Since Mrs Cherriet’s husband is dead, it’s probably a good idea to call her Brenda. Christopher was ordered to stay downstairs even when her mother screamed. Brenda is Mrs.Cherriet, just the same person called by her first name. Outside the big house there are some flowers. These flowers are growing around the red and white Cherriet mail box.
“I wonder how dat happened,” Doyle remarks as he eyes the red tulips, while heading towards the door. “With dah red tulips.”
The Cherriet Mail box resembles the Mayflower.
“Usually they don’t grow around mail boxes…” Angel said; as he smelled ‘death’ just a few feet away from the door. The stench, in vampire senses, was hard to go through. Humans were lucky to not have super-smell.
This is the right house, Angel decides.
Doyle’s vision smelt like ‘Dah stench of death lingerin’ around’. Doyle could smell, fear, hear, and see in these visions just like a regular Psychic would…Except he’s half demon. And that he was chosen for this gift. Doyle knocks on the door first. Brenda opened the door pretty upset. However that didn’t stop them from getting a way into the house through her.
Angel covers his nose, entering the house.
Brenda let Doyle and Angel in, under the assumption they are police officers.
“I’m so glad that you came!” Brenda said, closing the door behind them.
“Mommy, where is Daddy?” Christopher stands at the doorway to the living room. She has this child-like innocent emanating from her.
“He’s…” Brenda wipes off a tear. She then told her daughter to go back into the living room.
Brenda, Angel, and Doyle went upstairs to ‘Check out the crime scene’ and ‘see what they are dealing with’. Doyle found it pleasant he couldn’t smell what Angel smells. All the lights were on, not even the bathroom lights are off. The skeleton with clothes on is partially in view to Christopher’s room.
“Yer husband went to beat up a boogie demon?” Doyle asks Brenda.
Brenda turns her head towards Doyle, as she is standing on the 1st step on the staircase right across from Christopher’s room.
“What…did…you say…” Brenda’s left eye twitches.
Angel comes out the room carrying a baseball bat. This Baseball bat looks as though someone had brought an attack dog and told them to brutally attack it. It’s really chewed up. Nevertheless Angel is still able to hold it by the intact handle.
“My friend is a Psychic,” Angel said, balancing the tip of the chewed up baseball bat on the wooden floor. “We are not the police. But what I can tell you is that we can help.”
“I am 100% sure as I am going to kick you out and call the real police!” Brenda said. “And then they—“
“Tey won’t believe ya.” Doyle interrupts her, holding a black ball with a ‘v’ shaped white object at the top. He looks away from it to her. “Tey will suspect dat ya killed him; keepin’ the body hidden until today and called in just ta make it seem dat ya didn’t do it.”
Doyle shook his head.
“Do ya really want ta be separated from ya daughter over somethin’ dat could have been prevented by us?” Doyle asks her.
The scene transfers to The Law and Order studio where filming is going on. Cordelia is in a cozy apartment set. It was good for a change to be out from the supernatural business. Getting sick last week wasn’t one of Cordelia’s priorities, but getting a role that could plausibly get her into Hollywood did matter. It meant cash for a while until the next audition or the next case, for that matter.
James Secrez and Louis Amsterdam were portraying these old-fashioned detectives asking Cordelia questions.
“D—Doyle.” Cordelia said.
“Doyle Darren?” Secrez asks. His right eye is bigger than the left eye. “Are you sure it isn’t Flenn Darren…”
Cordelia, you did it again, Cordelia thought realizing her mistake as Secrez and James improvise, you just slipped his name in. They could always remove certain scenes in editing or just refilm it, again for the twenty-third time. The Director, Charles Goodwin, had made it clear there would not be any more reshoots for episode 9.
“Ah,” Cordelia shook her head. “Flint loved reading what Conan Doyle wrote. That’s why I got the mix-up.” She laughs at her mistake. Her hair is up in a pigtail for this character who’s a roommate of Flenn Darren. “His name is not Doyle Darren.”
“Flint?” The men say at once.
“Flenn Flint Darren.” Cordelia said, and then she nods convincingly. She points down to Louis’s notepad. “Write it down. “
“I thought it was Lewis.” Louis said, writing down what she was saying on a notebook.
‘He lied.” Cordelia said, tapping her fingers on the couch. “He might be a bad guy, but…that doesn’t mean Doyle—“She shook her head. “Doesn’t mean Flenn is a killer.”
Louis and Secrez raise eyebrows.
“You do realize that he’s dead?...” Louis asks, looking at her strangely.
The director is flipping through the script.
“Yes,” Cordelia said, taking a calm and eerily proud position.
The men look at her, even more strangely.
“He’s staring at your back.” Cordelia finishes, wiggling her eyebrows.
________________ _______________________ _____________________
The scene transfers to a bar, a bar called Mercy. Doyle just entered the bar. A Bar that is for Demons to sing their troubles or ask for help by a demon called Lorne. Lorne is able to read others by hearing them sing. That way he can see their problems, troubles, and...So on. The vision also had shown him an image of Marx at this bar.
“You must be Doyle.” Marx said, holding his drink.
Doyle sat beside him, unsure how Marx knew he was coming. Doyle knew his face just by the vision (that came during the illegal underground race).
“How do ya know?”
Marx shook his head, laughing at him.
“They told me, I quote, ‘A man will come to you one day, asking for help,’ and…” Marx quotes the Powers. “It’s a little fuzzy, but I do remember they said ‘and he will be Doyle.’ Didn’t get what it meant…until you came.”
Marx can sense Doyle’s fear.
It wasn’t about Marx himself, it was fear for another person; someone else in Doyle’s life.
“And my answer is no.” Marx said, flat out.
Marx takes a drink from his glass then puts it on the table.
“Those guys up there,” Marx points up towards the ceiling. “Who hate demons.” Marx grunts. “There is a lot of irony, contradiction, and hypocritical when they have half-breeds do things for them.”
Doyle looks over his shoulder, slightly wary.
“Ya mean dah Powers dat be?”
“What did ya do for tem?”
“It’s what they did for me; I didn’t do anything. But they sure did.”
Another Demon takes the opportunity to sing karaoke, but a little better than the previous singer. Some demons are heard clapping and some hooted. We see Lorne is talking to the previous singer about the problems he detected in his singing (Might as well be giving advice). Demons that came for sanctuary are enjoying the music.
“Did tey specify what kind of help I would come for?”
“Woah,” Marx exclaims. “You are a leckochen!”
“I find dat offensive.” Doyle said, as he orders a drink. “I’m half Brachen. And yes, I want a drink. But not dah kind dat…”
Marx saw a problem with Doyle’s change-into-demon sneeze.
“Someday…you will be in a store, and when you sneeze…They will see you.” Marx shook his replaced wooden finger at Doyle. “--In your demon form; you are screwed to hell, Doyle. They will shoot you. Humans are more so scared of demons than monsters these days.”
Doyle frowns, morphing back to his human form.
“Ya don’t say.”
Marx puts down his hand, sighing.
“I mean when there are more of them…” Marx explains, looking over his shoulder. Just briefly to see who is doing the singing. He takes another drink from his glass. “When they have guns, they do not know you, and are familiar to the television set that promotes stereotypical demons.”
“I can control my demon form.”
“That’s what we all think, Doyle…until we make the biggest mistake of the century.”
“Not like tere’s goin’ be a demon wall blocked because tey see us.”
“You’ll be surprised.” Marx said, taking a drink from his unfinished glass. “You should stop trying to get me into helping you. Because it won’t work, I retired twenty two years ago…A former Boogie Demon doesn’t help Brachens.”
Doyle’s eyebrows hunch together for a moment and depart from one another.
“What’s yer name again?”
“Marx, I know ya are not just a retired boogie Demon…Ya are a retired BDC Slayer.” Doyle said, as Marx’s skin is turning white. BDC slayer means A Boogie Demon Cannibal Slayer. “Dah Powers sent me a vision about ya; vaguely…”
“You don’t need my help.” Marx said,
“Yes, we do.” Doyle taps on the table on every single word. “Dis kid, Christopher Cherriet, lost her dad ta a BDC. Ya dah only retired BDC slayer who’s left.”
BDC meant Boogie Demon Cannibal.
Marx’s hands almost go stiff.
“How can you be sure it was a BDC?” Marx asks, in a voice that’s not friendly.
“Someone jumped inta Christopher’s room…” Doyle explains. “Broke a bunch of lights, he fought Angel, who ten subdued him…in dat tree minutes, it was dark…And Angel came tumblin’ out a second later,” Doyle shudders. “But dat scream...”
Doyle shook his head,
“I have ta live with dat scream for dah rest of my life.” Doyle closes his eyes for a moment, and then he reopens them. “Christopher’s mom turned dah emergency lights on in her room.” He gulps. “The next thin’ we saw was a second clean, white skeleton stickin’ out from under dah bed. Dat’s how sure we are.”
Marx’s eyes were a-blazed.
“I know that name ‘Angel’ like the back of my palm.” Angel’s reputation wasn’t as ‘good’ or up to date in the demon world. “What kind of dirty business are you in?”
“It’s not a business. It’s a Private Investigation agency.”
“When I hear that name, it doesn’t sound that way.”
“We help dah helpless,” Doyle takes out the Angel Investigations card. Doyle wrote on the back of it and he puts it on the table then slid it towards Marx. “And Angel has a soul.”
Marx picks up the card.
“A Demon Hunter is not advanced as BDC Slayers, dats why we haven’t told our Demon hunter friend.”
Marx looks away from the card.
“Almost have a great team, except for getting into things you shouldn’t meddle in.” Marx comments, and then he takes a sip from his glass. He puts it back down, folded his arms, and asks, “Why don’t you run away?”
Doyle is startled.
Doyle puts his arm in front of himself on the bar counter.
“I can tell that you are scared.” Marx tells him, his split-lizard eyes blink.
The Bartender puts a glass in front of Doyle.
Being half Boogie Demon left Marx capable to tell when someone is scared. He is also feeding off it…in a way. It felt like he is eating lunch. This fear coming from Doyle is usually one that pursuits a man to leave the city. Usually that’s when said man has someone tailing him.
In reality Doyle does not have anyone tailing him, however, this person might be doing something making it seem that way.
"I made a promise,” Doyle said, with a small smile. I should really get my information legit about these Boogie Demons. Well…It’s more like a favor. Not a promise. “And dats what keeps me from runnin' away.”
“Getting out of the business is hard,” He looks back towards Doyle. Marx’s split-like lizard eyes blink two times. They show a demon that’s been through it all from beginning to end.
“So getting’ out the business is yer excuse for not helpin’?” Doyle asks, and then he takes a sip from the glass.
Doyle spits back into the glass.
“What was I thinkin’?” Doyle mutters, putting the glass down on the counter. “Dis is too sour.”
“It’s not that easy…” Marx briefly closes his eyes for a moment. “…living that kind of life...”
Doyle can tell by Marx’s physical body language that wasn’t why.
“Ya should be good at lyin’ if ya been around dis long.” Doyle said, leaning away from the counter.
Marx glares at him
“My daughter never wanted to see me again after I turned. I couldn’t go back. I didn’t have a family anymore.”
“Didn’t she throw cake at ya?”
“It wasn’t cake; it was a trophy.”
Marx drinks from his glass.
“I thought graduation ceremonies didn’t have trophy’s durin’ dah event….” Doyle shook his head, as Marx put down his drink.
If a liar could be in here… then there would be several; like Doyle is in this way. A liar knows when someone is lying. There is a brief pause in their conversation, as the singing going on from behind them gets slightly better to end on a high note. The current singer stops, and bows as other demons clap.
“But dat isn’t why ya left.” Doyle ends the silence.
Marx lost his appetite for drinking.
“Yes, yes it is.”
“Ya were beaten in yer own game!”
Marx’s hands tremble visibly.
“You are freezing.” Marx snaps, pushing forward his empty drink. He meant that Doyle is wrong. “Who’s important to you in life?”
"Dah most important thin' ta me is tose close ta me; family and friends." Doyle said.
“Imagine not having them to be there for comfort.” Marx said, getting up from the seat. He puts a bill on the counter .
Marx exits the bar.
Lorne, the owner of the Mercy Bar, came by.
“What kind of problem were you having here?” Lorne asks.
Lorne sat in Marx’s empty seat.
“From the tone of voices I heard; I don’t think so.” Lorne said, reaching his hand out. “I’m Lorne, owner of this bar, who are you?”
Doyle and Lorne’s chat eventually gets around the singing topic.
“I can’t sin’…No I can’t.” Doyle denies.
“Yes, you can.” Lorne said, in a confident and assured voice.
Doyle finds himself in a locked, but easily win-win situation.
“Tere’s really no argurin’ with ya.”
Doyle ended up singing. So much that Lorne easily faints from listening to him because he is so good. When awakened after Doyle leaves, he decides to drink what Doyle hadn’t finished drinking. Lorne spits it back in the glass.
“Whose idea was to add Sour drinks on the menu?” Lorne asks, holding the unfinished drink up. He is mad that this had gotten added without his knowledge. “Booob!”