Disclaimer: "Buffy The Vampire Slayer" and all its characters are property of Joss Whedon, 20th Century Fox and Mutant Enemy and the UPN Network.
Summary: Things have been going just a little too well lately so there must be something wrong.
Spoilers: Up to and including "The Gift".
Distribution: If you want it, here it is, come and get it. But you better hurry 'cause it's going fast. Oh yeah, and let me know.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Author's Note: The name "Boffy" belongs to whomever came up with it. I believe it was somebody over at MightyBigTV.com. And the chapter title is a song by Devin Townsend.
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PART IV
NOISY PINK BUBBLES
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"Buffy?" asked Xander, his voice quivering at the sight of the figure in front of him.
Said figure did indeed have the features of the Slayer, but it also was a very unhealthy shade of green, a shade akin to rotting Cabbage. Xander didn't have a lot of experience with people coming back from the grave (well, at least not kind that were still human afterwards), but he was quite sure that, considering the advanced state of decay that Buffy was in, she should not actually be standing in front of him. He was also willing to bet that this version of her was of inferior physical quality.
This version of Buffy was positively grotesque. Besides having turned the wrong color, her skin had dried up almost completely and was flaking badly in quite a few places. The body seemed to have forgotten that it had to produce new skin underneath to take over for the old one that was detaching itself. Luckily the clothes Buffy had been buried in had withstood the wear and tear of being underground for nearly a year (well, at least the wearing part, since lying very still involves little tearing) and the subsequent digging out process almost intact, so the assembled onlookers were spared a look at some of Buffy's internal organs.
But Buffy's face was enough of a grizzly sight to more than make up for it. It was haggard, barely more than a skull covered (incompletely) in skin. Her eyes had sunk deep into their sockets and were completely whited out. On top of her head sat an unruly mop of frizzy gray hair.
In a very bad way Buffy reminded Xander of the movie Evil Dead. The acrid stench that the former corpse emitted engulfed him completely and offended each and every olfactory nerve that Xander possessed.
Buffy could tell that her friends were trying to keep an "Oh no, I'm not disgusted by you"-look on their faces, but she could also see that Xander was starting to turn blue as he tried not to breathe.
"I won't hug you, Xander," she mumbled. "Even though I'd really like to." Her left ear fell off. (Oh, did I mention that bits of Buffy were falling off her?)
Xander tried his hardest to hide his relief, but did a terrible job of it. "I don't mind. Really!" he muttered unconvincingly.
"No," answered Buffy resolutely, shaking her head sending bits of skin and hair flying off on multiple trajectories. "I learned from what happened with Giles."
"Why?" Xander inquired. "What happened with Giles?"
The Slayer silently stared at the floor in front of her feet, hoping it would open up and swallow her. Again, I guess. "He…" she stammered, when it became clear the floor was not going to cooperate. "He puked on me."
Xander turned to the watcher who was studying his hands very intently. Also the older man's oxygen deprived blueish hue was slowly turning bright red. "I did apologize for that," he whispered.
Xander heard a solitary sob from Buffy. "So that's what the yellow stuff in your hair is," he said before thinking better of it.
"And I can't even take a shower," the Slayer blubbered. "I'd probably wash half of myself away."
Boffy the robot chose this moment to pipe up. "Oh, don't worry, green me!" she said in her ever chipper tone. She seemed to be the only one not adversely affected by Buffy's presence. "I'll give you a hug." And before Buffy could protest Boffy had her wrapped up in a bear hug. Under the robots viselike grip several of Buffy's ribs gave way with loud, sickening cracks. When she was finally released Buffy collapsed on the floor in an untidy heap.
Xander felt the urge to run to the Slayer's assistance like he had done innumerable times before, but he was also afraid that if he got any closer he would lose his lunch on his friend too. And of the many things he had dreamed of doing to Buffy that surely had never been one.
But the Slayer looked up at him, her eyes pleading. For the first time ever he could see helplessness in her as tears slowly made their way down her cheeks and part of her forehead fell off. Xander couldn't bear to see the girl that had once been the strongest person he knew reduced to this. He rushed over to her, carefully grabber her and vomited all over her.
***
"Oh, this is ludicrous," said Bill averting his eyes.
Next to him Lucy was still peering intently through Giles' window. "Well, at least the boy meant well," she commented.
"You know what they say about good intentions," Bill sneered back.
Lucy continued watching unperturbed. "Shush, I want see how he'll try to apologize for puking on her."
"Did I mention that this is all so very wrong?"
"Only about two million times," answered Lucy. "Maybe you should have it tattooed on your forehead, kinda like a motto, so you could give your vocal chords a rest." She shifted around in front of the window a little to try to get a better view of the things going on inside. "Ooh, it looks like the boy had Mexican food for dinner," she added excitedly. "I do wish you would shut up about that this-being-so-wrong business though."
"But this is all very wrong," Bill whined insistently. "This place is weirder than it usually is. They've buggered the whole cosmic equilibrium to hell. And now they've even resurrected the Slayer. She's supposed to be dead, remember? As in not sitting in this person's living room being vomited on."
"I doubt that she's gonna do them much good," Lucy scoffed, "considering the state she's in. If she even tried to walk too quickly her foot would fly off. She'd be reduced to hardly more than a skeleton by a slight breeze." She paused as she stared in the window. "Oh, come on!" she exclaimed suddenly. "Is she gonna let the boy get away with a lame excuse like that?"
"Excuse me," Bill cut in. "But when you're done with your ersatz soap operas we have a problem to resolve."
"Oh, you're such a spoilsport," Lucy retorted. "Besides, when daddy gets better he'll set everything straight again in no time. Even your beloved cosmic equilibrium. And then you'll regret not having used these moments to enjoy yourself."
"Your father has yet to show any sign of betterment. Besides you agreed to help me with this mission."
"Hello?" Lucy exclaimed. "A trip to Earth on company expenses! Like I'd miss that!"
"Lucy, you're not being any help at all"
"But you love me anyway, don'tcha?" Lucy responded all smiles.
Bill smiled back at her. "Yes, I do. To my undying dismay, I do."
"Oh, you're such a sweet talker," Lucy laughed, kissed Bill lightly and returned to her peering in Giles' window.
***
The scene within Giles' apartment didn't get any more dignified once Willow and Tara showed up. There was much the same scrunching up of the nose and waving away of the bad smell that had gone on so far. There was also more throwing up, but let's leave unmentioned who did the actual tossing of the cookies and who said cookies were tossed onto.
In the end a motion was passed unanimously to hang all air fresheners they could get their hands on about Buffy's neck. And just to be on the safe side they sprayed the entire contents of several cans of Lysol at her. In the end the slayer smelled of many conflicting smells (pines, peaches, potpourri and other stuff that doesn't start with the letter "p") but at least it covered the fetid stench of decay some. It may also be of interest to add that Buffy looked extremely silly with all the air fresheners around her neck, especially the green tree-shaped one they nicked out of the neighbor's car.
Lucy watched all this with rapt attention and many a sarcastic comment. Bill, always by her side, passed the time by worrying about the cosmic equilibrium and sulking. Needles to say that all the goings on at the moment were rather dull. But there was something happening in a room not too far from Giles' apartment that was rather interesting.
***
It was a bedroom, and as bedrooms go this was an amazingly appalling one. The decoration was scarce at best and all in terribly bad taste. The bed was big, but looked rather uncomfortable. It was supposed to imitate one of those soccer-pitch-sized, four-post, antique wood affairs in which no doubt in times long gone princes and princesses had their torrid extramarital affairs with the service folk. Only the bed in this room was an imitation of the lowest possible quality.
The bed was made of plastic, and not just any sort of plastic, but pink plastic. On it the role of the mattress was being inadequately played by a nondescript square of foam rubber. It was bare since the bed seemed not to have been made and it didn't even have any pillows on it. All in all this bed didn't promise long nights of unbridled passion, or even blissful sleep, but instead only outrageously expensive chiropractor's bills.
Next to the bed stood nightstand also made out of pink plastic and across the room from it was a large wardrobe (plastic, pink, as you may have guessed). The wardrobe was spacious but empty, apparently only serving decorative purposes. Next to the wardrobe was the bedroom door, which stood open, and one wall housed a large plastic window, one that had no glass panes in it. Another thing that would have immediately caught your attention, had you been standing in this room, was the fact that one wall was missing entirely.
Now you may ask yourself who would want to live in such a place, especially amidst all this appalling plastic pinkness. But the occupants of the bedroom had never much minded it. For they too were made out of plastic. They had led a good and uneventful life here so far.
But tonight was different.
"What did you just call me?"
"A good for nothing layabout," retorted Barbie, waggling an accusatory digit. "You're a lousy bum," she added for good measure.
Ken was aghast at these allegations. "A bum? Me?" he yelled. "You haven't worked a day in your life! What, pray tell, is it that you do?"
Barbie was a little caught off guard by the question and took a moment to think. "Well," she stammered, "I look pretty! That takes a ton of work. And I change my clothes a lot and have my hair brushed."
Ken didn't bother saying anything. He just raised an eyebrow.
"And, and, and…" Barbie went on as she tried to find more arguments in her favor, "I go driving all over the place in my car and I ride my horse. I even won a trophy in an obstacle jumping competition."
Ken had to admit, though he only admitted it to himself, that she had a point there, even if her trophy had only been a plastic one. She did do things every once in a while. But the same strange power that provided things for her to do seemed to keep him sitting around the house endlessly.
"Well, I'd win trophies too," he began feebly, "if I had all the stuff you had."
"Yeah, about all this stuff," Barbie burst in, "I provide all this for you!" She made expansive gestures all around her. "And how do you thank me?" She stopped for a moment or two for dramatic effect but then carried on before Ken could answer. "Nothing! You never even bring me flowers! Those," she indicated a colorful bouquet that sat in a light blue vase on a small table, all of which was painted on the wall, "were here when we moved in. We haven't even had sex in I don't know how long!"
"Sex?" exclaimed Ken, boggling at Barbie. "Have you maybe forgotten that I lack some anatomical bits crucial to such an activity? How do you think that makes me feel?"
"Oh, please, I don't want to hear your pathetic excuses!" Barbie seethed then paused for a moment. Then she quietly said, "It's because I got fat isn't it?"
Indeed Barbie was one of the "new" model ones, designed to give the little girls that played with them a slightly less impossible ideal to live up to. Nobody had ever considered Barbie's feelings in all this, and how she would deal with the change in her appearance after such a long time in her old body.
But Ken was unaware of any of this and to him Barbie just looked a little like part of her breasts had migrated to her thighs. As these thoughts were slowly wandering through his mind he hesitated saying anything for just a little too long.
"Oh my god!" Barbie shrieked. "It's true! It's because I'm fat! You liked my old body better, the one that the dog got. He chewed off all my hair and half of my left arm, but you liked it better because it was thinner! I can't believe you!"
"Wait a second," Ken said defensively. "You said all of this stuff, not me. You're just being insecure."
Ha! Barbie insecure! Would you ever have thought it possible? Me neither!
"Insecure!" Barbie laughed without the smallest trace of humor in her voice. "I provide all this for you," again she made with the expansive gesturing, "and you call me insecure!"
"Yeah, about all this stuff," this time it was Ken that said it (is it me or is this conversation getting repetitive?), "where the hell does it all come from? Neither of us works, we don't make any money, so how can you afford a huge house, a Corvette, a horse and all those clothes? Who buys all this for you?"
"What are you implying?" the blond doll fumed.
"Nothing," Ken backtracked (very wisely, I might add).
"You ungrateful bastard. After all I did for you!"
"What have you done for me? I never get to use any of your stuff. I just get to sit around this bedroom all the time. It's all Barbie's Dreamhouse and Barbie's Corvette and Barbie's bloody horsie and it's all freaking pink! All I have is a spare pair of pants!"
"Well, you can take your spare pair of pants and get the hell out!" Barbie screamed.
"What?"
"Get out!" she repeated.
"But I…" Ken mumbled.
"Out!"
Barbie also suggested that Ken stick his spare pair of pants up a certain other part of his anatomy he did not possess.
***
The next morning the little girl who owned the dolls, let's call her Debbie, was very surprised to find Ken lying face down in front of Barbie's Dreamhouse, although she very distinctly remembered putting him in bed with Barbie the night before. Next to him lay his spare pair of pants that Debbie's stupid aunt Fenella had given to her one Christmas. Said present was what had made Debbie's aunt Fenella become Debbie's stupid aunt Fenella.
Debbie put Ken back in the house but when she came back from breakfast he was back lying out front, now sporting what could only be described as a black eye. Barbie on the other hand seemed to have a fiercer more independent look about her.
Debbie was even more surprised to find a few days later that Ken and his spare pair of pants had moved into her brother's G.I. Joe camp. Just as well, really, because she never played with Ken anyway.
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Maybe what was going on inside Barbie's Dreamhouse wasn't so interesting after all. And this was a part that did absolutely nothing to move the plot forward. The author would at this point like to apologise for this last part. All braincells responsible have been given a severe telling off and have promised to shape up for the future. The next part will contribute something useful to this story.
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The author would like to take this opportunity to apoligise in case that last bit sounded too much like the beginning of Monty Python And The Holy Grail.
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