A Sunnydale Halloween

by Ligeia

At Halloween we all dress up as ghosts, zombies and demons... but what do the demons come dressed as?

Sunnydale Hallowe'en by Ligeia

[PG -15 for language and sexual references]

SunnydaleCemetery. 8.00 P.M. Friday Night. 31st October 1997 – Halloween.

No one noticed as three large and shadowy figures crossed the night-shrouded grounds of the Sunnydale Cemetery. Tonight, of all nights, their grotesque silhouettes would cause little or no comment.

Tonight was Halloween.

Which was exactly how they had planned it.

Speedwell was the first of the demonic brothers to enter the crypt. Ducking low to fit his seven-foot frame through the doorway, the ape-like demon lifted heavy brow ridges and took a look around. He grunted his approval; nothing had been touched since his last visit here almost a year ago. Speedwell thought it unlikely that anyone would hike up the steep hill to this, the smallest and oldest of the town's several graveyards; less likely still that someone would choose this particular mausoleum in which to practice any of the evening's traditional entertainments.

Kids seemed to prefer their frights pre-packaged and sanitised these days, he mused, even here at the Hellmouth.

'OK, boys,' he called out behind him. 'The coast is clear.'

Breedlove, the tallest of the trio, had to bend almost double to enter the crypt. Even then, his green heavily scaled shoulders just barely scraped though. Dust from the lintel peppered his leonine mane and he shook it vigorously, scattering grey particles into the air and earning himself an annoyed glare from Speedwell, who was now also brushing the smut from his own long black fur.

'Sorry,' Breedlove offered, a little sheepishly, his wide crocodilian grin lending scant credence to the sincerity of his apology.

The third demon, Makepeace, huffed and shuffled his way in, immediately settling his rotund bulk onto one of the marble benches set against the interior walls of the crypt, his pale amorphous mass settling with a slight judder and spreading, pudding-like, over the edge of the seat. His big blue eyes were already watering in the dry air.

Moonlight struggled in through the open wrought-ironwork near the ceiling of the mausoleum, lighting a space on the wide flat surface of the stone sarcophagus that rose from the centre of the crypt floor. Speedwell used a huge black paw to sweep the dust of ages from the lid, making room to set down the backpack he carried with him.

As the dust motes swirled in the moonbeams, Makepeace's vestibular cilia started to tremble, then flutter, and he sneezed violently several times.

No one took any notice.

His eyes were watering worse than ever now after the uphill climb and the sneezing continued, occasionally counter-pointed by a nauseatingly wet-sounding sniffle. Finally, when the other two turned to face him, Makepeace gave a tiny cough and a shy grin, delicately wiping moisture from his chin with a blanched tentacle.

'It's OK. Don't worry about me; I'll be fine.'

His brothers turned away without comment or commiseration. He sighed deeply. He was used to being ignored.

'God, it's started already.' Breedlove had never been very sympathetic to his sibling's many ailments which he suspected, not entirely falsely, to be largely psychosomatic. 'What'd we have to bring him for any way. You know he can't cope with this atmosphere.'

'Because we're a team, Lovey, that's why.'

Speedwell sighed as he began unpacking the bag, spreading the contents out across the top of the sarcophagus. The bickering had taken even less time than usual to get underway. As the eldest of the three, and therefore the most mature, he always felt it incumbent upon him to keep the peace.

'Besides,' he continued, 'Mack's our baby brother and we promised Dad.'

Breedlove gave a derisive snort but did not dare openly contradict his brother. Speedwell held the old wizard who created them in high esteem, and even though Pennyroyal had departed this life rather unexpectedly, not to mention messily, during a disastrously ill-conceived attempt to raise the kelpie from Loch Ness sometime during the 12th century, Speedy would never hear a word said against their beloved 'Pater'.

By this time the table-sized lid of the tomb bore an eclectic array of items; barber's scissors and a battery-powered electric shaver, a fold-out Sunnydale street directory, some comb-in black hair dye, a vintage Kodak camera, a small suede wallet which held a selection of skeleton keys, and a pale blue Bic cigarette lighter. Taking up the latter, Speedwell reached into the side pocket of the backpack and withdrew a handful of Habanos cigars. Selecting a large Fonseca Cosacos, he slid off the red and gold band, removed the white silk-wrap tissue paper, bit the end off the stogie and lit it, drawing in the smoky fragrance with obvious pleasure.

'OK, guys. Let's get down to business.'

Speedwell opened out the map of Sunnydale, his leathery paw making a sandpapery sound as he smoothed out the creases. He pointed with a thick grey fingernail to a number of areas that he had previously highlighted with a bright red marker pen.

'We'll be acquiring tonight's targets here, here and here.'

'And what are the targets?' Breedlove asked.

'Targets? What targets?' Makepeace hauled himself up from the bench and waddled over to the tomb to stand beside his brothers. 'I thought we were here on a treasure hunt?'

'So we are, dopey,' Breedlove snapped. 'The targets are the things in the list that we have to find.'

Makepeace looked confused. 'We have to find a list?'

'God!' Lovey buried his face in scaly clawed hands and moaned. 'I can't handle this.' He stomped over to one of the other benches, as far as possible from the hapless Makepeace, and slumped down heavily. 'Speedy, maybe you'd better go over the rules one more time, for bubblehead over there.'

Speedwell nodded in agreement. Their youngest brother really did operate better with as little as possible left to chance. He suspected Mack had inherited that trait from their father.

'OK, Mackie, it's like this. This year's Demon Treasure Hunt has been scheduled for Halloween, so as not to attract too much attention. Each team picks one town or place and has to find three unique items – things that can't be found anywhere else - record their finds and get back to the home dimension by midnight. Each team's members can use one of their demonic powers and use it only once.'

Breedlove added, 'And naturally, we're going with shape-shifting.'

'Precisely,' Speedwell agreed. 'Which means once we shift, we stay shifted for the duration. Not all the demonic teams have the shape-changing abilities we have. It gives us a number of advantages, but there are also some disadvantages.'

'Disadvantages?' Makepeace squeaked. 'Like what?'

'Like, when we shape-shift,' said Breedlove, unable to entirely suppress a hint of sarcasm, 'we have only the skills and physical strength of the being we shift into. Remember?'

'Oh, yeah. Sure I remember,' Makepeace agreed, then added sulkily, 'I'm not stupid, you know.'

Breedlove opened his mouth to speak but whatever the half-formed riposte was, it was forestalled by a dark look from Speedwell.

Makepeace, not noticing, piped up. 'Hey! I got an idea! What about stealing the "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign we saw on the way into town? There was only one of them!'

Breedlove raised black-slitted yellow eyes skyward.

'You idiot! How is that unique? Like there's not another Sunnydale in the world! Shit, there's at least half a dozen in this country alone!'

Makepeace's cilia start to quiver and his eyes leaked a mucousy fluid down his flaccid cheeks.

'There's no need to be so mean about it! I didn't know. I'm just trying to help!' Then, realising he may have a unexpected ace up his sleeve, added, 'You'd be sorry if I went home.'

Speedwell panicked. If the team returned with a member missing they would be disqualified and all his preparation would be for nothing. Hurriedly, he put a consoling arm around Mack's glutinous shoulders.

'Come on, bro,' he crooned, patting his shorter, rounder relative, 'we need you. You're …,' Speedwell searched for a suitably impressive epithet, 'vital … to the success of the mission.'

'I am?' Makepeace blinked his baby blues and gave a liquid sniffle, playing his ace for all it was worth.

'Course you are.' Speedwell glanced over Mack's boneless shoulder, giving Breedlove a stern glare and mouthed a short obscenity. 'Lovey's right though,' he continued. 'It can't be something that's unique because it's from somewhere; it has to be unique because of what it is. Understand?'

Makepeace thought he did and nodded.

'So, if there are lots of Sunnydales, then why are we in this one? What's so special about it?'

Breedlove now attempted to adopt a conciliatory tone.

'You remember, Mack. Speedy told us all about his last trip here when he got home ...' adding under his breath, 'at length.'

'Oh, yeah, that's right,' Mack agreed. 'The girl. The special one.'

Speedy nodded.

'That's right. The Slayer lives here. And she's definitely one of a kind.'

Makepeace frowned.

'We're … we're not … "acquiring" her, are we?' he asked, concern making the orbicular tentacles depending from his chin clench and writhe uncomfortably. 'Cause, you know, I don't like it when we have to do that kidnapping stuff. Sometimes they cry. Then I never know what to say.' His eyes were streaming now. 'Then I cry.'

Breedlove growled, drawing back lizard-like lips to reveal remarkably mammalian canines.

'God … if we don't get going soon …' he began, choking back his frustration as Speedwell threw him another grim look.

'Don't worry, Mackie,' Speedwell continued soothingly, 'it won't be anything like that.'

Breedlove, never celebrated for his emotional control, exploded.

'That's right, dumb-ass!' he roared. 'You know the rules forbid the collection of humans!'

Speedwell added, sotto voce, 'Well, not living ones, anyway.' This time it was Breedlove's turn to look confused, but Speedwell continued without a pause, 'She probably won't even know we've been here.'

Breedlove added darkly, 'Let's hope so.'

'Right boys, let's concentrate. Time's a-wasting and this year we've really got a chance to win!' Speedwell took a moment to reflect on this long-desired goal, basking in the hypothetical glory of his imagination. 'I've been planning this for months,' he continued, 'ever since I got sent here the first time and there's no way those Stryker demons are gonna beat us this year.' Speedwell's brows lowered alarmingly. 'Damn dirty cheaters!'

'Well, their entry last year was pretty impressive,' Breedlove remarked, somewhat recklessly. 'I mean, coming up with the golf balls, javelin and plaque that were left behind by the Apollo 14 crew was an inspired choice.' He chuckled to himself a little, happily contemplating the confusion that would ensue when NASA finally got another crew up there to find their precious artefacts were missing!

'The moon, Lovey! The fucking moon, for Pete's sake!' Speedwell began to pace the close confines of the mausoleum, flailing his long arms about dramatically, with scant regard for the safety of kith and kin. 'The treasure hunt is supposed to take place on the earth!'

Breedlove raised his hairless eyebrows and opened his mouth as a precursor to speech but this time Makepeace beat him to the punch.

'The moon is now generally accepted to be composed of material thrown off the earth's mantle in molten form after this planet was impacted by a huge asteroid approximately three billion years ago, so, technically …' He looked up to find the other two giving him dirty looks and broke off, lowering his head and self-consciously sucking in his cilia. 'Well, I'm just sayin'.'

After a short and fecundly expectant pause, during which the silence was so profound that sounds of Halloween revels wafted up from the town below, Breedlove asked a surprisingly pertinent question.

'So, what are our costumes?'

Opening up the backpack once more, Speedwell took out a manila folder. Inside were several colour 8X10 glossy photos, obviously studio portraits and probably intended for media purposes, which he fanned out across the map.

Breedlove leaned forward, interestedly scanning the faces, one of which he would soon wear.

'Which one's mine?'

Speedwell selected a full-length portrait of a mild-looking man in his mid-forties perhaps, or a well-preserved early fifties, dressed in an elegantly cut brown suit, possibly imported and definitely not off the rack. Breedlove looked at the photo as his brother-demon handed it to him and screwed up his face.

'Oh, do I have to?'

Speedwell nodded his head but Breedlove persisted.

'Are you sure I can't be someone prettier? Or at least female?'

Breedlove had a stated preference for shifting as a woman; a penchant which Speedwell privately considered bordered on the perverse. After all, the undergarments alone, all that rigging ... well, it was just so damned uncomfortable! He shook his head again.

'Sorry, Lovey. Not this time.'

'I like mine!' Makepeace piped up, having already shifted. He stood there admiring his new blue uniform and contentedly patting the beginnings of a beer belly. 'It's nice and roomy!'

'You would,' Breedlove said, not unkindly this time. 'So, who are these guys, anyway?'

'The three most evil beings in this twisted little burg,' Speedwell explained, much to the amazement of the other two. None of the 'costumes' looked at all scary.

Picking up the single remaining photo, this one in black and white, Breedlove asked, 'Who's the fourth one?'

Speedwell shifted, grinned and put the final picture into the pocket of his black summer-weight woollen suit, then adjusted his blue and green striped tie.

'That's for later.'

Gathering his brothers around him, both of whom now towered over his much smaller frame, he punched the air with one fist, yelling, 'This year the Pennyroyal brothers are gonna win!'

The three demons high-fived each other enthusiastically then turned for the door.

Before closing the crypt door behind him, Breedlove quickly stepped over to the almost emptied backpack, rifling through the bag and all the side pockets.

All that was left were Speedy's Havana cigars.

'God,' Breedlove hissed, 'I need a sugar fix!' He swept everything back into the pack and hefted it over his shoulder. Leaving the crypt he rushed to catch up with the others, calling out as he ran. 'Hey! Guys! Can we stop somewhere for a Hershey bar?'

Snyder had ensconced himself in his quiet little suburban house with a large bottle of Gentleman Jack, preparing to wait out the night. Hung over the white picket fence, in large print, was a meticulously lettered cardboard sign saying 'Categorically NO Trick or Treaters!' He loathed Halloween with a passion – kids running riot in the streets, performing seasonally sanctioned acts of vandalism. Little monsters, all of them, he thought, – don't need costumes to know that. Hearing a noise out on the lawn, he looked out of the front window to see two boys tugging at a brace of vintage plaster flamingos, the pride of his immaculate 1950s style garden.

'Hey! You boys! Get away from there!' They looked up at the sound of their Headmaster's voice, then sniggered and continued with their avian pilferage, tearing up twin saucers of the perfectly manicured lawn as the artificial birds came loose.

'Stop that right now!' Slamming down his glass, Snyder rushed to the door, flung it wide and shook an ineffectual fist at the fast-disappearing backs of the culprits, his gnomish visage a vision of vitriol.

'I know who you are!' he called shrilly after the pair of pubescent plunderers, not quite able to make them out in the dark. Wasn't the taller one the Hammond boy? The one who had been called up to his office three times in the past two weeks? He squinted into the darkness. 'Damnit!' No matter; someone – everyone – would suffer at school come Monday.

'Kids – hate 'em or loathe 'em; you just can't like 'em,' Snyder grumbled to himself, slamming the door hard enough to rattle its amber glass inserts. 'Little bastards.'

Five minutes later and several blocks away two kids, each with a garish pink plaster flamingo under his arm, passed three of the town's most prominent public figures approaching from the opposite direction, headed towards Sunnydale High. The boys skidded to an uncertain halt, staring with expressions of matching befuddlement as the older men walked by. Without so much as a glance in their direction, Principal Snyder spoke as they passed.

'Hammond. Blake. My office. Monday morning. Be on time.'

From within the trophy cabinet a pair of golden eyes watched as Snyder entered the darkened hallway, followed by Mayor Wilkins and the Chief of Police. Snyder looked briefly around then headed right for the cabinet which he opened with a skeleton key from the set he carried with him.

Reaching inside the glass case, he took out a trophy bearing the legend 'State Cheerleading Champion 1979'.

'Don't worry, Catherine …,' Snyder smiled, 'we'll have you back in no time! Hopefully, you'll enjoy the temporary change of scene until then.' Turning to the Chief, trophy in hand, he said, 'OK, Mackie, take the picture!'

Makepeace took out the camera, looked through the viewfinder at Speedwell proudly holding aloft their first acquisition and depressed the button.

Once.

Twice.

Nothing happened. He turned the old camera around and peered into the thick lens. 'Oh,' he mumbled, staring at the front of the appliance while using still-unfamiliar fingers to press another, different coloured button.

'Phwoosh!' Mack exclaimed as the flash went off right in his face, tearing up his eyes again and causing him to stumble heavily against the ersatz Mayor. Breedlove tried to snatch the camera from his brother's grip, the two struggling for an instant before the disputed object slipped from their respective grasps and fell to the floor.

Both disguised demons stood motionless, staring down at the smashed camera, an accusing stream of brown celluloid curling out from the open back.

'Damn!' Makepeace cursed uncharacteristically, Breedlove adding solemnly, 'We should have brought the digital.'

'Thanks, Lovey,' Speedwell said tightly. 'That's really helpful.'

'Anyway, what do we need a picture for in the first place?' inquired Makepeace. 'Why don't we just take the stuff back with us?'

'Rules,' Speedwell grumbled. 'The bloody Strykers again and their stupid moon junk. All items are to be left intact this year … pictures only.' He suddenly brightened. 'Or movies!'

Speedwell turned suddenly and headed down the corridor, skeleton key at the ready. Taking a camcorder from the shelves of equipment in the school's media room, he handed it to Breedlove, then snatched up a handful of mini-tapes.

'Don't lose it,' he warned, 'we'll need it to prove we've completed the rest of the treasure hunt.'

Police Chief Bob was home alone. His wife, having tired of his constant griping about the local kids' rambunctious behaviour and lack of civic responsibility, had taken herself off to her sister's for the evening, leaving him sitting around in his boxers and vest, beer in hand and porn on the video. Just the way he liked it.

'You've got the weekend off!' she exclaimed loudly on her way out the door. 'I don't want to hear that you've gone into the station – no matter what.' Pivoting around on the stoop, she waved an admonishing finger. 'And I don't want to find that you've had that damned police scanner switched on either!' As he closed the door after her, firmly but not so firmly as to be accused of a slam, he heard her parting injunction reverberate through the oak panelling. 'Just relax!'

'Ah,' he thought to himself later as he leant away from the window and tried to ignore the sounds of a squad car speeding by with lights flashing, 'maybe she's right.' The black and white had been trailing toilet paper from the windows and trunk and Bob thought he could make out the shine of egg whites and yolks smeared over the duco under the glare of the street lights as the car sped by. Let the younger guys handle it, he mused, just for once. Whatever shit the kids, the creeps, the creatures, or the criminals for that matter, come up with, I'm off for the night.

'God.' The Chief of Sunnydale's overworked and oft benighted Police Department scratched his expanding belly and popped the top off another can of Schlitz. 'I hate Halloween.'

Outside the Sunnydale Police station, Speedwell took a moment to give Makepeace a little pep talk. Taking a firm grip on both of the other man's shoulders … or at least close to the shoulders as he could now reach in his foreshortened form … Speedwell looked his baby brother steadily in the eye.

'So, Mackie, you know what you have to do?'

Makepeace nodded earnestly. 'Yes, Speedy.'

'And you know what you have to say?'

Mack nodded again, 'Yes, Speedy,' and set his jaw decisively. He quite liked having a decisive jaw for a change, or even one with actual bone in it, and he intended enjoy it to the fullest.

'OK, then,' Speedwell patted him on the back and tried to sound confident. 'Off you go.'

'Don't fuck it up!' Breedlove added encouragingly.

Makepeace spun around, startled, his self-assurance evaporating rapidly into the warm night air.

He started breathing hard.

A little wheeze escaped him.

'Oh, dear. Oh, dear!' Makepeace wrung his hands which, distressingly, began to turn back into tentacles.

'Damnit, Lovey!' Speedwell squawked. 'What'd you go and say that for! You know he can't maintain a shape-shift when he's upset!' He rushed to comfort Mack, giving him little pats on one shoulder, which now felt alarmingly squishy. 'If anything happens,' he asked the younger demon patiently, '– something we didn't practise for – what're you gonna do, Mackie?'

Makepeace looked uncomfortable.

Speedwell persisted. 'You remember, buddy? We talked about this …'

Then Mackie's face brightened. 'Oooh, yes! Yes, I DO remember!'

'So, what do you do? Pilgrim.' Speedy added suggestively.

'I do whatever the Duke would do!' Mack blurted, obviously very pleased with himself.

'Oh, God!' Breedlove interjected. 'Now we're relying on tactical advice from cheesy Westerns!'

Speedwell shushed Breedlove harshly and turned back to their younger sibling.

'That's right, Mackie – you do whatever the Duke would do!'

'Only …' Makepeace's new face began to fall. Speedwell hoped the change would remain metaphorical and not become morphological but even he, by this stage, was becoming a little short tempered. He fought to keep his voice, which had a tendency in this new form to rise to an annoying sharpness, steady. 'Only what, Mackie?'

'Only … I like Clint Eastwood better. Can't I do whatever Eastwood would do instead?'

Speedwell, momentarily non-plussed, blinked owlishly, then managed to force out an answer with a serenity he certainly did not feel. 'Sure, Mackie, that's fine. Eastwood's fine.'

Breedlove threw up his hands in disgust.

'We're fucked!'

Officer Phil Brody did not mind pulling Halloween duty, not at all. Unlike the holidays in the big cities, Sunnydale seemed to experience almost a respite from serious crime. Oh sure, odd things happened occasionally. Well, maybe more than just occasionally – let's face it, this was definitely not your typical Rockwell-esque small town - but, all in all, Brody expected to spend an uneventful night down here in the evidence room. His only discomfort was the proximity to the morgue but this, he considered, was a small price to pay for a little quiet-time.

Hence, he was somewhat taken aback when the Chief of Police suddenly materialised at the counter and asked to see the personal effects of a local man who had been found dead of a heart attack in his car just outside of town earlier that evening.

Thoroughly regretting smoking the joint he'd taken earlier from the evidence locker, Brody located a small brown envelope, bearing the name of the deceased - Leroy Alva Spenser - and handed it to the Chief who immediately tipped the contents onto the counter top and began examining the objects thereon.

After a cursory glance, the Chief asked, 'Is this it?'

Officer Brody did not answer right away; he was too busy staring into his superior's eyes. Had they always been quite so big and blue?

'Brody?' the Chief spoke again, indicating the few meagre items on the counter between them. 'Is this all he had with him?'

With an effort, the more junior officer managed to pull himself together, even managing to ignore the way the Chief's face seemed to blur and shift ever so slightly, as though yearning to deliquesce and reform into some other, less familiar arrangement.

God, thought the younger policeman, that must have been good shit!

'That's all there was, sir,' he finally reported. 'Everything from the deceased's pockets and the glove compartment of the car he was found in. Oh,' he added, 'and one item that wasn't retained – a partly eaten peanut butter and banana fried sandwich.'

Indeed, the personal effects envelope held nothing especially remarkable – a cheap leather wallet containing some cash and the usual forms of I.D.; a set of house keys on an orange plastic luggage tag with the address handwritten on the paper insert; an unused pack of playing cards still in their clear plastic wrapper, the distinctive black and gold Emperor's profile insignia indicating a recent visit to Caesar's Palace. A blue 1960s style fountain pen of the novelty type showed a swimsuit clad beach bunny whose one-piece turned into a bikini when the pen was held upright. And the keys to the car now parked in the yard out back of the police building.

Brody let out a sigh of relief as the Chief nodded and turned away, then headed down the corridor towards the morgue.

Any peripatetic Sunnydale citizen would have been forgiven for reacting with incredulity and concern had they chanced upon the scene at the rear of the town's police station that night. Principal Snyder and the Police Chief stood fumbling and grunting at a small window at the rear of the brick building as they manhandled a corpse out of the narrow bathroom window next to the morgue. Mayor Wilkins waited below to receive the dubious bundle.

Breedlove hefted the burden and immediately started to complain.

'This is great,' he grumbled, 'just great. How can this not draw attention. Walking with a dead man over my shoulder?'

'Never fear, brother dear.' Now that they had the second of their 'treasures' for the evening, Speedwell's outlook had taken a sudden change for the better. He jangled a set of keys. 'We have transport!'

At the corner of a quiet suburban street a pink Cadillac was parked. Breedlove was behind the two-toned steering wheel.

'Where to now? Back to the crypt first?'

Speedwell checked his watch.

'No. No time. Mackie'll have to do him in the car.' He handed Makepeace the last of the photographs he had brought with him and the electric razor. 'Know how to handle one of these?'

Mack nodded as Wilkins and Snyder stepped from the car out onto Revello Drive.

'Mmm, candy!'

Breedlove picked up a handful of orange, yellow and white candy corn from a ceramic jack-o-lantern on the bedside table and started stuffing them in his mouth.

Meanwhile, Speedwell rifled though the chest of drawers, dropping cigar ash from time to time onto the clothing inside, until with a flourish he triumphantly produced, as a rabbit from a magician's hat, a tiny triangle of white lace and satin.

'The Slayer's underwear! But that's … that's …,' Breedlove's shocked expression transformed into a wide grin, 'inspired!'

'OK', whispered Speedwell, 'let's get out of here!'

Breedlove grabbed for another handful of the sweets for later but knocked over the dish instead. It bumped noisily to the floor.

Joyce, seated with the newspaper and a steaming cup of hot chocolate, heard the noise from downstairs and called up to her daughter's room.

'Buffy? Is that you? I thought you'd left already?' Jostling and whispers from upstairs, then a thump. Joyce set down the chocolate and started up the stairs.

'Shit!' Breedlove whispered, none too quietly, 'whadda we do now! How can we explain being in here, looking like this!' For the sake of the mission he was fully prepared to shift back to his normal form and confront the human. After all, this would not be the first Sunnydale resident he'd …

'Don't panic,' Speedwell murmured, 'I know this one.' Clearing his throat, and concentrating for a moment, he replied, 'It's OK, Mom. I just needed some things for a treasure hunt.'

Breedlove raised his eyebrows and gave his brother a disbelieving look but Speedwell shrugged and added quietly, 'Sometimes honesty is the best policy.'

Joyce, hearing her daughter's voice, was somewhat mollified, but had not yet started back downstairs.

'OK, hon. Can I get you anything? A hot chocolate before you go back out?' Joyce asked from the hallway outside Buffy's bedroom. 'Is someone up there with you?'

'No thanks, Mom. I'm fine.' Then Willow's voice. 'Hi, Mrs Summers. It's me - Willow.'

'Hi, Will.' Joyce had come as far as the bedroom door but now turned away. 'I'll leave you girls to it then. Be careful now, though, it's getting late.'

1955 pink Cadillac, white roof, white walls all round, wide egg crate grill, rivers of chrome. What a beauty. He'd seen it around town and often admired it, wondering how the owner, a bank security guard at Sunnydale First National, could afford it when he himself, one of Sunnydale's finest, a professional lawman, drove a six year old clunker badly in need of a tune up and new tyres. And what was it doing here anyway, miles from the owner's house? In the middle of the night?

He decided to check it out.

Inside the Caddy, Makepeace had trimmed the dead man's thick grey hair and shaved off most of the well-kept salt and pepper beard. The hair he would dye later then style it according to the picture Speedy had supplied. Mack hummed along with the drone of the electric razor as he lifted the corpse's chin and got to work on the sideburns.

The officer could make out two guys in the back seat of the car, one straddling the other, who seemed to be naked. A disconcerting buzzing sound could be heard.

'Oh, man!' he groaned. 'Damn queers! Right here in the mother-fucking street!'

Approaching the vehicle, he tapped his night stick on the door, not really wanting to take a good look inside.

Makepeace, alarmed and dismayed, began to panic then turned slowly towards the police officer, desperately trying to think of something to say.

What would the Duke do? he thought wildly. What would Eastwood do? Makepeace tried to compose himself. Not get in this situation in the first place, of course, he told himself crossly.

Mack frantically searched Chief Bob's memory, then in his best Clint Eastwood drawl, turned to the officer and said, 'Bryant, isn't it?'

The young officer gulped and nodded, speechless. The Chief of Sunnydale's police department was in his shirt sleeves in a compromising position, down the slippery slope of which Bryant could see all hopes of his own future promotions fast disappearing. The Chief's left hand was across the other man's cheek, holding up his jaw, so the younger cop couldn't get a good look at the naked man's face. Which was fine by him; he didn't want to know.

'Well? What's the matter, son. Never see a man get a shave before?' The Chief's voice sounded gruff and menacing.

'No sir,' Bryant stammered. 'I mean, yes sir.' He wiped the sweat from his upper lip and gulped again. 'Not like that, sir.'

'Then let's keep it that way, boy,' the Chief rumbled. 'Let's keep it that way.'

The three demons used the key on the orange luggage tag to enter the modest white stucco and red tiled house. Speedwell noted the neat garden and well-trimmed lawn and the red mailbox beside the gate with the name 'L Spenser' painted in white.

Once inside, Speedwell looked around for a moment, the said almost reverently, 'Wow.'

'What?' asked Breedlove. The interior of the small house was as unassuming as the exterior. He could see nothing noteworthy whatsoever.

'Oh, nothing … I guess.' Speedwell picked up an 'Elvis Lives!' mug with a chip out of the handle. 'I guess I just expected … I dunno … more.'

'So, what are we looking for in here? We've got the three items ...' Breedlove began.

'Hey! Lookit what I found!' Mack, grinning hugely, was waving a handgun about. Speedwell and Breedlove instinctively ducked, then realised they could not actually be harmed. Breedlove snatched the weapon from Mack's grasp and turned it over admiringly. It was a Colt 1911A1 .45 automatic with blue grips and engraving.

'This is way cool ...,' he muttered admiringly. 'Can we take it?'

'Nope.' Speedwell answered. 'Put it back. It's not what we're here for.'

Breedlove looked disappointed and continued to heft the handgun.

'Well, you haven't told us yet what we are here for!' Breedlove carped. 'Why not the gun?'

'Because,' Speedwell, thoroughly exhausted by the evening's extended interaction with both brothers at once, sighed deeply, 'we can't take anything back with us.' He held up the camcorder. 'Hence the need to record our acquisitions.'

'I hate it when you get snippy.' Breedlove, still grumbling, reluctantly placed the gun back in the drawer and closed it. 'So, what are we looking for? I thought we had everything already.'

'I'm not sure,' Speedwell admitted. 'But I'll know it when I see it.'

Speedwell headed for the house's single large bedroom which, unlike the rest of the house with its conservative decor, had a huge bed covered with fake leopard skin, deep burgundy walls, cut glass chandelier and touches of gold on lamps and picture frames. A gold and leopard reproduction Louis XV chair had an expensive leather biker's jacket draped over the back.

Opening an elegant armoire style closet, the elder demon brother sifted through the garments inside. The closet was filled with the sorts of clothes a sixty-two year old bank guard might be expected to wear – several uniforms with his name sewn on the left breast, blue chambray shirts, flannel hiker jacket, jeans and chinos. One good suit.

'Probably what they'll bury you in,' Speedwell mumbled.

Way in the back hung a cheap vinyl garment bag, the kind you can find at any travel-goods store. Unzipping it, he saw the bedroom light reflect off white fabric and gold detailing.

'Eureka!' he said quietly.

On the shoe rack was a well-worn pair of Meindl hiking boots, casual loafers, a pair of dress shoes and an obviously expensive pair of python skin cowboy boots. Speedwell picked up the latter and put them, along with the garment bag and a pair of sunglasses from the dressing table, into the backpack.

Sunnydale. Monday morning. 9.00 A.M. 3rd November 1997.

Richard Wilkins III sat behind the desk in office, admiring the calmness of the blue walls and the stolid feel of the patriotic décor. Upon his arrival his secretary had appeared, unsummoned, with his first scalding hot coffee of the day. All in all, things were going well.

He had driven back into town in the early hours, having celebrated All Hallow's Eve in his own unique, and let's face it, a far less socially-acceptable way, out in the desert communing with his overlord. From down the hall he heard the laughter of the mayoral office staff. Probably slacking off, he mused, gossiping by the water cooler as usual. Well, folks, enjoy it while you can. Wilkins snickered evilly to himself. Soon, he thought, very soon, I'll no longer have pay obeisance to any master – I will be the overlord!

People scurried by his open door, looking in and barely suppressing laughter. Wilkins rose and walked down to the boardroom where a crowd had gathered.

A roar from the Chief of Police's private office brought cops scurrying from all corners of the police station. The Chief stood there, looming large in the doorway as the newer arrivals strained to peer around him into the room beyond. None could quite believe the baffling spectacle that met their bewildered eyes.

Propped up in the Chief's own chair was a man. Or rather the remains of one. A dead man. A corpse, in fact, perfectly coiffed in a popular style of yesteryear, wearing a white sequinned jumpsuit and pink-tinted aviator sunglasses. In front of him, on the desk, was a pair of lacy girl's panties bearing the laundry mark 'B. Summers' and a plate gold trophy of a cheerleader with pom-poms aloft. Around the corpse's neck was a sign, handwritten on a piece of yellow legal pad taken from the Chief's drawer. It said two things: 'I, Leroy Alva Spenser' and 'Til we meet again, may God bless you. Adios.'

Officers Bryant and Brody, each for reasons of their own, thought it prudent to make themselves scarce.

In the student's lounge a group of kids had gathered to watch a video tape. The same video tape that at that very moment was reducing the staff in the Mayor's office to gales of laughter. Until, of course, the mayor himself discovered the source of the hilarity.

The video had a somewhat different effect on the teenagers. The opposite effect, in fact. They were completely silent.

Stunned.

And very, very afraid.

Principal Snyder drifted by the lounge, his attention caught by the uncharacteristic quietude of the students.

He almost turned away from the door when he caught sight of a flash of naked flesh. Naked adult flesh. Naked adult male flesh! Laughter could be heard on the soundtrack as the operator set the camcorder shakily on a bench - the tape having been recorded, he could see, on Sunnydale High's own football field – where it tilted a little, so that the three figures, hooded like Medieval executioners, standing in front of the lens seemed to reel at an impossible angle.

Rushing into the room to switch off the offending material, the headmaster was, unfortunately, not quite fast enough.

In the closing seconds of the recording, the three naked men turned around and, to the tune of 'Bad Moon Rising' proceeded to moon the camera. Then, facing the audience once more, lifted the hoods to reveal the identities of the pranksters – Principal Snyder, the Police Chief and Mayor Wilkins.

Back in their own world, the Master of Ceremonies himself, along with the other demonic competitors, roundly cheered the winners of this year's Halloween Treasure Hunt. All except for the Stryker brothers, that is, whose acclaim was conspicuous in its absence.

'That was an inspired touch!' Speedwell slapped the delighted Makepeace on his back, making it wobble alarmingly. 'A stroke of pure genius!' Even Breedlove had deigned to allow Mack a heartfelt, 'Well done, old chap.'

The Pennyroyal brothers had won!

The video had been a huge hit with the other demonic teams, the camcorder having been permitted by the judges, much to the chagrin of the Strykers, as a reasonable replacement for their own broken camera. The tableau in the Police Chief's office drew another round of brisk applause and the tape ended with a hairy black paw, a scaly green claw and a delicately pale tentacle lift off executioner-style hoods and stand grinning in front of the lens, their hands on the shoulders of a dead man.

Raising his glass to the corpse on the screen, Speedwell whispered, 'The King is finally dead. Long live the King!'

Some miles outside Sunnydale, off the road and partly hidden by bushes and trees, Officer Bryant stood beside a familiar looking car. He looked inside. Its leather interior was a spotless white and a key-ring still dangling from the steering column, its sun-lit diamantes flashing out the words 'Viva Las Vegas' as Elvis's 'Where Do I Go from Here?' played quietly on the radio.

- Finis -

This was a Lyric Wheel Challenge fic which required the use of 1 line from a designated song which could not be from the chorus.

Thanks to Fairfax for the great lyrics.

Dead Man's Party by Oingo Boingo

I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go

Walking with a dead man over my shoulder

I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go

Walking with a dead man over my shoulder

Waiting for an invitation to arrive

Going to a party where no one's still alive

Waiting for an invitation to arrive

Going to a party where no one's still alive

I was struck by lightning

Walking down a street

I was hit by something last night

In my sleep

It's a dead man's party

Who could ask for more?

Everybody's coming

Leave your body at the door

Leave your body and soul at the door

Don't run away

It's only me

Only me

All dressed up with nowhere to go

Walking with a dead man, walking with a dead man

Waiting for an invitation to arrive

Walking with a dead man, dead man, dead man

I'm in my best suit and my tie

With a shiny silver dollar on either eye

Here's the chauffeur coming to my door

He says there's room for maybe just one more

I was struck by lightning

Walking down the street

I was hit by something last night

In my sleep

It's a dead man's party

Who could ask for more?

Everybody's coming

Leave your body at the door

Leave your body and soul at the door

Don't run away

It's only me

Don't be afraid

Of what you can't see

Don't run away

It's only me