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Angel blinked. “Uh, no. Sorry.”<br />
Xander pointed at the bathroom door. “Better finish that up, Deadboy. It’s gonna<br />
congeal or something.” Angel coated the door with other spray of the cleaner.<br />
Xander reached over to the phone on the side table. “I’m gonna order a pizza.<br />
Sausage and pineapple. Don’t like it? Tough. Angel, you’re paying.”<br />
Angel turned back to him quickly, but Xander just glared. Angel nodded and<br />
finished cleaning the door.<br />
Neither saw the satisfied smirk from Spike in the corner.<br />
9<br />
Routine<br />
Routine. It was like prison in that way. Or maybe those special prisons that they<br />
lock away the psychos. The murderers that claimed that they did it because of the<br />
voices in their heads, or to serve God, or to impress Scott Bakula or something. Or<br />
hell. Hell consisted of routine, right? Hell was the routine of being a normal teenage<br />
boy.<br />
A normal boy who was split into tiny little pieces. Each piece living its own<br />
separate life from the other. Like in Army of Darkness when Ash smashed the<br />
mirror and a dozen little mini-Ashes came out of the reflected images and started<br />
wreaking havoc. Except mini-Xanders weren’t evil. Well…maybe a couple of them.<br />
Mini-Xander #1 - The Teenager. A typical high school boy, one assumes. Goofy<br />
Xander, shunned by the ladies and can’t figure out geometry for the life of him.<br />
Best friend Willow, the brain, and such the cutie-patootie when she pouts. Best<br />
friend. Weren’t you supposed to tell your best friend everything? Wills knew a few<br />
of the mini-Xans, but certainly not all. So Mini-#1 was mask #1. A full-service,<br />
head to toe ghost costume. Just floating along.
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