"How did Rupert Giles die?"

"Stabbed to death by a young blonde girl ... Disappeared soon after. Eyewitnesses said she kept calling him 'Finch'. Damned peculiar."

"The passing of one of our own aside, we must address the issue of the Slayer."

"Send the next ranking Watcher in his place, surely."

"It was difficult enough to fasttrack a visa. To do it twice running, especially while a murder investigation is ongoing ..."

"I ... have a proposal."


"There is a number of Americans on file whom we can ... persuade. Those who require supernatural intervention. It occurs to me that with judicious application of a carrot and stick, we can ensure someone is there to monitor the Slayer with our best interests in mind."

"As an interim solution, it couldnt hurt."

"Very well. Find someone with a ... practical bent. Consultation on theoretical issues should take place over the telephone until we can find a solution to this visa problem."

In the central desk of Sunnydale Library, a tall balding man was casually placing books onto a cart. His features was that of a man who had finally found peace in the world.

A short teenage boy who was desperately trying to cultivate a goatee ambled over.


The librarian rewarded his child with a genial smile. "What is it son?"

"I don't see why this job is any better than being a shoe salesman."

The librarian hefted a large tome. "Bud, you only see 'A Pictorial History of the Aztecs'. I see an object that does not require me to shove said object ..." the librarians tone dropped, eyes filled with the recollection of a past and unhealed trauma. "...onto a foot that looks like a large ham ... topped by little sausages."

The librarian blinked, then turned back to his son, good cheer returned. "Even if the Watchers didn't take away the Bundy Curse, I would have taken this job. A school librarian pays more, I get benefits, we got to move to California ..."

A thundering sound preceded a member of the swimming team thundering down the isles on a direct approach to the central desk. Without bothering to look, the librarian swung 'A Pictorial History of the Aztecs' into the jocks face, knocking him off his feet and flat on his back.

".... and the big books don't leave incriminating bruises."

The boy stood up, staggering away, expression betraying the features of the dazed and confused.

The librarian decided to ensure the lesson was taught. "And that is why we don't run in the library!"

The son watched the athlete stumble away before turning back to his father. "Won't he tell the principal?"

The librarian smiled, recalling distant glory days. "Son, concussion makes witnesses so unreliable in court."

"Uh oh."

The father turned his head to look where his son was focussed, noting a thick-necked apparition emerging in the library.

"That's Tim. Linebacker. Keeps on beating me up."

The librarian gave his son a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Allow me son."

Master of his domain, he positioned himself behind the desk and nose to nose with the footballer, adopting a friendly expression that would fool nobody.

"Hey, I wanted to borrow a Shakespeare ..."

"... so you're the guy who beats up my son."

A brief flicker of worry flashed across the footballers face. "Ah ..."

"What am I going to do with you?"

"...uh ..."

The librarian adopted a worried tone. "Can't screw up your grades, I'm not a teacher. Can't break your kneecaps, that's illegal."

The worry vanished from the footballers face, soon replaced by a self-confident smirk. "Yeah. Yeah, what you're gonna do?"

A short blonde girl, a recent transfer, entered the library, approaching the librarian.

The librarian already knew this student, and gave her his best concerned expression. "Buffy? Honey? This guy said that Manolo Blahniks were overrated, overpriced crap."

The blonde turned to the footballer, who, despite having nearly a hundred pounds on her and nearly twice her height, felt his bowels turn to water at her expression.


The blonde leapt onto the footballer, his screams filling the library. The librarian calmly hefted a video camera to his shoulder, and with perfect serenity, started filming the carnage before him.

"May not know much, but at least I know shoes."