10.
Willy’s bar was just as seedy a hell hole as Spike remembered. Dark, dank little crevasses marked it’s internal perimeter. It had ambiance you could scrape off the wall. A thick treacle of demon fluids of varying textures and hues mixed effortlessly with smoke, something akin to sawdust and droplets of souring pomade from Willy’s anachronistic hairdo.
It was a good thing breathing wasn’t a requirement for Spike. The air in that establishment was ripe with countless bacteria of demon and human origin alike. A few grunts of wary recognition met Spike as he ambled toward the bar. This was a place where a demon could go and disappear for a while. Some patrons looked as if they hadn’t left their tables since the last time Spike frequented the poxy establishment. A few female demons sat amongst the brethren, always looking for fortuitous alliances as well as opportunistic sexual encounters.
Spike took a long look at an engaging specimen. She half oozed at him from her bar stool, all tits and tentacles, wearing what looked like a length of fringed duct tape clinging to her engaging and ample curves. She was advertising for sure. At another time Spike might have been interested in what she had to offer. If he was piss drunk maybe, but banging demons wasn’t his thing. The tentacles were an alluring draw, but he shook his head at her come hither eye glare. She elevated herself high on her stool, made a strange gurgling huffing sound and shifted her body, clearly showing her displeasure at his rebuff.
It wasn’t meant unkindly. Spike had other plans. He had a bartender to intimidate and a sexy little slayer to stalk. Maybe later he’d make those ‘bend Buffy over a tombstone’ fantasies come true.
Willy glided through a door at the side of the bar carrying a large box of booze. He didn’t see Spike until he set the heavy box upon the bar. By then it was too late to try to hide. His weasel-like nose twitched as if sniffing out the nearest escape route.
“Now there’s a friendly face!” Spike announced, “and the presents? I’m touched.” Spike stood up and opened the box to see what treasures it held. “Just like Christmas morning, this is.” Spike pulled out a large bottle of Scotch whiskey with a flourish and unscrewed the cap.
“Spike! Golly, it’s been what? A few months…and here you are, drinking the good stuff– I mean looking good! You’re looking good.” Willy could always be depended upon for the full dressed obsequious onslaught. “So, what brings you back to our fair city?” He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. Running wasn’t an option. Spike would just catch him, make him hurt, probably mess up his hair and then have some more annoying conversation.
Spike downed half the bottle in a long swill and then came up for unneeded air. “Whaddaya say Willy?” His gaze alone cut through the smaller man’s bravado.
“I say stay off the streets, Spike.” Willy’s voice rattled in a nasally percussive manner, as if parlaying a news bulletin. “Take it from me. The Slayer has been thinning out the weeds lately, if you get my drift.”
“Busy little bee is she? Give me a shot of the sweet stuff.” Spike jerked his chin at Willy. The disgruntled barman took a step backward and reached behind him, blindly opening a small fridge along the wall. He brought out a container of blood and poured Spike a shot.
“She’s been unstoppable. Believe me, you’re no match for her now.” Willy gestured grandly, figuring he’d aim for the ego. Spike was always easy to snag when his ego was called into question. It wouldn’t bother Willy one bit if Spike became one of the weeds the Slayer hacked down. “She’s got one hell of a boner on. That bitch needs to get laid like yest–“
“What the BLOODY HELL do you think your pulling here?” Spike choked down the shot of…whatever that was. Unfortunately, regurgitation was not found among a vampire’s abilities. He was glad to have the whiskey to wash it down with. Whatever it was, it was foul. “I should rip out your worthless throat for serving me a shot of that piss. What the fuck was that?”
“Whoa, Spike, relax man.” Willy raised his hands in a gesture of conciliation. It was time to become the diplomat he was born to be. “That was vole. It’s imported. A delicacy I’m trying out for my more discerning customers. What? You don’t like?” His face held the sincere expression of a seasoned hustler, a little greasy around the edges, but as honest as Willy got.
Forget the apocalypse, this was the sign of the end of everything sane and reliable: Willy was trying out an uppity designer bar drinks menu. Who did he think he was going to attract with that swill? Upwardly mobile vamps?
“VOLE?!” It was a pity Spike couldn’t throw up on Willy. His shiny tri-color bowling shirt was nearly as insulting as the swill he passed off as a beverage. “Who the FUCK would want vole?” Spike’s mouth hung open in shock. “That’s a bloody fucking rat, that is. Digs in the ground for fuck’s sakes. Bloody unhygienic.”
“It’s an acquired taste, I’ll give you that, but some of your younger vamps go for the weird stuff.” Willy rhymed off his selection on his fingers. “I got alpaca, ostrich, raccoon–” His grating voice ended as he was crushed against Spike’s chest. A menacing snarl indicated Spike’s prejudicial intent. Tendrils of sweat trailed down the sides of Willy’s jaw and disappeared into his five o’clock shadow.
“Hey man, watch the threads. This is silk.” Ballsy was the word. Held in the tight clutches of a pissed off vampire, Willy remained his uncompromising and demanding self.
“You’re an inventive little tosser, I’ll give you that,” Spike spoke slowly and softly as Willy’s upper lip curled back, readying him for the inevitable. “But if you ever, I mean EVER attempt to serve me swill that could understudy for a rat, I’ll put a spigot into your worthless neck and put you on tap. Got it?”
“Yes sir, the customer is always right. Nothing but universal donor for you, Spike.”
“Right. In a clean glass.”
“Well, that’s the thing, Spike,” Willy winced but continued. “I’m kinda between suppliers at the moment.” Spike shook his head with disgust and let out a sigh. “Try the raccoon. I’m told it’s got a subtle nose–“
“FORGET ABOUT THE FUCKIN’ RACCOON!!”
“Okay, okay. It’s forgotten. Nada on that. Zip. Zilch.”
“That’s better, now where’s my money?”
“W-What money is that?”
“First installment on your debt repayment. A few tenners ought to do it.” It was always a good idea to have a few dollars in one’s pocket. Vampires didn’t have much call for cash, but it was always handy to have some around for poker stakes and certain necessities. And kittens just didn’t grow on trees.
A few pointed glares and the flash of a fang and Willy was good for a few bucks. Willy’s was an institution known far and wide in the demon world. He could listen to your hard luck story, further your world domination fantasies, help get you laid, and stay out of sight during the frequent and quite enjoyable brawls that regularly trashed the joint. He had tact, connections and a pair of cast iron balls.
Willy was a full service fellow, as close to a demon concierge as Spike had ever come across.
“Yeah, okay.” Without looking Willy reached over and opened the cash register. He grabbed a fist of paper and brought it up to eye level. A quick glance revealed a thin wad of twenties. “Take it.”
Spike released one hand and pulled out three bills. He wasn’t too greedy. Willy was a useful ally as long as he stayed cooperative, which pretty much meant scared shitless. Sixty dollars wouldn’t break the bank and Willy would live to pour vole another day.
“You’re a prince Willy, a bloody prince.” Spike released the squirrel-like man and gently patted his cheek. The newly acquired funds found a home in his pocket.
“Anything for you buddy.” Willy relaxed somewhat and even managed to sound almost sincere. Spike downed the rest of the bottle and strode toward the exit. “Hey! You back for good Spike?” Willy’s plaintive question was met with a dismissive wave as Spike walked through the bar door and off down the alleyway.
“Fucking psychopath,” Willy breathed with resentment. “I bet Angel will have something to say about pretty boy being back in town. And where is that skanky slayer when a vamp needs dusting?” He shook his head and started restocking the bar.
Images rolled through Spike’s mind as he felt the pavement drumming a satisfying rhythm beneath him. Sunnydale wasn’t such a bad ‘burb. It had all you could drink at Willy’s, the percolating eau de Hellmouth, which was the closest thing to homey goodness for a demon and a tasty little Slayer primed and ready for anything. Spike’s preference for a robust shag on a daily basis might at the outset seem a bit too optimistic. Perhaps a fuck one day, fight the next alternative would be more to the lady’s liking. He would be up for some spirited negotiations.
Spike smiled as his predator gaze swept before him. When was the last time he felt optimism instead of near blind desperation? He and the Slayer had the same itch in common, that much was true.
Steadily, his mind became preoccupied with the recent fleshy past: the curve of Buffy’s back, the modulations of her hips, and her mouth trembling whispers of “yes…yes…yes” as he swept solidly inside her. Spike stopped by an overhanging tree and lit up a cigarette.
Images of an orgasmic slayer crowded his head. She was a demanding little vixen but he was certainly a worthy match for her stamina. However, the energizer bunny he wasn’t. To say that Willy’s all hooves and paws beverage list did not hit the spot was an understatement indeed.
His ears picked up a sound, the distinct drone of some percussion heavy disaster from the shoulder pad past of the music industry. Was it Pat Benatar? Sheena Easton? Some such pathetic twaddle. Spike took a final deep drag on his smoke and threw it aside. His quarry was now in view, a jogger with a near neon outfit and earphones.
As easy as pulling a chocolate off a candy assembly line Spike plucked the jogger from the university bike path. His fangs pierced the sweaty expanse of neck and as the first squirt of blood met Spike’s taste buds he stopped. It didn’t taste right. Another pull of blood. Spike dropped the groggy victim and reassessed. What was happening? Perfectly good human, but what was that stuff in his veins? Thin, dishwater soup with not even a pinch of adrenalin. Something definitely was amiss. Blood was blood, wasn’t it?
Spike licked the residue from his lips and then it hit him. It didn’t taste like hers. This was a troubling development. He’d drained the bodies of two slayers before, but this one was different. Her blood was pure, decadent sin and didn’t taste of defeat. The Slayer couldn’t have soured his taste for blood? That was not possible. Not. Possible.
Fuck.
Soon the quiet path filled with the sound of voices. Spike slipped behind another tree as his would be victim crawled onto the path. Two joggers stopped and helped the young man to his feet. He said he’d been mugged. A cell phone appeared and a call went out for assistance.
It was not Spike’s finest hour. He certainly wasn’t known for leaving his lunch alive. The only plus was that there was no witness to his performance difficulty. Distracted by this unprecedented event, Spike strode swiftly off through the trees, leaving his aperitif to the paramedics. After a brief interlude of mindless wandering and muttered cursing, Spike looked up to find himself in familiar surroundings.
The old mansion was near. He could see it’s faint outline against the inky night sky. That’s all he needed, thoughts of that awful place and Angelus taking Drusilla loudly and often elbowed their way into his mind. Not one to tempt nostalgia, Spike picked up his pace. He needed to be somewhere else and fast. A quick shortcut through the adjacent cemetery and he’d start sniffing out his slayer.
The Buick sized fist that smashed into his face and knocked him back on his ass was an unwelcome nightcap to a most enjoyable day.
“Hello…Spike.” A tall menacing figure in a brown leather coat and dark trousers pivoted from behind a tree. Spike squinted upwards into a face of bitter familiarity.