The Sorrowful Tale of Miss Kitty Fantastico - Ch.9: Spike,Dawn,Clem
TITLE: The Sorrowful Tale of Miss Kitty Fantastico - Ch.9: by myfeetshowit
Characters: Spike,Dawn,Clem
Summary: Buffy is dead and Dawn’s fifteenth birthday is coming up. A penniless Spike wants to get her the greatest present ever. It proves to be harder than he expected. He encounters kittens, and Clem and nosehairs and learns some valuable lessons about life.
Rating: PG for swearing
Warnings/Notes: A Sunnydale version of a Victorian Morality Play. Inspired by Kipling’s ‘Just So’ stories and served with a side dish of Dr. Seuss. A mixture of humor, angst, and reflection upon the foibles of a vampire who wants to be a good man.
Ph'ulup'thhButt makes (her)his move.
TSTOMKF 9
TSTOMKF 9
"May you metabolize mossbark!"
"Juff the Fudra!"
Now you may not be aware of it but Phlemah'ks are a religious race with a rich panoply of gods, goddesses, demi-gods and divine warriors. No other Phlemah'k was more strict in the observance of ritual prayer and stringent sacrifice than Ph'ulup'thhButt. (Her)His devotion, however, had not in anyway lessened the severity of infection that infested (her)his nose hairs due to their rough treatment at Mr. Spike's hands. Those nose hairs were (her)his main sensory organ and the crystallization that coated them and the foul noxious odor that came from it left (her)him nearly blind and deaf as we would reckon such things. (S)he cursed each and every one of the gods, goddesses, demi-gods and divine warriors that had failed to keep (her)him in good health. Phlemah'ks are pious but not especially prone to be humble.
"...and swallow your tongues and be constipated!"
To make matters worse Ph'ulup'thhButt had stayed too long at prayer. (Her)His carefully considered plan, the hours spent spying on Mr. Clem, the money paid for information on Miss Mafdet's arrival - all a loss because now Ph'ulup'thhButt had missed (her)his chance to waylay Miss Mafdet and steal the money meant to pay for the reincarnated slayer kitten. Still Ph'ulup'thhButt was not one to accept defeat and (s)he wobbled and weaved in drunken staggers, hurrying toward the 'Fish Tank' in hopes that somehow (s)he could salvage some sliver of (her)his plan. So lost was (s)he in (her)his misery and the cloudiness of (her)his senses that (s)he almost missed the sound of an indignant yowling kitten.
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Two fingers folded into his palm, two fingers formed into a point and his thumb was fixed at a right angle - making of Mr. Spike's hand an impromptu pistol that he whipped about in counterpoint to his argument. Not that Mr. Clem was arguing with him. Mr. Clem was merely attempting to keep his drink from being knocked over - an innocent victim to Mr. Spike's pistol pointed gestures.
"It's not that I care, y'understand... cause I don't. Just didn't like the way she was handlin' that cat. I mean - goddess - right? 'N she's reincarnated from the slayer an' all... should get some respect."
Mr. Clem was at that stage of drunkenness wherein the slightest of matters took on a profound and puzzling meaning. He had allowed himself to be convinced of the kitten's ancestry but in his heart of hearts he was sure - he was certain - that he himself was more likely to be a reincarnation of the slayer than that kitten was. Yet Mr. Spike spoke now with a conviction that was strangely disturbing - the money had been obtained, the kitten was gone - who was Mr. Spike trying to convince? Mr. Clem mulled and ruminated and rolled the puzzle through his muzzy mind and in single moment of drunken clarity he believed he understood and this was his thought - Spike had grown attached to the kitten. That could certainly happen - kittens being as cute as they were. Except, he thought, kinda strange for a vampire. It was actually rather sweet.
Mr. Clem gave a great shudder and immediately drove all thoughts of sweetness from his mind. No Sweet! He could only imagine with horror what the response would be should he forget himself and say that Mr. Spike was sweet!
Fortunately for his own peace of mind Mr. Clem was distracted by another disaster. Mr. Spike was frowning with that deep and thoughtful concentration that characterizes the drunk and the fool, and he was tipping the bottle over his empty glass. Time slowed as though it moved through honey. Mr. Clem and Mr. Spike waited as moisture collated within the bottle, forming into a single drop. They waited as it hung at the bottle's rim, a perfect tear that slowly stretched into a thin silver stream. They waited until it fell into the glass with a plop. Then they waited for another drop and they waited but they waited in vain.
They looked at one another - in that moment brothers, twins locked in horror - no more drop! no more plop! The bottle was empty - no - more - booze!
"b'Huh!" they shouted.
b'Huh was keeping a watchful eye on their table - the left one rotating in the socket to keep the two demons in view as he moved. The 'Fish Tank' was a self-service bar. Patrons were expected to fetch and carry their own orders but there were no other patrons present. He picked up the bottle he had set aside and carried it over to the distraught duo and plonked it onto their table. Mr. Spike simply sneered as befit a vampire of his age but Mr. Clem was raised to be a gentleman. "You're alright, b'Huh!"
b'Huh snorted and walked back to the bar and waited for the drug to take effect.
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Mr. Spike was confused by the pounding. It seemed to come from both within his head and without and it took him some time to separate the palpitation of pain throbbing in his head from the ponderous pattern of an arm thumping on the bar.
He became further aware of the world in bits and chunks - his ear pressed to the table as though he were listening to it, one arm wrapped about his head, the other sprawled laxly in his lap. Then Mr. Clem - both arms spread out, face down on the table making moans and mumbles that were muffled against the tabletop. For long moments, Mr. Spike watched - hypnotized - as a bubble of drool formed in the corner of Mr. Clem's mouth, and was joined by another and yet another before bursting. Then Mr. Spike became aware of the murmur of voices buzzing at his ear like a bothersome fly. Chanting...?
"Hey!" "Barkeep!" "What's it take to get a drink around here?!"
Full awareness burst upon Mr. Spike's brain with the force of a bomb exploding. He sat up from his slump with a start that shocked Mr. Clem to wakefulness. He shoved his hands in and out of his pockets, peered under the table, rose up to look over the table, then stood up and examined all the close environs. A stream of words burst forth from his lips and you do not wish to hear them repeated here, dear readers, for they were foul and filthy and frankly suggested requirements and positions that were anatomically impossible.
"b'Huh." Mr. Clem was fully awake by this time and the severity of the situation had become clear to him. Their money was gone. b'Huh had drugged them and done a runner with their money. Mr. Clem had neither the talent nor the breadth of vocabulary that allowed Mr. Spike his extended outburst and he contented himself with, "That filthy cow."
Mr. Spike reined in his anger, uncomfortably aware that he had drawn the interest of the angry patrons. Scowling faces and sensory organs began moving his way.
"Spike!" "What's that traitor doin' in here?" "Bet he ate b'Huh!"
Mr. Clem - ever the facilitator - jumped to his feet and announced, "Uh... didn't I hear someone say it was an open bar?"
Although violence is the meat of demon desire, alcohol is the drink and far and few between are the demons that would pass up free booze. Mr. Spike was forgotten in the rush to the bar, each demon eager to get free libation before someone declared the idea mistaken and attempted to protect the merchandise. They swarmed over the bar likes bees on honey and mere moments passed before the first fight erupted. Despite the well-stocked bar, arguments broke out over which bottle would go to which demon and who could fill their glass first. By the time Mr. Spike and Mr. Clem reached the door four tables, five chairs and fifteen bottles were either in flight across the room or lay smashed upon the floor.
Once outside Mr. Spike shook his head to remove the remnants of the drug from his mind and he massaged the bridge of his nose to clear his nostrils. He drew a great snuffle of air into his nose, a great sampling of all the scents that saturated the area and he sniffed them into his nasal passages. To his great bewilderment he found himself befuddled by a strange, foul odor that clung to his nostrils and overpowered all the other scents. Again and again, here and there, to and fro he snuffled and sniffed and could smell nothing save that single foul odor. He could smell nothing else and with every useless sniff b'Huh was getting further away with his money. The anger that had fueled him until that moment drained away with a suddenness that left Mr. Spike feeling empty. He berated himself.
"Well you've done it now haven't you. How's Dawn gonna feel when I turn up empty handed... what's she gonna say... what would Buffy say...?"
As if this last thought were more than could be borne Mr. Spike turned to run, uncertain of any purpose other than to do something - what would be determined as opportunity dictated. Herein lay one of Mr. Spike's greatest strengths. When no guiding plan could be conceived for lack of information - where others would settle down to research and to discuss the possibilities - Mr. Spike would follow his instincts instead. When others had finished their research and finalized their discussion and arrived at the correct conclusion they would initiate their solution only to find that Mr. Spike had come and gone and they had nothing left to resolve. For now his instincts instructed him to search every crevice of Sunnydale, beat information out of every demon and smell until his nose bled. He had b'Huh's odor locked into his brain and if he could just get away from this foul odor he was certain to find b'Huh's spoor.
Mr. Clem observed Mr. Spike's panic with a generous heaping of his own. Why was Spike not able to find a scent? Was it that smell? What was that smell? Mr. Clem realized that Mr. Spike was about to depart and ran hastily in his direction. He was uncertain how far he could trust the vampire. If Mr. Spike found b'Huh and Mr. Clem were not there, he quite suspected that he would never see his half of the money again.
"Hey! Don't leave me behind! I want to watch you pull every one of b'Huh's seven stomachs out through his nose. The thief!" Mr. Clem's feet became entangled in something and he fell facedown with a great thump. Mr. Spike was impatient to be on his quest and had no intention of waiting for Mr. Clem but the thud drew his attention. When he saw the reason for Mr. Clem's fall he stopped and his jaw dropped and his anger and his uncertainty were for the moment overcome by a sense of shock.
"What the...? That's Mafdet!"
Mr. Clem scooted back in startlement but his was a caring nature and he approached the prone form of Mafdet quickly checking for wounds and injury. After a moment he said, "Not sure what did it, but looks like she's dead."
Mr. Spike had been looking for a silk and velvet lined cage. He had been looking for any indication that the kitten had run free. He had been looking for a silent, still body other than Mafdet's. He had found none of these things and wondered.
"Where's the kitten?"
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Characters: Spike,Dawn,Clem
Summary: Buffy is dead and Dawn’s fifteenth birthday is coming up. A penniless Spike wants to get her the greatest present ever. It proves to be harder than he expected. He encounters kittens, and Clem and nosehairs and learns some valuable lessons about life.
Rating: PG for swearing
Warnings/Notes: A Sunnydale version of a Victorian Morality Play. Inspired by Kipling’s ‘Just So’ stories and served with a side dish of Dr. Seuss. A mixture of humor, angst, and reflection upon the foibles of a vampire who wants to be a good man.
Ph'ulup'thhButt makes (her)his move.
TSTOMKF 9
TSTOMKF 9
"May you metabolize mossbark!"
"Juff the Fudra!"
Now you may not be aware of it but Phlemah'ks are a religious race with a rich panoply of gods, goddesses, demi-gods and divine warriors. No other Phlemah'k was more strict in the observance of ritual prayer and stringent sacrifice than Ph'ulup'thhButt. (Her)His devotion, however, had not in anyway lessened the severity of infection that infested (her)his nose hairs due to their rough treatment at Mr. Spike's hands. Those nose hairs were (her)his main sensory organ and the crystallization that coated them and the foul noxious odor that came from it left (her)him nearly blind and deaf as we would reckon such things. (S)he cursed each and every one of the gods, goddesses, demi-gods and divine warriors that had failed to keep (her)him in good health. Phlemah'ks are pious but not especially prone to be humble.
"...and swallow your tongues and be constipated!"
To make matters worse Ph'ulup'thhButt had stayed too long at prayer. (Her)His carefully considered plan, the hours spent spying on Mr. Clem, the money paid for information on Miss Mafdet's arrival - all a loss because now Ph'ulup'thhButt had missed (her)his chance to waylay Miss Mafdet and steal the money meant to pay for the reincarnated slayer kitten. Still Ph'ulup'thhButt was not one to accept defeat and (s)he wobbled and weaved in drunken staggers, hurrying toward the 'Fish Tank' in hopes that somehow (s)he could salvage some sliver of (her)his plan. So lost was (s)he in (her)his misery and the cloudiness of (her)his senses that (s)he almost missed the sound of an indignant yowling kitten.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two fingers folded into his palm, two fingers formed into a point and his thumb was fixed at a right angle - making of Mr. Spike's hand an impromptu pistol that he whipped about in counterpoint to his argument. Not that Mr. Clem was arguing with him. Mr. Clem was merely attempting to keep his drink from being knocked over - an innocent victim to Mr. Spike's pistol pointed gestures.
"It's not that I care, y'understand... cause I don't. Just didn't like the way she was handlin' that cat. I mean - goddess - right? 'N she's reincarnated from the slayer an' all... should get some respect."
Mr. Clem was at that stage of drunkenness wherein the slightest of matters took on a profound and puzzling meaning. He had allowed himself to be convinced of the kitten's ancestry but in his heart of hearts he was sure - he was certain - that he himself was more likely to be a reincarnation of the slayer than that kitten was. Yet Mr. Spike spoke now with a conviction that was strangely disturbing - the money had been obtained, the kitten was gone - who was Mr. Spike trying to convince? Mr. Clem mulled and ruminated and rolled the puzzle through his muzzy mind and in single moment of drunken clarity he believed he understood and this was his thought - Spike had grown attached to the kitten. That could certainly happen - kittens being as cute as they were. Except, he thought, kinda strange for a vampire. It was actually rather sweet.
Mr. Clem gave a great shudder and immediately drove all thoughts of sweetness from his mind. No Sweet! He could only imagine with horror what the response would be should he forget himself and say that Mr. Spike was sweet!
Fortunately for his own peace of mind Mr. Clem was distracted by another disaster. Mr. Spike was frowning with that deep and thoughtful concentration that characterizes the drunk and the fool, and he was tipping the bottle over his empty glass. Time slowed as though it moved through honey. Mr. Clem and Mr. Spike waited as moisture collated within the bottle, forming into a single drop. They waited as it hung at the bottle's rim, a perfect tear that slowly stretched into a thin silver stream. They waited until it fell into the glass with a plop. Then they waited for another drop and they waited but they waited in vain.
They looked at one another - in that moment brothers, twins locked in horror - no more drop! no more plop! The bottle was empty - no - more - booze!
"b'Huh!" they shouted.
b'Huh was keeping a watchful eye on their table - the left one rotating in the socket to keep the two demons in view as he moved. The 'Fish Tank' was a self-service bar. Patrons were expected to fetch and carry their own orders but there were no other patrons present. He picked up the bottle he had set aside and carried it over to the distraught duo and plonked it onto their table. Mr. Spike simply sneered as befit a vampire of his age but Mr. Clem was raised to be a gentleman. "You're alright, b'Huh!"
b'Huh snorted and walked back to the bar and waited for the drug to take effect.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mr. Spike was confused by the pounding. It seemed to come from both within his head and without and it took him some time to separate the palpitation of pain throbbing in his head from the ponderous pattern of an arm thumping on the bar.
He became further aware of the world in bits and chunks - his ear pressed to the table as though he were listening to it, one arm wrapped about his head, the other sprawled laxly in his lap. Then Mr. Clem - both arms spread out, face down on the table making moans and mumbles that were muffled against the tabletop. For long moments, Mr. Spike watched - hypnotized - as a bubble of drool formed in the corner of Mr. Clem's mouth, and was joined by another and yet another before bursting. Then Mr. Spike became aware of the murmur of voices buzzing at his ear like a bothersome fly. Chanting...?
"Hey!" "Barkeep!" "What's it take to get a drink around here?!"
Full awareness burst upon Mr. Spike's brain with the force of a bomb exploding. He sat up from his slump with a start that shocked Mr. Clem to wakefulness. He shoved his hands in and out of his pockets, peered under the table, rose up to look over the table, then stood up and examined all the close environs. A stream of words burst forth from his lips and you do not wish to hear them repeated here, dear readers, for they were foul and filthy and frankly suggested requirements and positions that were anatomically impossible.
"b'Huh." Mr. Clem was fully awake by this time and the severity of the situation had become clear to him. Their money was gone. b'Huh had drugged them and done a runner with their money. Mr. Clem had neither the talent nor the breadth of vocabulary that allowed Mr. Spike his extended outburst and he contented himself with, "That filthy cow."
Mr. Spike reined in his anger, uncomfortably aware that he had drawn the interest of the angry patrons. Scowling faces and sensory organs began moving his way.
"Spike!" "What's that traitor doin' in here?" "Bet he ate b'Huh!"
Mr. Clem - ever the facilitator - jumped to his feet and announced, "Uh... didn't I hear someone say it was an open bar?"
Although violence is the meat of demon desire, alcohol is the drink and far and few between are the demons that would pass up free booze. Mr. Spike was forgotten in the rush to the bar, each demon eager to get free libation before someone declared the idea mistaken and attempted to protect the merchandise. They swarmed over the bar likes bees on honey and mere moments passed before the first fight erupted. Despite the well-stocked bar, arguments broke out over which bottle would go to which demon and who could fill their glass first. By the time Mr. Spike and Mr. Clem reached the door four tables, five chairs and fifteen bottles were either in flight across the room or lay smashed upon the floor.
Once outside Mr. Spike shook his head to remove the remnants of the drug from his mind and he massaged the bridge of his nose to clear his nostrils. He drew a great snuffle of air into his nose, a great sampling of all the scents that saturated the area and he sniffed them into his nasal passages. To his great bewilderment he found himself befuddled by a strange, foul odor that clung to his nostrils and overpowered all the other scents. Again and again, here and there, to and fro he snuffled and sniffed and could smell nothing save that single foul odor. He could smell nothing else and with every useless sniff b'Huh was getting further away with his money. The anger that had fueled him until that moment drained away with a suddenness that left Mr. Spike feeling empty. He berated himself.
"Well you've done it now haven't you. How's Dawn gonna feel when I turn up empty handed... what's she gonna say... what would Buffy say...?"
As if this last thought were more than could be borne Mr. Spike turned to run, uncertain of any purpose other than to do something - what would be determined as opportunity dictated. Herein lay one of Mr. Spike's greatest strengths. When no guiding plan could be conceived for lack of information - where others would settle down to research and to discuss the possibilities - Mr. Spike would follow his instincts instead. When others had finished their research and finalized their discussion and arrived at the correct conclusion they would initiate their solution only to find that Mr. Spike had come and gone and they had nothing left to resolve. For now his instincts instructed him to search every crevice of Sunnydale, beat information out of every demon and smell until his nose bled. He had b'Huh's odor locked into his brain and if he could just get away from this foul odor he was certain to find b'Huh's spoor.
Mr. Clem observed Mr. Spike's panic with a generous heaping of his own. Why was Spike not able to find a scent? Was it that smell? What was that smell? Mr. Clem realized that Mr. Spike was about to depart and ran hastily in his direction. He was uncertain how far he could trust the vampire. If Mr. Spike found b'Huh and Mr. Clem were not there, he quite suspected that he would never see his half of the money again.
"Hey! Don't leave me behind! I want to watch you pull every one of b'Huh's seven stomachs out through his nose. The thief!" Mr. Clem's feet became entangled in something and he fell facedown with a great thump. Mr. Spike was impatient to be on his quest and had no intention of waiting for Mr. Clem but the thud drew his attention. When he saw the reason for Mr. Clem's fall he stopped and his jaw dropped and his anger and his uncertainty were for the moment overcome by a sense of shock.
"What the...? That's Mafdet!"
Mr. Clem scooted back in startlement but his was a caring nature and he approached the prone form of Mafdet quickly checking for wounds and injury. After a moment he said, "Not sure what did it, but looks like she's dead."
Mr. Spike had been looking for a silk and velvet lined cage. He had been looking for any indication that the kitten had run free. He had been looking for a silent, still body other than Mafdet's. He had found none of these things and wondered.
"Where's the kitten?"
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