My entire life, I’ve been told I’m a shitty, useless prat. Family, friends, ex-lovers, and strangers have relentlessly pounded this sentiment into my head for years.

But most humbly, I beg to fuckin’ differ.

Certain unsavory qualities about myself notwithstanding, I’d say I’m a bloke with plenty to offer. There are redeeming and (I think) profound aspects about me that people are just too bloody dense to recognize. For instance, I possess the ability to do the following:

1) Beat any video game in under six hours, tops. Not kidding. Don’t try throwing one of those nancy-boy RPGs in my face, though. I’m not an orc-oogler.
2) Give you a heavily annotated and comprehensive history on the following subjects: punk music, football hooliganism in the UK, Manchester United (Arsenal can suck a dead rat’s nutsac if you ask me) and English poets from the Romantic Period (that’s right, I’ve got layers).
3) Cook up the best plate of bangers and mash from here to Wales.
4) Keep a clean house. A proclivity towards hooliganism and overall violence aside, I am a well-kept man with well-kept things. I never leave those bloody glass rings on the coffee table or litter skid-marked underwear about the flat.
5) Compile everything significant in my life into lists. You might call it compartmentalizing, I call it bloody succinct.

Uh. I guess that’s it.

Still, I think all that makes me a decent fellow. At least far better than say, pedophiles, rapists and Trekkies. But no, my loved ones and contemporaries, seemingly oblivious to these admirable traits, still deem me the dreaded shitty, useless prat. What’s their reasoning, you ask?

Well. I just happen to be afflicted with a typical male disease. Disease being “can’t-keep-a-girlfriend-itis”.

I suppose the fact that my most recent love of two years just left doesn’t do much to disprove this theory. But in my defense, all I can say is . . .

It’s not my fault, you fucks.

Yes, I can be domineering, reckless, cynical, insecure, arrogant, cocky, non-committal, devious, stubborn and at times, all-out moronic, but thing is – I didn’t get like this on my own. I had a little help along the way to start me down this bitter path. It might sound churlish, but this all their fault. Women, that is. They started it. I could have been Mr. Right Ten Times Over if it wasn’t for the years of degradation at their hands.

Take my list of all-time greatest and most heart-wrenching breakups. These are the ones who’ve really nailed it for me. They have made it apparent why I am the way I am. They have shamed me to point where there is nothing to do but utter a rallying cry against the whole lot of womankind.

1. Age 13, Cecily Hallows

Typical juvenile infatuation. She was, in my naïve and adoring eyes, exquisite and everything a hopeless crush was supposed to be: beautiful, popular, mysterious, unattainable. But by some grace of God, she wasn’t so unattainable, or so I thought the night of Marcy Krakowski’s party. It was the usual prepubescent affair. Bad music swirling around a wood-paneled basement, a variety of snack foods, the awkward mingling of zitty boys and acorn-chested girls who’d just discovered something as scary as hormones. I was sitting sulkily on a beanbag chair when Cecily looked at me from across the room and did the one thing that made my world stop: she smiled and crooked her finger at me. I happily and hastily obliged her. The rest of the night was spent kissing and groping so badly that it still makes me blush to think of it.

Anyway, I figured this made Cecily and me an item. I spent the next day at school in a state of rapt euphoria. I paid utterly no attention in class (which wasn't so unusual) and instead wrote horrible and profusely romantic poetry (which was unusual). The whole day was leading up to lunch hour when I would seek her out and proclaim my love for all to see.

So I did. Like the stupid git I was, I got down on one knee and read her this abominable poem in which I actually rhymed "effulgent" and "bulge’t". Needless to say, it did not go over well. She was disgusted, as was the rest of the cafeteria, and she uttered the one thing that made my heart seize together into broken beats.

"You’re beneath me, William."

For a second I didn’t get it. I thought it was a terribly obvious thing to say since I was down on one knee, prostrate before her. But she couldn't leave it off there. She had to repeat it viciously and vindictively, as if to show the rest of the school that that night at Marcy’s had meant nothing. It dashed my innocent hopes of flowers and puppies and walking-in-the-park kind of love in one fatal second. I honestly thought I loved the girl, and as a result of her rebuke, I fell into a headlong depression that still seems to influence me to this day in its surliness. Now I can’t even remember what the girl looks like, or why I even liked her. It was the glamour of the first kiss and the first heartbreak that did me in. It is something I’ve never fully recovered from.

2. Age 16, Darla Jacobs

The problem with Cecily was her icy, untouchable persona. She was like Mount Everest in her cold, unmountable reservation. I needed someone from the other extreme. I needed someone bouncy and alive and very mountable. Word went round the boys’ locker room that Darla Jacobs was more than willfully mountable, so I decided to make my move. It wasn’t a hard seduction. My Cecily episode had not deterred me so much that girls found me completely undesirable.

After being so callously rejected, I bounced back and reinvented myself. I created the ultimate illusion of being a "bad boy". I had the look and name after dying my hair a freakish hue of platinum blonde and informing everyone my new moniker was “Spike” inspired by my new shock-end hairstyle, I had the long leather duster (nicked from my father’s old wardrobe--I shall never dare ask what it was doing there), and most importantly, I had the punk-ass swagger and perfected smirking snarl. I successfully deceived all into thinking I was hot shit.

Anyway, Darla didn’t need much in the way of seducing; she was extremely "responsive" if you know what I mean. She was a touchy-feely creature and the contrast between her and Cecily was like night and day. She practically attacked me the first time I introduced myself and I was more than grateful. We got along splendidly from the start. We were both looking for companionship, so we weren’t exactly picky. I guess she was easy that way.

But, as I later found out and to my dismay, not in other ways. She was a catty and confusing girl, that one. One minute she’d be whispering dirty, heavenly things to me in a hushed, thick voice as we fell over onto her bed, the next, she’d be fighting my hands as they made the elusive trek up her legs, edging towards her skivvies.

It’s not like I pushed her. I just thought it was something we mutually wanted. She seemed to indicate that she wanted it and I knew I did. So why all this difficulty? Why all these games that left me bubbling under the surface like a champagne bottle about to pop?

It’s not really fair to her, I suppose. I’m painting her to be a silly pseudo-slut-prude, but in actuality, she was really a nice girl. She was just insecure and lonely and yielding, as is usually the case with girls of her ilk, but at the time, I really didn’t care how nice she was. All I could see was a case of flagrant misrepresentation that was not leading to the desired goal of a nice shag.

So I broke it off. It may sound harsh, but what do you expect from a horny teenager who saw all girls as walking, faceless purveyors of the ever-wonderful tit? I didn’t think I was out of line when I dumped her. I thought it was clear that we were only having a bit of fun that would inevitably lead to nowhere. But she obviously didn’t. She cried when it ended and told me she "really liked" me, but it was too late. I’d moved to another girl who wasn’t so misrepresentative, lucky for my loins, and Darla was left to be passed on to the next unfulfilled gent. I didn’t think of it much until that day in history when Football Player Larry lumbered into class and grunted triumphantly, "Hey Spike! Yeah Spike! You pussy! That Darla chick you’ve been buttering up to the last two months? I popped her cherry last night!"

My cheeks stung red at the vulgar remark, but I remained aloof. "What are you talking about, beefstick?"

"Went on one date with her. Got into her pants when you couldn’t even venture past third base." He laughed snidely. "She told me."

It was humiliating. Darla had chosen this thick waste of space over me? I had been rejected by Darla the same way I had been rejected by Cecily. Even with a different type of girl, I still got the same shitty deal.

3. Age 21, Drusilla Cartwright

This one was it. The Big Kahuna. The one that endowed me with my shitty prat tendencies forever. If it weren’t for Dru, who’s to say I wouldn’t be a happily married man with a gaggle of fat babies and diaper coupons today?

I met Dru at UC Sunnydale my junior year of college. She immediately struck me as exotic, enigmatic, sweet and gorgeous in a withering Victorian kind of way. I fell hard for her quixotic mannerisms and tastes. Even her eccentric choice of study impressed and appealed to me: Feminist Gothic Literature.

She had a way of talking in extraordinary, lilting accents and moving sensually, languidly and it all made her seem so glamorous. She'd put on little skits with herself and say what appeared to be abstruse, deep comments. Most of all, she was well liked amongst our group, especially by the males.

It never ceased to torture me.

I was taken with her, as if under some spell. The desire to keep her for myself was almost compulsive. I felt the desire to crack open the skull of any other guy she smiled lasciviously at. I was always too consumed by enormous madness to recognize that they only looked at her because she looked first, licking her lips like a snake in the grass. I was too blind with what I thought was love to see how flaky, needy and flighty she was. I was too concerned with the possibility of loosing her.

Which is why I finally did. About five seconds after telling me it was over , Dru took up with a real son-of-a-bitch named Liam Angel I mean, come on. The chuffer was named Angel. If that didn’t turn her off, what would? He was everything I was, or at least tried to be, but with more confidence. He was dark, he was broody, he was handsome, he was deep. Oh, and he was a real prick, too.

I couldn’t let it go. I practically stalked Dru and her boy-toy for a couple ugly months. I hovered outside their apartment in the middle of the night. I made random, repeated phone calls for hours on end and hang up after anyone said hello. I sent her roses and gifts nearly every day. It finally ended when Angel threatened to call the police.

By that time, I was too caught up in a horribly depressive muckfuck to care about anything, much less my academics. I flunked out of all my classes and lost the desire to complete my degree in English Literature, much to the squealing consternation of my parents. So I did what any reckless and self-professed suicidal failure would do: I dropped out and sauntered down the street to work at Sunnydale Record & Tape Exchange with no plans of doing anything else. For the rest of my life.

Eventually, I worked my way up in the store so high that one day five years later, I found myself its owner. Clem, the old owner and a former roadie for the Ramones (or so he said, quite frequently), took a liking to me and decided he didn’t want to deal with the financial quicksand that was Sunnydale Shithole Records anymore, so he handed off the burden to me. I was neither excited nor dubious about it. It seemed as good a career as any; I liked music enough and had no other plans, motivations or dreams after Dru left. She was the only dream I had for a long time.

4. Age 24, Harmony Kendall

Being with Dru was too complicated. With her, I was constantly swimming in a sea of paranoia and bloody angst-ridden love that never abated. Not only that, but we were never on equal footing. I either guarded over her with a paternal air, making sure she was always taken care of (for all of her ranting on and on about the relation between Gloria Steinam and the Bronte Sisters, Dru was never one to take care of herself; she’d leave the hair curler on all night, she’d cry and whimper when it rained, she’d scream bloody murder if a cricket found it’s way into the flat), or followed her around like true love’s bitch, trying desperately to appease her ever-changing moods. I needed someone who was on the same level as me. And the level I wanted to be on was sex without emotional attachments.

I thought I was on it when I met Harmony at the record store. The moment she handed me a Britney CD at the register, I knew with quite some relief that I’d never be emotionally attached to her. But judging from the saucy smirk she gave me, the sex wasn’t too far off. It seemed promising that I’d have a lot of that.

And so there was a lot of that. We shagged ourselves senseless for a good four weeks without the slightest mention of a relationship before things shifted and became less egalitarian than I thought.

She started calling me her Blondie Bear. And her Spikey. She even told me she loved me after the first five weeks.

On my part, I was nowhere near in love with her. She was a bit daft, for one thing. I mean, oi, she confused David Beckham for the prime minister. Still, I didn’t say anything. I liked her well enough – when she wasn’t talking. Besides, I was so exhausted by the emotional rollercoaster that was Dru that I preferred my distant affection for Harmony. I could be monogamous if it meant a steady supply of mindless sex. I just let all of her horrible, cutesy endearments ride because I figured . . . hey. Maybe this is the best I could do. Lovely, fun shags with a girl who seemed to like me a lot and honestly, what did it hurt if she liked me more than I liked her? At least I didn’t get hurt that way.

Or so I thought. After awhile, once she sensed that her feelings weren’t reciprocated to the fullest, she started messing around with some poncy nerd named Warren, a loaded wanker who worked for some IT tech thing. The real irony of it is, when she finally packed me in for Warren, she informed me with some subdued venom that she didn’t really like him all that much. Still, being with him was better than pining away for me.

"Loving someone like you is too draining," she sniffled during an unusual moment of clarity. "I just want to be involved in something easier."

And that’s when it really hurt. Not only was it ego-crushing – her picking this droid-loving, Magic-the-Gathering-playing arsehole over me – but it was ridiculous that she was dumping me for the same exact reason I wanted to pursue a relationship with her. “This could be easy too!” I wanted to yell at the dumb bint. “I’ve wanted easy this whole time!”

But in retrospect, it’d never work. I understood where she came from. It was a pain to be with someone who’d never quite love you the way you needed to be loved. I was starting to think the very idea of mutual love wasn’t possible at all. In fact, I was ready to sod the whole relationship thing every time it came ‘round the bend. Love ‘em, don’t love ‘em, bloody women were impossible to deal with either way.

Then Buffy happened.

You’ll notice that I haven’t included her in the list of all-time greatest break-ups, though she has only left me last night. That’s because the situation is still new, my feelings still hazy and unclear, as if I’m still in that state of shock. Or maybe I’m just can’t get fired up about shit like this anymore.

But before I tell you the end, let me tell you the beginning.

It started two years ago, when I spun records at a club in Sunnydale called the Bronze to cover some additional bills the shop couldn’t. It was nothing big, just an occasional gig that I enjoyed despite the sickening sight of smarmy males and females playing out the mating game every night. Though girls usually gravitated towards me, lingering by the stage and turntables, I ignored them. It’s not like I didn’t appreciate them as fine-looking human beings, but I was scared that one of the harlots would trap me again and leave me once more. I didn’t even fancy a mindless fuck, which should tell you how far-gone I was.

I don’t know why I was never scared of Buffy. She’s one of those amazingly stunning girls that just ooze intimidation. She’s all long legs and blonde hair and honeyed skin and in short, very, very Hollywood. Yet she never gave off an icy impression.

In fact, the first impression she gave off was bitchy. One night while spinning, I was getting a drink from the bar and she was climbing out of a barstool when we collided into each other. She tore me a new arsehole when I doused her silk blouse in Scotch and I was too gloomy to be polite. So we yelled and bitched and screamed at each other and eventually I stomped off stormily, glad to be rid of her.

Yet the entire night, my mind kept turning to her. Couldn't stop it, couldn't help it. I struggled hard to concentrate on anything else, but that all went out the window when she finally came up to the stage by the end of the evening to apologize.

"I’ve just been touchy, lately," she admitted with a shrug. "Bad breakup, heartbreak galore . . . I’m kind of burned out and I’ve been taking it out on random strangers."

Needless to say, I could more than relate. I told her about Dru and my string of exes (probably more about them then she wanted to hear), but then she told me about her ex, a real arsehole named Parker, so an hour of drunken sympathy followed.

And it’s not like we spent the whole night in commiseration. I found out a lot about her. I found out how witty and funny she was and how she was studying Art History at UC Sunnydale. I found out how her parents divorced when she was younger and how she thought that affected her adult relationships. Soon, I’d forgotten about all the vows I made about distancing myself from women and went home with her. We had a mind-blowing night of sex and we’ve been together ever since.

Past tense. I keep forgetting to refer to that in the past tense. We were together.

Maybe I took it for granted how easy it was with her. It wasn’t like any of my other relationships where I had to constantly be aware of every single detail to make sure I didn’t fuck anything up. Buffy and I simply fit and flowed with ease. We fought like mad, made up and shagged like bunnies. I could see no glitch in the system.

But she apparently did. Which is why she marched out of our flat last night after a long and bitter argument about the status of our relationship. She said it was going nowhere. I saw nothing wrong with that. So she left, but not before screeching that I was a “shitty, useless prat.” I didn’t even think she knew what prat meant.

Anyway. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. She thinks the words, the door slamming, the rages, hysterics and shrieks will really make an impact after all these years?

God. Maybe she's right. Maybe I am just a shitty, useless prat after all.

My record store is a modest little establishment in the Sunnydale business district. You think its location in the business district would actually garner business. It’s all wishful thinking.

The unfortunate name of my record store is “Ye Olde Music Shoppe”. Believe when I tell I had nothing to do with it. I preferred “Sunnydale Record & Tape Exchange” myself. It was nondescript. Straight to the point.

Unfortunately, my father preferred something else, and I don’t doubt it was just to show me up. But since he's the primary financial backing for the store, I suppose he had the right to be choosy. When Clem offered the store to me, I was drunk and said yes, then swiftly signed the papers before I could sober up and freak out. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. Luckily, my pops Rupert swept in and saved the day with just enough time left to clean his glasses again. After giving me a two-days long lecture about the necessity of foresightedness, Dad provided the money to help make the shop mine.

Which meant he had all the right in the world to fucking humiliate me.

“It appeals to the old-world sentiment, don’t you see,” he asked, trying to repress a smirk as painters emblazoned the name on the awning and window. “You could put some victrolas around, play your guttertrash records on those.”

This is why we don’t have a good father-son relationship.

Anyway, despite it’s archaic name (which I was too lazy and poor to change), my store carries a lot of good, modern stuff. Most of the lot is used vinyl, LPs and 45s that would make any seriously hip wanker’s mouth water. Just don’t ask for something like, oh that poncy Fall Out Boy or something. You’ll be mercilessly beaten and thrown out on your arse if you do.

This morning, I’ve stumbled into the shop looking like Hell on wheels. My hair is disheveled, I haven’t showered in two days and my clothes smell like an ashtray drenched in fruity alcohol. Last night, while listening to the Smiths and other sad sod songs about love, I made myself cocktails of whiskey and the Hi-C Buffy left in the larder. Pathetic.

With blood-shot eyes, I gaze around the empty store and have the same epiphany I have every morning.

I detest this place more than life itself.

Everyday, it’s the same bloody thing. I stand around, pretending that at any minute, we’ll have an imminent customer. On a good day, we get three, maybe. Seven, tops. Weekends, the customers go into double digits, but rarely past three hands of fingers. All people do is drift into the store with their trendy haircuts and indie glossies and waste my time by aimlessly leafing through the racks before they meet up with their friends for a latte. I’ve considered placing a bouncer at the door, one who’ll ensure that the only people allowed in my store are there to spend money.

Oz is arranging the new releases display when he sees me grimace at the store in disgust. “Hey Buddy,” he says, giving me a friendly nod.

I nod back in slow motion, still in some syrupy hungover daze. After a few moments, I notice the musical discordance reverberating through the store. I frown. “What’s this you got on, Dead Boys?”

“I’m feeling in a riotous mood today,” Oz deadpans peaceably. He’s just one of the three other people that work here. I find this amount of customer service to be excessive when compared to our lack of customers. Still, I don’t have the heart to fire them all. It gives them something to do.

“Where’s Gunn?” I sigh, throwing my leather coat over the cash register.

“In the back. Stocking and drowning in the melodious melodies of Lil’ Wayne.”

“Great. And Xander?”

Oz shrugs. “You got me. Last night, he said something about making an epic Monday mix or something. We want these new Strokes CDs near the front, don’t we?”

“Sure.”

He must pick up on my low, sullen tone because his face changes and shifts into a concerned frown. “Hey. You okay?”

I nearly trip over the bloody carpet and hurl my guts out into the trashcan behind the register. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Bloody not. Have a headache the size of Russia and Buffy’s gone. I start to rub my temples and Oz reaches for the volume knob on the stereo.

“I can turn it down if you wa--”

I hold one hand up. “No leave it.” I don’t want things to seem abnormal. Besides, after my sad-sod-music-filled night, the Dead Boys are a welcome change. “Suits my mood as well.”

Just then, Xander strides through the door, jarring my eyes with his hideous ensemble. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt, for Chrissakes. When will the torture end?

“And how are you lovely creatures this morning?”

This guy is jovially obnoxious that I’d be compelled to hate him if he wasn’t a mate. Still, ours is a begrudging friendship. Oz introduced me to him and I gave him a job only because he was Willow’s best friend. After some snarky male posturing, we settled on a compromise of merely standing each other. It’s not so bad, I guess. He starts to grow on you. Like mold.

“Good,” Oz says and anxiously looks back at me. I have my head on the cashier’s desk and I don’t plan to pick it up for Xander’s sake.

Xander stands awhile, listening to the music we’ve got on. He makes a face. “”You Ragin’ Reggies listening to the cry of the snotty and disaffected, huh? Well I got something that really screams punk rock.”

He goes over to the stereo and slips in a cassette. He pumps up the volume and grins expectantly. And then the first note sounds. It’s the bloody "Itsy-Bitsy-Teeny-Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini" song. Hideous.

Xander begins to throw his head up and down as the music fills the store. "You hear it guys? This is the real anti-establishment anthem! Stick it to the Man in style while grooving to the poppy rhythms!" He’s starting to do a dance something Oz and I have christened "the Snoopy Dance". Believe it or not, this goon has a girlfriend.

I grit my teeth. Buffy’s gone. I feel murderous. The last thing I want is to listen to this drivel. "Turn it off, Xander," I growl.

"Come on, Spikester! Get into it! She’s singing a narrative for the ages. It’s about a bikini. How could a song be bad if it’s about skimpy, womanly apparel?"

"This one is. Turn it off."

Gunn comes from the back room. "What the hell is this music?"

"It’s my Monday Morning Music compilation, dog," Xander notes gleefully, still waving his arms and legs around in a bizarre fashion. "This knocks the socks off P. Diddy, let me tell you what."

Gunn frowns at him. “Don’t get me started on Diddy. And what did I tell about the whole ‘dog’ thing?”

“Turn it off, Xander,” I warn him again.

“But you haven’t even gotten to the best track,” Xander whimpers.

“What is it?”

Xander smiles widely and fast-forwards the tape. I take a deep breath and prepare myself. Xander throws his head back and starts pumping his hands in the air. “I CAN FEEL SAINT ELMO’S FIRE BURNING INSIDE MEEEE,” he starts wailing and that’s when I crack my knuckles. I stalk to the stereo, grab the cassette out, and proceed to rip the tape up. Xander yelps and makes a jump for it, but I push him off.

"Hey man! That’s my tape!"

"Was your tape. And I’m doing you a favor. No man should subject himself to such terrible music." I smash the tape up with my bare hands, then throw it to the floor so I can give it a violent stomping. All the frustrations of the day, of the night, of my life are targeted on this helpless piece of plastic. The rest stare at me in confusion as I murder it.

"Hey chill out, G," Gunn says, reaching for my arm as I start to get out of control.

"Geez, Spike," Xander mumbles darkly. " It’s just a stupid tape, man. No need to have a temper tantrum. Man, you get more hormonal than Buffy during one of her "special" weeks."

The mention of her name breaks me. Blindly, I lunge for Xander’s throat and try to get my hands around his puny neck. I’m shaking him furiously, but Gunn and Oz grab and restrain me. There’s scuffling and some shrieking on Xander’s side, but in a minute, we’ve all calmed down and I’m stomping off towards the back, slamming the door thunderously.

Trying to calm myself, I collapse onto the sofa and attempt to think of nice things, things besides Buffy and women in general. I light up a fag and take deep, cathartic drags, but nothing seems to work. After a few moments brooding, there’s a knock on the door. Oz sticks his head in.

"Hey."

"Hey."

He enters the room awkwardly, He fidgets around for a while until he stops and hands me a CD. "Here. It’s that Sigur Ros CD you wanted me to burn. I did it a couple days ago and just forgot to give it to you."

Great. More sad sod music. I don’t know how much more of this depressing shite I can stand, but I take it from him. "Thanks," I lie.

He pauses, but decides to delve into it. "So I heard about you and Buffy."

I chuckle mirthlessly. "She already telling everyone her spin on things, I s'ppose?”

He shakes his head. "No. Willow told me this morning. Buffy was upset last night, and they stayed up pretty late talking about it."

So she’s upset and loosing sleep over me. This cheers me up immensely.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Listen, I’m really sorry."

"S’okay. What have you got to be sorry about? You still have a pretty lass at home."

"Look, if you want to talk . . ."

I try to envision what talking to Oz about this would look like. I can’t imagine anything besides the picture of us grunting monosyllabically to each other. "Naw, it’s alright."

"Well . . . I was wondering if you wanted to hang with Willow and me tonight. You know, just to get out of the house. We’re going to the Bronze. Some new band is playing there and they’re supposed to be pretty tight. You game?"

I think of the alternative. Me at home alone, watching reruns of Dawson’s Creek while binge drinking on Hi-C whiskey sours. "Yeah okay."

"Great." He turns to go.

"Hey Oz?"

He looks back at me. "Yeah?"

"Tell Xander if he ever brings in another tape like that, I’ll do worse than a hissy fit."

He laughs. "Okay."

After he leaves, I sit back and return to my diversionary game of thinking of things besides Buffy. Like motorcycles. And movies. There was a great-looking film I wanted to see at the cinema the other day. Buffy wanted to see it too. Buffy loves the cinema. In fact, we made love one time in the back of a movie theater and--bloody hell. Get the fuck out of my mind, you vixen.

The phone rings before I can continue screaming at Imaginary Buffy in my head. It’s my mum.

"Hello William dear, how are you doing?" she croons.

"Good, Mum." My flat tone isn’t exactly convincing.

"And how’s lovely Buffy?"

My knuckles go white against the phone. "Lovely Buffy is fine, Mum," I mutter, teeth grinding.

"You know, she’s a blessing, she really is. That girl keeps you in line. If it wasn’t for her, I would constantly be worrying after you. When you were a lad, all you did was cause me trouble. You need a good girl to take care of you. You’d go stark raving mad if you didn’t have Buffy--"

This is too much. This is officially “Take the Piss Out of Spike Day”.

"Well I guess it’s the strait jacket for me," I interrupt curtly. "Because I don’t have a Buffy after all."

Empty silence and I can almost hear her shake her head. "William . . . ?"

"That’s right. She’s gone. She’s left me."

Shrilly, she nearly shouts, "Gone where?"

"How am I supposed to know?!" I yell back.

"Well what did you do to her?!"

"What have I done?! What have I done?! Thanks for the lovely encouragement, you silly bint!"

She’s started crying. Good. I stretch out on the couch with satisfaction and listen to her blubber on. "H-how . . . William, you’ll never make anything of yourself," she gasps through sobs.

I sit up again and shout through the phone, "It’s just a girl, Mum! My life won’t turn to ruins over this.” In the back of my mind, I think fleetingly of Dru. Ha. Well it happened before . . .

"You’ll never get married. You’ll never have a family. The store will fail and you’ll have to live with your father and I again . . ."

I can’t take this. How did we get from Buffy leaving to me being a twenty-seven old living with his parents? "Oh shut the BLOODY HELL UP, Mum!!"

She’s dropped the phone. I’m about to hang up with relish, but a man has cleared his throat on the other line.

"William." It’s my dad, ol’ Rupes. "I do believe this is a record. Less than five minutes and already you’ve reduced your mother to tears. I’d commend you, but I’m the one who’ll have to deal with the aftermath."

"She started it. She couldn’t leave well enough alone. She just had to go on about . . ." I stop and realize I don’t feel much like saying her name at all.

Dad relieves me. "Yes, I heard what she was saying. And though I don’t approve of the way she handled it, I do share her concern. Would you like to talk about it?"

I bite back impatience. "Don’t worry about it, Rupert."

He sighs. “Once again, I prefer the term father. And as such, you know I’m always here for you.”

“Yeah.” The lingering pause that follows lets me know that he’s curious and waiting for explanations. I’m not gonna give ‘em.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” he says after awhile with a bit of bite in his voice.

“Hell no.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pry. Did you do something?”

“Ha! Thanks for leaping to that conclusion, Dad. That’s right supportive.”

“I apologize William, that wasn’t tactful. It’s just . . . a habit with you, isn’t it?”

“What is?” I say, knowing full well what he’s going to say.

“This. Alienating perfectly wonderful young ladies like Buffy, dragging them down into this pit of depression you insist on mucking about in.”

I grip the edge of the couch for control. “Why's it always about me? What makes you so sure there’s nothing wrong with her? She left me, Rupert.”

“I’m sure you gave her little choice in the matter. You have little-to-no drive or ambition, you lack a sense of control, especially in regards to your temper--”

“Listen, dear Father. I’ve had about as much bullshit as I can stand today and you’re pushin’ past the quota.”

I slam the phone down while Rupert loudly continues sermonizing. I take a few calming breathes before the phone rings again. With an incensed grunt, I snatch it and growl, “Listen you old chuffer, I don’t care what you have to say about my fucking love life, I’d rather not fucking hear it, so fuck off!"

No one speaks for several seconds and I realize that it’s not Rupes after all. A girl clears her throat and says, "Well good. Because I wasn’t really in the mood to discuss your love life right now. In fact, I was hoping we could avoid it." Damn it. It’s Buffy.

"Cor pet, I’m sorry, I mistook you for someone else, I didn’t know--"

She’s pauses and sounds guarded, as if me calling her pet is too intimate all of sudden. "It’s okay,” she says after awhile. “I’m just glad I’m not a ‘chuffer’. I didn’t think I sent out a ‘chuffer’ vibe." She laughs a little and the sweet lullaby of it sends shivers down my spine, but she drifts off into awkward silence. "So . . ."

This is it. This could make or break it. Maybe there’s a chance of getting back together. One phone conversation can work everything out and we can be together again by tonight, sitting on the couch, watching Curb Your Enthusiasm together. "So . . ." I reply carefully.

"I . . . I was just calling to see when I can come over to pick up my stuff."

One sentence and all my castles in the air are shattered. "Pick up your stuff?

"Well yeah. It would helpful to have it. It isn’t serving me by being somewhere else."

"So you’ve got a place to stay then?"

In a guarded tone, she mumbles, "Yeah."

"Who with? Willow and Oz?" Oz would have told me.

She sighs. "Spike, I don’t want to talk about it." This alarms me. If she doesn’t want to talk about it, that’s obviously something I want to talk about.

"Why?" I push, my voice getting harder by the second. "What’s wrong with me asking? Unless it’s somewhere bad, you’d tell me."

"Spike . . . just tell me when I can come over to get my stuff."

The question still nags at me like a bloody tick between my fingernails. But she’s the one who started it with all this "I don’t want to talk about it" business. "After you tell me where you’re staying."

"Forget it." She sounds tired. "Just forget it. I’ll have Xander or Willow pick my stuff up. Talk to you later."

"No wait. Wait, I’m sorry. I don’t mean it. You can come over tonight and get it."

"Will you be there?" she asks cautiously.

"Jesus, Buffy. I can’t even be there? What’s the big deal?"

"It’s not a big deal, I just think it would be easier that way. If I saw you, we’d only get into an argument and I thought we had finished all the hard parts last night."

"What makes you think we’d get into an argument?"

"When do we not?"

"So that’s it. You’re leaving because we have the occasional row."

"You know why I’m leaving. We went over this last night. I made myself clear."

"Obviously not clear enough if I’m asking you again. I want to know why."

"Spike . . ."

"A person doesn’t just stop loving someone, Buffy." I don’t know where that came from. It’s like the words have formed of their own accord.

Her voice is shaky. "I didn’t say I stopped loving you," she murmurs quietly.

"So what? So why is this happening?" I sound equally, if not more shaky. I feel like a bloody fool.

She sighs. "It’s not that easy to explain. All I know is it’s not because I don’t love you. I wish I didn’t love you anymore. It would make things a lot easier. But adult relationships are never that easy."

"Was it something I did, something I said?"

"Well duh. Obviously it was stuff you did and said."

"So it’s all my bloody fault then?"

"Look. I’m not going to give you the cop out and say ‘It’s not you, it’s me’. Because that’s only half-true. It’s both of us. We both brought an end to the relationship--"

"No. Don’t say that. Don’t say ‘the end’."

"Spike, please."

"Well, what do you want me to say? You want me to say I’m happy with this arrangement? I’m not. I want to know why. You haven’t told me why."

"I told you I don’t know! I don’t know a lot of things right now. My mind is hazy and confused. I’m not sure what I’m doing."

"But you know you love me. You do know that."

"I know I have to do this for myself,” she says, all steely-like. She sounds like a bloody Spice Girls song. Damned women’s lib.

"Just tell me you’ll clear out of the apartment for a few hours so I can organize my things?"

I sigh, full of defeat. "Fine. Whatever the fuck you want."

"Spike, don’t be like this."

"Then you don’t be like this! Come home, come home and be with me. That’s all I want."

Flatly, she mutters, "I have to go. I have to get back to work."

"Buffy, wait--"

Strangely, she pauses and says softly before hanging up, "I do still love you, you know."

What? Is that supposed to make me feel better?

I clench my teeth and fists, groaning miserably. Finally letting out a groan of rage, I kick the wall. I throw some papers and records around. I even hurl the couch over. Nothing works. The feeling is the same as it was in high school. Buffy hasn’t pushed my hands out of her knickers the way Darla did, but she’s made me just as stressed and bursting like a volcano about to ooze over into a fiery mess.

When I accepted Oz's offer to go out tonight, I did so under the impression that it would be just us blokes with the exception of Willow, whom I look on so platonically, she becomes nearly male in my eyes anyway. I can see now it’s all one big trick.

As soon as I arrive at the Bronze, I feel a cold chill spread within me as I approach Oz's table. I’ve entered the nauseating kingdom of Coupledom.

They're all there with their honeys. Oz is there with Willow, Xander with Anya, and Gunn with Fred. They look so damned smug, I could kill them.

"Hey, Spike!" Willow greets me a little too cheerfully, as if she thinks she can compensate for my obvious lack of cheer. "How goes the wonderful world of music retail?"

I shrug. "It . . . goes." I turn to look darkly around the club while I start chugging my beer. They all exchange worried glances.

"Happy you came out, man," Gunn says, slapping me on the back like a school counselor. "Feels like we haven't hung out for awhile."

I give him a look. Our record store is a ghost town, thereby qualifying our jobs as “occupational hang-out-time”. And that’s not the only reason the statement seems less than comforting. Before, I was too busy with Buffy to have a Guy's Night Out. He’s just drawing attention to the fact that I've been relieved of my more enjoyable burdens. Taking a long swig of beer, I squint at him a little and grunt, "Yeah."

"I'm glad you could make it too," Fred adds in her alert, nervous way. "The band that's playing tonight is supposed to be great."

"That's what Oz said." I'm cold, menacing and gloomy, but I don't care.

Fred looks like she just insulted my dead granny. "Oh. R-right."

"Right."

Two minutes with the gang and I've already brought the atmosphere plummeting down, good n’ proper. They're struggling, I can tell. Oz must have told them what happened. Xander seems especially fidgety. I guess he feels guilty after our little skirmish at work.

"So Spike . . ." he starts in the same annoyingly placating tone Gunn uses, "How are you doing?" He tries to give me an over-exaggerated nod of sympathetic worry and it makes me feel like a friggin’ orphan.

I explode, unable to keep up this charade any longer. "Oh, for FUCK'S sake!"

It has unnerved them and they reach for me, "Oh, Spike!" I'm suddenly attacked by Fred and Xander, who both scoop me into a bone-crushing hug. "It'll be all right! We promise! It’s okay!”

I push them off of me, revolted. "I implore you, in the name of everything holy, don't ever do that again."

Fred rubs my back soothingly, and Xander looks close to tears. "Just let it out buddy, let it all out."

Extracting myself from them, I grumble, "There's nothing to let out. Please, the lot of you, no need to get your knickers in a twist over me."

"We're just concerned about you, Spike, that's all," Willow pipes up. "We know how . . . well . . . how upset you get over things like this."

“Things like this.” I know exactly what she means by "things like this." She is referring to Dru, who set me on the path of ruin I walk down today. She is referring to the long stretches of dejection and self-loathing that always follow each break-up.

"That's very considerate of you. But I don't bloody need your concern. I'm fine.”

"Spike, it's not good to wallow in denial," Xander coos. "We're your friends. We're here for you to lean on."

"Seems to me if Spike doesn't want to talk about it, he doesn't want to talk about it," Anya notes indifferently, studying her nails. I smile gratefully at her. She's probably the only one amongst the bunch who can rival me in dryness. Her blatant disregard for subtlety and tact runs so extreme that sometimes I wonder if she's from another planet or dimension. Maybe Canada. Whatever it is, I appreciate her right now.

But she continues. "He’s obviously so miserable in the wake of Buffy’s departure that he needs to repress." I rescind all appreciative comments.

"Nice girl you got there, Harris," I growl. Xander, red with embarrassment, puts his arm around Anya.

"Remember the thing we talked about, hun?" he says through a tight smile.

"That thing where you told me I'm not supposed to point out how pathetic Spike's situation is?"

Xander chuckles uncomfortably and jabs Anya in the ribs. "Right. Do that."

I sigh. "This was a huge mistake. I shouldn't have come." Uproar follows as they plead with me to stay, but I shake my head. "Sod it all. I'm going home.” I start to mutter something about reorganizing my records, but then I stop and groan. Buffy's coming over to gather her things. I can't be there. Fuck. First, I'm suddenly single, now I'm homeless. "Damn it. I can't go home."

"You bet your bottom dollar you can't go home!" Fred exclaims in her bright Texan drawl. "You'd be missing out some fun high jinks, Mister!"

I look blankly around. Fred, Gunn, Oz, Willow, Anya and Xander stare back at me with piss-warm bottles of beer in their hands. This is not exactly Fun Central.

"Look at it this way, English," Gunn reasons. "There are worse places to be. Look around, smell the hotties. You have a whole club-load of them at your disposal."

Willow frowns at Gunn. "Gunn, don't encourage him to get back in the game so early --"

But my mind's already turning at the suggestion. "No, Willow, wait. Gunn's right." I gaze around me at all the scantily-clad specimens giving me come-hither looks. "Maybe a distraction is the way to go."

She furrows her eyebrows, dismayed. "Spike, you and Buffy haven't been broken up forty-eight hours and already you're looking for other girls --"

"Hey! She left me, all right? I'm just trying to play the cards she dealt me." I give her a hard, sharp look that silences her immediately. I turn away and contemplate this new idea.

Yeah. Maybe another girl would be the cure. After all, I'm not obligated to anyone any more. Not only will I get a shag, but it'll probably make Buffy's blood boil, and I definitely like that idea. Satisfied, I straighten the lapels of my black duster, try out the old smirk and look around at all the other fishes in the sea. That's right, ladies. Big Bad Spike is back in town.




Nearly two hours later, I'm on my seventeenth cigarette, sulking in the corner. Plan New Girl has failed miserably. It's like I'm transported back to junior high school, before Cecily or anyone else ever touched me. Deep down, under the layers of leather and black, I'm still uncool, sheepishly shy William. And I'm totally inept at the flirting thing. I've attempted it with many girls who give me an inviting smile, but as soon as I open my mouth, I get hopelessly choked up and gasp for air. Disgusted and puzzled, the girls will walk away while I'm left wheezing for my life. And as I suffocate on my own social clumsiness, I come to one conclusion.

Buffy’s ruined me for anyone else.

I go over to Oz, who's laughing with Willow. "I'm heading out," I mumble, throwing a thumb in the door's direction.

"What? You can't. The band hasn't started yet."

"Yeah, well they're two hours late. I could need a hip replacement by the time they start."

"Hey, come on, stay. It's a good show. The drummer's my friend, he told me --"

The lights darken, and a colored spotlight hits the stage. The crowd goes quiet as the band goes over their sound check.

"See? You can't leave now. You're still in the prime of life, and they're starting. It's win-win."

I sigh and begin counting the minutes 'til I leave. Moment I get up to fifteen, I'm out the door. Nursing my fifth Heineken this evening, I don't even notice the band’s started ‘til a smooth, velvety voice soars across a pair of jangling guitars that strum a moody intro. I look up and see a girl holding the microphone like she’s holding . . . well something else. She’s cloaked by the dark stage, but I can still make out her curvaceous figure undulating like a snake to the music. Unconsciously intrigued, I raise an eyebrow. The spotlight illuminates the girl suddenly, so that I get a full view of her.

And she’s bloody hot.

She’s wearing knee-high stiletto boots and a skin-tight leopard dress that barely covers her appealingly tanned and muscular thighs. Her arms are covered with tats and I find myself staring at a bosomy pin-up girl decorating her upper bicep. Her eyes are heavily kohl-lidded and her full lips are painted a particularly enticing plum color.

“I love you . . . less,” she sings, breathy and husky in a way that makes me nervous. “Yesterday was a better day . . .”

"Who's that?" I murmur with my eyes still fixed on the stage.

"That's Veruca," Oz nods. "She’s pretty cool.”

Willow scrunches up her faces and studies her closely. "I dunno. She's kinda giving off this Courtney Love vibe and that’s not a good thing."

Xander arrives with drinks and snacks. "What’re we talking about?"

"We're discussing the band's singer and her poseur factor. What do you think of her?"

Xander squints and smiles dreamily. "I don't know about poseur, but from what I see, the girl's got quite a set of --" Anya slaps him upside the head just in time. ". . . Vocal chords.”

"What do you think of her, Spike?" Fred asks, turning to me while I'm still in a glazed state.

"Uh -- wha…? Oh. Umm. She's not so bad." By not so bad, I mean highly shaggable. This Veruca chick looks right up my alley. She's cute and talented and . . . I mentioned highly shaggable? Anyway, she looks like she'd fit me. Buffy always looked too clean for me somehow. It’d always be strange to see her grab one of my Sex Pistols shirts in the morning as she’d pad into the bathroom clad in J. Crew slippers. I can imagine this Veruca in my "God Save the Queen" shirt, though. We'd make a regular Sid and Nancy.

But when I start seriously thinking about Veruca, with her hair all tousled and her legs peeking out of my shirt, I get nervous with how much I want her. For some reason, I can't leave it off there. It's twisted. The only woman I've wanted for a long time has been Buffy, so lust for any other woman makes me think of her. It's almost habitual. It's like I want Veruca so much that it stops being about Veruca and becomes more about the simple feeling of physical yearning, which in turn makes me remember the feeling of wanting Buffy. And suddenly, I'm filled with an intense, aching longing for her. My mind is a warped and perverse instrument.

I'm caught in this wistful daze that Anya shakes me roughly out of. "Spike. Spike." She turns to Xander. "I think that's it. He's finally gone nuts."

"’Aven’t," I mutter without looking at her. "I'm just enjoying the show."

"Enjoying the show or enjoying Veruca?" Fred teases coyly. I've been found out.

"Aww, homeboy's blushing!" Gunn adds with a smile. I look over at Willow, and she looks less than pleased. I suppose she thinks she's being loyal to her best friend. If only she knew that’d my twisted brain is on her side, despite myself. I take Willow's consternation as an excuse to duck out.

"Well, kiddies, I'm all tuckered out," I say, faking a yawn. "I'm going home."

Xander waggles his eyebrows at me. "Oh come on, Spike, don't you want to ogle your new crush for the rest of the set?"

If I ogle Veruca any more, I'll miss Buffy so much, I'll die. “Man vs. Wild marathon’s on the telly. Can't miss it."

Willow puts a hand on my arm before I leave. "Hey. You think we could meet up tomorrow at the Espresso Pump? I wanted to talk, just the two of us. Wanted to talk more about . . . you know."

I really don't know, but I'm assuming it's something Buffy-related. Maybe she thinks she can intervene somehow. I see that look in her eyes. She thinks we should get back together. Maybe her hope is enough to make it happen. I nod. "Sure, Red. Whatever you want."

"We know what you want, Spikey." Xander gives me a grin, cocking his head at the stage. Everyone titters knowingly, but before anyone else can make a crack about Veruca, I'm gone.




I enter the apartment with a sigh and throw the keys on the side table in the foyer. But then I glance to see Buffy's camel-colored suede coat splayed across a chair, and I stiffen. Gingerly, I creep to the bedroom where I find her sitting on the bed, staring at an old picture of us, taken a summer day at the Sunnydale Marina. She's hunched over, and I rejoice when I think she's crying, but she hears me and turns, dropping the picture on the bed. Her eyes are bloodshot, but she's not fully weeping the way I’d like.

"Spike."

I shift uncomfortably, but loiter near the door. " Sorry, I thought you'd be done by now, I didn't think --"

"No, it's okay. I think I have the last of it anyway." She motions to the pile of bags lying in the corner, and it surprises me how little space it takes up. It seems like she occupied so much more of my life than six duffel bags and a couple small boxes.

There's a silence that follows, mostly caused by both of our reluctance to move. Gazing away from her, I close my eyes and bang my head against the doorframe. I can hear her get up to put a light hand on my shoulder, and a surge of electricity racks my whole body. Opening my eyes, I shake my head. "It doesn't make any sense, Buffy," I whisper softly. Her whole body seems to go limp in dismay, but I continue in haste. "I know I've been a cad. A horrible bounder. But I've always been a horrible bounder. This is old news. Why is it suddenly an issue?"

"Because you haven't changed, and I have. I might have been okay with you being a bounder before, but I need to move on. I need to grow up."

"Oh, fucking please. Forty-eight hours ago, you didn't feel the need to grow up. We were happy. Are you telling me you've aged ten years in one day?"

"This isn't sudden. You had to know it was coming. We haven't been happy for a long time. Face it, you haven't been happy for a long time.”

"Okay. So again, this is about me. You say it's not my fault, then you say it is."

She grits her teeth and throws her hands up in frustration. I take that as a good sign. It's more feeling I've seen her emit since the start of this thing. "Spike! You can't be this oblivious!"

"Oblivious to what?"

"You know why I left?" she rages. "Because you wanted me to."

"Don't fucking start this psychological mumbo-jumbo --"

"I'm serious. You're always so miserable because you're so afraid that I'll leave you. You use that as an excuse not to get on with your life. So I thought I'd do you a favor and just give in to what you always knew I'd do."

"So this is for my good?!" Honestly. Women make absolutely no sense. "And I'll tell you why I'm miserable! I'm miserable because my girlfriend has it in her stupid, silly head that she suddenly can't stand me and my so-called depressed ways."

She tries to move past me, trying to juggle some bags and boxes. "I told you we'd only get into a fight --"

"Well, get this into your head, pet." I grab her arm and whirl her back against the wall. Her bags and boxes clatter to the floor. I smash my lips against hers, plundering her mouth with my tongue. She wants to pretend that it's not real anymore, so I show her just how real it is, how real it's always been.

It's almost scary how deep and consuming the kisses are still. It's bitter and painful, but blinding and overwhelming at the same time. My heart is throbbing in my throat, I feel dizzy, and my knuckles are white against her slender arms. She's moving against me, wriggling her head back and forth to give me different angles of access. Not only that, but she’s clutching me as well, letting her nails dig into my shoulders, and I hear her moaning small little whimpers into my mouth. Just when I think we’re lost back into that glorious place where nothing matters except our lips and sex, she slips out from under me, brushing past. I'm left with my forehead against the wall as her footsteps clatter frantically against the floor. She scurries out the door and slams it with quaking strength. I shut my eyes tightly and restrain the impulse to thrust my fist through the wall.

Everything's fucking topsy-turvy. The distractions only make me concentrate on Buffy more. The "good" life she's letting me have by leaving is much worse than our "miserable" existence together. I'll never understand it.

The next morning, I’m sitting at the Espresso Pump trying to forget the events of last evening. Still, images of sexy Veruca slithering sexily onstage and Buffy smashing her hot little mouth to mine come unbidden into my pained, groggy head. I struggle to lose myself in a latte, or at least my version of a latte. I splash a very small cup of coffee with a large amount of whisky from the flask I’ve brought and drain it down blindly, oblivious to all the looks of disgust the other customers are sending my way. I glare back at them as if to say, yes, I am aware that it is only 10 o’clock in the morning. And I don’t bloody give a fuck.

I’m so immersed in my intense crankiness that I don’t notice Willow approach me with a scowl to rival mine. She has to clear her throat sternly a couple times before I’m drawn out of my black little cloud, and it is only then when I scramble up to draw out the chair for her. That’s right. I’m one of those kinds. A dying breed, we are. The true "Sir Walter Raleigh" blighters who’ll open doors for you, walk on the street side, offer you their coat the moment you give a sign of the slightest shiver. See? I’m not such a horrible person after all.

But immediately after she sits down, Willow wants to set that record straight. She looks me fiercely in the eye and says flatly, "You’re a real asshole, Spike."

I straighten and sputter my latte all over her peasant top. And it’s not because I think what she’s saying is outrageous. I’m not going to argue her assessment of my moral character. I’m just surprised because this is not the Willow Rosenberg I know. The Willow Rosenberg I know uses so many smirks, quirks, stammers and hand motions that a five-minute narrative becomes a two-hour chase for meaning. She must be a real woman with a mission to cut through the bullshit like this.

I play it cool and cock an eyebrow, still sipping my coffee. "It took you long enough to figure it, Red."

"Don’t do that. Don’t do that flippant, dry, British-y wit thing you do to get out of serious situations. I’m talking for real here."

"My mistake. I could have sworn you were saying I was merely posing as an asshole."

"See?! That! Stop doing that! Stop being all sardonic and --" She pauses and squints at me, hard. She notices my blood–shot eyes and tipsy state, frowning with dismay. "Wait—are you drunk?"

I laugh in an attempt to cast her accusation off, but a sudden hiccup ruins my cover. Still, I straighten and declare self-righteously, "I have no idea what you’re talking about." Then the bloody flask falls out of my pocket onto the floor and Willow swipes it, eyeing me like disapproving mother. Shame-faced, I mumble, "Just a bit knackered, I suppose."

"Goddess, Spike. It’s 10:17 in the morning."

"It’s purely medicinal," I insist, followed by another hiccup.

"And to think, I talked to Buffy last night about this whole thing," she says, like she’s bloody Mother Theresa speaking on behalf of me, a dirty piece of shite. She pauses and suddenly bores her eyes into me meaningfully.

"What? So you talked to her. That’s what you womenfolk do, I hear. You yammer each others’ ears off."

"Aren’t you curious to know what was said?"

"I’m pretty sure I know what was said. Stuff ‘bout me and her, I expect."

"That’s right," she replies harshly. "Stuff about you and her. At first it was stuff about how I thought you guys were so great as a couple and should get back together, then it kind of segued into stuff about how much of an asshole you are."

My head is on the table and it’s spinning. Veruca, Buffy, alcohol very early in the day, now Willow screaming at me. I’m very, very tired of this. I pick my head up and glare at her. "And what kind of stuff makes me such an asshole, exactly?" I say, with true self-righteousness now. What does Willow think she’s doing? What position is she in to judge me?

Willow crosses her arms. "Oh, I don’t know . . . let’s see . . . how about . . . sleeping with someone else, maybe?!" she shrieks.

Oh. Right. That.





Okay, before you all start with the looks of condemnation, give me a chance to explain. It’s not as bad as it sounds. I am not a bad human being. A shitty, useless prat, a rebellious, ungrateful son, an inattentive, crappy boyfriend perhaps, but not a bad human being. I never had the intention of cheating on Buffy. I’m sure most boyfriends don’t. Any boyfriend who knowingly goes out to cheat on his girl is a real tool, ladies, and deserves to be scorned with all the fire you can muster. Out of all the people on earth, I know for a fact that boyfriends like these will meet their future in hell, rotting away with Hitler and Stalin and Martha Stewart. I am not one of these people.

It was just a stupid, drunken encounter one night a million years ago. Okay, more like eight months ago. Still . . . eight fucking months ago. That’s a long time. Buffy and I had gotten over it. We talked it through like adults and moved on. I could try and explain this to Willow, but she'll still want to know why I did it. I suppose you do, too.

I could say it was just a drunken stupid mistake, but that would be simplifying matters. It was one of those moments that seemed very simple, but was actually the result of extended complications.

Buffy and I were going through a rough spot at the time. I don’t know if we really acknowledged how rough it was, but we were both aware that we weren’t in a good place. We were growing apart, already straying in opposite directions.

Buffy was helping her mother with her art gallery and in the process, making a name for herself in the art world as girl with a good eye for the business. She put on a few shows by herself in her mother’s gallery with a few local artists, and they were all smashin’ successes. Eventually, she launched into the grandiose project of opening a new wing for the gallery, entirely her own, and there was great hype surrounding the whole thing. Therefore, she was busy, too busy for me, and I was less than pleased.

As you can probably guess, I was on the other end of the spectrum. The store was doing less-than-satisfactorily (which is to say it was doing as it always does), and I was broke. So broke, in fact, I had to go crawling back to old Rupes. With a shake of the head and a bloody "I told you so, William," he lent me five thousand dollars to get me on my feet. It crushed that manly sense of self-determination in me and in consequence, I fell into a long fit of moodiness that excelled my normal moodiness. With things like that, I expected Buffy’s support. But no. It was always "I have to work on plans for the gallery, Spike" or "I’m just too busy, Spike" or "Shut the hell up and stop whining, Spike."

Even the sex dried up alarmingly. The one constant in our life suddenly became a burden to our (her) overwhelming schedules. She wearily came home from the gallery every night and say, "Not tonight, Spike. I promise, when things at work clear up, we’ll have a night to ourselves," then promptly fall dead asleep.

But things at work didn’t clear up. They remained just as busy, just as hectic, and just as incongruous with our sex life as ever, and it stayed that way for two months. Two months without shagging. It was too much, I tell you. I felt as celibate as an eighty-year-old priest, and twice as miserable. Something had to be done; something had to be the catalyst for change.

I’m not saying that I thought sleeping with another girl would rejuvenate the relationship. But I do know that I was desperate and horny and drunk off my arse one night at the Bronze when a saucy trollop named Faith walked up to me and started whispering dirty things into my ear. I’d been sold even if she were Agnes, the dog-faced girl; I was that piss-drunk.

So we stumbled back to her motel room, located in the seedier parts of Sunnydale, and proceeded to do things I barely remember, though I was told “I was quite the stallion”. This filled me with both guilt and pride; I was the stallion with someone who wasn’t my girlfriend, but at least underperformance wasn’t a problem.

In the morning, I was reasonably horrified with myself. Mulling over my guilt for about a day or so, I finally decided to do the adult thing and tell Buffy (which, in my mind, takes a lot of balls to do. As far as I’m concerned, the valor shown by telling your girlfriend you have cheated on her should purge you from the sin of the crime). Turns out, the trick worked. Oh, there was lots of screaming and crying and rowing and near-packing of bags, but in the end, we calmed down and agreed that one drunken encounter was not worth getting broken up over. So we didn’t tell anyone about it. And it was actually a blessing in disguise, because after everything, we could admit to things out in the open. Buffy could admit to be work-obsessed and negligent and I could admit to be a good-for-nothing cad. I thought, in some strange way, we were stronger because of it.

But I guess not. Because if Buffy is going around, digging up old mistakes and using them to justify to her friends the true nature of my assholishness, then I guess it really didn’t solidify our relationship the way I thought.

I try and explain this all to Willow. I try and show her my point-of-view, and though she is merely appraising it as "the asshole who cheats on his girlfriend" point-of-view, her face softens a little bit when I describe my plight. She’s especially impressed by my immediate admission of guilt, but I can see her feigning anger and indifference to everything I’ve said. She shakes her head and shrugs, her façade of wrath sinking down in ambivalence, and says, "Well, I don’t really care what you have to say about it. All I know is that you hurt Buffy, ergo, you equals scum."

I give her a puppy-dog pout. "Oh, come on, Red. You and me been pals for a while now, haven’t we? Does this angelic face look like the face of scum?"

She’s struggling not to giggle, and her little curling smile creases back into a frown. "Save your games, Spike. There’s no way to redeem yourself."

"Not even if I give you a cookie?" I ask, coyly waving a sugar cookie in her face. She laughs, then looks ashamed for finally caving in.

"Not even if you give me a cookie."

"So what? We can’t be friends anymore now that me and Buffy are broken up?"

She looks taken aback, then considers this. "I didn’t say that. I just want you to properly stew in guilt the way you should be doing."

"I see."

"And it’s not like I’m saying Buffy was totally in the right. I mean, I don’t really approve of the way she’s handling this Riley guy, but --"

I freeze, and Willow blushes when she realizes she’s let the cat out of the bag. Gripping the edges of the table tightly, I squint at her hard. Two words, and she’s opened a messy can of worms I’m not prepared to deal with. "What Riley guy?" I ask her through clenched teeth.

She rushes to get up and flee before I can interrogate her further. "I better go, I have to pick some things up at the Magic Box up the street --"

I grab her arm. "Hold it, Glinda. Not before you tell me this: What fucking Riley guy?" She chews on her lip and looks at me worriedly.

"I s-shouldn’t have said anything," she stammers before slipping out of my grasp. She escapes up the street, leaving me alone in the Espresso Pump, my world shaken.

I stare at Willow’s half-empty cup of coffee and the sugar cookie on the ground, the only evidence of our encounter. They are the same as they were a minute ago, but I feel quite different. A minute ago, I was just surly, smug, complacent Spike. Now Willow stupidly says one thing, and I’m filled with doubt, paranoia and unbelievable rage. I can’t take it. I kick the chair and table over, sending the cups and silverware flying as I roar, "WHAT FUCKING RILEY GUY?!" to no one in particular. I then proceed to kick in the wall, creating a very large hole. The other customers look scared and regard me as a schizo lunatic. The manager comes out with a malevolent look on his face.

Needless to say, I am henceforth banned from the Espresso Pump.

I nearly break the door off its hinges as I storm through the thresh hold like Hurricane Willy. Normally I would mull over my mail, see if I’ve got the new issue of whatever underground music magazine I’ve applied to this month, saunter over to the larder to grab a beer and sulk like a hermit for the rest of the afternoon, but today, I avoid such habits. I’m a man with a mission and I won’t rest till there’s blood on m’hands.

Riley. Riley. I know this name; it’s a name that haunted the halls of Sunnydale High during my tutelage there. You couldn’t go anywhere without hearing that name cried by the dull, adoring masses. You’d always hear it be uttered with a spark of worship, as if this Riley was a Grecian god with golden-painted skin and a gentle, ebullient halo encircling his head.

God, I hated that fucker.

I don’t even remember what the pissant looked like, except that he was well-built and attractive in a pedestrian, generic way. I do remember him being the star quarterback for our football team, the hailed "Redeemer of the Razorbacks", the sole reason our slumping team pulled out of our notorious five-year loosing streak to blaze to fields of undefeated glory.

He transferred to Sunnydale our sophomore year from some white bread farm town in Iowa and immediately caught on with everyone. Well by everyone, I mean the girls. No girl with sight could resist Riley. He was like a bloody disease; he’d walk by, flash a grin, and girls were left wheezing helplessly along the corridors.

And now my Buffy has succumbed to his Captain Cardboard charms as well. He indirectly made my life in high school a living hell by denying me access to most of the girls’ hearts in Sunnydale, and now he’s obviously decided to screw me on a more personal level by screwing my girlfriend.

Alright. Ex-girlfriend. But from Willow’s tone, and according to my mental time chart, it’s obvious that fishy business has been going on for a while. It’s only now that I’m unlucky enough to smell the stench.

I stalk over to the bookshelf and ravage it, searching for an item I repeatedly vowed never to gaze upon again. My hands grapple and wrestle with dust bunnies until I feel something flat and hard. Grunting in triumph, I pull it out.

A book, titled "Sunnydale High School, Class of 1999: The Future is Yours! Today!"

The inane optimism makes me grit my teeth. If I’d know that this would be my future all those years ago, I 'd 'ave winged it right back at The Powers That Be and told them to eat it.

I scurry through the pages in a mad torrent. Riley, Riley, Riley . . . his name is smugly hiding from me, I know it. I go straight to the Rs since I know that, in proper high school etiquette, Riley is probably his last name, adopted as his first by the always creative and half-witted apes of the football team. Quickly, I scan down the list. Rafferson, Radney, Richardson, Rilke, Rosenburg--I pause and smile somewhat sentimentally over pig-tailed and rainbow-sweatered Willow, smiling like the eternally cheery sprite she is until I realize that I’ve skipped over Riley. Shit.

I throw the yearbook at my helpless wall, leaving the book to clunk to the floor. Holding my head in my hands, I shake my head miserably. This isn’t fair, this isn’t fair, why the fuck is life fair for everyone except me?

This tireless tirade on mankind isn’t getting me anywhere. There’s still a bloke out there putting his wood to my Buffy, who, regardless of whether she currently likes me or lives with me is still mine. Yes, I’m a possessive jerk. But Buffy knew this, and should have counted on me giving her and her new beefstick some trouble.

But it’s all a fantasy. I’ll never find them and I’ll never win her back and as usual, I’ll be left alone, the victim of another heartless rejection.

I sigh and go to pick up the yearbook when I am drawn to a picture of a rather frail-looking blonde boy, giving the camera his best impersonation of Johnny Rotton. This façade of indifference and anti-establishment anger is sad somehow. It is too soft, too unshaped by years of bitter experience. I long to tell eighteen-year-old William Brian Giles to give up the rebellious scowl of adolescence; you’ll have more reason to legitimately scowl some day, so smile while you can.

As I ruminate grievously over the circumstances the Younger Me has yet to scowl through, my eye tilts up and I see him. Riley Finn, a couple rows above me. There he is, shining his pearly whites and cocking his beefy head on his thick neck like an innocent choirboy. I know better, though. I can see into his poisonous, stinking soul.

I spring up, waving the yearbook wildly. "I’m ON to you, motherfucker!" I scream, and I think Mrs. Carlisle from next door has dropped her teacup to the floor due to my boisterous profanity. Grabbing the telephone book, I nearly rip it in half looking for Riley Finn. My heart races when I find it and start dialing the phone. This is all mindless. What am I going to do, call this poof, tell him to piss off, release my girlfriend from his malicious clutches and let her come joyfully home to me? And if he doesn’t, I’ll take the sharpest chainsaw I can find and make nice, bloody crudités of him?

As a matter of fact, this sounds like an excellent idea.

But then Buffy answers the phone, and all my fantasies of revenge are shattered, giving way to blind, angry devastation.

"Hello?" She sounds so damned innocent, so cheerful and so happy to be rid of me. So this was what the whole "I don’t want to talk about it" shite was about.

"Hello?" she repeats as my mouth goes dry. "Hello, hello?" Her tone becomes more frustrated, and to spare us both, I hang up on her as I feel tears and hot, blinding rage rise in my throat.

Collapsing in my chair and starting to tear at its leather, I feel reality sinking in. This is it. This situation with Buffy has rapidly degraded from a salvageable project to an on-the-worst-breakup-list memory. My life will not be defined by what I’m doing, but what I’ve done, the mistakes that will only be accumulated into lists I keep to morbidly amuse myself.

The phone rings again quickly and I freeze. Could it be . . . no. Riley couldn’t have caller id. Buffy wouldn’t have picked up the phone if she saw my number. And she certainly doesn’t know of star-69. Her technological capabilities are limited to computer solitaire. Hesitantly, I pick up the phone and pause fearfully. " . . . Hullo?"

"Spike." Fucking fuck shit-shit. It’s Buffy. Not only is Riley out to ruin my life, but he taught her how to use the phone. Maybe I can fake this.

"Buffy!" I feign breezily. "Hullo, it’s nice to hear from you. I was just thinking about calling Willow to get the number of where you are, you left some of your bags here --"

"Cut the bull, Spike. You just called Riley’s."

I still try at ignorance. "I don’t know what you’re talking about --"

"Unless there’s a magical elf in your apartment who likes using your number to harass me, I’d say you’re lying."

I explode. "Harass you?! I was merely catching you in the act of squalid infidelity --" I stop when I realize I’ve just been caught. "Okay. So I might have called. But I certainly didn’t expect you to pick up. Not like you made the effort to tell me of your whereabouts . . . or who you’ve been whereing-about with." I rejoice when I hear something catch in Buffy’s throat and I’m pretty sure it’s guilt.

"Who told you?" she asks in a small voice.

"Doesn’t matter, does it? What matters is that you didn’t, when we had a relationship or otherwise." I nearly choke on my own words, because it’s the first time I’ve admitted to our union in the past tense to her.

"I’m sorry," she whispers. "I’m sorry – I never meant for this to happen."

"So this was it, wasn’t it? You tried to put the guilt on me, say this ended because I’m unhappy and I’m hard to live with and it’s all my soddin’ fault, when the reality of it is, you’ve just been shagging some fuckwit behind my back!"

"Spike! It’s not like that!"

"So tell me what it’s like!"

Her voice gets all the hushed and quiet. "Spike, I have to go – this isn’t a good time -- " I hear a low, hearty, masculine voice in the background, and I almost break the phone with my bare hands.

"Is that him? Is that Riley Fuckwit?"

"Spike, please, we’ll talk about this later, I just have to -- "

A question stumbles out of my mouth, and I know it’s not the kind that can be answered at the end of a conversation, but maybe that’s why I ask it, just so I can hear her voice for a little longer. "Is it better?"

She stops. "Is what better?"

"What, what. Playing Chinese Checkers with him, darning socks with him, you know what I’m talking about."

Buffy almost laughs harshly. "Spike, I can’t believe you. Is that all you care about?"

"It’s a simple question. Just give me a simple answer."

"So why? So you can either have your ego massaged or destroyed when I tell you? I’m not falling for it. And what makes you think we’ve done anything anyway?""

I snort a bitter noise of contempt. "Please. If I know anything about you, it’s how easy it is to pry your dimpled knees apart. Lest you forget our how we met and shagged the same day." These words are untrue and hurtful and cruel, but I don’t care. Buffy has hurt me and acts as if she owes me nothing, not even a simple answer. I hear the palpable sudden anger emanating from her silently across the phone, and I recognize how flushed and upset she is by her thick voice.

"Well if you must know, it’s been better, Spike. So much better than it’s ever been with you. Riley is the man you never could be, in the bedroom and otherwise --"

She’s lying, I know it. I can tell by how theatrical and catty she sounds. She’s doing it to hurt me and I know better than to fall victim to it.

I hang up the phone anyway.

At first, I rip up Riley Fuckwit’s number and throw it in the trashcan. I try to occupy myself with other things. I check my email, hit the Man U forums, listen to a couple of thrashy records, and reorganize the liquor cabinet. Two hours later, I find myself standing in front of the wastebasket, conflicted and torn. Finally, I give up all semblance of self-control. I dump the contents of the basket on the floor and sift through cigarette ash and some unidentified brown stuff to get to the scraps. It takes me another twenty minutes just to tape the soddin’ pieces together. And then the incessant phone stalking begins.

The first five times, Buffy answers. The third time, she hisses, “Spike, I’m going to kill you”, and the fever in her voice makes me perk up. If she was indifferent, I wouldn’t have anything to work with. But aggravation and hatred?

I can work with that.

The fifth time she says gruffly, “Spike, if you don’t stop, I will personally kick your ass back to the mother country.”

“You just want an excuse to get your hot lil’ hands all over my arse, don’t you, kitten?”

She emits a strangled and frustrated shriek before hanging up on me.

After the rings that follow, she stops answering, but I’m not falling for it. A few times, Riley Fuckwit answers. I feel my heart pound heavy and quick like a machine gun when I hear his bland, deep voice saying “Look, Buffy and I don’t want any trouble, er, Spike. We’d just like to be left alone.”

“Buffy and I”. “We”. Ha bloody ha. This poor pissant is delusional if he really thinks he’s got some sort of claim on my Buffy. If she’s completely his, why would she keep picking up the phone? Why would she be so breathlessly choked up with emotion and dare I say passion when she’s yelling at me?

I’m not done with this, I decide. Not by a long shot.





“Why do you keep calling them?” Willow asks me a week later at the Bronze with Oz. “You’re really starting to freak Buffy out.”

I sip on my beer and smirk. Over the past seven days, I’ve called hundreds of times, at all hours. And it’s not merely induced by rage and desperation the way it was with Dru. I’m amused that I’m causing so much drama between Buffy and her new excuse for a man. Hopefully, Fuckwit will get so tired of it all that he’ll pack her in, knowing that there’s still so much that’s unresolved between Buffy and me.

“That’s not it!” Willow cries when I offer this explanation. “If anything, you’re just pushing them together! It’s like you’re making them form this unit against you and it’s not good.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And why’s it not good, Red?”

“Because Riley sucks,” Oz says simply. “I don’t like him.”

I turn to him in surprise. It’s very rare for Oz to express a negative opinion about anyone, so I’m readily intrigued.

“I knew it! Crew Cut’s a fuckwit, ’init he?”

Oz shrugs, but Willow interrupts before we can start the Riley-bashing.

“Not a fuckwit. Just . . . different.”

“He’s boring,” Oz cuts in and Willow slaps his shoulder, frowning. “What? I’m just being honest.”

“Honesty’s your best virtue, mate,” I say, sidling up to him in hopes of getting more information. “So what’s the wanker like?”

“He’s nice,” Willow states firmly. “He’s a little . . . dull--”

“And controlling. And boring. Did I forget to mention boring?” Oz adds.

“Oz!”

“Okay.” Oz leans conspiratorially towards me, obstructing Willow from my view. “We had dinner with Buffy and Riley two nights ago and all he could talk about was his work.”

“Let me guess. Corporate-yuppie-Brooks-Brothers-wearing-bastard?”

“Basically. It’s like, dude, I got that making partner at your law firm’s a big deal and I’m sure a time-share in Palm Springs is exciting for some people, but do I look like the type of guy that’d be interested in that sort of thing?”

This is the longest tirade I’ve ever heard Oz go on about anything, even longer than the time he got drunk and someone told him the Clash were overrated. In this moment, I’ve officially deemed Oz my best mate.

“Don’t do this, Oz,” Willow fumes through clenched teeth while shaking her head. “You’re only encouraging him.”

“And why’s he so controlling?” I ask Oz eagerly, ignoring Willow.

“He ordered everything for her. Not the mandarin orange salad ‘cause the acid would upset her stomach, not the spaghetti carbonara ‘cause it was too fatty--”

“Guys, stop!” Willow pleads helplessly, but we just blunder on.

“Bastard!” I yell. “Buffy loves spaghetti carbonara! How'd she seem with him?”

“Bored. Uncomfortable. She did ask about you, though.”

A gleam alights in my eye. Jackpot. Bint still wants me. “Did she, now?”

“She wanted to see when the hell you’d pay her back that five hundred dollars you owe her!” Willow exclaims, finally regaining control of the conversation.

I blush, but refuse to let this deter my hope. “But she did mention me?”

Willow sighs melodramatically. “Spike, you can’t keep this up. Did you hear me? Buffy is freaked out. She’s thinking about calling the cops.”

Bugger. The hope starts to wane a bit. “She wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh she wouldn’t? Tell me, what would you do if your ex-girlfriend who owed you money and slept with someone else kept harassing you when you’re a guest at someone’s house? Don’t you think you’ve embarrassed her enough?”

“Alright, alright. I’ll bloody stop. As long as you answer this question, Red.”

Willow looks at me uneasily. “What?”

I purse my lips and narrow my eyes. “What do you think of Riley Fuckwit?”

Her cheeks flush and she opens her mouth to start stammering. I lean back satisfied. That’s all the answer I need.

“H-he’s okay. I-I mean, I just met him, I c-can’t really form any opinions right away--”

Oz shakes his head, amused. “You said and I quote, ‘he’s as exciting as glue on toast’.”

“So?! He’s a little lame, but he’s taking care of Buffy and he hasn’t done half of the things Spike’s done to her!”

“No he’s just an accomplice in helping her cuckold me,' init he?” I rasp back harshly. Willow shrinks and Oz nods in agreement. “It’s not as simple as it looks, Red.”

“Alright,” Willow concedes after a few moments. “I don’t like Riley. And I don’t know what she’s doing with him. But she’s been telling me she’s confused and you’re not making it easier on her.”

“She hasn’t exactly made it easier on me!”

“Spike, you just need to lay off. That’s all I’m saying. Like I said, if you lash out on Buffy or Riley, it’s just going to give them more to like . . . bond over. And since it’s been dragged kicking and screaming out of me, no, I don’t want them to bond over anything.”

I consider this. Red’s got a point. Maybe this was my problem with Dru. Made myself too readily available. Maybe I need to play hard to get.

It’s the one tactic I haven’t tried.






The next week, I lay low. It’s boring as balls, but I do my best to fill up the time I’d otherwise spend annoying Buffy and Glue Toast. I buy loads of video games and play through them in the span of a day. I watch every season of The Shield on DVD. I go through my old Playboys and wank off ceaselessly, avoiding centerfolds of the blonde skinny birds as they remind me too much of Buffy. I pester Xander, Oz and Gunn to go drinkin’ me with more than a couple times, which thoroughly annoys Anya, Willow and Fred. Anya goes as far as to leave me a nasty voice mail about how my influence on her man is resulting in a lack of orgasms since the whelp can’t get it up sauced. I grimace when I hear it, but it’s more at the thought of Xander getting laid when I can’t.

In the back of my mind though, I think of her. All the time. It’s only been two weeks since I’ve seen her, but the memories are becoming increasingly hazy after nights of heavy drinking and self-induced brain damage.

I wonder if she still does that thing where she rubs her feet against her calves three times before she closes her eyes to sleep. Wonder if she insists on making Riley watch those bloody stupid makeover TV shows with her too. Wonder if she – oh God Forbid, not with him, please God, not with him – still half-laughs-half-screams when she cums.

The last bit is just self-flagellation, I know. But ever since she bombarded me with those shrewish lies, I keep turning them over in my head. What if they weren’t lies? What if amidst her harpy trilling, it was all true? What if at this moment, Riley is filling her up with his diminutive little cock and out of pure spite for me, Buffy’s howling and riding it six ways ‘til Sunday?

No, no. Mustn’t think it. The thought drives me too mad. Every time I think of Fuckwit and Buffy bumpin’ uglies, another piece of furniture in the flat gets destroyed. Barely have a coffee table anymore. Must remind myself that there’s no way in hell that Fuckwit would ever be able to imitate the wild, animalistic nights of pleasure Buffy and I’ve shared. There’s no way she’d even try to attempt that with anyone else. Not my Buffy. No way.

I keep telling myself that and go to work.






The store is crowded since it’s a Saturday. It steers my mind away from the sordid Fuckwit-Buffy porno that constantly replays in my head. Gunn, Xander and Oz are all busy for once. From the register, I actually survey the picture with some pride. Oz is gently coaxing a customer into putting down a Green Day CD and picking up the first Stiff Little Fingers album, Gunn is extolling the virtues of Afrikka Bambaataa to some bewildered hoodlum and Xander – well Xander tries his best. Xander is bullying some old lady because she doesn’t know who Lou Reed is.

“You see this?!” Xander yells, waving a Velvet Underground album in the poor git’s face. “This is a part of musical history. It’s as old as you! You should know what this is!”

“Please,” the woman murmurs, near tears. “I was just looking for a Barry Manilow record for my sister. I don’t--”

“Hush!” Xander silences her. “As breathtaking as Barry’s voice is, trust me on this. You want this record instead.”

The lady regards Xander as a terrifying force of musical law and grabs the record just to get away from him. As she scurries up to the register, Xander looks at me above the crowd with a spirited grin and gives me the thumbs up sign. I shake my head.

Around six-thirty, the customers start to diminish in number, but I manage to keep myself distracted by reading some magazines. I even come across an article on Veruca’s band, The Dervishes. After viewing the naughty little picture of Veruca flung over an amp with her tits hanging out of a Lyrca bodysuit, I lose myself in the glossy until the bell by the door rings once more.

I look up and immediately crumple the magazine in my hand. It’s unmistakably him. Riley Fuckwit. He’s wearing an impeccably pressed Italian suit that probably cost more then the store’s profit last year. Wanker.

He marches in with a superior air, but when he finds mohawked, tattooed, pierced and slovenly freaks taking in the tie and the suit, he looks like he’s lost some ballast. I grin widely for the first time today. I watch as he helplessly searches around for something to buoy him back up and he smiles with relief when he spots Oz.

“Oz! What’s up?” He holds his hand up to Oz, who stares at him briefly, then gives him a non-committal shrug before walking away.

Fuckwit’s struggling now. He tries reaching out to Gunn, who passes him on the way to the back. “What’s up, homie?” he asks with an insipid smile. Gunn stares at him for a second, eyes skimming over the cuff links and the Armani dress shirt. He whoops and guffaws and shakes his head.

That’s right, you arse. You think you can just cross into my territory and not expect hostility?

He turns around slowly, as if he can sense my silent satisfaction. I dip my head and resume reading the article, but it’s too late. He recognizes me. He strides over slowly, like a lion inspecting its prey. But little does he know, I’m no fuckin’ gazelle.

“Spike, right?”

I look up with a glare. “Who’s asking?”

He paints on a wide smile and extends his hand. “Riley Finn. I believe we talked briefly on the phone.”

I squint at his hand briefly, then chuckle and look away.

His hand snaps back and true hostility seeps onto his face. “Look, Spike.” He emphasizes my name with scorn. “I think you know why I’m here.”

“Yeah. But sorry mate, we don’t have the latest Kenny G album, so you can piss off now.”

His hands become fists on the counter. “You’ve been calling my apartment a lot. It’s getting pretty close to harassment.”

“Bollocks. Aven’t called your house in a bloody week. Not sure what the problem is.”

“Oh and you don’t think you’re going to try again when Buffy sees through this sorry “playing it cool” game? I’m a man too, Spike, I know how it works.”

It’s my turn to clench my fists. So Glue Toast has a tiny smattering o’ insight. So what?

“I mean, if I lost Buffy,” the fucker continues, “I’d play all my cards too, you know? She’s really an incredible girl. Can’t imagine how hard it must be to let her go.”

The more he keeps prattling on in that patronizing tone of his, the more I envision painful, gruesome scenes involving Riley, disembowelment, rusty kitchen knives and blowtorches. I try my best to keep the bloodlust out of my eyes. “Don’t need to let her go,” I respond coolly. “My girl will come to her senses soon enough.”

He throws his fat head back and laughs heartily. “Your girl? Please.” He stops and leans forward menacingly. “She’s with me now.”

“Using you, mate. You’re just a pawn in this game Buffy and I are playin’. The one we’re always playin’. You’ll find out soon enough.” I twirl a toothpick between my teeth and try to look bored. “Feel sorry for you, in fact. It’ll hurt once you realize you’ve been duped.”

He slams his fist down on the counter. At the sound, I stand up straighter, poised for a fight. My blood is pulsing quickly through my body now. I’m ready for the scrap; I welcome it.

Oz, Xander and Gunn hear it too, as well as the few straggling customers still in the store. They look up and the air becomes noticeably palpable and thick. Riley and I stand face-to-face, both tensing. If I concentrate hard enough, I can hear a Western song whistle in m’head. It’s a stand-off. I’m bloody Wyatt Earp and Fuckwit’s . . . the other guy. The scoundrel that’s captured my Buffy.

I’m momentarily distracted by the thought of Buffy in scanty saloon singer garb ala Marilyn Monroe in River of No Return, but then Riley clears his throat and I remember I’m supposed to be stomping his ass into the floor. So I look up and crack my knuckles.

Silence hangs in the store for a few heavy minutes. Then suddenly, Riley appears to relent. He relaxes and resumes smiling innocently.

“Look, I didn’t come here to get into anything. I just came here to make sure we understand each other.”

I understand that you’re a fucking ugly arrogant ponce who’ll beg for mercy and instant death if I ever get the chance to ---

“I think we do, mate,” I say aloud, smirking to myself.

He nods. “Good. Then my work here is done.” He starts to leave and evades the glares coming from Oz, Xander and Gunn. Just as he’s got one foot out the door, I laugh and say:

“I understand that you’re a sorry sack o’ shite that’ll cry like a lil’ chit when he realizes he’s been nothing but a stand-in for me.”

He lunges for me so quickly that I’ve got no time to react. Almost. His fist misses my face by mere centimeters.

My fist, however. It finds its home. Right between his bloody eyes.

It’s like we’re moving in slow motion. He stumbles up and pushes me into the country section. He’s choking me, but I regain footing and get my hands around his neck long enough to drive him into the hip-hop racks. Gunn and Oz immediately come to my aid, although I’m doing just fine by my lonesome. Xander stands on the sidelines with the excitement of a middle-schooler. “Fight! Fight!” he cries as he bounces on his heels with delight.

“You don’t know anything about Buffy. You never will. You’ll never know her like I do. Do. You. Understand. Me. You. Stupid. Motherfucker?” I punctuate each word with another blow as I’m holding him by his newly crumpled and bloody Armani shirt collar. This tosser should be ashamed that he’s getting his arse handed to him by someone he overweighs by fifty pounds.

Riley smiles through two black eyes and spits blood in m’face. “I know that she rubs her calves with her feet exactly three times and makes that sound before she goes to bed. You know that sound, dontcha Spike? That little sigh that makes your toes curl?”

My mouth falls open and I let go of him.

No.

No.

I’m struggling to keep the ragged pants from escaping my rapidly tightening chest. My eyes go blurry and I walk away from Riley and the rest of them.

“Hey, you okay?” I can hear Oz saying, but all I can think of are the words Fuckwit isn’t saying echoing endlessly through m’brain.

I know that she half-laugh-half-screams when she cums.

But. Just because he knew about the before-bed thing, it doesn’t mean – it’s doesn’t mean –

“FUCK THIS!” I roar.

To everyone’s confusion, I turn on my heel and walk straight out the door.

And go out to bed Veruca the very same night.