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jwaneeta at 10:47pm on 17/10/2003
jwaneeta at 10:47pm on 17/10/2003"Spike," I said patiently," If you hope to make any kind of a go at Watching, you simply must show yourself prompt and obedient at the early phase. Draw a line from the downy goslings who trot all in a row, or those Jesuit lads who get tied to planks and tossed into the Bosphorous, yet never, per instruction, get wet."
Spike's only reply was a distracted smile. No; the distracted smile was for Buffy. I wasn't in the picture.
"Remember when you stopped that sword?" asked Buffy.
"No," smiled Spike, with increased distraction. "Did you know that your lips are like twin roes that graze among the lillies?"
Buffy simpered dreadfully. "Your hands got all cut." She held one up, by way of visual aid."And I never said anything. Poor Spike. My or Spike. Poor, poor --"
"You're not attending," I interjected, for Spike, to judge by his expression, seemed in danger of melting like a worshipful taffy and puddling off his stool onto the floor, "about that game of pool. We must have a bash at it, Spike. That's an order."
"Don't fancy it, thanks."
"You don't need to fancy it, merely obey. I work in mysterious ways my wonders to perform, and this is just a first step to getting us on our road out of this. Take it on faith. I know what I am about. I have spoken. Tempus, as they say, fugits."
"Giles wants something, Spike," supplied Buffy dreamily.
Spike tilted his head as the effort of thought warred with his trance of adoration. "So he does. Wants to order me about, at this time of day. He's in his dotage, poor bug -- poor man." Spike halted and smiled. "We must be kind to him, Buffy."
"Okay," sighed Buffy.
"But -" I said.
"Thou," murmured Spike.
"Spike," whispered Buffy.
"Just a moment," I said.
Buffy spilled over yet again. "I'm sorry I tried to beat you to death by the police station."
"What police station?" asked Spike.
They moved in for the clinch and a bar napkin began to smoke. I snatched at it and smeared it with my shoe, and in the instant of my distraction, Spike and Buffy had fused like silica.
A Watcher is never stymied, and to the state of being thwarted he is a bold stranger. When confronted by a brick wall in the form of two gluey lovers oblivious of heaven, hell and all the combined peril generally attendant thereto, a Watcher of merit merely falls back to sip his vile domestic scotch and ponder.
"Fudo," grinned a hearty sort of chap in a gruesome Budweiser T, slapping the meaty paw abaft my scotch-bearing shoulder.
"Fudo," I replied, as it seemed the thing to say, while trying not to spill.
I'd observed that these mid-western sorts swung a perfectly frenetic shoe after a faceoff with Mother Nature. It brought out the hedonist in the meekest Lutheran son of the soil, all that brushing with thunder and fire and living to tell the tale, and they ganged together after, as a matter of form, to exult in not being in a ditch or several ditches, unable to plant any more corn.
Therefore it seemed perfectly sensible that the bar was packing by the minute and that a stranger should salute me like a brother, however obscurely. That was a lapse on my part, I admit.
The fellow with the meaty paw paused, looking pained for me. "No. I "I am Fudo. Fudo."
"Oh! Sorry!" I offered my hand "Rupert Giles."
Fudo took it, beaming. "I guard the borders of paradise with a flaming sword. I winnow souls like a sieve. My aspect is terrifying, most of the the time."
"Is it really? Well done." I sipped my drink. Over the heads of the gathered I saw the door open and, impossibly, admit more. "Can't be easy for you."
"It has its ups and downs." Fudo glanced past my shoulder and winced. "So that's your boy, hey? Let me buy you a shot."
It seemed perfectly reasonable. One doesn't meet the guardian of paradise every day, and we were waiting for a tow.
"We're waiting for a tow," I told him, several shots later. I had a recollection, as I said it, that I had said it more than once.
Fudo rolled back in his chair, nearly upsetting the tiny table with his considerable thighs. "He'll come. So, what about this shanshu thing? You like it for the long haul?"
I was warmed by his interest. It was delightful to talk shop with someone so keen about the details. The details that everyone else simply ignored, consumed by bad blood, old grudges and foppish minituae.
"Stubborn," I confided. "Rebel complex. Won't have it if we present it as... as something we... won't cooperate if we..."
I lost the thread and knocked my glass off the table, retrieved it with much effort, and surfaced to see Fudo nodding at me wisely.
"You want a light rein with that one," he said. "More!"
A slender golden hand placed a full shot in front of me. Another slender golden hand -- which confused me because it came from an angle disparate with the angle of the previous hand -- placed a frosty bottle of beer next to it.
I watched with considerable fascination as several more hands placed scotch and beer before Fudo, testing the tiny table to capacity.
I looked up into seven of the most perfectly beautiful feminine faces of which the male mind could conceive and felt it was not strange, somehow, that the bodies beneath them were lumpy and clad in flannel.
"Fudo," said one of them, promptingly, from a pair of ruby lips.
Fudo sighed. "May I introduce my dear friends. Haptya, Naptya, Feal, Jaal, Pour, Dahl and Jhari."
I rose. Only the chair fell. I kept my feet. A Watcher holds his liquor and inserts the canny bon mot that makes him the life of any gathering, under all circumstances.
"Hullo," I said.
"Hi," they responded in unison. "We work for the dairy industry. Where's Spike?"
|SITE OUTLINE | NEW | MEMBERS | SEARCH | *
| Attic |Ballroom |Dressing room |Garden |Kitchen |Library |Parlor |Screening Room |Sewing Room |Studio |Wine Cellar |Code of Watchers 7 redux
posted by Cyn on Sat 2003.10.18 at 10:38 pm EST
"Spike," I said patiently," If you hope to make any kind of a go at Watching, you simply must show yourself prompt and obedient at the early phase. Draw a line from the downy goslings who trot all in a row, or those Jesuit lads who get tied to planks and tossed into the Bosphorous, yet never, per instruction, get wet."
Spike's only reply was a distracted smile. The distracted smile was for Buffy. I wasn't in the picture.
"Remember when you stopped that sword?" asked Buffy. "And I never said anything? You were hurt for days."
Spike smiled. "Did you know that your lips are like twin roes that graze among the lillies?"
Buffy's lower lip began to wobble. "Your hands got all cut." She caught one up, pressing it to her heart by way of visual aid."And I never said anything."
"You're not attending," I interjected, for Spike, to judge by his expression, seemed in danger of melting like a worshipful taffy and puddling off his stool onto the floor, "about that game of pool. We must have a bash at it, Spike. That's an order."
"Don't fancy it, thanks."
"You don't need to fancy it, merely obey. I work in mysterious ways my wonders to perform, and this is just a first step to getting us on our road out of this. Take it on faith. I know what I am about. I have spoken. Tempus, as they say, fugits."
"Giles wants something, Spike," supplied Buffy dreamily, lipping -- and only the Council knows what it costs me to record this -- his fingertips.
Spike tilted his head as the effort of thought warred with his trance of adoration. "So he does. Wants to order me about, at this time of day. He's in his dotage, poor bug -- poor man." Spike halted and smiled. "We must be kind to him, Buffy."
"Okay," sighed Buffy.
"Here -" I said.
"Thou," murmured Spike.
"Spike," whispered Buffy.
"Just a moment," I said.
Buffy's eyes spilled over yet again. "I'm sorry I tried to beat you to death by the police station."
"What police station?" asked Spike.
They moved in for the clinch and a bar napkin began to smoke. I snatched at it and smeared it with my shoe, and in the instant of my distraction, Spike and Buffy had fused like silica.
A Watcher is never stymied, and to the state of being thwarted he is a bold stranger. When confronted by a brick wall in the form of two gluey lovers oblivious of heaven, hell and all the combined peril generally attendant thereto, a Watcher of merit merely falls back to sip his vile domestic scotch and ponder.
And thus I did.
"Fudo," grinned a hearty sort of chap in a gruesome Budweiser T, slapping the meaty paw abaft my scotch-bearing shoulder.
"Fudo," I replied, as it seemed the thing to say, while trying not to spill.
I'd observed that these mid-western sorts swung a perfectly frenetic shoe after a faceoff with Mother Nature. It brought out the hedonist in the meekest Lutheran son of the soil, all that brushing with thunder and fire and living to tell the tale, and they ganged together after, as a matter of form, to exult in not being in a ditch or several ditches, unable to plant any more corn.
Therefore it seemed perfectly sensible that the bar was packing by the minute and that a stranger should salute me like a brother, however obscurely. That was a lapse on my part, I admit.
The fellow with the meaty paw paused, looking pained for me. "No. I am Fudo. Fudo."
"Oh! Sorry!" I offered my hand "Rupert Giles."
Fudo took it, beaming. "I guard the borders of paradise with a flaming sword. I winnow souls like a sieve. My aspect is terrifying, lacerating, combustive and fatal, most of the the time."
"Is it really? Well done." I sipped my drink. Over the heads of the gathered I saw the door open and, impossibly, admit more. "Can't be easy for you."
"It has its ups and downs." Fudo glanced past my shoulder and winced. "So that's your boy, hey? Let me buy you a shot."
It seemed perfectly reasonable. One doesn't meet the guardian of paradise every day, and we were waiting for a tow.
"We're waiting for a tow," I told him, several shots later. I had a recollection, as I said it, that I had said it more than once.
Fudo rolled back in his chair, nearly upsetting the tiny table with his considerable thighs. "He'll come. So, what about this shanshu thing? You like it for the long haul?"
I was warmed by his interest. It was delightful to talk shop with someone so keen about the details. The details that everyone else simply ignored, consumed by bad blood, old grudges and foppish minituae.
"Stubborn," I confided. "Rebel complex. Won't have it if we present it as... as something we... won't cooperate if we..."
I lost the thread and knocked my glass off the table, retrieved it with much effort, and surfaced to see Fudo nodding at me wisely.
"You want a light rein with that one," he said. "More!"
A slender golden hand placed a full shot in front of me. Another slender golden hand -- which confused me because it came from an angle disparate with the angle of the previous hand -- placed a frosty bottle of beer next to it. I watched with considerable fascination as several more hands placed scotch and beer before Fudo, testing the tiny table to capacity.
Having done that, I looked up into seven of the most perfectly beautiful feminine faces of which the male mind could conceive and felt it was not strange, somehow, that the bodies beneath them were lumpy and clad in flannel.
"Fudo," said one of them, promptingly, from a pair of ruby lips.
Fudo sighed. "May I introduce my dear friends. Haptya, Naptya, Feal, Jaal, Pour, Dahl and Jhari."
I rose. Only the chair fell. I kept my feet. A Watcher holds his liquor and inserts the canny bon mot that makes him the life of any gathering, under all circumstances.
"Hullo," I said.
"Hi," they responded in freakish unison. "We're unmarried. We work in the dairy industry. Where's Spike?"
TBC
- Cyn (Sat 2003.10.18 at 10:38 pm EST)
Spike's only reply was a distracted smile. No; the distracted smile was for Buffy. I wasn't in the picture.
"Remember when you stopped that sword?" asked Buffy.
"No," smiled Spike, with increased distraction. "Did you know that your lips are like twin roes that graze among the lillies?"
Buffy simpered dreadfully. "Your hands got all cut." She held one up, by way of visual aid."And I never said anything. Poor Spike. My or Spike. Poor, poor --"
"You're not attending," I interjected, for Spike, to judge by his expression, seemed in danger of melting like a worshipful taffy and puddling off his stool onto the floor, "about that game of pool. We must have a bash at it, Spike. That's an order."
"Don't fancy it, thanks."
"You don't need to fancy it, merely obey. I work in mysterious ways my wonders to perform, and this is just a first step to getting us on our road out of this. Take it on faith. I know what I am about. I have spoken. Tempus, as they say, fugits."
"Giles wants something, Spike," supplied Buffy dreamily.
Spike tilted his head as the effort of thought warred with his trance of adoration. "So he does. Wants to order me about, at this time of day. He's in his dotage, poor bug -- poor man." Spike halted and smiled. "We must be kind to him, Buffy."
"Okay," sighed Buffy.
"But -" I said.
"Thou," murmured Spike.
"Spike," whispered Buffy.
"Just a moment," I said.
Buffy spilled over yet again. "I'm sorry I tried to beat you to death by the police station."
"What police station?" asked Spike.
They moved in for the clinch and a bar napkin began to smoke. I snatched at it and smeared it with my shoe, and in the instant of my distraction, Spike and Buffy had fused like silica.
A Watcher is never stymied, and to the state of being thwarted he is a bold stranger. When confronted by a brick wall in the form of two gluey lovers oblivious of heaven, hell and all the combined peril generally attendant thereto, a Watcher of merit merely falls back to sip his vile domestic scotch and ponder.
"Fudo," grinned a hearty sort of chap in a gruesome Budweiser T, slapping the meaty paw abaft my scotch-bearing shoulder.
"Fudo," I replied, as it seemed the thing to say, while trying not to spill.
I'd observed that these mid-western sorts swung a perfectly frenetic shoe after a faceoff with Mother Nature. It brought out the hedonist in the meekest Lutheran son of the soil, all that brushing with thunder and fire and living to tell the tale, and they ganged together after, as a matter of form, to exult in not being in a ditch or several ditches, unable to plant any more corn.
Therefore it seemed perfectly sensible that the bar was packing by the minute and that a stranger should salute me like a brother, however obscurely. That was a lapse on my part, I admit.
The fellow with the meaty paw paused, looking pained for me. "No. I "I am Fudo. Fudo."
"Oh! Sorry!" I offered my hand "Rupert Giles."
Fudo took it, beaming. "I guard the borders of paradise with a flaming sword. I winnow souls like a sieve. My aspect is terrifying, most of the the time."
"Is it really? Well done." I sipped my drink. Over the heads of the gathered I saw the door open and, impossibly, admit more. "Can't be easy for you."
"It has its ups and downs." Fudo glanced past my shoulder and winced. "So that's your boy, hey? Let me buy you a shot."
It seemed perfectly reasonable. One doesn't meet the guardian of paradise every day, and we were waiting for a tow.
"We're waiting for a tow," I told him, several shots later. I had a recollection, as I said it, that I had said it more than once.
Fudo rolled back in his chair, nearly upsetting the tiny table with his considerable thighs. "He'll come. So, what about this shanshu thing? You like it for the long haul?"
I was warmed by his interest. It was delightful to talk shop with someone so keen about the details. The details that everyone else simply ignored, consumed by bad blood, old grudges and foppish minituae.
"Stubborn," I confided. "Rebel complex. Won't have it if we present it as... as something we... won't cooperate if we..."
I lost the thread and knocked my glass off the table, retrieved it with much effort, and surfaced to see Fudo nodding at me wisely.
"You want a light rein with that one," he said. "More!"
A slender golden hand placed a full shot in front of me. Another slender golden hand -- which confused me because it came from an angle disparate with the angle of the previous hand -- placed a frosty bottle of beer next to it.
I watched with considerable fascination as several more hands placed scotch and beer before Fudo, testing the tiny table to capacity.
I looked up into seven of the most perfectly beautiful feminine faces of which the male mind could conceive and felt it was not strange, somehow, that the bodies beneath them were lumpy and clad in flannel.
"Fudo," said one of them, promptingly, from a pair of ruby lips.
Fudo sighed. "May I introduce my dear friends. Haptya, Naptya, Feal, Jaal, Pour, Dahl and Jhari."
I rose. Only the chair fell. I kept my feet. A Watcher holds his liquor and inserts the canny bon mot that makes him the life of any gathering, under all circumstances.
"Hullo," I said.
"Hi," they responded in unison. "We work for the dairy industry. Where's Spike?"
|SITE OUTLINE | NEW | MEMBERS | SEARCH | *
| Attic |Ballroom |Dressing room |Garden |Kitchen |Library |Parlor |Screening Room |Sewing Room |Studio |Wine Cellar |Code of Watchers 7 redux
posted by Cyn on Sat 2003.10.18 at 10:38 pm EST
"Spike," I said patiently," If you hope to make any kind of a go at Watching, you simply must show yourself prompt and obedient at the early phase. Draw a line from the downy goslings who trot all in a row, or those Jesuit lads who get tied to planks and tossed into the Bosphorous, yet never, per instruction, get wet."
Spike's only reply was a distracted smile. The distracted smile was for Buffy. I wasn't in the picture.
"Remember when you stopped that sword?" asked Buffy. "And I never said anything? You were hurt for days."
Spike smiled. "Did you know that your lips are like twin roes that graze among the lillies?"
Buffy's lower lip began to wobble. "Your hands got all cut." She caught one up, pressing it to her heart by way of visual aid."And I never said anything."
"You're not attending," I interjected, for Spike, to judge by his expression, seemed in danger of melting like a worshipful taffy and puddling off his stool onto the floor, "about that game of pool. We must have a bash at it, Spike. That's an order."
"Don't fancy it, thanks."
"You don't need to fancy it, merely obey. I work in mysterious ways my wonders to perform, and this is just a first step to getting us on our road out of this. Take it on faith. I know what I am about. I have spoken. Tempus, as they say, fugits."
"Giles wants something, Spike," supplied Buffy dreamily, lipping -- and only the Council knows what it costs me to record this -- his fingertips.
Spike tilted his head as the effort of thought warred with his trance of adoration. "So he does. Wants to order me about, at this time of day. He's in his dotage, poor bug -- poor man." Spike halted and smiled. "We must be kind to him, Buffy."
"Okay," sighed Buffy.
"Here -" I said.
"Thou," murmured Spike.
"Spike," whispered Buffy.
"Just a moment," I said.
Buffy's eyes spilled over yet again. "I'm sorry I tried to beat you to death by the police station."
"What police station?" asked Spike.
They moved in for the clinch and a bar napkin began to smoke. I snatched at it and smeared it with my shoe, and in the instant of my distraction, Spike and Buffy had fused like silica.
A Watcher is never stymied, and to the state of being thwarted he is a bold stranger. When confronted by a brick wall in the form of two gluey lovers oblivious of heaven, hell and all the combined peril generally attendant thereto, a Watcher of merit merely falls back to sip his vile domestic scotch and ponder.
And thus I did.
"Fudo," grinned a hearty sort of chap in a gruesome Budweiser T, slapping the meaty paw abaft my scotch-bearing shoulder.
"Fudo," I replied, as it seemed the thing to say, while trying not to spill.
I'd observed that these mid-western sorts swung a perfectly frenetic shoe after a faceoff with Mother Nature. It brought out the hedonist in the meekest Lutheran son of the soil, all that brushing with thunder and fire and living to tell the tale, and they ganged together after, as a matter of form, to exult in not being in a ditch or several ditches, unable to plant any more corn.
Therefore it seemed perfectly sensible that the bar was packing by the minute and that a stranger should salute me like a brother, however obscurely. That was a lapse on my part, I admit.
The fellow with the meaty paw paused, looking pained for me. "No. I am Fudo. Fudo."
"Oh! Sorry!" I offered my hand "Rupert Giles."
Fudo took it, beaming. "I guard the borders of paradise with a flaming sword. I winnow souls like a sieve. My aspect is terrifying, lacerating, combustive and fatal, most of the the time."
"Is it really? Well done." I sipped my drink. Over the heads of the gathered I saw the door open and, impossibly, admit more. "Can't be easy for you."
"It has its ups and downs." Fudo glanced past my shoulder and winced. "So that's your boy, hey? Let me buy you a shot."
It seemed perfectly reasonable. One doesn't meet the guardian of paradise every day, and we were waiting for a tow.
"We're waiting for a tow," I told him, several shots later. I had a recollection, as I said it, that I had said it more than once.
Fudo rolled back in his chair, nearly upsetting the tiny table with his considerable thighs. "He'll come. So, what about this shanshu thing? You like it for the long haul?"
I was warmed by his interest. It was delightful to talk shop with someone so keen about the details. The details that everyone else simply ignored, consumed by bad blood, old grudges and foppish minituae.
"Stubborn," I confided. "Rebel complex. Won't have it if we present it as... as something we... won't cooperate if we..."
I lost the thread and knocked my glass off the table, retrieved it with much effort, and surfaced to see Fudo nodding at me wisely.
"You want a light rein with that one," he said. "More!"
A slender golden hand placed a full shot in front of me. Another slender golden hand -- which confused me because it came from an angle disparate with the angle of the previous hand -- placed a frosty bottle of beer next to it. I watched with considerable fascination as several more hands placed scotch and beer before Fudo, testing the tiny table to capacity.
Having done that, I looked up into seven of the most perfectly beautiful feminine faces of which the male mind could conceive and felt it was not strange, somehow, that the bodies beneath them were lumpy and clad in flannel.
"Fudo," said one of them, promptingly, from a pair of ruby lips.
Fudo sighed. "May I introduce my dear friends. Haptya, Naptya, Feal, Jaal, Pour, Dahl and Jhari."
I rose. Only the chair fell. I kept my feet. A Watcher holds his liquor and inserts the canny bon mot that makes him the life of any gathering, under all circumstances.
"Hullo," I said.
"Hi," they responded in freakish unison. "We're unmarried. We work in the dairy industry. Where's Spike?"
TBC
- Cyn (Sat 2003.10.18 at 10:38 pm EST)
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