The geriatric plumbing of the old theater once known as the Grand Rialto, was a moody force with laws of its own. Sometimes it gurgled and grumbled to itself. Other times, it behaved with old-fashioned, ladylike propriety.
Then there were the days when it seemingly decided that if the End of Days really were nigh, it might as well add to the overall fun.
"Fun" as in *dyspeptic rumblings that, had the building been a living creature, anyone standing near him, her, or it would have quickly moved away from, fearing being caught in an eruption of near Vesuvian proportions – complete with burning lava bombs, screaming crowds, and really really nasty smells.
Having existed slightly longer than the Grand Rialto with the living, well, undead walking-around version of the Grand Rialto's plumbing in the form of Drusilla, Spike paid little heed to the occasional building-shaking rumbles, mysterious subterranean rattling, and near-tantrums of the miles and miles worth of San Andreas Fault battered pipes and drains which lurked beneath the floors, walls and ceilings of the theater turned kiddie meltdown factory by Wolfrum and Hart as fronted by FazCorp .
Plainly spoken, as with Drusilla, if something wasn't on fire or trying to pull your head off to use as a football, ignore it.
In fact, such upsets as far as Spike was concerned, could be downright entertaining when properly aimed… or again, properly ignored in favor of something more interesting – such as revenge on a tight deadline.
Tonight was no exception.
Spike paused in preparing the Mangle for shipping and looked up at the sweaty network of pipes overhead as they suddenly shook, making a noise rather like the one the Titanic made as it made it's final, deadly plunge towards the bottom of the North Atlantic after that rather unexpected encounter with an iceberg…
…something Spike had been miles away from when it happened. The Lusitania and the Hindenburg, however, were completely different stories.
Anyway, the pipes eventually settled down and Spike resumed rigging the deadman's switch, only to be interrupted once more; this time by the phone ringing.
"Bloody hell!" Spike stomped away from the workbench, rudely storming through Mike and Jeremy towards the ruins of the Security room. He'd already been warned twice about ignoring the phone by the Schnelz: it meant a dock in pay if he did. "Can't a man get a moment's peace 'round here?"
Unexpected (and disgusting) cash windfalls from the squidgy dead aside, when you have little or nothing in your pockets but lint, loose change issued by six now-defunct political regimes, three crumpled racing forms (losing) from the nearest dog track, and the clotted remains of this morning's blood bag, a week's pay, even at minimum wage, is an awful lot.
The Grand Rialto echoed Spike's irritation with a long, drawn out moan, sounding like a randy bull whale at the sight of a tour boat full of ecotourists off the coast of Hawaii during mating season, followed by all the toilets bubbling.
*Uncle Billy here— didja miss me? Ennyway, look it up kiddies, 'tis an old-fashioned but useful word what makes you sound more intelligent than you actually are. Thank me later for the thrashing (look that one up too) what you'll get from your family and friends because you just used big words around them that they didn't understand, like "defecate", "flatulence", and "eructation"! (Anyway, oi, I'm still around, just stepped out, heh-heh-heh, for a quick pint and a smoke or six, so mind your backs!)