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“Hello, my name is Dawn Summers, but this is NOT No One Cares Anymore! I am also not accompanied by Laura, since at time of recording she’s on her family vacation before we start our Spring semester. Usually, I’d be here to talk to you about our favorite obscure historical events and mysteries, but for the next few weeks of our hiatus from the main podcast I have something . . . a little different for you.”
“‘A little different,’ Nibblet? Reckon it’s more than a little different.”
“I mean, it’s still a mystery! Just a modern one, and a solvable one! One that half a PhD in social anthropology will probably not help me solve at all, but I’m ready to dive in with some good old-fashioned grassroots sleuthing! Without further ado, I present the special hiatus investigation from half the team of No One Cares Anymore . . . Who Shat on the Floor at My Sister’s Wedding? ”
“Oh my god, I can’t believe I agreed to this.”
“Too late! Now, why don’t you explain who you are and how we know each other . . . Spike, do you want to go first?”
“Sure, Bit. Ah, ’m Spike. I know you from babysitting you back when you were in grade school. And also from marrying your sister, I suppose.”
“Great. Buffy?”
“ . . . I’m Buffy.”
“And how do we know each other?”
“Well, when I was around five, Mom and Dad came home with this screaming thing wrapped in a blanket, and said, ‘Buffy, this is your new sister!’ . . . And then you proceeded to steal my clothes for the rest of time.”
“That . . . that is a baseless accusation.”
“You are literally wearing my sweater right now.”
“Completely circumstantial evidence.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anyway, Buffy and Spike are my sister and my brother-in-law, as well as victims of one of the most intriguing crimes of our modern age. On the day of their wedding, there mysteriously appeared in the bathroom corridor . . . human fecal matter.”
“It WAS incredibly gross.”
“My aim over the next couple weeks I’m staying with them, in addition to holiday-ing it up, will be solving this crime. Most of the major players from the wedding are in town, so it’s the perfect opportunity to investigate.”
“Hear hear, Nibblet. I have full faith in you!”
“I don’t.”
“Thank you, SPIKE. Buffy, why don’t you explain to our listeners why you doubt my stellar detecting abilities?”
“Hmm, where to start? How about: this happened almost a year ago, you are in no way qualified to solve crime, and you are technically also a suspect, so you’re going to be all bias-y.”
“All bias-y?!”
“I also miiiight have a bet with Spike that you won’t be able to figure it out, so. I may also be rooting for your failure. Just a little bit.”
“And what do you get if you win this bet?”
“ . . . um . . .”
“Ha, no comment.”
“Eeeew, you guuuys! This is a FAMILY PODCAST!”
“We didn’t say anything!”
“Think your red face gives it away, love.”
“SPIKE!”
“Listeners, my sister is currently blushing, like, a deep magenta. A color that I previously—ha—thought humans couldn’t even—”
“DAWN! Dawn, what . . . what is your next thing?”
“Haha, um, ahem. Yes. As a very serious investigator, I need you to describe for my listeners the scene of the crime. Obviously.”
“‘Fore we move on, I would like to point out that I’ve listened to every damn episode of No One Cares Anymore, and while it is brilliant, in no way is it a sodding ‘family podcast.’”
“Well, you’re my family! And, and you listen to it! So.”
“Touché.”
“Soooo, describing finding the shit on the floor? Because, again: ew.”
“Yeah, think that’s your cue, pet.”
“Okay, so! It was the reception, everything was perfect—”
“Yeah, really was.”
“MUCH with the perfect . . . and I went downstairs to use the bathroom because I’d, um, had a bit to drink that night, and a song that I didn’t like much had just come on.”
“It was something Andrew requested, ‘cause of course it was.”
“And I got downstairs, to this weird little alcove where the bathrooms are? And I saw Tara kneeling on the floor. I asked her what she was doing, and if everything was okay because you never know if a de— if, um, if something. Fell over. Anyway! I asked Tara what was going on, and she said there was human shit on the floor.”
“Tara said the word shit?!”
“Well, no. She said something like, ‘Oh, Buffy, you look beautiful, by the way it seems someone defecated on the floor, but don’t worry about it, because I’m Tara and I’m too nice for my own good!’”
“Perfect impression, love.”
“So, you DON’T think Tara shat on the floor?”
“Ha! Bloody hell, the fact that you can even ask that with a straight face—”
“Buffy?”
“God, no, you know this! She would—ha, the idea that Tara would—”
“Okay, okay, but my listeners don’t know Tara!”
“You had her on for that one episode about wicca, didn’t you, Nibblet?”
“Well, yeah, but we have over a hundred and fifty episodes. Could you refresh everyone’s memory as to who Tara is?”
“Right. Tara’s Buffy’s friend from college . . . and my friend now, of course, but that’s how we met her. She knows a lot about wicca, and art, and just about everything else under the sun. Sweetest person you’ll ever meet . . . but she has got a crafty streak to her!”
“You’re just saying that because she beats you at poker all the time, honey.”
“And?!”
“Okay, so! Despite the golden rule of ‘she who smelt it dealt it,’ or, in this case, ‘she who cleaned it did shit’ . . . ha . . . we don’t think Tara is our culprit. And the people of the wedding seem to agree. As you know, Spike and Buffy, step one of my investigation was sending a survey out to everyone who attended your wedding . . .”
“Oh, do we ever know about—”
“The Shit Survey . . .T. M. Thank you, by the way, for both filling it out.”
“Please tell me it was actually anonymous?”
“It was! I would never use immoral methods in my investigation like that. This anonymous survey was emailed to nearly all of your guests—a few didn’t have email addresses, but everyone else got a Shit Survey™ in their inbox.”
“Sent it to yourself too, did you, Nibblet?”
“Of course! No stone unturned! Now, of the 84% of email-having guests who filled out the survey, only one person put Tara for the ‘who do you think shat on the floor’ question, and that was actually Tara herself.”
“I thought it was anonymous?”
“It was, but one of the respondents wrote: ‘If I were not me, I would definitely think that I—parentheses, Tara—did it. Good luck, Dawnie! This is so funny.’”
“Damn. She really is too sodding nice for her own good.”
“For real. The questions on the Shit Survey™ were as follows: ‘How long did you stay at Buffy and Spike’s wedding? Did you enjoy Buffy and Spike’s wedding? How do you feel about Buffy and Spike? Have you ever used the bathroom in a non-toilet location? What sort of outer and underwear were you wearing at Buffy and Spike’s wedding? And, finally: who do you think shat on the floor?’ The goal was to get a starting point for the investigation, and I think that goal has been more than met. The results of the survey were . . . illuminating, to say the least. For instance, did you know that at least four separate people in attendance at your wedding were NOT wearing underwear?!”
“Four?! Um, no, I can honestly say I did not know that.”
“Not wearing underwear to a wedding, that’s . . . that’s scandalous, is what that is.”
“. . . Spike, you were totally one of the four people, weren’t you?”
“Oi, anonymous, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah, not my fault you’re being all self-incriminating. Other things I have discovered through this survey include that nearly all your guests did enjoy your wedding—”
“Nearly?!”
“—that the people who attended your wedding have used the bathroom at non-toilet locations including bushes, cemeteries, lakes, abandoned buildings, and buckets in vans . . . AND that, of the survey respondents, a whopping 35% say that they like Buffy but not Spike.”
“Ha! Yeah . . . that tracks, actually.”
“That’s kind of mean.”
“You’re just so bloody likable, pet.”
“No flirting on my family podcast!!!”
“You put Spike and me in the same room to ask us about our wedding and expected us to NOT flirt?”
“Ugh, fair enough. But I’m officially adding ‘annoyed by the incessant, constant heart-eyes’ to my list of potential motives!”
“You go right ahead, Bit.”
“ Ugh! The most interesting survey response by far, though, was to the question about who everyone thought did it . . . 60% of respondents pointed their fingers towards one . . . Xander Harris.”
“Ahahahahahahahah . . . fuck . . . wait ‘til he gets a load of this!”
“Full disclosure: I, Dawn Summers, was one of those sixty percent of respondents.”
“I actually said Xander did it, too.”
“I thought you also thought it was Faith, pet?”
“I DID, but last month when we were in Chicago for that apo— for, uh, work. Business. We got drunk together, and, um . . . I just know it wasn’t her, okay?”
“Oh my god. Buffy. WHAT could have happened that would result in you possibly—”
“Look, it was four in the morning and we couldn’t find a bathroom!”
“. . . ew.”
“Her, um, technique would not have resulted in what I saw at the wedding.”
“How do you have a—”
“Looove! I forgot you got drunk with Faith! Still completely unfair. And to think that you two promised not to have too much fun without me!”
“You meant that in a safety kind of way.”
“I did, but the point still stands. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve gotten to get pissed with Faith?!”
“You’re a dork, you know that?”
“SO! Buffy has reason to believe our shit culprit—our culp-shit, if you will—was not Faith. Before I proceed, Spike, do you have any reason why you think Xander did NOT shit on the floor at your wedding?”
“Nah. Now that I know it wasn’t Faith, I suspect the boy as well, actually.”
“Excellent. So we have a lead. My plan for the next episode is to interview our number one suspect and present to you the Xander Harris Theory, but for now, why don’t you give our listeners some background as to who Xander is, and why he’s such a suspicious character?”
“Dawn, are you sure just a lot of people thinking he did it is the same thing as a lead?”
“Yes, sister! I’m the detective here, not you. I decide which things are leads.”
“Is it too late to change my survey answer to ‘Dawn Summers’?”
“HEY! I would NEVER!”
“Ha, I know, I know! I really do think it was Xander.”
“Listeners, I have known Xander Harris since I was nine years old. He has gone from my sister’s weird friend to preteen crush—”
“Bloody hell, I forgot about that.”
“—to trusted friend in his own right. And at no point during our entire relationship has he ever found a poop joke unfunny.”
“God, that is so, so true. He went through this whole whoopie cushion phase when we were sixteen and I just about killed him.”
“In addition to being a fart-joke enthusiast and potential culp-shit, Xander is also a carpenter who basically decorated your entire wedding for free, so I can also see him being able to justify pooping on the floor. His positive contributions would still outweigh the, uh, shitty ones, you know?”
“Ugh, yeah, he’d know we couldn’t be mad at him for it.”
“Speak for yourself, love. If it had ruined the day at all for you—”
“You KNOW it didn’t.”
“I know, but if it did, I’d be at Xander’s throat regardless of how many pretty wooden flowers he carved . . . if he did do it, of course.”
“And did he?! We’ll look into that next time. Buffy, Spike, final words before we sign off? How would you feel if this were to remain a mystery?”
“I, um, don’t think I’d care that much? And, I mean, I’d win our bet, so . . .”
“Psh, whatever. Spike?”
“Detective Dawn, I’d be bloody devastated. A broken man. You and your podcast are my only hope for justice.”
“Suck-up.”
“And that’s all for now—see you all next time on Who Shat on the Floor at my Sister’s Wedding? , a special No One Cares Anymore holiday mini-production!”
“I still cannot believe you’re calling it that.”