Just a plot bunny that never grew up.
I'm not the owner of Angel, that title belongs to Mr. Whedon.
It seemed a night like any other, if not for an especially talented Serparvo Demon's rendition of "Memory." Lorne was never fond of Webber's work, but still occasionally indulged in some of his better pieces.
Spinning tales, was what his patrons did; weaving a song made by another into something very much their own. He secretly wished that most of them came for more than just readings, but such was life.
After taking the microphone and ushering Frangelhold aside, Lorne put on his best face and said: "Wow, what a set of pipes. Serparvo? More like soprano." This earned a laugh from the audience.
"Next up we have 'Walking in Memphis,' a darling number that's gonna' be performed by Sammy. Sammy, come on up!" Previously sitting in the crowd's midst emerged 'Sammy,' who lumbered on stage with a nervous smile on his beak.
Stepping down, Lorne ran a hand through his hair, adjusted the lapels of his blue sports coat, and grinned. He loved nights like this: balmy, bustling - backbreaking. It was difficult to keep up with the erratic flow of customers, but by all means definitely worth it; french viscose doesn't pay for itself.
Caritas: Latin for mercy, and by the second verse of Sammy's interpretation Lorne was practically on his hands and knees begging for it.
Still, the guy had heart - even though he ate virgins'.
To the sour noise of Cher's desecrated song, the green club owner finished off a perfectly mediocre Sea Breeze, then, placing the empty glass on the bar's silvery counter, motioned for another.
"Freshly squeezed grapefruit. It's simple." He snarled in a rare display of anything other than suave charm - his own personal brand. The tender nodded, eager to move onto one of the other impatient customers.
Humming a tune, Lorne drummed his fingers anxiously.
It was a Friday.
Settling in, he glanced towards the stage expectantly, only to be disappointed by Sammy's insistence on choosing the lyrics "prepaid kazoos" over "blue suede shoes" despite the machine in front of him.
As long as it didn't eat up time, Lorne could bear the agony of watching.
He couldn't bear, however, the idleness of waiting.
Every other minute or so the Host would look, out of the corner of his eye as to not come off too anxious, at the entrance. The shuffle of demon feet down the staircase only served to lower his hopes of seeing her. Or him.
He had discovered over the years a simple truth: people let go of life because it didn't give them enough to hold on to.
And he wanted to be held. With that-
"Another Sea Breeze."
Whatcha' think? :)