Yorrick: His Continuing Adventures in TV Land
Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4 written by Cassandra Courtney
Chapter 5 written by Caleb Newcastle


Prologue

Yorrick sighed loudly, and shifted his stick to his other shoulder. On the end of the stick was a red and white spotted handkerchief, which contained all his worldly possessions. Now, you would think that a five year old wouldn't have that many things, but at only three foot high, what little he did have weighed heavily on his shoulder. With his burden came the added discomfort of a sweltering hot day. The lane he wandered down was dusty, and seemed to go one forever. He was tired, sore, and choking on the swirls of dust that twisted around him - and he'd only been one the move for twenty minutes.
    Yorrick scuffed the ground, and then stopped because it made even more dust rise up and envelop him. He was starting to curse the day he had lifted two metaphorical fingers to Sunnydale and headed out into the big wide world.
    After Giles' death in the poorly explained explosion that demolished Sunnydale High, Yorrick had been taken in by Willow and Xander. At first, everything had been good. The two youngsters had nurtured the traumatized Yorrick, pampered over him, and he began to get over his creator's death, which he had not yet avenged. However, things went down hill after that, though not for Xander and Willow who seemed to be screwing twenty three hours a day. Yorrick would huddle in the living room, listening to the squeaking mattress springs above him, watching endless re-runs of Walker Texas Ranger amid a growing mountain of takeaway boxes. It was a good relationship; they would phone for a takeaway, which Yorrick would enjoy, while Willow and Xander would dine on the delivery boy.
    This existence was good for a time. But soon Yorrick began to notice things were a little unfair. For a start, why didn't Yorrick ever get a sex scene? The only place that didn't seem to mind the depletion of delivery boys was the Macrobiotic Mongolian takeaway, and as fond as Yorrick was of boiled lamb washed down with fermented mares milk, he wasn't sure how much more he could take. The trio had moved into a vacant house, with two bedrooms too horrible to go into, and with the loving couple imprisoned in the only decent bedroom, Yorrick was relegated to the lounge. The final insult came from the TV. Yorrick had bought it cheap since the man at the second hand shop was convinced it was cursed. Yorrick had scoffed at the idea, but soon discovered it would automatically seek out Chuck Norris. With over 300 satellite channels, this was constant, and Yorrick had already watched Delta Force in French, Arabic, Vietnamese and Xhosa - and he doubted he could take much more.
    In fact, Yorrick had spent much of his time thinking. He had often wondered exactly who had planted that bomb, and why. He wanted revenge, and he wanted it badly. The only problem being, he had no idea where to start. Not to mention that the world was a big, scary place, and especially if you are a lowly vest.



Chapter 1

One afternoon, Yorrick heard the BBC tones of an announcer from the evil TV: "Now, Chuck Norris stars in the heart-warming action film, 'Partners.'" Yorrick squeaked, and leapt up. Was this what life had become? Endless Chuck Norris films with a background of bouncing mattress springs? The time was nigh...
    Yorrick wanted to leave a note, but what with not having any arms, he did have a little trouble with that. So instead he searched through the take-away boxes for some old noodles to spell out a message (my Uncle Mark does the same thing - it's not that he doesn't have any arms, it's just that he has a problem with keeping pens). Briefly he told Willow and Xander he was off to find out the truth, and they could get their own tea. Yorrick searched around and wrapped his possessions in an old hanky - Giles' diamond-studded necklace, a box of Persil, and a fold-up travel coat hanger.
    Outside the door, his doubts quickly returned. Who was he kidding? Exactly how far can a vest get on his own? Yorrick needed help, a companion, someone to watch his back, someone who had been around, and more importantly, who understood revenge. The vest looked forlornly around, wondering where such a person might be found (especially since the last story had killed off most of the major characters), when his gaze fell on the cemetery next door, and an idea began to form in his mind.
    Amidst the multitude of gravestones, Yorrick picked his way to the sombre looking stone crypts among the trees. The cemetery was unnaturally quiet, the sounds of insects and birds notably lacking. But the silence was not total - across the slight breeze drifted the sounds of music. Well, some would call it music, Yorrick pondered as the lyrics sounded: # 'Vacuum cleaner, sucks up budgie! Ooh no! Bye-bye!'#. The vest shook his head sadly, wondering exactly which drugs the Clash had been on when they wrote that one (and it's true - last lines from their hit 'The Magnificent Seven' - check it out if you don't believe me!). Still, at least the noise told Yorrick which crypt to go into.
    The heavy iron-studded door creaked open ominously, and a small cotton shoulder leaned round it. A bleached blonde head appeared, followed by a dark-clothed body.
    "I know, I know. Not very stealthy, eh? But I don't care. Since I escaped from them soldier boys I been on the run an' I'm sick of it. I'm gettin' out of here before they destroy another perfectly bloody good crypt." Spike explained as he viciously pulled the cassette from the tape player, looked at it fondly, before tossing it into the open rucksack and looking back at the vest.
    Yorrick squeaked and indicated his hanky-on-a-stick.
    "You too, eh?"
    Yorrick nodded and began to explain, in squeaks somewhat reminiscent of Cousin It. Only by the strangeness of Sunnydale could Spike be expected to understand, and he did.
    "No bloody way, mate! Never live it down if I had a vest like you as part of me wardrobe!"
    For a second, Yorrick looked hurt. Then, as gently as he could, he asked Spike how long he would have survived in his 'neutered' state if Yorrick hadn't disposed of the Slayer.
    "You never know... She might've taken pity on us, looked after us, hand-fed me fresh blood, even grown to love me..." His voice trailed away. "Alright, pretty unlikely, innit? We leave at sunset-"
    Yorrick squeaked loudly and began to purr.
    "But I don't want you gettin' any of that crap on me seats." Spike bullied, pointing at the paler smears that covered the young vest.

So that evening, Yorrick found himself sitting on a plastic carrier bag in the passenger seat of an old Ford Cortina with blacked out windows. Of course, the windows meant that it was nearly impossible to see at night, and they had already crashed into several stationary objects. Yorrick squeaked a question, then repeated it three times to be heard above the music in the car.
    "New Zealand."
    "?"
    "Well, way I see it, them soldiers boys are everywhere, an' the US might be a bit hot for a while. Get as far away as possible, an' Down Under they got that bloody big hole in the ozone layer, I'll have plenty of little snacks on a nice regular basis."
    They sat without talking for a while, until Spike pointed at the radio, where a Sex Pistols tape screamed out the ever-memorable 'Pretty Vacant':

        #'There's no point in asking you'll get no reply
        Oh just remember I don't decide
        I got no reason it's too all much
        You'll always find us out to lunch'#

    "You know," Spike mused. "Sid once told me they nicked part of that song from Abba." He chuckled. "Never could figure out which part though! Good mate of mine, must visit him sometime..."
    Yorrick squeaked pointedly.
    "Drugs overdose? Not bloody likely! You think all those holes over his veins were from needles?" Spike asked, his face going all 'vamp'. "Nah, he's more the nocturnal type now. Changed a bit though - now writes songs for Boyzone. What a bloody waste! I tell you, one time, me an' him were at this gig. Friggin' shite it was, so Sid pulled the safety pins out've his jacket and went up to the lead singer, right? Problem was, the singer was up on the stage, and Sid could only reach as far as his wedding tackle..."
    Yorrick had stopped listening some time ago, and rested against the window, thinking. He was no nearer the revenge part, but at least he was on the move. Besides, he thought suddenly, New Zealand was the land of Hercules and Xena. Now, this might not seem too helpful, but once over there, in theory, he would be able to walk from Greece to Palestine in an afternoon. Geography would mean nothing! What better way to search the globe for the one who had blown up the school, and changed his life forever? Feeling much more positive, he turned back to Spike.
    "So anyway, he was covered in blood, I mean really covered. We went into the bogs to try an' get his cleaned up a bit, you know? So we're in there, and there's like, a pint of blood on his jeans. Seein' something like that, it does something to you, and I was friggin' starving, so I was just kneeling there, sucking the blood of him. Anyway, I'd just got to his crotch, right, when this copper walks in, and the look on his face, well-"
    Yorrick went back to looking out of the window.


Chapter 2

Now, if this was Dracula, the unlikely pair would have boarded a cargo ship and Yorrick would have brought fresh blood to his new companion every day until a ghost ship drifted into Auckland harbour. But it isn't. If it was Preacher, Spike would have wrapped up in clothes and taken the night plane from LA and arrived just before sunrise, two days later. But it isn't. What we have here is a tale about a living vest and his vampire companion, so whatever you bastards are expecting from reality, forget it.

So Spike and Yorrick sat on the bonnet of the Ford and looked at the lit city of Auckland that glowed down the hill below them. Spike was puffing contentedly on a cigarette while Yorrick slapped irritably at the multitude of mosquitoes that were drawn to his smell.
    "?"
    "Dunno mate. Guess I'd better find a new place. You?"
    Yorrick explained about his plan, although Spike was understandably doubtful. But the vest had done his research, and knew exactly what he was doing.
    "Waikato? Alright, I'll take you there. Never know what we might find, eh? 'Sides, wouldn't mind meetin' that Xena bird, could maybe - "
    He was interrupted by a screech of brakes and a ripping noise as a car failed to make the corner, owing to a battered Ford slanted across the road. The other car crashed through the barriers and bumped down the steep slope before coming to a sudden halt as the front disintegrated into the trunk of a rather large tree.
    "See! Told you it'd work!" Spike yelled jubilantly. "Well, dinner time. You, uh, you want a bite to eat?"
    Yorrick declined, and once Spike was out of sight he pulled out a half-eaten Mars bar he had found in the car. The vest sat there, thoughtfully, pondering his next move. He considered asking Spike to stay on as a translator, but having been exposed to endless hours of London punk music, he just couldn't see the advantage of the continued melting of his brain. Besides, he had spent the hours in front of the TV productively - he was learning to speak. It hadn't come easily, but slowly and surely he was getting there. At first it was simple words, but now he could manage whole sentences. Of course, he still sounded like someone with a speech impediment, but he was optimistic he could get by.
    Spike strolled back up the hill, covered in blood. "That's better." He declared, climbing into the car while Yorrick clambered back onto his plastic. "Hmm. Best one's always after a large meal." Spike sighed, lighting a cigarette. "#I'm all lost in the supermarket. I can no longer shop happily.#" He sang along to the radio, while Yorrick shook in despair. He really didn't want Spike as a translator.

They spent the day in an underground car park. Spike was snoring, spread out across the back seats, a half-empty gin bottle still clasped in his hand. Yorrick had hung the coathanger from the door, and draped himself over it. With a final snuffle he woke, and clambered down. He was bothered by a great many things, but above all, why, if this was a comedy, wasn't it at all funny?
    "That's because these are the first few chapters - you have to set the scene, build up the tension, develop the characters." Steven Spielberg explained from beside the car. Yorrick wondered what he was doing there.
    "Just trying to help." Spielberg said haughtily, turned on his heel, and fell flat on his arse having stepped on a banana skin.
    Yorrick shook his shoulders sadly. This wasn't the way to liven things up. He wasn't feeling too cheerful, and things weren't helped as the sound of Spike throwing up on the back seat echoed around the car. Spike appeared, looking pale even for a vampire as he clambered into the front seat, squinting and holding his head. He cringed visibly as Yorrick squeaked loudly.
    "Yeah, yeah, soon as it gets dark. Dark already? Oh, bugger. But there's no need to be so soddin' impatient."
    "!!"
    "It's only a few miles, don't get upset." Spike growled as he turned the key, starting the engine, and throwing up out of the window.

They arrived soon after. Amid the bushy ferns and scary cabbage trees which made up the plant life of New Zealand ancient Greece. Yorrick's hanky was packed, and he stepped eagerly from the car. Spike had a definite stumble/lurch thing going.
    "Should be easy enough. All they ever do is wander up an' down little lanes an' then stop and light a fire that anyone in 10 miles could see." He stopped as he noticed a small campfire glowing amid the trees. "That was easy."
    "!"
    They crept forward slowly, and as they did so, became aware of a second fire not far from the first. Peering through the trees, they saw a pile of clothes and, reflected by the light of the flames, flashes of naked flesh. Spike growled appreciatively and Yorrick shot him an annoyed glance. The vest was sick of all the sex in these stories, while being even more frustrated that he never got a chance to indulge in it himself.
    Yorrick backed out of the bushes as quietly as he could, leaving Spike to enjoy himself, and made his way to the other fire. As he neared it, he began to hear voices.
    "What are you complaining about? I'm just the plucky comic relief." Grumbled a leather-clad man with a shock of curly blonde hair.
    "At least you don't have the whole world sniggering about your sexual habits." A young woman retorted, angrily poking at the fire with a long staff.
    "Don't I? At least your partner never paraded around dressed only in an overly large bunch of grapes.
    "That's true enough." Admitted the woman. An uncomfortable silence followed, which Yorrick took as his cue. Gathering his courage, he stepped into the circle of light thrown by the fire.
    "E-o. Mai maemss O-ii-k. Eess oo mee oo." Yorrick squeaked cheerfully, a little chirpy grin to show he was harmless.
    "Aagh!" Screamed the pair. "What is it?" Aeolus cried.
    "O-ii-k." The vest repeated. He really needed to work on his consonants.
    "Kill the monster!" Gabrielle yelled as she grabbed her staff and swung it towards Yorrick, who, in a fit of athletic ability (for a vest), leapt nimbly out of range.
    There followed a mad rush of activity as the two humans used every weapon at hand to chase our plucky hero, who was darting about, frantically dodging the potentially lethal blows. He tired quickly, despairing over his total lack of success - things weren't going at all as he planned. Yorrick was finally corned, and he lurked quivering among the over-ground roots of a tree, just out of range of the staff and sword that sought out his delicate body.
    "Peeess!" He squeaked desperately. "O!"
    Aeolus put down his sword, and reached between the tree roots. Yorrick was left with no choice, and he darted forward, giving the outstretched hand a hearty nip.
    "Aaagh! The little bastard bit me! What if it's got rabies?!"
    Yorrick pressed himself further back to escape from the renewed pokes and prods of both staff and sword which had begun with a new vigour. He wondered where Spike was in his hour of need, and called out to him.
    "Sspaiiik!" He squeaked as loudly as he could. "Sspaiiik! Eppp!"
    There was a moment's pause, then the vampire could be heard crashing through the undergrowth. At the first camp, two long tussle-haired heads lifted up in alarm, then the couple began to throw on clothes. It was a pity that they weren't the right clothes, but it isn't every day you see a half-god wearing a leather skirt.
    As the crashing neared them, Gabrielle and Aeolus looked up. "Another one?" Gabrielle asked looking worried, but then Spike appeared.
    It was an impressive sight. The vampire leapt out of the bushes and over the fire. His coat flowed out behind him, his fangs showing scarily, and he landed lightly, balancing on the balls of his feet. Ready for action, and growling threateningly.
    It would have been more impressive if Aeolus hadn't simply stepped forward and skewered him with his sword. He stepped back triumphantly, pulling the sword with him, and waited for his victim to crumble onto his knees, without a drop of blood, the way they always do on these shows.
    "Ow!" Spike complained, his face returning to normal, but with a sudden offended look.
    "What kind of monster is this?" Gabrielle asked warily, circling the vampire, staff clasped firmly in her hands.
    Spike looked dejected. It was just another time he mourned the chip in his head. He glared at Gabrielle and began to brush the dust from his coat. "Alright, luv, that's enough of that." He muttered. "This ain't a freak show, but if you want a good look at me, be happy to oblige you later on, maybe without the audience though, eh?" He gave her his sexiest grin.
    Before Gabrielle could utter an ancient profanity, Hercules and Xena arrived. All three of them stared - Hercules did not look good in a skirt. However, he didn't seem too worried about his appearance, and held up his hands in the patented Hercules 'just-calm-down-a-second' pose. "What's going on?" He asked.
    Aeolus and Gabrielle began to babble at once, only the words 'monster', 'fangs', 'bit' and 'wanker' seemed intelligible.
    Spike stepped forward with a big grin, looking at Xena. "Come on, mate, here's your big chance." He called, not taking his eyes from the hastily-dressed princess.
    "?!!"
    "Yeah, probably safe."
    There was a rustle of cotton, and Yorrick moved uncertainly into the light. Xena and Hercules looked at the vest, looked at each other, and as the vest prepared his opening speech, collapsed in a heap, laughing hysterically.


Chapter 3

It took a long time for Hercules and Xena to stop laughing. Every time they began to look like they were calming down, they would catch sight of the vest and start up again. Yorrick sank into a dejected heap, all his hopes out the metaphorical window. At long last they wiped away the tears of mirth, composed themselves, and turned to the vest.
    "What's your name, buddy?" Hercules asked.
    "O-ii-k."
    "O-ik?"
    "O-ii-k."
    "It's Yorrick." Spike offered, seeing where the conversation was heading. "He's Yorrick, and I'm Spike."
    "What kind of a name is that?" Asked the woman named after a male angel. Spike ignored her, as did everyone else. As usual.
    "What can we do for you, Yorrick?" Xena asked the dejected heap kindly.
    "Aim ook-in orr ssomon - ssomon oo ii-e mai ree-a-orr - Ai-ess. Ai oss oppin oo epp mee, ssee ai on mai o an - " He stirred himself and began enthusiastically.
    "Sorry but I'm gonna have to stop you there." Xena sighed. "I can't understand a word you're saying. Mr Spike-"
    "It's just Spike."
    "Just Spike, could -"
    "No!" Spike yelled. He had seen enough Naked Gun films to know what was going to happen. "Anything but that running gag! It's William the Bloody, known as Spike. It's much scarier, you know?"
    "You don't look very scary." Xena argued.
    "Look," Spike emphasised by bearing his fangs. "I'm scary. Grrr."
    "He is." Aeolus pointed out.
    "Look, we're getting away from the point." Xena objected.
    "There's a point?" Gabrielle was annoyed - she hadn't had a line for nearly three minutes.
    "Spike," Xena ignored her again. "Could you translate for us?"
    They all settled down as Yorrick, through Spike, began his tale. There was a slight pause when Xena noticed Spike, sitting beside her, was peering down her shirt. After an elbow to the nose, the tale continued, but with a certain nasal twang for some time.
    When Yorrick was finished, Hercules shook his head sadly. "Sorry, buddy. We're not into the revenge side of things - more of the 'protecting the innocent' sort of stuff."
    "I'm into the revenge part." Xena said with a sardonic grin.
    "Yes, but then you always get the big guilt thing." Hercules pointed out.
    "No, that's the 'acceptance of fate' and 'triumph of sense over instinct' part."
    "So what's the point? If you didn't have the revenge thing then you wouldn't have the coming to terms with it part. That way, you could simply skip straight to the action and comedy side of things."
    "That's not the way I work. I prefer -"
    It was Spike's turn to be bored. He sang #And I wanna be an anarchist. Get pissed. Destroy!# under his breath, as he fished in his pocket for his cigarettes, and lit up, blowing smoke from his nose. Gabrielle, who had been watching him distrustfully for quite some time, leapt to her feet, staff in hand.
    "Demon!" She shouted.
    "Oh someone give the girl some valium!" The vampire despaired. "I'm bad - I wear black, I smoke, and I've got an English accent. Goes with the territory."
    "Look," Gabrielle hissed. "This is a new-age show. There are certain things you can't do: No sex, no bad language, no gratuitous violence, and above all, no smoking. I mean, we can't have the sexiest guy here clearly being a bad influence on the younger members of the audience."
    "Hey!" Hercules and Aeolus objected.
    "Ah, so you think I'm sexy?" Spike grinned.
    "I - I mean..." Gabrielle stuttered.
    "!"
    "Let her finish." Spike shot an annoyed glance at the vest. "Look, I'm stuck in this bloody awful story, the least I can do is have a good time." The vampire grumbled.
    "So what's next?" Xena asked, and was greeted with total silence.
    "No ideas?" She probed, only to be rewarded by a chorus of shaken heads and shoulders, followed by some more silence.
    "Why not ask the author?" Spike enquired.
    "WHAT?!" I BLINK AWAY THE RUM-INDUCED HAZE.
    "Look, you cant just sit there an' let us do all the thinking. You're meant to be the one with all the ideas." Spike growled. "After all, you started the bloody thing."
    "PISS OFF." BASTARDS. HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON?
    "Your spelling's starting to slip." Gabrielle smirked, just before a large tree fell over for no apparent reason, crushing her to death.
    "You can't do that!" Xena yelled.
    "WHY NOT?"
    "Because I'll come over there and beat your brains out." She threatened.
    "OH."
    Gabrielle emerged from besides the tree, apparently unscathed from her narrow escape.
    "Look, this is bleedin' ridiculous." Spike growled. "None of us know what we're doing, and neither do you! I suggest, while you're trying to think of somethin' decent to write, we go off into the woods an' have a mass orgy!"
    "!!"
    "An' while you're at it, write in a girly vest for Yorrick..."
    "WHAT??" I SHRUGGED IN DESPAIR... As a small lacy pink vest appeared from behind a tree, responding to Yorrick's throaty growl with a coy yet sexy shuffle.
    "Everyone okay with that?" Spike asked, and was greeted with nods and grins.
    "BUT YOU CAN'T-"
    "Look, we'll see you next chapter when you've actually thought of a plot."
    "IT'S NOT MY FAULT..." BUT NO-ONE'S LISTENING. SPIKE'S GOT HIS HAND DOWN XENA'S SHIRT! OH GOD - WHAT'S AEOLUS DOING UP HERCULES' SKIRT?! OH AND THERE'S THE SQUEAKS, COMING FROM THE SHAKING BUSHES. GREAT. FINALLY, IN DISGUST, I TURN OFF THE COMPUTER. BLOODY CHARACTERS.


Chapter 4

"HELLO?"
    I THINK THIS IS WHAT YOU CALL A 'PREGNANT PAUSE'.
    "HELLO?" SLIGHTLY LOUDER.
    "What?"
    "OH, HI HERC. HOW'S IT GOING?"
    "Hmm. All right."
    "WHERE ARE THE OTHERS?"
    "Over 'ere." A voice from the bushes sounded.
    "FOR GOD'S SAKE, SPIKE! PUT SOME CLOTHES ON!" WAIT, WHAT AM I SAYING?!
    "Shame." Gabrielle muttered, lounging against a tree smoking.
    "Thought of somethin' then?" Asked a now-clothed Spike.
    "OH YES."
    "!"
    "HELLO THERE YORRICK."
    "?!"
    "WELL, FOR A START, YOU'RE BARKING UP THE WRONG TREE. THESE GUYS AREN'T GOING TO BE ANY HELP - THE ANCIENT GREEKS DIDN'T HAVE BOMBS, SO HOW COULD THEY FIND A BOMBER?" SEE, I HAD BEEN THINKING.
    "Maybe you should have thought of that before you dragged us into this?" Xena pointed out.
    "WHATEVER. LIKE YOU HAVEN'T BEEN ENJOYING YOURSELF. ANYWAY, WHAT YOU NEED IS HELP FROM PEOPLE WHO UNDERSTAND WEIRD SHIT: MULDER AND SCULLY." I SIT BACK PROUDLY.
    "!!!"
    "WELL YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO GO BACK TO AMERICA."
    "I'm not driving all the way back!"
    "I KNOW, I KNOW. YOU'VE GOT 'A FORD CORTINA THAT JUST WONT RUN WITHOUT FUEL.'"
    "I think we've had enough punk lyrics." Aeolus commented.
    "Yeah, an' that's my job." Spike sulked.
    "ENOUGH!" I'D FORGOTTEN HOW ANNOYING THIS LOT WERE. "IF IT'S AN AFTERNOON'S WALK TO THE AMAZONS, YOU CAN BE THERE IN NO TIME, OKAY?"
    "Grumble, grumble grumble grumble grumble grumble."
    "LIKE YOU'D ALL FIT IN A CORTINA."
    "Alright, but if we get to the end of this friggin' thing I'm getting' a new author." Spike grumbled.
    "ENOUGH OF THE GRUMBLING! WHICH WAY TO THE AMAZONS?"
    "North." Hercules supplied helpfully, eager to be rid of the insanity.
    "!?!"
    "NO, THE GIRLY VEST CAN STAY HERE."
    "!!!"
    "I don't want the two of you to cum along anyway." Spike argued.
    "THAT WAS UNNECESSARY. WHERE IS SHE ANYWAY?"
    "!"
    "AH, THERE YOU ARE. NO, YOU STAY THERE."
    "?!"
    "BECAUSE I SAID SO, OKAY? GOOD. NOW, YOU TWO GO FIND MULDER AND SCULLY, AND THE REST OF YOU CAN BLOODY WELL FUCK OFF."
    "Grumble grum-"
    "STOP IT! NOW, I'M LEAVING AND I DON'T WANT YOU BOTHERING ME AGAIN." THANK GOD THAT'S SORTED. WHERE'D I LEAVE THAT RUM."

Yorrick and Spike wandered down the dusty lane. It was the same one as in the Prologue, so I think we can all be spared the melodramatic descriptions. They did intend to drive, but being in Ancient Greece had confused the Ford into turning itself into a chariot. Since a Cortina has a nil horsepower engine, our plucky heroes were forced to take to their feet and hems.
    In fact, the situation had worsened when the pair were attacked by a group of yak-cloaked Vikings. Spike and Yorrick ran from the ambush and hid in a pile of rocks placed conveniently for just such an emergency, and had waited the remaining hours of daylight out as the vampire carefully darned a hole in Yorrick's shoulder, made by an uncaring Viking cutlass. Now, those of you who are paying attention, unlike the author-
    "PISS OFF."
    Will have been wondering why the vampire and vest were able to walk around in the middle of the day.
    "I WAS GOING TO EXPLAIN THAT."
    The answer to this, to save any annoying nit-pickers, is that Spike had coated himself in Factor 60 sun-block. Okay?"
    Anyway, as darkness fell, Spike pulled out a dog-eared map that Hercules had given him, and began to examine the situation.
    "Accordin' to this," the vampire poked at the grubby paper. "If there's Vikings here, we've passed through the land of the Amazons, and we're coming up to the land of the red Indians."
    Yorrick peeked from the rock pile, and squeaked that the Vikings had been driven away, a lone Berserker lying in the dust with a brightly feathered arrow sticking from his chest.
    "!"
    "Yeah, let's get a move on." Spike agreed as the pair stepped from the shelter of the rocks.

FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON D.C.
A.D. SKINNER'S OFFICE

"We've had several unconfirmed sightings of a strange creature down on the South Dakota Sioux Reservation. The sightings seem to coincide with the discovery of a number of people being found dead and drained of blood." The bald man behind the desk grudgingly informed the FBI agents seated in front of him. Scully looked sceptical, but then, that's pretty much all she ever does.
    "You want us to go and investigate?" Mulder asked eagerly.
    "Yes." Skinner looked as if he was already regretting that decision.
    The two agents leapt from their seats and rushed out the door. Once in the corridor, they were immediately plunged into pitch darkness. With invisible glee, the agents switched on their flash lights and began to skip up and down the passageway to make the circles of light waver about frantically.
    "Mulder!"
    "Scully!"
    "Mulder! Mulder, where are you?!"
    "Scully!"
    "Mulder!"
    "Scully!"
    "For God's sake, you two!" The corridor was suddenly filled with light. Skinner stood beside the switch. "At least wait until you're in the badly lit warehouse!"
    "Sorry sir." The agents apologized, and composing themselves, strode purposefully towards the lift.



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...


Chapter 5

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.
        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.


To be continued...


~


Amendment to 68.

For those of you who didn't receive them first time around, here are the first four chapters of Yorrick, totalling over 5000 words, upon which my own fifth chapter is based. Thanks to Cass for starting this beast off, and I think I have enough ideas to take it as far as Chapter 10 at the very least. Whether I will write a chapter every week or not, we shall see.

Also, if anything seems to be inconsistent between these first four chapters and my own subsequent ones, don't worry. I know what I'm doing and everything will come together in the end. Probably.

-Caleb.