Hunkered on all fours, elegant fangs bared, scenting the air for any whiff of fear. Alas, there is none. Not here. Instead, just the hulking figures of voracious hunters, the timeless presence of shadows in the shadows; and this stillness.
No breath, no speech.
A low pitched growl, the slap of a glove. A dropped gauntlet.
We stare eachother down; ancient, golden demonic gazes arrogantly, defiantly refuse to waver. To blink is to show submission. To lower one`s head is to admit defeat. Noone will blink. No head will bow.
Not here. Not among us.
Predatorial instincts at the fore. The dusty battle lines, the smell of steeds and steel and leather. The clanging sounds of swords and the swoosh of whips in the still night air. The harsh, guttural cry of a fallen foe. The blood is spilled. Let the games begin!
``Hey! Ponce, you gonna spin that damn thing or just stare at it til it grows wings?``
All right. So the battle ground is a plastic sheet covered in multi-colored circles, and the weapons of choice are a little spinny wheel and our limbs. And the prize is....I`m not entirely sure, something about getting naked. I`m very drunk, damnit, and it made sense when he suggested it!
Besides, I`m a modern guy -- vampire.
I can do battle wherever thhe age old quest for right may take me! I will
spin this
...little...spinning...thing...and
I will arise victorious! My enemy will fall at my feet! He will --
``Spin, you asshole, or I`ll do it for you!``
I spin.
``Uhm...red and a foot?`` I stare at him curiously.
``Put yer huge booted foot on a red dot.`` he answers with another disdain-filled look in my direction and yet another swig of vodka. I swear he has the constitution of a ..oh yea, he`s dead. Technically, we don`t have constitutions. He bends over to take his turn at the spinny thing and I realize that he still has a rather nice....
And suddenly I become aware that I am thinking alot...even for me. And that the thoughts involve Spike`s... constitution. And that my metaphors are really really bad when I`m drunk. And that apparently, I`m not quite drunk enough.
I grab for my own bottle and take another gulp, just in time to watch him triumphantly plant his own boot clad right foot on a blue circle.
My next spin requires yellow, and my other foot. Now we`re standing toe to toe, as he spins again. Followed by a tense moment where he tries to slide his left foot between mine...``Hey! There are other blue dots! Get your own blue dot!`` I shout at him, taking another swallow of whiskey.
He just grins at me. ``This one is more convenient....`sides...I knock you on your ass, and you gotta take somethin` off.``
Oh yes. The getting naked part. In that case, I vow not to fall down. Ever. I will use all my preternatural stealth and balance, and with the lithe movements of a jungle cat I will.....have another drink and hope my metaphors improve.
***
Having now figured out a system to drink, smoke and still manage a backbend, I`m a pretty contented bloke. Course, the fact that Peaches has already lost his shoes and socks in this battle makes life even more entertaining. `Cept that I have to look at his feet. Alot. I bloody well hate feet.
It`s the sight of those evil, souled feet that make me lose my bearings. I fall to the mat and slosh the vodka all over my....oh..I'm not wearing my coat. I had to take that off like two rounds ago. Least my duster is clean. I tug off my red silk shirt and toss it to the floor.
``Next round``, I mutter, and he just grins at me. Prick. He will go down in flames. I will see to that. He may have survived the vengeance of a Slayer and half a millenium in Hell, but he will not live to brag that he won a match of Twister with William the Bloody!
Ah Christ. I need another drink.
***
``Ya know, Spike,`` I begin, realizing
with a shmothered laugh that his name shounds more like Shpike now....Shpike...that`s
funny....he`s looking at me...I was saying something...what was I saying?
Oh yea....
``Shpike...Spike...I`m surprised you suggested this.... game. You`re kind of a chickenshit.`` I giggle.
I giggle? Gods, but I love Irish whiskey.
He blinks at me, really slowly. He`s moving really slowly. His mouth is still quick though. ``I`m a chickenshit? Who hid out behind the Slayer`s skirts for three years?`` I swing the bottle in his general direction. ``After ya got neutered, *you* did!`` I counter.
He swings a fist near my face and misses, but succeeds in making me lose my balance. I lay sprawled out on the twister mat, and gaze up at him. He`s spinning now. That`s wild. And slightly nauseating. I close my eyes.
``You`re taller this way,`` I mumble.
He grunts and places his bare foot on my chest. ``Take off yer shirt. Ya fell.``
I`m not certain that`s sticking to the rules of the game, but I can`t seem to formulate an argument. Besides, if I`m gonna get sick, I`d rather not do it on my 200$ silk shirt. I`ll aim for his head.
***
Big effin pussy looks like he`s gonna toss his cookies at any second. For chrissake he outweighs me by like one and a half people, and I`ve drank twice as much! And I`m not nauseous!
I am however, a tiny bit dizzy. And it`s not fair that he keeps doin` that spinning around thing with the ceiling. I mean *that* is dirty pool. I look at the mat instead. All the little dots are doing a dance. How is he making them do that?!
``Ya know what, I`m surprised *you* agreed to this grudge match, Angelus,`` I tell him, placing my left hand behind his knee on the yellow dot. He smells like whiskey and clean, clean soap. It`s unnervingly familiar. I snort at him and continue. ``After all, last time we met, I damn well kicked your fat ass. It took yer pet humans to get you out of there.``
He snorts back at me, and his chest presses against mine as he finds the nearest red circle. ``*You* didn`t kick my ass, *you* haven`t kicked my ass in the entire two centuries you`ve been alive...In fact Spike, why didn`t you just get *Marcus* to challenge me to Twister?``
That`s it. Prance-N-Poof is goin`
*down*.
***
You know what`s really annoying about him? Well, besides the obvious...What`s really annoying is that sense of *entitlement* he`s got. I mean, who else would break into my house, raid my liquor cabinet and my blood stash, threaten me, and then challenge me to a grudge match of Twister? Ok...that was a rhetorical question. And fuck! I can`t bend like that....OW! Note to self: get carpeting.
***
A'right, *this* is what really pisses
me off about me Ol` Sire. Is there anyone, man or demon, who can be pissin'
three sheets to the wind while playing Twister with my gorgeous half-naked
ass, and not once, not bloody well once, mind you, crack a smile? No! The
answer is no! He`s not human, I tell ya. Soul and broad shoulders be damned.
Shoulders? And...Oh shit. Where`d that blue dot come from? I need a soddin`
yellow dot!
***
He`s staring at me as if he`s deep in thought. I fear that look. He opens his mouth and I think I wince before he even gets the question out. ``What the hell were ya thinkin anyway?! With that whole shagging the only chit on the planet with a sworn duty to kill your stupid ass? ``
Impertinent, disrespectful little moron! I place a curled fist on a red dot by his head and snarl at him. ``Yea, well at least I didn`t get dumped for a *FUNGUS DEMON!*``
Fuck. He hits harder when he`s drunk.
***
Brainless pansy apparantly did not grasp the subtle nuance of my question! I mean, he`s supposed to be the fuck-all chosen one, no? Him and Slutty....I grin at his now bloody face. ``Slayer says hello. Oh, come to think of it...no she don`t.``
Christ! He hits harder when he`s
drunk.
***
He`s an infuriating, slothful, manipulative
sociopath. And I let him in my house! Wait...no, I didn`t. Ok. I still
have that. Dignity intact, I spin the small plastic wheel and try to juggle
the bottle of whiskey between my knees.
***
He`s an infuriating, whiny, stuck-up
wanker. And I`m in his house! Well, I *am* kicking his ass. Soddin` toff
tried to take off his jewelry for pete`s sake. *Anyone* who plays strip-*anything*
knows that jewelry doesn`t bloody well count! Fuck him. I am the Big Bad!
I have a dignified and well-deserved reputation for evil! I spin the small
plastic wheel and try to remain upright while smoking, drinking, and slipping
in the puddle of blood surrounding the big blue dot my left foot needs
to be on.
***
I know I`m really, really plastered
now. He`s the bane of my existence, the perpetual and eternal thorn in
my side, and he looks....well...Spike looks very....shiny. Yea, that`s
it. Shiny. Like a lil` Christmas present wrapped up under my very own....ohhhhh
*god*...my metaphors are getting worse!
***
I know I`m fucked up now. The Great Pouff is the bane of my existence, he`s the bloody thorn in my bloody side, and he looks...well...kind of glowy-like. All lit up like a....and suddenly I remember it. The last time we got drunk together. It was Christmas, 1898, just before he dissapeared... And then we ....oooooh *god*.
I`m going to have to kill him.
**
``You`re cheating, Spike!`` I holler
at him. I`m clad in only jeans by now. This is the Death Match. He can`t
beat me, I`m the Scourge of Europe! I`m his *Sire* for chrissake. I`m not
going to drop my pants!
``How can I be cheating?? It`s not my fault you`re about as graceful as a one legged man at an ass kicking contest. Now take off yer fucking pants or I`ll do it for you.`` he threatens.
I notice there are two of him now. How interesting. I`m still not taking my goddamn pants off.
``You wanna take my pants off?`` I grin at him. ``That what all this was about?`` I bare my fangs a bit for good measure. Both of him look annoyed.
``Ya, right. You`re even less attractive now than you were pre-Hell, and that is amazin` in and of itself. Stop stalling and drop your bloody drawers, ya nonce. I promise not to make fun of your dick.``
I sigh and undo the zipper and button on my Levi`s. They hit the floor and he laughs out loud. Hey! Wait! I have nice dick... and he promised! --
Oh. He`s laughing at my boxers. Well then. I square my shoulders at both Spikes. ``They were a gift. From Cordelia. For Christmas.`` I sound pretty damn convincing and haughty for a drunken vampire standing on a Twister mat clad only in LoonyToon boxer shorts.
He falls over laughing on the mat. I grin triumphantly. ``You fell! Your turn!``
He doesn`t hesitate to toss his black jeans to the ground. Which is when I suddenly recall that Spike doesn`t wear any underwear.
I down another fifth of whiskey in one gulp.
***
The mat is covered in blood, whiskey and vodka. Which all in all, would make a damn fine mixed drink.
I thought the nonce was gonna drop dead when he realized I had shorts on under my jeans. I sneer at him. Motherfucker wants to see *my* perfect knackers he`s gonna have to work for that shit.
Now he`s laughing. *He`s* laughing?
I`m not the one in sodding Underoos for Chrissakes!
**
Ok, I can`t help it...I can`t...I`m gasping for air I don`t really need, tears streaming down my cheeks, taste of alcohol and mirth in my mouth, and gods...it feels good. Good to laugh, good to laugh at *him*. I`m clutching my sides as he kicks at me...hard, with one foot, then both feet...and I just continue to laugh.
He tried to *kill* me too many times
to count...I tried to kill him back...or... first...I`ve lost track....and
I slept with his ex-girlfriend, and rumor has it he was actually engaged
to mine, and he`s a soul-less, murdering fiend, and I`m the swirly-coat-ed
Dark Avenger of Justice or something...and I *hate* him, and he *hates*
me, and he`s standing here, above me, in my living room, wearing only black
Froot of the Looms....looking mighty goddamn tasty....and see that`s it...I`ve
officially lost my mind, and the Powers That Be are going to have to find
themselves another vampire `cause I`m gone for...
**
I kick him harder, aiming for the stomach, the chest, anywhere but his head, cause *that* sure as shit wouldn`t hurt him...and he just keeps laughing..and what the fuck is so funny anyway? I don`t see anything funny about his half naked, all souled self rolling around on plastic, all covered in blood....and...whiskey...and that big fuck-all dirty smirk on his face.....and ...and .....Loony Toon Underwear! Yes! Yes! Think Loony underwear and ..baseball...isn`t that what the humans think of...? And oh yea...I *hate* him! Right! Right!
So, I`ll just keep kicking him in
the chest until this ridiculous notion of fucking him into the Twister
mat goes away.
**
What happened next is a source of endless consternation between us, and an ongoing battle ground in and of itself. Suffice to say, *my* version of the events is based in reality and Spike`s is version is based soley on the notion of himself as the center of the Universe. Never the twain shall meet.
I clearly recall realizing that he was not going to stop pounding on me like a pissed off two year old, so I reached out an arm and neatly swept his feet out from under him. He landed in a puddle of blood, alcohol and bad humor, and promptly re-initiated his assault. This was followed by an excess of arms and legs flying about, and quite a bit of torn flesh. I heard bones snapping, and his groan of pain, and I remember the taste of his blood in my mouth when he tilted his head back in a gesture of submission....and then....
**
On occasion, after a really mind
boggling blow job or eight, I`ll go along with my poof of a Sire`s interpretation
of recent history. But let me assure you that any similarity to his version
of reality and my own is purely coincidental. Peaches` martyr complex got
him thinkin he`s the center of the Universe. Maybe he could just re-christen
himself `Angel-Sun` and have it done with. You wanna know what *really*
happened that night?
I nearly kicked the snot out of him while he lay there, wheezing and gasping on the blood-covered Twister mat. It was a good five minutes before he could even get up enough strength to grab for my legs, and when he did, what`s he do? He pulls me down like the nancy-boy he is...all scratching and clawing and biting...not even one good punch in the lot...
No, he rolled all over me, succeeding more in annoying the hell out of me than anything else, while I landed blow after blow...what choice did he have? `Bout two minutes into it, he turned his neck to me in a gesture of submission and I sank my fangs into him...and then...