystique busy, is she?" Dannell flung one hand up in negation. "No, don't tell me ... Ya'll want my opinion on John Paul Sarte and existentialism and it just couldn't wait until the morning." Creed glowered, darkly.

"I *hate* modern armies!" he sneered with a curl of his lip. "Spineless bunch o' worms marching in neat little rows crawling around in the dirt keeping their heads down! Where's the fun in that? No Glory! No challenge to it at all. Guns are fer wimps." Dannell sighed. He was plainly angry about *something*, but what?

"Can Ah expect a news bulletin anytime soon vis a vis whatever it is that seems to have honked ya'll off *this* time?" she inquired, keeping her voice carefully droll.

"Here!" he snarled, thrusting a plain white very official looking envelope under her nose. "Read *this*!" Angrily, Dannell snatched the letter from his hand.

The belle ignored the many stains on the once pristine envelope. Holding the letter by one clean edge Dannell avoided the legion of sticky fingerprints clinging to the crumpled surface. She did pause for an instant to wonder if the many unidentifiable stains could be chocolate or blood. It was hard to tell with Vic. He was rather addicted to both. Noticing the postmark, the singer rolled her eyes.

"Vic Sugah, this is postmarked two weeks ago! Falling a little behind in our correspondence, are we?" Sabretooth crossed his arms over his massive chest and sulked.

"I was BUSY!" he snapped. "Why do people send me mail anyway?" he fumed. "Everybody knows I don't read!"

"Riiiiiight" said Dannell and began to read.

"Dear Citizen", it began

"Greeting from the government of Canada! This is to officially notify you that you are to report to the office of Dr. Walter Langkowski on December 23, 1998 for registration, medical exam and other testing pursuant to your induction into the Canadian Army.

Merry Christmas!

Thanking you in advance for your compliance with the law,

Ian MacAllister Secretary Of The Army"

Dannell looked up, dumbfounded.

"I been drafted!" Sabretooth spat.

************************************************************************************** At The Doctor's Office

Sabretooth regarded Nurse Meagan Kinross out of two baleful blue eyes and sneered.

"You want *what*?" he demanded.

"Sperm," said the mutant nurse, firmly. "We need a sperm sample." With a flourish she handed the operative a specimen collection cup. Sabretooth inspected the small container from all angles and handed it back.

"Ain't big enough," he grinned. "Got anything in a larger size?" Without even cracking a smile the tall redhead reached for a large Erlenmeyer flask and handed it wordlessly to the huge man. Trying again, Creed leaned forward within inches of Meagan's face.

"I can think of a better container, pretty ..." he leered.

The nurse's eyes glowed red for an instant and Sabretooth could have sworn he saw the beginnings of fangs tipple the corner of her lush lips. She pointed toward the bathroom door.

"Go!" she hissed. The killer hissed back but moved toward the door.

"Muties," he muttered, "no sense of of humor ..."

************************************************************************************** The IQ Test

Chewing the rubber of his #2 pencil thoughtfully, Victor Creed began to read.

"If Billy has three apples and trades one to Johnny for two oranges but then trades one of the oranges to Rick for a pear and a peach how many of each fruit does Billy have?"

Sabretooth considered the question for a moment, then smiled.

"None" he wrote. "Rick whacks Billy and takes his two apples, one orange, his pear and his peach, plus his new skateboard ..."

With a gay air he continued on to the next question:

"Decline the verb to be," said the instructions. "Be specific." Creed licked the end of his pencil and began.

"*is* dead * has been* dead *will be* dead as soon as I get around to it"

"Who was Ghengis Khan?" it asked next. Sabretooth snorted and answered the question truthfully.

"Timujin was a wimp," he informed them, "and his daughters were lousy lays. Great screamers though!"

************************************************************************************** The Minnesota Multiple Personality Index Test

"Do you hear voices?" asked the test. "No, I'm deaf ..." grinned Creed and put a check mark in the "yes" box.

"Are people out to get you?" it inquired next. The operative considered his current legal status. Wanted on four continents. With a chortle he again checked the "yes" box. "But I usually get them first," he observed cheerfully.

"Describe one of your sexual fantasies." the test requested. Unrolling a much abused "Supergirl" comic book from his back pocket, the big man made smooching noises at the mini-skirted heroine and waggled his tongue.

"Supergirl," he wrote enthusiastically, "what a babe!! I'm gonna capture her, chain her to a bed with chocolate smeared all over her body and then I'm gonna lick it off. But first I need that little twerp Leo di Caprio as bait ... Here Leo ... Here Leo ... "

"Does anything keep you from fulfilling your fantasy?" it wanted to know.

"Hey!" wrote Creed with a flourish, "Have *you* ever tried to find kryptonite chains?? Got a hot lead in Addis Ababa, though!"

************************************************************************************** "Well, Home Director, this is a proper ball's up, now isn't it?" said an annoyed Ian MacAllister, stiffly.

"I'm afraid so," admitted a somewhat abashed Paul Graeves. "Not to worry, Assistant Director, my office will have this imbroglio cleared up in a trice." MacAllister frowned and nodded.

"I certainly hope so," returned The Assistant Director with asperity. "Dealing as it does with the Army, this problem definitely falls in your bailiwick, Home Office Director! Under NO circumstances is Victor Creed to be actually drafted into the Army, is that understood? The Prime Minister was firm about that. We have enough trouble with those bloody Gamma and Omega Flight cretins; we don't need that giant mutant pain in the arse causing more trouble."

"Understood, Sir," said Graeves, smiling confidently.

************************************************************************************** Paul Graeves stabbed at the intercom button of his phone angrily. "Casement!" he shouted for his Assistant, "get IN here! NOW!"

In a fit of pique, the Canadian politico tossed his latest case folder onto the other side of his desk. Damned vultures! Some blithering idiot makes a clerical error and who gets the thankless job of pulling the national leaders' delicate barks from the fire? Good to see you Paul old chap, how have you been; and by the bloody way here's a little job we need you to take care of for us! Bloody hell! The Home Office Director groaned. And of course, naturally, what else, it just HAD to involve Sabretooth, didn't it? Not the most tractable of people, Sabretooth.

Dominic Casement stuck his perfectly barbered head through the door. "You shrieked, Director?" he drawled. Graeves frowned and gestured the civil servant impatiently forward.

"Read that," Graeves indicated the folder lying before Casement. With a sigh, the assistant gathered up the enclosed documents and began to quickly peruse them. His superior watched in irritation as a large smile of amusement began to spread over those aquiline features. Graeves often suspected that Casement took secret joy in seeing him put on the spot, attempting to wriggle his way out of one crisis after another. This was a most unwelcome reminder of those never confirmed suspicions. Almost before he could credit it's existence the smile was gone.

"Bit of a sticky wicket, Sir," Casement observed smoothly. "I assume that the Army Admin admitting to a mistake is out of the question ...?"

"Completely," agreed the politician with a shake of his graying head.. "Surprised that you had to ask, old boy. What good would it do, in any case?"

"Well, it *would* solve the problem," Casement reflected wistfully but without any real hope.

"No need for extreme measure, Casement!" snapped Graeves with an air of reprimand. "That's why Administrations have people like you and I; so that they don't have to admit to their mistakes. I'm certain we can find some other less radical solution to the matter. Come, come man, how hard can it be?" Casement sighed. He *had* tried, after all. No one could deny it.

"Well, then Sir, where shall we begin?" he inquired lightly. The elder man frowned thoughtfully.

"Actually, Casement," he ventured, "I was was hoping *you* might have some thoughts in that direction ... Just how many different reasons are there for excusing a citizen from military service?" Casement pondered.

"He can be excused if he is his parents sole surviving heir," the younger man said. Graeves drummed his fingers impatiently on his desk.

"That bugger is *no one's* son and heir," he sneered. "Mutants don't have families, Casement! Think of something else."

"Yes, Sir," said Dominic. "If I'm not mistaken he can also be excused if he's a student or is a worker in a vital war related industry ... " began the Assistant. Graeves cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"Sabretooth failed Working And Playing Nicely With Others in kindergarten and hasn't been back to school since. And as for employment, I hardly think that marauding killer qualifies as a job vital to the Defense Industry. Try again!" Casement smiled.

"Well, *technically* if not politically correctly, he can be excused if he's a known homosexual ..."

Graeves *looked* at him.

"Moving right along," continued Casement, "that leaves us with only a few options, I'm afraid." Graeves leaned forward hopefully.