Chapter Six--Rumpus at the Alibi

December 18
Monday evening

There's always a bad part of any town, and in Sunnydale, they call that bit Demontown. It's just a couple of square blocks of hot sheet hotels and third rate apartments surrounded by seedy bars. You know, the kind of places you wouldn't take your mother unless she was a demon. Or my mother, but that's another story, too.

It doesn't get any seedier than Willy's Alibi Bar. The joint was jumping tonight, and there was a new bartender swabbing the counter with a greasy rag. I snagged a seat at the bar and caught one of it's eyes. It had quite a few to spare.

Long clawed fingernails rested on the counter in front of me and he goggled at me with bloodshot pop-eyes. We don't serve your kind in here, human. He exhaled eau-de-salmon in my face along with a heaping teaspoon of saliva. I tried to hold down my gorge.

I'm not here for the ambiance, fish-breath. Get Willy.

He delivered a few choice curse words, finishing up with the ever-popular, Fuck you.

Where's Willy? I looked dead in the gaping maw of mossy teeth and suppressed another shudder. Septic, nasty, ready-to-give-me-gangrene teeth. I really didn't want to fight with this one, but I might have to make an exception. I gave it my best lethal glare. Finally he shrugged and knocked off the attitude. Most of it, anyway.

A toothpick wobbled rhythmically between the hedge of uneven tooth stumps. It coughed up a huge gob of mucus onto the bar rag. Who wants to know, asshole? The malaria-yellow skin was unappetizing, matched only by the greasy ringlets it was using to mop it's dripping nose. I had it pegged as a Hackler. You don't see them much out on the west coast.

Tell him Xander Harris is back in town.

Seven or eight bulging eyes rolled around like dice at a Vegas crap table. It was kinda hard to tell if it was looking at me or keeping a eye on the television screen. Looked like cage match wrestling was still a favorite amongst the fellowship of Willy's.
It wouldn't do me any good to loose my temper, but I was getting a little hot under the collar. There was a bellow of delight from the patrons when something huge and slimy was dispatched inside the cage on the screen. The bartender swiveled his peculiar head and burbled something as it disappeared through a hidden wall panel.

I stared into the fly-specked mirror over the bar, counting the unmarked bottles and mentally tallying the number of non-reflecting clientele. Quite a few I could do without seeing, too.

There was a pause in the shrieking action on the small screen and the room seemed to break for breath, all at the same time. A glass hit the floor and rolled in the deathly silence. Heads turned toward me and I could hear high fidelity music swinging on the jukebox. I turned my head to the left slowly.

Spike was standing in the center of the floor, game face in place and his arms loose and ready. He turned his head and gave the room the once over, the dim neon striking red sparks from the electric white of his hair.

I turned around on the bar stool and faced him.

He looked me up and down with no change of expression, like I was invisible. Hard, demon eyes stared at me. No mercy in those shards of ice, no mercy and no life. Whatever we'd resurrected in Arashmahar wasn't the same Spike that'd fought beside me. I was sorry. I had lIked that guy.

He sauntered closer to me, the tiny muscles in his jaw working under a strain. He tilted his head and looked at me carefully, like a bug under a microscope.



Then I felt the tiny hairs on the back of my neck crawling. His mouth cracked a fraction and he smiled. If it'd been a real smile, that would be one thing. But this.... this was a leer. The pink tip of his pointed tongue slipped out to moisten his lower lip and a hot trickle of sweat made its way through the layers of cotton under my arms. He moved closer, so close I could feel the leather coat slap against my thighs. I was frozen, too afraid to move a muscle.

He inhaled sharply and turned his face toward mine, Harris, he repeated in a whisper, Heard you were looking for me.

I tried to think of something smart to say, but my brain was with my feet, frozen in place. He inhaled again, then ran his hands under the lapels of my overcoat. He raised a black brow and said sardonically, What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?

I was saved from making a complete jackass out of myself by a welcome interruption.

There was a rumble in the room, a low growl punctuated by the television and the jukebox. Some of the smaller denizens of Willy's vacated the premises, skittering up the grimy stairs for easier places to be. A few of the brawnier types huddled together in angry knots, pointedly glaring in my direction.

Hiya doin', Harris? Spike? Willy babbled. His nervous voice was music to my ears. Whaddya have, boys? Special on the Bloody Mary's. On the house! he grinned nervously at the vampire and nattered on unstoppably. Something about chicken fingers and onions. Spike wasn't paying any attention. I could see a boiling fury building up toward an eruption.

The bar owner's squeaky voice trailed off as the vampire's golden eyes lowered in his direction. Someone's been telling tales out of school, Willy. You wouldn't know anything about that would you?

He stuttered, You know Old Willy's safe as houses. Quiet Old Willy. I don't know nuthin', honest! He voice trailed off into the suddenly quiet room, the only sound the soft mutter of the television announcer.

Spike seemed to consider that for a moment, then whirled to the jukebox squatting in the corner. He slammed a fist down into its glittery innards with a spectacular shower of hot glass and electricity. It jump-started and a disk flapped down on the turntable.

Somebody's saying things, Willy. I don't like it.

Not me, Spike. I swear! Honest.

I stood there, keeping quiet, taking it all in, invisible. The record skipped and the same phrase looped over and over...the boogie man... the boogie man....
Spike muttered to himself, leaning head down against the jukebox, his arms wrapped around the broken machine. Odd, very strange indeed.



About that time, a couple of the bigger demons decided it was time to make a move on Spike, grabbing him from behind while a pimply faced vampire pulled a stake. He erupted into an almost invisible killing machine, unscrewing the vampire's head before the horrified eyes of the bar patrons. I ducked for cover behind the bar with Willy. I heard something gargling in pain and the crash of shattering furniture.

The fight was nasty, brutish and over in a very short time. Willy's pool table would never be the same. The demons were stretched out in groaning piles on the floor, alive, if not kicking. It was a bloody mess and F'Yarl blood is a bitch to get out of carpets. Guess that's why Willy doesn't have any.

Spike was nowhere to be seen. The room felt like someone'd opened an airlock in a vacuum. There was a sigh of relief running around the room. Willy was sticky with relief. I wasn't much better. I looked toward the back door, swinging drunkenly on broken hinges.



Willy stared toward the empty doorway, his bar rag moving in random circles on the bar. Damn, Harris, he wheezed, like it was all my fault. I glared at him. What the hell did he think I could have done except get myself really dead? He reconsidered and gazed around the ruined and empty bar. This has been going on for a while.

Spike had always been a bruiser, but Willy meant the lack of appreciative audience cheering on the combat. Eerie, really.

It's weird, man. See, I got my ear to the road, but I still don't know what going on.
Somethin' out there, Harris. Somethin' bad. Demons, they call it a shadow harvester. I dunno rightly what it is, but it's been doin' some damn nasty things.

I didn't like the sound of this. Willy continued, one eye on the wrestling match on the television.

See, most everybody figures it's him. Spike. He flipped the rag over his shoulder and retreated toward his hidden room. Y'want my advice, stay clear of it all.

I threw a couple of sawbucks on the bar and nodded in agreement. Willy didn't know anything more than I did. Call me suicidal, but I had to figure out what the truth was.
Not just for the Slayer, but for the sake of the guy I used to know.

I tried the coffee shop, swung by a few bars near the docks and Lenny's Fine Meats, but got no joy. Three hours later I was stumbling along in the dark with nothing to show for it but a blister on my heel.

That's when I heard the screaming.

tbc

Music on the jukebox: Boogie Man, Red & the Red Hots from Swing This Baby

AN: Hacklers are nasty troll like creatures. A Shadow Harvester is a manifestation signaling imminent death. See: Supernatural Survival Guide Ted Fauster