Author's Note: Continues from Chapters 81 and 82.
Pulling into the Sunnydale High School staff parking lot, Rupert Giles easily found a spot next to the building's side door since no other cars were there this Saturday. Coming to a stop, the Watcher turned off his elderly Citroën DS's engine, only to have it still continue operating with an asthmatically wheezing noise for several more seconds until the engine finally condescended on its own to cease running.
Seated in his automobile, Giles' fingers tightened upon the steering wheel in annoyance at yet another galling example of the Council's current penny-pinching ways. He'd been forced to dip into his personal funds to acquire this particular bloody ludicrous means of transportation when a quite reasonable request to the main London office for enough money to purchase an ordinary saloon had been instead scornfully treated like Giles wanted an entire fleet of Rolls-Royce Phantom IV limousines.
Extricating himself from the Citroën, Giles glowered at the numerous books crammed inside every square inch of the car's interior. These demonology volumes were also his own property rather than shipped to Giles from the Council's archives, all of which he'd been individually forced to bear the costs of bringing them to California.
A far worse reminder of how bleak this Watcher's situation was once again made Giles grit his teeth and snarl under his breath when he glanced around at the completely deserted parking lot save for himself standing there. What the hell were those wankers back in England thinking?
This was the Boca del Infierno, dammit! The most dangerous Hellmouth in the world, and those assigned to guard it from now on weren't a complete Council squad consisting of at least two dozen highly-experienced ex-SAS soldiers, senior witches or other powerful mages, researchers, and other support personnel! Oh, no…for some mind-boggling reason, the Watchers Council chose otherwise to send just one man to assist the latest Slayer, a young American girl named Buffy Summers.
Now that he was actually here, not more than a hundred meters from the exact spot where the barriers between dimensions were especially weak enough to let loose at any moment a horde of ravenous demons out to despoil the world, Rupert Giles couldn't help wondering about the horrible prospect that he'd been sent to Sunnydale to do nothing but fail in an utterly hopeless task. Considering how vicious the bureaucratic infighting could get among the various Council factions over how and who'd best control the Slayer for themselves, the chance of collateral damage for innocent bystanders was, alas, virtually guaranteed for those selected to be this supernatural warrior's newest steward.
Sending another and this time much more paranoid glance around his surroundings, Giles glumly took out from his tweed jacket pocket the set of school keys he'd been given after his interview with Principal Flutie yesterday. The other man had been effusively helpful at the time, suggesting their most recent librarian could use those keys to come in that weekend and make whatever changes necessary at his workplace in order to get ready for starting his new job.
Which, adding even more insult to injury, paid Giles roughly half of what he'd been previously making at the British Museum. He'd accepted both the keys and the kind offer with a decidedly fixed smile, causing him to wind up today with a Corgi toy car stuffed full to the brim with a vast assortment of substantial mystical tomes that weighed, on the average, a good half stone. All of which needed to be lugged single-handedly through that damn school…
A few moments later after finding the correct key, twisting this to unlock the side door, and pulling open that entrance, Giles peered into the dimness of the school hallway revealed to him. He also felt a puff of warm air against his face drifting from inside the corridor.
Groaning out loud, "Oh, bugger," at what he'd just realized, Giles' already sullen mood darkened even more concerning the unpleasant fact that the school's air conditioning was evidently turned off on weekends.
Indeed, after only one trip from his car to the library while carrying an armload of books, Giles had to strip off his jacket and vest to keep from sweating through these clothes made for a much cooler climate. Rolling up his shirt sleeves, Giles made an unsuccessful search through the library for any kind of handcart or trolley. Faced with the beastly chore of shifting the entire contents of his car to the empty bookshelves awaiting them before he melted on the spot, Giles' bad temper ratcheted up even further on every trudging journey.
When he'd finally finished, all the books tidily put away (and any damp handprints patted dry with a handkerchief), Giles just stood in the middle of the library, glaring ahead with his fists clenched and perspiration streaming down his red face. For the Watcher, the last soddin' hour was the last soddin' straw.
Fuck the Council. No, no, just thinking or saying that wasn't enough. He needed to really let go…and come to think of it, there was the perfect thing for the whole daft situation already on the tip of his tongue.
Mind you, best to make sure once more that nobody would accidentally wander in and catch an earful of what Rupert Giles was going to perform, in the same Estuary accent he'd used back then as Ripper while listening to the Sex Pistols cover it live at one of the more sleazier Soho clubs.
Striding over to the open library double doors, Giles firmly closed them shut. He stood there in front of them for a moment, taking several deep breaths, until this Englishman was ready.
Abruptly spinning around, Giles stalked towards the middle of the library while starting to sing in a loud, menacing growl equal to anything Sid Vicious could've come out with:
"I'm a streetwalking cheetah with a heart full of napalm
I'm a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb"
He stopped in the library center next to the main table there to fling his head back and thrust his fists upwards at the ceiling, continuing with:
"I am the world's forgotten boy
The one who searches and destroys"
Giles let his arms fall to his sides and began rhythmically shrug his shoulders, shaking his head from side to side to next deliver the following:
"Honey gotta help me please
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby, detonate for me"
Giles suddenly crouched lower, pointing to an imaginary person ahead of him:
"Look out honey, 'cause I'm using technology
Ain't got time to make no apology
Soul radiation in the dead of night
Love in the middle of a fire fight"
The Watcher straightened up to repeat an altered chorus:
"Honey, gotta strike me blind
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby, penetrate my mind"
Side-step right, side-step left:
"And I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searchin', searchin' to destroy
And honey I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searchin', only to destroy, hey"
Pointing again at an unseen listener:
"Look out honey, 'cause I'm using technology
Ain't got time to make no apology
Soul radiation in the dead of night
Love in the middle of a fire fight"
The chorus, once more:
"Honey, gotta strike me blind
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby, penetrate my mind"
Caught up in the song, Giles danced around the library main table, singing all the while:
"And I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searchin', searchin' to destroy
And honey I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searchin', only to destroy, hey"
Giles came to a dead halt, preparing for the big finish:
"Forgotten boy, forgotten boy
Forgotten boy said, hey, forgotten boy said"
A completely brassed-off man then sent out at the top of his lungs a tuneful, defiant bellow of full measure against an indifferent or immoral Council who dared risking the safety of the world to serve their own ends. Well, no matter their reasons, they would not forget Rupert Giles and Buffy Summers!
"Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, HEY! "
Several moments later, a Citroën DS decorously left the SHS parking lot, all of the car's windows open for a cooling breeze. The driver's jacket and vest had been dropped onto the now-free passenger seat on his way home to the Sunnydale apartment he'd just signed a lease for.
Giles was feeling decidedly better than a short while ago. Time to see if this benighted city had somewhere in it a decent curry…
A couple of miles away, Warren Mears was still staring in awe at the monitor screens showing a now-empty school library where he, Jonathan Levinson, and Andrew Wells had thoroughly bugged with surveillance cameras equipped with full color and sound only last Thursday. None of them had any inkling of what they would be watching and listening when in the middle of their D&D game today, the Trio had received a security alert about an intruder in the library.
It'd been an unforeseen opportunity to see Mr. Giles up close and personal, all before meeting him for real on Monday morning to inform this Watcher about the balance demon who'd earlier told the three teenagers about magic and the supernatural. Even more shocking had been learning about the Slayer, some presumably hot girl who could kick vampire butt better than any comic book character.
Best of all, the biggest geeks in Sunnydale High had been chosen to help Buffy Summers in her sacred mission!
However…
"Warren," was absently begun by Andrew also gaping at the monitor screens, "maybe we should rethink our first contact plan. Do we really want this Giles guy mad at us if we blow it explaining things to him?"
The Trio's leader couldn't help but nod in reluctant agreement. "Yeah, you're right. Let's come up with something else. Jonno? You listening?"
"Yuh!-yuh!-yuh!-yuh!— "
Instead of an actual answer, all Warren got was even more of that enthusiastic grunting which Jonathan had been doing for the last couple minutes. Rolling his eyes, Warren picked up his Coke can from where it'd been resting by the D&D dice box. With a quick snap of his arm, Warren hurled that aluminum container containing only a last undrunk mouthful of sugary goodness directly at his target.
The Coke can flew across the Mears house guest room to where Jonathan was kneeling on the carpeted floor, legs splayed open while he threw himself passionately in an eager air-guitar version of "Search and Destroy" from Iggy and the Stooges 1973 album Raw Power, head-banging away throughout it all.
Warren timed it perfectly. The Coke can hit and bounced right off Jonathan's forehead.
"Ow!" yelped Jonathan interrupted in the middle of his tribute to the rock gods just like that bitchin' English dude who then glared at a smirking Warren, shooting towards him an irritated heavy metal hand gesture of thumb and little finger extended with the other three fingers curled in, along with a Gene Simmons tongue-waggle.