Giles, minus that finger, had lost the last pretence of sanity:  The search for Pringles.  With his last disappointment of finding then losing his version of the Holy Grail, he had gone un poco loco.  If the joke had not already been done to death, he might have been forced into doing something silly, like wearing women's clothing, but like I say, that joke is as over as shell suits.
   So that was how one balmy evening in yet another unknown North American city, he found himself standing above the freshly mutilated body.  In one hand the librarian held an axe, and in the other a brand new 12-Gauge shotgun.  The fact he was never in one place very long had given him the idea of wanton lawbreaking - and this could pad out an entire series.  Furthermore, a half-remembered quote had made him realise he could "rid the world of all those fevered egos tainting our collective unconscious, and forcing us to pay a higher psychic price."  All the while safe in the knowledge that the Purple Pelican would carry him away from the physical pain of police capture and being locked away with tattooed psychopaths with nothing more than buggery on their minds.  This way, he could enjoy the experience over and over again.
   Giles dropped the axe on the ground and ran a hand over his stubble.  With his new upgrade to action character he had tried to make himself look more macho.  The stubble and change of wardrobe made him, funnily enough, look like an unemployed librarian, but the introduction of body piercings and the fact that he had stopped waxing his legs made him feel just that little bit tougher.  It was a shame that the multiple murders had ruined countless pairs of jeans, but he got a tremendous sense of job satisfaction.  A wave of which swept over him as he looked down proudly at the blood-splattered remains of George Clooney.
   "That was for 'Revenge of the Killer Tomatoes', you bastard."  He told the scattered limbs.  Giles lit a cigarette and poured himself a Jack Daniels in one fluid motion before sinking wearily into a comfortable leather armchair.  A smile of eager anticipation spread across his face as he heard the approaching police sirens.

Detective Yorrick watched the bell boy who had deposited the handkerchief on the lush carpet of the hotel suite leave.  Finally closing the door, Yorrick looked around at his luxurious room.  The bed looked so inviting, but ever-cautious, he forced himself to look around, checking the suite for bugs and video cameras.  Eventually satisfied, he sank onto the edge of the bed before he remembered.  It had been so long since he had slept on a bed, he had almost forgotten about the Under Bed Tongues.  Although harmless to humans, their effect on clothing is almost legendary; ever wondered why you have all those half pairs of socks?  With the last of his energy, Yorrick baited a mousetrap with his fresh, appetising Emergency Sprout, before collapsing face down across the bed.  He had no idea what was going on since Caleb introduced a plot to this tale, but he did know that the burning need for revenge had dimmed, and in the failing light of a rainy evening, he felt himself dropping into the oblivion of the exhausted.

From below the bed came a snuffling sound.  There was the click of a de-baited mousetrap, followed by a squelchy chomp and a satisfied giggle.  And the rest is silence.

Rupert Giles scratched his head, a puzzled frown on his face.  Mindless violence and wanton lawbreaking was just no fun on a world filled with peace-loving druids.  Without television, radio or evil world leaders there had been no fevered egos for him to get rid of.  Out of curiosity he had blasted away a few of these Medieval hippies, but after each attack he was surrounded by hundreds more of the buggers, urging him to get in touch with his inner child or become one with nature.
   Giles had thought about it, and then began pumping rounds into the bearded mystics, all the while screaming "Prepare to die, fuck-sluts!".  He was still shouting and laughing when he realised the shotgun was clicking, empty, and the hairy wonders had run for their lives.  With a sigh, he did the twirly thing with the shotgun (he'd been practising for hours inside the Purple Pelican), and slid it into the holster on his back.  He stood there, regretting leaving his heavy spare ammunition inside the Pelican, but was interrupted from his deliberations by a loud hail from the other side of the cobbled courtyard.
   "Strange one!"
   The former librarian turned, correctly guessing that the speaker had been addressing him.  Across the courtyard stood a druid, apparently unconcerned about the carnage caused by the stranger, but then, this druid was obviously a maverick.  You could tell by one look at his beaded and dread-locked beard.  Also, unlike the pop-psychology toting druids with their wizened hazel staffs, this one carried a four foot cannabis plant.  Intrigued, Giles decided not to kill this guy.  Yet.
   "That's me."  Giles said proudly, smoothing the creases out of his horror B-movie patented blue polyester shirt.
   "You aint gonna find jack-shit in this hood, hombre."  The druid told him, holding up the middle fingers of each hand.
   "Huh?!"  Giles looked puzzled.
   "I'm like a head-trip to listen to, cos I'm only giving you things you joke about with your friends in your living room, only difference is, I got the balls, to say it in front of y'alls."  The druid emphasised his point by grabbing his crotch.
   Giles just looked at him, blinking, and trying to work that one out.  The druid shrugged his shoulders in despair.  "You act like you aint never seen a white person before, jaws dropped on the floor."  It finally hit home, that his particular brand of individuality had completely dumb-founded the librarian, and courteously switched into druidic mode.
   "You shall not find that which you seek in our realm, stranger."  The bearded one intoned sagely.
   "But I'm not looking for anything."  Giles objected.
   "Though you know not that you seek, nevertheless you search.  Unknown to you is that it is only found in the place in which you dwelt."
   "What the fuck are you talking about?!"  Giles screamed, looking around for a lethal weapon, then a thought dawned on him.  "You mean Pringles?"
   "Known by many names, each journeyman must have a star to steer by."
   "Is that a yes?"  Giles asked.
   "Err.  Yes."
   "So tell me, how the bloody hell do I find them?"
   "You must seek the Necronomicon, the book held sacred to-"
   "Which is where?"  Giles interrupted, slyly edging towards a croquet mallet propped against a stone wall.
   "It resides in a place across the deserts, through the mountains, to the canyon of the crescent moon, along the raging waters of the wild river rapids, and rests in a cemetery, in the woods of the deadites."
   "So, is that like North or what?"  Giles asked, his fingers closing on the mallet.
   "It is not of this earth."
   Giles' look was one of blue murder.
   "But when you find the book, you must recite these words, or else a holy horror will be unleashed across the universe.  The mountains shall be swallowed by the earth!  It will rain blood!  The lion will lie down with the lamb!  The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse shall-"
   "What are the words?"  Giles was getting well and truly bored with this arsehole.
   A crack of lightening in the sky added to the effect as the druid intoned ominously "Klatto, baratta, nicto."
   (Even if only one person gets the joke, please, please e-mail me and let me know that I'm not alone here, okay?)
   "Katto, baratta, nicotine."  Giles mumbled.
   "Repeat them!"  The druid glared.
   "Katto, baratta, necktie."
   "Again!"  Roared the druid dramatically.
   Giles glared back, then grinned as he grabbed the croquet mallet and caved in the skull of that useless cum-fuck dipshit, who let's face it, had it coming ever since he started quoting Eminem.