Giles' pager went off. "Excuse me," he said, and edged out of the intensifying discussion. He made his way back to the telephone. "Buffy's paging me," he said to Angel, holding the pager up.
"I thought you told her to go home," Angel said, still hanging onto the telephone.
"I did."
"Give me a minute. I'm on hold again."
"She might be in trouble, Angel."
Angel handed him the receiver. "I'm not going to connect with anybody if I keep having to hang up."
Giles dialed the pager's displayed number. To his relief the telephone on the other end was promptly picked up.
"Buffy, what's wrong? Why aren't you home?"
"I might ask you guys the same thing, except we spotted Angel's car back on the road," she replied. "Where are you?"
"A bar called the 'Hog Wild'. We've been trying to call a taxi."
"Never mind," Buffy said. "I don't think we're far. We'll swing by and pick you guys up. Don't go anywhere."
"They're going to come to us." Giles handed the receiver to Angel. "We're supposed to wait for them here."
"I guess we can manage that," Angel said drily. He fished a fistful of change from his pocket and stepped over to the pinball machines.
Giles looked back at the Harley's Angels. They seemed to have settled into a quieter discourse, and Cordelia looked bored to tears. Perhaps events were finally stabilizing. He moved to the bar to order another beer and acquire some pretzels.
"Pardon me," he said to three incoming youngsters -- two girls and a boy -- dressed in an odd assortment of 60's hippy, 70's disco, and 80's punk attire. They gawked at him in a peculiar fashion, which he might have found disconcerting if he'd been feeling energized enough to care any more.
At the bar, Byron was scribbling furiously in a small spiral notebook, stopping occasionally to consult an even smaller leather-bound book at his left elbow. "Okay," he said to Giles, as he put his work down to get another beer for him. "What would you say was the secondary motif in Pasternak's later works?"
"I told you, I'm not going to get involved in this."
"No, really man. This is a matter of life and death."
Giles glanced over at an irritated exclamation from Cordelia. The anachronistic boy was over at her table leering down at her. By the sudden shift in his expression, Giles guessed that she'd cut him down with ruthless efficiency. The motorcyclists looking on at the interchange seemed impressed.
One of the hippy-disco-punk girls, a waif-like blonde with a purple flower tattooed on her cheek, wandered over to make eyes at Byron over the bar top. "Hey, babe," she said to the young man. "What's happenin' around here?"
"Okay, listen to this," Byron said to Giles, leaning across the counter over his notebook. "Tell me if this sounds like a Pasternak pastiche to you --" He rattled off a short poem in French, ending with a dramatic flourish.
"It sounds more like Apollonaire run through a Russian translation and back again into the French," Giles said with a grimace.
"That bad, huh?" Byron sighed.
"Why are you trying to imitate Pasternak in French?"
"You don't want to know." Byron glanced over at his grandmother, then pulled a bottle of gin out from under the counter.
"Sounded real cool to me," the hippy-disco-punk girl persisted.
"Maybe if I inserted a hyperbolic metaphor." Byron scowled as he began writing again.
"Bet it would sound real good under the moonlight," the girl said. "Poetry makes me so hot."
"No -- no -- no -- no. That's not the effect I'm trying for at all," Byron snarled, scratching out some of his phrases. "Lucy! Do Pasternak's rhythmic resonances come out when you're reading them in the French?"
"What the hell are you attempting to do?" she bellowed back. "Watch out kid, or you're going to blow a gasket in that brain of yours. That's a professionals game."
"Pasternak." Rio and E.T. started snickering between themselves.
"Don't you start, E.T." Byron shook his pen at them.
"Somebody's tryin' to score," E.T. mocked.
"Do you dig the moonlight?" The hippy-disco-punk girl had turned to Giles, batting her eyelashes.
"What?" He stared at her uncomprehendingly.
"It's kinda warm in here, don't you think?"
Giles grabbed his beer and scooted away from her. It was bad enough that he already had one teenager blackmailing him tonight. . .
She persistently changed bar stools to follow him on down. "I can tell. You're not like these other dudes."
The other hippy-disco-punk girl came up to the bar. "Viola, man, you won't believe this --"
Viola latched onto Giles' arm. "Lay off, Kaylee. You've already grabbed the hunkiest dude in the house for yourself."
"Well yeah, but he ain't kosher. If you get my drift. . ." She looked more closely at Giles. "Is that tweed?"
Giles eased himself loose. "Excuse me, ladies."
"No problem, man." Kaylee grabbed a hold of Viola's arm and pulled her away towards the front. They started whispering at each other furiously.
"Listen to this," Byron said, and launched into another French verse.
"'The cows know the pine cone compost'," Giles repeated the last line in English, wondering if some part of his brain had broken during the night without his noticing.
"It's symbolic," Byron defended his work hotly.
"I heard that correctly then. Oh, good."
The door to the bar suddenly crashed open. Byron looked up from his notebook with wide eyes. Giles turned.
"Hey, it's Zuzu!" E.T. yelled.
A chorus of whistles and 'Hey-Zuzu's' swept through the bar.
"Uh, oh," Byron said. He disappeared behind the counter.
Still another group of leather-clad motorcyclists swept into the bar. At their head strode a tall woman in a red leather jacket, black jeans, and red cowboy boots. She wore her long brown hair clipped back in a pony-tail and red sunglasses. "All right," she yelled. "Where the hell is that lame-ass ex-boyfriend of mine?"
"Byron," Lucy said. "Come out and face the music like a man."
The young man peered fearfully over the bar top. "Hey, Zuzu!" he said weakly.
Apparently bored with the impending confrontation, Zuzu's companions moved off to join the group of motorcyclists at the pool table.
She scowled after them for a moment, then centered her attention back on the unfortunate Byron. "Three hours we were waiting for you, man. Are you trying to jerk me around? Because you know I don't like that."
Zuzu kicked a chair out of her way, leapt onto the counter, and stalked down the length of it like a peeved leopard, flipping bottles out of her way with the toes of her boots. Giles snatched his beer out of the way barely in time.
"Lost track of the time, Zuzu," Byron jittered.
She reached down to grab him by the jacket front and hauled him up top. "You hydrocephalic zit. You forgot and then instead of owning up to it you were avoiding me. Admit it."
"Owww. I didn't forget, I swear. Stop it, Zuzu. You know I've got carpal tunnel in that wrist."
She let loose of his wrist and grabbed a fistful of hair instead. "If you didn't forget, then where's that Pasternak French pastiche you swore you could do even in a drunken stupor?"
"I've been working on it." Byron jerked free, losing some hair in the process. He shrugged his jacket back on his shoulders with a wounded dignity. "I've got other things to work on."
"Oh, yeah," E.T. said from across the room. "Like that Jean Claude Van Damme movie you had to go see last night, man."
"Hey!" Byron yelled back. "I've got a life apart from my girlfriend, jerk-off."
Zuzu claimed an untoppled beer bottle from the bar top and sat down on the counter in dangerous composure to drink it. "Hey, man," she said, "let me know if I'm cramping your style, man. Particularly if that style is 'no style'. Far be it for me to think that maybe Boris Pasternak deserves more of your time than Jean Claude Van Damme. Interesting times we live in here. Nothin' but pathetic lameasses who don't know a Sologub from a Blok." She fixed Byron with a stare.
He flushed.
"Ohmygod." Zuzu set the bottle carefully on the counter. "You don't know, do you?"
"Stop bullying me," he said.
"You don't know, do you?"
"Give me a fat break, Zuzu. Nobody cares. We're all educated people here. You think we heard of all those Russian jerks?" He grabbed Giles' arm. "Hah! You tell her, man. Do you know this Sologub guy she's on about?"
"R-Russian poet and novelist best know for his 1907 novel The Petty Demon --" Giles began. Byron hit him on the arm.
Zuzu pulled her sunglasses down on her nose to give Giles a professorial icy blue stare over the tops. "Who," she said, "the hell asked you?"
"Uhm --" Giles glanced over at Byron, who had secreted himself behind his back.
"Why don't you just butt out?" She grabbed Giles by the tie.
"Yes, actually, I believe I will." He tried to rise.
"I don't need any help from you, man," Byron said indignantly from behind him.
Zuzu laughed. "You need all the help you can get, baby." She tightened her strangle-hold on Giles' tie. "Okay, wise guy. What was Alexander Blok's most noted poem?"
Giles tried to pull his tie out of her grip. "May I please 'butt out' now?"
"You're so smart, man," Byron said indignantly. "Answer the lady."
"He don't know," Rio yelled.
"'The Twelve'," Giles gasped. "Will you please let go of me now?"
"Psht," Rio grumbled. "Lucky guess, man."
"Hah!" E.T. declared. "No way. He's the man, all right. Hey Zuzu, what're you gonna do with him?"
"Stuff him and mount him, E.T.," she said. "He's certainly the best specimen in this place tonight."
Lucy and Delilah started giggling at their table. "Oh, like you didn't think of it," Lucy said sotto voce.
Byron shoved Giles to one side. "Quit freaking the old guy out, Zuzu. I'm gonna bite the bullet and apologize --"
"Oh, goody goody for you," Zuzu said, her voice dripping sarcasm. "You puny patronizing pustulous snit --" She gave Giles an emphatic shake with each insult.
"Zuzu, love," Delilah said, "either do something with Rupert there, or pass him on over here. You're mixing emotional modes and you know you always get confused when you try to do that."
Zuzu sighed and pulled her sunglasses off her face. "Okay!" she screamed at the ceiling. "I am the very model of extreme serenity here, damn it!"
Byron ducked out of the line of fire. Giles tried to follow him, but Zuzu still had her fingers entangled in his tie. "Now just hold your horses, man," she growled, hauling back and seizing a hold of his coat for good measure. He found himself nose to nose with her.
She canted her head to one side in confusion, then blinked. "Fuckit," she said, hooked both arms around his neck and kissed him.
"You see what happens, Bee, when you let others do your homework for you?" Lucy said in amusement.
"Hey!" Byron said. "Zuzu! What're you doin'?"
"What's it look like, moron." Cordelia yanked Zuzu away from Giles. "Hey! That guy's with me tonight. Keep your mitts off him." She looked back at Byron. "What's wrong with you, letting your girl french another guy like this?"
"Fuck, nothing," Byron decided, and took a swing at Giles.
The Watcher ducked it and squirmed out of Zuzu's grasp. "Oh, marvelous arbitration, Cordelia," he panted.
"Well, hey!" she said. "You weren't doing anything about it."
Zuzu shoved Byron away and stepped up to Cordelia. "He didn't ask for your interference. You think maybe, that's because he didn't fuckin' want it?"
Cordelia drew herself up and gave Zuzu a hard shove in the chest. "If you're looking to contend for Bitch Queen of the Universe tonight, you're going to have to do way better than that."
The other woman smiled. Slowly. "Oh, is that what we're doing."
"Way to go Zuzu!" E.T. yelled.
"Fuck off, E.T.," she yelled back.
An arm latched around Cordelia's waist and yanked her off her feet. "Hey!" she yelped indignantly, prying at it with her fingernails.
"Cut it out, Cordelia." Angel took several steps with her and set her down at the other end of the counter. "Now sit." He pointed at a stool. She climbed up on it with a scowl. "Stay," he told her sternly. He turned towards the others. "The rest of you: Sit down."
Giles and Byron hastened to obey.
"Make me," Zuzu said, rocking back on her heels and crossing her arms over her chest.
Angel glared at her. "You think I can't?"
"Five bucks says Zuzu kicks his ass," Rio said from his table.
"No bet, man," E.T. replied.
"I'll bet," Viola chimed in. "Ten says he whups her ass."
Angel looked back in annoyance, then looked again.
"All right, kids." Lucy rose from her seat. "Enough's enough. This isn't a school yard. Byron, act your age and stop pouting, go set everybody with a fresh beer. Zuzu, you sit down there and count to thirty-three before we hear from you again. The three of you --" she fixed Angel, Cordelia, and Giles each with a look "-- come back to the tables and sit down."
"I still have two turns left on my pinball game," Angel complained. Cordelia caught him by the arm and yanked him along back to the table. Giles trailed after them.
"Nobody's gonna fight?" Viola said disconsolately.
"I've counted to thirty-three, damnit," Zuzu said. "Can I have a beer now?"
"Give the girl a beer, Byron."
Sulking, Byron shoved a beer across the counter at her.
"He didn't take the cap off, Lucy," Zuzu said.
"Dear, we've seen you twist them off all the time."
"He's supposed to take the cap off."
Lucy sighed. "Then beat him over the head with the bottle, dear."
Byron whipped out a bottle opener and pulled the cap off. "There. Okay? Satisfied? I've got people to serve."
Viola and the other two hippy-disco-punks sat down at the table with them. Viola insinuated herself in a chair next to Giles. Kaylee pulled up a chair on his other side.
Angel was glaring at the girls. "You," he growled. "Get out of here."
"They've got tattoos, Angel love," Delilah said. "And they're making less trouble than some people around here."
Viola stuck her tongue out at Angel.
"If you don't mind," Giles said irritably, pulling a sleeve loose from Viola's grasp.
"You're just being selfish," Kaylee said to Angel. "You old farts think you can keep all the good stuff for yourselves."
"Dude's got no wrinklies," the hippy-disco-punk boy said from his seat next to Cordelia. "They like shrink an' disappear, you know, if you don't keep using them, man."
"You tell 'im, Boyce," Viola said.
Angel grabbed Boyce by the throat. "You want to compare wrinklies, junior?" he growled. "Ante up."
"Boyce, he's gonna kick your ass," Viola said gleefully.
"Like hell," Boyce said. Angel squeezed. "Well, maybe a little," he choked out. "Com'on, man. I was just jokin'."
"The boy has apologized, dear," Lucy said. "Let him be."
Byron came to the table with two fistfuls of beer bottles. "Like who cares about all those damn Russian poets," he muttered, slamming a bottle down in front of Giles. "Baudelaire could've written any of them into a corner any day." He handed Lucy the last beer. "You tell us, Luce, who th' hell had a greater impact on Twentieth Century poetry: fuckin' Pasternak or Baudelaire?"
Lucy took a drink of beer. "World view, dear?" She looked thoughtful.
Zuzu moved to the table, yanked Kaylee's chair out from beside Giles and pulled a chair close in to seat herself. "Com'on, Lucy. No contest. Baudelaire's obviously outclassed."
"Ooh!" Viola said. "If Pasternak and Baudelaire got in a fight, who would win?"
Everybody turned to stare at her.
"Baudelaire would kick his ass," Rio drawled.
"No way, man," Zuzu said. She grabbed a wad of paper napkins from the table dispenser and started shredding them across the table with an intense glee. "The man published some of his best work just after the Bolshevik revolution. You think that didn't take balls?"
"Oh, come on," Delilah said. "Balls against emotional fire?"
"Plus Baudelaire did that cool synesthesia 'n stuff," Rio continued, peeling a napkin blossom off the side of his beer bottle.
"Oh, yeah, real cool," E.T. said. "Guy couldn't keep his wires straight. Pasternak would lay him flat with one smack to the jaw while Baudelaire was still workin' on all that fancy footwork."
"Damn right, E.T.," Zuzu said eagerly. "Some guys never get to the guts of the thing. Now Pasternak, he always --"
"Hey, Byron." Mack the doorman eased his way into the discussion. "Do temporary tattoos count?"
"Huh?" Byron looked up at him in bewilderment. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"To get in, man. Are we accepting temporary tattoos?"
"Fuck, I don't know." Byron covered his head with his hands. "What's the 'too?"
"Pepe Le Pew."
"Can't argue with that." Byron waved Mack away. "Can't you see we're in the middle of a serious discussion, man?"
The doorman reappeared at the entrance. "Okay," he grumbled and pointed at Willow. "You can go in. You guys gotta stay out here though."
"It doesn't matter," Buffy said. "Willow, just go get the guys and come back out. Xander and I will wait right here."
Willow peeped through the open door at the few visible tables. They were all crowded with leather-jacketed bikers. "I don't know, Buffy," she said. "What if they try to haze me, or something?"
The doorman looked amused. "Pretty little thing like you, now why would anyone want to do that?"
She stared at him, wide-eyed.
"Com'on, Will. Look, Angel and Giles are right inside -- they'd better be inside, that is -- just find them and tell them we're here."
"Wear the sunglasses, Will," Xander prompted. "Nobody will hassle you if you look cool."
"Sunglasses. Right." Willow fumbled Cordelia's sunglasses out of her bag and put them on. "Okay. I'm going in."