Doyle: A Day in the Life By Kuzibah

Part 12 of the Summer Vacation Series Disclaimer: Doyle and the situations connected to �Angel� are owned by Joss Whedon, David Greenwalt, Mutant Enemy, the WB network, and (apparently) Evil Fox. And, quite frankly, in my opinion, they should all be ashamed of themselves. They melted his face off, for Christ�s sake. No connection or ownership by the author is suggested or implied. Archive- Sure, but email me and let me know where it�s going. Feedback- Absolutely. ******************* Late Summer, 1999 The door of Walker�s bar opened and closed quickly, admitting just a moment of the bright sunlight and hot air of Los Angeles, and Doyle. Doyle was a young man, Irish-born, not to mention half-demon. Actually, he never did mention that, and sincerely wished he could forget it himself. The appearance of his demon side at the age of twenty-one had ruined his marriage, permanently derailed his career, and driven him to a city 6,000 miles from his home. And it probably had something to do with the fact that he was walking into a bar at 10:18 AM to drink his breakfast. �Gonna be a scorcher,� he called to the bartender as he slid onto a stool. �Pull me a draft�� Doyle felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. �Hold that order,� a voice behind him growled. Doyle ducked out of the man�s grasp. Well, not really a man, but a creature that gave the appearance of one for now. He ran smack into the chest of another. �Nice try,� said the second creature, taking hold of Doyle�s shirt in his meaty fist and lifting the Irishman nearly off his feet. �Let�s go.� �I have the money,� Doyle said. �If you put me down I�ll go get it�� �But where would the fun be in that,� said the first creature. �C�mon,� Doyle insisted, �would I be drinking in a bar if I didn�t have your money?� �Ahh, ye might, rabbit, ye might,� the second said mockingly. �Now let�s go.� At the curb a pick-up truck was waiting. The creature holding Doyle climbed into the back, still holding the young half-demon, and threw open the steel box behind the cab. �Oh, no,� Doyle said, but he was dumped unceremoniously in and the lid latched closed above him. - - - - - - - - - - It felt like they were intentionally hitting every pothole before arriving at the office of Nevroka, a demonic crime-lord who controlled a good deal of the sports gambling in the city. Doyle had gotten in deep with one of his operatives betting on the March Madness brackets, and when Nevroka had learned the man was something more than human, he had taken a �personal� interest. Doyle wondered if he wouldn�t be better off with his kneecaps broken. The creatures opened the box. They had entered an underground parking lot and had now resumed their true forms, which were more like upright bears than men. �Get up, rabbit,� the larger, furrier one snarled. Doyle climbed shakily out of the box, and was hoisted up again and marched into the building and Nevroka�s office. The demon was sitting with his fingers interlaced, looking for all the world like an ursine Don Corleone. He smiled, revealing rows of needle-like teeth, and Doyle shuddered. �It has come to my attention that you still owe us a certain sum,� Nevroka said. �I can get you the money,� Doyle said, the lie coming automatically. Nevroka shook his head slowly. �You disappoint me, Doyle,� he said, �and, at any rate, the time for money has passed.� Doyle felt as though all his internal organs had dislodged. �One of my people met with an unfortunate accident last night,� Nevroka went on, �meaning we had to do a bit of re-structuring today. And now we have a few odd jobs that need someone to do them.� His smile became even wider. �Then it occurs to me that we have a certain someone who owes us big. And this certain someone is part of the family� so to speak.� Doyle felt like his legs were about to give out under him. �You mean me?� Nevroka laughed. �You see any other half-Brachen, stupid sack-of-shit bastards around here?� he said. �What do you want me to do?� Doyle said. Nevroka leaned across his desk. �For twenty-four hours, you�re our running boy,� he said. �Each of my lieutenants gets you for one job. You finish, you move onto the next. At the end of those twenty-four hours, we�re square. You screw up or try to run out, you�re dead.� Doyle�s mind flashed through a few of the possible duties that might result in his being dead anyway and swallowed hard. �Okay,� he said. Nevroka laughed again. �That�s why I keep you around, Doyle,� he said. �You always know how to crack me up.� - - - - - - - - - - One of the big, hairy guys dropped Doyle at the headquarters of the first of Nevroka�s associates, a warehouse where some sort of drug was being manufactured. The associate, a demon with black skin the texture of wet moss, looked Doyle over. �This is the courier Nevroka sends me,� he bellowed. �Tell me, what did I do to piss him off.� �He�ll do it,� Hairy said. �He�s a lucky rabbit.� He chuckled at his own joke while Doyle tried to look like he knew what was happening. �Fine,� said the drugmaker, waving one paw dismissively. �I�ll send him on when I�m done.� After Hairy had gone, he looked over Doyle again. �That your name?� he said. �Rabbit?� �It�ll do,� Doyle said. - - - - - - - - - - After dropping most of a duffel bag full of some drug with a bunch of vampires, Doyle was sent on to Madame Dorian�s, a notorious �demon brothel.� The proprietress regarded him dubiously. �Running boy, eh?� she said. �Well, you�ll be happy to know we�ve had no call for any male talent� but we�ll need a driver later today.� She gestured towards a stack of linens. �Make yourself useful and see if anyone needs towels, in the meantime.� - - - - - - - - - A few hours later, Doyle was behind the wheel of one of the house cars. He glanced in the rear-view at his passenger, one of the demon prostitutes. Doyle believed her species to be Arcillian, but he wouldn�t swear to it. �So, Bel Air,� he said in response to the address she gave him. �You seen this guy before?� �A couple times.� She answered with a tone that implied Doyle�s existence was the furthest thing from her mind. �Anybody I�d�ve heard of?� Doyle pressed. �He produced one of the top five moneymakers of last year,� she said, then turned to the window, shutting him out completely. - - - - - - - - - - �You the driver?� the young man asked as Doyle approached him. �Yeah.� �You ever steal a car before?� �No,� Doyle said. �Not really.� The man shrugged. �Thought so. C�mon.� Doyle joined him at the end of an alley, where a Beamer was parked. The man pulled a strip of metal up from where it hung at his side and in one fluid motion popped the driver�s side door. He handed the tool to Doyle. �Hold this,� he said, then lay flat on the seat and did a backbend to reach under the dash. Doyle saw he had some kind of pliers in his hand. �You know where you�re going?� Doyle repeated the address he�d been given, a chop shop two blocks off Whittier. From under the dash, Doyle got a whiff of ozone and the engine roared into life. The whole process had taken less than half a minute. The young man took his metal bar back from Doyle and patted his shoulder. �It won�t turn off,� he said, �just stay cool. Be casual.� He snatched Doyle�s hat and flung it into the back seat. �Lose the hat. What? You want to look like a hood? And if they pull you over? This is all your job. Good luck.� And he was gone. - - - - - - - - - - Doyle pushed up the sleeves of the too-large tuxedo shirt they�d dressed him in and waited patiently for the bartender to fill the order he�d brought. Beyond the door the crowd gave a sudden roar of approval and Doyle shuddered. Above the din came the shout of �finish him off!� and �killing blow!� The crowd took up chanting the latter sentiment and Doyle found himself trying to squeeze into the narrow space between the end of the bar and the staircase to the upstairs office in an effort to escape from the sound. There was an unearthly screech and a howl and the crowd roared again. The bartender gave him the tray of drinks and Doyle stared at them as though he had no idea what they were. �Get moving,� the bartender barked. �They�ll want their drinks before the next fight!� Doyle walked into the crowd surrounding the arena as though in a trance. He glanced down, caught sight of a large, tusked demon being forced back into its cage by two men with cattle prods, and a smaller, orange demon, its guts spilled out of its stomach. He handed the drinks to the sophisticated young men and their chic dates, took their money, took their tips, took their mocking �jokes� made at the dead demon�s expense. Back in the bar he handed the cash to the bartender, including his gratuity. �Listen, man,� he said, �I know you�re not supposed to, but I need a drink. Just one shot. Anything. Please.� The bartender hesitated, then glanced towards the door as the crowd began cheering again. He dropped a shot of Scotch into a glass and passed it to Doyle. �My good deed for the day,� he said. - - - - - - - - - - Doyle stood at the door of the necromancer�s villa, a milk-crate full of books and various implements cradled in his arms. The door eased open and an ancient demon peeked out. �Deckshur sent me,� Doyle said. �For the summoning.� �Did you bring a long, black robe?� the demon asked. �It�s at the dry cleaners,� Doyle said dryly. �Never mind,� the demon said. �I have a loaner.� He stepped aside and let Doyle enter. �Hmm. You�re smaller than I expected. How�s your Latin?� �Rusty,� Doyle admitted. �My Gaelic�s passable, though.� The necromancer muttered under his breath. �I guess you�ll have to do�� - - - - - - - - - - - Doyle found himself in Nevroka�s office once again, less a hat (left in the back of the stolen BMW) and a yellow polo shirt (somewhere else, he couldn�t remember where exactly.) His undershirt was uncomfortably damp, and he couldn�t seem to stop his hands from shaking. He needed sleep, food, and a few stiff drinks, not necessarily in that order. The big, hairy guys from--- God, was it only yesterday--- stood nearby, and Nevroka himself was smiling fiercely across his desk. He was waiting for Doyle to speak first, but it took a long time for the Irishman to rise to the bait. �Are we square,� he said finally. �Almost,� Nevroka replied. �Have you, by any chance, seen the film �The Grifters?�� �No, but I read the novel in college,� Doyle said. Nevroka laughed and hooked his thumb in Doyle�s direction. �Can you believe this guy?� he said. �College! That�s priceless.� Doyle kept his mouth shut. �Anyway,� Nevroka continued, �there�s this scene where they beat this woman with sacks full of oranges. The idea is it hurts like hell, but it doesn�t leave visible bruises.� Nevroka leaned forward and his voice lowered to a whisper. �I always wanted to see if it was true.� Doyle involuntarily backed a few steps away, right into big and hairy guy number one. He spun around defensively. �Hold on,� he said. �You said if I was your running boy�� �No,� Nevroka said, his voice dangerously gentle. �Your debt is cleared. But we can�t let people think they can just work off what they owe. I make an exception for you because I like you. But then you�ll take a beating� because it is my pleasure.� - - - - - - - - - - Doyle lay on his kitchen floor where Nevroka�s thugs had dumped him. Guess Jim Thompson was right, he thought. Unsteadily he climbed to his feet, stopping twice to cling to the front of his sink while his shuddering subsided. He reached for the cabinet, pushing boxes of cereal and pop-tarts onto the floor in his impatience to reach one of the bottles he knew was up there. He pulled it down and gripped the cap with a trembling hand. And then he felt the aura. �Oh, God, Jesus,� he pleaded with the air. �Not now.� The vision slammed into him like a freight train, and he crumpled to the floor. Dimly he heard the bottle shatter on the tiles. And then the pain as information forced itself into his brain, compressed and dense. And this vision was different. More than basic facts, it instead told of a whole life, a vampire, a fierce killer, transformed, first by the restoration of his soul, then by love for a woman-child fated to slaughter his kind. The vision went on and on, battering Doyle�s brain as badly as the demons had battered his body, then retreating, leaving him breathless. �Angel,� he gasped aloud, setting the name in his mind. �Angel.� Part 13 - Spike: Hope I Die Before I Get Old Main Menu   ~   Summer Vacation Series

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