Summary: Contrary to the opening theme song, one person having a drink at Cheers isn't the same as the other people in there. And, no, we're not talking about Spike the vampire.
Sipping at his over-chilled American beer having within it all the strength of weak horsepiss, Spike idly checked out the crowd in the Boston below-ground bar for his next victim tonight. Even with having to order a pint which was nothing less than an actual insult to genuine English-style ales, it wasn't a bad little pub. For one thing, there weren't any mirrors in the whole bloody place.
Why this should be so, Spike had absolutely no idea, but he appreciated it a good deal nevertheless. It meant nobody would notice the man seated alone at his table in the far corner of the room wasn't casting a reflection. Normally, the kinds of rough drinking holes where Spike preferred to do his boozing were demon bars, whose unearthly customers were more than happy to avoid mirrors. This didn't apply to the usual human saloons, in which Spike had to hope his fellow imbibers were so soused they never even realized through their serious alcoholic haze that the bloke next to them couldn't been seen in any mirror around. Either this, or a fight promptly broke out with accompanying sounds of shattering glass when Spike pegged his empty tumbler directly at the usual full mirror attached to the pub's back wall.
In the middle of deciding between white and black for dinner, Spike choked on his beer at suddenly hearing with his heightened senses a question from across the room: "And another stupid thing about horror films, why is it anyone can use holy water against vampires? Shouldn't this only work for Catholics?"
Peering with alarmed suspicion from his corner table at where this had come from, the far end of the bar counter, Spike observed there seated next to each other some mustached bloke in a postal carrier's uniform then send a smug glance at the unimpressed chubby man at his side. Subtly relaxing at this realization he'd merely overheard a trifling bar argument, Spike still sneered to himself, *What a pillock!*
This inner derision had to do with the vampire knowing the real truth about the water blessed by Catholic priests and used in those clergymen's places of worship for baptisms and other holy rituals. The palpable effectiveness of that liquid substance against evil blood-drinking demons all had to do with the sheer power of belief in this by humans of the same church regarding the sacred fluid, not specifically by those who carried it around in a bottle or other container during a nighttime stroll as a defense for any vamp which might come along.
Why, decades ago in China during Spike's narrow victory against the Slayer living there, this undead man had been seared nearly to the bone by some of that horrible stuff she'd thrown at him in her attack. It'd worked right well, almost allowing the slant-eyed bint to win before Spike recovered and still managed to murder this superhuman girl. In any event back then, there hadn't been much chance of what's-her-name being a Catholic, or even any other kind of Christian. Far more likely, she'd belonged to whatever foreign temple of her Oriental religion, with the Slayer being given the holy water by her soddin' Watcher.
Grumpily taking another mouthful of his pathetic beer, Spike kept on listening to the exasperated argument between Mr. Big Mouth and his stout friend. That latter pudge seemed to have his head screwed on straight, what with remarking out loud about absolute trust in something being the key to faith.
Looking righteous all of a sudden, the moon-faced bloke then declared, "Listen, Cliff, I've got the perfect example right here in my hand now. You know who Ben Franklin was, right? Well, he once said, 'Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.' So," this man cheerfully lifted up in salute his half-filled mug of golden liquid, "Bless this and all the rest of the beer here."
A couple of seconds later, the entire stunned bar was staring at the wreckage of the smashed front door leading to the street stairs. Just a moment ago, a screaming blond man clutching at his scalded throat with both hands had decisively run right through the wooden panel while leaving in his sudden big hurry.
At the end corner where their usual seats were, two best friends glanced at each other with honest bafflement over this truly odd behavior. Finally, the unknowing Pontiff of the Church of Norm just shrugged, and then he finished off his holy beer in one smooth swallow.