LIPPMAN: In your magnificently depraved first five centuries of unlife, your exploits have been colorful at the very least. The Massacre at Bal Hazar, the Raising of the Vaquois Assemblage, the decimation of the Convent of the Sacred Heart, your status as a founding member of the Fraternity of Iniquity-and say that five times fast. Yet despite all of that, the public seems to know you best now for what might delicately be called a bumpy twentieth century. Are you at all bitter?

MASTER: You know, the public is so fickle. You’re only ever as popular as your last slaughter.

LIPPMAN: (dramatic pause) The earthquake. (dramatic pause) You’re on the verge of welcoming your dark gods into this world, of achieving a goal you had worked toward for hundreds of years. The stars were in alignment, the ingredients were correct, the ritual was in progress . . . and then . . . what happened?

MASTER: Some would say it was fate. Others that Mother Nature stepped in. Ahh, that earthquake. It’s almost funny, isn’t it? I’d like to have seen my own face at the moment the ground began to tremble and open up to swallow half that damned little village filled with happy morons. Fate? Mother Nature? Coincidence? Pshaw. The Powers That Be screwed me, plain and simple. Though I must confess it did give me a little thrill to know they considered me a threat.

LIPPMAN: So . . . sixty years trapped between worlds, stuck down there in that sunken church. Cribbage? How did you pass the time?

MASTER: Cribbage is a coward’s game. Canasta . . . now that’s a game. I also had a lovely little collection of spores, molds and fungi. I learned Esperanto through a correspondence class. Lot of good that did me. I had one of my lackeys read the Bible to me from beginning to end, no pun intended. My what a violent little tome that is. Then, of course, there were the talent shows; orgies of sex and violence. Turned me into quite the voyeur. Not as if I had much choice.

LIPPMAN: Now we come, perhaps, to the most difficult section of our conversation. What are the first three words that come into your mind when I say (dramatic pause) the Slayer.

MASTER: Well, first, of course, snappy-dresser, but I’m not sure if that counts as one word or two. Hmm. What else? Wiseass. And let’s see, one more. Bitch. Yes, that’ll do. Bitch.

LIPPMAN: You’d run across others, and yet none of them presented the sort of difficulty that Buffy Summers does. Take a moment to collect your thoughts and then talk about what makes her different?

MASTER: I’ve been pondering that one myself. She’s fast, of course, not merely her body but her mind. She has a kind of primal instinct I wish I could find in more of my followers. More than that, though, I think faith gives her an edge.

LIPPMAN: I wasn’t aware Miss Summers was religious.

MASTER: Not that sort of faith. Those arrogant little twits at the Council of Watchers mark these girls as notches on the barrel of a gun. They offer the Slayer training, education, little more than maintenance. But this one, this girl, she has friends. Damn them all. They believe in her. That’s her edge.

LIPPMAN: Cards on the table time. This petite blond girl has thrashed you soundly. Given the chance, what would you do differently?

MASTER: Oh, that’s an easy one. I’d avoid her like the plague . . . much as the plague amused me . . . and I’d kill her loved ones from the shadows, one by one. The loudmouth boy, that little redheaded girl, the damned Watcher. I’d rip out their throats, save their eyeballs to show her later, see if she could recognize them that way. If I could take them from her, she wouldn’t have anyone left to fight for. What a precious little death carnival that would be. More fun than a vampire has a right to.

LIPPMAN: If Buffy were here right now, what would you like to say to her?

MASTER: Lighten up, angel face. Life’s too short.

LIPPMAN: If you were a tree, what sort of tree would you be?

MASTER: An evergreen.

LIPPMAN: Ah, of course. (dramatic pause) What’s your favorite cuss word?

MASTER: Nharff! I love the way it rolls off the tongue. Loosely translated from the language of the Old Ones, it means, “boy, now I’ve really screwed the pooch.”

LIPPMAN: Fast forward into the future for a moment. When you finally succeed in opening the Hellmouth and come face to face with your deities, what would you like to hear them say to you?

MASTER: Not Nharff, that’s for sure. Let’s see. Something simple. I don’t ask for much. How about, “Heinrich old boy, you done good. Here are the keys to the world. Be back before dawn.”

LIPPMAN: Well (dramatic pause). It’s certainly been an enlightening and intriguing discussion with Heinrich Joseph Nest. Before you go, feel free to choose one of our happy audience members as a parting gift.

MASTER: Hmm. You know, I have had my eye on that chubby redhead in the third row.

(laughter, applause)

LIPPMAN: Thank you again. It has been our pleasure and honor to have you among us. You are, truly, the Master.

(applause)