speaker_to_customers | It's official, I'm crazy.

I've given in. Here is the second instalment of the strangest all-human AU of all time. Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland. Spike is a Jivaro head-hunter in the Amazon rain-forest. Can they get together?

Part one is HERE

Savage Beauty – Part 2

“Purpose of your visit?” the Immigration officer at Reykjavik Airport asked.

“I come to marry your beautiful Prime Minister,” Spike told him.

“Ha, ha, you make the funny,” the Icelander said, his bored tone indicating that it wasn’t the first time a visitor had declared that intention. “Purpose of visit?”

“Tourism,” Giles put in firmly. “We are all here as tourists.”

“Góður himinn!” the Customs man exclaimed loudly. “What is this?”

Giles looked across to the Customs desk and his heart sank. The Icelander was holding Drusilla’s favourite shrunken head.

“That is Miss Edith,” Drusilla explained. “She is my spirit guide.” She smiled at him angelically. “She was a missionary until she met Daddy.”

“Umm, it is a religious artefact,” Giles said desperately. “A replica of the sort of thing her people used to have in the old days.” His heart was in his boots. He was pretty sure he’d managed to relieve Drusilla of all her poison darts and knives, and he’d successfully persuaded her to leave all her poison arrow frogs at home by telling her that there would be nothing for them to eat in Iceland, but somehow he’d overlooked Miss Edith. Thank God the connecting flights had worked out smoothly and they hadn’t had to pass through Customs in New York; the reaction of an American official to the shrunken head wasn’t something he cared to contemplate.

The Icelandic Customs Officer looked at Miss Edith dubiously, and then looked at his list of contraband items. He scratched his head, and then handed the macabre trophy back to the Jivaro girl. “It is shrunken head, I know,” he said, “but it is not covered by the regulations. Unless it comes under Meat Products? No, that could not be right. And humans are not covered under CITES. Welcome to Iceland.”

Giles led the way out of the airport concourse towards the taxi ranks. Heads turned as the exotic trio, or rather the exotic duo plus one ordinary middle-aged Englishman, passed. Giles had managed to talk Spike into donning jeans and a sweatshirt, although he had a sneaking suspicious the penis sheath still lurked below the jeans, but the spike through the young man’s nose was an obvious oddity. Drusilla was clad in a long cotton skirt and a decorous blouse, but somehow seemed even more sultry and sexual than when she walked through the rain forest with her firm breasts on open display. Her enigmatic smile showed that she was well aware of the effect she was having on the local men. Spike was having a similar effect on the local women, but seemed to be completely oblivious to it; his mind was no doubt fixed firmly on the Prime Minister and he would accept no substitutes.

Not for the first time Giles wondered what temporary insanity had led him to go along with this mad scheme. It was fascinating from an anthropological point of view, of course, the culture clash rated about 9.6 on the Richter scale, but the potential for horrible embarrassment was unlimited. Even assuming he managed to restrain Drusilla from killing anyone, and that was by no means a given. Somehow he’d not only agreed to accompany them but had even obtained a research grant that was covering most of their expenses. Now, in the cold light of a Reykjavik winter’s day, he could only assume that he’d been struck by some tropical brain fever. Or hypnotised by Drusilla, who claimed shamanic powers and sometimes demonstrated abilities that indicated that they were not entirely bunkum.

Too late to back out now, of course; they were here, and he would just have to make the best of it. With luck, Spike would be cured of his obsession once he saw the Prime Minister in the flesh and saw that she was just an ordinary woman.

In her early days as a student activist she had gained the nickname ‘Valkyrie’. However, after her Gold Medal at the Athens Olympics had catapulted her to national, and indeed international, fame that nickname had seemed inadequate. She wasn’t a Chooser of the Slain; she was the Slayer. Political opponents had soon learned that her gift for destroying an opponent on the Judo mat extended into the realms of the debating chamber.

“You work too hard,” her Parliamentary Secretary, Anya Aud Olafsdottir, told her. “The country is prosperous and peaceful. There is time for you to let your hair down. Take some time out to party, and have some orgasms.”

“That would not make me an acceptable role model for our youth,” Buffi Somersdottir replied. “Our teenage pregnancy rates are too high as it is. Perhaps when I have introduced my new legislation to safeguard our fishing industry for all time, and have ensured that our economy is protected against all adverse effects from the Americans downgrading their military installations here, then I might relax for a short time.” She sighed. “And besides, all the men I meet are totally boring.”

“Even that handsome young American colonel?” Anya asked.

“Even him. Also, I am sure he is a spy of some sort,” Buffi said. “A colonel at that age? Very strange.”

“So says the girl who is Prime Minister at twenty-four,” Anya shot back. “If you are surrounded all the time by boring politicians, middle-aged and married, it is your own fault.”

“How could I turn down the chance to be Prime Minister? The people have chosen me, and I have a duty to serve them. Being the chosen one is an honour and a privilege, and I will not let my people down.”

“And you won’t let your panties down either,” Anya teased.

.”Not unless I meet someone extremely out of the ordinary,” Buffi smiled, “and in this environment I don’t think that is very likely.”