Ethan flipped through a foul-smelling, leather-bound book. "Ah," he said. "Here we are. The Rod of Tiber. Last seen, a pawn shop in south Dublin in 1938."

"Right," Deirdre said. "Can you get a fix on it?"

"I can try, can't I?" Ethan grinned. "Right. How many miles to Babylon."

His chant was interrupted by a gaseous explosion from the gluteous maximus of Rupert Giles.

"Honestly, Rupert," Ethan said, frustrated. "Can't you control yourself? We are in the middle of an invocation here."

"Sorry," Rupert mumbled. "'s a condition."

"Try to stop ripping 'em in the circle, all I ask."