Once More, With Lorne
Well, the incomparable Lorne is nekid guest at nekid_spike and I could not let that pass without acknowledgement!
So here is a ficlet, just a thousand words or so, but a meeting of two of the most fabulous characters ever devised, and the snappiest dressers ever to grace Joss' stage.
“Once More, With Lorne”
It was a sleepy commuter community a few hours outside of greater Los Angeles. He could just barely make it there and back in time for the evening show, but considering it was a week day, Lorne wasn’t too worried. The Tuesday crowd at Caritas was nothing compared to reports of an entire town bursting into song.
His dear friend Art, a Chirago demon with a heart of gold and a mean tenor, had called him, and Lorne heard more than vibrato over the phone line. Something very big was going on. Chita Rivera big.
He had just enough time on the drive over to start to wonder if maybe this wasn’t such a great idea - big magic voodoo could do so much, after all, and he was just a sharply dressed nightclub host.
Then he saw the children.
Fourteen darling eight year olds, dancing in perfect unison. They leapt over a curb and fanned their arms, jazz-hands, overhead. “We got the daaaaaay off of schooooool! Horray! No more schooooool!”
Lorne coasted to a stop in the middle of the road, not even realizing he had, red eyes wide and mouth agape.
A dark skinned girl with fluffy pigtails fell dramatically against the speed limit sign. “But whyyyy was Mrs. Harper singing about Mr. Call? Does it mean anything at all? Will my teachers ever be the same?”
Lorne stumbled out of his car. The children looked warily at him but kept up their song and dance routine. Fourteen fresh destinies, untainted for the most part by decisions, open to a thousand paths. They flooded his head like a triple shot of everclear. He fell to his knees.
A frantic young woman ran up to him, and then along the berm, pushing the children back from the road, pleading with them to “Stay on the grass until your parents come. And no more singing! Caroline? Please! That’s not nice to say. Back to the school, everyone!”
When her charges were out of traffic’s way, she grabbed Lorne’s arm. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Are you the new storytime clown? I…” her voice broke, and she turned away, falling into a sotto voce solo, “I don’t know what to tell him! What has happened to my town? He might just have a skin problem and I just called him a clown!”
Holding one hand to his head, Lorne managed to make it to his feet. “I’m fine. Amelia? Listen to me, Amelia: He’s not worth it. You do have a book in you, but you’ll never get it written down if you’re pining over that no good MAN. And keep a sharp eye on Danny Sacks. There’s a little ax murderer in him and now’s the time to nip it in the bud.”
Amelia’s eyes widened. “You are a messenger! A sign! Or is this all your design?”
“Just a little old psychic demon,” he took her hand and patted it. “I’ll get to the bottom of this and have you all off Broadway by supper.”
She trailed him back to his car, and down the road a little, until he gained speed, singing a sweet soprano aria about the green angel come to save them all.
Lorne needed alcohol, stat! He started to scan the storefronts for a bar.
All the way, he had to brake sharply, swooning drunkenly as visions assaulted him. Hopes, dreams, destinies - all intermixed and spewed forth like the colorful overflow of a wardrobe trunk at the Cirque du Soleil.
He found a parking space and took it, turning his eyes pointedly away from the woman singing a plea to the beat cop writing out a ticket.
He almost didn’t see where he was until his hands touched cool brick. He let his hand stay on the wall, sliding over picture windows and the cool shadow of awning.
He stumbled in to a young man. “Excuse me, lambchop, but where could a fellow get a seabreeze in this crazy burg?”
“Gah! Demon!” The boy windmilled his arms, backing into an older gentleman who turned a scowl on Lorne as if he’d just tracked dirt onto his carpet.
Racism! Lorne sighed and kept his manner as cool and polite as his pounding head would allow. “Yes, kitten, last I checked. But not the people-eating kind. Actually the nice, friendly, ‘tells fortunes when he hears people sing’ kind. And I’m getting hit with a whopper of a song base, so the sooner I and vodka become re-acquainted, the better.”
A blonde head popped up behind the older gentleman’s elbow. A girl cowering behind his reassuring bulk. Her words were startingly blunt, “That’s a Pylean demon. They do eat people.”
Lorne laughed nervously. The older man was sizing him up for a coffin. “Consider me a non-people-atarian, sugarcake.”
“Are you responsible for this?” The man asked with barely repressed anger.
“Heavens, no! I’m from L.A.”
“Pyleans can’t do something like this. In fact, I don’t think they even sing,” the woman said, still not leaving her safe haven behind the man.
“Ahn,” the young man said, “let’s not antagonize the demon.” He smiled, just as nervously as Lorne. “Uh… try the Bronze. It’s just a block that way.” He pointed.
“Gracias, darlings. Sweet intoxication, here I come!” Lorne waved and trotted across the street.
He pretended not to hear the woman say, “Now dancing - that’s something Pyleans do. A lot. Oh, but you don’t want to see it.”
And I wanted to see your over-dyed hair?, he thought, uncharitably.
There were relatively few choruses between Lorne and the large, converted warehouse nightclub. (If you’ve seen one of those, you’ve seen them all.)
It wasn’t until the industrial steel door closed behind Lorne, enveloping him in soothing darkness and that comforting smell of booze and burnt stage gels, that he realized the place wasn’t open.
“Damn it!” he snapped, and hit the empty bar. “Well done, Lorne. You’ve gotten yourself a killer headache, miles from Armand and his talent with cocktails, and in the midst of musical mayhem without so much as a script. I knew I should have just called Angel.”
Then Lorne pictured Angel, trapped in the town where people spontaneously burst into song, and winced. Some people should not be forced to sing.
He sank into a bar stool, holding his head and trying to figure out a plan other than “wait here until it blows over.”
And then… he heard the soft “wump” of spotlights turning on, smelled the whiff of ozone and talc that heralded a big production number. He looked anxiously up at the bar’s stage, now lit (rather expertly for such a suburban place, he thought) in rich blues and greens.
A white spot illuminated center stage, and a puff of flash-paper and smoke revealed a demonic figure, one hand on his fedora, disguising all but his chin and smile.
For the first time in his life, Lorne thought: I am not nearly as nattily dressed as this man.
A smoky baritone crooned, “Well, now, here’s something different.” The clawed hand slid along the fedora brim and dropped off, and the demon looked up. “You don’t belong in this melodrama.”
Lorne adjusted the lapels of his suit coat. Who is this guy’s tailor? He cleared his throat. “I’m passing through, from Los Angeles. You know, I run a nightclub myself. Is this your place?”
“I’m the bad guy.” He held out his arms proudly, then did a quick soft-shoe across the stage, ending with a flourish. “I make them sing and dance, I bring the abstract to reality.” He executed a complicated series of steps down the stage stairs, ending next to Lorne, grinning into his face, too close for comfort. “A world of pure music is my domain.”
“God yes. It’s rolling off you!” Lorne took a step back, looking up and down. The demon was a little taller than him. He held out a hand. “I’m Lorne.”
The demon winked. “I have many names.”
“You’re the cause of it,” Lorne gasped, mouth hanging open. “The spontaneous singing. This town - you’ve possessed it.”
The demon shrugged fluidly and slide-stepped. “Possession, that is another matter entirely. What are you doing here, little demon far from home? And I wonder how you’ve resisted singing a song of your own?” He spun.
Lorne shook his head, slowly, taking in the pure waves of sight - a destiny smooth and beautiful as the sparkling silk of his lapels. “Sweet,” he said, picking one of many names. “You won’t survive if you don’t concede gracefully.”
Sweet paused in the midst of his dance, frowning in sudden seriousness. “What is this?” His smile jerked. “The king of song does not concede.”
“He does, this time,” Lorne said, quietly, sadly. “You’ll know the opening, when you see it. Bow out, and you’ll still be victorious.” He blinked, and a tear fell.
The king of song stared, confused. “You are a seer?”
“Yes.”
“Then why cry?” He raised his hand, “beauty always triumphs! The song can never die.”
“Because I also know I’ll never meet you again.” Lorne shook his head. “And damn, could I fill a house with you as headliner.”
Sweet took the compliment for what it was, and waved one gloved hand. A minion came from nowhere, bearing a tray with two drinks. “Cosmopolitan?”
“For a start,” Lorne said, taking the drink gratefully and settling onto a bar stool.
Sweet picked up a martini glass and held it aloft with cool sophistication. “There’s time before the finale. Let’s talk about the show.”
Lorne raised his glass in salute, “The show,” he said.
They drank a moment in silence, smiling, and neither had to explain to the other what he meant.
So here is a ficlet, just a thousand words or so, but a meeting of two of the most fabulous characters ever devised, and the snappiest dressers ever to grace Joss' stage.
“Once More, With Lorne”
It was a sleepy commuter community a few hours outside of greater Los Angeles. He could just barely make it there and back in time for the evening show, but considering it was a week day, Lorne wasn’t too worried. The Tuesday crowd at Caritas was nothing compared to reports of an entire town bursting into song.
His dear friend Art, a Chirago demon with a heart of gold and a mean tenor, had called him, and Lorne heard more than vibrato over the phone line. Something very big was going on. Chita Rivera big.
He had just enough time on the drive over to start to wonder if maybe this wasn’t such a great idea - big magic voodoo could do so much, after all, and he was just a sharply dressed nightclub host.
Then he saw the children.
Fourteen darling eight year olds, dancing in perfect unison. They leapt over a curb and fanned their arms, jazz-hands, overhead. “We got the daaaaaay off of schooooool! Horray! No more schooooool!”
Lorne coasted to a stop in the middle of the road, not even realizing he had, red eyes wide and mouth agape.
A dark skinned girl with fluffy pigtails fell dramatically against the speed limit sign. “But whyyyy was Mrs. Harper singing about Mr. Call? Does it mean anything at all? Will my teachers ever be the same?”
Lorne stumbled out of his car. The children looked warily at him but kept up their song and dance routine. Fourteen fresh destinies, untainted for the most part by decisions, open to a thousand paths. They flooded his head like a triple shot of everclear. He fell to his knees.
A frantic young woman ran up to him, and then along the berm, pushing the children back from the road, pleading with them to “Stay on the grass until your parents come. And no more singing! Caroline? Please! That’s not nice to say. Back to the school, everyone!”
When her charges were out of traffic’s way, she grabbed Lorne’s arm. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Are you the new storytime clown? I…” her voice broke, and she turned away, falling into a sotto voce solo, “I don’t know what to tell him! What has happened to my town? He might just have a skin problem and I just called him a clown!”
Holding one hand to his head, Lorne managed to make it to his feet. “I’m fine. Amelia? Listen to me, Amelia: He’s not worth it. You do have a book in you, but you’ll never get it written down if you’re pining over that no good MAN. And keep a sharp eye on Danny Sacks. There’s a little ax murderer in him and now’s the time to nip it in the bud.”
Amelia’s eyes widened. “You are a messenger! A sign! Or is this all your design?”
“Just a little old psychic demon,” he took her hand and patted it. “I’ll get to the bottom of this and have you all off Broadway by supper.”
She trailed him back to his car, and down the road a little, until he gained speed, singing a sweet soprano aria about the green angel come to save them all.
Lorne needed alcohol, stat! He started to scan the storefronts for a bar.
All the way, he had to brake sharply, swooning drunkenly as visions assaulted him. Hopes, dreams, destinies - all intermixed and spewed forth like the colorful overflow of a wardrobe trunk at the Cirque du Soleil.
He found a parking space and took it, turning his eyes pointedly away from the woman singing a plea to the beat cop writing out a ticket.
He almost didn’t see where he was until his hands touched cool brick. He let his hand stay on the wall, sliding over picture windows and the cool shadow of awning.
He stumbled in to a young man. “Excuse me, lambchop, but where could a fellow get a seabreeze in this crazy burg?”
“Gah! Demon!” The boy windmilled his arms, backing into an older gentleman who turned a scowl on Lorne as if he’d just tracked dirt onto his carpet.
Racism! Lorne sighed and kept his manner as cool and polite as his pounding head would allow. “Yes, kitten, last I checked. But not the people-eating kind. Actually the nice, friendly, ‘tells fortunes when he hears people sing’ kind. And I’m getting hit with a whopper of a song base, so the sooner I and vodka become re-acquainted, the better.”
A blonde head popped up behind the older gentleman’s elbow. A girl cowering behind his reassuring bulk. Her words were startingly blunt, “That’s a Pylean demon. They do eat people.”
Lorne laughed nervously. The older man was sizing him up for a coffin. “Consider me a non-people-atarian, sugarcake.”
“Are you responsible for this?” The man asked with barely repressed anger.
“Heavens, no! I’m from L.A.”
“Pyleans can’t do something like this. In fact, I don’t think they even sing,” the woman said, still not leaving her safe haven behind the man.
“Ahn,” the young man said, “let’s not antagonize the demon.” He smiled, just as nervously as Lorne. “Uh… try the Bronze. It’s just a block that way.” He pointed.
“Gracias, darlings. Sweet intoxication, here I come!” Lorne waved and trotted across the street.
He pretended not to hear the woman say, “Now dancing - that’s something Pyleans do. A lot. Oh, but you don’t want to see it.”
And I wanted to see your over-dyed hair?, he thought, uncharitably.
There were relatively few choruses between Lorne and the large, converted warehouse nightclub. (If you’ve seen one of those, you’ve seen them all.)
It wasn’t until the industrial steel door closed behind Lorne, enveloping him in soothing darkness and that comforting smell of booze and burnt stage gels, that he realized the place wasn’t open.
“Damn it!” he snapped, and hit the empty bar. “Well done, Lorne. You’ve gotten yourself a killer headache, miles from Armand and his talent with cocktails, and in the midst of musical mayhem without so much as a script. I knew I should have just called Angel.”
Then Lorne pictured Angel, trapped in the town where people spontaneously burst into song, and winced. Some people should not be forced to sing.
He sank into a bar stool, holding his head and trying to figure out a plan other than “wait here until it blows over.”
And then… he heard the soft “wump” of spotlights turning on, smelled the whiff of ozone and talc that heralded a big production number. He looked anxiously up at the bar’s stage, now lit (rather expertly for such a suburban place, he thought) in rich blues and greens.
A white spot illuminated center stage, and a puff of flash-paper and smoke revealed a demonic figure, one hand on his fedora, disguising all but his chin and smile.
For the first time in his life, Lorne thought: I am not nearly as nattily dressed as this man.
A smoky baritone crooned, “Well, now, here’s something different.” The clawed hand slid along the fedora brim and dropped off, and the demon looked up. “You don’t belong in this melodrama.”
Lorne adjusted the lapels of his suit coat. Who is this guy’s tailor? He cleared his throat. “I’m passing through, from Los Angeles. You know, I run a nightclub myself. Is this your place?”
“I’m the bad guy.” He held out his arms proudly, then did a quick soft-shoe across the stage, ending with a flourish. “I make them sing and dance, I bring the abstract to reality.” He executed a complicated series of steps down the stage stairs, ending next to Lorne, grinning into his face, too close for comfort. “A world of pure music is my domain.”
“God yes. It’s rolling off you!” Lorne took a step back, looking up and down. The demon was a little taller than him. He held out a hand. “I’m Lorne.”
The demon winked. “I have many names.”
“You’re the cause of it,” Lorne gasped, mouth hanging open. “The spontaneous singing. This town - you’ve possessed it.”
The demon shrugged fluidly and slide-stepped. “Possession, that is another matter entirely. What are you doing here, little demon far from home? And I wonder how you’ve resisted singing a song of your own?” He spun.
Lorne shook his head, slowly, taking in the pure waves of sight - a destiny smooth and beautiful as the sparkling silk of his lapels. “Sweet,” he said, picking one of many names. “You won’t survive if you don’t concede gracefully.”
Sweet paused in the midst of his dance, frowning in sudden seriousness. “What is this?” His smile jerked. “The king of song does not concede.”
“He does, this time,” Lorne said, quietly, sadly. “You’ll know the opening, when you see it. Bow out, and you’ll still be victorious.” He blinked, and a tear fell.
The king of song stared, confused. “You are a seer?”
“Yes.”
“Then why cry?” He raised his hand, “beauty always triumphs! The song can never die.”
“Because I also know I’ll never meet you again.” Lorne shook his head. “And damn, could I fill a house with you as headliner.”
Sweet took the compliment for what it was, and waved one gloved hand. A minion came from nowhere, bearing a tray with two drinks. “Cosmopolitan?”
“For a start,” Lorne said, taking the drink gratefully and settling onto a bar stool.
Sweet picked up a martini glass and held it aloft with cool sophistication. “There’s time before the finale. Let’s talk about the show.”
Lorne raised his glass in salute, “The show,” he said.
They drank a moment in silence, smiling, and neither had to explain to the other what he meant.