Barfy The Wompire Slather
Author's note: We're very brittle people, so no flames.
Disclaimer: Buffy belongs to Our Lord and Savior Joss Whedon. Bara bara himble gemination! Also, we're not gay bashers. We are just staying as true to Spike as our little minds can handle. So, not very.
Chapter 1: "Spuckey?"
"You know, sometimes I wish things had just happened differently" said Buffy over morning tea with Willow.
"Alright."
Barfy woke with a start. She had been having the strangest dream… Barfy got up out of her pink, vomit stained bed. The greasy girl changed into her favorite outfit: a Star Wars tee-shirt four sizes too big, and a pair of purple sweats, decided her hair wasn't greasy enough to take a shower, threw it back in a rubber band, and prepared for her day at college, sticking her books into a huge backpacking bag. Just to be safe, she concealed in the bag a plastic baseball bat, ideal for killing Wompires. One has to womp them, very hard. See, Barfy isn't just a normal greasy college girl, but a girl with a destiny. She is the Wompire Slather. Doomed to womp Wompires until what will probably be a very natural death. Wompires are very easy to womp. Never the less, this greasy girl was the one and only person for the job.
On her way down the stairs, Barfy tripped over the comatose form of her sister, Dawn.
"Dam-Dawn! Sorry. What were you doing last night?"
"Parking with Wompires." She responded.
Barfy glared. "Third night this week, Dam-awn! Dawn."
"What are you going to do about it?"
Barfy glared even glarier.
"Womp you. With Wallow's magic wand." Barfy replied demonically.
Dawn scowled and ran into the kitchen.
"Phone's for you!"
Barfy skipped to the phone, unaware that it wasn't plugged in.
"Hello, Barfy. This is Guiles. We have an emergency at the Potter-esque Magic Box.'
"I still think you should change that name. Anyway, what's wrong?"
Guiles cleared his British throat britishly.
"Anya ate the money again."
Barfy grimaced. "What, no Wompires? Get Wallow to do it. Anyway, I have to get Damn-uh, Dawn to school."
"I'll get Spuck to do it."
Buffy smiled. Good old dependable gay Spuck.
"I'll call him."
She hung up and dialed Spuck's tasteful bachelor crypt.
"Hello?"
"Buffy?"
Barfy scrunched her eyebrows. "Who's Buffy? This is Barfy. Remember? Your gal pal?"
"Whatever. What do you need me for at this bloody time of the morning, on this SUNNY day?"
Barfy was confused. "Spuck, you're a Wompire. Not a vampire."
"What? I'll be right over. Bloody hell, this better be IMP-ortant, Buffy."
"Barfy."
"Whatever." He hung up.
Spike was confused, but he remained calm. He heard a knocking on the door.
"Oh, bugger it!" he exclaimed as he went to answer it. He ducked away from the sunlight as he opened his huge crypt door, and saw, lo and behold…
"Angel! Number one, you know I hate you. Number two, what are you doing, standing in my door, in the sunlight, with a crap load of vacuums? I don't understand it!"
"Spuckey, you know I'm a vacuum salesman. And if you hate me so much, why are you still calling me angel?"
"Have you gone insane! Angel is your name, you dumb ass. And Spuckey? This is just getting too weird." Spike was very flustered, and extremely confused. The normally pale vampire was flaming red. Angel put on a sympathetic face.
"Are you okay, honey? You don't seem yourself. And my name is Angle."
Spike pursed his lips and groaned.
"what the- get out! Everybody is trying to mess with my 'ead!"
"Look, honey. I missed my quota, and D'Hoffryn is going to kill me. Won't you buy a vacuum from your ex?"
"Ex? Ex what?" Ex-archenemies?"
Angle smiled. "Hello! Ex-boyfriend!"
Spike- or Spuck-made a horrible gacking noise and punched Angle/Angel in the nose.
"Blegh! Garch!"
Angle fell on the ground, nursing a bloody nose.
"What did you do that for, lover?"
"Oh. God…" Spike managed to get out before he strode outside.
Into the sun.
Spike stared at his non-flaming hands, his anti-conflagratory feet.
"No chip, no burn! This is my lucky day! Except for the Angel thing. Haargh."
He strode off towards the street in an angry huff until he noticed a Porsche with the license plate "Spucky" in the driveway.
"Much better."
Willow woke in a plush white bed with at least ten pillows. It was an insanely bright day, with the sun streaming in through the enormous… silk curtains. She looked up at the eleven foot wood paneled ceiling of her… mansion? Willow got up quickly, and nearly broke her ankle jumping out of the five foot tall bed. She stumbled towards the huge mirror groggily and stared at her face, which had a post-it -note stuck onto it.
"Wallow my dearest, I love you so. I had to go to work early, but I told the butler to leave you some chocolate crepes. I'll be home at six. Love,-"
"Sander!" Willow's face turned white with disgust. How horrible! And he spelt his name wrong, too. What had gone so terribly badly with her spell? Everyone was supposed to have a happy ending, not some sort of scary mansion and an even scarier husband!
"I was totally over him, too." Willow mused while playing with the silk drapes. Still, the drapes were nice. The bed was comfy, and there were crepes waiting for her somewhere in the cavernous house.
She could enjoy this for a while, unless she'd forgotten to include somebody. Oh well.
"God DAMN it Willow!" Spike roared. Willow winced.
She had forgotten somebody.