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darkestwolfx · 5 years ago

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Escape Proof - Re-Review #39

I thought The Mechanic had been a little bit too quiet since ��Up from the Depths’ (really it’s been five episodes without our new main villain).

Oh, and this one, really is photo heavy. I have no apologies.

Parker kicking a door in? Yes, I will accept that start to the episode!

Another ominous location though, I see. Sherbet tagging along behind though is quite sweet.

“Mind your step Parker. Dead end, indeed!”

“Someone’s been digging.”

Someone had been... The Mechanic, by any chance? I think so.

“What is it, Sherbet? Is something down there?”

“Not something. Someone! That’s Morse Code for SOS.”

Good thing someone knows what that means! And there’s someone trapped! I‘m going to say wasn’t part of the plan, because I doubt The Mechanic really wanted IR called to the scene of his grand plan.

Nice shot of the Island.

“We were looking through buildings once linked to The Hood when we came across this.”

That was good thinking by Lady Penelope and Parker though. See this is why you have a London Agent to do some ‘agenting’ (Gordon, ‘Ring of Fire’).

“I’m not waiting. Parker, bring the car around.”

And there we go, she’s always a step ahead of the rest.

“Destruction on this scale could only be The Mechanic.”

“But where’s he going?”

And this was a pretty cool gear up, you have to admit.

This is Hoarse, appropriately named, as he will talk himself hoarse. He’s a plumber as well.

“That’s why they call me Hoarse. Cause I can talk myself Hoarse, you know.”

“Can’t complain. Got me holiday’s coming up. Have you ever been to Spain? What am I kidding, you boys have probably been everywhere...”

“This one’s a talker.”

Yeah, I’m just gonna’ leave it there.

“We need to track where The Mechanic is going, and that means getting through this debris.”

“FAB.”

Yes, did someone call for a removals service? Virgil is brilliant at shifting things, demolition is one of his areas of expertise as we all know. And Scott only reminded us last episode that we could leave the “heavy lifting” to Virgil.

The soundtrack for this episode was pretty on point from the off as well.

“He’s still talking.”

“Whatever keeps him occupied.”

You’ll thank him for it later, Gordon.

“John are you still locked in on my signal?”

“Yes. And based on your current heading, I’m calculating your path now. This isn’t good. Lady Penelope, you’re heading straight for Parkmoor Scrubs Prison.”

“Parkmoor Scrubs? That’s where they’re holding The Hood. This is a prison break.”

Really? The title wasn’t giving the possibility of that away to anyone? Anyone other than lonely little me here?

So remember in ‘City Under the Sea’, The Mechanic was searching the Creighton-Ward building for a safe containing plans for a prison, and Parker stopped him? Yeah, well unfortunately this guy is clearly too smart, because he’s managed it anyway.

“But breaking The Hood out of Parkmoor Scrubs Prison is impossible!”

Are you sure you want to say that?

“But Colonel, we know The Mechanic has already made one attempt at the designs for the place. Maybe he found something.”

You can bet that he did - he can rival Brains after all.

John’s smart thinking comes a little bit too late. If only they’d searched for that signal again after ‘Earthbreaker’.

“It’s coming from his eye.”

“If he’s had that the whole time he’s been in there-”

Which he kinda must have, just saying.

“-This escape could have been planned from the start!”

Now you’re getting it! He did warn us in ‘Legacy’ and ‘Earthbreaker’ that something worse than him could come along, and that we hadn’t seen the end of him.

“It’s like one big, giant game of pick up sticks.”

“Except this is no game. A man’s life is at stake.”

Not having fun there, then I’m guessing.

“Orange! Don’t cut that one.”

Come on... click, click, click-

“Hoarse, what kind of pipes are near you?”

Well done, Virgil.

“I was working on a green and white striped one.”

A bit easier than pick up sticks now, ey, Gordon?

“Should I be worried? Cause I’m worried.”

I quite like the character of Hoarse. It’s a shame we don’t get to see him again. I think that would have been quite fun. Maybe he could have been a friend for Ned?

“’e can’t ‘ave vanished hinto thin hair. Where did ‘e go?”

You’ll be sorry you asked that, Parker.

“They seem to be in a bit of a rush. I don’t think they’re going to stop for you, or us, or anyone.”

Yes, this is a prison break, remember!

“Well, you made quite an entrance. But you are two weeks late.”

“You’re welcome.”

Yes, I agree, very ungrateful.

“International Rescue is here! Did you send out invitations?”

“They’re not a problem.”

“They are to me.”

Well that says more about you, Hood. I think this really is the first moment where we get to see that maybe The Mechanic isn’t quite as into this as The Hood. They’re actually quite at odds with each other once you put them together, and for me this little interaction definitely foreshadowed that things weren’t going to work with these two. They’re not the super villain duet that they were potentially made out to be in ‘Earthbreaker’ and I think that actually was a really well-written move, and maybe not one which would have been expected by the masses.

Villains can be tricky things to write - there’s always a fine line as to whether people find them and their actions believable or not. See, I never found these two more believable than when they were at odds with each other. I know many of us have expressed disappointment at the eventual motivation for The Hood’s villainy (in TAG anyway), but The Mechanic actually had some kind of exploration going on (even though I would have loved a little more backstory, at least his motivations made perfect sense). The Chaos Crew were another pair of Villains in TAG that I struggle with (I mean, we’re not quite there yet, so I’m not going to go into my reasons until we reach that point - which will be soon) and who didn’t really aid in The Hood’s character development as much as I think the writers thought they might.

They did a good job with The Hood in series 1 (and I know they were trying to both adapt and sustain elements from TOS with him), but I think TAG’s best villain by far is The Mechanic (and not because he was made up, nor because he has a redemption arc), or he’s at least, their best written villain. Once again, this is a conversation that could go on for a while, so I’m actually going to pull it into one big post on villains - might be a wait for it thought as I’m waiting to find a free pocket of time.

See that! A little talking never hurt anyone.

“Green and white. My favourite colours.”

Yes I can see how that is true for Virgil. Gordon might have preferred yellow, but you can’t always get what you want.

“Gordon, step on it.”

“I stepped on a bug once, big as your hand, honest...”

“Why are we stopping? Go out the way you came in.”

“I wouldn’t advise that.”

“I don’t want your advice. i want your absolute obedience.”

Asking a lot, isn’t it?

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked me too.”

“Your machines are impressive; your results are pathetic. The only thing you’ve ever done for me is fail.”

I wouldn’t say that’s quite true...

“Now follow my command.”

I think the clues were finally all there with this interaction - the cybernetic eye is going and suddenly The Mechanic moves to do as The Hood says, despite the only thing they’ve done since they reunited in person be to argue? Yeah, that’s not a believable response, unless you are being controlled or have something held over you. If there was any doubt before, I don’t think there is now to the state of play between these two.

“You had to know they’d be waiting for us.”

“Well obviously. I may be free, but we had to give them some sort of consolation prize.”

And there we have it, the big reveal, doubt eradicated.

“The Hood and The Mechanic must not get away!”

Uhh... they both got away!

“It looks like The Hood and The Mechanic both got away.”

Yep, I’ve already said that.

“So now we have two master criminals on the loose?”

Keep up, Gordon, we’ve already said that - twice in this case.

“I have a feeling it’s about to get very busy for all of us.”

“And we’ll be ready for them.”

“I’m actually speechless.”

Well, by the very fact you’ve just spoken Hoarse, you’re technically not, but okay.

“I mean look at me, I’ve got nothing. I’ve got nothing to say at all. Ask me something now, I couldn’t tell you...”

And I think that was probably a good place indeed to put the credits. Otherwise, this could have been a bumper sized episode just for stories from Hoarse - imagine that!

This was an amusing shot though. Let’s all hide behind the pink car whilst we wait to apprehend the “master criminals”.

Also, as a little bonus, there’s plenty of behind the scenes pictures available for this episode.

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whatdoyouthinkmyjobis · 7 years ago

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Hunters on the Hellmouth

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first chapter

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AN: Inspired by events in BTVS 7.17 “Lies My Parents Told Me.” Links to character sheets at the bottom of the story.

Chapter 33: New Man

Spike’s heart pounded against his ribs, begging for a break. His lungs burned, each breath large and deep, like he was trying to inhale oceans. He ran until sweat dripped into his eyes. He wiped his forehead and stared at his fingertips glistening in the sunlight.

Having run from the house in a t-shirt, the cool winter air nipped at his damp skin until goosebumps peppered his arms. He was still on the outskirts of town surrounded by houses and one mission-style Catholic church.

It clearly not being a day for bursting into flames, Spike entered the church and found two old women praying at the altar. He couldn’t smell them over the incense. Usually, old women reeked of creams, ointments, and god-awful perfume. The stench was part of why vampires avoided the elderly.

He stole a seat in the back at stared at the twisted body hanging at the front of the sanctuary. Like any good Victorian Londoner, Spike had been raised in the church, Anglican specifically, but the idea of God escaped him. Why would anyone, let alone the son of God, sacrifice themselves for him? Who believed he merited a second chance?

An elderly priest leaned into his pew. “Can I help you, my son?”

“Yeah, thought I’d start the new year off right with God, but I seem to ‘ave forgotten my prayer beads.”

The priest smiled at him. “You may borrow mine.” He pulled his rosary, a simple design of dark wood with a brass cross, from his pocket, and dropped it in the vampire’s hands.

The vampire did not burn.

All Dean could understand from the girls screaming at each other was that someone’s something had gone missing. Buffy and Willow were doing their best to calm the situation when he and Sam decided to seek out the quiet of the still-wrecked Impala parked in Buffy’s driveway.

“Maybe it was a mistake not telling them about Lucifer,” Dean said, bunching up a blanket to use as a pillow.

“Trust me, Lucifer isn’t comforting news. Besides, I think they’re still riding the high of burning those Bringers; plus, most of them are starting a new school Monday. Probably shouldn't add to the emotional cocktail.”

“Are you done touching the feelings?”

Sam shrugged. “I just remember what it was like to be a teenager-by-day, monster-fighter-by-night. Add to that, they’re far from home, have cultural barriers, and are all pretty new to this. They’re not going to be insta-buddies. Besides, it’s not like we didn’t have stupid fights when we were kids.”

“We’d have had fewer fights if you weren’t so stubborn.” A light rain began to patter on the car. The clouds gave the sunset an eerie glow.

Sam tapped the front bench seat, staring at his fingers like they were giving him a message in Morse Code. “I’ve been doing some research.”

“Water is wet.” Dean’s joking did nothing to ease the anxiety on his brother’s face.

“According to Slayer lore--”

“Here we go.”

“--the first Slayer was created by combining the ‘heart of a demon’ whatever that means, with some teenage girl. Good news is, nothing happened to Buffy when we did the exorcism so--”

“The fuck?” Dean shot up, ignoring his sore body while his blood boiled. “No. You do not just move on from that statement. Were you fucking experimenting on my girlfriend because you thought she was fucking possessed?”

“I didn’t think she was possessed, but that’s what the lore says,” Sam said, innocently. “If I thought she was dangerous, I would have told you.”

Dean knew the look on his brother’s face, and knew he wasn’t sorry one bit. He tamped down the desire to sock Sam in the jaw. “Don’t fucking put on that innocent puppy face with me! What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I was thinking she’s a vessel, too, and I wanted to know what ‘heart of a demon’ meant because clearly it’s not literal demonic possession.”

“Fuck no it’s not!”

“God, take a breath, Dean. You’re turning purple.”

“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down!” he yelled. “For once in my life, I feel like I have a fucking life. There is this amazing woman who actually gives a rat’s ass about me for more than one night -- hell, she loves me for christssake -- and you’re pokin’ at her to find out what makes her tick?”

“I didn’t want to tell you because, crazy idea, I thought you’d lose your shit,” Sam snapped.

Dean’s ribs reminded him they were still healing as he tried to take deep breaths. “You have no right.”

Scratching his head, Sam sighed. “Dean, how many comic books have you read? How many horror movies have you seen? Whatever the Slayer is, there’s an origin story, but it’s not the story that’s in the lore. I just want to know why there’s a monster-fighting superhero here, but not at home.”

They glared at each other, jaws clenched, nostrils flaring, for a minute before Sam asked, “Do you want to know what I’ve found?’

Dean didn’t, but he did. He leaned back against the seat and tried to relax.

“Remember how I was looking into possession? It looks like there are only a few types of people who can be possessed -- Slayers, vampires, and witches -- and each has special conditions under which it can happen. We know when someone gets bitten by a vamp, they lose their soul and the demon takes their corpse for a ride. Given what we just did to Spike, that one pans out. But the lore says the Slayer is also possessed by a demon, and that just doesn’t hold --”

There was a knock on the window before Buffy opened the door and climbed in the seat with Dean. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything. I’m super jealous of the calm in here.” Damp from the drizzle, she nestled against her boyfriend.

Dean was happy to be holding her no matter what his brother thought. He kissed the top of her head, eliciting a contented sigh.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Sam asked.

“Shut up,” said Buffy. “Today’s been weird, okay?”

“Girls okay?”

“Okay-ish? No one’s talking to Lili, but I’m too worried about Spike to care.”

After being freed from the demon parasite that had been riding him for over a century, Spike had run out into the daylight and disappeared. At first, Buffy had been practically giddy. They had taken something from the darkness, but as the day wore on and Spike did not return, she poured her nervous energy into scrubbing the entire house from top to bottom and snapping at anyone who came near. It was like waiting to hear news from the surgeon. Someone had been opened up, but was the operation successful?

“I’m sure the poofy’s fine. He’s probably sulking in a mausoleum somewhere.”

“Or he’s being tortured by Lucifer again,” she said.

“Is he even still a vampire?” asked Sam. “I’m not sure the vampire and the demon are separate here.”

Dean glared at his brother. Not that he shared Buffy’s concern, but the last thing he wanted to do was compound her worries.

She drew little patterns on Dean’s chest with her fingertips, a habit when she was mulling an idea over. “If Spike is okay, if the exorcism managed to get rid of the demon and save the man, I was wondering if we could head to Los Angeles after all this Lucifer stuff is over and maybe --”

“I guess we could ask him,” Sam said, pointing to the end of the driveway where a pale figure paced back and forth in the rain.

They got out of the car as Spike walked by, shivering in his t-shirt. “Got a bloody clown car going?”

“Where have you been?” Buffy asked.

“Around.” He shuffled his feet and bounced, trying to get warm. “Can go all sorts of places in the daylight now.”

Dean tossed him a blanket from the backseat. “You can probably catch cold too. Let’s head in. It’s dinner time.”

The next day, Sam straddled a chair across from Buffy’s desk as they listened to the gaggle of girls on the other side of the cubicle wall. The school’s bewildered guidance counselor was trying to organize the flood of unexpected transfers whose papers Dean had faked.

I can’t believe this is working! Buffy mouthed. Having all but six of them in school all day was a relief.

“I wish we were in the same classes,” Cloé complained in Spanish.

“Chiquita, we’re two grades apart,” Gabi laughed.

“Why couldn’t they lie about that too?”

“It’s only seven hours, and look, we have the same lunch and study hall. Ooh, we have Sam for study hall. He’s cute.”

“Ew, he’s old,” protested Cloé.

Sam pretended he hadn’t heard them and asked Buffy, “Ready to jump back into ‘My parents don’t get me’ and ‘My teachers are so mean?’”

“God yes!” She twirled a pencil in her fingers. “You do remember how unvacationy vacation was, right?”

Sam patted the angry scars that ran across his abs. “I have my holiday souvenirs. Can’t wait for spring break.”

Being back at school was surreal. Sam was about to dive back into nearly eight hours a day helping teenagers and teachers with research, organizing the books, and updating files. Yet his Clark Kent hours bore a sickly green edge today. Caring about the state of the biography section seemed pointless when Lucifer was out of his cage and lurking near the school.

Killing the Turok-Han and a handful of Bringers had been spitting in Lucifer’s eye. Disarming his vampire sleeper agent was stomping the Devil’s toe. Any moment, he could send something new their way -- tormenting visions of the dead, an army of vampires, drunk clowns with knives. Different world. Different rules.

Just then, an unsmiling Principal Wood showed up, eyeing them with suspicion. “Glad to see you’re all up and at ‘em after your accident.”

“Couple of regular Christmas miracles,” said Buffy with a nervous smile.

Wood nodded before turning to Sam, all friendliness gone from his face. “Mr. Winchester, I was hoping to catch you before the bell. Would you mind stepping into my office?”

They walked through the remainder of the girls waiting for a student guide for their first day. Wood assumed his seat and stared at him over steepled fingers. The clock ticked louder than the bustle of students on the other side of the wall. He’d been in enough principals’ offices and interrogation rooms to know this tactic. Sam stared back.

The bell rang.

The clock ticked.

Opening a file, Wood said, “You don’t need to worry about the library. I was able to find a substitute.”

Sam continued to stare.

“I got bored over winter break, decided to investigate. You’re an intelligent man, Mr. Winchester, but something’s always been a little off about you. You swept in out of nowhere right when we needed a new librarian, waving your freshly printed Stanford diploma. You know Mr. Espada the chemistry teacher? He went to Stanford, too. His diploma doesn’t look like yours.” Wood slid copies of both documents across the desk, but Sam ignored them.

“I thought, ‘Maybe they changed the format.’ After all, he graduated a few years before you. But it gnawed at me, so I dug a little further and found Tiffany Tusing. Remember her?”

Judging by the giant smile plastered on Wood’s face, he was about to hit a home-run.

Sam continued to stare.

“Tiffany Tusing died in a car accident in 1993, which I am surprised we didn’t know before seeing as you’re using her social security number. Do you care to tell me why you used the social security number of a dead girl and falsified records to secure a position as Sunnydale High’s librarian?”

“I like books.”

“Suffice to say, as of right now you’re suspended while I investigate further. I will call you when it’s time to clean out your desk.”

Jada was excellent with a knife. Dean sat at the kitchen counter watching her chop vegetables with fury. If she ever decided to throw down against the monsters lurking outside, she wouldn’t be half bad in a fight.

“I still can’t believe he suspended you! Your reviews have been good. He hasn’t complained at all. What is his problem?”

“It’s personality clashes wrapped in politics. I’m sure it will be cleared up soon,” said Sam as he put salmon fillets on a baking sheet. Their fake identities obviously weren’t on the list of supernatural weirdness he’d explained to her.

“Want one, Dean, or are you having dinner with Buffy?” Sam asked with a smirk.

One glance at the fish and Dean curled up his lip in disgust. “Nah, she’s busy with the girls.”

“Girls?” Jada asked brightly, clearly happy to think about something other than how much she hated Principal Wood.

“Remember how I said there’s trouble at Buffy’s?” Sam asked.

“And the trouble is girls?” she repeated with an eyebrow raised. “Little girls or big girls?”

“Too many girls!” Dean grumbled. “Anyway, I think I’ll leave you to your whatever the hell you call that and take this leg out for a spin.” Tired of feeling useless, he had insisted the doctors x-ray his broken ankle. They were shocked to see it had healed in half the normal time, but Dean -- finally cast-less -- scooted out of the hospital before they could start running tests.

“Oh, okay, have a good time, Dean!” Jada waved at him with a smile. She was in comforting mode. He hoped Sam remembered to put a sock on the door.

Full of fries and a cheeseburger, Dean grabbed his beer and sauntered over to the pub’s neglected pool table. Before they’d decided to stay in Sunnydale, he and Sam had hustled pool at every bar in town to keep themselves in beer and scratchy sheets. Enough time had passed, they should be able to do another round. They could at least hit up nearby Santa Barbara. Keep the Potentials in cereal and whatever else a houseful of teenage girls could need.

Halfway through his second rack and third beer, someone said, “You’re pretty good.” At the other end of the table stood a tall, dark man with a goatee and shaved head. He was smiling, friendly.

After Buffy had told Dean about the extensive stalker file she’d found in the principal’s office, he had decided to look Robin Wood up. Brooklyn-born, he moved to the suburbs of Los Angeles after his mother was murdered when he was four. Always athletic, he played baseball and tennis all through school. He’d graduated in the middle of his class at UCLA, and spent several years in Teach for America before heading back to school for an administrative degree. On paper, he seemed like an all-American, up-from-nothing success story. Standing before him now, Dean didn’t like whatever secrets were behind Wood’s shining eyes.

“Wanna play?” Dean asked.

Wood whistled low. “Pretty sure you’d play me out of house and home.”

“Nah,” said Dean, racking the balls, “I only swindle my friends. You new to town, mister, uh?”

“Calvin! Name’s Calvin. Yeah, just moved up here from LA.” Wood extended his hand for a shake, but Dean left him hanging.

“That so?” Dean took the opening break shot, sinking two solids.

“Liking the small town life. Quaint. Calm. What about you, buddy? Lived here long?”

“Few months.”

“What brought you here?”

“Work.”

“Really? What do you do?” Wood asked, clearly determined to keep up his cheerful ruse.

“Exterminator.”

“Exterminator? Are the pests different in Sunnydale than where you’re from?”

“A bit.” Dean sunk two more balls. He was half finished before Wood even started.

Without a clear shot, Wood chose to bump his ball in Dean’s way. “What did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t.”

Wood pursed his lips and nodded his head. “You’re not the most sociable guy are you?”

“Maybe I just don’t like you,” Dean growled.

“You don’t even know me.”

Dean flexed his fingers. The principal was an inch or two taller than him, with the thick arms of someone who’d spent time punching a bag. But bags didn't hit back.

Dean’s phone rang. Keeping his eye on his new friend, he answered, “Hey Girly. What’s up?”

“I’m done with training. Mind if I come over?” The bubbly tone to her voice indicated patrol had gone well.

“Sounds good.” He hung up and bumped into Wood’s shoulder, smirking. “It’s been fun, Robin. Let’s not do this again.”

Wood banished from his mind, Dean paced his room as he waited on Buffy to arrive. She hadn’t been over since Christmas Eve, and he was still pretty beaten up then. Though he’d spent the last week at her place, they’d barely had any time together.

A satisfied moan came from Sam’s room.

The pressure in Dean’s jeans was painful, so he went to the window to distract himself. He could just make out Orion’s belt through the bright lights of town. Buffy, not knowing where the mythic figures started and stopped, had claimed the cluster of stars making Orion’s shield as her own. The Slayer’s Heart, she called it. It was sappy and silly, but it was theirs. He wanted to share the sky with her.

Turning his face from the heavens to the street, Dean’s smile faded. A blue 1997 Dodge Stratus, the same car Robin Wood drove, was parked across the street. Dean was lacing his boots to confront the principal when Buffy opened his bedroom door.

In an instant, she was in his arms, her legs around his waist as he pressed her against the wall. Their kiss long and deep reveling in their perfect fit. “Missed you, Girly,” he said as he moved to kissing her neck.

A moan rose from deep in her throat as she played with his hair. “I can’t stay long -- twenty minutes tops, but I had to see you.”

He set her on top of his dresser and rubbed her leather-clad thighs. She knew those pants drove him crazy. “You’re smiling like you had a good day.”

“Mostly. You’re out of your cast. Spike came out of the basement and tried to feed himself; Alma had to teach him how to cook. Both Vi and Keisha staked vampires tonight. That’s three successful trainee patrols in a row.”

“I miss patrolling with you.”

“You, mister, are distracting with those kissable lips.” She sucked on his bottom lip like he was her favorite candy. “And that deep, rumbly voice. God, when you talk dirty--” She tugged off his shirt, a wolfish hunger in her eyes. “Other than the little things like Lucifer being out there doing God knows what and Wood suspending Sam--”

“Ugh.” Dean shook his head. “That jackass is outside.”

“What?!”

“Wood. I went down to the bar for dinner, and he was there trying to chat me up. Now he’s parked outside.”

Buffy dashed to the window. “I see you!” she yelled, pointing at her eyes and the car. It pulled away, disappearing down the block.

“Well, he just jumped up my priorities list,” she grumbled, the smile leaving her face for the first time.

“I was gonna pay him a visit tomorrow.”

“Don’t kill him.”

“That’s not Plan A.”

Sliding his hands under her sweater, he cupped one of her breasts. The tension melted from her face as he kneaded her body. “Right now, Plan A is to see how many times I can make you come in twenty minutes.”

“Challenge accepted,” she purred, pushing his pants to the floor.

Robin Wood lived in a small, well-maintained bungalow six blocks from the high school. The inside was sparsely decorated in cheap furniture from I’m Totally Normal Monthly. The warehouse plastic smell of newness still hung in the air. The kitchen drawers were full of kitchen supplies. The living room drawers were full of typical homeowner paperwork, DVDs, travel mementos, and one picture -- an old white man with his arm around a young black boy. The office was equally boring with proposals, budgets, and books on child psychology and educational theory.

It felt like a set.

In the bedroom, an old steamer trunk and a bookcase stuffed with old leather books sat at the foot of the bed. Like in his own room, the trunk was full of stakes, holy water, crossbows and any other weapon a vampire hunter would need. The extensiveness of the collection told him Wood wasn’t new to hunting -- and if he wasn’t new to hunting, maybe he knew who Buffy was.

He grabbed a book from the shelf and started reading.

After a couple of hours, keys jingled in the door. Not working late tonight. Dean listened as Wood walked around the house with the casual care of someone not suspecting an intruder. He lightly laid his finger on the trigger of his gun and aimed it at the door of the bedroom.

Wood entered the room and betraying only the slightest surprise, raised his hands. “I thought you didn’t want hang out anymore, Dean.”

“I believe in second chances. Haven’t decided yet if I want to shoot you, so I’m gonna put this gun down. You’re gonna go for the machete you keep by the door, but I already moved it. And I think you know fucking with me would hurt.”

Dean held up a book, a journal more specifically. “At first, I guessed you were a hunter with a Slayer fetish. Got all these Watcher’s journals to jerk off to. Explains why you’ve been stalking Buffy so hard.

“Then I get to this.”

He read from the first page, “‘She came back. After surviving her Cruciamentum -- while pregnant no less -- I encouraged Nikki to hide. I made all the arrangements and was ready to face the Council when they discovered the truth.

“‘But I should have known Nikki Wood couldn’t stay away from a fight. She returned with her infant son and went right back into the dark, stake in hand.

“‘Her son is sleeping soundly in a makeshift bed beside me while his mother is out saving the world. It’s not fair she was chosen. Not fair that so much will be taken from her. It is not the boy’s fault, and I fear what will become of Robin when his mother meets her inevitable end.’”

Dean snapped the book shut. “Your mother was a Slayer. So what, you have some oedipal crush on Buffy?”

“Don’t act like you know me,” Robin said through gritted teeth.

“What do you want with Buffy?”

“I’d prefer to tell her directly.”

“You’re driving. Pretty sure you know the way.”

Buffy and her boss sat alone in her kitchen. He stared at his hands with contrition. She hadn’t been sure what to make of Dean’s call telling her he was coming by with the most-likely-not-dangerous principal. “I wish you would have just told me this up front instead of acting like a creepy stalker.”

“In retrospect, I see how my research looked more unwanted ex and less detective dossier, but Slayers aren’t Girl Scouts.”

She watched two dozen Potentials practicing fighting forms in her backyard as she mulled over Wood’s story.

A Slayer had a child. A Slayer was a mother. Buffy firmly rejected certain Slayer traditions. Being alone. Being on the outskirts of society. But being childless always made sense. Even if she and the baby survived the pregnancy, she would never see it grow up. It would never remember her.

She didn’t want her four-year-old son at her funeral. She didn’t want him dedicating his life to avenging her. She didn’t want another Slayer down the line to look in his face and say, “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

Wood sighed, “Can’t say I blame you. First Evil sounds pretty demanding.”

“Keeps me on my toes.”

Spike, his hair mussed from sleep and with dark circles under his eyes, emerged from the basement. “Sorry, I’m just ‘ere for eggs,” he mumbled.

Gabi, Cloé and Vi dashed through the kitchen, giggling. Gabi assumed her instructor’s station at the front of the group outside, while the other two found places in the crowd.

“You’re late!” Dani yelled, zeroing in on Cloé while ignoring the other two.

Cloé bowed her head, her shoulders slumping as if bracing for a blow. “I’m sorry, we --”

“I don’t care! This is life and death.” The other girls stopped their exercises and stared at the scene with a mix of embarrassment and satisfaction. “Maybe I’ll start calling you Chum because you’re not going to be good for anything other than vampire bait.”

“Hey!” Gabi snapped. “I made them late. If you want to scream at someone you and I can do it later. This isn’t helping anyone.”

Dani curled her lip in disgust as she glared at Gabi. “Look, I’m in charge here--”

“No.” Gabi rose to her full height, a head taller than Dani. “Buffy is in charge. You’re not even number two. You want to take this inside or keep training?”

Looking back at the crowd of expectant girls, Dani pointed at Cloé. “Arms up, ladies! You call that a stance?”

Wood turned away from the scene, eyebrows raised. “At least I’ve solved the mystery of the flood of transfers. I’m assuming the Winchesters forged all of their paperwork?”

Andrew stomped in. “Spike, don’t forget to wash the pan when you’re done. I had to clean all of your dishes yesterday.”

Wood pointed at the two men. “Not Potentials.”

“No! This is Spike and Andrew. The First is after them, so they’ve been living in my basement.”

“Spike and Andrew.” Wood eyed Spike’s back as the former vampire plated his food. “Buffy, does this First thing have anything to do with this goat-face seal I keep finding in the basement?”

Andrew gulped. Spike turned to look at Wood, a burning intensity in his eyes.

“Who are you?” Spike asked.

“Robin Wood, principal at Sunnydale High.” Wood extended his hand, which Spike reluctantly shook.

“Wood’s mother was a Slayer.”

“Slayers have kids?” Spike looked the new guy over with renewed interest.

“One did at least. Nikki Wood. New York. 70s,” Wood said.

“Sorry, my Slayer ‘istory’s not so good,” Spike said, grabbing a fork and taking his eggs to the basement.

With a sigh, Andrew put Spike’s dirty pan in the sink. “You’ve seen the seal?”

“Yeah, someone keeps digging it up. I found a body down there once lying on top of it.”

Andrew avoided eye contact. “What did you do with it? Asking for a friend.”

“Seeing as this is Sunnydale, I buried the kid outside of town. Last time I found the seal exposed, I covered it in concrete, reburied it, piled supplies on it, and had the door welded shut.”

“Thorough,” said Buffy, relieved Lucifer wasn’t going to be able to pull any more Turok-Han from the Hellmouth. At least not soon. “You know if you want to help…”

“Much as I want to spend more time with teenagers, I think I’ll stick to searching for the vampire who killed my mom.”

“You’re certain it’s in Sunnydale?”

“Absolutely. Tell you what. I’ll lift Sam’s suspension. Not like I could have found a replacement librarian in the middle of the year anyway. What’s their deal, by the way? I couldn’t find anything on the Winchesters.”

Buffy chuckled. “The Winchesters are a different kind of wild story. If you want to know, come back and ask them yourself. After you figure out how to get on their good side.”

Spike leaned forward over the utility sink to get a closer look at himself in the mirror. He’d forgotten what he looked like. Too angular for Victorian sensibilities, but handsome for the modern day.

Hadn’t that been the entire problem? William Pratt was always too something for his neighbors, his mother, his adored. Too meek. Too earnest. Too emotional. William Pratt did not belong.

Now wasn’t much better. He wasn’t a vampire, but was he a man? He was stronger than average. A little faster.

Before Drusilla had turned him, he’d written longhand ledgers, a human calculator. What was he supposed to do now? Wash sheets at the Motor Inn, saving to get a crumby apartment? Worry about his cholesterol and toenail fungus? Not think about the murders he’d gladly committed?

No, whatever was in the mirror wasn’t a man.

“What are you doing?” Andrew asked.

His voice startled Spike, who’d been so absorbed in his reflection, he hadn’t noticed the arrival of his roommate. “I was just marveling at wot a ‘andsome devil I am. Cheekbones.”

“Some guys have it all,” Andrew said with a sigh as he settled onto his cot.

“Is that guy gone? Big black fellow?”

“Yeah, he left a while ago. Didn’t seem too happy.”

“Right, well, I guess I’ll see to that...thing that needs seeing,” Spike said, heading upstairs.

Buffy stood on the back porch, overseeing Dani and Gabi leading the Potentials in a series of martial arts exercises. Spike didn’t know much of trained fighting. Seemed to take the fun out of it, especially when it came to fighting a disciplined, organized, knowledgeable Slayer, the ultimate test of improvisation.

He decided to leave out the front door, but Sam and Dean were in the driveway repairing the Impala. Spike hadn’t seen the car after Buffy wrecked it, but from the stories, he was surprised it wasn’t in a junkyard.

“Hey, Spike,” Sam called, waving him over.

Dean rose from where he’d been crouched by the front fender. “Hit it, Sammy.”

Sam flipped the knob to check one turn signal then the other. Dean gave a thumbs up before disappearing in front of the car again.

“How’re you doing?” Sam asked.

At one point in the underground church, Sam had lost hope and began to confess his darkest deeds. He’d hunted down a demon named Lilith. “I wanted revenge because she’d killed Dean, but Dean was back, so it was really about me, wasn’t it? My power. My abilities. Me saving the day.”

“Did you kill the bitch?”

Sam had chuckled, a thin wheeze, at the question. “You know what I had to do to get strong enough to kill Lilith? I killed and drank a demon possessed pediatric nurse. I drank until she turned ashen. I drank until my stomach strained, and I told myself, ‘Greater good, right?’”

“You’re making me hungry.”

“Wanna know the irony? Me killing Lilith, that’s what unleashed Lucifer.”

And now Sam, far from the brink of death, sat in his brother’s car testing turn signals. A not-so-innocent human with demon-blood tainted veins.

Spike opened the back door and slipped into the back seat. He almost missed the blood lust. His demon had guided him, amping up his every dark impulse for over a century. Without it, he had all of the baggage of someone he knew and no idea where he was going. But he didn’t want to go back. “I feel like I just woke up from a coma, but it’s ‘alloween and I’m in a blimey gorilla costume.”

Sam squinted at him, confused. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Metaphor needs work. Point is, I feel a little out of sorts with just myself rattling around up there.”

“It’ll take some getting used to.”

“Does anyone ever get used to humanity?” Spike asked, twisting his lips in a smirk to cover his sincerity.

“No,” said Sam quietly. “Some voices and faces always haunt you.”

“Like the nurse?”

Sam looked away in shame. They may both be killers, but only one of them had ever been proud of it. “Her husband never even knew what happened.”

“But sorry doesn’t change the past, no matter ‘ow many lives we get, does it?”

“No.”

“But life is just living, isn’t it?” Spike said. “The pain, the sex, the shame, the victories, they’re all part of the package.”

Finished with training, the Potentials began to flood the front yard, doing cartwheels and chasing each other. Enjoying the last bit of sun before nightfall forced them inside.

Giant grin plastered on his face, Dean sauntered around the car. “Baby’s ready to roll, Sammy.” His grin faded a bit when he saw Spike. “Dude, you’re practically glowing. It’s like you haven’t seen the sun in a century.”

Spike sighed. “Look out, George Carlin. A new wit has arrived.”

Dean shrugged. “We hid the beer in the cooler if you want one.” He left them to pick up his tools.

Sam smiled, soft and concerned, at Spike. “One day at a time. It’s going to be hard and weird, but I’m here for you. Call me if you feel like doing anything stupid.”

Spike was about to do something stupid. He paced in the pool of a street light in front of the little green bungalow. He wished he had a cigarette, but trying to smoke made him cough, his lungs burn. After sunset, he’d had a beer or three to convince himself his idea wasn’t suicidal.

What he did know with certainty: William Pratt would not have come. William Pratt would have wrung his hands, written at length, then waited in hiding until his mother handled the problem.

Damning evidence in hand, Spike would confront this head on.

He knocked on the door. Robin Wood answered immediately as if he’d been waiting on Spike to call. “I heard about your mum, and I, uh, I have information about her.”

Wood nodded slowly. “Meet me in the back, okay?”

New York in the 1970s had stunk of piss and cheap cigarettes. Between horny business men looking for fun in Times Square and a flood of punks wandering in and out of clubs, it was an easy meal. Not even having a Slayer in town did much to stem the tide of deaths.

Behind Wood’s house stood a dark garage with the door ajar. Spike peeked inside. “‘ello?”

It hadn’t taken Spike long to hunt down New York’s Slayer. Tall and lithe, Nikki moved with the grace and force of a prize fighter, exposing bone with her fists, sending teeth flying into the night. Spike watched her as she killed standard vampires without breaking a sweat. Once she tangled with two members of the Sisterhood of Jhe, throwing one into the other, impaling them at the same time when they were trapped in a dumpster. He was going to enjoy dancing with her.

A sting in his neck. Spike spun on his heels and knocked a shadow back against the garage door frame. Feeling woozy, he raised his fists.

Spike and Nikki had fought in the park a week before, a congenial how-do-you-do sort of fight. When he caught her in the subway, empty but for a few late-night party kids puking their guts out, he knew she was tired and ready to fold. With a smile on his face, he’d snapped her neck.

The door slid closed. Wood chuckled, “Feeling a little sick? My own mix. A little sedative and a little holy water.” The light blazed on, highlighting the cross-covered walls.

Wood, slipping on a pair of brass knuckles, stood between Spike and the door. “Oh, did you think I didn’t know you, Spike? British punk trash. About a hundred and forty. Lately, spotted with the Slayer. Strange since he killed two, including my mother.”

Spike dodged a punch. He may not be a vampire anymore, but he was still oddly quick. “What’s the plan then? Kill me and mummy comes back to you?”

They circled each other. A jab. A weave. The formerly cool principal was practically rippling with rage.

Wood lunged. Spike grabbed his arm and swung him into a table, knocking the air from him.

“She didn’t say anything when I killed her. No begging. No pleading. No final thoughts of you.”

“She died a hero, unlike you,” Wood growled.

“Maybe we died the same,” Spike said, ignoring the threat in Wood’s voice. “Alone, in the dark, running away from people who cared about us. Is that what bothers you most? Mummy’s good and dead because she kept picking us over you.”

Wood shouted, picked up a set of throwing knives, and began to use him for target practice. Thunk! The first blade hit the wall close to Spike’s head.

Thunk!

The sedative was pulling Spike down, his limbs rubber, his vision blurry. He twisted trying to dodge the knives, but one grazed his side, another cut into his arm.

Thunk! Thunk!

Once the knives were all stuck in the wall behind him, Spike dove at the principal’s legs. They rolled on the ground, trading punches. Spike jabbed Wood with his elbow and landed a cracking blow to his ribs.

“Show me your real face!” Wood screamed, rolling on top of Spike, hitting him over and over. Spike could feel his flesh tearing, the blood spilling out as vengeance pummeled his face and body.

Using every bit of strength the drugs had left him, Spike pushed Wood off and grabbed a cross from the wall.

Nothing happened.

Wood stared, dumbfounded. “But the Watcher’s diaries --”

“Were right,” Spike said, pointing to a plastic grocery bag he’d dropped by the door. “I killed your mum. Came here to apologize. But then you were a twat so I didn’t.”

Holding his breath and with his eyes still on Spike, Wood knelt down to open the bag. Inside was a long leather coat. His mother’s coat.

The garage door slid open. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” yelled Buffy.

The principal, bleeding from a cut above his eye, rose and glared at Buffy. “This doesn’t involve you, Slayer.”

“You beat up one of my friends, you bet it involves me,” she said through gritted teeth.

Wood snorted, eyeing Spike with disgust as he slowly found his footing. “Friend? Do you even know what he is?”

“The vampire part or the killed your mom part? Yeah, I figured it out.”

Eyeing Spike with a little more curiosity than loathing, Wood asked, “Is he a vampire?”

“Was,” Spike said, trying and failing to stand. “You missed filling your life-long vengeance quest by about two days.”

“There’s -- there’s a cure?” Wood asked quietly.

“Only for very good boys.” Spike spit blood and grinned.

“Are you listening? Because I want to know if you can follow the simplest of instructions.” Buffy asked, her arms crossed and eyes blazing with fury. “ But here’s the thing, Robin, even if Spike were still a monster, he’d still be more of a man than you.”

Wood’s jaw flexed, his eyes dark and cold. “You don’t--”

“Did I say you could talk? If you come around me and mine again, I recommend crawling on your hands and knees.” Buffy helped Spike up and lead him outside.

“What were you thinking coming here?” she asked, shifting to support more of his weight.

The cold air sucked at the sweat and blood coating Spike’s skin sending a quick shiver through him. “You really think I’m a man now?”

“Well, Jeffrey Dahmer was a man, so the bar is low.” Buffy stopped and gazed at him. The moonlight glistened in her eyes as she gently touched the bruises on his face. “Do you think you’re not?”

“Thought making amends would be a good first step.” He held his breath while he took in the angles of her nose, her large sad eyes, the fluttering kiss of her fingers.

“You tried to kill me,” she said softly. “Then you helped me save the world. And now look at you with your soul without your demon. You’ve survived more and grown more than most men could dream.”

She shook her head sharply, the trance broken, and continued walking him down the block. “We need to get you patched up. Infections are totally a thing.”

He still craved her touch. “‘ow’d you know where I was?”

“Sam thought you were acting weird. I followed you.”

Spike hoped they weren’t walking far. As the fight drained out of him, the pain grew, his head throbbing, knuckles aching, one ankle sharp. “What do you think’s out there for an ex-vampire? Side show freakery?”

“You know what I want for you?” she asked. “I want you to find someone who could just know William Pratt, the man who has sacrificed himself for love over and over. Sometimes stupidly. Sometimes selfishly. Often perfectly.”

“You a fan of Pratt, then?”

Buffy shook her head. “Not for me, William. Be that man for her, whoever she is.”

With the stomach-churning taste of blood on his tongue, he chuckled. “You think love is in the cards for me?”

She half-smiled. “You’ve been a vampire, captured by the government, and been to Hell. I think you’re due for something good.”

They turned the corner where Dean was waiting in the freshly repaired Impala. Spike sighed but said nothing.

Buffy still picked up on his let-down. “You smell like a vampire Happy Meal. Probably better we don’t walk through town. You can crash at Dean’s. We don’t need the the girls knowing their principal beat up Crazy Basement Guy.”

“Is that what they call me?”

“Also Mystery Guy and Andrew’s Roommate.”

Spike slapped his hand over his heart in mock horror and climbed in the backseat of the Impala.

Read Giles’ dossiers on: Lili Alma Dani Vi Cloé Molly Lys Grace Wook Keisha Leticia Naomi Kate Gabi Jabulela

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#spn x btvs #buffy x dean #buffy supernatural crossover #spn fanfic #btvs fanfiction #btvs series #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester #buffy summers #spike #robin wood #sam winchester #potential slayers #andrew wells #buffy fan fiction #dean x buffy #btvs x spn #hunters on the hellmouth #huntersonthehellmouth

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auskultu · 7 years ago

Text

The Bloodless Battle of the Badge: The Press at Monterey Pop

Derek Taylor, World Countdown News, July 1967

THE CLEAN YOUNG man at the window said he was from the Los Angeles Times and there was nothing in his face to say he wasn’t, except that we know he wasn’t because if he had been, Pete Johnson (who was) would have said there was someone else who was as well. Pete Johnson tells you when he is going to tie his shoelace or comb his hair and he wouldn’t have forgotten to mention another LA Times man.

The man at the window said he needed a press badge and he’d heard that I’m the man for press badges. Well, I wast he man for press badges but was he the man who needed a badge, we asked ourselves and then him. Credentials? We asked from the badge side of the window and from the badgeless side he said: Gee it was lousy but he’d left everything back in the motel.

It was the Monterey International Pop Festival, and in the badge room we were paying the fees for triumph. There were 60,000 people in and out of the fair and fervent festival of music, love and flowers and it seemed 1000 of them were journalists. At any rate, in the open-badgehanded first two days we’d issued 1000 press badges—all purple.

Unfortunately, the accommodation in the press section in the concert arena was built for 250 people in faint discomfort, for 400 at a crush, for 600 in civilian prison conditions, for 800 in boot-camp circumstances, and for 1000 only in Buchenwald terms.

On Sunday, the third day, I made the most melancholy announcement of the joyous weekend over the speaker system: “The line it is drawn, the curse it is cast. The purple press badge is now invalid. Come to the press room for your new badge.”

The line it was drawn all right, and the line it was formed anew with purple holders waiting to be re-validated with a new emblem of access—Green.

The man from the Los Angeles Times reconstructed the lines on his face to a freshly sincere mask and we said: “Ask your city desk to call and it will be OK.” “How do I get them to call,” he asked and we said, “call them,” “Oh,” he said, and vanished.

“Game and Gossip–two passes” said the next purple badge, and it was a lady, tall and less than warm. Carol Cole, actress daughter of irreplaceable Nat, was a volunteer in the badge room. She said there was only one badge under the new situation. Game and Gossip said two and we said one. One, two, one, two, one, two.

“I am Game and Gossip,” said the lady. One we said. “Then call Mr. Michaud and he will instruct you,” she said. “No time,” we said. “Well, you will speak to Mr. SMB Morse,” she said. “We never,” we said, “speak to Mr. SMB. It is a rule of the house.” “Then give me your name,” she said. “Taylor” I said, and gave her a badge. Green. One.

“Photog,” said the next man who had many curls. Credentials? “Yeah,” he said, lumping out a wallet which contained a two-inch square copy of a covergirl picture form a magazine. “Not enough,” we said. “Well my name’s Btante” he said “Richard?” “No. He’s my uncle.” A young uncle, we observed and he commented that it was not our business to compare the ages of relatives, True. Any other credentials apart from an unsubstantiated last name and an uncredited picture from a magazine? “Yes,” he said and pulled out a driving ticket. “our man is there,” we said, pointing to a passing highway patrolman. The man ducked and said, “There’s a warrant for me,” and dropped his wallet. Two obscene pictures fell out and we didn’t see him again but twice when he again announced: “Blank” and asked for his dirty pictures back.

The clean young man from the Los Angeles Times returned. The city desk isn’t answering, he said. “Really? Well, can’t Jim Grunt, Brian Taylor, Anatole France, Beverly Bland, Bill Johnson, Jack Hartkey, can’t any of them verify you?” “Will any of them do?” “Yes,” we said. “Except that we’ve just made all of them up. They don’t exist.” “I thought I didn’t know them,” he said. “Right,” he smiled. “You’re a phony but it was worth the try.” “Right,” he smiled and left.

A wire service was next. Crew-cutted, toadskinned, veteran of countless murders, untold fires limitless acts of violence, one too many wars. “Working press,” he said wearily, looking at our psychedelics, our buttons, bows, balls and scarves like Alice throughout the Looking-glass. “When did it cease being a pleasure,” we asked. “A long time ago buddy,” said the wire service re-folding a yard of credentials. “You can weed out this gang. There’s not a working press among them.” You don’t say.

“Pool News,” said a nervous mouth in a young and grubby face. “What’s Pool News?” we asked and the mouth growing paler said: “A rock’n’roll magazine. It’s sold all over the world.” Why was it called Pool News if it was about rock’n’roll? “Why is Time magazine called Time,” she responded not without anger. “Because that’s what it’s about,” we said. “No pass. Sorry.” “Schmuck,” said Pool News and meant it.

Richard DiLello, hippie holder of two purple badges, no credentials, no money, came to the window with UPI, the Village Voice and a photographer from Time Magazine who had been thrown out of the arena the night before.

“Sorry, Richard,” we said “Badges are rationed.”

He went without complaint. UPI unrolled the plastic.

“Ok?” he said. “Need any more?” “Working press,” he added, as by rote. “When did it cease being a pleasure?” No reply.

The Village Voice said could it come in and speak? Of course. Time Magazine was still angry and wanted to know what I had meant the night before when I said his problem was trivial in relation to the overall success of the festival. I said that what I’d meant was that his problem was trivial to the overall success of the festival and he said he could see how that was one way of looking at it. Very generous I thought and apologized for appearing rude. Appearing? A disc jockey called something like Jolly Jack the Jock poked his head in and said he was Jolly Jack the Jock. Any proof of that claim?” we wondered and he heaved out a wad of gold visiting cards which made no bones about who he was. JOLLY JACK THE JOCK. Anything else? Oh well, of course. A grubby yellowing clipping of a TV show he’d compered featuring the Tijuana Brass and other stars. “A lousy scam,” we said. “Deluding viewers into thinking they’re going to see Herbie Alpert? “How’s that,” be said and we said, “How’s what?” Badge please. Next please? Lou Adler, festival director was on the phone. I’m sending up Blank Blank. He’s blank blank and he doesn’t get a pass. Right? Right. Yoram Kahana came to the window, showed his credentials which said he was Yoram Kahana. He looked like Yoram Kahana and he sounded like Yoram Kahana and I said Hi Yoram and gave him the badge for Yoram Kahana. Blank Blank was suddenly in the room.

“Lou sent me for a press badge.” “Are you the press?” yes. Who for? “Just press.” The entire fourth estate? No Games. A badge please. Why? Because I want one. Is that an equation? You want, you get? I am a press agent. That doesn’t give you a press badge. I want one. You’re not having one. What can I have? Nothing. Am I nothing then? Create and preserve the image of your choice.

Blank Blank said he would “get us” and we said that was his choice. Thank you. A recurrent nightmare home on the window from the old days of the Beatles American tours. Help, one screamed inwardly. Can I have a press badge? No. Never ever ever never ever No. God save me.

The window darkened with a flurry of hair and bearded and beaded literate hippies from Haight Ashbury and Sunset Strip. The LA Oracle, the Berkeley Barb, the San Francisco Oracle, the Los Angeles Free Press.

Two for each paper, we said. Now man, said the underground press. We’re your friends. We’re all on the same side. Well, that’s true. But two each. Take their names Carol.

The Haight Ashbury paper said only two? Well yes. But there are three of us. Well, if Haight Ashbury doesn’t know how to share two badges between three people then Haight hasn’t yet come to terms with Ashbury. “Fair” said Haight Ashbury and it was.

Woman’s Wear Daily were next, and the Boston Globe. OK. Then the LA Oracle reappeared with three new faces and the Free Press had a fresh countenance. Your friends have your tickets we said. Two per paper. That’s not right they said and it was and it wasn’t depending on who had the badges.

ABC TV news wanted to know why they couldn’t film in the arena. So did NBC news. And so too did CBS news. Likewise KSBW TV and KPIX TV. ABC News said they didn’t care one way or the other but what was going down?

We explained that the ABC network had paid nearly half a million dollars for the right exclusively to film the festival for an hour-long color TV special upcoming this autumn (watch for news in this friends) and the newsman said a high-up at ABC had told a high-up on ABC News it would be OK and I said well it isn’t OK. OK, we said, we’ll pull out. I didn’t want to come anyway. OK, we said.

Mac Bowe was at the window. Working press he said, folding his face and unfolding his credentials. Are you the Mac Bowe who said it was a marijuana festival? Why, he said, does that mean I don’t get a badge? Oh no, we said, but come in for a chat. Mac Bowe came in and said he had discovered some very obscene buttons. What? He said, do you think of a button stating “Reagan eats it”? I don’t know what it means, I said. Well, he said. All this drugs and LSD. It’s wrong. What LSD we said. I don’t need it he said three times. No, we said, you don’t need it. Poor Mac, he spent the entire festival spotting dirty buttons, ferreting out lewd newspapers, sniffing around for pot and when, finally, the festival had totally succeeded, he followed through as he had begun with the conclusion; “No more pop festivals for Monterey.” As he said: “I’m not here for fun.”

Came Glenys Roberts to the window for the London Evening News. I’d met her at the crowded Press gate to the arena the night before when her dilemma was that she had to pass a camera into the arena and visit the ladies restroom outside at one and the same time. I think the restroom won. She wanted a badge at the window at the window and she was given one.

KRLA Radio arrived for eight badges. Seven they had names for; the eighth was for someone Jim Stack their spokesman couldn’t remember. “Your girlfriend maybe, Jim?” Well maybe, that is, er well not exactly. Seven badges, Carol, for KRLA. One for Jim Stack’s girlfriend. Blush thanks.

A cloaked photographer, high as high as high as and on the very best grass smiled an eternal blessing and was instantly awarded badge of the month. He, being unable to talk, smiled a thanks and returned minutes later with a girl similarly loaded. “Isn’t she beautiful. Just beautiful? “Yes.” A badge for her. Green. As grass.

It was Earl Leaf at the window. Dear old Earl, whose journalistic span in California stretches from coverage of early Marilyn to late Jefferson Airplane. Childless Earl who travels with a couple of “daughters”. Two, Earl, we said, without confidence. Three, he said. Three, Earl.

“I’m a friend of David Anderle of MGM,” said another badgeless face. Anderle left MGM eighteen months ago, we said and what d’ya know said the face. He never told me. Go and ask him why, we said. It was very neglectful of him. David Wheeler sent us, said two lovely blondes who hadn’t read a newspaper in years let alone written for one. Send us David Wheeler, we said and they cursed.

Are the Beatles here, asked the San Francisco Examiner. No, we said, later saying yes when the question re-arose, yes being a more acceptable answer than no in most circumstances. Yes the Beatles are here, disguised as hippies. A cheerful rumour which resulted in an additional 1000 people in the arena that night.

Badge please, said AP, “Working press.” Is it no longer a pleasure? You’re kidding. Sorry.

“I’ve walked from Coventry,” said a man who had walked no further than a mile, Coventry being 7,000 miles away across two oceans or one Pole. Give him a badge.

KDON Radio… they came to the windows and something happened. Something. We know not what except that the faces that had smiled Hi on Friday on Sunday said Wow man. We’ll get you. We’ll stop you ever coming back here. “Go away and harm us,” we said. “Create and preserve the image of your choice. Damage us if that is your choice.”

And to the best of their curtailed ability they did, the very next day on the licensed air. “Drugs, uncontrollable crowds, too much, too much,” they broadcast. “Keep away from our peninsula.” Was this the KDON who had promoted the festival on the air for ten weeks? No. it was a new KDON, creating a new image, preserving nothing.

Look Magazine came to the window and went with badge. So did Flip, Soul, Tiger Beat, Hit Parader and Teen Scoop, bedrock of the fanmags—commenting later on our press list Time’s man asked where the validity of these people lay, where does Time stand, the fanmags asked in their turn and the Underground press said WE are your real friends and the wire services and the leather-faced said we are the working press and when Gypsy Boots—extraordinarily described as the Unpredictable Gypsy Boots in a recent radio interview—appeared in beard and barehairlylegged tennis shoes, teashirt marked in massive Pentel “Gypsy Boots” horticultural adviser to KRLA, complained that having lost his pass he was having difficulties, we said: “you should make yourself conspicuous, get an identity, Mr. Boots, or may we erroneously call you Gypsy?”

There was a man from KHJ who said he and San Riddle produced “Boss City” together which he seemed to think was a very significant as well it might have been if it had been true. He had one badge and wanted another for his assistant who was fifteen. He left the window badgeless with a two-lettered flea in his ear. “No.”

Monterey Peninsula Herald wegaveyouanicereview, said Sandi Langs who had. “Badges not predicated on favorable reviews,” we said. “Only on credentials.” “I have them. I have them,” she said. “We know,” we said. “Here are the badges and here, separately are our thanks.”

Music Love and Flowers, said the bumper-sticker.

David Wheeler sent us, said another blonde. Gypsy Boots said it would be OK, said a pair of earrings. We’ll do you in, said Teenscam.

The window saw 1000 people that last day of the festival. At dusk, as the Mamas and Papas—whose John Phillips had, with their producer Lou Adler, mounted the most successful multiple event in the history of pop (newly claiming recognition as an art history of pop (newly claiming recognition as an art form) music—as this group of groups prepared for the final concert, at dusk we placed on the window a notice which read: “We thank the Press and Radio for their selfless interest in this festival of music and people and regret that there are no more pieces of paper for them.”

We walked the Time and Life men to the arena and gave them special places in the wings; we crushed a final grabbing arm in the lowered window, we said goodnight and goodbye to the window itself and it was amaziang and wonderful to know that beyond the badges, far from the pass-system, over and above the demands, there was a festival.

It happened in Monterey and it mightn’t have done.

#monterey pop festival #Derek taylor #press #magazines #journalism #festival #rock festival #concert #live music #counterculture #summer of love #hippies #1967 #1960s #sixties #60s

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backofthebookshelf · 8 years ago

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More Magnus Archive re-listening

More thoughts!

Burned Out - I’m torn on whether the apparition Lensik sees in the house causes burning because Raymond Fielding died in a fire, or because it’s somehow connected to the what I’m referring to as the Fire Nation faction (see also: First Aid, Burnt Offering). Lensik’s father absolutely did not have schizophrenia, schizophrenia does not come on that way. I’ve seen people suggesting that the fractals and whoever’s bones are in his hands is connected to Michael, but that seems too easy to me. (”The bones are in his hands” sounds more like a connection to The Boneturner’s Tale, anyway.) Also, I am a giant nerd and the fact that this house is in Cowley amuses me beyond all belief and yes, someday there will be a Morse crossover.

A Father’s Love - honestly, this is the most detail we get about any of the factions so far. There’s the mother with her hand-and-closed-eye pendant, and “Detective” (almost certainly Maxwell) Rainer, and the People’s Church of the Divine Host on the one side; and the creeping darkness, heralded by brackish water in the taps, on the other. What cutting people’s hearts out has to do with any of this is beyond me. I am 1000% sure that there is a connection between Maxwell Rainer and Joseph Rainer, who died in a trench when Wilfrid Owen survived.

Vampire Killer - Honestly, Trevor is so damn cool that I’m willing to bet he never crops up again. What I do think is relevant out of this one is that the statement was supposed to be accompanied by six teeth, which have disappeared, and that Jonathan is reading off of a copy of a copy of a file that’s also listed among multiple requests “from the Institute’s government and law enforcement contracts.” Contracts or contacts? I’m not absolutely positive, but I think it’s contracts. Which is interesting.

Dreamer - So yeah, “Antonio Blake” dreams Gertrude Robinson’s probably horrible death on March 12, on March 14 he gives a statement, on March 15 she’s dead. Jonathan is understandably shaken; he asks Tim to look into it, as the one who’s least likely to have done it as a practical joke, which seems odd. First mention of Rosie here, as someone who handles distribution of statements. (I wish I knew what her job was.) The Institute is located in Vauxhall, near the Embankment; someone who knows London want to tell us if that means anything?

First Aid - This one is definitely scarier the second time around. Gerard Keay returns, suffering full-body second-degree burns except around the small tattoos of eyes on each of his joints. Swain didn’t mention these tattoos in “Page Turner,” although the events here are about a year before that episode. Maybe he just didn’t see them. Keay had a Zippo lighter with an eye design, same as his tattoos, and a well-stamped passport, and asked after a bronze pendant (point of interest: the pendant in “A Father’s Love” is silver) and a small book bound in red leather. And he tells the nurse, “For you, better beholding than the Lightless Flame.” Whatever that means. He was released into his mother’s care, some three years after her death.

Most interesting of all, perhaps, is that the nurse reported a strong feeling of being watched, not maliciously, during the incident and since. Is Jonathan being watched by the Beholders? (I’m becoming more convinced that the closed eye/open eye isn’t two different factions but two levels of the same faction: the bronze versus silver pendant would seem to support that.)

Martin apparently knows some Polish; is he connected with Another Circus? (It’s a stretch, but hey.) Gerard Keay died of a brain tumor in late 2015. Sure he did.

Alone - “I see why no one takes you guys seriously,” Naomi Hearne says. Just how shitty is Jonathan’s office? Evan Lukas worked for UCL Biochem and split from his family because they were “very religious” and he wasn’t; their family seems to blame Naomi for his death. (Which was definitely not a congenital heart problem.) I’m honestly not sure what else might be relevant out of this, other than the Lukas family, obviously. Possibly of interest: Evan died on March 22nd of 2015, just a few days after Gertrude.

Piecemeal - I would be very interested to know if Lee Rentoul’s mate Hester’s statement had to be recorded on tape. I’m also intrigued about Toby McMullen and just what his relationship is with the genuinely supernatural world. First appearance of Salesa, the Samoan antiquities dealer; whatever deal he was trying to make with Noriega didn’t come off, so I’d love to know what that’s about. I’d also love to know what “Rentoul became violent toward Institute staff” means, and if his experience with Angela gave him any particular insight toward Gertrude.

Lost Johns Cave - Honestly I think this is a one-off with nothing more broadly relevant than some character bits. Sasha apparently knows enough about caving to read the reported route and have an opinion on it; Martin’s claustrophobic; Tim got a copy of the footage from her camera, “best not to ask how.” Which might be a reference to him flirting with anyone and everyone, but might not.

Arachnophobia - I mean, somehow the first time through I missed the fact that the reason Vittery started seeing more spiders in his apartment was because his building had an infestation of “small, silvery worms”? This was in Archway, which is where Jane Prentiss attacked Harriet Lee, but still. Anyway, this is the Philip K. Dick Spiders episode. I kind of love how fast the cat nopes out of there. What Do The Spiders Want?

The Bone Turner’s Tale - Michael Crewe was probably the person who returned the book to the library! I mean, yes, I’ve seen people talking about it since, but. Michael Crewe is becoming very interesting. There’s also a line in the book about a bone flute - a connection to the Piper? This is the episode where Elias interrupts the recording to scold Jonathan for being mean to Naomi Hearne and to tell him to lay off the Lukas family; Jonathan complains about Rosie not keeping her equipment in order (which is hardly fair, he knows perfectly well why he needs to use a tape recorder). Jonathan is Deeply Unhappy about running across yet another Leitner he hadn’t heard of (yes, with capitals and everything) - “I believe every word. I’ve seen what Leitner’s work can do.” Which, all things considered, is pretty strong stuff coming from Jonathan Sims. I wonder if it was a run-in with a Leitner that got him working for the Institute in the first place? I deeply respect Sebastian Adekoya for realizing when he didn’t want to know any more and refusing to pursue it.

The Man Upstairs - Was he building a person out of meat? Was something re-building him out of meat? (Carlisle died of gangrene, according to official reports.) How many eyes did the meat-pile have? I feel like this is something that does not understand how meat works. Humans are made of it, maybe it goes on walls? Ugh, the more I think about it the worse it gets. I can’t think of any connections, though.

#the magnus archives #re-listening for details

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sadmudzines · 5 years ago

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EEL IN THE BATHROOM - PART TWO

(Featured in The Salmons Vol 1)

Earle opens his eyes.

DR EEL: Predictably sad when fucking? Or assumingly awkward?

Earle sighs.

EARLE: Did you have my stuff?

Dr Eel’s facial features twist into a smirk.

EARLE: You said I could have my stuff, the bits-

DR EEL: Patience-

EARLE: Look, I’m the one with legs here-

DR EEL: Legs which I could bend like soggy bread sticks-

EARLE: Please?

Dr Eel tuts. He gestures to the cotton wool pot on the side.

DR EEL: In there.

Earle lurches towards the pot. He throws the cotton balls out one by one, searching for his fix. Eventually, he finds a small baggie of white powder. He pours the bag onto the tiles and without straightening into a line he snorts it in one.

Dr Eel flicks his tail in the water like a clap of appreciation.

Earle slumps on top of the toilet seat. A warm smile forming across his face.

Earle often thought about that moment as the white stuff went up his nostril and hit his brain. He liked to think of it on its way around, like a speeding caterpillar. It was cuter that way, thinking of it as a smiling bug rather than rat killer or an ingredient in tooth paste banned for human consumption. That thing earlier –what you don’t see is more frightening than what you do - Earle’s method was to slap a smiley face on it, cover it in glitter. He then always moved onto the mantra out of mind and out of sight, when it’s done it’s done, when the bag’s finished its finished. But it rarely worked like that. There was always going to be more hours in the day until the day there’s none. He felt a tension in these moments after. The tension between night and day, the tension between good or bad. Though he wanted to be good, the night always won; the strain pulled tighter to the inevitable.

INT. BATHROOM, OCEAN VIEW HOTEL – NIGHT

A dozing Earle snaps awake.

EARLE: Do you have any more?

DR EEL: You’re just a City Boy Cunt Fuck under that Dumb Stoner Cunt Fuck skin of yours, aren’t you?

EARLE: I’m not a Cunt Fuck.

DR EEL: You are, Cunt Fuck.

EARLE: Whatever, have you got-

DR EEL: Scratch my back and I’ll scratch-

Earle squints his eyes and leans in to stroke Dr Eel’s back.

DR EEL: That’s exactly why you’re a Cunt Fuck! I didn’t mean literally…

EARLE: I doubt Shep has more Fanta… Those cans were dusty…

DR EEL: I need friends, Earle. Friends like me.

Earle stares blankly back.

DR EEL: Eels, Earle!

EARLE: Can’t you just call down the plug hole?

DR EEL: Fresh fishy ones, Earle.

EARLE: I think my dad has some fish fingers in the freezer, I-

DR EEL: Eels or nothing.

Earle turns to the window where the rain and wind lashes onto the outside pane. It’s stormy out there.

EARLE: Maybe I don’t need more.

Earle wets his finger and dabs the remnants of the drugs from the side. He sucks his fingers. He repeats the action, this time more desperate.

Earle tries to shake of Dr Eel’s smug look. Ignoring him as he licks the last of the drugs straight off of the counter.

EARLE: How many eels?

DR EEL: A bushel.

EARLE: Tell me, how many?

Dr Eel enjoys watching Earle falter. Earle pines for his next hit. His forehead sweats.

DR EEL: Four.

Determined, Earle storms from the room.

Dr Eel cackles triumphantly as much as an eel can cackle.

A layer of dewy sweat spread across Earle’s forehead. His jaw tight. His palms wet. His heart punching.

EXT. SEA FRONT – NIGHT

The rain pounds down. Crashing waves bully the land. Lightning awakens the purple and black sky.

Earle leans forward into the lashing wind, dangerously close to the swirling water. The fishing rod line he’s holding onto – knuckles white - is nearly lost to the storm.

INT. BATHROOM, OCEAN VIEW HOTEL – NIGHT

Earle grimaces as he pours a bucket into the bathtub. Three baby eels slop into the water. Dr Eel writhes amongst them. The silky, silver eels clamber over one another.

Earle leaps to the cotton wool jar. He scrambles through the remaining cotton wool but is confused not to find his stash.

EARLE: Where is it? My bones are damp. Where’s the stuff?

DR EEL: I asked for four, but there’s only three.

Dr Eel gyrates amongst the eels.

EARLE: Have you seen it out there? I was practically swimming-

Dr Eel hisses as if kissing non-existent teeth.

EARLE: These are all there are, unless you want a handful of cockles. Or some two-bit dead gangsters who’ve drifted down from London…

Dr Eel ponders.

EARLE: Please can I have more?

DR EEL: I’ve decided I want something else.

EARLE: That’s not fair, I-

DR EEL: I’m not the bargaining kind of fish.

Earle sighs, knowing he has no choice. Dr Eel smiles at Earle’s obedient silence.

DR EEL: I want a human.

EARLE: What for?

DR EEL: What do you need tiny bags of white powder for?

EARLE: Hmm… I’m maybe missing something from my life. Mum always said I had an overbearing personality, that I was a difficult kid and-

DR EEL: I’m not your therapist, Earle. Human. Now. Go.

EARLE: How am I meant to get someone here? What am I meant to say?

DR EEL: How much do you want it?

Earle was getting tired, the coke was wearing off, he didn’t think he wanted more but Dr Eel was persuasive. Just one more job, then one more line then the night will be over. He tried to fight the feeling the party had become the chore. He thought about falling asleep to Inspector Morse, he thought about the takeaway he’d have the next day as if that had been the end goal throughout all of this. A reward, a relaxer before Monday morning hit and it was just another set of days, set of jobs, set of feelings, set of meals before he could do it all again.

Sugar-On-Sea wasn’t full of people, they existed on their own apart from certain hours in the day where they’d have to speak to other humans – for necessity over appearance. It was probably harder getting a stranger to Earle’s house than catching four eels in a storm. He could have given up then and gone to bed, but he didn’t want to disappoint Dr Eel. That’s what he told himself: Dr Eel would be very disappointed in him.

In the dead of night, there was only one person he could think of that would be awake: Marge. He went to school with Marge, kids thought he smelt like butter but Earle always thought of it as buttery onions. Greasy, buttery onions. He never liked hanging around with Marge; it would always make him hungry. He’d think of those orange hot dogs with the bursting skin, doughy rolls, sharp tomato ketchup and sloppy and sweet, greasy and buttery onions… Even thinking about Marge made him hungry but he slapped himself. This wasn’t the time for hot dogs.

Marge worked the night shift at the toll bridge. That little booth was his kingdom he ruled like a king, opening and closing the moat to those he decided were worthy. And by worthy, that meant big breasted or cash-rich. It’s why the natives of Sugar-On-Sea rarely left, why they only travelled in daylight. They were never well endowed or money-crazed enough to pass Marge’s shallow standards. Earle thought it was laughable that the monster who scared the townspeople, who commanded how and when they journeyed with as heavier hand as the fiercest dictator was a flour-filled council worker called Marge.

Earle cycled to Marge’s booth in the rain. He could smell the onions from the other side of the bridge. His stomach grumbled. He thought the portable heater Marge used in the winter must be on full blast; it cooked his scent, intensified it. Marge refused to raise the barrier, as predicted, so Earle had to do an awkward shuffle to his window under the stop sign. Marge was listening to krautrock; another fucking unbearable thing about Marge. Marge nearly slid the booth’s window shut before Earle had the chance to speak but Earle blocked it with his torch. He caught Marge rolling his eyes. He had no use for Earle; what could Earle give him that he didn’t have already in his booth. He knew Earle had no tits and no money. Speaking through the thin gap of the window, Earle asked what time Marge was clocking off – did he want to hang? Marge’s breath made wet steam on the glass as he said he was here until morning.

It was his duty to stay here until the sun broke the sky. Earle persisted; he’s got Inspector Morse and Pringles. He lied about the Pringles but reckoned by the time Marge came back and saw Dr Eel he’d hardly be hungry for Pringles. If he was hungry then he could always lick the salt from some old pretzels Mrs Salmon kept at the back of the cupboard for emergencies like these. It was obvious Marge was weirded out by Earle’s visit; his nose twitched suspiciously. He wanted him gone. Isn’t he lonely, said Earle. Marge snorted; some people don’t get lonely. Not being lonely isn’t a symptom of having friends, those with friends can be lonely too. Other people annoy him, demand things from him they don’t give themselves. Why would he want to be around people who give him nothing, but take? Inwardly, Earle agreed with Marge but the way he said it in his snotty voice meant Marge just came across like a fucking bore. Marge went on in his rant carried away on the winds of his own depressing imagination until an exasperated Earle blurted out: is he okay? Is Marge doing okay? Dumbstruck, Marge’s mouth immediately closed. It tightened every now and again at the corners, it wobbled. Earle was confused – he thought to himself, is Marge about to fucking cry? Is that a fucking tear? A trickle escaped from Marge’s eye, it sucked in the white light of the booth and shone bright. Marge was silent and swallowed his Adam’s apple to squash any guttural sobbing which could have escaped from his tiny mouth. Is that or no or a yes, Earle followed up but Marge could only mutter no-one’s ever asked how he was before. They shouted and threw things like cabbages and McDonald’s at his booth… But never stopped to ask how he was, how he truly was, how he felt. Earle was about to correct him and tell him it was a yes or no question but he didn’t think it was right to stop a man from crying. He saw it so rarely that sometimes he felt it never existed, that it wasn’t possible for a man to cry. He himself had never cried, for example, but he was savvy enough to know just because it has never happened to him doesn’t mean it’s impossible. Like, he’s never surfed or been in love but he was pretty sure it existed. Marge surprised Earle and agreed to come with him, it would only be a few hours before the sun rose anyway. This was a special day. A beautiful day. A day Marge thought could change everything. Maybe he didn’t have to be on his own, maybe he could share himself, piece-by-piece; his soul weakened like squash but easier to drink in social situations.

It was if a rock had been lifted from his shoulders, he went with Earle with little force. Marge was happy, despite Earle’s grouchiness. He reckoned he liked Marge more when he was a fucking dick but he thought about Dr Eel and what Dr Eel wanted. Dr Eel would like to meet Marge, and he’s sure Marge would be interested to see the pulsating serpent in his bathroom… Though he wouldn’t say that out loud, Marge was weird but he knew that sounded like a creepy invitation.

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