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66 - "It seems to me you're doing excellently without any assistance." - 'It Happened One Night'
I ran into one of the Watchers' operatives during the months after Sunnydale and before Los Angeles. I've never been entirely sure what the man was doing in that highly disreputable bar on the edge of Laughlin, Nevada, but the moment I realised just who he was, I was already in far more trouble than I could handle.
The end of my tenure with the Council came abruptly and with little fanfare and, as far as I'm concerned, even less courtesy and sympathy. A typed letter with a rubber stamp signature informed me that given my refusal to follow Council edicts and at the least to return to England, I was being dismissed. Honestly, I knew it was coming and had no qualms about ending my association with them.
Thus began my short-lived, if highly informative, career as a rogue demon hunter.
Having already tasted the satisfaction of doing good for those in need-- I cleared out a restaurant's infestation of mischievous pixies in Tucson and tracked down a pair of mysterious produce thieves in Bakersfield (all right, those turned out to be a couple of local teenagers, but the check in the win column stands)-- I knew that I had discovered my true calling.
So, once my travels brought me to the purportedly just-as-exciting-as-Las Vegas city of Laughlin, I was delighted to find myself in a demon bar, next to an especially odiferous Rinner demon who was bragging loudly about his plans to crash a bus full of retirees for dinner.
In retrospect, I suppose the combination of demons, alcohol and it being a dive bar should have immediately equaled "uncontrolled donnybrook" in my mind.
Scrambling out of the way of more than a few hooves and talons, I spotted the operative calmly still seated in his booth, sipping quietly at a gin and tonic.
"A little help?" I asked the man.
"It seems to me you're doing excellently without any assistance, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce," he said, laughing. The operative set down his drink and walked out.
I followed not long after, but via the quicker path of being bodily thrown out the door.
(354)
I ran into one of the Watchers' operatives during the months after Sunnydale and before Los Angeles. I've never been entirely sure what the man was doing in that highly disreputable bar on the edge of Laughlin, Nevada, but the moment I realised just who he was, I was already in far more trouble than I could handle.
The end of my tenure with the Council came abruptly and with little fanfare and, as far as I'm concerned, even less courtesy and sympathy. A typed letter with a rubber stamp signature informed me that given my refusal to follow Council edicts and at the least to return to England, I was being dismissed. Honestly, I knew it was coming and had no qualms about ending my association with them.
Thus began my short-lived, if highly informative, career as a rogue demon hunter.
Having already tasted the satisfaction of doing good for those in need-- I cleared out a restaurant's infestation of mischievous pixies in Tucson and tracked down a pair of mysterious produce thieves in Bakersfield (all right, those turned out to be a couple of local teenagers, but the check in the win column stands)-- I knew that I had discovered my true calling.
So, once my travels brought me to the purportedly just-as-exciting-as-Las Vegas city of Laughlin, I was delighted to find myself in a demon bar, next to an especially odiferous Rinner demon who was bragging loudly about his plans to crash a bus full of retirees for dinner.
In retrospect, I suppose the combination of demons, alcohol and it being a dive bar should have immediately equaled "uncontrolled donnybrook" in my mind.
Scrambling out of the way of more than a few hooves and talons, I spotted the operative calmly still seated in his booth, sipping quietly at a gin and tonic.
"A little help?" I asked the man.
"It seems to me you're doing excellently without any assistance, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce," he said, laughing. The operative set down his drink and walked out.
I followed not long after, but via the quicker path of being bodily thrown out the door.
(354)
