Disclaimer: The only thing I can feel is the growing welt on my head as I
become conscious. I am tied to a metal chair in a dark, dank room. There is
this man in front of me, Chinese by the look of it, and he doesn't seem
that friendly. Before I can react, he pulls out this tool I cannot identify
and shoves it in my mouth. Ah, a jaw spreader, like the dentists use to
pull teeth. So, it's to be torture. "I will ask you this once, Miss Lily-
bug," he says in a heavily accented English, "Who do you work for?" I
mumble a few words before he takes the spreader out. "First off, I just
gotta say I love Joss Whedon and Billie Letts, who I stole this story
from," I begin. "Here's what you gotta do: Write this down- E.M.E.T.I.B."
He does so. "Reverse it," I instruct. I can see the puzzled look on his
face as he reverses it, but the look suddenly dissolves into a very angry
and dangerous one, and I know I am in for a world of pain.
Rating: This will be rated R! Sorry kiddies, but I like using inappropriate language.
Author's Notes: I decided that I am bored of my normal disclaimer, and went back to using the fun ones I created a while ago. Hope you like it, and find it kinda funny. Well, here's a shock: I've been nominated again! The people at the 'Till the End of the World Spuffy Awards have told me that I have been nominated for best "Wow A Baby Award"! Well, I don't know who did it, but I thank you so much for this honor. You can get to the link through my author's page. Anyway, today's chapter is break from Sunnydale, and we're a gonna see what our favorite guy Angel is up to. Yeah, I thought you didn't care! Well, kisses!
PS: Death to the WB for canceling Angel. Oh, and the disclaimer is "taken" *coughstolencough* from the first episode of Alias. If Angel isn't renewed by sheer force from the fans, Alias will become my favorite running show on TV. Wanna know my all-time favorite? BJ and the Bear. Nah, just kidding. BtVS forever!!! ____________________________________________________________________________
*
*
*
Chapter Seventeen- Meanwhile . . .
Around midnight, at a small bus station outside the city limits of Nashville, Tennessee, a Greyhound bus came to a stop outside one of the covered terminals. As the engine idled, a few passengers slowly got out, among them a college student, two cross-country trekkers, and Angel.
The night was warm, and as soon as he got outside, he shed his jacket. It was the same one he wore the evening he had been brought into jail a year ago. In fact, all of the clothes he wore were from that night, the only possessions that had been saved for him when he entered jail.
He had been surprised when, only a week earlier, he had been informed that he would be released, earlier than expected. A California initiative that would have given more money to law enforcement had failed to pass, and the jails were overcrowded, so they began to release the lesser offenders. Angel was the first of the batch.
With the few bucks that he had received, Angel bought a bus ticket to Nashville.
As he began to walk into town, he spotted a bar across the road. Only a few bucks remaining from his traveling cash, he knew he should spend it on a hotel room. But, he ignored his intuitions, slung his knapsack and guitar over his shoulder, and ran quickly across the asphalt.
He'd have the first beer he'd been allowed in a year, and toast his future. He came into Nashville an ex-inmate; he'd leave a star.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Miss, your three-fifteen is here," the secretary announced over the intercom.
Rolling her eyes, Glory Morrigan pressed the button. "Supurb, send the fucker in. Oh, and did my new shoes arrive?"
"Not yet." There was a hesitation in her voice.
"Is there a problem, Blanche?" Glory asked, sugaring the malice in her voice.
"Ummm." She could here Blanche fidgeting with the papers on her desk. "I don't think that order went out. My husband was in the hospital and I was a little . . ."
Glory darted her head up as her door opened, and openly grimaced when her "three-fifteen" walked in, carrying a beat up guitar.
"Sit down," she ordered the guy, trying not to pay attention to his crooked teeth as she pressed the intercom button again. "Alright Blanche, you have until five tonight to fix this problem, or your husband won't be the only one in the hospital. Capiche?"
"Yes, Miss."
Slumping down in her seat, Glory studied the guy. He was looking around her office, eyebrow raised, taking in the red décor and abstract art that made the office look more like a lounge.
"You have a name, or are you just as retarded as you look?" Glory demanded. Actually, he didn't look half-bad. Tall, dark, dangerous. But those teeth . . .
"Angel," he answered, staring directly at her once he turned his attention back to her.
"Angel?" she stifled a giggle. "You a transvestite or something?"
He didn't flinch. "Look, can I just play my song for you?"
She shifted in her seat. It wasn't fun when they didn't react.
"You have two minutes," she sighed, taking out a tape recorder. "After that, I'll make my decision. If I don't like it, I never want to see you again in my office. Is that clear?" When he nodded, Glory clicked the record button. "Go," she instructed.
Taking a second to adjust the strap on his shoulder, Angel just jumped into the song. It was his favorite one, a ballad he had written during his second month in jail. He had also gotten three stitches after his cell mate, Randal, stabbed him with a contraband fork for playing it too often.
He watched Glory's face as he played. It was stone as she stared at the wall to her left, her feet resting on top of her desk. She squinted when she saw a fleck of something on her dark red, strappy sandals, and reached over to pick it off just as Angel launched into chorus.
Finally, he came to the end, surprised when she didn't cut him off after the two minute mark. He finished the final chord, then swung the guitar strap off him and placed the instrument next to him. Glory was still staring at the wall, deep in thought.
She stood up, adjusted her (also) red miniskirt, and folded her arms across her chest as she gave Angel a once-over.
"You have no idea how much I am going to have to shell out to make you presentable. I'm not going to represent any shmuck who looks like a homeless man. Pray to God that you make me a Hell of a lot of money."
Reaching her hand over the desk, she waited until Angel put his hand out, and the two shook.
"My name is Glory Morrigan, and I now represent you. Try not to piss me off."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The stylist tsked as he combed his fingers through Angel's hair.
"What the fuck do you shampoo with? Dishwashing detergent?"
Mumbling some response, Angel tried not to stare at the woman at his feet, rubbing some white stuff in his feet at a quick pace. Another person was applying a green concoction to his face, muttering about pores.
Angel's jaw was aching. He had just gone through a four-hour dental procedure to fix what Glory referred to as his "horribly hideous teeth". Now, she had given him over to the hyperactive world of beauty and hair care.
She suddenly materialized out of no-where, talking on a cell phone as her assistant followed, nodding whenever her employer demanded something.
"I want it by noon. Do-able? Great. Ciao." She closed the phone just as she stopped next to Angel, gave her assistant some random order, and then assessed the work she was paying for.
Angel didn't know a lot about his employer. When they signed the contract, she had stressed the fact that he would do everything she wanted, or suffer. Her record agency was a small one, but the names she represented were well known in the country music world. The fact that Angel was now part of this list was a miracle.
"How's it going, Tony?" she asked the hair stylist as he rubbed a blue cream into Angel's hair.
With a big sigh, he grabbed some weird-looking scissors. "I like your idea of making him into a neo-Johnny Cash, but that might change the whole highlight scheme."
Nodding, she patted him on the shoulder. "Know you can do it, Tony." She glanced down, laughing at the bewildered look on his face. "You better get used to it," she ordered Angel with a giggle, "Because you will never go to a Super Cuts again as long as I own your ass. By the way, I changed your name. 'Angel' is just too girly."
Growling, Angel made a face as he turned the other way. He was almost regretting leaving prison.
"So, what is it?" he asked, masking the resentment in his voice.
"Liam Sloane. It's classy, but rough and dangerous. Right, Lucy?" she asked her assistant, who had just returned with a Grande Caramel Macciato for Glory. Lucy just nodded.
Glaring at her, Angel tried to control his rage. "Do I get a say in anything?"
Laughing in her sugar-sweet way, Glory leaned down to speak in his ear. "The day your song becomes number one, you'll get to choose your underwear and socks."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Downtown Boston was soaking wet, and Angel was trying to stay dry in the phone booth as members of his band were trying to flag down a taxi.
Glory was on the other end of the phone, pissed off that his phone call had pulled her away from a dinner with clients.
"What the fuck do you want?" she growled.
"Eric almost got his ass kicked by this drunk bastard WHILE we were doing our set. Don was late because he was arguing with his girlfriend. And I am sick and tired of playing these shitty bars for shitty pay, and staying in shitty motels while your other, more important clients are doing music videos and radio interviews! You told me I'd record in six months. It's been a year! I've put my ass on the line, and you haven't done shit for me!" he screamed, not caring when his band members were gawking at him.
There was a pause on the other line, and Angel could just imagine Glory standing with a hand on her hip, tapping her stupid red dress with her stupid nails, making some ridiculous "angry" face.
"I said six months? Well, then it'll be six more months!"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"This is too great," Angel muttered, trying to take in all that was around him. He couldn't believe that it had finally happened.
Glory's voice came into the little room, and he turned to look at her through the glass separating him from the sound booth.
"You finally going to stop drooling, and actually record?" she asked, her tone openly teasing.
"Glory," he admitted, grinning slightly, "You are my Goddess."
She smiled too. "Thanks. Now, shut up and make me some gold," she ordered.
Clearing his throat, Angel adjusted the headphones over his ears, and waited for the technician to give the cue.
"Here we go. 'A Place Called Home' by Liam Sloane, take one," the technician announced for the audio recording, just as the music filtered into Angel's headphones.
Before Angel opened his mouth to sing, he finally knew that he could die a happy man.
*
*
*
Spiffy6- So sorry, my darling, but there won't be any pure Spuffiness right at this moment. It's going to happen in a while, but not immediately. I'm trying to follow the story as close as possible to the movie, and you know where the Novalee and Forney-ness occur. Again, sorry, but until then there will only be dreams of Spuffiness.
Audrina16- Hey, it's OK. I'm not that bright, so I'd wouldn't be surprised if I made that kinda mistake. You aren't the first one to ask that question. My fic is hardcore? Well, that's cool, if unexpected.
Pokey- Thank you much!
Imzadi- I don't think Lindsey will be appearing in any more chapters of this story. I have no reason for him, unless . . . OH! Idea! But, I'm not telling. Nevermind what I said.
Mita427- Oh, pulled that twist on you, didn't I, skank! Please don't hate me because of what I said, I'm just playing the inappropriate language game. So, a piece of blowed-up fucking stank ass cock to you, and hope you like it.
Ekmw511- I AM THE SUSPENSE MASTER! OK, I'm not, but I can dream, can't I? Thank you very much for the compliments, and the "awww"/
Psychovampgurl- Got a little confused on the whole "vampiness" thing, but it's good now. Don't try to turn into one. A friend of mine did that, and the cops were finding bodies for weeks. JK. I'm gonna try my bestest to finish this story, because I have friends who live across the hall who will kill me if I do not finish. School sucks, and don't do homework! That's how the man gets you.
Comedia- Just this once, I don't wish you dead. No, in fact, I wish you were tied to a concrete wall by barbed wire and Diamond Dave and Bashful were allowed to play Mistress of Pain in front of you. Then, I would come by and tear out your vitals, and let Cathy talk to you about how great republicans are! Much love, and hate.
Feistypumpkin- Yeah, I don't like Angel much. To quote the Buffybot, "His hair sticks straight up, and he's bloody stupid." Thanks for reading.
Angely- As I explained above, I'm not a real big Angel fan. But, I like him more than I like Riley (who I like less than syphilis), so I plan on "redeeming" your poor Angel in the end.
Riley- I forgive you for your name. Hey, dontcha love it when you suddenly come upon a story and just can't stop reading it? Well, the fact that it happened to you with my story makes me happy. You say nice things, and that also makes me happy. And, why make up character names when you can just plop in people from the Buffyverse? Thanks!
Chrestomanci- I will update when I feel like it, whore! Just who do you think you are to dictate when I write? Are you President? Are you advisor to the Hamilton Think Tank? Yeah, that's right! Hey, sorry about the republican bashing, even though I meant it. Kisses!
Rating: This will be rated R! Sorry kiddies, but I like using inappropriate language.
Author's Notes: I decided that I am bored of my normal disclaimer, and went back to using the fun ones I created a while ago. Hope you like it, and find it kinda funny. Well, here's a shock: I've been nominated again! The people at the 'Till the End of the World Spuffy Awards have told me that I have been nominated for best "Wow A Baby Award"! Well, I don't know who did it, but I thank you so much for this honor. You can get to the link through my author's page. Anyway, today's chapter is break from Sunnydale, and we're a gonna see what our favorite guy Angel is up to. Yeah, I thought you didn't care! Well, kisses!
PS: Death to the WB for canceling Angel. Oh, and the disclaimer is "taken" *coughstolencough* from the first episode of Alias. If Angel isn't renewed by sheer force from the fans, Alias will become my favorite running show on TV. Wanna know my all-time favorite? BJ and the Bear. Nah, just kidding. BtVS forever!!! ____________________________________________________________________________
*
*
*
Chapter Seventeen- Meanwhile . . .
Around midnight, at a small bus station outside the city limits of Nashville, Tennessee, a Greyhound bus came to a stop outside one of the covered terminals. As the engine idled, a few passengers slowly got out, among them a college student, two cross-country trekkers, and Angel.
The night was warm, and as soon as he got outside, he shed his jacket. It was the same one he wore the evening he had been brought into jail a year ago. In fact, all of the clothes he wore were from that night, the only possessions that had been saved for him when he entered jail.
He had been surprised when, only a week earlier, he had been informed that he would be released, earlier than expected. A California initiative that would have given more money to law enforcement had failed to pass, and the jails were overcrowded, so they began to release the lesser offenders. Angel was the first of the batch.
With the few bucks that he had received, Angel bought a bus ticket to Nashville.
As he began to walk into town, he spotted a bar across the road. Only a few bucks remaining from his traveling cash, he knew he should spend it on a hotel room. But, he ignored his intuitions, slung his knapsack and guitar over his shoulder, and ran quickly across the asphalt.
He'd have the first beer he'd been allowed in a year, and toast his future. He came into Nashville an ex-inmate; he'd leave a star.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Miss, your three-fifteen is here," the secretary announced over the intercom.
Rolling her eyes, Glory Morrigan pressed the button. "Supurb, send the fucker in. Oh, and did my new shoes arrive?"
"Not yet." There was a hesitation in her voice.
"Is there a problem, Blanche?" Glory asked, sugaring the malice in her voice.
"Ummm." She could here Blanche fidgeting with the papers on her desk. "I don't think that order went out. My husband was in the hospital and I was a little . . ."
Glory darted her head up as her door opened, and openly grimaced when her "three-fifteen" walked in, carrying a beat up guitar.
"Sit down," she ordered the guy, trying not to pay attention to his crooked teeth as she pressed the intercom button again. "Alright Blanche, you have until five tonight to fix this problem, or your husband won't be the only one in the hospital. Capiche?"
"Yes, Miss."
Slumping down in her seat, Glory studied the guy. He was looking around her office, eyebrow raised, taking in the red décor and abstract art that made the office look more like a lounge.
"You have a name, or are you just as retarded as you look?" Glory demanded. Actually, he didn't look half-bad. Tall, dark, dangerous. But those teeth . . .
"Angel," he answered, staring directly at her once he turned his attention back to her.
"Angel?" she stifled a giggle. "You a transvestite or something?"
He didn't flinch. "Look, can I just play my song for you?"
She shifted in her seat. It wasn't fun when they didn't react.
"You have two minutes," she sighed, taking out a tape recorder. "After that, I'll make my decision. If I don't like it, I never want to see you again in my office. Is that clear?" When he nodded, Glory clicked the record button. "Go," she instructed.
Taking a second to adjust the strap on his shoulder, Angel just jumped into the song. It was his favorite one, a ballad he had written during his second month in jail. He had also gotten three stitches after his cell mate, Randal, stabbed him with a contraband fork for playing it too often.
He watched Glory's face as he played. It was stone as she stared at the wall to her left, her feet resting on top of her desk. She squinted when she saw a fleck of something on her dark red, strappy sandals, and reached over to pick it off just as Angel launched into chorus.
Finally, he came to the end, surprised when she didn't cut him off after the two minute mark. He finished the final chord, then swung the guitar strap off him and placed the instrument next to him. Glory was still staring at the wall, deep in thought.
She stood up, adjusted her (also) red miniskirt, and folded her arms across her chest as she gave Angel a once-over.
"You have no idea how much I am going to have to shell out to make you presentable. I'm not going to represent any shmuck who looks like a homeless man. Pray to God that you make me a Hell of a lot of money."
Reaching her hand over the desk, she waited until Angel put his hand out, and the two shook.
"My name is Glory Morrigan, and I now represent you. Try not to piss me off."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The stylist tsked as he combed his fingers through Angel's hair.
"What the fuck do you shampoo with? Dishwashing detergent?"
Mumbling some response, Angel tried not to stare at the woman at his feet, rubbing some white stuff in his feet at a quick pace. Another person was applying a green concoction to his face, muttering about pores.
Angel's jaw was aching. He had just gone through a four-hour dental procedure to fix what Glory referred to as his "horribly hideous teeth". Now, she had given him over to the hyperactive world of beauty and hair care.
She suddenly materialized out of no-where, talking on a cell phone as her assistant followed, nodding whenever her employer demanded something.
"I want it by noon. Do-able? Great. Ciao." She closed the phone just as she stopped next to Angel, gave her assistant some random order, and then assessed the work she was paying for.
Angel didn't know a lot about his employer. When they signed the contract, she had stressed the fact that he would do everything she wanted, or suffer. Her record agency was a small one, but the names she represented were well known in the country music world. The fact that Angel was now part of this list was a miracle.
"How's it going, Tony?" she asked the hair stylist as he rubbed a blue cream into Angel's hair.
With a big sigh, he grabbed some weird-looking scissors. "I like your idea of making him into a neo-Johnny Cash, but that might change the whole highlight scheme."
Nodding, she patted him on the shoulder. "Know you can do it, Tony." She glanced down, laughing at the bewildered look on his face. "You better get used to it," she ordered Angel with a giggle, "Because you will never go to a Super Cuts again as long as I own your ass. By the way, I changed your name. 'Angel' is just too girly."
Growling, Angel made a face as he turned the other way. He was almost regretting leaving prison.
"So, what is it?" he asked, masking the resentment in his voice.
"Liam Sloane. It's classy, but rough and dangerous. Right, Lucy?" she asked her assistant, who had just returned with a Grande Caramel Macciato for Glory. Lucy just nodded.
Glaring at her, Angel tried to control his rage. "Do I get a say in anything?"
Laughing in her sugar-sweet way, Glory leaned down to speak in his ear. "The day your song becomes number one, you'll get to choose your underwear and socks."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Downtown Boston was soaking wet, and Angel was trying to stay dry in the phone booth as members of his band were trying to flag down a taxi.
Glory was on the other end of the phone, pissed off that his phone call had pulled her away from a dinner with clients.
"What the fuck do you want?" she growled.
"Eric almost got his ass kicked by this drunk bastard WHILE we were doing our set. Don was late because he was arguing with his girlfriend. And I am sick and tired of playing these shitty bars for shitty pay, and staying in shitty motels while your other, more important clients are doing music videos and radio interviews! You told me I'd record in six months. It's been a year! I've put my ass on the line, and you haven't done shit for me!" he screamed, not caring when his band members were gawking at him.
There was a pause on the other line, and Angel could just imagine Glory standing with a hand on her hip, tapping her stupid red dress with her stupid nails, making some ridiculous "angry" face.
"I said six months? Well, then it'll be six more months!"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"This is too great," Angel muttered, trying to take in all that was around him. He couldn't believe that it had finally happened.
Glory's voice came into the little room, and he turned to look at her through the glass separating him from the sound booth.
"You finally going to stop drooling, and actually record?" she asked, her tone openly teasing.
"Glory," he admitted, grinning slightly, "You are my Goddess."
She smiled too. "Thanks. Now, shut up and make me some gold," she ordered.
Clearing his throat, Angel adjusted the headphones over his ears, and waited for the technician to give the cue.
"Here we go. 'A Place Called Home' by Liam Sloane, take one," the technician announced for the audio recording, just as the music filtered into Angel's headphones.
Before Angel opened his mouth to sing, he finally knew that he could die a happy man.
*
*
*
Spiffy6- So sorry, my darling, but there won't be any pure Spuffiness right at this moment. It's going to happen in a while, but not immediately. I'm trying to follow the story as close as possible to the movie, and you know where the Novalee and Forney-ness occur. Again, sorry, but until then there will only be dreams of Spuffiness.
Audrina16- Hey, it's OK. I'm not that bright, so I'd wouldn't be surprised if I made that kinda mistake. You aren't the first one to ask that question. My fic is hardcore? Well, that's cool, if unexpected.
Pokey- Thank you much!
Imzadi- I don't think Lindsey will be appearing in any more chapters of this story. I have no reason for him, unless . . . OH! Idea! But, I'm not telling. Nevermind what I said.
Mita427- Oh, pulled that twist on you, didn't I, skank! Please don't hate me because of what I said, I'm just playing the inappropriate language game. So, a piece of blowed-up fucking stank ass cock to you, and hope you like it.
Ekmw511- I AM THE SUSPENSE MASTER! OK, I'm not, but I can dream, can't I? Thank you very much for the compliments, and the "awww"/
Psychovampgurl- Got a little confused on the whole "vampiness" thing, but it's good now. Don't try to turn into one. A friend of mine did that, and the cops were finding bodies for weeks. JK. I'm gonna try my bestest to finish this story, because I have friends who live across the hall who will kill me if I do not finish. School sucks, and don't do homework! That's how the man gets you.
Comedia- Just this once, I don't wish you dead. No, in fact, I wish you were tied to a concrete wall by barbed wire and Diamond Dave and Bashful were allowed to play Mistress of Pain in front of you. Then, I would come by and tear out your vitals, and let Cathy talk to you about how great republicans are! Much love, and hate.
Feistypumpkin- Yeah, I don't like Angel much. To quote the Buffybot, "His hair sticks straight up, and he's bloody stupid." Thanks for reading.
Angely- As I explained above, I'm not a real big Angel fan. But, I like him more than I like Riley (who I like less than syphilis), so I plan on "redeeming" your poor Angel in the end.
Riley- I forgive you for your name. Hey, dontcha love it when you suddenly come upon a story and just can't stop reading it? Well, the fact that it happened to you with my story makes me happy. You say nice things, and that also makes me happy. And, why make up character names when you can just plop in people from the Buffyverse? Thanks!
Chrestomanci- I will update when I feel like it, whore! Just who do you think you are to dictate when I write? Are you President? Are you advisor to the Hamilton Think Tank? Yeah, that's right! Hey, sorry about the republican bashing, even though I meant it. Kisses!
