Chapter Two: Wolfram & Hart

Here I am, in the belly of the beast—and it’s heaven! Heaven on earth, delivered by hell’s most fantabulous flunkies. Who seem perfectly normal most of the time, except for that crawly dead thing behind their eyes—you know, like Paris Hilton. They’d kill me to get my job, each and every one of them. I don’t mind; I’m used to being envied. And by I don’t mind, I mean I’m trying really hard not to think of it, so don’t remind me, okay?

But really, I can’t blame them—it’s scrumptious!

This place is made for me, or maybe I was made for it. It’s was wall-to-wall fun, with hardly any unpleasant associations—hey, the Senior Partners were never gunning for me, except for that one little time they had my brain sucked. But that was mostly Sinistra, as far as I’m concerned; I could see her slimy little pawprints all over that one. But me, I’m just an adjunct, a friend of the big guy. They’re not going to bother with me, ‘cause I don’t bother with them. We’re not pals, but we mostly didn’t step on each other’s toes. Which, as far as I’m concerned, makes it all-righty for me to be here. And by all-righty, I mean safe.

But the others—okay, Wes and Fred are knowledge geeks; offer them a king-size library or science … arium, and they go nuts, bless their little hearts. Gunn—well, I don’t know. Maybe he wanted a change after breaking up with Fred. Angel….

Angel. That’s the big mystery. Not exactly I came, I saw, I conquered, is it? More, I came, they offered me a nice corner office, and I said yippee! And for what? A little filtered sunlight? Hey, I go out in the sunlight every day—I mean every day I get up before four—and let me tell you: L.A. sunlight? Nothing special. Got an unpleasant aftertaste, like Joe Millionaire, or boxed wine.

It doesn’t seem like Angel, but maybe I don’t know Angel that well anymore. Heck, maybe I never did. All that business with Jasmine—messing with a god could make anyone crazy; I hope we don’t end up with another ancient god with a pretty face anytime soon, because a little of one goes a long way.

But things are good. Got my sleep back now—and better than ever, babe! Except for the nightmares. They’re kind of, well … okay, they’re just not good. Last night … you know how sometimes you dream you’re at home, only it’s not your house? But you still live there? It wasn’t like that at all. This was my place. Exactly, every bit of it. Even the patina on the cupboards was the same. I particularly noticed the cupboards, what with my attention being riveted to the blood dripping out of them. People had been shoved in the cupboards and stabbed right through the wood, as some kind of a warning to me. It kept changing in my dream, who was in the cupboards. Usually it was friends—Fred and Wes and … Spike, I think?

But I don’t know for sure who it was, because I didn’t look. I didn’t do anything.

I just stood there, staring, telling myself I should open the cupboard doors to see if there were any survivors, but I was too afraid to move. The dream ended with me standing there, just watching the blood slowly drip.

Okay, it was scary. But the thing is, dreams have never told me anything. They’re just like movies. A different one every night. Sometimes two.

Sometimes I really wish I didn’t have the sleep back.

Eyes on the prize, big guy. Eyes on the prize. Nobody said it was easy being green, right?
And I’m not going to be here long. I keep my mitts clean, sign some really happening talent, and the next thing you know, I retire to Boca with a fat bank account and hugs all around. It’s a thing. A thing with my name written all over it.

And … ixnay on the ossipgay, but Elvis? The rumors are true. Shacked up with Dionne Warwick in Palm Springs, healing a new face. But remember, baby cakes—hush-hush!