Sure, he might be surrounded by danger and death all the time as proprietor of the only bar in town that serves blood, but he’s about as harmless as a flashlight at a vampire convention. He’s also a bit of a weasel.

Okay, he’s a huge weasel. A twenty dollar bill was all it took to get Willy’s lips flapping about his unique clientele. He’s all about the Benjamin’s, that’s for sure. He may serve his customers the O-negative that’s all the rage, but with his penchant for saying too much on a regular basis, there’s nothing stopping them from making him their beverage of choice the next time they visit his fine drinking establishment.

Buffy the Magazine: First of all, I’d like to say thanks for meeting m eon such short notice.
Willy the Snitch: Uh-huh. So how much do you pay for this?

BTM: Excuse me?
Willy: Do I stutter? Pay. Cash. Simoleans. Money. A little dough-ray-me, capice? I’m talking about the green, Professor. Stuff that makes the world go ‘round.

BTM: Just so I’m clear, you’re saying you want money to be interviewed?
Willy: I’m not here for the love.

BTM: There must be some misunderstanding; it’s not our practice to...uh...

[Long pause]

BTM: How’s ten bucks?
Willy: Ten bucks and I’m mute.

BTM: Twenty?
Willy: Hello, President Jackson. He, uh, wouldn’t happen to have twin brother lying around would he? Okay. For this--you get fifteen minutes of sparkling conversation. Make it quick.

BTM: Right. As a bartender, you must have a lot of patrons coming to you with their problems. What’s the most common problem your, uh, customer bend your ear with?
Willy: Here in Sunnydale? Home of the Slayer? Three guesses, Einstein. They get a little blood in ‘em, everything comes pouring out. Hopes, dreams, unfulfilled plans for total global domination. Then they get all weepy and everything’s “Slayer this” and “Slayer that.” There’s a lotta cryin’-in-their-blood types.

BTM: Blood types. That’s funny.
Willy: That’s me, one big unemptied bucket of funny. You got twelve minutes left, by the way.

BTM: Don’t you ever feel a little sleazy catering to soulless bloodsuckers?
Willy: Hey, you’re the one paying for it.

BTM: No, not the fan magazine. Vampires.
Willy: Oh! Sorry. Sleazy? Yeah, a little sometimes. But before I had this place, I tended bar in the Village in New York City. Vampires are definitely a step up from ad executives, I can tell you that much.

BTM: What’s the most commonly requested beverage in your bar?
Willy: O-negative. Very popular, especially with the younger vampires. They say it’s a “smart blood.” I dunno.

BTM: Is there anything you refuse to serve?
Willy: Zima. What the hell is that stuff, anyway? Is it beer? Is it vodka? Life is short. I don’t like being confused.

BTM: What’s the worst thing that ever happened in your bar?
Willy: One time, this chaos demon comes in, slimes up the place, kills half the clientele, then demolishes the bar and eats three chairs. Took two sorcerers and a blow torch to get him out of the place, sent my insurance rates through the freakin’ roof. That was the worst. Well, that and the karaoke machine.

BTM: Karaoke. That’s interesting. Did you every have any live--or at least undead--entertainment?
Willy: There were some experiments in that field. None too successful, I can tell you. We had a stripper zombie. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but hoo-boy. A zombie’s naked flesh is not the sort of thing a man wants to see twice. Stick a dollar in the g-string and he leg falls off. Guys kept yelling, “Put it on! Put it on!” We’re talking pure disaster. Then I tried hiring this standup comedian from LA. Human. Nice guy. Personally, I thought he was funny, but the crowd heckled him. Then ate him. I guess you would call it a tough room.

BTM: What are the most commonly played songs on your jukebox?
Willy: Well, you gotta remember, vampires’ musical tastes tend to vary. Depends on when they got bit. Like, the other night, this frilly cuffs and collar type waltzes in, all fangs and attitude, and starts requesting Mozart. Mozart! I tell the guy, “Hey pally, bad news--Wolfgang Amadeus has been dead for a couple of hundred years.” He just dips a little snuff and tells me he knows the feeling. Jeez. But other than that, it’s the same as anywhere else. Lotta heavy metal.

BTM: Nothing by “Slayer,” I’d bet.
Willy: Oddly enough, they love it. I’m telling ya, irony’s lost of these people.

BTM: Have you ever served any famous vampires?
Willy: Famous? You want to talk big time? Once, I personally poured blood for a little fella named...Vlad the Impaler.

BTM: You served Count Dracula?
Willy: [Nods] The year was ‘62. The town--Vegas. It was three am, and the big guy was all juiced up from a Frankie/Sammy/Dino late show. And they put on a hell of a show in those days. Three hours, no breaks. And I think Shirley Maclaine was a little sweet on the Count. Past life experience, maybe. But the man himself? Nice at first, but you gotta figure he puts his cape on one shoulder at a time, just like everyone else.

BTM: What’s your biggest fear as a business owner?
Willy: The American Beverage Association might find out I don’t ID as often as I should. That, or the Hellmouth might open up at any moment and I’d die horribly in a fiery apocalypse, then roast forever in the ninth circle of Hell. [Pauses] I really should ID more often.

BTM: Do you consider yourself easily intimidated? Because, frankly, Angel didn’t seem to have too hard a time pumping information out of you. And Buffy...
Willy: Hey! Let me tell you a little something about those two. People think if you’re pretty, you can’t hit hard. But when that Angelus turns on the mean streak, I’m here to tell you: ouch. And Buffy? Cute as a button, but just plain nuts. They way I see it? I’m not forced to cooperate. I choose to cooperate.

BTM: Do you feel comfortable with your status as a toady?
Willy: Now you’re making me hot. I am not a toady. I must say I resent the implication. What I am, is a “stoolie.”

BTM: Sorry.
Willy: Worlds apart, definition-wise.

BTM: I’ll try to keep that in mind. One last question. When’s closing time?
Willy: Funny thing about those vampires. All night long, you think the creatures of the night are never gonna leave--and then, all of a sudden, the sun rises, and the fat lady has sung. You know that’s gonna clear out a room fast. Like, poof. And, uh, while we’re speaking of closing time, I quote my close friend the ticking clock when I say “ding!” Your fifteen minutes of fame are yesterday’s papers, madam. And oh, look! There’s the door.

Copyright 1999, Buffy the Magazine

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