We're off to see the Wizard,
The wonderful wizard named Oz...

Buffy abruptly stopped singing, and as she halted in her tracks her luxuriant brown mane bounced at the sudden motion like a--Buffy stepped off the Purple Prose Road. Did you guys hear something?

Startled by the sudden cessation of their prancing ambulation, the castrated straw man gazed ponderously at his fetching young mistress with her creamy skin and chocolate locks, like a human ice cream sandwich only more decadent and less fattening (or so one would hope; he hadn't yet had occasion to taste this delectable treat), and felt a stirring in the straw, but of course it was only straw, perhaps a bit of wind, but not wind in the British slang sense (although he was British, or at least tried to sound British)--

Oh, would you two get off the road already, this could be important! Plus that joke's been done already she cried as she pulled the Scarecrow and her furry little sister into the brush. She extended her Slayer senses. I heard something. It sounded... squeaky.

Squeak squeak.

Yeh, cor, I bloody well heard it, too, the Scarecrow observed, using more than twice as many words as minimally necessary even though they were all trying to be quiet. he pointed, rather a bit more succinctly.

Following the Scarecrow's gesture, Buffy looked over to see--well, it looked like Willow, unmoving and hunched over in what had to be a very uncomfortable position next to a woodshed. She looked... shiny and silver. Buffy inquired. Did you Bedazzle your entire outfit? Or no, wait, you finally finished up all the tinfoil from Dawn's little jewelry fad. Goddess, Will, I told you we'd use that up eventually for sandwiches and stuff. This is just weird. And why aren't you moving?

the Scarecrow intoned Britishly as he bent down beside the silver Willow.

Buffy gazed appreciatively at the view. Oh, yes, there, she sighed.

Think she needs some lube, he declared.

Oh, no need. I'm ready now, Big Boy, Buffy whispered huskily.

Dawn said something noticeable for the first time this chapter. Anybody else going, ew? It wasn't noticeable to the lustbunnies, of course.

Good to know, the Scarecrow replied, waggling his eyebrows, but not what I meant. Pass me that oil can there, this chap's rusted over.

As the Scarecrow finished servicing the tin-person's joints in a completely nonsexual way (except perhaps in Buffy's hormone-addled imagination), the stranger was finally able to move and speak.

she said, stretching upright. Thanks so much for the oil. Hey, can I get a bit more on my elbow here? Scarecrow obliged, again in a completely nonsexual way.

Willow, is that you? Buffy inquired. Or are you some kind of alterna-Willow, like when Jonathan and Tara had no idea what I was talking about, and Spike here--well, I thought he was Spike anyway. Buffy sidled up close to the person who externally resembled her best friend wearing a tin can and whispered conspiratorially, Then I felt him up, and he's actually made out of straw. Honest to goodness straw. How freaky is that? She had apparently forgotten for the moment that her wild sexcapades with Spike were a tawdry secret she'd never dare reveal for fear of what her friends would think of her.

She needn't have worried even if she had remembered, though, as the tin-person's response was the oh-so-articulate,

Alterna-Willow it is, then, the slayer observed. Hey, mind if I call you Tin Willow? The pronouns are wearing a bit thin here, especially with this failing attempt at gender ambiguity.

Yeah, sure, Tin Willow breathed heavily out of her mouth to Buffy, then turned to the Scarecrow, shaking slightly. More oil, please. I need it. I don't quite feel myself yet.

Yeah, you're not the only one not getting felt, the Scarecrow replied, gazing meaningfully at Buffy while servicing Tin Willow's needs, again in a totally nonsexual way.

I still need more oil! Tin Willow cried, exasperated.

Now listen here, missy, the Scarecrow scolded, or is it mister? What the bloody hell are you anyway, tin can?

Huh-wha? Mister. Definitely mister now. Used to be totally in the missy camp, so very mister now. What does it matter anyway? I need more oil!

You're really pretty androgynous, Buffy observed.

No, no androgynous! Mister. Fully and completely mister now!

'Ere, Mister, ave you got a cock?

Well, no, Tin Willow responded glumly.

Bollocks, neither ave I, doesn't prove anything, I s'pose.

Right, and anyway all that matters is I need more oil! Urgently!

Whoa, Tin Willow, chill. Why so desperate for oil? You seem fine now, Buffy soothed.

Tin Willow responded by bursting into song.

When a person's made of metal
His tummy should feel settled,
And yet mine churns and boils.
But I know I'd feel right purty
If I had one little squirty,
If I only had more oil.

With the second verse, he began to dance spastically.

I could move so nice and easy,
My limbs all sweet and greasy,
My skin as smooth as foil.
I'd get down, I'd be groovin',
I'd be little Sir Smooth Movin'
If you'd let me chug that oil.

Picture me - all squeak free,
As I tip my jaunty hat,
Oh, dear, no--what's that?
Is that rust? (scrape scrape)
Unjust!

Tin Willow's melodic pleading grew frantic, as he grabbed the Scarecrow by his shirt and tried to wrench the oilcan from his hand.

Please give me that can, mister.
Won't you help me, sister?
I'm rusty from my toil.
I could stop with the shaking
And my whiny bellyaching,
If I only had more oil.

Tin Willow, I think you may have an oil problem, Buffy observed. Oil can be a very useful thing, especially for someone made of metal like you, but if you start using it all the time, even for little things, you could get addicted. Like addicts do. I think you're addicted to oil, Tin Willow. Let us help you get better.

Will you give me more oil?

No, Tin Willow, there's only a little bit left so we need to save it for an emergency, and even then you'll have to refuse to use it at all costs because you're addicted. Buffy soothed the metal man gently, leaning in close but not so close as to coat her stylish yet affordable leather skirt in the oil that covered Tin Willow's chassis. Come with us to Precious String City. There the Wizard named Oz is going to help me get home, and give the Scarecrow here a cock. Or at the very least a dildo. He could help you defeat your addiction. Some kind of oil-methadone. Or maybe a Bedazzler.

But could he give me more oil? Tin Willow questioned, hope evident in his eyes.

Uh, maybe, Will, I guess...

Well, let's go, then! Tin Willow cried, jumping up and dragging the massively oversized Scotch terrier that was Dawn down the Purple Prose road, singing.

We're off to see the wizard
The wonderful wizard named Oz...

The Scarecrow held Buffy back for a moment as the others skipped ahead. Cor, pet, how come Tin Can Man gets named after one of your buddies, an' I just go by a title, The Scarecrow'? Do I go around calling you the bint' or the Slayer'?

Well, actually, yeah, Sp--I mean, yeah, that is pretty adversarial and impersonal. How's about I call you Spikecrow from now on? It oughta help prevent confusion now that new characters keep popping up, anyhow.

Cor, it's bloody brilliant, innit? Spikecrow exclaimed. In fact, I like it so much that I-- and he pulled her onto the Purple Prose road and started whispering in her ear....

****************************************

Her toenails still needed work. She'd have to get that new minion--what was his name? Slinky? Something stupid. He'd have to do it over.

Oh! Glory looked up, a bit surprised. I'm still in this story? Oh, well, um, next chapter I'll make my move. The key shall be mine!

She glanced back down to her toes. Hey, Slinky, get your ass in here pronto!