D-Day, fifteen minutes and counting:
The general with the fate of nations resting upon his shoulders paced back and forth in the War Room. From under his crushed officer's visor cap thickly encrusted with the embroidered "scrambled eggs", a man with a grim mien peered through his aviator sunglasses at his loyal staff awaiting his every word (actually, one of them was just drinking a cup of coffee at this moment, and the other was peeking over her computer monitor at that other woman). Going back to his meditative gait, his numerous medals clinking during every step, the military man with a reputation of being always victorious in battle now stopped short in his khaki jodhpurs in front of the electronic screen mounted on the far wall, and bestowed a chilly glance upon the information provided in flashing overlays on this screen. Grudgingly satisfied that his forces were in position and ready to move, the soldier then absently gave himself a good whack on his right leg with his riding crop.
Maybe he shouldn't have hit himself so hard, thought Andrew Wells, as that young man choked down an agonized whimper, and blinked away tears behind his sunglasses. Rallying from this, Andrew spun around and swayed, almost losing his balance in his cavalry boots with the jingle-jangle spurs, until he managed to catch himself, and barked out in his most serious tone, "Rprr, rrff bllff, immgrrsshh!"
In her World War I aviator's helmet with the goggles pushed up, Willow Rosenberg leaned to the left past her computer monitor to examine with total befuddlement the over-dressed lunatic who'd talked all of them into wearing military costumes for tonight. Tossing the ends of her white silk scarf over the shoulder of her leather flying jacket, Willow plaintively asked, "What'd you say, Andrew?"
Shooting a glare towards this insubordinate aide, Andrew switched his riding crop to his left hand, and with his now-free other hand, he yanked from his mouth the unlit corncob pipe he'd been clenching in his teeth, to try again. "I said, report, Red Baroness, immediately!"
Lifting her eyes to the heavens in total exasperation, Willow then glanced at her computer screen, and tapped several keys, all while admitting to herself that it had turned out to be more fun than she'd expected to once more put on her hacker hobnailed boots and go stomping through the hedges of peoples' privacies. Plus, it had turned out that she'd actually come across something using her computer skills that her magical powers had totally missed. Which was all to the good, since absolutely nothing was going to interfere with the date tonight of her yellow-crayon friend and her bratty younger sister. NOTHING.
Her eyes gleaming in battle, as if she were diving out of the sun in her Fokker triplane, guns blazing, the Red Witch looked up from her computer and the real-time frequencies she'd just hacked into, and hissed, "They're still carrying out their sting."
"Excelllllllent," intoned Andrew, sounding more like Montgomery Burns instead of Douglas MacArthur. Getting back into the proper character (though it's true they bore each other a rather close resemblance), Andrew then shouted, "LACKEY!"
From where she'd been standing two steps away, Christine Keaton dryly asked, "You bellowed, Herr Generalissimo?" while the new Slayer that had recently joined the Cleveland House now mockingly lifted up her right hand to give a purpling Andrew the Girl Scout salute. At the same time, the left side of the beautiful Slayer's face that was directed towards Willow bestowed upon that blushing redhead a very bawdy wink.
The witch felt her insides tingle with feelings she hadn't had since Kennedy's death, delighted emotions that had only grown ever since Christine's arrival, with that young woman confidently wearing everywhere her rainbow-pride looped ribbon pin, her total willingness to join in the entire hilarious madness happening tonight, and the fact that the Slayer looked absolutely scrumptious in her white sailor outfit, down to the black tie and the soft circular cloth cap that was perkily tilted down on her forehead.
Feeling that he was somehow not being taken seriously, Andrew drew himself up and ordered in what he fondly believed to be a truly masculine rumble that instead sounded like Alvin the Chipmunk on helium, "Inform our faithful retainers that….Operation Jones is a go."
"Jawohl, mein Kommandant." Still deadpan, Christine performed a second salute, this time the Hawaiian 'hang loose' hand waggle, and again sent another lewd wink towards Willow that made the backs of that witch's knees turn moist. As the Slayer turned around to walk to where her cell phone was on her desk, her hips swaying, as she hummed a jaunty tune under her breath, a rapturous Willow was supremely certain that the soft swishing of that warrior woman's lower half of her bell-bottom pants brushing against each other during her strutting stride was positively the yummiest sound in the whole world.
As a woman whose face was now as red as her hair looked back at her computer screen to keep an eye on how things were going, without thinking about it, Willow began gently bouncing in her chair in time with the words in her mind that had matched what the sexy Slayer had just been humming.
*It's fun to stay at the YMCA….*