Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Tad bit of S/W to keep the theme running.
Spoilers: Nothing except for the 7th chapter of the Diary.
Disclaimer: Don't own Spike. Nope not at all.
Distribution: Go ahead and take it. It's not like I'm doing anything with it. Just tell me you have it please.
Author's Note: I was reading back through what I had written so that I could write the next part, when I got to the bar fight. I sat and stared at the two paragraphs that I had written of it, and decided that I would write this. A good spot of violence, it is. It's not necessary to the Diary plot or anything. Just something fun to hopefully get me off block.
Sidenote: My French is REALLY bad. Most French will be written in English. I THINK the translation to the name of the pub is The Bloody Goat. If I did it right, that's what it should be. I was feeling weird when picking out a name.
Feedback: Always welcomed with love.
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~August 24, 2003 LA, Angel Investigations~
Spike sat with his feet propped up on the desk, just like Angel had told him so often not to. His thoughts weren't on the poof at the moment but on Willow, who was in Florida reading his journals. Thinking about the journals made him think about and remember some of the things in them. He had glanced through them before sending them off, and had found several good memories that he had actually forgotten. Of course there were memories that had been good then, and now with the soul and all it sickened him to think too much about them.
Of course… they were still good though. Like that one time…
~April 27, 1880. Downtown Paris, La Chévre Sanglante~
The man strode through the door of the La Chévre Sanglante like he owned the place. Just by the way he walked you could tell he was English. He wore a long, somewhat dusty frock that had torn a bit along the edges, an undone white shirt with spots of dirt on it, and a pair of well-worn black breeches. The uncontrolled light brown hair that adorned the man's head looked to be in need of a good trim. He had high, and very pronounced cheekbones that gave him an almost delicate look, if it hadn't been for the smirk his lips curled into and the cool calculation that was reflected in his eyes blue eyes, one could almost call him pretty.
Francois, the bartender, knew trouble when he saw it, and this man was trouble with a capital T.
Many patrons of the pub turned to look at the stranger as he jauntily strode over to the bar and plopped himself right down in a seat. Mutters could be heard throughout the room about the "Stupid English" and "Thinking they own the world" and so forth. It was overly obvious as well that the stranger heard them, because his jaw clenched and a dangerous looked entered his eyes.
"Gimme some whiskey, mate," the man demanded. Yes, he was definitely English. He didn't even bother trying to make the demand in French. Nonetheless, Francois understood and quickly filled the order. Perhaps if he took the stranger's mind off the quiet insults he could avoid…
A young man named Jacques LeBeau ruined all of Francois' careful planning by approaching the happily drinking stranger. The regular patron of the pub fired off in quick French, obviously thinking the stranger didn't speak the language, "So you stupid pig, we're all wondering, is your queen really a woman? Because with a mug like hers we all think she must be a man."
That was it. Francois knew his career was now doomed. His fear grew tenfold when an audible crack echoed throughout the room. Everyone sat or stood in silence for a moment staring at the stranger as he dropped Jacques' body to the floor then returned to his drink. Everyone stared down at the body. Blood was pooling on the floor from where the bone of Jacques' neck had pierced the skin after being broken.
All eyes returned to the stranger who after downing the rest of his glass, turned to the rest of the room. "Nobody insults the queen and gets away with it," was uttered in perfect flowing French.
He then stepped over the body and made his way to the door only to be stopped by a punch to the face from one of Jacques' old drinking buddies. "You killed him you English pig! All's fair that I'll kill you!"
And that's how it started. Everyone knows that once one person starts fighting in a bar, every other person goes "What the heck?" and starts too. It's almost like a proven science you know. Being drunk and getting into fights just seem to go hand and hand. I think it was the Irish that started this fine tradition, but who's to say?
The stranger, whom we all by now know is Spike, found himself in a wonderful room full of violence. He grabbed the man that punched him and latched his now visible fangs onto the man's neck. The man was so bloody drunk that Spike could taste the alcohol in his blood! The room was in such an uproar that no one even noticed that his demon was forward!
Spike was sure he was in heaven. He decked another man, sending him flying into the next and impaling them both on the leg of an upturned chair. Seems Spike didn't know his own strength.
He went around the room feeding and killing. He was sure that this was the most fun he had ever had. He knew though that someone would start noticing the deaths, and that the police would be there soon. He was about to leave, but he quickly got an idea. He dipped up some of the blood that was quickly covering the floor and began to write on the wall with it. `Thanks for the party, mates. Best fun I ever had. See you in hell. William the Bloody.'
~xXx~
Spike couldn't help but smile at that memory. It had been his second killing spree, and the first one that had ended exactly the way he wanted them to. Sometimes, he missed the mass murder, but he knew he could never go back to it.
Willow would be hurt. He wondered how she was feeling reading about all of his escapades. Would she still be able to look at him the next time he saw her?
Spike shot from his chair hearing, his poofy grand-sire on the phone. Angel was talking to Willow!
" 'Ey poof! Lemme talk to her!"
"No, Spike. You can't," Angel growled trying to shoo Spike off.
"Come on! I wanna talk to her!"
"Not now!"
"But it's been a bleeding month!"
"You'll have your chance to—"
"But I want to talk to `er now damnit!"
"Go away William! Don't make me—"
"Fine. You bleeding tosser. At least tell `er I said `ello." Spike plopped back in his chair. Oh well. At least he pissed off the poof.
The End