Back in the bad old days, William may have been an excruciatingly painful bore, what with the unreadable poetry and getting snubbed by girls at parties and all, but he at least had one good idea.

An idea which Spike whole-heartedly supported: why work for a living when you can live in, well, whatever the alternative was to not working?

In other words, if genteel poverty had been good enough for William, even if it got him laughed at, it was good enough for Spike. Why do anything you don't want to do when you don't have to?

Problem was, Spike needed cash.

Wodges of cash.

More cash than he could acquire by picking pockets, burglary, and the pilferage of other people's unconsidered trifles. Plus, frankly, the demon egg scheme, though monetarily promising at the beginning, had been a bad idea all around thanks to a distinct lack of refrigeration – something important nobody had bothered to mention when he'd started THAT particular cash-flow solution.

Which had resulted in the grenade Buffy borrowed from Captain Cardboard really doing a number on his stuff, even if most of it had come from the Sunnydale Municipal Waste Disposal Facility, aka: "The City Dump".

Aaaaaanywayyyyyy…

...ruined lair aside, that particular unanticipated explosion left Spike unable to present Buffy with a big fat pile of cash to last her and the Niblet a good long comfortable while, which not only would have made him a bit of a hero, it would have allowed the Slayer to quit her job at the Doublemeat Palace and stop smelling like used French fry grease.

And whatever it was that was in the Chicken O'Deadlets.

(Spike had the sneaking suspicion that whatever was in those little deep fried lumps of toenails and arseholes, it had little or nothing to do with yellow feet, a beak, and feathers – still, dump enough blood, Tabasco and black pepper on them and they were filling– however, when the smell of 'em regularly oozes greasily out of the hair of the love of your life-death-whatever, it's a bit of a buzzkill.)

That, and being able to quit DMP might improve the Slayer's personality. Lately, Buffy's kicks to Spike's head plus other assorted back alley mischief, lacked her usual conviction. Must be all those extra Doublemeat shifts.

Anyway, thanks to grenades, over-processed chicken byproducts, and bad ideas overall, taking Mr. What's-his-face's offer of a temp job at $6.25 an hour (cash only) as a night guard for the latest Chuck E. Cheese rip-off, almost made sense – even if it came with a uniform the last wearer hadn't bothered to wash before turning in.

All Spike had to do to get paid, was sit in the office and watch television, when he wasn't watching a bunch of monitors that showed Freddy Fartbear, or was it Freddy Fazbear? or whatever that big stupid brown hairy lump was called,— no, wait, the big stupid brown hairy lump's Angel—do nothing (along with his cuddly little robotic mates: a chicken, a fox, and what might have been a bunny) but aimlessly wander around bumping into things in the dark after hours. The former Worst Poet Ever in the U.K. (Uncontested Grand Champion, 1875-1880) leaned back in the duct-taped office chair in the blue gloom of the stifling office, put his booted feet on the cluttered desk, and lit up, blowing a long defiant stream of smoke at the "No Smoking" sign prominently displayed over the monitor which covered Party Room #1.

Had Spike known this boring but easy windfall was coming his way tonight, he would have brought beer and Cheetos Cheesy Pizza Puffs from Clem's stash and the "Best of Temptations" compilation VHS tape he'd swapped a case of spoiled 2% milk and five expired cans of salmon for last week. Still, the swill in a cup ("Chica's Magic Rainbow Drink", red magic flavor, that the job provided "all you can keep down" as a free perk, wasn't half bad.

It tasted like sugary motor oil until he'd emptied half a flask of Bourbon into it.

Spike took another pull, eyes glued on tonight's "Leave it to Beaver" film festival, and spat out Chica's Magic Rainbow Drink so that it splattered on the wall like fresh blood before dumping the rest of his Bourbon supply into the near bucket-sized cup.

The Beaver had gotten himself into yet another whimsically stupid 1950s-style scrape when the phone rang.

Fumbling around without bothering to look, Spike picked up the receiver, eyes glued to the Beaver's antics, "Yeah – Freddy Fazzbear's Pizzaria – all the fun…something…something… sod all…let your anklebiters run amuck for less…"

"Hello, hello? Uh, I wanted to record a message for you to help you get settled in on your first night. Um, I actually worked in that office before you. I'm finishing up my last week now, as a matter of fact. So, I know it can be a bit overwhelming, but I'm here to tell you there's nothing to worry about. Uh, you'll do fine. So, let's just focus on getting you through your first week. Okay?"

"Yeah, first night, whatever, so long's I get paid." The Beaver had caught his trousers on the neighbor's fence, which was a hell of a lot more interesting than the guy on the phone.

"Uh, let's see, first there's an introductory greeting from the company that I'm supposed to read. Uh, it's kind of a legal thing, you know. Um, "Welcome to Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. A magical place for kids and grown-ups alike, where fantasy and fun come to life. Fazbear Entertainment is not responsible for damage to property or person. Upon discovering that damage or death has occurred, a missing person report will be filed within 90 days, or as soon property and premises have been thoroughly cleaned and bleached, and the carpets have been replaced."

"Uh, come again?" Spike sat up, taking his feet off of the desk.

"Blah blah blah, now that might sound bad, I know, but there's really nothing to worry about..."

"What, me worry? I'm the baddest thing in here, mate!" The Beaver had now torn his pants free from the neighbor's fence and fallen to the ground face down— which was still, marginally more interesting than the recorded message blaring out at him as voiced by some phone guy. Spike dug around in the bottom desk drawer. Ah-ha! he'd found somebody's junk food stash. Spike slammed the drawer shut before tossing a Cheeto (too bad it was the original plain kind) up into the air and catching it in his mouth.

"Uh, the animatronic characters here do get a bit quirky at night, but do I blame them? No. If I were forced to sing those same stupid songs for twenty years and I never got a bath? I'd probably be a bit irritable at night too. So, remember, these characters hold a special place in the hearts of children and we need to show them a little respect, right? Okay."

"Yeah, right, okay, if it makes you happy… wish I'd found Funyons instead… keep the kiddies happy, blah blah blah." The Beaver's older brother dragged the Beaver into the kitchen, torn pants and all, June Cleaver, in all her 1950s glory, was still hot after all these years... even with that hair style!

"So, just be aware, the characters do tend to wander a bit. Uh, they're left in some kind of free roaming mode at night. Uh...Something about their servos locking up if they get turned off for too long. Uh, they used to be allowed to walk around during the day too. But then there was The Bite of '87. Yeah. I-It's amazing that the human body can live without the frontal lobe, you know?"

"Bloody hell, what do you mean, frontal lobe?" Spike clapped his hand to the back of his head, spilling his drink all over the keyboard controlling the monitors in front of him. "Better not be what I think it is, I'm not getting paid enough for this sort of crap!"

"Uh, now concerning your safety, the only real risk to you as a night watchman here, if any, is the fact that these characters, uh, if they happen to see you after hours probably won't recognize you as a person. They'll p-most likely see you as a metal endoskeleton without its costume on. Now since that's against the rules here at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, they'll probably try to...forcefully stuff you inside a Freddy Fazbear suit. Um, now, that wouldn't be so bad if the suits themselves weren't filled with crossbeams, wires, and animatronic devices, especially around the facial area. So, you could imagine how having your head forcefully pressed inside one of those could cause a bit of discomfort...and death. Uh, the only parts of you that would likely see the light of day again would be your eyeballs and teeth when they pop out the front of the mask, heh."

"Hell, I should have stuck to burglarizing this place as originally planned, not letting 'em lock me in with a bunch of homicidal kiddie toys… for minimum wage!" The spilled "magic" drink, red, dribbled unnoticed over the edge of the desk onto the floor. "Still, as the baddest thing in here, what could go wrong?" Spike flopped back down in the battered office chair and put his feet on the desk in front of it.

"Y-Yeah, they don't tell you these things when you sign up. But hey, first day should be a breeze. I'll chat with you tomorrow. Uh, check those cameras, and remember to close the doors only if absolutely necessary. Gotta conserve power. Alright, good night."

"Right, sod off… wanker!" After giving the phone a double-fingered salute while hanging up, Spike lit a fresh one off his previous smoke, using somebody's "#1 Dad" mug for an ash tray snarling, "Best soddin' leave me alone, I don't like it when things interrupt my stories!"

The clock struck midnight as Spike resumed his pleasurable snacking while snarking at the television as something left the stage unnoticed in Party Room #1 on monitor #1…