I can't believe I let him talk me into coming here. I had sworn after the last time that I would never set a single foot inside this godforsaken place of consumer worship again. It's an evil place, a place that makes Hell look like Paradise Island.
Promise me a bit of ass, and I can be led anywhere. Even back to the Mall.
Gods, I'm easy.
"Why are we here again?" I ask as that blond thing I try so hard to pretend doesn't exist drags me through the automatic doors.
Spike stops suddenly, gives me a look (the normal ‘I can't believe I know you' look, of which I wear constantly around him), and waves his arm towards the center of the mall. "Are you blind as well as dumb?"
I look towards the center of the mall and see... people. Lots and lots of stinky, smelly, whiny, crying, big, little, in-between people. And a reindeer. "A reindeer?"
"They have a reindeer?" Spike bounces up on his toes to see over all those people's heads. He looks and sounds like an excited five-year-old... which is normal. My childe would make a wonderful kindergartner. I wonder if any school would take him, like, say, a boarding school in Alaska?
"Yes, they have a reindeer," I tell him, easily seeing over the people's heads. It's great to be tall, a fact that I don't mind rubbing into his face often. "They also have a Santa, some crabby looking elves, a little train ride, and the tackiest Christmas tree I've ever seen. Orange aluminum?"
Spike smacks me on the shoulder. I glare at him, but he only gives me this expectant look in return, like I'm supposed to tell him the answer to what the square root of negative one is. Which is nothing. It's an imaginary number. How do I know? I was in Hell, remember? Math is a required course.
But knowing the square root of negative one doesn't tell me what Spike wants, and he's starting to get that ‘I'm getting annoyed and am going to make a scene' look. All right, what was it that Inigo said? Or was it the Man in Black? Or Men in Black? Something about the beginning? And I can't believe I'm quoting movies in my head to solve a problem. I have got to stop watching those DVDs repeatedly with my insufferable childe.
Ahem. Forgive me, all intelligent beings out there. "Go back to the beginning." Why are we at the mall? I don't know. Ask the bleached moron with the look. "Why are we here?" I ask.
"Why... we...," he stammers like he can't believe I asked. It'd be kind of cute if the thought of ‘cute' and ‘Spike' in the same sentence didn't give me gas. "It's Christmas!" he finally gets out.
"Yeah? And?" Oh, looky, I've dumbfounded him again. This is sort of fun.
Spike's face screws up in a cute little sneer (urp, sorry, gas). "Don't tell me you and Little Miss Slayer didn't celebrate Christmas."
Let's see, how did I spend my last Christmas in Sunnydale? I was terrorized by The First and tried to kill myself on Christmas morning, but was prevented by a miracle-slash-freak snow. "Not really," I reply.
He shakes his head, latches onto my arm again, and drags me further into the Dreaded Mall. "Christmas, you great gormless git, is when you buy a few trinkets for your family and friends, and a ton of gifts for your lover."
Ah, I get it now. Spike wants presents. What was I thinking earlier about him being five? "And I take it you're going to drag me around to the different stores, point out what you want, and I'm supposed to buy it for you."
"No," Spike stopped walking/dragging
me along. "We're gonna split up and meet at the Food Court at first closing
announcement. You get stuff for me and that crackpot team of yours, and
I'll get stuff for you."
Why do I get the feeling this is a bad idea? "Maybe we should stick together, Spike..."
But Spike is already striding away from me, his black duster billowing around his legs, blond hair gleaming harshly in the artificial mall light. I watch after him, wondering if getting a little bit of that ass is going to be worth the headache of shopping for Christmas presents. Just before he's out of sight, he turns around and yells back at me, "And don't forget to wrap ‘em, pillock!"
Oh Gods, someone, anyone — help?
*~*~*~*~*
The wanker is still standing there looking like a martyr about to be stoned when I remind him about wrapping my presents. All that black, hulking broodiness standing in a sea of multicolored winter hats and coats, like a lone licorice jellybean in a jar full of Jelly Belly's. Hmm, I think I'll stop by the candy store first and stock up on sweets. Gotta have the energy to shop, shop, shop.
I get swallowed by the crowd of shoppers as I head for the escalators. After a bit of jostling, I hop on the escalator to the second floor and scan the crowd of moneyspenders. My sire is no longer there, which means he either started shopping or went home. I'd place even money on both. Oh, look, there's the reindeer! Maybe I should get one of those for the office, jolly the place up a bit.
My espresso buzz is still going strong. I might have to get Cordelia a little something for getting me a cup and not squealing when I drank Angel's Poncy-blend cappuccino, too. Nah. I'm not that nice. Leave it to the poofter to buy gifts for the help. I'm here to shop for one person and one person only — me.
The candy store is packed full of rugrats when I get there, but with a little growl and a terrified scream, I make it to the Jelly Belly's unscathed. Fill up a bag, pop a few in my mouth, and now here I am waiting in line to pay. That's right, ladies and germs, I am about to pay for my own sweets.
With Angel's credit card, of course. After all, what respecting vampire actually pays for stuff? (I said ‘respecting,' not ‘woe-is-me-soul-having'.) Not I. But unless I want to wait another century to shag the great poof, I must follow some of his rules; one of which is: ‘thou shalt not steal from the stores when I have a credit card you can steal from my pocket and use.'
Is having a tumble with my sire really worth standing in line to pay for a pound of jellybeans, using his credit card or not? Truth? It's worth standing in line for three hours, surrounded by whining, screaming brats, to pay for a pound of jellybeans. Not that I'd ever admit that to anyone unless I was about to rip their throats out (which is another no-no on Angel's never-ending List O' Rules: ‘thou shalt not rip anyone's throat out, especially not Cordelia's, no matter how much she deserves it'.)
I like how the store personnel don't even check the signatures anymore. Angel printed his name so that any one of his topnotch staff could use the card, but you'd think these bumbletwits would bother to see if the card matched the signature. If it was my credit card that had been stolen...
Wait a mo', what the hell am I thinking? I wouldn't have a bloody credit card in my name. Only humans and ensouled vampires with poncy hair have credit cards.
I shove a handful of jellybeans into my mouth as I head out of the candy store, Angel's credit card and receipt in my pocket. The sugar explodes on my tongue and makes my teeth tingle.
Next stop: the music store. The Bargain Bin catches my eye when I walk into the lively store, but I'm quickly put off by the glaring yellow and red sign that proclaims: ‘all who actually look through this bin are bog-trotting toffs who are still stuck in the seventeenth century.' Right. Miscellaneous Rock, here I come.
*~*~*~*~*
I wonder what Spike's doing? Was he actually serious when he said we were buying gifts for each other? Like a real couple? And why did I shudder and feel mushy inside at the same time when I thought that? I think I need an antacid.
The mall is packed. There are more human beings in here right now than I usually see in a year. I've spotted a few ‘good' demons, their telltale horns and pointed ears hidden under ski-caps. No vampires, though, except this stupid one and the peroxide blond wandering around by himself.
Maybe I'd better find out where Mall Security is located, because I have a feeling I'm going to end up there before the night is over.
I suppose, just in case, I'd better buy something for him. I was planning on shopping for my friends' gifts sometime this week, anyway. Tonight's as good as any night.
But what if the idiot is pulling my chain? What if, come Christmas Eve or morning or whenever we decide to exchange gifts, he yells, "Fooled you!" in a Rick Moranis-like voice, and, by God, I have got to stop watching movies with him.
Okay, let's think. Ten to one, Spike just wants presents and has no intention of giving something to me in return. Unless it's a gag gift. Or a gift that he knows I'll hate, but he likes so I end up giving it to him. So, assuming all three, what should I get Spike?
Socks.
Jeans.
Tee-shirts.
A pair of pajama bottoms that aren't ‘for foofy arses, like yer majesty.'
How boring. Heh.
*~*~*~*~*
They should have shopping buggies in here. Or at least some troll to follow you around and hold your stuff. I thought that's what they paid the pimply blokes in the bright blue vests to do, but it turns out they are the "Music Professionals," capitalized as necessary. Bunch of overpaid teenaged whelps is what they are. Wonder how high they can sing if I shove a CD up their skinny arses?
One of them is following me around, a tall, gangly-lookin' fellow staring down his hooked beak at me. I know it's because I'm sticking CDs in my pockets like they're free for the taking. Which I wouldn't be doing if they had a soddin' buggy. No worries, though. I'm not about to nick the bloody things. Angel has it drilled into my head that I have to pay for what I want. (See waiting in line at the candy store for the reason why.)
My pockets are pretty much jammed and I have as many as I can hold in each hand. A cool grand's worth, possibly. Angel'll probably kill me. Oh well, what else is new?
The Bargain Bin catches my eye again as I make my way to the checkout counter, my shadow trailing behind me. There's undoubtably a few CDs in there the poof would like. Too bad my hands are full.
"You know," I say when it's my turn at the counter. "You lot really should have a buggy." I plunk the CDs in my hands onto the gray surface and start removing the ones from my pockets. "Us ‘big spenders' like to be pampered an' all." Out comes the credit card, and — ka-ching — look at the little manager girlie's eyes light up.
After an infinitely long number of minutes later (because it's so effin' complicated to work those CD-security cases), I sign Angel's name (thank you for not looking, twit), pocket the credit card, and head out of the store toting a heavy-ass bag. I'm afraid of those locker things -- have you seen some of the people who use them? -- which means a quick nip out to the Angelmobile is in order.
Wait, there's a Suncoast Video. I wonder if they have those DVDs I wanted in stock.
*~*~*~*~*
"Explain to me again how this works," I say, disbelieving what the matronly salesclerk, Madge, had told me.
"Of course, dear." Madge says with a smile and a pat on my hand. She smooths the plastic wrap bag over the Easy-to-Read instructions to make it easier to read, and begins to retell me about my glorious finding.
I hadn't known they'd made such a thing. I had been simply lost in the department store, having been told by the Men's Department salesclerk that the store had gift-wrapping in the Service Department. The Service Department was located "throughWomen's,leftatthelingerie,pasttheinfantdepartment,downthesamehallastheoptomologists,andwehaveafortypercentoffsaleoneyeglassesifyou'reinterested,andcanIhelpthenextperson,please?"
Obviously, I'd gotten lost. I had ended up wandering around the department store for half an hour before I'd stumbled into Linens and Bedding... and onto something so damn wonderful I'd almost got a happy.
Dual-Controlled Electric Blankets.
I had barely refrained myself from dancing in the aisle. They made blankets that heated up. They made blankets that heated up only on one side of the bed, leaving the other side comfortably cool. I'm getting hard again just thinking about it.
No more Spike fighting me for the blankets.
No more Spike playing with the thermostat.
No more Spike whining about it being too cold.
Peaceful sleep.
Yep, I'm hard.
"I'll take it," I tell Madge when she finishes her instructions. I must have sounded either desperate or super-excited, because she gives me a sly motherly wink.
"I'd say your wife was the one with the constantly cold feet, am I right? Sticking them against your legs or your back to warm them?" Madge says.
Spike, my wife.
Oh, Gods, I think I'm going to piss myself from laughing.
Madge is shaking her head and clicking her tongue at me. "Sorry," I apologize once I can speak again. "Yes, my -- snort -- wife -- snort -- is the one who's always cold. It's just so funny how you nailed the problem right on the head, and you don't even know me."
"I've been married for forty-seven years, dear," Madge says, patting my hand again. "It's easy to tell who the newlyweds are."
Tears. I have tears this time. Oh... help... laughing this hard hurts... I wonder if Spike made a beautiful bride? Oh hell, don't think like that or you'll never stop laughing, Angel.
Luckily, Madge had turned away to ring up my purchase and run my credit card through. As I'd found out in the Men's Department -- and I hadn't been surprised -- Spike had absconded with the one I allow any of my team to use. Good thing the Happy Housewife didn't know about and/or didn't care that I had a second credit card.
*~*~*~*~*
I should have taken Angel's second credit card, too. I think this one's close to its max. Who would've thought that a couple of CDs and DVDs could cost so much? This is why I hate paying for stuff, you run out of money.
I had stopped by Hallmark to buy a few of those jumbo gift bags, crinkly paper, and ribbon. In the carpark, I transfer my gifts to those bags, tie ‘em up pretty, and write Angel's name on the tiny gift cards, before hiding the whole lot in the boot of Angel's Penis Extension.
I head back into the mall. I suppose I should find a little something for the Hair Club President before I run out of dosh. With all the crap I got for myself, the probability of him blowing his follicles is high. If I give him something mushy and sickeningly sweet — His Souliness loves that shit — he'll let me live to listen to my new CDs, maybe even sit and watch the new DVDs with me... until the credit card bill comes. Hmm, maybe I should get a big little something.
But it's not like I really care that Angel will be none-too-pleased that I've maxxed his credit card. I only hang around the old sod because he's got a bloody great mouth and a better arse. And the things that man can do with his hands...
I adjust myself and sneer at the disgusted look I get from a mother dragging her toddler through the carpark. I think I have about forty-five minutes before I'm supposed to meet the Irish nonce. Forty-five minutes to find him a— hello, what have we here?
The small shop is tucked into a corner, down a short hall that leads to the shoe repair shop and an artsy-fartsy gallery-type store. The only reason I noticed it is because of the bitter aroma that drifted from the shop to my sensitive nose. It's one of my favorite scents — pure, hard, undiluted liquor.
And that's what the shop is filled with — bottles and bottles of liquor. Imports, labels I haven't seen in over a century, all strategically displayed so the low lighting emphasizes the full, rich colors of the alcohol in the bottles. Expensive liquor.
An impeccably dressed, silver-haired human comes out from behind the hardwood counter to smack my fingers and shoo me out of the shop. Before he can say a word, I hold out Angel's credit card. "Do you have a bottle of Tigris?"
"I shall need to see some picture identification, first," the man states, snatching the card from my hand.
I glare at the toff. I'd like to tear his head off and fill Angel's boot with the contents of the shop, but since I'm following my sire's bloody rules... I dig the fake driver's license out of my pocket and hand it to him. It's neat what you can do with a computer these days, innit?
"Tigris, you say?" The human is smiling now. Stupid prig. "Yes, we do have a bottle. If you'd like to wait at the counter, I shall fetch it for you."
Woof, woof. Rolling my eyes, I head to the counter. Not a speck of dust on it, just like everything else in the shop that reeks money. Angel's type of shop. Or rather, Angel's credit card's type of shop.
"Would you like me to wrap this as a gift, sir?" the silver-haired man asks as he returns with my liquor.
I grab the bottle from his hand. "No," I tell him as I carefully examine the label. Bugger me if I'm going to spend the poof's money on a fake.
Certain that I'm not about to get gypped, I nod to him and he rings up my purchase. I arch my brow when I see the total — Angel's credit card is maxxed for sure, now — and print Angel's name on the charge slip like a good boy. Then I rip the cap off the Tigris and down half the bottle without moving from the counter.
"Oh fuck, that's good," I purr, giving the bottle a half-lidded, loving look. Nice Tigris. Lovely Tigris. My Tigris.
I take another long swallow. Ahh, fuck me. I could kill for this... but I didn't. Maybe that should be my Christmas gift to Angel—
Oh shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! Angel's gift! I maxxed the credit card and I don't have a gift for my big-hearted, soulful sire. Good going, mate. I am never going to get laid again.
I cap the Tigris, set it down, and begin to empty my pockets. The silver-haired toff's eyebrows steadily climb as the pile of crap on the counter grows. When my pockets are finally emptied, I can't believe how light my duster is. Maybe I should empty it more often.
I start separating the crumpled dollars and change from the rest of the junk, which I shove back into my bottomless pockets. Once finished, I stare at my measly pile of money.
Five dollars.
And fifty-seven cents.
Bollocks.
*~*~*~*~*
Armed with clear, concise directions from Madge, I head to the gift wrap section. And I still get lost. Fighting evil is my forte, not running through the department store maze. Somehow, instead of the Infants Department, I end up in Electronics. Gizmos and gadgets and other noisy things guaranteed to drive me crazy and turn Spike into a giggling, grinning loon. Maybe I'm in the Infants Department after all.
Around a couple corners and halfway down a hidden aisle full of blaring televisions, I see a name-tagged salesman hooking up some sort of box to a small screen tv. "Hey, can you help me?" I ask him.
He looks up in a panic, jumps to his feet, and shushes me. "Shh!" He glances around frantically. "Did anyone see you come this way?"
"Uh," I look around, too, "not that I know of."
"Good," he breathes a sigh of relief. "We only have five. I want to get the demo hooked up so that I can play it once, at least, before it's sold."
"Five?" I ask, confused.
"Yeah." Mark, according to his nametag, pats the top of a box on a shelf. "We're lucky we got any. Our boss put us on the list of distributors for these babies, and now five lucky sons-of-guns will get to take ‘em home."
I look at the demo model Mark was setting up. A box, several wires, and two odd-shaped remote-like objects. Although it's a different brand name, it reminds me of that annoying video game thing we have that Spike is obsessed with.
Sigh.
*~*~*~*~*
Five dollars AND fifty-seven cents.
Five DOLLARS and fifty-seven cents.
Five dollars and fifty-seven CENTS.
FIVE dollars and FIFTY-SEVEN cents.
No matter how I think it, it's still just a measly five, plus change. Bloody hell, my unlife sucks. Why, why, why did I have to go and start up a relationship-like-ick-thing with my soul-having tosser of a sire? Why couldn't I find a nice, normal, evil vampire to share bodily fluids with?
Argh.
Well, at least the rest of the Tigris was good, and the bottle made a lovely smashing sound when I threw it against the carpark wall. But I'm down to my last cigarette and I still only have five- fucking-dollars and fifty-seven cents. I know there has to be a way for me to get Angel a gift without breaking his soddin' rules. I sigh. I suppose I could always return the DVDs...
What the bugger am I thinking?! Return the DVDs?! Am I out of my effin' mind? I'm evil! Why the hell do I care about giving gifts? I'm a selfish bastard!
I stalk over to the car, open the boot, take out a pen, cross off Angel's name and replace it with my own. There. Buying gifts to myself using someone else's stolen credit card. That's a crime in America, and since I'm evil it's what I'm supposed to do. I'm not supposed to fret over having only five bucks to purchase a Christmas gift for the hulking, brooding, annoying, smelly, foofy-haired arsebandit, who's goal in life is to make mine as miserable and unvampire-like as possible. He's always trying to control me -- me! -- and has no taste in... anything. He makes this stupid giggle when we're watching videos and he finds something funny, like he's trying not to laugh or enjoy himself. He's got more beauty supplies than Vidal Sassoon. He hogs the covers!
I have five dollars and fifty-seven cents. I'm going to buy myself a snack at the Food Court.
*~*~*~*~*
Spike is sitting on a planter, eating a giant pretzel and gulping from a giant drink when I meet him at the Food Court. All of my wrapped gifts, including the few for my unconventional family, are stashed in trunk of my car beside Spike's gift bags (I was good, I didn't peek).
"‘Allo, luv. Get all your shopping done?" he asks me, a crooked smile on his face.
"Bought, wrapped, and in the car," I reply. "You?"
He shrugs, takes a bite of his mustard-covered pretzel, and says with his mouth full, "Was hard, but I managed."
"And how many of the gifts you bought are for yourself?" I snicker when he tries to give me an innocent look.
"Who me? Would I do a rotten thing like that?"
"Yes."
Spike beams. "Good to see someone around here remembers that I'm evil."
Evil has a mustard mustache.
I snort back a laugh. Sometimes, Spike is just so... cute.
"Angel, did you just belch?"