So Buffy's dumped
Her responsibilities
On you
Without warning-
Bloody hell and
You were in
The middle
Of your stories
And she comes poundin'
On the soddin' door
And when you
Open it
She shoves them
At you saying,
"If you let anything
Happen to my mother
And my sister, so
Help me Spike
I'll kill you."
Which is
A bloody
Stupid
Thing
To
Say
Because you're
Already dead,
Been so
For the last
125 years
…maybe…
Because you
Lost track
Down in
The Initiative's
Now long-buried
Funhouse
And your
Nut's not been
All that reliable
Since then.
Anyway, now they're
Sitting awkwardly
In your crypt
Staring at you
Without staring,
Or at least trying
To and you're
About to die
A second death
Of embarrassment
Because the place's
Disgusting,
Not a fit place for a lady.
Ladies.
Does the Niblet count?
All right,
Two bitable birds
And leave it at that:
Sod.
You.
Buffy.
(Lucky Dru's not
Here which would
Mean you'd have
To pull her off your
Guests, uninvited as
They are.)
So you sit across
From them
On the twin
To the saracophagus
They sit upon,
With you hoping
That Joyce hasn't
Noticed the
Overflowing
Beer cans full
Of butts,
The empty fly-buzzing
Blood bags,
Or the pile of
Dirty magazines,
You know,
Wank fodder,
Peeking out
From under the
Pile of two week's
Worth of dirty clothes.
Anyway, your mother
Taught you how to
Be a host, sick
Old bag hag that she
Was, so you know
You should offer
Them something,
Anything-
But at the moment
Stale ice cubes and
Half a bottle
Of Wild Turkey
Is all you have.
That and the
Wheat-A-Bix
That the rats
Haven't found yet.
(Though you could
Use a rat right now,
A nice fat pisser
To settle
Your nerves.)
So you drum
Your heels
On the sarcophagus
That you're perched
Upon and try out
The small talk mode.
Joyce, whose
Eyes are darting
Nervously
In all directions,
Pauses on your
Collection of
Wank magazines
Long enough for you
To blush
Were you
Still capable
Of such a thing
Before darting away
To something safer
Like the overflowing
Butt cans, answers
Politely but distantly.
Great.
Just.
Great.
You've been to
Her house and
Now it's your turn
And she's not
Happy about it
But desperately trying
Not to show it.
Dawnie's been here
Before and also
Trying not to show
It because God forbid
Anybody find out –
But you've smelled
Her in here before that
One time and
She's always eating
Your crisps, even
The nasty avocado garlic
Ones or stealing
Your remote.
You approve
Of Dawnie's
Sticky fingers,
But you wish
She'd leave
The telly alone
Because she's
Always-
Oh God, forgot
About the telly,
Which is yammering
At the top of its
Electric lungs
And now it's
Passions time,
Your favorite
Story, complete
With Timmy and
That soddin' cat
Whose name you
Always forget.
Why couldn't you
Have left the daft bugger
Switched to that
Pirated sports channel?
God, this is humiliating,
Buffy!
You'll!
Pay!
For!
This!
Worse, you want to
Watch your story,
It's getting interestin'…
Bloody Hell
And I'm stuck mindin'
Buffy's grotty
Relations!
Joyce stands up
And says, "Is
That Passions?
I love Passions!
May I watch it?
I tape it every day
When I'm at the gallery
So I don't miss a thing!"
Huh?
Startled, you say,
"Yeah, right.
Was gonna to catch the
Scores, but I can do that
Later."
And Joyce
Sits down on
Your ratty couch
With the Niblet and
Her schoolbooks
In tow – "Dawnie,
This may be a bad
Time for everyone,
But I want you to finish
Your homework anyway."
Dawnie grizzles
But she sets up shop
On your battered
Coffee table and
Gets to work,
One eye on the telly.
After a while you join them
And it's nice
To have company,
Even if it's only
Buffy's relations,
Dumped on you.
You even manage
To scrounge up
A couple of Cokes
And a bag of crisps
That you'd lost
Beneath your ratty
Old sofa.
And it's nice to
Have someone
Who likes the same
Story you like
Even if it's only
Buffy's Mum,
With the Niblet
In tow.
Buffy finds you
Later that day,
Feet up
On the coffee
Table, the Niblet
Asleep with her head
On Mum's lap
While the two
Of you devour the
Afternoon's soaps.
The two of you
Give Buffy a look
And sort of laugh,
And Buffy says,
"What!"
And the two of you
Laugh again, before
Joyce says goodbye
And thanks you for
The Coke,
While Buffy stews
And fidgets.
She says
After they
leave, "If I hear
That you tried something,
Anything, Spike, you're
So dead!"
Again with the dead,
Eh pet?
You laugh
Suggestively,
While slamming
The door
To your crypt
In her face.
Then
You park it
On the couch
Once more,
Rewind the VCR,
Open a beer,
And watch the
Day's eppie of
Passions
once more,
Unusually content.