It all started when I walked out of the nightclub. Lindsey's last words still rang in my ears. A flunky, that's what he called me, a flunky, an underling, a cog in the machine, a mere bit-player on the great stage of life. It was an insult! The hell of it is, he was right.
I killed a man, me, Lorne, your Genial Host, and I did it in cold blood, not out of any personal animosity, not because of any threat to my well-being, but because someone asked me to.
I felt like an errand boy sent by grocery clerks.
Stop in the Name Of Love! Since when have I, Krevlorneswath of the Deathwok clan, been anyone's FLUNKY!
So, I asked myself, what in the name of Diana Ross is going on here? How did it come to this? How did I, an incredibly classy, not to mention smooth, stylish, suave and debonair demon, turn into a minor character actor in a Tarantino knockoff? How did I get from running my own nightclub to carrying out a hit on an innocent man? Okay, maybe calling Lindsey 'innocent' is a weensy bit inaccurate, but the boy did have a great set of pipes; it was a shame and a crime to waste them.
Sure, I've schmoozed with my share of vampires, warlocks, demons, actresses and even lawyers, but I do have some standards left. Maybe not high standards, but standards nonetheless. There are some things that even an amoral demon such as yours truly can't stomach.
Anyhoodle, I was in a demon dive in Venice Beach, knocking back my 12th seabreeze, trying to figure out where it all went wrong, when it hit me: Connor.
That's right, kiddies, Connor, Angel's son, creepy, backstabbing, hell-spawn extraordinaire. It all came back to me like Jumpin' Jack Flash.
Picture a soft-focus montage, sort of an art-house flick effect: Darla showing up on Angel's doorstep with a demonic bun in her oven. Darla turning herself into dust in the wind to save the little monster. Wesley kidnapping the brat, Holtz and Connor's vacation in Quartoth, Connor's return as a savage, sullen, psychopathic teen who tried to kill his Uncle Lorne before sinking Angelcakes to the bottom of the ocean. Connor as the Ben to Cordelia's Mrs. Robinson. Connor in cahoots with Cordevilia to bring a maggoty ex-god into this world, and to top it off, Connor doing his darndest to deliver Angel's crew, including yours truly, to be torn to pieces by Jasmine's Evil Army of Love.
Without Connor, Wesley would never have been separated from the rest of the gang, Angel wouldn't have spent his summer vacation sleeping with the fishes, my sweet Cordelia would never have been used up and thrown away by Jasrot; as an encore, all those folks killed because of The Beast would still be alive.
I began to sense a common thread here.
Then the proverbial penny dropped. THAT'S why Angelbuns took over as CEO of Evil, Incorporated. It had nothing to do with 'fighting the system from within', it was all part and parcel of the senior partner's evil plans. They must have offered to 'fix' Connor, to make everything all right by creating a pseudo-reality. And if the price Angel paid just happened to include the lives of his closest friends and colleagues, hey, what the hell, it was all worth it, wasn't it? I mean, who at Angel Investigations wouldn't have wanted to have their memories altered by Chluthu knows what kind of demonic mojo to help out the boy who tried to have us all killed? And this was after consigning his own father to Davy Jones's locker.
The thing that really puts the sand in my speedos is that Angel, Mister We Must Have Free Will, didn't do anything so radical, such as asking our permission. No, Angelino made one of his unilateral decisions and allowed Wolfram and Hart to violate our minds so little Creepy McPsycho could live in some phony Brady Bunch-esque alternate reality while the rest of us slowly succumbed to despair. Thanks bunches Angel.
Then it hit me: Fred, poor, sweet, innocent Fred, my brown-eyed girl. She was the nicest, kindest person I ever met, a ray of sunshine in our film noir lives before Illyria hollowed her out like a log. Considering how things turned out, we should have left her in Pylea.
I began to feel a little irritated. So I had another seabreeze and came up with a plan.
I killed a man, me, Lorne, your Genial Host, and I did it in cold blood, not out of any personal animosity, not because of any threat to my well-being, but because someone asked me to.
I felt like an errand boy sent by grocery clerks.
Stop in the Name Of Love! Since when have I, Krevlorneswath of the Deathwok clan, been anyone's FLUNKY!
So, I asked myself, what in the name of Diana Ross is going on here? How did it come to this? How did I, an incredibly classy, not to mention smooth, stylish, suave and debonair demon, turn into a minor character actor in a Tarantino knockoff? How did I get from running my own nightclub to carrying out a hit on an innocent man? Okay, maybe calling Lindsey 'innocent' is a weensy bit inaccurate, but the boy did have a great set of pipes; it was a shame and a crime to waste them.
Sure, I've schmoozed with my share of vampires, warlocks, demons, actresses and even lawyers, but I do have some standards left. Maybe not high standards, but standards nonetheless. There are some things that even an amoral demon such as yours truly can't stomach.
Anyhoodle, I was in a demon dive in Venice Beach, knocking back my 12th seabreeze, trying to figure out where it all went wrong, when it hit me: Connor.
That's right, kiddies, Connor, Angel's son, creepy, backstabbing, hell-spawn extraordinaire. It all came back to me like Jumpin' Jack Flash.
Picture a soft-focus montage, sort of an art-house flick effect: Darla showing up on Angel's doorstep with a demonic bun in her oven. Darla turning herself into dust in the wind to save the little monster. Wesley kidnapping the brat, Holtz and Connor's vacation in Quartoth, Connor's return as a savage, sullen, psychopathic teen who tried to kill his Uncle Lorne before sinking Angelcakes to the bottom of the ocean. Connor as the Ben to Cordelia's Mrs. Robinson. Connor in cahoots with Cordevilia to bring a maggoty ex-god into this world, and to top it off, Connor doing his darndest to deliver Angel's crew, including yours truly, to be torn to pieces by Jasmine's Evil Army of Love.
Without Connor, Wesley would never have been separated from the rest of the gang, Angel wouldn't have spent his summer vacation sleeping with the fishes, my sweet Cordelia would never have been used up and thrown away by Jasrot; as an encore, all those folks killed because of The Beast would still be alive.
I began to sense a common thread here.
Then the proverbial penny dropped. THAT'S why Angelbuns took over as CEO of Evil, Incorporated. It had nothing to do with 'fighting the system from within', it was all part and parcel of the senior partner's evil plans. They must have offered to 'fix' Connor, to make everything all right by creating a pseudo-reality. And if the price Angel paid just happened to include the lives of his closest friends and colleagues, hey, what the hell, it was all worth it, wasn't it? I mean, who at Angel Investigations wouldn't have wanted to have their memories altered by Chluthu knows what kind of demonic mojo to help out the boy who tried to have us all killed? And this was after consigning his own father to Davy Jones's locker.
The thing that really puts the sand in my speedos is that Angel, Mister We Must Have Free Will, didn't do anything so radical, such as asking our permission. No, Angelino made one of his unilateral decisions and allowed Wolfram and Hart to violate our minds so little Creepy McPsycho could live in some phony Brady Bunch-esque alternate reality while the rest of us slowly succumbed to despair. Thanks bunches Angel.
Then it hit me: Fred, poor, sweet, innocent Fred, my brown-eyed girl. She was the nicest, kindest person I ever met, a ray of sunshine in our film noir lives before Illyria hollowed her out like a log. Considering how things turned out, we should have left her in Pylea.
I began to feel a little irritated. So I had another seabreeze and came up with a plan.