The story so far...

Yorrick, that five year old, suspiciously stained vest sired by Rupert Giles, has been looking 'round New Zealand in a vain attempt to find, and exact revenge upon, the person responsible for the destruction of Sunnydale High and subsequent death of the aforementioned Giles.  William the Bloody AKA Spike, has been singing bad punk whilst pretending to aid him.  Hercules, Xena, Aeolus and Gabrielle have appeared, annoyed us, and been abandoned.  Yorrick had a girlfriend but had to leave her behind.  Mulder and Scully have just entered the plot.  Now on with the story...


Giles, bloodied and hurting, collapsed into the sofa.  "What'll it be, Mac?" asked the waiter.
   "A mug of hot chocolate, please."
   "Sure thing, Mac.  Anything else?"
   "Do you have any Pringles?"
   "What's a Pringle?"
   "Nooooooooooooooo!!!" screamed Giles, jumping up from his rest and running outside.
   "What was his problem?" asked a huge Salt and Vinegar Pringle walking out from the men's room.
   "No idea, Mac.  Another glass of milk?"
   "Please."


Giles ran for a whole minute before collapsing in the street.  Some passers by considerately kicked him into a corner.  He didn't care.
   This was the seven hundred and thirty fourth world Giles had been to since that fateful explosion two years ago.
   In the beginning he'd been obsessed with trying to get back to his 'real' world.  After a few series of that he'd decided to try and help those he came in contact with.  After another couple series this too got very stale.  He only ever had a few days on a world, never more than a week, and he never knew when the Purple Pelican would appear to carry him to the next.
   Meaningful relationships were impossible for him.  In the beginning he'd tried, before he knew he'd never be able to stay, and those memories still pained him.  Occasionally he'd meet a woman who he thought he knew, who he remembered from another world, and she'd have no idea who he was.  Or he'd be innocently walking along, just trying to remain inconspicuous for however long it was before he could move on to the next world, and some crazed drugged up Scouser would rush up to him and drag him down into a hell of intrigue and pain, a life he thought he'd left behind him when he left England...  and he'd start to enjoy himself...  and then he'd be gone.
   After a year Giles snapped.  He was a man without history.  Or a man with the wrong history.  Nothing he did mattered, no-one he met knew him, and if they did it wasn't really him...  So why bother?
   After a year Giles decided that there was only one thing that mattered.
   Pringles.
   He'd really enjoyed those potato snacks during his time in Sunnydale.  And he hadn't eaten any in a long time, what with trying to evade gangsters and dinosaurs and female versions of himself...
   So after a year he had gone into a shop and looked for a pack of Pringles.  After several minutes of fruitless searching he had asked a cashier.  She hadn't known what a Pringle was.
   This did not upset Giles unduly.  After all, he had come across worlds without oxygen before.  A world without Pringles wasn't too hard to imagine.
   But the next world hadn't had any either.  Or the one after that.  Or the one after that.  And over three hundred and fifty worlds later he had still not found a single Pringle.  Oh, he'd found imitations.  But none of them had been right.  They'd all been slightly off.  None had been what he had wanted.
   So, after two years, Giles was completely insane.  He'd given up all hope of returning home, of living a real life, and continued travelling from world to world in the beak of that great big Purple Pelican.


Yorrick had ditched Spike in the last town.  The English punk rock lyrics, never much good in the first place, had taken on a new level of despair for Yorrick.  He was still no closer to finding the person responsible for the death of his beloved sire.  He'd lost the first vest he'd had a chance to shag outside of Giles' underwear drawer.  He was crusty, soiled and tired.  Just as he was preparing to sleep in a cabbage tree for another night he tripped over a man lying in the street.
   "Watch where you're going, ye bastard...  What the fuck are you?!"
   "I go by the name of Yorrick my good man.  And to whom have I had the pleasure of stumbling into?"
   The man looked worried.  For five and a half years he had played an Irish vampire in a mildly successful TV show called Preacher.  But, just as things had really begun to take off, just as Hollywood had begun calling, the fucker who controlled all the rights had decided to end the thing.  And not even end it well.  So Mitch found himself back on the streets.  He had no savings to speak of and all his so called friends had abandoned him as soon as they realised he was just another out of work actor.  And the worst thing?  The final kick in the gut?  He couldn't get rid of this stinking Irish accent!
   The man looked worried.  A small, oddly stained vest appeared to be talking to him in what could only be described as dulcet tones.  In his time on the show he'd witnessed some pretty whacked out shit.  Something about the producer being someone called Constantine, deals with various lords of hell and other such crap.  He'd ignored it for the most part but had still come to be on speaking terms with more than a few zombies and real life vampires.
   The man looked worried.  A vest was talking to him.  "What the fuck?!"
   "What is your name good sir?"
   Nothing to lose.  "I'm Mitch, Mitch Royce.  You said you were Yorrick?"
   "That I did.  Would you be so kind as to direct me to the nearest cabbage tree, Mitch?"
   "Eh?  This is Montreal, mate!  No cabbage trees here."
   "Damn.  Could you show me the way to the nearest hotel, then?"
   "Um, sure.  Just over the street there.  It used to be the FBI building but they've branched out in order to raise funding."
   "My thanks.  Are you in need of any money?  I can't help but notice your dishevelled appearance..."
   "Nah, nah, I'm fine."
   "You're sure?"
   Nothing to lose.  "Well, I am a bit out of work as it happens...  you wouldn't happen to know of any jobs going at the moment?  A fine, up market vest like yourself?"
   "You are in luck, Mitch.  Follow me."
   Mitch got up and followed Yorrick across the street, up the marble stairs, through the glass doors of the FBI building in New York.  A man and woman with flashlights passed them on the way in.


Giles awoke to find himself in the Purple Pelican's beak again.  He hated it when this happened.  He'd go to sleep expecting, even though he knew better, that he would awake in the same place.  But instead he'd come to flying through the air inside a purple bird's mouth.
   He took the notepad out from his pocket and wrote upon it in pencil:

      DEAR YORRICK

      I'M MOVING AGAIN.  I'VE LOST TRACK OF HOW MANY
      WORLDS I'VE BEEN TO NOW.

      I HAVE YET TO FIND A SINGLE PRINGLE.  PLEASE,
      IF YOU GET THIS, SEND ME SOME.

      YOURS LOVINGLY,
      RUPERT

      XXX

   He ripped the page from the notebook, put the letter in an envelope addressed to YORRICK, DETECTIVE and shoved it down the pelican's throat.  He closed his eyes and tried to sleep the rest of the journey.


Yorrick took out a cigar and lit it.  He was back in his element.  Why had he ever felt doubt?  He was back where he belonged.  Giles?  Mist formed.  Who was Giles?  A half-remembered dream?
   Mitch got taller and darker, broader and more decrepit.  He too knew what was going on.  He was Yorrick's partner.  They were on a mission.  To stamp out crime in these fair streets of their nation's capitol.
   Detectives Yorrick and Royce knocked on Assistant Director Skinner's door.
   "One moment.  Come in."
   "We're back, boss."  Yorrick blew out more smoke, lent back against the closed door.  Royce grinned toothily.
   "Fuck!"  Skinner panicked.  He lunged for his desk, for the gun in his top drawer.
   "Tch.  Show him we're serious, Mitch."
   "Sure thing, Yorrick."  Mitch withdrew a huge, gleaming gun from beneath his jacket.  He put the muzzle to Skinner's head, just as the terrified man got ahold of his own gun.
   "What's the matter, Skinner?"
   "Didn't expect to see us again?"
   "Look, guys, what do you want from me?  Huh?  I'm Assistant Director now!  I can get you anything you want!  Money?  Drugs?  Women?"
   "You disgust me, Skinner.  Does he disgust you too, Mitch?"
   "He sure does, Yorrick.  Shall I?"
   "I think so."
   "No!  Please!  I've got a wif..."
   Pfft.
   "We done here, Mitch?"
   "We're done here, Yorrick."
   "Superb.  Bye."
   Yorrick shot Mitch through the head.  Pfft.  Mitch fell down and didn't get up.
   Detective Yorrick straightened his dark suit, walked out the door, down the well-lit corridor, through the gleaming lobby, reached the main desk.
   "I'd like to stay three nights in your finest suite."
   "Sure thing, Mac.  Your name?  Just sign here.  Thanks.  You got any bags you want taken up?"
   "Just this handkerchief.  Have you got any messages for me?"
   "Sure have, Mac.  One from a Mr Rupert?"
   "Thanks, Bobby.  Any more?"
   "No Mac."
   "Keep it that way."
   "You're the boss."
   "Remember that."


Giles opened his eyes.  He was still inside the pelican's beak, but it was open.  The sun shone in on his face.  He could see outside.  A huge face looked down upon him.  It grinned with its eyes.  Giles breathed in sharply.  "Can it be true?" he asked of no-one.  "Have I finally found Pringles?!"  The moustache continued to grin at him, though it seemed more a smirk.  Giles collapsed, unable to breathe, the joy so great.
   And then the sun was blocked.  The beak began to close above him.  "No!  Let me out!  I've found them!"  He tried to clamber out of the beak but the sides were slick and he fell back down.  How long had he slept there, beneath the Pringles?  He jumped and stretched, trying to grab ahold of the outside.  The beak snapped shut.  He lost a finger.