Welllll then, if what Heckle and Jeckle, the two uninvited ghosts which had interrupted Spike's telly time were right, the animatronics he was being paid to guard were about as bright as a box of rocks in the dark side of the moon until midnight.
After midnight, something would kick into gear and the mobile piles of phunn phurr and cookie crumbs became angry revenge 'bots and the fun would begin.
The Mr. and Mrs. Riley Finns would undoubtedly have fun, too, should Spike manage to corral one of these inexplicably dangerous children's entertainers into a packing crate, and send it to South America to their last known address.
Preferably C.O.D. (It's those little thoughtful touches of class which make petty revenge truly petty.)
All right kiddies, how can Uncle Billy steer things his way with minimal effort and risk to himself so that a certain long term pain in his ass and his lovely wife are more than mildly inconvenienced, if not downright killed stone dead without firing off the chip in his nut even once while ensuring that a certain frequently unpleasant Slayer who recently dumped him for no good reason and who reeked of Doublemeat Palace grease looked upon him with flat out worshipful gratitude once he handed over his pay envelope enough to let him use her washer and dryer?
And her shower?
And maybe move into one of her spare bedrooms, seeing as she'd blown his up. Hell, half the town was already living there and taking advantage of her (somewhat leaky) indoor plumbing, why not him?
Ding ding ding! And the answer is, boys and girls: get one of the animatronics that's already out of order and load it into a crate…
And then fix the damned ugly thing by using the tools in the shop right off the back loading doc, with the help of the repair manual that juuuuust happened to be locked in Mr. Henry, the maintenance mechanic's desk…
You know, the one with, "Authorized Personnel Only" printed on the cover. In big red letters. Followed by, "Unauthorized viewers will be prosecuted." in slightly smaller red letters…
Whatever!
Setting aside a creased photo of Mr. Henry and four children standing beside a partially assembled animatronicl fox in in what looked like a garage workshop that was being used as a bookmark, Spike lit up and started riffling through the pages while leaning against the shop wall.
Tapping ash on the floor after a few minutes of squinting down at the badly photocopied operator's instructions, he pinched out and then tucked his cigarette behind one ear before turning the manual upside down so that it made slightly more sense. What a load of crap— the chip in his head was put together better than this kiddie shite. So what if it was made by the lowest bidder for the U.S. Government!
Somebody tapped him on the shoulder. Mike (because that's what the nametag on the ghost's uniform shirts said), the taller of the two ghosts handed him a note, I know what you're planning. Don't.
"Sod off." Spike snapped the manual shut and dropped it on top of a nearby rolling tool cart, "I spy, with my lit'l eye, something shiny…" He strode across the grease stained concrete, "And rather fat – c'mere me ladd-o – unnnngh!" The vampire attempted to drag the half-sitting yellow and purple bear with a microphone in one paw which had been leaning haphazardly in a corner towards the packing crate he'd found out back by the dumpster, "Bloody hell, lay off the pizza, Yogi— that's for the anklebiters, company policy and all that!"
"Duuuuude, that's Fredbear. If you're gonna swipe him, at least get his NAME right!" Jeremy was sitting on an oil drum, watching Spike's efforts with interest while eating, or at least attempting to eat, some stale popcorn he'd pulled out of the office trash can – only it fell through his body and onto the floor.
Which didn't seem to bother him as Slacker-boy kept eating it anyway.
"I don't care if he's bloody Madonna and two pigs in tutus!" Spike grunted as he attempted to heave the large, bulky entertainment unit into the coffin-sized crate. "And you, tall boy, sod off. I'm tryin' to work here!"
Mike was holding up another piece of paper, Watch out for the mouth on that thing. It killed a kid.
"Well, then, that's just a bonus, innit?" Spike heaved most of the now confirmed fluffy death machine into the crate, "Thought I smelled lunch!" He kicked at the edge of the big wooden box.
Scribble scribble, You're disgusting.
"'Tis what I am." Spike grinned, "I'm what goes 'bump' in the night and don't you forget it!"
This is how it all started.
"Wotcha mean, 'all started'?"
Scribble scribble, Fredbear killed the original owner's child. Bit the top of his head off.
"Now, THAT'S entertainment… hell, that's practically dinner theater…. Now, where'd they hide that exoskeleton release switch– manual says it's on the back of the head beside the off/on switch…" Spike leaned over Fredbear and groped around the back of the thing's big round head, "Shit!" Demon-faced he leapt back, sucking on the back of his hand, "What the bloody hell was THAT?" he mumbled around the wound.
"Spring lock, dude." Jeremy said. He'd abandoned the remains of the popcorn and was staring down at the now crated toy, "Probably why it's in the shop: safety hazard."
"I like it more and more." Reverting back to human, Spike took the back of his hand out of his mouth and beamed down at his latest project, "Even shut down it bites!"
Scribble scribble, Easy for you to say!
"Sod off. Now, where'd that blowtorch go?"
Scribble scribble, You really need to go to the kitchen.
"Now," Spike paused in the middle of screwing a fresh propane tank onto the blowtorch nozzle and glared at his ghostly nag-bag, "Why the hell would I need to do that when I'm busy here?"
Scribble scribble, You really, REALLY need to go to the kitchen.
"Sod off. I'm busy!" Spike mumbled as he fished the half-end from behind his ear and lit it.
"Duuuuude," Jeremy looked anxiously in the direction of the kitchen, "Like, dude! Mike's an asshole, but he's right!"
Mike glared at him, and started scribbling again.
"Why the hell should I? I'm not the soddin' cook! Both of you lads, get lost, I'm workin'!" Waving both pests off with a two fingered-salute, Spike adjusted the valve on the torch before repeatedly squeezing the the striker – no luck. "Bloody hell, never could get these soddin' things to work right!" He dropped the striker, turned up the propane flow and held it to his lit cigarette.
Bang!