WHO: Buffy Summers and Alastair. WHAT: Smacking a bitch down! WHEN: Evening. WHERE: Lawrence, Kansas. RATING: V for VIOLENCE. STATUS: In progress.
The situation was an amusing one indeed. All it had taken was a pesky trap or two, the word of mouth from a few unreliable sources, and a convincing tale from that demon brat in order to convince the Winchesters to drive off into the sunset and far, far, far away. It was perfection. Alastair knew much about perfection. You see, it was what he enjoyed the most. The precision of a blade slicing through skin, the accuracy of a well timed shriek, the way blood dribbled from a body just the right way. Those clueless Winchesters being driven out of the city where the people they were so desperately trying to protect were left to protect their vulnerable, little human selves? It was nothing short of beautiful. Tricking the boys had been much too easy, but Alastair wouldn't complain. They would be back soon enough. When they finally did swing their way back into the city, they were going to find their presents. Everyone dead. Carved up, artfully left all over the city for them to admire. Oh, yes. This was going to be fun.
He was bitter, see. Being on Earth? It wasn't for him. Alastair preferred being downstairs. The burning puts of Hell, bodies to rip apart from left to right. Up here, he had to be more careful. He couldn't just run around sticking everyone and everything no matter how much he wanted to. He had to be subtle. Cautious. Smart.
Truthfully, Al couldn't wait to get back down to Hell again. But since he couldn't quite yet, he would take his fun where he could get it. Tonight? It was going to be focused on the tiny blonde woman he had been following for the past half hour. He had tracked her easily, having kept a few demons within the city to keep an eye on those that the Winchesters associated themselves with. She was the first one he'd been pointed to. There was something rather peculiar about her that Alastair couldn't quite put his finger on. Ah, well. He'd figure it out. Once he got a chance to rip her insides out, Al would know it all. Casually stepping out from around the street corner he'd been lurking beside, the demon turned and cut the woman off with a unpleasant smile.
"Excuse me," he began, his heavy drawl coming out in a Marlon Brando type accent, "I was wondering if you might be able to help me?"