A/N: This plot bunny attacked me the other day, and I just had to run with it. This story takes place on New Year's Eve in the middle of Season 4. Since technically Spike was still a prisoner of the Scoobies then, I took a few liberties with canon. I hope you'll forgive me. ;)

Disclaimer: All BtVS characters, settings, references, etc., belong to Joss Whedon. All the crack-ish-ness belongs to me.

Spike was drunk. Rip-roaring, mind-numbing, falling down drunk. If he were William still, his mother would have been mortified by the sheer amount of alcohol that her son had consumed in the last hour. Thankfully, she was dead. This depressing thought caused the blond vampire to call for another shot of whiskey. He had forgotten what number he was on several shots ago.

Eying his customer warily, the demon bartender slid another small glass of sloshing amber liquid across the counter. Bravely, he mentioned something about the tab. Spike cussed a blue streak, and the bartender retreated.

A group of leather-clad vampires across the room abandoned their half-hearted game of pool.

"New Year's Eve," chuckled the leader, a blond male with yellow eyes and even yellower teeth. "Let's go get somethin' to eat."

The female vampire tucked under his arm simpered, "I know just the place."

"As long as they aren't fat like they were last time," grumbled their swarthy friend. "Thought I was gonna have a heart attack . . . and I don't even have a working heart."

Laughing raucously, the trio exited the bar, letting the door slam loudly behind them.

Spike groaned. Not because the noise hurt his head but because their conversation had reminded him of the stupid chip in his head. Instead of bringing in the New Year with terror and screams and blood, blood, and more blood, he was stuck in the same old dingy bar where he had captured Angel a few years back. Bored, alone, drinking himself into a stupor . . . it was not his best New Year's ever. Not by a long shot.

And then, somewhere in the bottom of glass #10 – or was it beer #5? – Spike stumbled upon a wonderful idea. One where he could avoid triggering the chip and still enjoy creating terror and screams. He might have to forego the blood, but there would be sweat, and why else would Sunnydale have its own butcher if not to fill the needs of its ever increasing vampire population?

The Happy Meals were always complaining about their weight. Fat, heavy, pudgy, chunky, plump, dumpy, morbidly obese Happy Meals. Ha, Spike snickered into his beer bottle. Morbid-ly obese. If only. His head twinged painfully, a reminder from the chip to behave. All right, you. Maybe just obese, then. Obese two-legged happy meals, always making "New Year's Resolutions" to diet or exercise and then never keeping then. Stupid, fat humans, always moaning, never changing.

Well, now they had their dear ol' pal Spike to help them out. Weight-lifting took control, aerobics took coordination, but running? Anyone could run . . . or jog . . . or waddle. Hmm. Spike eyed his beer bottle contemplatively. He was warming up to this idea more and more every second. In fact, it was a truly brilliant plan. He'd wait till the parties were almost over and then chase those straggling home for half mile or so. Didn't want to start out too hard too soon. There were important factors involved in weight loss. Things like training and conditioning and . . .

And not scaring people to death, reminded the chip.

Right, that. Though if they did happen to die an accidental death from overexertion, it was hardly his fault, now, was it? And if he happened to drink from them as they died, well, no harm done. Oh, yes. This idea was perfect.

Abandoning his beer bottle on the chipped glass countertop, Spike set a ten dollar bill alongside it. Nowhere near enough to cover his tab, but hopefully enough to keep that scum bartender from squealing to the Slayer about his whereabouts. She was the last thing he needed tonight. Excited now, he hauled himself up off the barstool (a more difficult task than he'd expected) and headed out into the cold evening.

Hands deep within the warm pockets of his duster, the vampire strode easily through the darkened Sunnydale streets, his plan looping over and over again in his head.

Fear. Terror. Exercise. Sweat. Running. Blood. Morbidly obese. Ouch! Obese. Obese. Just obese. Strange word, that . . . The Powers That Be might even reward me for helping solve this country's obesity problem. There's that word again. Obese. Obeeeeeeese.

Thankfully, before Spike could become too enamored of his favorite new word, he turned the corner and caught sight of a large, nearly shapeless figure tottering unsteadily down the street to a parked sedan. With a snarl, the vampire sprinted towards them. Startled, the overweight woman shrieked at the terrible, fanged visage hurtling her way. Forsaking her car, she toddled away as quickly as she could. It was no use. Her pursuer kept drawing closer. For some strange reason, though, he slowed slightly when he was just out of arm's reach. As the woman glanced back over her shoulder at him, Spike smirked. She screamed.

Panting, the poor woman closed her eyes and tried to sprint. This must be Hell. She could think of no other explanation.

His chip peaceful and quiet, Spike continued to jog just behind his victim - client. Spike, the Personal Trainer. Decreaser of Waistlines and Defeater of Obesity. It was going to be an awesome night.

Fin.