The Vampires of Wimbledon Common Are We
Tobermory saw two humans walking across the common in the moonlight and stood very still so that they wouldn’t notice him. It didn’t work.
“Bloody hell, it’s a sodding Womble!” one human exclaimed. “Thought they were mythological.”
“Don’t be silly, my Spike,” the other, a dark-haired and beautiful woman, said. “Of course Wombles are real. I’ve seen them on television.” She tilted her head to one side and stared at Tobermory. “It’s very small. They look much taller on ‘Top of the Pops’.”
Tobermory looked up at the humans. “We don’t do the songs,” he told the woman. “Those are human beans dressed up as Wombles. I went along to a couple of performances, though, Mike Batt sneaked me in disguised as a mascot.” He stared at the man and his eyes opened very wide. “You’re Billy Idol, aren’t you? I saw you at the Top of the Pops studio once when you were still with Generation X.”
“Not me, mate.” The man shook his head and grinned. Something about the grin made a shiver run up Tobermory’s spine. “Billy copied my look. Name’s Spike.”
“Pleased to meet you, Spike,” Tobermory said politely. “And pleased to meet you, Miss…?”
“Drusilla,” the woman told him. “You’re very cute. I wonder what you taste like.” Her beautiful face metamorphosed into a demonic mask and she opened her mouth to display long white fangs.
Tobermory knew that running would be futile. His short legs could never outrun even a normal human, never mind a vampire. “We taste disgusting,” he said. “It’s how we survive. Dogs, cats, foxes, none of them will eat a Womble. Worse than skunks, we are.”
“Oh, what a shame,” Drusilla pouted. Her face returned to its human form. “How terrible for you.”
“It has its advantages,” Tobermory said, managing to restrain himself from heaving a sigh of relief.
“You weren’t really going to eat him, were you, Dru?” Spike asked. “Thought eating furry little creatures was more Angel’s gig.”
“He looks so sweet that I thought that he’d make a nice dessert,” Drusilla said, “but perhaps that would have been a waste.” She turned an appraising stare on the Womble. “Would you like to come to tea with Miss Edith?”
“Uh, I really ought to be getting back to the burrow,” Tobermory said. “Great Uncle Bulgaria wouldn’t like me staying out too late.”
“Word to the wise, mate,” Spike said, “Dru don’t like it when her invitations get turned down. She might get violent.” He bent low and addressed the Womble on his own level. “Anyway, Miss Edith’s a real doll. You might get lucky.”
“Really?” Tobermory considered his options. He could be firm about his refusal, and risk getting his head ripped off by a violent vampire, or he could change his mind, risk Great Uncle Bulgaria’s wrath, and meet an attractive female. It wasn’t really a contest. Female companionship was in short supply among the Wombles. He had a pen pal in Venezuela, a girl Womble called Ashby de la Zouche, but it wasn’t the same. “Very well, Miss Drusilla, I’d be delighted to accept your invitation to tea.”- - - - -
Tobermory wobbled into the burrow at dawn. He smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and whisky and looked very much the worse for wear. “Remember you’re a Womble,” he sang, out of key. “Remember you’re a Womble…”
Orinoco looked up from his breakfast porridge. “You’re for it, Tobermory,” he warned. “Great Uncle Bulgaria’s really on the warpath.”
The Womble in question loomed into sight and glared over the top of his spectacles. “Well?” he demanded. “What’s the story, Tobermory?”The end
The characters in this story are used without permission. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox. The Wombles © Miss Elisabeth Beresford.