|Part:||4. The One Who Knows|
After another visit with Mr. Bryant, Spike and Troy’s mission comes to a close, as does Spike’s long-distance teasing-torture of Buffy. Soon he can torture her in person. But first ... a little family time.
Poetic license: Apparently, heckling batters (or pitchers or anyone else, I suppose) in Little League baseball has gone the way of the penny arcade. However, I personally see nothing wrong with it. I grew up with heckling and it didn’t scar me … much. Therefore, in my world, there will be hecklers. It’s as much a part of the game as hotdogs, Cracker Jacks, cleats in the face, and broken windshields.
And yes, in case you weren't aware, since a lawsuit in 1974, girls have been allowed to play Minor League (ages 7-12) and Little/Major League (ages 9+) baseball. There is also a softball league for boys and girls.
Music Referenced: Undefeated, Jason Derulo http://youtu.be/oL9MaO_jZ5A
Some photographs courtesy of FreeFoto.com
|Rating / Warnings:||
The next morning, Sunday September 18th, 2011:
Spike and Troy arrived at the Bryant house a couple of minutes after ten the next morning. The family had just finished breakfast and the old man was still sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee.
The two visitors accepted coffee as well and sat down at the table with the elder Bryant and his son.
“Father, these men are looking for information about the Raamar,” the younger Bryant began.
The old man waved a hand, agitated. “I know that. They were here last night.”
“I just didn’t know if you remembered,” the younger man explained.
“I’m not a blithering idiot,” the elder Bryant snapped at his son.
John Jr. sighed and extended his hands, palms up, in supplication as he left the kitchen.
“Would you boys care for some breakfast? Coffee?” the old man asked them, his coal-black eyes alert and focused as he cast his gaze over Spike and Troy.
"No, thank you, sir. We’ve eaten,” Troy replied.
“It’s no trouble…” the old man continued.
“No – really, sir. Thank you. We had the buffet at the hotel – we’re stuffed,” Troy assured him.
The wizened old Indian seemed satisfied with that. “What is it you boys needed, then?” he asked, looking from Troy to Spike.
Troy pulled out the pages of the decoded book that seemed to outline the spell to create a new Gem, and slid it across the table to the elder man. “We were wondering if you would be able to translate this for us.”
Mr. Bryant pulled a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on with slightly shaking, grizzled hands. He fumbled a moment with the papers, his arthritic fingers not as nimble as they had once been, before picking them up. He studied the pages for a long while before looking back up and meeting Spike’s gaze.
“This is only for those that have given the Raamar people protection. There are few Raamar left to protect, and what there are have scattered to the four winds: half-breeds, like me,” he told them, laying the pages down.
“We understand that, Mr. Bryant,” Troy cajoled. “But we would be eternally grateful if you could see fit to…”
“This is dangerous medicine … powerful. Not meant for just anyone. The one must be courageous and brave … true of heart. It is not a gift; it is a right to be earned,” the elder interrupted him sternly.
The Indian’s eyes seemed to grow confused for the briefest of moments, then focused again as he asked amiably, “Would you like some breakfast? It wouldn’t be any trouble.”
Troy shook his head. “No … thank you, sir,” he stammered before getting back to the point, “We know how powerful the magic is. We would gladly earn it … if there was some way to. I assure you, we would guard the secret with our lives …” Troy assured him.
“You? You would guard this from those that would have it? You would earn it? You are a mortal! Not even of this land. It is not your word that has any meaning,” Mr. Bryant shot back at Troy. Then, turning his gaze to Spike, he said, “It is the ancestor alone that stands any chance of earning it or guarding it.”
“I’m more American than he is,” Troy argued, jabbing a thumb towards Spike, clearly insulted.
“As I said: not of this land. Not a Raamar; not a Quechan … not even a Mexican,” the old man agreed, looking back at Troy. “He …” Mr. Bryant continued, pointing an arthritis-twisted finger at Spike, “… is one of the Great Protector’s descendants. Is that not true?”
Spike nodded. “Reckon that’s true enough.”
“And yet you are not of the darkness,” the elder man observed, waving a hand at the bright sun shining in through the window. “You have the Great Spirit’s talisman. Why, then, do you seek another?”
“Got a daughter like me. A champion … a warrior, protector,” Spike explained.
“And she is also of the Aurelius line?” the old man queried.
“My blood, so … stands t’ reason, don’t it?” Spike replied, avoiding actually answering the question. He had no idea what line Bess was of; no one did. All the vamps involved in her turning had long been dust.
The old man considered this a few moments, looking back down at the pages again, studying them carefully. After a long, drawn-out silence, the elderly man removed his reading glasses and set them aside, then slid the pages back across the table to Troy.
“Would you like some breakfast? I’m sure I can get something whipped up…”
“No, sir. Thank you,” Troy interrupted him. “Will you help us with the spell … the translation?”
“I’m afraid it is not my place to judge the worthiness of a Great Protector. I am not fully Raamar and there are no Raamar tribal lands left to defend, in any case.”
“Please, sir,” Troy pleaded. “If anyone deserves this, it’s his daughter. She’s a Champion – a Slayer as well as an Aurelian. Do you know what that is? A Slayer?”
“Of course. Blood of the Slayer. The spell calls for…” the old man stopped talking abruptly. “Yes, I am familiar with this Champion,” he revised.
Spike cocked a brow at him. “The spell needs the blood of a Slayer?”
“I’ve said too much. I’m an old man. My mouth runs on at times, leaving my time-addled brain behind,” Mr. Bryant admitted.
“What can we do to convince you to help us?” Troy wondered. “If anyone deserves your trust, it would be Bess. She’s special …” Troy’s voice cracked slightly and he cleared his throat. “... a very special person. She is a Champion, a protector in every sense. If she could earn it, she would.”
The old man studied Troy’s pleading face, then looked at Spike’s grave expression. After a moment, he nodded solemnly. “It is not my place to offer the talisman of the Great Spirit, however …” he pulled a lanyard of worn leather off over his head upon which hung a heavy pendant of polished malachite – a brilliant green opaque stone with darker green, nearly black, striations. “... it would’ve been my Raamar ancestor’s place. Have your Shaman use this talisman to call up the spirit Mingan. He can guide you in this. He may bestow a test upon you and allow your Champion to earn the blessing of the Great Spirit.”
The old man handed the pendant to Spike somewhat reluctantly, his hand pausing halfway across the table, before fully extending to the vampire.
Spike took the necklace from the man’s hand and slipped it over his own head. The primary color of the stone was hauntingly familiar to Spike. If not for the opaqueness and the bands of darker green, it may have been a Gem of Amarra.
“Mingan?” he repeated, looking up at the old man.
Mr. Bryant nodded.
“’Preciate it. I’ll return this as soon as I can.”
The old man inclined his head, acknowledging Spike’s gratitude. “Can I offer you gentlemen some breakfast?”
“No … ta ever so,” Spike replied. “Can I ask ya somethin’ else?” Spike continued as he straightened the pendant on his chest.
“It has been said that asking questions is the only way to find the answers you seek,” Mr. Bryant agreed.
Spike nodded. “How many times were Aurelians called on to help protect the Raamar?”
Mr. Bryant furrowed his brow in thought for a few moments. “My great-grandfather’s stories are many winters away now, but I seem to remember him telling the tales of two such requests.”
Spike’s brows went up, but he tried to not sound or look too overly-excited. “The first I reckon was Aurelius himself, yeah? Do ya know who the other was … anything about it? What year it was?”
The old man shook his head. “Years had no meaning to the old ones. There was no calendar; there were only seasons passing, one into the next, moons waxing and waning. No one knows how many had passed since the Great Creator cast his sons into the heavens.
“The first calling to the Great Protector brought a swift and bloody end to the Spanish mission. They promised great gifts – but delivered only a handful of trinkets. They took the food from the mouths of our babes, and the land from beneath our feet. They promised a one true god to protect us, but we suffered illness and death at the hands of their ‘one true god’, unlike the Great Creator and Great Spirit who had provided health and abundance for our people since the dawn of time.
“The second calling was later; the great white army came and took over our river crossing. We fought them back once on our own merits, but they returned some time later. They built a fortress, reclaimed our river crossing, and took all the fertile land along the river for themselves.
“Our braves fought again, but there were too many. The Great Protector heard our call and came but …” the old man paused, thinking a moment, lost in some distant memory. “It did not go well. The story goes that he thought to cheat our people of the talisman and not give us the requisite assistance.
“It was the beginning of the end for the Raamar. Our braves attacked the fort and ambushed patrols of soldiers, expecting the Protector to come and fight at their side. But, he instead chose to attempt to obtain the talisman through deceit. While our braves were fighting for their lives and the lives of our people, the Protector tortured the Medicine Man to force him to create the talisman for him.
“It is told that this Protector took great joy in the act of torture – much more than in warfare, for which he’d been called. When his devices did not have the desired effect on our Medicine Man, he began killing the unprotected women and children that had gathered. Their blood ran freely; it is said the river was stained red with the blood of the innocents. At last, desperate to save what few of the tribe that remained, the Medicine Man agreed to create the talisman.
“It is said that the spell was never completed. The Medicine Man died of his injuries before the blood of a Slayer could be obtained,” the old man concluded.
Spike’s hope that another Gem existed somewhere, just waiting to be found, collapsed inside him painfully. “Bugger…” he muttered under his breath, then his brow furrowed as a thought occurred to him.
“You don’t know the name o’ this blighter … the one that enjoyed torturing women and children and whatall?” he asked the old man.
The Indian shook his head. “If it was passed to me, I don’t remember it now – too many seasons have fogged my mind.
“Where is my hospitality? I should offer you breakfast … certainly you must be hungry after your long trip,” the old man offered yet again.
“No, thank you, sir,” Troy answered, his tone patient. “We ate just a little while ago.”
“Don’t reckon the name Angelus rings any bells for ya …” Spike wondered.
The old man shook his head. “Too many seasons,” he repeated.
Spike pursed his lips but nodded. “An’ you don’t know what year it was?”
“The Year of the End," the old Indian related.
“Would’ve been in the mid-1800’s,” Troy offered. “That was when the tribe seemed to … disperse … vanish. Sometime during that decade … around the time of the gold rush.”
“Before my time,” Spike muttered. “Before Dru’s …” he thought aloud.
“You think it might’ve been this Angelus guy?” Troy asked Spike.
Spike shrugged. “The M.O. fits. A master o’ bloody torture, he is.”
“Is? As in … still is?” Troy shot back, dark eyes wide.
Spike smiled ruefully. “Leopards don’t change their spots … even after a couple o’ centuries. Might fade a bit, harder t’ notice with a soulful camouflage, but they don’t bloody change.”
“So … this guy is still alive?” Troy questioned, his eyes wide with surprise.
“Undead, more like,” Spike confirmed.
“And you know him? We could talk to him?” Troy asked, growing more excited.
“Know ‘im. Don’t rightly fancy talkin’ to the wanker.”
“But … he might know something. He might have…”
“He don’t have the bloody Gem or know how t' make one,” Spike cut Troy off.
“How do you know?”
Spike snorted. “If he had one, he’d bloody well be usin’ it. Wouldn’t let me have one up on him, would he?”
“Oh, ok. Well … but still, he might know something useful,” Troy suggested.
“Might … might not."
“If the Medicine Man did the spell in front of him, he might know a good bit about it,” Troy pointed out.
“Even if he did, he ain’t big on sharin’ – especially not with me. He and I have a kinda … hate-hate relationship. Not sure why – I’m so bloody lovable … easy-goin’ and whatnot. He, on the other hand, is a right prat.”
Troy rolled his eyes.
“Would you boys like some breakfast? Perhaps a cup of coffee?” Mr. Bryant asked again. “I don’t know where my manners have gone in my old age…”
“No, sir,” Troy replied, standing up. “I think we’ve got what we need,” he offered tentatively, looking at Spike for confirmation.
“Right. Got your bauble here … we’ll ring up Mingan and give that a go,” Spike agreed as he stood up also. “Errr … don’t need any … offerings or … sacrifices for this spirit o’ yours, do we?”
The wrinkled old Indian’s dark eyes twinkled as he pushed himself to his feet stiffly, bronze, gnarled hands pressing heavily against the table for support. “He always appreciates some fine tobacco and bottle of whiskey.”
Spike nodded. “Can’t rightly blame a ghostie for that…”
Before they left, Spike and Troy shook hands with the old man, declined breakfast again, and promised to bring his ancestor’s amulet back to him as soon as they could.
The trip back to Sunnydale was uneventful. When they reached the city limits, Troy headed back to the mansion where Bess waited; Spike turned the opposite way and went to the ballpark where Dani’s Minor League baseball team was playing in a county-wide tournament.
Spike pulled up in the dusty parking lot, sneaking his bike in a spot next to the Blue Bomber which was almost directly behind home plate. He wasn’t actually in a parking spot, but parked on the line – if there had actually been lines in the dirt lot – between Buffy’s minivan and another parent’s car. He killed the engine of the Harley and kicked it up onto its stand just as Dani came out of the dugout. She was swinging her aluminum bat around her shoulders, taking practice swings as she had seen the pros do as she walked to the plate.
At the sound of the rumbling bike, she looked up and saw him. Her bright, blue eyes widened and she let the all-business, grim line of her mouth curve into a toothy grin. She looked over to where her cheering-section sat in the bleachers, and yelled, pointing at Spike, “Papa made it!”
Spike’s eyes followed Dani’s gaze and found Buffy’s golden hair, trussed up in a long ponytail, just before his wife turned and looked in the direction Dani was pointing. She smiled at him, clearly delighted that he’d made it – probably for more than one reason – and waved him over. Spike held her gaze for a long moment, drinking in the sight of her, before holding a finger up, silently saying he'd be there in a minute.
Spike got off the bike and walked up to the tall chain-link fence behind home plate as Dani took her place in the batter’s box. She adjusted her feet, scuffling up red clay, digging her back foot into the hardpack, then she swung her bat back and forth over the plate a couple of times before bringing it back and resting it on her back shoulder.
“Hold the bat up, Lemon Drop – don’t rest it on your bloody shoulder,” Spike coached from behind her. “Can’t hit anythin’ like that. Hit it like we practiced.”
Dani re-shuffled her feet, re-straightened her helmet, re-swung her bat back and forth over the plate, and then finally stilled it near her back shoulder, but not resting on it.
“Elbows up,” Spike instructed, and Dani raised both elbows so they were parallel to the ground. “Wait for yer pitch. Don’t forget t’ follow through,” Spike continued to coach from behind her.
The first pitch came at her. The players in the other dugout were jeering, chorusing the ever-popular, ‘Swing, batta’, batta’, swing!”
Dani swung. And missed.
“Alright. No worries,” Spike told her, clapping his hands encouragingly. “Don’ chase it, pet. That was a ball … wait for your pitch.”
Dani went through her ritual again: shuffle feet, set stance, dig cleats into clay, straighten helmet, swing bat, ready it near back shoulder, raise elbows, look at pitcher, wait for pitch.
The second pitch came at her and she watched it go by. “Steee-rike,” yelled the umpire from behind the base.
“Like bloody hell! That was low and away!” Spike yelled at the umpire. The umpire didn’t even hear him – he’d heard it too many times before.
“Alright,” Spike assured his daughter again as she stepped out of the batter’s box. “That wasn’t your pitch – bloody ump’s blind is all. If it’s anywhere near the plate, swing this time, yeah? Knock it down their throats, Grasshopper.”
Dani nodded, never looking at her father. She took a deep, calming breath then stepped back in the box and began her ritual again.
The other team continued to heckle her with cries of, “No batter! No batter!” and “Easy out!” and “Cinderella can’t find the ball!” Of course, they also continued to encourage her to ‘swing, batter!’
On the other side of the field, Dani’s team, the Sunnydale Slammers, chanted, “We want a pitcher, not a belly itcher!” and shouted words of encouragement to their teammate. “You can do it, Dani! C’mon, Dani!”
For the first time, Spike looked up at the scoreboard. It was the bottom of the sixth, and final, inning and there was one out. The other team was ahead by one run.
Spike looked back just in time to see the pitcher throw. Dani began her swing, but stopped just in time for it to not count as a strike. The ball went well wide of the plate, past the catcher’s mitt, and hit the backstop. Dani backed away from the plate as a runner on second advanced to third and turned the corner toward home, but the third-base coach stopped him. The pitcher had come up to cover home plate and the catcher was already tossing him the ball.
“Be alert! Bunt or sacrifice fly! Come in closer!” the coach of the other team yelled at his players, motioning them all to come in closer to the infield.
Dani’s coach jogged out and spoke to her quietly before she stepped back into the batter’s box and began her ritual all over again.
When the pitcher let the ball go, Dani slid her top hand down the bat to get ready to bunt it down the first-base line, but she didn’t bring the bat down over the plate, stopping at the last moment. The ball bounced in front of the plate one time and the catcher trapped it with his glove and kneepads.
Spike frowned. He hated bunts. It seemed like a cop-out. He knew a good bunt wasn’t as easy to do as it might seem and he knew it was a strategy, but so was hitting the sodding thing out of the park. Dani could hit – he knew she could. She’d never hit a home run or anything like that, but she was a decent hitter and had a good swing for a seven year old.
He looked over at Buffy, who was now standing, along with everyone else in the small set of bleachers. All eyes were on Dani. Annie and Buffy looked like twins: their hands covering their mouths and noses, worry in their eyes. Billy and Xander were yelling encouraging words to Dani, shaking their fists and jumping on the aluminum stands to make even more noise. Spike’s eyes scanned to the Slammers’ dugout, where he found JJ and the rest of the team banging their gloves on the chain link fence they stood behind, and also shouting and cheering.
Dani looked back at her coach again, who simply nodded at her. His meaning was clear to her: same play, bunt. Then she looked at her dad for just a second before stepping back into the batter’s box.
“Three and two,” announced the umpire, holding up three fingers on one hand and two on the other.
“Hit the soddin’ thing,” Spike said in a low voice from the other side of the backstop. He wasn’t the coach, but he couldn’t help himself. “I know you can do it.”
It seemed Dani had just finished her pre-bat routine and turned her head toward the pitcher when the ball came out of his hand. There was no time to think – only time to react.
In a fraction of a second she decided. Hit the soddin’ thing. She swung at the ball with all her strength. The baseball cracked against the aluminum bat with a metallic ringing-thud. It flew over the heads of all the outfielders, who had moved in to cover a sacrifice or a bunt. And then … it just kept flying.
The centerfielder and leftfielder turned and gave chase, but it was useless. The ball cleared the four-foot fence at the back of the field by two feet and landed in the tall weeds on the other side.
Dani had dropped her bat and begun running as fast as she could to first as soon as the ball was away, not even realizing she didn’t have to run. She stopped at first and looked around, waiting for the ump to call her out. It was only then that she saw everyone in their stands going wild and her teammates streaming out of the dugout. She looked at Spike, confusion covering her features. Her dad was smiling proudly, twirling his finger in a circle – telling her to keep running.
“Home run! You hit a home run!” the Slammers’ first-base coach told her. “Go! Take your bases!”
Dani’s eyes went wide. She stood there a moment in complete and utter shock before the coach repeated her instructions a second time. Dani ran around the bases, touching each in turn, and jumping down with both feet on home plate before being mobbed by her teammates. She’d never been more happy in her entire life. This was, undoubtedly, the best day ever.
After the two teams slapped hands, muttering ‘good game’ to each other, they had a short meeting in the dugout with the coaches, who announced the victory party would be at Chuck E. Cheese in half an hour. They would be going to the regional fall tournament in Torrance and might even make it to state. The kids cheered giddily, jumping up and down, arms raised in the air in victory, Rocky-style.
The team gathered up their gear and rushed out of the dugout where they were greeted by their friends and parents. Dani found her dad instantly and hurtled towards him, throwing herself at him when she got close. Spike caught her under her arms and twirled her in a circle, using her own momentum to swing her around.
“Did you see!? I did it! Did you see!? We won! I hit a home run! Did you see!?” she babbled, not letting him answer.
Spike hugged her to him, finally able to answer when she ran out of breath. “Everybody in the bloody place saw, Grasshopper! Bloody brilliant! Knew you could do it.”
Buffy, who was carrying MacKenzie, came up to the group of players, followed closely by Annie, JJ, and Xander. They all congratulated Dani, patting her back enthusiastically. Dani was on top of the world. Her face hurt from grinning so widely, but she couldn’t stop. Her eyes absolutely glittered with joy as the group began walking out to the parking lot.
“Where’s Billy?” Buffy asked, realizing they were one child short. It’s some sort of innate Mom-thing; without even counting, they can sense that there just wasn’t enough noise or something.
“He went to get the ball…” Annie offered, pointing towards the outfield. Billy was just climbing back over the fence with the ball in hand.
Spike set Dani back on her feet when they reached the minivan and Billy caught up to them. “Here,” he offered, holding the ball out towards his twin. “Your very first home run. One day, this ball will be worth a million-gazillion dollars!” he asserted, smiling at his sister proudly.
Dani laughed as she grabbed it from his hands. “Awesome! When I’m a rich and famous baseball player, I’ll buy you a puppy and … a real light saber and … an electric guitar!”
“Cool!” Billy grinned back at her.
"You can’t be a baseball star,” JJ pointed out. “You’re a girl.”
“Girls can do anything they want, right Mama?” Dani contended, narrowing her eyes and sticking her tongue out at her cousin.
“That’s what they tell me … it’s a law or something,” Buffy agreed. “All you have to do is be twice as good as the guys to get a chance – luckily, that’s not all that hard.”
"Hey!" Xander objected. "I resemble that remark!"
Buffy laughed as Dani scrunched her face up in a sneer at JJ. “See? Girls rule, boys drool!”
“Do not!” JJ shot back, displaying his rapier wit.
A shrill whistle cut the air and broke up the all too familiar ‘Not/Too’ argument. “Right, then,” Spike began when everyone was quiet. “Who’s for the indigestion party with Chuck?”
“Me!” chorused all the children, hands in the air.
Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes before meeting Spike’s gaze over the heads of their children. Spike smirked at her as the children began piling into the minivan. When the path between them was clear, Spike stepped forward and took her in his arms. He swayed with her a moment, holding her against him as if dancing.
“Can’t wait t’ get you home,” he whispered in her ear. “Missed you.”
Buffy moaned against his shoulder and lifted her lips up to his for a kiss. Spike’s lips touched hers gently, still teasing and taunting her. His tongue darted out and pressed between her lips quickly, then pulled back. He started to pull back from the kiss, but Buffy wasn’t that easily deterred. She put a hand behind his head and pulled him back against her, crushing her lips to his hungrily. She devoured his lips, her tongue snaking into his mouth and swirling around his, tasting him, devouring him.
“Mooom!” Annie moaned. “Geez, you’d think he’d been gone a year! We’re gonna be late for the party!”
Buffy released her hold on him, but raised up on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear. “I’ve kept my promise – you better deliver.” A more deadly, threatening tone Spike had never heard from her. He leaned down and planted a knee-weakening kiss on her lips, pulling her body against his even harder.
When the kiss broke, leaving Buffy panting and breathless, he gave her his most charming, innocent smile and said, “Why Slayer, whatever are you yammerin’ on about?”
Buffy actually growled. Spike thought he’d never been closer to being staked than that moment. He laughed and winked at her. “Ole Spike always keeps ‘is promises, luv. See ya at the party.”
Spike turned and threw a leg over the Harley, then pushed it back out away from the Blue Bomber before starting it up. Buffy watched him rumble away on it, wishing to God she was on it with him.
Damn! She could’ve gone with him! She could’ve let Xander drive the Bomber, she thought too late. She rolled her eyes and sighed. He probably wouldn’t have let her ride with him – too much vibration on the Harley. It was waaay better than the washing machine.
“Mama! Can we go? We’re gonna miss the party!” Dani prompted.
Buffy blew out a breath and climbed into the driver’s seat. She squirmed a little bit as she turned and pulled the seatbelt across her body. Those Ben Wa balls always did the craziest things when you sat down or stood up … or walked, or stood still, or twisted or laid down or…
“You ok, Buff?” Xander asked, giving her an odd look.
Nothing a night of Wild Backyard Monkey Sex won’t fix, she thought, but aloud she said, “Are you kidding? Children’s pizza and arcade party at restaurant that has a rat as its mascot?” She widened her eyes as if the giddy anticipation of it was about to kill her. “Yum! Life doesn’t get any better than this.”
“I know, right?” Xander agreed, grinning like a wild man. “Anya’s gonna be so upset she missed this. It’s crazy how often she has to do inventory at the shop. I don’t think she’s been to Chuck E. Cheese in … gee … over a year.”
Buffy rolled her eyes as she put the van in reverse and headed out after Spike and the rest of the team to celebrate. Maybe she could help Anya with inventory next time…
Next: You may have been wondering to yourself: 'Where is the angst? There should be angst. This is simply not right without some blood and tears.' Well, never fear, gentle reader, you won't have to wonder much longer. The angst is coming soon ... very, very soon. Muhahahahaha.
Undefeated, Jason Derulo
Wish I knew then what I know
Can’t change the past
So I’mma get up and dance,
Even gravity can’t keep me down
Everybody, get it started
I’m on top of the world, what a feeling
Whoa, oooo, oooo…
Whoa, oooo, oooo…
Whoa, oooo, oooo…
Right now.. ow.
Yesterday’s gone, I found my way, somehow
So I’mma get up and dance,
Everybody, get it started
I’m on top of the world, what a feeling
Whoa, oooo, oooo…
No one told me what I can’t
Whoa, oooo, oooo…
Whoa, oooo, oooo…
I’m on top of the world, what a feeling
Whoa, oooo, oooo…
Please believe it, I’m undefeated.
What a feeling …
I’m undefeated, undefeated, tonight
Whoa, oooo, oooo…
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