Cornered, Spike whirled in the middle of the Slayer Center's soccer field, duster flaring out behind him like a betta's fins.

He crouched, eyes darting side to side, knowing this might be the end even as he took quick mental inventory of his latest sins and with a minty belch tinged with Bourbon, realized that one particular sin hadn't let him get away with it.

It had started earlier that evening with a little green box (one of many) he'd found on Giles' kitchen table, escalating to two, followed by three, and a freshly opened bottle of Blanton's Single Barrel (the one the old duffer had stashed away in the cabinet over the stove behind the Wheat-A-Bix - like that was any kind of hiding place for an old hand like Spike!), followed by five more green boxes, and then he'd started on the brown boxes, the blue boxes, and the light green boxes, followed by the red boxes, and then well, after the second bottle of Blanton's and the red boxes, it'd all become a blur so that by the time things slowed down, Spike was surrounded by empty Girl Scout cookie boxes, two empty bottles of fifty dollar Bourbon rolling around on the linoleum, and a satisfyingly upset stomach.

He'd then calmly walked away, figuring nobody'd notice.


Spike now found himself surrounded by nine angry fledgling Slayers in blue vests armed with sharpened stakes.

Giles stood off to one side, arms crossed and smirking, the old fart!

"Those weren't yours!" Sorcha brandished her stake up at him.

"Yeah, you didn't order any!" Petunia, one of Sork's best friends chimed in, "Cheapskate!"

"Girls, I can explain—" Spike tried charm, which usually worked, but not on a bunch of outraged six-year-olds, "Hey, mind the leather!" he yelled as he fell over backwards on the lawn behind the school beneath the weight of, yes, nine, count them, nine fledgling Slayers in Daisy Scout uniforms who were busy pummeling and kicking him with all their might, screaming, "You ate our cookies, there goes our camping trip, you poopie head!"

Damn Buffy for allowing Lorne to set up a Girl Scout program in the L.A. Slayer Center - "It'll be a nice way to reach out - the girls who participate will love it. We'll only have to be careful when they mingle with other troops."

Bloody hell, what about him, the Big Bad?

"Girls, that's enough!" and one by one, in increments of forty pounds or so, Spike's assailants disappeared, to stand sniffling and glaring at Spike as he slowly pulled himself upright, covered in grass, dirt, and little pock marks where the stakes of Sorcha's Daisy Troop had made their presence known.

"Now, is that the Girls Scout way to solve a problem?" Lorne knelt down among the little girls, dark red horns black in the fluorescent lights that overhung the field.

"No, Mr. Green," came the sullen reply.

"That's right, girls." Lorne gave him a borderline-evil smile. "There's always a better way. Now listen." He adjusted his "Daisies Have Attitude" t-shirt and smiled again at Spike as a huddle formed, Giles eventually joining in. Spike tried to sneak away, only Angel, who'd come out of the shadows among the bleachers, blocked him.

Finally the conference was over. Lorne, still smiling, urged Sorcha towards Spike, "Now sweetiekins, cupcake, tell your Uncle Spike what he needs to do to make things right."

"This is bloody stupid!" Spike snarled. "I'm not having any of it!"

"As stupid as eating an entire year's worth of sales of Girl Scout cookies in an evening when you never even bought so much as one box - I bought a hundred, myself." Angel poked Spike in the back, "Am I right?"

"Uhhhh." Spike gave up... sort of.

"Uncle Spike, since you ate five thousand dollars worth of our cookies, the cookies we sold and have to give to our cuss cuss cuss"

"Customers, pussycat, customers!" Lorne corrected Sorcha gently.

"Customers, you owe us five thousand dollars or we'll tell Aunt Cordy what you did!"

"So it's come to that, eh?"

Spike looked around him once more, sighed, belched, this time cocoanut caramel, and dug deep into his hip pocket before reluctantly counting out last night's results from the dog track.

He counted it once more, and after another poke in the back from Angel, handed it to Sorcha, who then handed it to Lorne. "You're the grown up, you count it. I can't count that big!"

The entire pack of Daisy Slayers trooped off, Lorne in their midst like the green epicenter of a blue tornado. Angel melting back into the shadows, smirking.

Whew, that left Spike with a hundred, and Hell, there's still a lot you can do with a hun...

"I'll take that!" Giles briskly took what little Spike had left, riffled through the bills, and nodded in satisfaction. "This cover's the Blanton's nicely. If you need a receipt, I can have one delivered to you via Cordelia."

Now alone in the middle of the Center's soccer field, crickets chirring in the close-mown grass, Spike lit up a fag, took a deep drag, and then belched again, lemonade.

Yeah, it'd been expensive, but worth it. Too bad the old fart'd only had two bottles of Blanton's.

Oh well, there was always next year!