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Five-Minute "Double or Nothing"

by Scooter

Fred: These files sure need a lot of work.
Gunn: Maybe we should be consoling Angel. You know, what with his son being kidnapped into another dimension and Wesley betraying him and all.
Fred: Um, have you seen Angel?
Lorne: Hey babes. Say, did you hear? Angel just bit the heads off his entire Beanie Baby collection.
Gunn: These files sure need a lot of work.

Cordelia: Hey guys! Wow, I had the greatest time on my Disney cruise and -— hey, what's wrong?
Lorne: Aaagh! Can't... see! Hair... too... bright!
Cordelia: Geez, I change my look once in six years...

Jenoff: My demon casino is boring me. Let's collect souls.
Henchman: Far out.
Jenoff: We'll start with this one. He's at Angel Investigations.
Henchman: Why would anyone want to investigate angels, anyways? They don't do nothin'.
Jenoff: Oy, my ulcer.

Cordelia: Anyway, nothin' to do, so I'll hang here, okay?
Angel: Can't talk. Must brood.

Groo: Lorne, why are you gathering the belongings of Wesley?
Lorne: Better not say that name, babe. Bad karma.
Groo: Interesting. I know of another dimension where the name Wesley causes similar consternation.

Syd Frzylcka: We're the comedy subplot.
Monica Frzylcka: No, we're the B-plot. A subplot is something else.
Syd Frzylcka: What do I know from B-plots? I got a Skench demon on my coffee table and she's talking B-plots.
Gunn: Oy, my ulcer.
Fred: What a cute couple. Don't you think so, Charles?
Gunn: Don't feed the 'shippers.

Fred: Hiya, traitor. We packed up your desk. Here's your pink slip.
Wesley: What about the prophecy? I was protecting Connor from Angelus —-
Fred: Prophecy, shmophecy. Sahjhan copied it off a box of Honey Nut Cheerios. Angel was never going to kill Connor.
Wesley: You mean -—
Fred: Yes. You're the world's biggest maroon.
Wesley: Oy, my ulcer.

Gunn: This Skench demon sucks.
Skench Demon: No, I spit. Allow me to demonstrate.
Gunn: Ewww, I stand corrected. Here, try this machete-shaped breath mint.
Skench Demon: GAK!
Gunn: Great. Covered in mucus. Could my day get any ickier?
Henchman: I'm here to collect the soul of a C. Gunn. Sign here please, line 23.
Gunn: Er, no hablo ingles.

Young Gunn: Man, am I a bad@$$.
Jenoff: I agree.
Young Gunn: And a loser.
Jenoff: Deftly put.
Young Gunn: I want to trade my measly future for this.
Jenoff: You're willing to exchange your soul for a -—
Young Gunn: Yo, dude, peace. Don't say it yet.
Jenoff: Whatever. Well, that is a nice rack.
Young Gunn: Word.

Gunn: I'm too young to die!
Henchman: Waa, waa, waa. Come to the casino tomorrow or we snatch your girlfriend too.
Gunn: Leave her out of this.
Henchman: (taunting) Gunn and Fred, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I—-
Gunn: Now cut that out!

Cordelia: You need to live a little. Hey, you could die tomorrow.
Gunn: Um, right.
Cordelia: Now's a good time for you and Fred to kick it up a notch, y'know.
Gunn: Why is everyone—-?
Cordelia: Gunn and Fred, sitting in a —-
Gunn: Stop it stop it stop it!

Gunn: Let's have a cutesy breakfast in bed and a day on the town.
Fred: Okay. As long as we don't have too much fun.
Gunn: No promises.

Cordelia: So I've polished all my nails and read three Rona Jaffee novels. Ready to get up yet?
Angel: Still brooding. Ask again later.

Gunn: Are you having fun? Are you are you are you?
Fred: Great gravy, I don't think I could take another day of this.
Gunn: Good, 'cause, um —- you're history. I hate you! We're through!
Fred: Whoa, mood swing much?

Jenoff: Sucking souls, sucking souls, la la la... Next soul payment! Please step down to register one.
Gunn: That's me.
Bill Gates: Hey, I was next!

Fred: Charles tried to drive me away and said horrible things to hurt me and so he must really love me and want to protect me from something terrible and and and —-
Angel: All right, I'm up already! Geez, next time just put scorpions down my pants.

Angel: Anyone know where Gunn is?
Cordelia: No.
Fred: No.
Lorne: No.
Groo: No. But I did take a message for him.
Angel: ...Which was?
Groo: (reading) "Dear Charles, please remember to drop off your soul after soccer practice tomorrow. Love, demon uncle Jenoff the Soul Sucker."
Angel: Wow, didn't know he had a demon uncle.

Gunn: Okay, I'm ready.
Jenoff: Do you have the credit card you used for the original transaction?
Angel: (bursting in) Time to kick some demon @$$!
Groo: I see no demons shaped like donkeys.

Cordelia: Boy, nothing like smiting demons for getting over having your son kidnapped into another dimension. Too bad we're incredibly outnumbered.
Fred: I sure hope that doesn't make Angel do something stupid...
Angel: Okay, Jenoff! Double or nothing!
Jenoff: Agreed.
Fred: Oy, my ulcer.

Cordelia: Angel's card-playing acumen is our only hope.
Angel: Any sixes?
Jenoff: Go fish.
Fred: We may be here a while.

Angel: Let's cut to the chase. One draw each, high card wins.
Jenoff: I draw a five.
Angel: I draw a -— Fred, start talking about your relationship now!
Fred: Well at first I wasn't sure if Charles really loves me I mean he gets all goofy around me sure but he's goofy anyway and it's not like he's very smart or anything but still he has this really cute way of smacking into walls that I kind of find really endearing and it's not easy for a stick figure like me to meet guys anyways so —-
Jenoff: Aaaaaaagh! (collapses in agony and dies)
Angel: I knew that would come in handy someday.

Fred: Let me get this straight. You sold your soul for a truck?
Gunn: But it's totally awesome.
Angel: Hey, that rocks. I totally get that. Especially with a killer sound system.
Lorne: Sweet deal. That truck is definitely to die for.
Groo: Yes, where can I exchange my inner being for a fabulous large-wheeled conveyance?
Cordelia: Wow, Fred, I didn't know you could roll your eyes that far back into your head.
(Fred fumes at male idiocy at Ludicrous Speed)


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This fiver was originally published on October 3, 2004.

DISCLAIMER: A lot of material in here is copyrighted by Mutant Enemy, but since they unofficially encourage fanfic and such, I doubt there'll be any trouble. Unless their legal consultants are with Wolfram & Hart, in which case all bets are off.

All material © 2004, Mark Wilson.