Summary: Civic duty can be such a chore. But of course, the census takers don't have an easy job of it either. Takes place after Spike returns from South America, before getting to Sunnydale again and being chipped.
Disclaimer: I do not own or claim any rights for the characters, they belong solely and collectively to Joss Whedon, ME, and all the other entities that I have forgotten to name here. All hail Joss, thanks for letting me play in your universe.
Distribution: Just let me know.
The knock on the door roused the sleeping vampire.
The disturbance was as unwelcome as it was unexpected.
He rolled over to check the clock on the broken night stand. Six twenty pm, much too early to arise for the evening. Grunting, he rolled himself back up in his holey blanket, closed his eyes and started drifting back to the blackness that was his sleep.
The knock sounded again, a little louder and a little longer.
"Bugger off." yelled the vampire, now getting irritated. The stupid proprietor had told him the room was his until he checked out. No where did he read that there was a specific time for him to vacate the property although this would be a moot point when he drained the tosser anyway.
Again, the knock sounded.
Throwing the blanket off the vampire stalked to the door in full demon face. The unlucky on the other side of the door was going to lose his head, and possibly his arms, although not in that order.
He yanked the flimsy door open, crashing it against the wall.
The demon standing in the hallway looked up and smiled. "Ah, good, I see I have caught you in. How are you tonight, Mr, er, ah, Spike. Yes, " he said, marking on his clipboard, "you are Mr. Spike, aren't you?"
"What part of bugger off didn't you understand." Spike reached for the throat of the offending demon with the intent of choking the answer out of him, but his hand closed on air.
"Mr. Spike" came the voice, now behind him, "I just have a few questions to ask you. Census time again."
Spike turned and lunged at the small demon but crashed to the floor when the demon, again, disappeared.
Spike climbed to his feet. "Stay still ya' bleedin' bugger." he said, as he grabbed for the demon.
The demon popped out and then back in on the other side of the bed and shook his head. "I'm afraid that this will take a long time if you continue with your present course of action. I have a job to do and the sooner you answer all my questions, the sooner I will be out of your hair, so to speak."
Spike measured the distance between the demon and his present position. "So, you are from the United States Census department? I find that highly unlikely." He took a step closer.
The demon looked up shocked. "The United States Census Department? Oh my. Oh, no such thing. I have been hired by Belasbeth of the 7th hell to count the legion. You, of course, are one. We are collecting detailed information from a few certain individuals to check the trend of habits in this century. We only take a census every hundred years. Oh, my, yes. You have been selected by a special lottery system to provide us with detailed information on your habits. This..."
"Right." said Spike. "So if I answer your bleedin' questions, you'll leave?" Spike decided that it was just took too much energy to chase a demon that could apparently pop in and out of existence at will.
"Oh, indeed."
"Then get on with it you stupid git."
The demon sat on the edge of the bed and propped the clipboard on his knee. "The first part of this is regarding the..."
"Just ask the questions." said Spike, straining not to throw himself at the little irritating geek of a demon.
"First the particulars. Are you a minion, master or other?"
"Other." sighed Spike.
"Number of childe(s)?"
Spike frowned. "Childe(s)?" he questioned.
"That is the official agreed upon term for your offspring as agreed upon by the committee for..."
"Shut-up. Just put down none."
"That takes care of the next question." said the diminutive demon scribbling on his sheet. "How many living. Not applicable."
"Ok. Next. What is your gross income?"
"None. Or do you count what I nick from people's pockets?"
"They don't say." said the demon lifting the sheet in search for an answer.
"Ok, none."
"Number of TV's?"
"None."
"Cars?"
"The one outside."
"Are you souled or non-souled? This is a new category this year. You'd be amazed at the number of demons claiming the souled status..."
"Non-souled. Can you just get on with it without the narrative?"
"Residence?"
"No. Well, yes. I am heading to Sunnydale. Nice little mausoleum in the west cemetery."
"Oh, I know just the one. Nice town, Sunnydale. Right on the hell mouth, isn't it?" The demon didn't wait for an answer. "Well, Mr. Spike. That about wraps it up. Pleasure doing business. No, don't see me out." And with a small pop of displaced air he was gone.
Spike pulled the cap off the bottle of brandy he had left sitting on the dresser. "Bloody census takers, just can't stand anyone of those wankers. Well, at least I won't see the ponce for another hundred years." He took a long pull from the bottle. It was time to go pay the proprietor a final visit.