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gen_storytellerTITLE: The Sorrowful Tale of Miss Kitty Fantastico - Ch.4:
Characters: Spike,Dawn,Clem
Summary: Buffy is dead and Dawn’s fifteenth birthday is coming up. A penniless Spike wants to get her the greatest present ever. It proves to be harder than he expected. He encounters kittens, and Clem and nosehairs and learns some valuable lessons about life.
Rating: PG for swearing
Warnings/Notes: A Sunnydale version of a Victorian Morality Play. Inspired by Kipling’s ‘Just So’ stories and served with a side dish of Dr. Seuss. A mixture of humor, angst, and reflection upon the foibles of a vampire who wants to be a good man.
We meet Mr. Clem and the mysterious Ph'ulup'thhButt.
TSTOMKF 4
Mr. Spike, contrary to what his detractors would have you believe, was quite capable of envisioning a plan. There might be some truth to the contention that he was less successful in bringing them to fruition - his nature was too impulsive, his patience too thin, his temper too great. He found it quite painless to keep himself centered when there was physical challenge, enjoying hard labor, finding great joy in smashing obstacles, and relishing the opportunity to direct others to his end.
He was possessed as well with a great deal of intuition that allowed him to make leaps in logic, bringing him to the prize while others were still plodding through the maze. However, should there occur a period of inactivity, impulse would drive him to act unwisely, make him rush the prey before its capture was secure.
Similarly, if he faced obstacles that could not be overcome by means of physical action his temper would fray and he would weary himself with useless violence or abandon his plan altogether. If his plotting required long hours of research or keen, mental strategy his interest would dwindle and he would often cede through sheer boredom. Despite these natural tendencies, if the prize were large enough, Mr. Spike would sink his jaws into the thing, like a very pit bull, refusing to be pried loose until his purpose was accomplished. He would wait patiently, research diligently and strategize. At no time was Mr. Spike more tenacious than when he sought something for someone he loved.
And so, even after such a prodigious meal as he had just enjoyed, he was unable to rest for long. Having conceived of his plan, he could not be at ease while any portion of it remained undone, but must devote all his energies to its completion. Still there were details that must be seen to before he could launch into his endeavor.
Mr. Spike draped the kitten into position on one arm, as though she were an ornament to be hung from a tree, and he hefted the box in the other. The kitten was sleeping in that boneless fashion that is available only to kittens and puppies. Her head flopped over his arm, her features lax with contentment. One rear leg, jutting forth rigidly as though it were the prow of a ship rather than a kitten's leg, stretched out onto Mr. Spike's chest, while the majority of her form became shapeless, conforming to the fold between his arm and side.
Mr. Spike was not far from his crypt and it was to this place that he first visited. He paused before entering and placed the kitten on the ground so she could tend to that business imperative to all living beings who have ingested quantities of food. He noted that perhaps cold milk had caused a degree of indigestion, and was struck with the thought that he would need a few items if the kitten were to be sharing his home for any length of time. He entered the crypt only long enough to put the box of canned goods aside, and then retrieving the kitten, he was off to his next destination.
He wended his way to that place known to one and all as the 'Fish Tank' - home to demon bad-fellowship, liquid ingurgitation suitable to beings of all kinds, and an ever-present and on-going poker game.
Now let it be made known to our readers that not two days past, Mr. Spike had been most rudely and abruptly ejected when he attempted ingress to this place of business. Though no longer indebted to any, his debts were well remembered and he was tendered less latitude than any other among the demon community. A clash between science and magic - in the form of a 'chip' nestled in the fabric of his brain - followed by Mr. Spike's curious decision to go to none other than the Slayer for help, had resulted in making him something of a pariah among the other demons. He had no reason to presume he would be allowed into the bar other than his own stubborn conviction that it would be so.
Even with his fiercely held belief, Mr. Spike was surprised at the ease with which he wandered to the back room. Other than a measured and doleful glare from b'Huh the bartender, he was given no impediment to his progress. This gave him doubt, whereas harsh words and flying fists would have been met with disdain. He halted in front of the door, squared his shoulders, and considered the possibilities.
Could he be walking into an ambush? He had made no new enemies that he was aware of.
Could there be some malicious activity occurring, not directed towards him, but in which none would object to his fatal inclusion?
A thought struck Mr. Spike, tearing through his mind as though it were a bullet fired from a gun, and his hand shot to his head in dismay. He had not tidied his appearance since preparing himself to beg at 'The Wild Bill Hickory-OX Café'! He had just sauntered into the 'Fish Tank' with a head covered in lopsided poodle, in disarray like a homeless stray. Thoughts ricocheted with wild and deadly force through his head. Perhaps this explained his ease of entry, perhaps he had not been recognized, perhaps he would not be hearing about this for the rest of his unnatural life. Another explanation came to his mind, and we must admit that we think it the more likely, that b'Huh was probably at this very moment jiggling with laughter, jesting with his patrons over the depths to which Mr. Spike had fallen. Probably he had been allowed entry so that more within could see his shame.
"Straight through, Spike. Just walk in like nothin's the matter and see it straight through." He muttered under his breath, mind whirling. He could disarm this situation. He could. He just needed to think it through a bit. Nothing came to mind, however, save the old tried and true.
"If anyone so much as smirks I'll rip their eyeballs out and shove 'em so far down their throat they'll pop out their backside. Won't be anyone laughin' after that."
Feeling himself fortified upon reaching this conclusion, he took a deep breath and strode with confidence into the back room, glaring with only half-mocked fury at the hapless poker players who sat within.
Mr. Clem, M'wouf, OwOwt - these players were no strangers to Mr. Spike. They knew him well, and if any were inclined to think less of him because of his appearance or find any humor therein, well... let us just say that they found their cards suddenly all the more interesting and they were suddenly much happier with the hands they held. No one spoke, though many throats were cleared and a cough seemed to move through the group.
There was one exception, however, a stranger to Mr. Spike. The Phlemah'k demon waved (her)his luxuriant crop of nose hairs in merriment.
"Who let the dog back here? I thought only cats were allowed!" Honk! Honk! (s)he blew in laughter, totally unaware that (her)his third incarnation was about to be rudely terminated because (s)he had neither eyes nor a backside through which they could be shoved.
Ph'ulup'thhButt - for such was the Phlemah'k's nest denomination - had of course just confirmed Mr. Spike's very worst fears. His self-vaunted image as the Big Bad had taken a palpable hit. His entire reputation within the demon world could hinge on the very actions he now took. His fears were possibly somewhat exaggerated but, then again, it is very possible that they were not.
On the instant, his face was completely empty of expression and he made no movement. Still he managed to convey the absolute essence of menace, an air of ferocity so keen that none within the room doubted - should Ph'ulup'thhButt continue to laugh - he would rip the demon's head from (her)his shoulders, boot the body to the far side of the room, and take (her)his winnings, all within the time it took from one blink of the eye to the next. None within the room doubted, that is, save Ph'ulup'thhButt. (S)he was too caught up in (her)his merriment to realize how close to third death (s)he was.
Mr. Spike moved, so swiftly that he could barely be seen, leaving his place near the door and crossing to the table opposite from Ph'ulup'thhButt. He dropped the kitten with exaggerated gentleness, then leaned over until he was but mere inches away. Anger resulted in the eruption of Mr. Spike's vampiric face, his violently swirling eyes and his vicious, jagged teeth snapping into place. Ph'ulup'thhButt startled at this confrontation, (her)his back arched, perhaps to draw away from Mr. Spike, perhaps in an agony of fear, perhaps because Mr. Spike had grabbed (her)his nose hairs and was pulling them with all his strength.
"What was that about a dog?"
Ph'ulup'thhButt honked in a cacophony of fear and anger, unable at first to form words, then choking out the syllables. "No... Dogs... Here!"
Mr. Clem, a demon whose affable nature made him a natural arbiter among hostile associates, bared ferocious fangs in what was somehow a friendly smile and threw his arms wide to draw attention to himself.
"Hey! No dogs in here. No dogs at all. I think we can all agree to that."
Ph'ulup'thhButt might have shaken her/head in vigorous agreement were it not bowed low in an attempt to alleviate the agony caused by Mr. Spike's fierce grip. As it was (s)he contented her/himself with a moan, "No-o-o-o-oh Do-o-hgs!"
Mr. Spike was satisfied. It is entirely possible that he might have even felt a touch of smugness for we must admit he was not beyond such petty things. Whether or not he had reason to feel smug, it was not unreasonable of him to feel he had proven that - even though he might look like a fool - he was a 'dangerous' fool. He considered pursuing his action to an even more satisfying and therefore more violent end but decided to attend to more important business and he released Ph'ulup'thhButt's nose hairs. His anger quite abruptly forgotten, he turned to Mr. Clem.
"You still scouting out likely kittens for those cat worshipping demons? The ones that wanted me to steal Miss Kitty?"
Characters: Spike,Dawn,Clem
Summary: Buffy is dead and Dawn’s fifteenth birthday is coming up. A penniless Spike wants to get her the greatest present ever. It proves to be harder than he expected. He encounters kittens, and Clem and nosehairs and learns some valuable lessons about life.
Rating: PG for swearing
Warnings/Notes: A Sunnydale version of a Victorian Morality Play. Inspired by Kipling’s ‘Just So’ stories and served with a side dish of Dr. Seuss. A mixture of humor, angst, and reflection upon the foibles of a vampire who wants to be a good man.
We meet Mr. Clem and the mysterious Ph'ulup'thhButt.
TSTOMKF 4
Mr. Spike, contrary to what his detractors would have you believe, was quite capable of envisioning a plan. There might be some truth to the contention that he was less successful in bringing them to fruition - his nature was too impulsive, his patience too thin, his temper too great. He found it quite painless to keep himself centered when there was physical challenge, enjoying hard labor, finding great joy in smashing obstacles, and relishing the opportunity to direct others to his end.
He was possessed as well with a great deal of intuition that allowed him to make leaps in logic, bringing him to the prize while others were still plodding through the maze. However, should there occur a period of inactivity, impulse would drive him to act unwisely, make him rush the prey before its capture was secure.
Similarly, if he faced obstacles that could not be overcome by means of physical action his temper would fray and he would weary himself with useless violence or abandon his plan altogether. If his plotting required long hours of research or keen, mental strategy his interest would dwindle and he would often cede through sheer boredom. Despite these natural tendencies, if the prize were large enough, Mr. Spike would sink his jaws into the thing, like a very pit bull, refusing to be pried loose until his purpose was accomplished. He would wait patiently, research diligently and strategize. At no time was Mr. Spike more tenacious than when he sought something for someone he loved.
And so, even after such a prodigious meal as he had just enjoyed, he was unable to rest for long. Having conceived of his plan, he could not be at ease while any portion of it remained undone, but must devote all his energies to its completion. Still there were details that must be seen to before he could launch into his endeavor.
Mr. Spike draped the kitten into position on one arm, as though she were an ornament to be hung from a tree, and he hefted the box in the other. The kitten was sleeping in that boneless fashion that is available only to kittens and puppies. Her head flopped over his arm, her features lax with contentment. One rear leg, jutting forth rigidly as though it were the prow of a ship rather than a kitten's leg, stretched out onto Mr. Spike's chest, while the majority of her form became shapeless, conforming to the fold between his arm and side.
Mr. Spike was not far from his crypt and it was to this place that he first visited. He paused before entering and placed the kitten on the ground so she could tend to that business imperative to all living beings who have ingested quantities of food. He noted that perhaps cold milk had caused a degree of indigestion, and was struck with the thought that he would need a few items if the kitten were to be sharing his home for any length of time. He entered the crypt only long enough to put the box of canned goods aside, and then retrieving the kitten, he was off to his next destination.
He wended his way to that place known to one and all as the 'Fish Tank' - home to demon bad-fellowship, liquid ingurgitation suitable to beings of all kinds, and an ever-present and on-going poker game.
Now let it be made known to our readers that not two days past, Mr. Spike had been most rudely and abruptly ejected when he attempted ingress to this place of business. Though no longer indebted to any, his debts were well remembered and he was tendered less latitude than any other among the demon community. A clash between science and magic - in the form of a 'chip' nestled in the fabric of his brain - followed by Mr. Spike's curious decision to go to none other than the Slayer for help, had resulted in making him something of a pariah among the other demons. He had no reason to presume he would be allowed into the bar other than his own stubborn conviction that it would be so.
Even with his fiercely held belief, Mr. Spike was surprised at the ease with which he wandered to the back room. Other than a measured and doleful glare from b'Huh the bartender, he was given no impediment to his progress. This gave him doubt, whereas harsh words and flying fists would have been met with disdain. He halted in front of the door, squared his shoulders, and considered the possibilities.
Could he be walking into an ambush? He had made no new enemies that he was aware of.
Could there be some malicious activity occurring, not directed towards him, but in which none would object to his fatal inclusion?
A thought struck Mr. Spike, tearing through his mind as though it were a bullet fired from a gun, and his hand shot to his head in dismay. He had not tidied his appearance since preparing himself to beg at 'The Wild Bill Hickory-OX Café'! He had just sauntered into the 'Fish Tank' with a head covered in lopsided poodle, in disarray like a homeless stray. Thoughts ricocheted with wild and deadly force through his head. Perhaps this explained his ease of entry, perhaps he had not been recognized, perhaps he would not be hearing about this for the rest of his unnatural life. Another explanation came to his mind, and we must admit that we think it the more likely, that b'Huh was probably at this very moment jiggling with laughter, jesting with his patrons over the depths to which Mr. Spike had fallen. Probably he had been allowed entry so that more within could see his shame.
"Straight through, Spike. Just walk in like nothin's the matter and see it straight through." He muttered under his breath, mind whirling. He could disarm this situation. He could. He just needed to think it through a bit. Nothing came to mind, however, save the old tried and true.
"If anyone so much as smirks I'll rip their eyeballs out and shove 'em so far down their throat they'll pop out their backside. Won't be anyone laughin' after that."
Feeling himself fortified upon reaching this conclusion, he took a deep breath and strode with confidence into the back room, glaring with only half-mocked fury at the hapless poker players who sat within.
Mr. Clem, M'wouf, OwOwt - these players were no strangers to Mr. Spike. They knew him well, and if any were inclined to think less of him because of his appearance or find any humor therein, well... let us just say that they found their cards suddenly all the more interesting and they were suddenly much happier with the hands they held. No one spoke, though many throats were cleared and a cough seemed to move through the group.
There was one exception, however, a stranger to Mr. Spike. The Phlemah'k demon waved (her)his luxuriant crop of nose hairs in merriment.
"Who let the dog back here? I thought only cats were allowed!" Honk! Honk! (s)he blew in laughter, totally unaware that (her)his third incarnation was about to be rudely terminated because (s)he had neither eyes nor a backside through which they could be shoved.
Ph'ulup'thhButt - for such was the Phlemah'k's nest denomination - had of course just confirmed Mr. Spike's very worst fears. His self-vaunted image as the Big Bad had taken a palpable hit. His entire reputation within the demon world could hinge on the very actions he now took. His fears were possibly somewhat exaggerated but, then again, it is very possible that they were not.
On the instant, his face was completely empty of expression and he made no movement. Still he managed to convey the absolute essence of menace, an air of ferocity so keen that none within the room doubted - should Ph'ulup'thhButt continue to laugh - he would rip the demon's head from (her)his shoulders, boot the body to the far side of the room, and take (her)his winnings, all within the time it took from one blink of the eye to the next. None within the room doubted, that is, save Ph'ulup'thhButt. (S)he was too caught up in (her)his merriment to realize how close to third death (s)he was.
Mr. Spike moved, so swiftly that he could barely be seen, leaving his place near the door and crossing to the table opposite from Ph'ulup'thhButt. He dropped the kitten with exaggerated gentleness, then leaned over until he was but mere inches away. Anger resulted in the eruption of Mr. Spike's vampiric face, his violently swirling eyes and his vicious, jagged teeth snapping into place. Ph'ulup'thhButt startled at this confrontation, (her)his back arched, perhaps to draw away from Mr. Spike, perhaps in an agony of fear, perhaps because Mr. Spike had grabbed (her)his nose hairs and was pulling them with all his strength.
"What was that about a dog?"
Ph'ulup'thhButt honked in a cacophony of fear and anger, unable at first to form words, then choking out the syllables. "No... Dogs... Here!"
Mr. Clem, a demon whose affable nature made him a natural arbiter among hostile associates, bared ferocious fangs in what was somehow a friendly smile and threw his arms wide to draw attention to himself.
"Hey! No dogs in here. No dogs at all. I think we can all agree to that."
Ph'ulup'thhButt might have shaken her/head in vigorous agreement were it not bowed low in an attempt to alleviate the agony caused by Mr. Spike's fierce grip. As it was (s)he contented her/himself with a moan, "No-o-o-o-oh Do-o-hgs!"
Mr. Spike was satisfied. It is entirely possible that he might have even felt a touch of smugness for we must admit he was not beyond such petty things. Whether or not he had reason to feel smug, it was not unreasonable of him to feel he had proven that - even though he might look like a fool - he was a 'dangerous' fool. He considered pursuing his action to an even more satisfying and therefore more violent end but decided to attend to more important business and he released Ph'ulup'thhButt's nose hairs. His anger quite abruptly forgotten, he turned to Mr. Clem.
"You still scouting out likely kittens for those cat worshipping demons? The ones that wanted me to steal Miss Kitty?"
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no subject
Date: 2007-01-31 02:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-01 12:05 am (UTC)Oh, boy!
Date: 2007-01-31 11:39 pm (UTC)Re: Oh, boy!
Date: 2007-02-01 12:07 am (UTC)(sidebar: What is an ilk, anyways? The phrase brings me images of people wandering about with a proud spread of antlers...but that's just me).
Will I be seeing some of your stories?
Re: Oh, boy!
Date: 2007-02-01 09:37 am (UTC)Those crazy middle Englishers:
"WORD HISTORY When one uses ilk, as in the phrase men of his ilk, one is using a word with an ancient pedigree even though the sense of ilk, “kind or sort,” is actually quite recent, having been first recorded at the end of the 18th century. This sense grew out of an older use of ilk in the phrase of that ilk, meaning “of the same place, territorial designation, or name.” This phrase was used chiefly in names of landed families, Guthrie of that ilk meaning “Guthrie of Guthrie.” “Same” is the fundamental meaning of the word. The ancestors of ilk, Old English ilca and Middle English ilke, were common words, usually appearing with such words as the or that, but the word hardly survived the Middle Ages in those uses."
Re: Oh, boy!
Date: 2007-02-02 12:16 am (UTC)Life is full of disappointments.
disappointments
Date: 2007-02-02 03:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-01 12:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-01 01:30 am (UTC)You'll have to tell me whether the ending was happy or not! I like to come up with endings where it depends on the reader.