Spike was spectacularly pissed off.
The watcher had been missing for nearly two weeks, and he hadn't had a single drop of blood since then. There had been just the one blood bag left in the watcher's refrigerator at the time of his sudden disappearance and, never one for rationing, Spike had gulped it down carelessly on that very night, while the girls and the boy had gone crazy trying to figure out what to do.
After the initial shock of the disappearance had waned the slayer had gotten hers together and, after an overly long and inane motivational speech, had put the witches to work on finding the missing watcher, sent the boy to fetch doughnuts and sodas, and forced Spike out on patrol with her.
He had to admit it. He had gotten so used to having his blood, if not top quality, at least served warm and comfortably in his "I love the librarian" mug that he had forgotten how hard it could be to get it on his own. Unable to hunt, unable to threaten Willie, with no money and no way to get money, he was very well starving.
He could kill vampires, of course, but any money they might have usually went with the rest of the vamp when they turned to dust. He had tried demons, but the lower ones didn't usually have pockets, and there was a major shortage of higher demons around. He had even tried hunting for kittens to sale, but had only managed a few half-gown cats, and the money he had gotten for them had been barely enough for ciggies.
That only left him with the rather abhorrent option of drinking from something that was either not human or not alive; about ninety-nine percent of the stuff out there tasted like socks, minions were usually too dirty to be any good on the gustative papillae… and yes, on top of that was the whole embarrassment of being caught by someone of some standing while snacking on a troll, a puppy, or somebody else's leftovers.
Since hunting for something to eat was out of the question, and he was in too foul a mood to do much else, he had been sitting in the whelp's basement watching the telly and scheming. That's when the poor sod had apparently taken pity on him, and offered him a few bucks to get something to eat.
Spike had been grateful and said so, but had failed to mention the fact that he had already picked the pockets of everything in the room.
Finding himself with some cash in his pockets, and pissed at the slayer as he was, he was taking the night off her service and was letting Clem take him to this new demon bar that apparently 'everybody was talking about'. Spike just in it for the blood, really, but why upset the poor sod… and maybe he could get himself a free drink to go with his blood.
There was a rather long line of assorted waiting demons at the door of the place, which Spike was glad to skip when he recognized the demon at the door as the poor bastard who had been beaten to an inch of his life by the slayer, just barely a week ago. He might not have been a top fighter, but Spike had to give it to the bloke, he knew how to run.
The doorman recognized him at once, so he didn't have to go beyond vague and inane threats to be exhorted in, for free, and with much reverence. He could revel in the fear for one night, pretend the whole thing wasn't because he was the slayer's puppet. That brought him back…
He hadn't been expecting much of anything, considering what Clem usually thought was 'cool', but in his wildest nightmares he couldn't have expected what he found. Although on second thought, he should probably feel relieved that a Britney Spears impersonator was nowhere around.
But he was very well starving, he could smell the blood martini the bartender was mixing all the way from the door, and he had been adulated like he hadn't been in a long time. He would deal; just had to ignore the screen placed in the middle of the back wall, above the stage.
"Oh, this is so great!" Clem was going on at his side, hurrying to try and keep up with him. "I just love The Show, don't you? And they have the coolest performers, too!"
"That's just peachy, Clem" he assured the friendly demon, keeping up a steady pace to the bar at the other end of the room. "Can't wait to see that zombie playing Columbia."
"Zombies can't tap dance." Clem shook his head sadly. "Poor bastards can't even say the lines, let alone sing… They have mostly humans playing the parts, to try and make it as close to the original as possible. I tried to audition for Brad, but they said I didn't look human enough."
"You wanted to be Brad?" Spike asked in disbelief, thinking that perhaps starvation was playing tricks with his hearing as he sat on a stool by the bar "Can't believe I let myself be seen with you…"
"Shhh, here come Brad and Janet…" Clem ignored him, his demand of silence very much alike an old lady's in a movie theatre, as two very unmotivated looking humans came on stage. "I'd make a handsomer Brad than him, wouldn't I?"
"Not gonna answer that, mate." He shook his head in resignation as Clem started to sing along. "Let me know when the show's over; hopefully I'll be remarkably pissed by then."