Taking a shortcut around four in the morning, Buffy walked through the alley past the still smoking shell of The Grand Rialto, the dust from patrolling in her hair mingled with the ingrained stench of fast food grease.
Wondering if a firefighter made more than a grill cook or at least had better hours, the Slayer spared the charred ruin a glance,
No, people did stupid things, like drag firefighters out of bed because they'd set their own beds alight with careless cigarettes or ignited the curtains while messing around with hairspray and lighters.
At least Doublemeat Palace was predictable. And, she made extra by showing up at four thirty a.m. to sling tray after tray of frozen biscuit dough and raw cinnamon rolls into the oven in the back of the corporate factory kitchen, to be pulled out in time for the morning rush.
"Not my monkeys. Not my circus."
With a dismissive gesture Buffy stepped over the smashed remains of a coffee cup and onto the sidewalk, the lights of Doublemeat Palace harshly illuminating the block ahead of her.