by Phil D. Hernández
GENRES: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, action. VIOLENCE: Yes. See SEX: None. LANGUAGE: Squeaky clean. RATING: PG-13. SPOILERS: None.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
Charlie a gas station attendant
Redshirt a vampire
It looked to be an uncharacteristically quiet weekend in Sunnydale, or perhaps it would have been characteristically quiet if Sunnydale didn't require the services of a Slayer. In any event, the Slayer in question, Buffy, had been assured that she could take a break. So it was that after her Friday afternoon classes Buffy hastily changed clothes and jumped into her car for a night on the town in Los Angeles.
She had forgotten that she needed to fill her gas tank, but once she got on the freeway a red light popped up on the dash to remind Buffy of the omission.
Buffy muttered, annoyed with herself. The Huey Lewis-Gwyneth Paltrow duet came on the radio, and she angrily stabbed buttons with her fingers to find something better to listen to. She finally settled on a hard rock station. Sugary pop music bored Buffy. The best way to get on her bad side these days was to suggest that she looked like Christina Aguilera or, worse, Britney Spears.
Dusk was settling over Southern California as Buffy threaded her way to the off ramp, turning blue sky and greenery to shades of black and grey punctuated by garish-colored light from huge store signs intended to be seen from the freeway. Adding to Buffy's bad mood was the cost of gasoline. She may have been a Slayer, but she lived on a college student's budget, and the twentieth century was providing a nasty finish in the form of skyrocketing gas prices. Buffy pulled into the first station she saw.
Inside, the attendant looked up from his crossword puzzle and pinched himself. Buffy Summers had a model's looks, and while there were many pretty girls in that part of the country, few of them found their way to Charlie's station. One look at her trim figure and long blonde locks was enough for Charlie to suck in his modest gut and run his fingers through his hair.
Buffy was used to men flirting with her, of course, and it was nothing unusual for a man beginning to lose the bloom of youth to smile at her just so. She also knew that his actions were only complimenting her looks and he did not expect anything from her, so she returned his smile.
Hi! Howya doin' tonight? Charlie drawled.
Pretty good, Buffy replied. How about you?
Finest kind, he said, quoting from M*A*S*H.
Buffy placed a bill on the counter. Twenty on pump four, she told him, and do you have the key to the ladies' room?
Sure thing, Charlie answered, punching buttons to preset the pump. He reached under the counter and produced the key, which was attached to an old wooden squeegee handle. The handle had been tapered to a point on the opposite end.
Nobody's going to forget that, she remarked, hefting the stick as if judging its potential as a weapon.
We have a vampire problem, Charlie kidded.
Buffy smirked. Then she shrugged and shook her head, leaving Charlie with another smile.
What neither Charlie nor Buffy knew was that a vampire had taken up residence in the area. He was a transient who had the misfortune to be in Sunnydale (of all places) at the wrong time, and fled quickly when he discovered what his new nickname, meant. Experienced vampires often bought time for themselves by producing novices who might distract such enemies as Buffy while more important business was going on.
To Redshirt it was all the same now that he had escaped from the immediate danger. He found a nice little place in the tangle of concrete that made up this section of the National System of Interstate and Defense Highways, and the occasional traveler or semi-permanent occupant of one of the nearby rundown motels would satisfy his most pressing need. Redshirt kept up appearances by purchasing a beer or pack of cigarettes from time to time at the gas station.
While the vampire knew of Buffy, he had not been given an adequate description of her. Young blonde girl applies to a significant percentage of the population of Southern California, and Redshirt thought he had left Buffy far behind him. When he saw the woman striding to the rest room, it did not occur to him that this might be the Slayer he had fled. What did occur to him was that he had not had a woman in a long time, and he vaguely remembered from the movies that vampires could control people by looking them in the eye. She would be a feast in more ways than one.
For her part, Buffy was not expecting a vampire to be waiting for her when she rounded the corner of the building. However, Charlie's little joke had touched her unconscious mind, and a booted foot to the chest stopped Redshirt's first clumsy advance, driving him back.
The new styles with the chunky high heels worked a lot better than the stilettos did, Buffy noted with clinical detachment – and fashion sense.
Redshirt growled and charged again, grabbing at Buffy's shoulder to make her face him and thus achieve what he thought was the critical gaze. She spun around and struck his head with a stiff forearm. Reeling, he caught the arm and pulled Buffy down, but she rolled to her feet. He tried to catch her eye once more.
The domination bit? Puh-leeze, Buffy sneered. Spare me. She raised the squeegee handle and plunged it into Redshirt's chest.
Never tick off a woman who has to go to the bathroom, she said just before Redshirt dissolved into dust.
After completing her necessary business, Buffy re-entered the gas station and returned the key to Charlie.
You don't have a vampire problem any more, she assured him.
**********
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