"Actually, it's a very slow read and I'm having a bitch of a time getting into it," the bleached blonde man admitted to his reading group. "How the hell am I supposed to require my students to read it when I can barely get through it myself?"
Rupert Giles, a fellow professor at UC Sunnydale agreed.
"I often ask myself that same question as I'm preparing my semester's syllabus," he stated. "I've tried challenging the council on several occasions, but they insist on keeping in line with the old ways."
"Ah, yes," nodded teaching assistant Liam 'Angel' O'Connor. "The old 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it' song and dance, right?"
"Precisely," snorted the blonde. "What a bunch of foolish rot."
Angel waved down their waitress and put in for another round of Guiness drafts. The three men had been meeting at the Bronze since they had begun working together at UC Sunnydale. William 'Spike' Benson was the newest to their intimate group. He had transferred from Birmingham University in England the year before to teach English I and Creative Writing. He joined the other two transplants, Giles who hailed from Bath and Angel, whose parents had made him a world-traveller before he was able to walk. The O'Connor's were originally from Edinburgh, Ireland, but Angel had purposely dropped his brogue long ago. He preferred the clipped American accent he'd adopted while in his first year of college at NYU. After one winter in the bustling city, he transferred to UC Sunnydale.
"And where is the other little trouble-maker?" Tara, their regular server, grinned as she distributed the frosty mugs of chocolate-brown drought.
"Running late, no surprise there," mumbled the tardy Xander Harris as he took perch on the barstool next to Giles. "G-Man, how nice of you to order me a beer," he grinned, taking Giles' drink from the table and downing a long, noisy sip.
"Xander" the older man sighed as he removed his glasses and began polishing them on his tweed coat sleeve. "How many times have I asked you not to call me G-Man?"
Tara winked and disappeared to bring Giles another mug of frosty goodness.
"This week?" Xander challenged.
The young man was the only member of their dysfunctional clan who was not from another country and who did not work at UC Sunnydale. He was Angel's roommate and ran his own construction company. He didn't always have much to add to their literary conversations, but he always tried. He was good for a few grins and giggles, breaking the scholarly trio from the monotony of serious discussions. And he was an all-aroundgood guy.
"And can we assume that you finished your chapter in Bede's Ecclesiastical History of the English People?" Spike asked the boy.
"No," Xander said with a curt shake of his head. "Assuming would be that thing that makes an ass... ah, no. But I did watch the whole first season of Andromeda on Sunday afternoon during Sci-Fi channel's Andromeda marathon. And I beat Buffy at three games of pool."
"How many did you play?" Angel asked, knowing that Buffy sunk Xander in pool every time.
"I believe what is important right now is that I won three games," Xander side-stepped.
"And anything is an improvement from your life-long losing streak against the girl, isn't that correct, Mr. Harris?" Giles egged on.
"Who's Buffy?" Spike found himself asking.
"Buffy Summers, pool shark and life-long best friend," Xander told him. "Never let the girl challenge you to any game that involves a table, a long, pointy, wooden stick and a rackful of multi-colored balls or you'll find out exactly what it's like to have yours handed to you unceremoniously... balls, that is."
Spike smirked at the boy's warning of his best friend.
"Oh, laugh now, Captain Peroxide," Xander warned. "Should you ever meet her, she'll slay you on the table."
Buffy grabbed her cue case from the hope chest at the foot of her bed. Time to take Mr. Pointy and hustle some unsuspecting idiots at the Bronze. It had been awhile since she'd actually gone out with the intention of making a few bucks off of the local schmucks, but she was having a bitch of a time writing the latest chapter of "Poker for the Soul" and her agent warned her that she could take no more advances until she turned in at least four more chapters and a storyboard for the rest of the novel.
It was bad enough that she was still living at home with her mother and younger sister. Having to ask for a small loan from Mom's purse to get her through the week? Even worse. She looked up as her dark-haired sister let herself into her room.
"Dawn, how many times have I told you to knock?" she reminded her.
Dawn stood with her arms folded across her chest. She watched as Buffy closed the lid to her hope chest and was pretty sure she knew what her sister was up to.
"Thought you quit hustling?" she asked, her voice just a little annoyed.
"And I thought you quit snooping?" Buffy retorted with equal annoyance.
The coltish girl shrugged, but did not move to leave the doorway. She watched her sister dig through her closet for her boots and coat. Buffy had poured herself into the tightest pair of faded Levi's she owned and topped off the faded denim with a tight. black long-sleeved t-shirt and studded leather belt. She was pulling on her worn black jimmies when Willow Rosenberg appeared behind Dawn.
"Hey Dawnie," the red-head smiled. "Buff, ready to go Bronzing?"
Buffy nodded, throwing the jacket over her shoulder before retrieving the cue case from her unmade bed. Willow frowned at the quilted metal case in her friend's hand.
"I thought you gave up hustling?" she asked cautiously.
"What is with you two? I never said anything about hustling," Buffy lied. "Maybe I just want to play a friendly game of billiards with Clem or Riley?"
Billiards was never a friendly game with Buffy. And the last time she had played Clem, he had run out of money and had started betting his cat's newborn kittens. Among the billiards regulars, she was known as the Slayer. And anyone with half a brain knew better than to challenge her to any form of the game -- be it eight ball, nine ball or snooker. The locals, although forewarned, would occasionally get a little cocky and want to show off their machismo by challenging the little blonde to a game. She'd quickly dispel their confidence by running the table in its entirety. Those who had never seen the Slayer play ball learned quickly how to lose a minimum of $100 in a matter of minutes -- often more.
Willy had gone so far as to install a snooker table at his little tavern, hoping to see someone best the little shark. Instead, he began betting on her against less knowledgeable bar patrons. The Slayer never let him down. Within a few days, the table had paid itself off at the hands of the Slayer.
"Friendly game and Buffy Summers?" Willow asked with her resolve face firmly in place. "Very unmixy. Buffy, if you need a few bucks to get you through the week, let me give you a loan."
Buffy shook her head vehemently. She never took money from friends unless she earned it.
"I'll play you for it," she offered.
"Willow," Buffy scolded, fixing her with a serious gaze. "It would be murder and you know it. Xander, I can take his money. But I couldn't do that to you."