Spike turned to face this added annoyance with the abrupt realization that his employer had been somewhat economical with the truth when describing his actual working conditions.
In other words, nobody'd mentioned he'd be sharing space with two ghosts if his nose was being honest. The taller of the two framed by the second doorway, a blonde buzzcut type right off the cover of some mercenary magazine or other, stood staring vacantly behind a short, messy sort with unkempt brown hair.
The ambassador of Slackerdom opened his mouth a few times, before finally mumbling, "Welcome to your first nightmare – did you know you almost died a few seconds ago?" The taller, better groomed one merely rolled his eyes.
"Already been there, mate, wasn't anything special – sod off." Seeing as he was dealing with just another form of the undead, Spike flopped back down on his prolapsed stuffing throne deliberately swiveling it so that it faced the bank of monitors, put his feet back on the desk, lit up, and after turning the "Leave it to Beaver" film festival back up, resumed his Cheeto consumption.
He looked back over his shoulder a few minutes later, snarling, "I said, sod off!" while flipping two salt and fake cheese coated fingers at the staring pair.
The two didn't go away. Too bad these Cheetos weren't salted roast soybeans. He could at least throw them at the two ectoplasmic intruders to make them go away… or did that only work in Japan during Setsubun? Not that Spike really cared. "Go away. I'm watching telly."
The mechanical chicken was also back, glowering at Spike through the little glass window in the security door. Spike got up and taped a piece of paper over the window after writing, "Go away." on it in ballpoint before sitting back down to commune with the Beaver.
Whap! It felt like somebody had just smacked him on the head with a rolled up newspaper.
This was the most irritating $6.25 an hour he'd ever experienced. Spike concentrated harder on the little screen.
Whappity whap! Having survived parts of two centuries as Drusilla's favorite toy, Spike's assailant would have to try harder.
Spike turned up the volume, briefly glancing at the other screens. So far nothing was happening. Well then, let's keep it that way, eh mate?
Rattlerattlerattlerattle - "Hey!" – THUD!
Spike glared up at the stained acoustical tiled ceiling, having landed flat on his back when the dying office chair was abruptly yanked out from under him. "You've got my attention. What do you want?"