Demons discreetly decamped.
Various vampires vanished.
Several sorcerers slowly slunk… Er, at that point, alliteration ended, with the Cleveland Hellmouth itself holding a metaphorical breath, waiting for the crisis to pass. As were the occupants seated at the kitchen table of that city's Slayer House, who'd all instantly froze in the middle of breakfast when a disheveled figure appeared in the kitchen doorway leading to the upstairs bedrooms.
A young woman, dressed solely in a crumpled baseball cap and a triple-oversize major leaguer's shirt now stared with a haggard face at the other people there, just before she took a deep breath and screamed, "FUCKIN' GODDAMN TEAM, THEY HAD A NINE-GAME LEAD THE LAST MONTH AND THEN THEY CHOKED WORSE THAN ALBERT DESALVO EVER DID!"
Whirling around to head back to her bedroom where she'd huddled under the sheets ever since the last out, Faith Lehane slammed shut the kitchen door behind herself hard enough to shake the entire house and send chunks of ceiling plaster raining down upon the ducking occupants at the kitchen table.
Taking a moment to gingerly fish a particularly large chunk out of his cereal bowl, Xander Harris went back to scarfing his Frosted Flakes. This was interrupted when Dawn Summers seated next to him leaned over to whisper into his ear: "How much longer is this gonna last?"
Pausing to glumly shrug, Xander replied, "Beats me, Dawnie. Ordinarily, I'd say it'd be over and done with when the Celtics start their season, but with the possibility of a NBA lockout…"
The whole kitchen shuddered in unison. They all knew things had gotten really bad when everyone was hoping for an actual apocalypse, just to distract a Boston Southie born-and-bred, who'd once more been let down by the Red Sox.