TITLE: The Powers, inc. Chapter 2, (AKA "Beer and loathing in Los Angeles")
AUTHOR: Me, oh yes.
ARCHIVE: I'm an archive whore. Just lemme know, okay? SPOILERS: None, yet. I think. I dunno. SETTING: Buffy season 3, (pre-ATS). RATING: PG -13. Because Doyle is a dirty-mouthed little...! DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Doyle, Angel, Cordelia or Lorne, for I am not Joss. If I ever aspire to be, I better start eating more pies... FEEDBACK: Ooo! Yes please! AUTHOR'S NOTES: Still Doyle POV, (see chapter 1). Thank you all for the wonderful feedback, because as we all know, feedback is a writer's reason for existence. Glenn Quinn and Andy Hallett rock the llama's ass!
The sharply-dressed demon, I suddenly recognised, was Lorne - The founder, owner, (and pretty much life and soul) of the Caritas bar. He may have been red-eyed, green-skinned, and had horns in some particularly awkward places, but with his hair all highlighted and recently styled he looked like an entirely different demon. Almost. The Caritas saw a lot of demon clientele so I could be forgiven for not recognising him at first. Well, that and the fact I had been drinking like a mad eejit.
"I'm after a Billy Dee, if you're buying." I told him, still avoiding the eye contact thing.
"You're drunk." And he sounded surprised, as well. Bless 'im.
"M'not drunk. 'Bladdered' maybe. With an element of 'shit-faced' in there somewhere..." I signaled for the bar keeper to pour me another shot, and started shifting about uncomfortably. Lorne was staring at me again. It wasn't the kind of stare I was used to getting at a bar, y'know? It wasn't angry, or suspicious, or god help me, it wasn't even lusty. It was like he was trying to figure something out about me, but he wasn't quite getting it.
"How do you feel?" Lorne asked, finally. I stared at the various empty bottles and shot glasses in front of me, and began to suspect I'd had one too many drinks.
"Paralytic." I decided, before gracefully falling off my barstool. Sympathetically, Lorne nudged me with the toe of stylish suede shoes, but made no actual effort to get me to stand up, so I just lay there for a few seconds.
Lorne looked down his perfectly hooked nose at me, "And will his Royal Drunkness be gracing us with a musical number this evening?"
I climbed to my feet, "No, I don't think so."
"Fine, have it your way, my precious. But while you're drowning your sorrows and mooching free pretzels, try to remember this is a karaoke bar? You've been in here practically every night this week!" And to be fair to Lorne, he was right. I had. "I haven't heard so much as a whistle out of you!" Which he hadn't, "There's not a single problem a client of mine has come to me with that couldn't be solved with a verse or two from Aretha Franklin."
Oh, no. No no no. My life was weird enough without Aretha Franklin being tossed into the equation. "Sorry, man. If I'd known singing was mandatory, I would've order my drinks with a side order of barbiturates."
Lorne shrugged, and made a conciliatory gesture with both his green hands. "Hey there... let's take a hospitality pill, okay? Singing is not mandatory, but you can't blame an ol' anagogic demon for trying, can you?" A few awkward seconds passed us by where I refused to chat to Lorne, and Lorne refused to let the conversation be. It was a fierce, fierce silence, exaggerated by my feelings of silent fierceness. When Lorne realised his comment was not going to provoke any reaction other then me suspiciously sniffing my drink, he decided to elaborate. "You don't know what an 'anagogic demon' is, do you?"
"Any reason I should?"
Lorne sighed, "It means I can read your aura and sense your future, my little dumpling. Oh, except that I can usually only do it when you sing karaoke. It's this whole big... *thing*... I've got going. Clients come to me, they sing, I help them out. It's as plain as a Pylean pin-up!"
"That's how you make your livin'? So you're, like... prescient?"
"Umm, I suppose. Slightly." Pfft. Only Lorne could be 'slightly' prescient. A frightening thought occurred to me. "I'm *not* singing, so don't go thinking you can read *my* aura, now. A man's aura is his own private kingdom, y'know?"
Lorne shuffled awkwardly, "Well, ordinarily... I wouldn't. But sweetheart, you're an emotional billboard. You don't have to be singing for me to see you need help, in the worst possible way." Oh, that jammy bastard! Searching for a distraction of any kind, I folded and unfolded the nearest napkin about three or four times, just for something to do with my hands. I wondered if the adorable nicknames Lorne lavished upon me was part of the whole empath-mojo package, or just a delightful extra?
"Hey, thanks for the concern, man, but as you can see - I'm as fit as a fiddle!"
"Oh yeah, a paralytic fiddle that keeps falling off it's barstool. I can see that." Lorne scoffed, "Look, I can understand you're having some... 'difficulties'... dealing with all of this."
"All of what?"
He rolled his eyes melodramatically, and threw up his hands in mock surrender, "Oh, I give up!! Someone just shoot me in the head, please?? I'm talking about all this *power* you've got, my little irish coffee. You've been handpicked by the PTB to be a seer - a 'messenger', if you will. You've already had a couple of visions, right? Visions of people in danger?" I blinked, letting the moment pass. Truth be told, I had come to Caritas to forget about those little 'brain flashes', as I had taken to calling them. I always assumed the visions were part of my new, but not-so- improved demon heritage. And now, all of a sudden this guy was telling me I was... what? 'Chosen' ? By the 'PTB' ? Who, or what were the 'PTB' when they were at home? "Visions?" Lorne hissed, "Hello? You'd have noticed them, Pumpie. They should feel like seizures, but with pictures."
I blinked again, suddenly fascinated by the strobe lights reflecting off Lorne's red horns.
"The POWERS that BE?" Lorne pressed further. I gotta give him points for his resilience. The barman poured me another stiff drink , and I fiddled with the napkin some more, "How did *you* become a seer? Was there some 'collect 10 cereal tokens and become clairvoyant' competition I should know about?"
"Alright, Mr. Sarcasm. Give it a rest, yeah?" I ran a pale, shaky hand through my hair, and contemplated smacking the green guy upside the head with it. "You've just told me I'm a messenger guy for some 'higher power' that I don't know anything about. I'm thinking I'm entitled to some serious 'shock' time here."
At the time I thought I'd get used to the idea of being a seer. I thought that if I could just sober up, if I could just wrap my head around all the responsibility then the idea of being clairvoyant wouldn't seem so... well, 'fecking off the wall' was the phrase I used at the time. Truth is, even now I don't get it. In fact, I'm still adjusting to the idea of being part irish, part american and part blue-spikey-demon-thingie, but I think I'm coping a lot better now then I did, even if I do say so myself. When my marriage went arseways, responsibility was not my strong suit. In fact, I went through more goldfish in a month then most people went through packets of chewing gum. With this thought on my mind, I asked Lorne:
"Are the PTB a big bunch of f-in' masochists?"
"... I beg your pardon?"
"I just didn't know that these so-called 'Powers' favoured us drunken- irresponsible types, y'know? Why would they pick me? Are they all omnipotent, like? Because surely then they'd know that I have enough frickin' trouble with me own answering machine, and wouldn't make a very good messenger, would I? "
"Damned if I know. To say you're a drunken lout is an affront to drunken louts everywhere."
I inhaled a sinus of scotch, "Hey!!"
"Am I wrong?" Well, no. I guess he wasn't. Bastardbastardbastard. Lorne self consciously fixed his tie, and straightened himself up a bit. Yeah, like he was afraid my unfashionablism was contagious, or something. At the time, I was ready to deck him and move on to another bar, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the Powers That Be, beaconing me to my new vocation. Or maybe it was that fact the room was all swirly, and I couldn't stand on my own two feet. It was one of the two. Anyway, Lorne started speaking again.
"Weeeeeeeeeell," It was amazing how he could make one syllable seemingly go on forever, "if you're a messenger, and you've got a message to give, who do you give it to?"
I shrugged, "Post office?"
"Not so, my little Lambkin. These people in your vision need help, they need a hero. The general idea is that somewhere, out there, there is this big hunk of hero sandwich ready, willing and able to save the people in your visions. Hencely, you find this Superman, team up with him, and put a stop to all your migrainey madness."
This was a little hard to process, "There's a hero-bloke out there, somewhere, who can help with these visions?"
"Yes." Lorne nodded.
"I have to find him."
"Yes."
I started to get a little excited now, sobering up a little. After months of feeling like pondscum, I had just found out I actually had a purpose! I wasn't just a nobody, I was a somebody! A special kind of somebody! A messenger to a bloody superhero, no less!! "If I find this guy, then my 'headaches with pictures' will be able to save lives? And my days of migraines, nosebleeds, self-loathing and such will come to an en- well, a middle?"
"Yes."
"Which would be nice."
"Yes."
"Hey man, can you stop saying 'yes' all the time? It's very annoying, y'know."
"Y- er, okay." Lorne agreed, cheerfully.
"So," I stretched my tired limbs, already exhausted by the prospect of an honest day's work, "one problem remains. How do I find this guy?"
"Oh, that's easy! I can read your future, can I not?"
"Great! Read away!" I clapped my hands together, like a the big eager moron I was.
"Nuh uh. You know the score, compadre." Lorne smirked evilly, and with great relish he jerked his green thumb in the general direction of the karaoke machine. I hung my head in shame. It was Aretha time.
AUTHOR: Me, oh yes.
ARCHIVE: I'm an archive whore. Just lemme know, okay? SPOILERS: None, yet. I think. I dunno. SETTING: Buffy season 3, (pre-ATS). RATING: PG -13. Because Doyle is a dirty-mouthed little...! DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Doyle, Angel, Cordelia or Lorne, for I am not Joss. If I ever aspire to be, I better start eating more pies... FEEDBACK: Ooo! Yes please! AUTHOR'S NOTES: Still Doyle POV, (see chapter 1). Thank you all for the wonderful feedback, because as we all know, feedback is a writer's reason for existence. Glenn Quinn and Andy Hallett rock the llama's ass!
The sharply-dressed demon, I suddenly recognised, was Lorne - The founder, owner, (and pretty much life and soul) of the Caritas bar. He may have been red-eyed, green-skinned, and had horns in some particularly awkward places, but with his hair all highlighted and recently styled he looked like an entirely different demon. Almost. The Caritas saw a lot of demon clientele so I could be forgiven for not recognising him at first. Well, that and the fact I had been drinking like a mad eejit.
"I'm after a Billy Dee, if you're buying." I told him, still avoiding the eye contact thing.
"You're drunk." And he sounded surprised, as well. Bless 'im.
"M'not drunk. 'Bladdered' maybe. With an element of 'shit-faced' in there somewhere..." I signaled for the bar keeper to pour me another shot, and started shifting about uncomfortably. Lorne was staring at me again. It wasn't the kind of stare I was used to getting at a bar, y'know? It wasn't angry, or suspicious, or god help me, it wasn't even lusty. It was like he was trying to figure something out about me, but he wasn't quite getting it.
"How do you feel?" Lorne asked, finally. I stared at the various empty bottles and shot glasses in front of me, and began to suspect I'd had one too many drinks.
"Paralytic." I decided, before gracefully falling off my barstool. Sympathetically, Lorne nudged me with the toe of stylish suede shoes, but made no actual effort to get me to stand up, so I just lay there for a few seconds.
Lorne looked down his perfectly hooked nose at me, "And will his Royal Drunkness be gracing us with a musical number this evening?"
I climbed to my feet, "No, I don't think so."
"Fine, have it your way, my precious. But while you're drowning your sorrows and mooching free pretzels, try to remember this is a karaoke bar? You've been in here practically every night this week!" And to be fair to Lorne, he was right. I had. "I haven't heard so much as a whistle out of you!" Which he hadn't, "There's not a single problem a client of mine has come to me with that couldn't be solved with a verse or two from Aretha Franklin."
Oh, no. No no no. My life was weird enough without Aretha Franklin being tossed into the equation. "Sorry, man. If I'd known singing was mandatory, I would've order my drinks with a side order of barbiturates."
Lorne shrugged, and made a conciliatory gesture with both his green hands. "Hey there... let's take a hospitality pill, okay? Singing is not mandatory, but you can't blame an ol' anagogic demon for trying, can you?" A few awkward seconds passed us by where I refused to chat to Lorne, and Lorne refused to let the conversation be. It was a fierce, fierce silence, exaggerated by my feelings of silent fierceness. When Lorne realised his comment was not going to provoke any reaction other then me suspiciously sniffing my drink, he decided to elaborate. "You don't know what an 'anagogic demon' is, do you?"
"Any reason I should?"
Lorne sighed, "It means I can read your aura and sense your future, my little dumpling. Oh, except that I can usually only do it when you sing karaoke. It's this whole big... *thing*... I've got going. Clients come to me, they sing, I help them out. It's as plain as a Pylean pin-up!"
"That's how you make your livin'? So you're, like... prescient?"
"Umm, I suppose. Slightly." Pfft. Only Lorne could be 'slightly' prescient. A frightening thought occurred to me. "I'm *not* singing, so don't go thinking you can read *my* aura, now. A man's aura is his own private kingdom, y'know?"
Lorne shuffled awkwardly, "Well, ordinarily... I wouldn't. But sweetheart, you're an emotional billboard. You don't have to be singing for me to see you need help, in the worst possible way." Oh, that jammy bastard! Searching for a distraction of any kind, I folded and unfolded the nearest napkin about three or four times, just for something to do with my hands. I wondered if the adorable nicknames Lorne lavished upon me was part of the whole empath-mojo package, or just a delightful extra?
"Hey, thanks for the concern, man, but as you can see - I'm as fit as a fiddle!"
"Oh yeah, a paralytic fiddle that keeps falling off it's barstool. I can see that." Lorne scoffed, "Look, I can understand you're having some... 'difficulties'... dealing with all of this."
"All of what?"
He rolled his eyes melodramatically, and threw up his hands in mock surrender, "Oh, I give up!! Someone just shoot me in the head, please?? I'm talking about all this *power* you've got, my little irish coffee. You've been handpicked by the PTB to be a seer - a 'messenger', if you will. You've already had a couple of visions, right? Visions of people in danger?" I blinked, letting the moment pass. Truth be told, I had come to Caritas to forget about those little 'brain flashes', as I had taken to calling them. I always assumed the visions were part of my new, but not-so- improved demon heritage. And now, all of a sudden this guy was telling me I was... what? 'Chosen' ? By the 'PTB' ? Who, or what were the 'PTB' when they were at home? "Visions?" Lorne hissed, "Hello? You'd have noticed them, Pumpie. They should feel like seizures, but with pictures."
I blinked again, suddenly fascinated by the strobe lights reflecting off Lorne's red horns.
"The POWERS that BE?" Lorne pressed further. I gotta give him points for his resilience. The barman poured me another stiff drink , and I fiddled with the napkin some more, "How did *you* become a seer? Was there some 'collect 10 cereal tokens and become clairvoyant' competition I should know about?"
"Alright, Mr. Sarcasm. Give it a rest, yeah?" I ran a pale, shaky hand through my hair, and contemplated smacking the green guy upside the head with it. "You've just told me I'm a messenger guy for some 'higher power' that I don't know anything about. I'm thinking I'm entitled to some serious 'shock' time here."
At the time I thought I'd get used to the idea of being a seer. I thought that if I could just sober up, if I could just wrap my head around all the responsibility then the idea of being clairvoyant wouldn't seem so... well, 'fecking off the wall' was the phrase I used at the time. Truth is, even now I don't get it. In fact, I'm still adjusting to the idea of being part irish, part american and part blue-spikey-demon-thingie, but I think I'm coping a lot better now then I did, even if I do say so myself. When my marriage went arseways, responsibility was not my strong suit. In fact, I went through more goldfish in a month then most people went through packets of chewing gum. With this thought on my mind, I asked Lorne:
"Are the PTB a big bunch of f-in' masochists?"
"... I beg your pardon?"
"I just didn't know that these so-called 'Powers' favoured us drunken- irresponsible types, y'know? Why would they pick me? Are they all omnipotent, like? Because surely then they'd know that I have enough frickin' trouble with me own answering machine, and wouldn't make a very good messenger, would I? "
"Damned if I know. To say you're a drunken lout is an affront to drunken louts everywhere."
I inhaled a sinus of scotch, "Hey!!"
"Am I wrong?" Well, no. I guess he wasn't. Bastardbastardbastard. Lorne self consciously fixed his tie, and straightened himself up a bit. Yeah, like he was afraid my unfashionablism was contagious, or something. At the time, I was ready to deck him and move on to another bar, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the Powers That Be, beaconing me to my new vocation. Or maybe it was that fact the room was all swirly, and I couldn't stand on my own two feet. It was one of the two. Anyway, Lorne started speaking again.
"Weeeeeeeeeell," It was amazing how he could make one syllable seemingly go on forever, "if you're a messenger, and you've got a message to give, who do you give it to?"
I shrugged, "Post office?"
"Not so, my little Lambkin. These people in your vision need help, they need a hero. The general idea is that somewhere, out there, there is this big hunk of hero sandwich ready, willing and able to save the people in your visions. Hencely, you find this Superman, team up with him, and put a stop to all your migrainey madness."
This was a little hard to process, "There's a hero-bloke out there, somewhere, who can help with these visions?"
"Yes." Lorne nodded.
"I have to find him."
"Yes."
I started to get a little excited now, sobering up a little. After months of feeling like pondscum, I had just found out I actually had a purpose! I wasn't just a nobody, I was a somebody! A special kind of somebody! A messenger to a bloody superhero, no less!! "If I find this guy, then my 'headaches with pictures' will be able to save lives? And my days of migraines, nosebleeds, self-loathing and such will come to an en- well, a middle?"
"Yes."
"Which would be nice."
"Yes."
"Hey man, can you stop saying 'yes' all the time? It's very annoying, y'know."
"Y- er, okay." Lorne agreed, cheerfully.
"So," I stretched my tired limbs, already exhausted by the prospect of an honest day's work, "one problem remains. How do I find this guy?"
"Oh, that's easy! I can read your future, can I not?"
"Great! Read away!" I clapped my hands together, like a the big eager moron I was.
"Nuh uh. You know the score, compadre." Lorne smirked evilly, and with great relish he jerked his green thumb in the general direction of the karaoke machine. I hung my head in shame. It was Aretha time.