Sunnydale Assisted Living Center, Sunnydale, California, 2000

"Dawn's in the kitchen, she's got to be!" Buffy plowed her way through the crowd, "If that vamp, and I don't care how old it is, so much as lays a… ooop!" The Slayer hastily pulled her skirt down in mid-stride from where somebody was lifting it with their cane, exposing a black lace thong, "Stop that, bad grandpa! Bad, BAD grandpa!"

Spike gave the grinning nonegarian a thumb's up in Buffy's wake as she burst through the kitchen's swinging door, "Dawn! Dawn! I don't see her— Dawn!"

"That little cancelled stamp? She's hoofed it!" cackled a very elderly woman, compression stockings rolled below her rouged knees, who was pouring something into a large jar packed with spices looted from the nearby cabinets before adding. "Said she had to iron her shoelaces!" She pointed the bottle with a Smirnoff label clutched in one arthritic hand towards the double doors leading into the dining room on the other side of the lobby, adding "Yoo hoo, Blue Serge! You ever get tired of Mrs. Grundy over there, I'm up in room 300." The centenarian seducer cooed up at Spike, suggestively wiggling her hips, "Come up, an' see me some time – for giggle-water and barneymuggin', maybe kick th' gong around!" She tossed the dead soldier to the floor over her shoulder where it smashed on the tiles.

Startled, Buffy paused mid-stomp through the kitchen, "Did the oldest living woman in Sunnydale just make a pass at you?"

"Yeah." Spike smirked at Buffy's discomfort, "No girl like an old girl, eh, Daisy?" Clutching a freshly opened bottle of rubbing alcohol, the fossilized flapper pouted up at him with beestung lips, batting her eyelashes before with a leer, Spike grabbed Buffy by the arm and trailing a, "Later, toots! I'll bring the ukulele and the Mason jars if you got the sheet music!" and hustled the Slayer through the swinging doors into the dining room before coming to a complete stop, "Bloody Hell, we'll never find either one in this mess."

"There it goes," Buffy started after the green-bathrobe slipping into the a mob of hooting old men in the remains of uniforms from long-forgotten battles gathered around Flossie, who had obviously decided that the top of a T.V., even if was big screen, wasn't a suitable stage for a woman of her talent and had switched to a table, and was now doing a long, slow Hoochie Coochie grind on the tablecloth accompanied by a nasty drum solo as pounded out by a man in a moth-eaten fedora on an overturned plastic trash can while playing the kazoo. Staring, Buffy ground to a halt, looking up, "I don't believe it."

Spike backpedaled through the double doors, calling, "Forget the vamp, the loo's over there, find Dawn— I'll be right back."

"What…ever." Open-mouthed, Buffy gaped at the awe-inspiring sight of a power girdle with damp, crumpled singles clinging to it being slowly removed in time to music. "That's Mrs. Blanchefleur, the second oldest living human in Sunnydale, and she… she's got a tattoo of… a heart… right by her… oh my God!"

Spike burst back out into the lobby, scribbling something hastily on the back of a torn open pack of menthols with a pencil he'd found near the bathtub gin factory before grabbing the one-armed trumpeter who was emptying his spit valve into the pot of one of the decorative rubber plants that infested the front lobby, "Hey, Gatemouth, you take requests?"

"Sho'nuff, Willy-boy. What'chou got for ol' Gatemouth?"

Spike held out the list. Gatemouth, after tucking his trumpet under his stump took it, and studied it at arm's length through his trifocals. "That's more o-fay than I usually do. It'll cost you that hunnert you gran-pappy owe me. It ain't hep, but for a hunnert, we do it!"

Spike dug into his hip pocket, pulled out roll of bills, and reluctantly peeled off ten before slapping them across Gatemouth's broad, open palm, "Whatever. Just keep playin' until this runs out!"

"Now, kiddies, you's about to get you's a REAL musical eddication!" Gatemouth called out to the frazzled looking junior high students and their unexpected guest musicians, "These here ol' men knows "Sing Sing Sing", jus' follow along fas' and hard as you can and you do all right – Izzy, give that li'l gal wit' t' baby bass a propuh pick, she gonna need it!"

Shaking his head while swinging his trumpet like a conductor's baton, Gatemouth stamped out the time with one beautifully two-toned shod foot, leaning forward like a runner waiting for the starting gun, "Boom chicka boom chicka boom - on my mark, get set, Sticks, help that boy on th' drums with the beat… yeah, thass right, kid, tha's right, boom chicka boom chicka boom – you, boy on baritone sax, get ready, follow Skeech, he know what t'do! Thass right, thass right, boom chicka boom chicka boom… you gots it, kid!"

Spike rejoined Buffy as Gatemouth's comandeered band burst into an initially unsteady sax chorus, which quickly gained confidence while gaining altitude, "This should clear things out a bit." They stepped aside as the herd of Flossie's fans started eagerly shuffling back towards the lobby, with Flossie bringing up the rear in a scandalous peignoir counting the evening's take, trash can drummer not far behind.