"…and this is the Council Library, sir."

"Ah, yes. Books, books, and more books."

"That is indeed one of the functions of a library, sir."

"Don't you dare be cheeky to me, my lad! I'll have you know my family's among of the oldest in England, and I'm determined to restore us to our rightful place in the corridors of power, no matter what it takes! Even if Whitehall exiled me here as the newest liaison with the Council just because of one tiny mistake, I'm still going to use this meaningless post to claw my way back! Anybody who resists me, they'll rue the day!"

"I shall endeavor to keep this in mind, sir."

"See that you do. Now…all right, I have to say, no other library I've ever been in has a bookshelf catalogued by 'Demon Naughty Bits'. Particularly the sections subdivided into 'Chebs,' 'Bums,' 'Quims', and 'Classified.'"

"We haven't been able to change anything since the Great Curse, sir."

"That's really happening? I thought the briefing notes covering this was just an absurd leg-pull for the new boy and we'd all share a good chuckle about it afterwards."

"No, sir. Starting from 1954 onwards, the Council has undergone a persistent magical attack by some unknown foe. We've never found out who's casting it, or how to successfully protect ourselves. All we can do is to endure and try to alleviate as much of the damage as possible caused by being forced to behave like the barmiest, most gormless bunch of duffers around."

"It can't be that bad, surely?"

"I'm afraid so, sir. For example, the bookcase you just mentioned. No matter what we do – including the removal of the signs or even the tomes to another shelf – everything gets automatically replaced by magic."

"Even the ones under 'Classified'? Let's take a look."

"Sir, I have to warn you—"

"GAAAAHHHH! My eyes! My eyes!"

"Oh, dear, you just had to find that picture. Please take a seat over here while you're recovering, sir."

"…I feel so bloody inadequate now…"

"Yes, most gentlemen have that reaction to the last known eighteenth-century engraving of Immersill the Incubus. The Slayer of the time, Charlotte Brantwood, was only able to defeat him by engaging in extensively wanton sexual intercourse with that demon at a Yorkshire inn while her Watcher lit the fuse of three tons of gunpowder hidden in the basement. I believe her last reported words were, 'The earth's going to move for us both now, you incredibly sexy beast!'"

"That could be described as somewhat inspiring, I suppose."

"Quite so, sir. Anyway, the Council archivist responsible for the library at the time of the spell was supernaturally forced to reorganize the entire collection in much the same way. As hard as it might be to believe, that's definitely one of the mildest examples. In any case, the upshot is that we've had a most difficult time since then to find the correct information we need to provide the Slayers battling against the forces of darkness."

"People get sidetracked, you mean?"

"Er…yes, that's happened, I must admit. Unfortunately, the magic still residing in the library also forbids us from explaining to the Slayers and their Watchers just why we can't immediately provide the answers to their questions, however critical these may be. The latest instance of this was the Glory situation at the Sunnydale Hellmouth several years ago."

"Sunnydale…eh, you mean that colonial bint, what's-her-name, Bunny Somerset?"

"Buffy Summers, to be more specific. Director Travers hoped that a personal visit by him to meet with that young woman and her group of friends might break the spell. Regrettably, this failed, and all it did was to further drive a wedge between the Council and Miss Summers. Making it even more exasperating was finding out several months afterwards that if we'd learned that hellgoddesses' personal measurements, we could've instantly identified her by the 'Chebs' section and trigger Glory's fatal weakness without any need for Miss Summers' sacrifice."

"What weakness?"

"All anyone there had to do was to draw a line in a full circle on the ground and invite Glory to find the end of it. Eventually, she'd have her head explode from sheer frustration, and that would be that."

"Mmmm…I wonder if it'd work on—"

"Pardon me?"

"Never mind. Just an idle thought I've started fantasizing about lately. By the by, does this mean the other part of the briefing was true? That the curse also causes the Council to recruit the most inept blokes alive as trainee Watchers?"

"We're not entirely sure, sir. Were they already like that when we brought them into our ranks, or does being admitted to the Council then make the Great Curse turn them into people who couldn't find their arses with both hands and Merlin's grimoire? Either or both could apply. Thankfully, there've still been some Watchers such as Rupert Giles who capably carry out their duties of guiding the Slayer."

"Are there enough of those?"

"Frankly, no. The last time we needed to send a Watcher for a newly-called Slayer, all that was on hand was the least worse of the lot, a certain Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. As you might expect, it was an utter disaster."

"I know how exactly that feels."

"You do? Oh, excuse me for prying, sir. To return to the subject, it's even more aggravating that the Great Curse also prevents us from enlightening the lower ranks of our organization as to why there are so many tossers here. It doesn't help morale the slightest bit, to be honest. Even those who yet persist in making a career with us to sufficiently rise in the ranks that they finally learn the truth don't always take it very well."

"I should hope not. Ah…what precisely is their reaction?"

"For many, an excessive consumption of alcohol about every fortnight."

"Hold on, now. You didn't seem to have any trouble telling me the bad news."

"Oh, on the whole, the Whitehall liaisons don't appear to be particularly affected by that part of the Great Curse, sir."

"What was that?"

"Sir?"

"You know damned well what! The part of your last sentence, with the added emphasis!"

"A mere slip of the tongue, sir."

"No, it wasn't! Out with it, man! Or do you want me to have a word with your superior?"

"If you insist, sir. But Director Travers is more than likely to give you a rather dusty answer while he attends to much more important Council business."

"What could possibly be more important than your sodding impertinence?"

"The excessive consumption of alcohol this fortnight by him, sir."

"I…see. Let me think. You mentioned I must be affected by some other part of the Great Curse, but I can't imagine what—"

"Perhaps we should pay a visit to the Portrait Gallery in the other room, sir. It might help you understand."

"Fine, but I'm watching you closely, my lad!"

"As you wish. This way, sir."

"Well? All I see is a row of pictures by third-rate artists who one and all deserved starving to a slow death in their garrets."

"None of them look familiar to you, sir?"

"I don't— Hullo, that one there…wasn't he in the Ministry of—"

"You're thinking of his twin brother, sir. After becoming our civil service liaison in the 'seventies, that particular individual was especially determined to make his own mark however insane it might be, so he insisted our Slayers follow the guidelines from the Ministry of Silly Combat. I believe close to twenty Slayers got killed in under two months before someone poisoned his tea in order to bring in a new liaison who wasn't that much better. Neither was his predecessor, or indeed, any of them at all."

"Are you telling me that the Great Curse arranges things so that the Whitehall liaisons are the biggest spazzes in the entire country?"

"That's an admirably concise way of putting it, sir."

"YOU BASTARD! I'll have your head for this! Nobody insults Edmund Blackadder the—"

Discontinuity.

"All right, Baldrick, what did you do this time?"

"Don't know what you mean, m'lord."

"Really? We're back again in Purgatory just because our air miles were used up and BA turfed us out into the tourist lounge? Not bloody likely! You must've done something to get us killed!"

"How could I, m'lord? I was down in the Council cellars where you sent me to stay out of trouble when I heard the outside door open. Some blokes in robes and their eyes sewn shut dragged in a big crate, but they dropped it and ran away when I asked them if they needed any help. The crate started making a really bothersome ticking noise around then, so I gave it a good, hard kick to make it stop."

"Baldrick…have I mentioned lately that instead of Purgatory, this has to be nothing but Hell itself because in between our reincarnations, you're forever here with me?"

"Always glad to be of service, m'lord."