Transcription of Mr. Angel's personal listening devices, set up in his office, transcription number 1494726 of 4567732. Transcriptionist would like it noted that she is not sure about a few of the sounds found on the audio, and has transcribed them according to the best of her knowledge and abilities. Transcriptionist would also like it noted that she does not in fact know the combination to Angel's safe, and that Wolfram and Hart (W and H) does not currently hold copyrights to any of the music or music groups mentioned herein.

Transcription as follows:

Angel: Spike.

Spike: Angel.

Angel: What are you doing here?

Spike: Nothing.

Angel: Are you going to bother me again?

Spike: No.

Angel: Then why are you here?

Spike: Ain't that the question of the century. Possibly the millenia.

Angel: Okay, I can see we aren't in our normal, happy, bother Angel mode. This must be dark, depressed, I can't see the light at the end of the tunnel and must drag everyone down with me mode.

Spike: Yeah yeah. Know you've been there, but still.

Angel: Look, I know you're looking for someone to cheer you up, so why don't you go visit Fred? Maybe she can--

Spike: Fred's taken the day off. She and Wesley and Gunn have gone to--actually, I don't know where they've gone. Black hole of Calcutta, no doubt.

Angel: They can't go there, it's closed for renovation.

Spike: The fact that you even know that--

Angel: Wolfram and Hart owns it. It was in yesterday's memo.

Spike: Oh.

Angel: You could go start a food fight in the cafeteria. I won't yell at you this time.

Spike: Really? No. I can't. Security's got psychics keeping an eye on my whereabouts in conjunction to the caf ever since the ketchup war.

Angel: I've been meaning to ask about that.

Spike: Don't. You won't like the answer.

Angel: (sigh) Look, if I tell you how I get out of depressed blue funk days, will you promise not to laugh?

Spike: Depends, doesn't it?

Angel: Spike, I'm trying to help. Either go with me on this one or get out.

Spike: Right. Fine. Promise not to laugh.

Undetermined: sound of drawer opening

Undetermined: objects striking each other in drawer

Undetermined: drawer closes

Spike: Is that an eight track?

Angel: Don't even. It's a remote control.

Undetermined: clicking

Undetermined: sound of something mechanical opening

Spike: You have a safe under your couch?

Angel: You'd never have thought to look there, would you?

Undetermined: noise of dial being turned

Undetermined: chunk of safe door being opened

Angel: (sigh) You really and truly promise not to laugh?

Spike: Yes, I promise.

Angel: Fine. Go turn the entertainment system on. Use this. Get the record player warmed up.

Spike: You have records?

Angel: Just a few. Mostly stuff you wouldn't like. John Denver, Barry Manilow, the Mermaids . . .

Spike: Murmaids?

Angel: No, the Mermaids. As in "popsicles, icicles, movies on friday nights, these are the things that my baby likes?"

Spike: Oh. Bloody awful they were. Figures you like them.

Angel: Yeah, well . . . you think Jimi Hendrix did more than just make noise.

Spike: Don't you dare mess with Hendrix! He's sacred.

Angel: Spike, with you nothing is sacred.

Spike: Except Hendrix. And the Sex Pistols. And--

Angel: Never mind. Forget I said anything.

Spike: Right. Not bloody likely to forget you dissing Hendrix, am I? It's like saying Sabbath wasn't the goth-rock frontier, or that--

Angel: Spike! Please!

Spike: What's taking you so long, anyway?

Angel: This record is . . . very well hidden.

Spike: You're unembarrassed by admitting you listen to the Mermaids, but hide someone else? Anyone is an improvement on the Mermaids. Barry Manilow is an improvement on the Mermaids. What are we doing, anyway?

Angel: Is that on?

Spike: Yes. Why won't you let me see--

Angel: It'll ruin the surprise. Now shut up and let me put this on.

Undetermined: sound of needle being set to record

Undetermined: sound of knob being turned

Undetermined: sound of turntable starting

Undetermined: click

Undetermined: guitar riff starts

Spike: Oh god, you cannot be serious.

Angel: Usually I'm too serious. Then I listen to this.

Spike: The Bangles?

Angel: What?

Spike: The Bangles!

Angel: It could be worse. I could listen to "Walk Like an Egyptian."

Spike: The Bangles!

Angel: It's just another manic monday!

Spike: Oh, don't sing! Please don't sing!

Angel: And if I had an airplane I still couldn't make it on time!

Spike: That's not even the right verse! Oh, for heaven's sake, stop that! Don't dance too!

Angel: Come on, Spike! It's fun! You can't tell me you don't know the words! Manic monday! Wish it were Sunday! That's my fun day!

Spike: If I sing, will you promise to stop dancing?

Angel: No, but I promise to stop singing.

Spike: If I dance, will you promise to stop dancing?

Angel: Yes.

Spike: Fine. Start the damn thing again.

Undetermined: sound of turntable stopping

Undetermined: needle is reset

Undetermined: turntable starts again

Undetermined: guitar riff begins

Undetermined: door opens

Harmony: Hey, Bossy, what's--what's Spikey doing?

Angel: Dancing, Harm. Come join us!

Harmony: Ooooh, the Bangles! I love this song!