The highways of Los Angeles were jammed. Some of the cars were steering toward the Staples Center, carrying either the very wealthy or the very lucky. Most of the cars were trying to go other places, but were inhabited by the poor and less lucky, who could not move until the basketball-game traffic cleared.

However, those few who had planned far enough in advance were in the stadium, ready for anything.

Almost.

Officially, the Staples Center was a no-smoking complex. Maxine, who ran the soundboard, had run the Lakers soundboard for thirty years and wasn't leaving anytime soon. She had been smoking for more than thirty years, and she wasn't quitting anytime soon, regardless of how much crap she took from health inspectors, fire marshals or temperamental talent.

"Hon, the nicotine is so not my thing," said tonight's anthem singer, who looked even weirder than usual. Rapper, Maxine decided, taking another drag on her Marlboro Light. Damn rappers always look strange.

"Step outside if it bothers you," Maxine said.

"I have to sing in here! Listen, my little gray-haired vixen, maybe the menthol helps you feel mellow, but it does not do wonders for the golden throat." He gestured to his neck, which looked more green than gold to Maxine, but, whatever. "The mystique of the smoke-filled nightclub died right along with Dean Martin, God rest his gin-soaked soul. C'mon. Be a pal."

Maxine took another drag. "Thirty years and it hasn't killed me yet," she said. "You'll make it to game time."

Wesley, Gunn and Angel made their way through the crowded corridors; the journey took time, as Gunn stopped every ten feet to buy a jersey, a pennant, a commemorative hat or just some hot dogs. As they got closer to their seats, Angel peered into the crowd, then froze. "Dammit! It's started already."

"Demons?" Wesley said. "What? Where?"

Angel grabbed Wesley's arm and pointed. "There. A living skeleton."

"That's Lara Flynn Boyle," Gunn said. "Actress. Looks like that all the time."

"You're kidding," Angel said.

"Sadly, no," Wesley said.

"Girl needs some hot dogs, stat," Gunn said, gesturing to his own. "I'm surprised you're eating one, Angel. You're not big on the fast food, as a rule."

"Hot dogs are okay," Angel said. "They're close enough to entrails."

Wesley and Gunn looked at each other, then dumped their hot dogs in the trash can. "With my appetite quite permanently taken care of," Wesley said, "let's find our seats. The pre-game show's about to get started."

This song, Lorne thought -- not for amateurs. Separates the men from the larva.

"O'er the laaaaaaaa-aand -- of the freeeeeeeee-heeeeeeeee!" he belted. Oh, yeah. Move over, Whitney Houston.

"And the hooome -- of the --" Here we go, Lorne baby.. Take it home. "Braaaaaaaa-ayyyyyyyy-aaaaaaaaaave!"

The crowd roared. Maxine frowned. "Show-off."

Lorne grinned down at the crowd, then shook his head. "I realize you can't shed the frump, but you want to at least dump the grump? You and I have a long game to get through."

"You're not leaving?" Maxine stared at him. "You haven't got a game to watch? Execs to shmooze?"

"I've got a sound booth to protect from the evil hordes," Lorne said. "And really, hold your thanks. I'm sure I'd be too choked up."

"Show-off," Maxine muttered. She looked down at her sound board, found the button marked "Mick" in ballpoint pen and punched it.

The speakers began blaring "Satisfaction," and a voice on the loudspeaker said, "And now presenting the -- Laker Girls!"

In the corridor outside, the crowd's roar echoed, and Cordelia nudged Fred in the elbow. "Hey. You doing all right?"

The first girls began to run out on the court. Fred was staring down at her newly curvaceous chest. "I think these must be made with silicone or a close analogue."

"How did you come up with that? Chemical analysis?"

"More a test of gravity reaction." Fred bounced on her heels by way of demonstration. "In other words, they kinda sploosh around."

"That's the idea," Cordelia said. The second group ran. "Come on, it's our turn next, okay? You're gonna be great." Cordelia was exaggerating to make Fred feel better. She'd already done Fred's hair and makeup for her, with results that were really a lot better than Cordelia had dared hope. Fred definitely had potential beyond burlap. However, her sex appeal was still stuck at the level of "deer caught in the headlights;" i.e., somewhere beneath zero.

Fred was still staring at her fake breasts. "I feel like I'm gonna fall forward."

Cordelia adjusted her own cleavage as their cue finally came. "Welcome to the club. Here we go, Fred. Showtime!"

And they ran out into the blare of sound and light, and into a sea of cheers.

Cordelia struck her pose midcourt, and from the corner of her eye she could see Fred do the same. People in the crowd were, of course, going nuts, and Cordy flashed back to high school -- in a good way, for once.

"Cordy?" Fred's voice was a whisper, but she could still hear.

"I know it's a lot of people," Cordelia said through her determined smile. "But hang in there. The dance mix will start soon."

"I was a flag girl."

"What?" Oh, please, do not let Fred have a fugue state here in the game, she thought. All we need is Fred running over to write odes to Angel on the walls.

"I wasn't popular enough to be a cheerleader," Fred said. "And I never could twirl a baton. So I had to be a flag girl. The cheerleaders wore little short skirts. WE wore green polyester coveralls. And furry hats. Nobody looks at a girl who looks like a big green Q-Tip."

Cordelia prayed for the cheering to die down so the music would start. "I know it was better when nobody looked at you --"

"No, it wasn't." Cordelia turned her head the tiniest bit and saw that Fred was staring up at the crowd -- and beaming. "It SUCKS to have no one look at you. That means you're one of the plain girls. But now -- Cordy -- I'm one of the sexy girls."

Cordy looked at Fred -- long, luxurious hair, big smoky eyes, temporarily stacked and loving every minute of it. The combination of excitement and bravado was one Cordelia had seen before, year after year, during the Miss America pageant. Always on the cosmetic-coated face of Miss Texas.

Oh, God, Cordy thought. I've created a monster.

Fred tossed her hair. "Let's hit it."

And the music began to play.

The Lakers were warming up during the dance number, and Gunn was watching the players with undisguised reverence. "The Lakers," he breathed. "The almighty freakin' L.A. Lakers. They're like, thirty feet away."

"This Shack person," Angel said. "He's human too?"

Gunn didn't answer. "Rick Fox," he whispered. "Derek Fisher."

"Fred," Wesley said. Gunn glanced over at Wesley, who had brought some kind of pansy binoculars called opera glasses and was now peering through them, open-mouthed.

Gunn turned to look at the Laker Girls. One of them was very, very into the music. This made her very, very hot. And, to his amazement, she also appeared to be very, very Fred.

He stared. Next to him, Wesley stared. On the other side, Angel stared.

Wesley sat back for a moment. "I -- well -- yes -- it appears that, ah, Fred has -- come out of her shell."

"That ain't all she's come out of," Gunn muttered. Man, he thought, do I know how to shop or what?

"You don't think Cordy would really quit to be a Laker Girl, do you?" said Angel, whose attention was apparently elsewhere.

"Gimme those binoculars," Gunn said.

"Not on your life," Wesley said.

Maxine took another drag on her cigarette and evaluated the crowd. The Lakers were ahead of the Knicks, thus far -- but it was early in the game, and given how godawful the Knicks were this year, they ought to have been further ahead than they were. Enthusiasm, but mid-level. With this in mind, Maxine punched a button marked "YMCA" and let the Village People begin to sing.

Lorne winced. "Oh, come on. We couldn't at least have Queen? Freddie Mercury -- now, there was a set of pipes."

"The action's going too fast for Queen," Maxine explained. Amateurs. Thought they knew everything. "You gotta wait for a strong lead, slow play, a long time-out. Otherwise, the Queen's not gonna do a damn bit of good."

"Huh. That's interesting." Lorne cocked his head to one side, then said, "What about when the Lakers are behind?"

"Heavy dance stuff," Maxine said, then coughed. "That bam-bam-bam stuff the kids like. Come on and ride the train and all that. Gets 'em even more riled up."

"I never realized this was so complicated," Lorne said, and then he smiled. "In your own remarkably inarticulate way, you are an advanced student of group psychology, Maxine."

Maxine weighed that for a moment, decided it was more nice than not, and gave him a tobacco-stained smile back. "You know, you're not too bad. At least, not compared to that Mariah Carey."

"Biologically speaking, I'm actually closer to human. But we'll discuss that later."

Angel watched the game in bemusement for a while. The point was to put the ball through the hoop, which he would have thought would be accomplished more often, given how tall most of the men on the court were. Of course, Angel reasoned, with vampiric reflexes and jumping ability, this game would be far easier.

He glanced upward. Solid roof, no windows. It appeared that basketball was played indoors, at night. Maybe, if Cordy decided to join the Laker Girls, he could join the Lakers. This might be something fun they could do together in their spare time. He would have to remember to mention it to Coach Jackson.

Sighing in boredom, he glanced over at his two friends. Gunn might have explained the arcane rules and nuances of this game to him, but he was much too busy bargaining with Wesley for the opera glasses.

He glanced in the other direction at the stranger sitting next to him. Wait -- not such a stranger. The man looked familiar --

Angel smiled. At last, an important person, just like Cordy said, and Angel would be able to talk with him about normal subjects, and Cordy would be very happy when she heard about it.

"Hey," Angel said. The man turned his head slightly; his eyes were invisible beneath the dark glasses he wore. Angel grinned. "Weren't you in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest?"

Cordelia had tried, for a while, to come up with a reaction besides staring. Indignation seemed too strong -- after all, Fred wasn't doing anything Cordelia hadn't told her to do. Envy was just NOT the Cordelia Chase style. But, at the same time, Cordelia was finding the very new experience of being eclipsed too unpleasant to come up with any positive emotions. So, for the time being, she stared.

Tamara seemed to have settled on Indignation. "Who the hell is she?" Tamara hissed to Cordelia during a break. "And what was with the nerdy-girl act?"

"You got me," Cordelia said, watching as Fred chatted with the VIPs in the front row. She was pretty sure that was Denzel Washington gazing up at Fred. At least, one of the dozens of people gazing at Fred was Denzel Washington..

"Do you have any IDEA how long some of us have waited to talk to those guys?" Tamara said. Without waiting for an answer, she huffed, "Get her back out here, anyway. We're about to have the quarter-break routine."

Cordy waved to Fred, who came back with a broad smile and some kind of snack in one hand. "Those people are a whole lot friendlier than most folks in L.A.," Fred said. "Dyan Cannon gave me a brownie! Plus, you know, the card of some agent person. Don't know what I'm supposed to do with that."

"Don't let the other girls see it," Cordelia said. "They'd probably kill you for it. Two years ago, I'd at least have maimed you."

Fred munched on the last of her brownie. "This being gorgeous -- I think I like it." And Cordelia felt like smacking her one until Fred added, "Is this what it's like for you all the time?"

Cordelia felt herself starting to smile. She tossed her hair. "Well -- of COURSE."

Robert Horry leaped for the ball and got it -- but ended up flying into the stands, landing just inches from Charles Gunn.

Gunn absent-mindedly pushed Horry away from him without taking his eyes off Wesley. "I'll wash your new jeep. Like, for a month."

"Really, Charles. I don't know why you'd want to use these things, when they're so -- what was your term? Pansy?"

Next to them, Angel was aglow with excitement. Granted, he wasn't the best judge of social suavity, but as far as he could tell, the conversation was going quite well.

"I mean, I'm not saying 'Wolf' isn't a good movie," Angel hastened to add. "I just thought, maybe the next time you do a werewolf film, you can tell the director to work on those inaccuracies. Drama's always best when it's true to life, right?"

Jack -- he'd said to call him Jack -- seemed to consider this very carefully. "Right," he said, slowly.

They were talking about drama! Cordelia would be so proud. "When it's real, you can just feel the difference," Angel added. "Now, 'The Shining' -- THAT was accurate. I know a thing or two about haunted hotels."

"You don't say."

"I have a couple questions about 'The Witches of Eastwick,' though --"

Kobe Bryant stayed close on Latrell Sprewell, edging him left, giving him no mercy. Latrell made a clumsy move, and the ball bounced out of bounds. Possession, Lakers. Kobe grinned.

Latrell did not grin. He stared malevolently at Kobe. This was to be expected.

What was less expected was the way Latrell's dreadlocks began to lengthen. And turn green.

"What the hell?" Kobe said, backing up.

Behind him, Shaquille said, "I ain't seen hair like that since Dennis Rodman left the league."

The crowd began to shout. Gunn glanced around in annoyance. What were they making such a stir about? The girls weren't even dancing yet. "How come -- uh-oh."

"They'll dance soon, Charles," Wesley said absently, still peering through his opera glasses.

"English, how about you shift your view midcourt?" Gunn elbowed Angel. "Check it out."

"I see it," Angel said, putting one hand beneath his coat, where he had his Merovian battle ax.

As the Lakers backed up, Latrell's hair kept getting longer, and greener. Then it began moving of its own accord.

"Those aren't dreadlocks," Wesley said. "They're -- tentacles."

"Latrell Sprewell is a demon," Gunn said. "Man, does this explain a lot."

"Excuse me, Jack. Nice talking to you, but --" Angel took out his ax. "I think we're getting to the part of the game I like."

Maxine was cueing up the girls' dance music when Lorne said, "Oh, here we go."

She stared out the window -- where every single player of the New York Knicks was growing tentacles and turning green. Maxine screamed and fell back onto the panel. One finger hit the button marked "Glitter."

"Rock & Roll Part 2" began blaring throughout the stadium.

"Maxine!" Lorne yelled. "That's PERFECT!"

"I'm on the court at last!" Gunn shouted, and he, Angel and Wesley all ran from the stands.

The crowds were screaming, and the music was thumping, and most of the Laker Girls were running for cover. The Knicks -- or rather, the demons -- stared at them, then charged. Angel began swinging his ax. "Let's find out how they play this game."

Meanwhile, the Lakers, who had dealt with many strange on-court activities, including the Macarena, weren't dealing well with this. As a group, they stumbled back toward their bench. "Coach Jackson," Kobe said, "What do we do?"

"I've waited a long time to hear you say that." Coach Jackson pointed toward the court. "Do just what you've always wanted to do," he growled. "Kill the Knicks!"

The fists were flying, the swords were spinning, and the tentacles were doing whatever it is tentacles do. Cordelia gasped as Angel went flying over one demon, then spun around to kick it in the back. "There's a LOT of them," she whispered to Fred.

"But they don't really know what they're doing," Fred said. "Angel does. And Charles, and Wesley --"

"And -- Shaquille?" Cordelia said, watching as Shaq punched a demon very hard in the face.

The demon went flying past Angel before hitting the floor and dissolving into so much green goo. That Shack fellow knew what he was doing, Angel thought, before getting punched in the face himself. Professional sports weren't as easy as they looked, apparently. Angel punched back, then shrugged and tripped the guy. As soon as he hit the floor hard, Angel swung his ax to behead the demon -- which turned into goo even before Angel could pull his sword back. "This is going to be messy," he muttered.

The demons weren't yet solidified in their new forms, which meant that they were still prone to liquefaction. This was going to make their work quite a bit easier, Wesley surmised, as the creature that had been Marcus Camby tossed him over his shoulder onto the hard, hard court, knocking the breath out of Wes. Easy being a relative term, he thought as he gasped.

The Marcus Camby demon broke away from the others, running for the door. Angel saw it and began running after it -- he didn't want to leave Gunn and Wes alone out there, but if the demon got away, it could call forth more and more demons until there was no hope. But if the demons weren't very solid, they WERE very fast; Angel began to despair as he saw the demon get to the door --

-- where a foot stuck out and tripped it. As the demon slammed into the ground, a hand carrying a silver cellphone swung out and bashed it in the head. The demon puddled into goo.

Angel looked at who'd killed the demon and smiled. "Good work, Jack!" Jack grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

"Not seen this much slime since I watched Nickelodeon!" Gunn shouted. "How we doin' out here?"

Wesley looked around. The number of demons had increased, and Angel was running back onto the court. "I think we're winning!"

"Don't say that!" Gunn said. "Remember what happened the last time you said that?"

"Uh-oh," Angel said. He clutched his ax tighter and kept swinging. SWOOSH and one Knick was goo. SWOOSH and one more was a puddle on the floor. He was just going to have to skip all the punching and kicking and go straight to the slaying. Basketball wasn't any fun.

Angel went SWOOSH and another demon went down. Gunn slammed another demon into the floor and it went down. Kobe punched another one hard in the face, and it went down. Everything was going well, except --

"Wesley!" Fred cried. Still shaken from his fall, he'd run into one of the stronger demons -- once in the form of Charlie Ward -- and was being battered backwards, away from the others, who might help.

"We gotta get that guy," Cordelia said. "Quick! What can we use?"

Fred looked around, then looked down. She pulled her halter top forward, and her two gel-filled falsies plopped to the floor. Quickly she grabbed them and tossed them at the attacking demon's feet.

The demon slipped on them, wobbled and fell over. Wesley hastily slammed the demon's head into the floor, and was left with handfuls of goo.

"Who said silicone's a bad thing?" Cordelia said.

At last only one demon -- the one that had been Latrell Sprewell -- was left on the court. Angel and Gunn both ran toward it, but it spun about, avoiding them both -- and running into Shaquille. Shaquille grabbed it hard, lifted it above his head, ran for the backboard and dunked it.

The scoreboard buzzed.

The official explanation was LSD in the water supply, perhaps -- gossips said -- perpetrated by the same people who'd drugged the Titanic set.

"We made some calls," Coach Jackson said as he walked the Angel Investigations team toward the exit. "Some people did some looking around. Turns out the real Knicks have been trapped in a hypnotic state beneath Madison Square Garden for quite some time."

"Figures," Gunn said. "I knew no human beings woulda treated Patrick Ewing that way."

"I finally realized why the Staples Center was chosen," Wesley explained. "It turns out that one of the sacred chants of the Elwek dimension is Kobay-shacshac-kobay."

"People have really got to get back to naming their kids stuff like 'Edward,'" Gunn sighed.

"Did you do some networking?" Cordelia asked Angel.

"I did talk to this one guy," Angel said. "And I really thought we were getting along, communicating, you know? But all he wanted to do was drag me to this party." What were the names of the hosts again? Warren and Annette? No matter. "Parties really aren't my scene."

Cordelia smiled and linked her arm with his. "I'm too shocked for words."

"I know they were lost in a good cause," Fred said, looking sorrowfully at her chest. "But I kinda miss 'em."

Wesley coughed and blushed. Lorne smiled and said, "More where that came from, sweetie. And if you don't believe me, ask ANY of the other Laker Girls."

"Thank God this game wasn't televised," Coach Jackson said. "We could never have explained that."

"Oh, I don't know," Cordelia said. "What about -- it was a failed pilot for a reality show?"

"Hey, that's not bad," Coach Jackson said.

Cordelia sighed. "Years of practice."