BUFFY, THE VAMPIRE SLAYER
William The Bloody, chapter 1
"Kill 'em. Kill 'em All"
The tiny spot of glowing red in the deep shadows was from a cigarette, the smoker watching the Magic Shop with intense eyes. Only one of his contracts was inside the building, at the moment, but his previous observations had shown that, eventually, most of them would be there. It wouldn't be long, they usually began showing up shortly after dark, and it would have to be tonight, his schedule wouldn't permit him another day in the pleasant little town of Sunnydale.
Stubbing his cigarette out on the side of the building, letting it drop to join the pile of others, built up during his past few nights of watching the so called "Scooby Gang", he deftly reached into his pocket and pulled out another one. Not one time did he take his eyes off of the Magic Shop, watching it with more patience than a vulture.
He couldn't understand why his employer was so hot to have these people eliminated. Though he never ever asked any of his brokers why, he thought it strange that a bunch of teenagers, an old English man, and a white-headed punk could pose a threat to anyone.
Lighting up the other cigarette, he cupped the flame and continued watching the shop, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly as he saw the red head and her girlfriend arrive. Three down, four to go, he thought, hoping that the most important one showed up, the one his broker insisted be taken care of no matter what.
He was rewarded a moment later, the feisty young blonde strutting down the street like she was the most dangerous thing out this night. He smiled at that thought, thinking how wrong she was. If she knew what was lurking in the shadows, watching her and her friends, she would tremble in fear. The death he had not only witnessed, but which he had also delt out, would be more than enough to send such an innocent running and screaming into the night.
His finger hovered about the device in his pocket, his thoughts arguing whether or not he should wait for the others. He could feel the excitement building in him, imaging what was to come, and thought that perhaps of doing it now. The main target was there, the others could be considered inconsequential, but he so hated not fully completing an assignment.
It was only a little after eight, he would give the others until nine to show up. He could afford another hour if it ment getting them all, besides that, it gave him time to let the excitement build, to experience the mental foreplay that he so enjoyed.
Twenty five minutes, and four cigarettes later, his patience was rewarded by the arrival of the grunge boy and his girl, both of them trading looks, and kisses, like a couple of love sick puppies. It was enough to make him want to bust a cap in both their asses right then, the way they were all loving with each other. Neither one of them knew the truth of the world yet, still young and stupid, that love was a fleeting emotion that was only as strong as your hard on, and only as pleasing as she was wet.
"Stupid shits," he muttered.
Six of them. It would have to be enough, the white-headed one could count his lucky stars that he wasn't…
Whitey showed up.
Smiling, pleased that all of his targets were in one place, he snuffed out his last cigarette as he watched Whitey saunter down the street. Whitey had attitude, he'd give him that, but that attitude didn't carry to his eyes. His eyes showed a softness that the man thought hadn't been there long. Whitey's history was probably a long and bloody one, with the recent addition of having developed a conscience, or something similar.
He waited until Whitey had entered the shop, the dinging of the little bell drifting across the street to him, and he slipped his hand back into the pocket of his duster. Feeling the cold plastic of the device, he slid his finger down the side of the oblong unit and lightly touched upon the small button.
Drawing in a slow breath, feeling the tightening of his pants at the thought of snuffing out seven lives, he pressed the button.
The explosion ripped through not only the Magic Shop, but also the businesses on either side, bringing down the upper levels and spewing out a massive fire ball filled with debris. Wood, plastic, mortar, concrete, brick, glass, and flesh and bone rained down on the street, covering asphalt and cars with the grisly remains.
The man shuddered, groaning slightly as he felt his excitement release, the deaths pushing him over the edge. The group deaths were so quick, so exciting, but not as full filling as the individual ones, the ones where he had time to wallow in the glow of the victim's death.
He lit up another cigarette, taking a deep, satisfying draw of it, and dwelled on the scene of carnage for a few seconds longer. His eyes suddenly bulged, the normally calming smoke choking him as he saw Whitey stumble from the burning remains of the building, a piece of pipe through his midsection.
Whitey gripped the piece of metal, grimacing in pain as he quickly pulled it from his body, very little blood coming from what should have been a fatal injury. A small section of Whitey's head was also grossly damaged, a thick pad of his scalp hanging side ways, and his skull split cleanly open.
The man watched in horrid fascination as Whitey's fingers felt about his skull, seemingly fishing into the open wound with determination. The man felt himself getting aroused again, the scene of self mutilation much like something he sometimes did to certain marks, and was wondering what he had stumbled upon.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh", screamed Whitey, his fingers suddenly withdrawing from his cranium with a tiny bit of something shiny.
The transformation was so fast that he almost missed it, Whitey's face going from one of agony to one of elation in an instant. What ever the tiny piece of shiny material was, Whitey was staring at it with a nearly euphoric expression on his face.
The wale of sirens parted the air, and the man prepared to leave, reluctantly backing away from the vision of living death that Whitey had been giving him. He froze in his movements as Whitey suddenly looked up, impossibly spotting him in the shadows and snarling with a face that was no longer handsome.
With an animalistic roar, Whitey was on him before he could even turn around, his neck afire with pain. His vision flared briefly white, quickly retreating into darkness as he felt his heart beat slow down, and his body growing inexplicably cold. His awareness of the alley way dimmed to nothing, the black void claiming him as his life was drained away.
Dropping the body to the ground, Spike twisted his neck slowly around, listening to the satisfying pops it made as he unwound. He felt about his head, pleased that it was healing already, and looked down at the corpse of a man at his feet.
"That was pretty bloody good," commented Spike. "Though not nearly filling enough."
Spike fished through the man's pockets, pulling out two packs of cigarettes, a thick wad of cash, and a list of names that were all too familiar. Finding the remote detonator in the man's other pocket, Spike began chuckling at the irony.
"Bloody hell," quipped Spike. "I should thank you for setting me free, but a part of me still misses her."
Spike stood silently, looking thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head negatively.
"Nah, I don't miss her at all. Guess it was the bloody chip."
Smiling, whistling an old David Bowie tune, Spike drifted down the alley, thinking how much good a trip to LA would do him. It would be nice to look up Dru, now that he was his old self. Besides, it might be fun to settle a few things with that bleedin' Angel.
Yep, things were definitely going to be fun again.