Me: I’ve just had a horrible thought.
cactusspatz: Oh?
Me: Someone should write a Jeeves & Wooster crossover, where Bertie and Buffy speak incomprehensible slang to each other, but still manage to understand each other perfectly.
cactusspatz: …I can actually see that working kind of beautifully.
Bertie the vampire slayer, Jeeves as his Watcher <3 <3 <3
Oh.
Oh.
Oh my GOD.
WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME
He stood in the hallway, bowler-hatted and implacable, rather like one of those things, you know, no nose and Egyptian, always looking as if they’re on the point of asking one some ridiculous question to which the answer’s always Man. I’ve no knowledge of the riddle in question. I hardly need it. Both you and I know it’s always Man, and therefore I stood briefly ready to receive my puzzler.
He didn’t ask me one. Shame; I would’ve been on it like a shot.
Instead he said, “Good day, sir. I hear you are in need of a Watcher.”
Now, you will understand my immediate bemusement. Aunt Agatha, bless her soot-black heart, has often expressed similar sentiments, but I had no foreknowledge of any attempt to do anything about them. This, then, came to me as something of a shock.
I was not at my best, either, which did not aid my powers of deduction. I had, unfortunately, been out rather late the prior night. Not enjoying myself as a lad-about-town ought to do, sadly. Not entirely. No, instead I’d been beset on my way to a rather promising dinner show by a fellow of a long-toothed persuasion.
I fancy you have some idea, from my brief description, of what this gentleman looked like. I will tell you now that you are wrong. He was not long-toothed in the typical manner so often seen among our judicial types, aged and lugubrious. No, instead he was much more disposed towards yellow eyes and a particularly furrowed sort of brow, and the long teeth in question were fangs. Fangish. Pointy, at any rate, and he had seemed, at a variety of moments throughout our encounter, to be rather hot on implanting them squarely in old Bertram’s juicy carcass.
Oddly enough, I’d found myself possessed of a certain sort of je-ne-sais-quoi, an odd facility with the whangee, a sort of know-how which had enabled me to toss him this way and that, and then to impale him with the end of said whangee in a rather prompt fashion. I’d surprised no one so much as myself as I watched him dissolve into a pile of grayish ashy business. What, I asked myself, has become of the evening I have planned? What, indeed?
I’d immediately gone out for a consultation with the brothers at the Drones, and they’d been of no aid whatsoever, but had instead convinced me to drown my sorrows, and it appeared now that it had been something of a bally mistake to come up for air, as it seemed coming up for said breather lent itself to the appearance of bowler-hatted men in doorways who were wont to extend the polite hand and say, “My name is Reginald Jeeves. May I come in?”
“Guh?” I said, with vigour.
@cactusspatz – Dude, all of our random couch conversations should result in people writing hilarious fic for us! That would be a beautiful world.
chequerootlurks
