Sunlight sucks. I'm no vampire, and I don't burst into flames under it,
but I still don't like it. It's bright, and it's cheery and it has no
respect for people's privacy. It just comes crashing in through the
window, expecting you to jump out of bed and thank it for being there.
It's rude, and it has no sense of timing. In fact, it's a lot like an
irritating relative that drops in unannounced and wants to spend the day
with you. Fortunately in Sunnydale, despite the name of the city, sunlight
is a distant relative that only comes by on occasions when it really isn't
wanted. Like this morning. I've been up for three days and have a
hangover that feels like a Hellmouth set up shot in my head.
My name's Alexander Harris. What few friends I have call me Xander. And when I'm not drinking or hungover, the sign above my office says that I'm a private investigator. I'm a snoop, a spy, a thief and a shadow for whoever can pay $30 bucks an hour, plus expenses.
The sunlight streaming in through the window doesn't seem to be in any hurry to leave, so I gingerly extract myself from the couch where I fell asleep. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I take a bleary look at $50 Timex. Quarter past 10 in the morning. An ungodly hour to be awake, if anyone wants my opinion.
I make myself a cup of instant coffee, adding a shot of whiskey for some pep and light my first cigarette of the day. My secretary says if I cut back on the drinking, smoking and the late nights, I'd have movie star good looks. I tell her that there are too many guys walking around with movie star good looks in this town as it is, and I should be congratulated on being distinct. Looking into the mirror over the sink, I look distinctly like a bum. Half a weeks growth on my face, bags you could fit a body in hanging under watery, blood shot eyes, and a general sense of emotional exhaustion radiating from me. In short, I've looked better.
I splash some cold water on my face and do my best to try to look human. A clean shirt only slightly less wrinkled then the one I fell asleep in, and a new tie. It's amazing what some fresh clothes can do for a man. I slip on my shoulder holster, .38 nestling snuggly under my arm, throw worn and comfortable coat on and grab my hat. Giving myself a once over in the mirror by the door, I look pretty good for a guy that spent the last three days living in his car.
Two flights of stairs down, I stop at the door that leads to the reception area of my office. A. Harris, Private Investigation is stenciled in black over the bubble glass window of the door. I pick at a small crack in the glass, and remind myself for the hundredth time to have a guy come fix it.
Tara is sitting at her desk, reading the paper. She looks up when I open the door, and gives me an amused grin, her favorite kind. "It lives!"
"Barely," I mutter, closing the door and walking up to her desk. "Any messages?"
Still smiling at me, Tara shakes her head. "Nope! But a delivery guy came by about half an hour ago with this." She hands me a big manila envelope with "DO NOT BEND. PICTURES INSIDE" stenciled on the front. "Are they what I think they are?"
Tearing open the top, I slide the pictures out and hand them to her. "Yeah. I caught Mrs. Richard Avalon with her hand in the cookie jar."
Tara gave an appreciative whistle as she looked through the pictures. They showed an attractive blond woman, naked, in the embrace of an equally naked, rather muscular, well-endowed man. "That's an impressive cookie she has her hands on."
"Yeah," I agree, taking the pictures back and giving them another look. "Hope he tasted good, cause his cookie is going to cost her a husband." Putting the pictures back into the envelope, I hand them back to Tara. "Give Mr. Avalon a call and tell him I have what he wanted. And remind him we don't take credit cards. I'll be in my office"
"This mean I'll be able to make rent this month?" the blond called at me as I headed toward my office.
"None of your sass!" I shout back at her as I close the door of my office.
My office is rather unimpressive. It boasts four walls and a ceiling, and even those it shouldn't boast about it. Faded red paint covers the walls for the most part, except for three dime sized holes by the door, where a rather angry husband took out his anger of his little Ms.'s infidelities by trying to shoot her in my office. After that, I made it official office policy not to have client and their spouse in my office at the same time. Tara found it funny that it had taken a guy popping a 9mm in to the walls of my office for me to think of that.
My office also has one large window that would give me a fabulous view of the city, if it wasn't blocked by the bar and flop house next door. So, instead of being able to look out the bustling metropolis that is Sunnydale, I get to watch the silhouettes of pervy old men maul 20 year old girls who're never really had a prime. I keep the blinds closed a lot.
I slide into a leather chair that's seen better days and eye the mail Tara has left for me to go through. Electric bill, gas bill, phone bill, rent…on another day the thought of them would have made me go back to bed, but since I was probably going to be able to pay them this month. I give thanks to Ms. Avalon's indiscretions, take my checkbook out of my desk.
A quarter of the way through the bills, I lean back and light a cigarette. I close my eyes and take a weary drag. I watch the smoke make rise, where it will join many of its ancestors in turning the formerly white ceiling a drab yellow. Halfway through the coffin nail, my eyes wander to the only picture on my desk. It was taken 4 years ago, which seems like another lifetime to me. I'm standing outside my office, my arm around my best friend, Jessie Wagner. We have these ridiculous grins on our faces, like we didn't have a worry in the world. Which only proves that how stupid the both of us were.
Jessie and I had known each other since before we could walk. Went to the same schools, dated a lot of the same girls, joined the police academy together. Jessie went to Robbery/Homicide, while I went the less glamorous route in the Vice Squad. After a pimp said that I tried to shake him down, and I found myself kicked off the force, Jessie helped me start up the P.I. gig.
I remember how supportive he was of me in those first months, when I couldn't get a client at gunpoint. Long nights at my apartment, drinking whiskey and asking my advice on cases he was working, just so I felt that I was still a cop. How when he made lead detective, he told me that it was me who made him want to be a cop, to help people. How I was his hero and that he was proud of me for not giving up. How happily jealous I was of him and his life. How happy he had been with Tara, and the plans the two of them had for the future. Most of all, I remembered how a part of me died when he did, his throat torn out by some vamp punk who he caught trying to steal his car.
After the funeral, Tara came to work for me. She was as lost as I was without him, so we fell on each other for support. That support turned to real friendship, and then to love. Not that kind of love, though the thought did cross my time more then once. But Tara, for all her wisecracking and tough exterior, is simply far too sweet for me. I'd fuck it up, and I couldn't do that to her, or me for that matter. I can count on one hand the people I care about in this world, and Tara's top on the list. If she wasn't around, I'd probably end up at the bottom of a bottle so deep, I'd never get out of it. She grounds me, and I give her something to take care of. She called me a lost puppy once, and she was only keeping an eye on me till I could do it myself, or someone better came along. I don't see either one of those happening soon.
A knock on my door brought me out of my trip down broken memory lane, and I realized I had tears on my face. Quickly wiping them away, I did my best to look busy. "What?" I shouted roughly at the door, my voice a little harsher then I would have liked.
"Xand?" Tara poked her head in through the opening of the door, her face showing puzzlement. "You alright?
"I'm fine," I mutter more to myself. "What's up?"
"There's someone here to see you," she says a little slowly. "I tried the intercom, but you didn't answer." Suddenly she grins at me. "You fell asleep, didn't you?"
"Yeah…I mean, I was just resting my eyes!" I sigh loudly, relieved that Tara's not going to pry to hard, though she probably think it's in defeat. "Who's the guy?" I finally ask, while Tara smiles in triumph.
"Don't know. Won't give his name. Said he has 'a matter of grave importance to discuss with you'. He's British. You didn't take a leak on their consulate again, did you?"
"No. And I'd thank you not to mention that again! I was drunk!"
"Fine. Then I'll show him in then." Giving me a smirk, Tara closes the door. "Mr. Harris will you now, sir." I hear through the door.
I quickly close the checkbook and clumsily push the bills into my desk. I've cleared my desk just in time, as the door opens and the most British man on earth enters my office. The guy is dress in a three-piece, dark blue, pinstripe suit. He's wearing gold-rimmed glasses and is carrying an umbrella. There's not a cloud in the sky and he's got the most impressive umbrella I've ever set eyes on. The thing looks big enough to keep a family of four dry in a monsoon. "Good day, Mr. Harris," he says as he closes the door to my office, his accent making the words sound like they were carved in diamond. "My name is Rupert Giles." He takes a seat in one of the two guest chairs in front of my desk and hands me his card.
I glance at the business card and then have to stop to read it, as it has more information then the phone book. To clarify, the guy sitting across from me is Sir Rupert Giles, Duke of Oxford, Chief Representative of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the Second, in the State of California, United States of America. It also had the phone number to his office. "Uh…pleased to meet you Mr. Giles. I mean Sir Giles." Okay, I was a little stunned to find such an illustrious figure sitting in my office.
"Please, Mr. Harris," the British man said, giving me a polite smile. "You can dispense with the titles. You may call me Rupert if you wish."
"Uh, sure thing…Rupert." I quickly tried regaining my sense of cool, reminding myself that this guy was in my office. "What can I do for you?"
"You were recommended to me by a mutual acquaintance I believe, Mr. Robert Reich." Sir Giles' smile changed slightly, indicating that Bobbie Reich was not his best friend in the whole wide world. "Mr. Reich…mentioned that you had done top notch work for him, and I hope that I can procure a similar service."
Bobbie Reich is an actor. Actually, that's not an apt description. Bobbie Reich is an 'action star'. Billed as the new Van Damn. A face chiseled from marble, with a body to match. In his movies the body count would only be matched by the number of shots they took of his bare ass. He always kills the bad guy and always gets the girl. The 'top notch work' I did for him consisted of getting a videotape of him doing something he shouldn't have with a 17-year old. It took 2 weeks, and 4 broken ribs for me to get said tape away from the people who had it. They had planned to blackmail Bobbie or sell it to the tabloids, I'm not sure which. Either way, it turned out that big ol' macho Bobbie Reich is in the closet. The tape showed, and hell yes I watch the tape. So did Tara. Did I mention the broken ribs? Anyway, the 17-year old on the tape was a rather famous member of a rather famous 'boyband'. And, I found out later, that I was actually working for his studio, which was terrified that if the tape got out, it would ruin their boy's image. Fucking studios.
"Listen, Sir…Rupert. I'm flattered that such a distinguished man as yourself would come to me with you 'problem', but after Mr. Reich's case, I made myself a promise that I wasn't going to put my head on the block to cover someone's rep." I feel pretty good when the Brit looks shocked. Probably surprised that I'm not bowing to him. "So, if you want someone to get back your dirty laundry, find someone else."
His Dukeship stares at me with his mouth open for about 10 seconds. And then "Mr. Harris, I'm quite sure I don't know what you are talking about!" It suddenly hit me that my friend from England was not here about getting a home made porn tape back. "I was told by Mr. Reich that you had retrieved a stolen valuable for him. That is all. Now, if you do not do that anymore, I apologize for wasting your time and I will bid you a good day!"
The man had barely gotten up before I had rounded the desk and pushed him a bit roughly back down. "Uh…I'm sorry. I do 'retrieve stolen valuables'. I do do that! It's just…the motives behind Mr. Reich's case…left a bad taste in my mouth." I realized I was boarding on babbling, and did my best to calm myself. "Again, I'm sorry if I jumped to a conclusion about your business. If you tell me exactly what you need me to do, I'm sure I'll be able to help you."
I'm all about grace under pressure.
"I accept you apology," Sir Giles said after staring at me for a minute. "I do not know what you retrieved for Mr. Reich, and frankly I do not care. All I know is that he was very satisfied by your work, and that I confirmed it through other sources after the fact. I was told that you were a professional of the highest quality, and that your desecration was beyond reproach. And I tell you all this not to flatter you, but to make clear that I have certain expectations if we are to conduct business together, and that if you are not prepared to meet them, it is best you tell me now. I am not the sort of man who enjoys wasting his time and energy. And to be totally honest Mr. Harris, I am not the sort of man YOU would want to waste the time and energy of."
Now, I haven't been around all that many English nobles before. Actually, His Lordship in front of me was the first. So maybe they all have the knack of complementing you, insulting you and threatening you all in the same breath. Either way, I was duly impressed. And insulted. And more then a little pissed off.
"Sir Rupert, I know what I can do and I know what I can't. I'm no bragget, and if I can't do what you need done, I'll let you know. I ain't in the business of dickin' people around, but if you want to walk out of here right now, go ahead. I don't take well to threats, especially from uptight blue bloods that walk into MY office, expecting MY help, and then give ME shit. I'm not some employee that you can give a hard time when you're in a mood. I AM a professional. If we do business together, I want you to know that. I am not at you're beck and call, and if you're not straight with me, I will walk. No refunds."
Okay, I didn't mean to come on that strong. I was pissed off, sure. This guy walks into my place, flashes his card, drops a name and expects me to kiss his ass? Not likely. I took the guy as the type of person used to getting what they want, and getting it with a smile. I don't smile.
Now, I expected that a few things from Her Majesty's buddy. A tirade. For him to walk out. At most, a stiff explanation of what he wanted. What I didn't expect was him to laugh like I he was watching a Bob Hope special and grin at me like I was his best friend. "Splendid! Mr. Harris, you are exactly what I am looking for. I thank you for your honesty and your frankness. I do believe that you can help me with my problem, and I am sure that you will do so with the utmost discretion and professionalism."
"Uh, thanks." This guy was throwing me. First he's all Sir Duke of Neverneverland, high and might Brit. Now he's patting me on the back, treating me like the big dog. Weird. "Why don't you tell me what your problem is, and then we can talk about how we can fix it, and how much it's going to cost you for me to fix it."
Still smiling, Sir Rupert Giles mentioned for the first time, the name of the thing that would turn my world inside out and upside down. "I need you to retrieve The Slayer for me."
My name's Alexander Harris. What few friends I have call me Xander. And when I'm not drinking or hungover, the sign above my office says that I'm a private investigator. I'm a snoop, a spy, a thief and a shadow for whoever can pay $30 bucks an hour, plus expenses.
The sunlight streaming in through the window doesn't seem to be in any hurry to leave, so I gingerly extract myself from the couch where I fell asleep. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I take a bleary look at $50 Timex. Quarter past 10 in the morning. An ungodly hour to be awake, if anyone wants my opinion.
I make myself a cup of instant coffee, adding a shot of whiskey for some pep and light my first cigarette of the day. My secretary says if I cut back on the drinking, smoking and the late nights, I'd have movie star good looks. I tell her that there are too many guys walking around with movie star good looks in this town as it is, and I should be congratulated on being distinct. Looking into the mirror over the sink, I look distinctly like a bum. Half a weeks growth on my face, bags you could fit a body in hanging under watery, blood shot eyes, and a general sense of emotional exhaustion radiating from me. In short, I've looked better.
I splash some cold water on my face and do my best to try to look human. A clean shirt only slightly less wrinkled then the one I fell asleep in, and a new tie. It's amazing what some fresh clothes can do for a man. I slip on my shoulder holster, .38 nestling snuggly under my arm, throw worn and comfortable coat on and grab my hat. Giving myself a once over in the mirror by the door, I look pretty good for a guy that spent the last three days living in his car.
Two flights of stairs down, I stop at the door that leads to the reception area of my office. A. Harris, Private Investigation is stenciled in black over the bubble glass window of the door. I pick at a small crack in the glass, and remind myself for the hundredth time to have a guy come fix it.
Tara is sitting at her desk, reading the paper. She looks up when I open the door, and gives me an amused grin, her favorite kind. "It lives!"
"Barely," I mutter, closing the door and walking up to her desk. "Any messages?"
Still smiling at me, Tara shakes her head. "Nope! But a delivery guy came by about half an hour ago with this." She hands me a big manila envelope with "DO NOT BEND. PICTURES INSIDE" stenciled on the front. "Are they what I think they are?"
Tearing open the top, I slide the pictures out and hand them to her. "Yeah. I caught Mrs. Richard Avalon with her hand in the cookie jar."
Tara gave an appreciative whistle as she looked through the pictures. They showed an attractive blond woman, naked, in the embrace of an equally naked, rather muscular, well-endowed man. "That's an impressive cookie she has her hands on."
"Yeah," I agree, taking the pictures back and giving them another look. "Hope he tasted good, cause his cookie is going to cost her a husband." Putting the pictures back into the envelope, I hand them back to Tara. "Give Mr. Avalon a call and tell him I have what he wanted. And remind him we don't take credit cards. I'll be in my office"
"This mean I'll be able to make rent this month?" the blond called at me as I headed toward my office.
"None of your sass!" I shout back at her as I close the door of my office.
My office is rather unimpressive. It boasts four walls and a ceiling, and even those it shouldn't boast about it. Faded red paint covers the walls for the most part, except for three dime sized holes by the door, where a rather angry husband took out his anger of his little Ms.'s infidelities by trying to shoot her in my office. After that, I made it official office policy not to have client and their spouse in my office at the same time. Tara found it funny that it had taken a guy popping a 9mm in to the walls of my office for me to think of that.
My office also has one large window that would give me a fabulous view of the city, if it wasn't blocked by the bar and flop house next door. So, instead of being able to look out the bustling metropolis that is Sunnydale, I get to watch the silhouettes of pervy old men maul 20 year old girls who're never really had a prime. I keep the blinds closed a lot.
I slide into a leather chair that's seen better days and eye the mail Tara has left for me to go through. Electric bill, gas bill, phone bill, rent…on another day the thought of them would have made me go back to bed, but since I was probably going to be able to pay them this month. I give thanks to Ms. Avalon's indiscretions, take my checkbook out of my desk.
A quarter of the way through the bills, I lean back and light a cigarette. I close my eyes and take a weary drag. I watch the smoke make rise, where it will join many of its ancestors in turning the formerly white ceiling a drab yellow. Halfway through the coffin nail, my eyes wander to the only picture on my desk. It was taken 4 years ago, which seems like another lifetime to me. I'm standing outside my office, my arm around my best friend, Jessie Wagner. We have these ridiculous grins on our faces, like we didn't have a worry in the world. Which only proves that how stupid the both of us were.
Jessie and I had known each other since before we could walk. Went to the same schools, dated a lot of the same girls, joined the police academy together. Jessie went to Robbery/Homicide, while I went the less glamorous route in the Vice Squad. After a pimp said that I tried to shake him down, and I found myself kicked off the force, Jessie helped me start up the P.I. gig.
I remember how supportive he was of me in those first months, when I couldn't get a client at gunpoint. Long nights at my apartment, drinking whiskey and asking my advice on cases he was working, just so I felt that I was still a cop. How when he made lead detective, he told me that it was me who made him want to be a cop, to help people. How I was his hero and that he was proud of me for not giving up. How happily jealous I was of him and his life. How happy he had been with Tara, and the plans the two of them had for the future. Most of all, I remembered how a part of me died when he did, his throat torn out by some vamp punk who he caught trying to steal his car.
After the funeral, Tara came to work for me. She was as lost as I was without him, so we fell on each other for support. That support turned to real friendship, and then to love. Not that kind of love, though the thought did cross my time more then once. But Tara, for all her wisecracking and tough exterior, is simply far too sweet for me. I'd fuck it up, and I couldn't do that to her, or me for that matter. I can count on one hand the people I care about in this world, and Tara's top on the list. If she wasn't around, I'd probably end up at the bottom of a bottle so deep, I'd never get out of it. She grounds me, and I give her something to take care of. She called me a lost puppy once, and she was only keeping an eye on me till I could do it myself, or someone better came along. I don't see either one of those happening soon.
A knock on my door brought me out of my trip down broken memory lane, and I realized I had tears on my face. Quickly wiping them away, I did my best to look busy. "What?" I shouted roughly at the door, my voice a little harsher then I would have liked.
"Xand?" Tara poked her head in through the opening of the door, her face showing puzzlement. "You alright?
"I'm fine," I mutter more to myself. "What's up?"
"There's someone here to see you," she says a little slowly. "I tried the intercom, but you didn't answer." Suddenly she grins at me. "You fell asleep, didn't you?"
"Yeah…I mean, I was just resting my eyes!" I sigh loudly, relieved that Tara's not going to pry to hard, though she probably think it's in defeat. "Who's the guy?" I finally ask, while Tara smiles in triumph.
"Don't know. Won't give his name. Said he has 'a matter of grave importance to discuss with you'. He's British. You didn't take a leak on their consulate again, did you?"
"No. And I'd thank you not to mention that again! I was drunk!"
"Fine. Then I'll show him in then." Giving me a smirk, Tara closes the door. "Mr. Harris will you now, sir." I hear through the door.
I quickly close the checkbook and clumsily push the bills into my desk. I've cleared my desk just in time, as the door opens and the most British man on earth enters my office. The guy is dress in a three-piece, dark blue, pinstripe suit. He's wearing gold-rimmed glasses and is carrying an umbrella. There's not a cloud in the sky and he's got the most impressive umbrella I've ever set eyes on. The thing looks big enough to keep a family of four dry in a monsoon. "Good day, Mr. Harris," he says as he closes the door to my office, his accent making the words sound like they were carved in diamond. "My name is Rupert Giles." He takes a seat in one of the two guest chairs in front of my desk and hands me his card.
I glance at the business card and then have to stop to read it, as it has more information then the phone book. To clarify, the guy sitting across from me is Sir Rupert Giles, Duke of Oxford, Chief Representative of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the Second, in the State of California, United States of America. It also had the phone number to his office. "Uh…pleased to meet you Mr. Giles. I mean Sir Giles." Okay, I was a little stunned to find such an illustrious figure sitting in my office.
"Please, Mr. Harris," the British man said, giving me a polite smile. "You can dispense with the titles. You may call me Rupert if you wish."
"Uh, sure thing…Rupert." I quickly tried regaining my sense of cool, reminding myself that this guy was in my office. "What can I do for you?"
"You were recommended to me by a mutual acquaintance I believe, Mr. Robert Reich." Sir Giles' smile changed slightly, indicating that Bobbie Reich was not his best friend in the whole wide world. "Mr. Reich…mentioned that you had done top notch work for him, and I hope that I can procure a similar service."
Bobbie Reich is an actor. Actually, that's not an apt description. Bobbie Reich is an 'action star'. Billed as the new Van Damn. A face chiseled from marble, with a body to match. In his movies the body count would only be matched by the number of shots they took of his bare ass. He always kills the bad guy and always gets the girl. The 'top notch work' I did for him consisted of getting a videotape of him doing something he shouldn't have with a 17-year old. It took 2 weeks, and 4 broken ribs for me to get said tape away from the people who had it. They had planned to blackmail Bobbie or sell it to the tabloids, I'm not sure which. Either way, it turned out that big ol' macho Bobbie Reich is in the closet. The tape showed, and hell yes I watch the tape. So did Tara. Did I mention the broken ribs? Anyway, the 17-year old on the tape was a rather famous member of a rather famous 'boyband'. And, I found out later, that I was actually working for his studio, which was terrified that if the tape got out, it would ruin their boy's image. Fucking studios.
"Listen, Sir…Rupert. I'm flattered that such a distinguished man as yourself would come to me with you 'problem', but after Mr. Reich's case, I made myself a promise that I wasn't going to put my head on the block to cover someone's rep." I feel pretty good when the Brit looks shocked. Probably surprised that I'm not bowing to him. "So, if you want someone to get back your dirty laundry, find someone else."
His Dukeship stares at me with his mouth open for about 10 seconds. And then "Mr. Harris, I'm quite sure I don't know what you are talking about!" It suddenly hit me that my friend from England was not here about getting a home made porn tape back. "I was told by Mr. Reich that you had retrieved a stolen valuable for him. That is all. Now, if you do not do that anymore, I apologize for wasting your time and I will bid you a good day!"
The man had barely gotten up before I had rounded the desk and pushed him a bit roughly back down. "Uh…I'm sorry. I do 'retrieve stolen valuables'. I do do that! It's just…the motives behind Mr. Reich's case…left a bad taste in my mouth." I realized I was boarding on babbling, and did my best to calm myself. "Again, I'm sorry if I jumped to a conclusion about your business. If you tell me exactly what you need me to do, I'm sure I'll be able to help you."
I'm all about grace under pressure.
"I accept you apology," Sir Giles said after staring at me for a minute. "I do not know what you retrieved for Mr. Reich, and frankly I do not care. All I know is that he was very satisfied by your work, and that I confirmed it through other sources after the fact. I was told that you were a professional of the highest quality, and that your desecration was beyond reproach. And I tell you all this not to flatter you, but to make clear that I have certain expectations if we are to conduct business together, and that if you are not prepared to meet them, it is best you tell me now. I am not the sort of man who enjoys wasting his time and energy. And to be totally honest Mr. Harris, I am not the sort of man YOU would want to waste the time and energy of."
Now, I haven't been around all that many English nobles before. Actually, His Lordship in front of me was the first. So maybe they all have the knack of complementing you, insulting you and threatening you all in the same breath. Either way, I was duly impressed. And insulted. And more then a little pissed off.
"Sir Rupert, I know what I can do and I know what I can't. I'm no bragget, and if I can't do what you need done, I'll let you know. I ain't in the business of dickin' people around, but if you want to walk out of here right now, go ahead. I don't take well to threats, especially from uptight blue bloods that walk into MY office, expecting MY help, and then give ME shit. I'm not some employee that you can give a hard time when you're in a mood. I AM a professional. If we do business together, I want you to know that. I am not at you're beck and call, and if you're not straight with me, I will walk. No refunds."
Okay, I didn't mean to come on that strong. I was pissed off, sure. This guy walks into my place, flashes his card, drops a name and expects me to kiss his ass? Not likely. I took the guy as the type of person used to getting what they want, and getting it with a smile. I don't smile.
Now, I expected that a few things from Her Majesty's buddy. A tirade. For him to walk out. At most, a stiff explanation of what he wanted. What I didn't expect was him to laugh like I he was watching a Bob Hope special and grin at me like I was his best friend. "Splendid! Mr. Harris, you are exactly what I am looking for. I thank you for your honesty and your frankness. I do believe that you can help me with my problem, and I am sure that you will do so with the utmost discretion and professionalism."
"Uh, thanks." This guy was throwing me. First he's all Sir Duke of Neverneverland, high and might Brit. Now he's patting me on the back, treating me like the big dog. Weird. "Why don't you tell me what your problem is, and then we can talk about how we can fix it, and how much it's going to cost you for me to fix it."
Still smiling, Sir Rupert Giles mentioned for the first time, the name of the thing that would turn my world inside out and upside down. "I need you to retrieve The Slayer for me."