Sealed With A Kiss
Written for the Summer of SpikeOctober 1978
New York City
The phone call came at right around 11am, coming from an outside line.
"There's trouble in Room 100." That's all the voice said, then hung up. The desk clerk sent up the bellboy. Minutes later, the bellboy came running down and the desk clerk called the police.
April 1977
London
Spike laughed as the band took to the stage.
"Bloody hell. They booted the only one of the lot with any bleedin' talent, didn't they?"
The crowd started pogoing as soon as the guitarist started the riff. The drums jumped up behind. The bass notes followed randomly, out of tune, out of time. The singer, eyes hidden behind dark glasses.
I don't wanna holiday in the sunI wanna go to new Belsen
I wanna see some history
'Cause now I got a reasonable economy
"Oh, Spike. This is not a love song either!" Dru squeezed her porcelin doll to her chest.
"Of course, luv." Spike shrugged, the studs on his shoulder scraped against against the wall in the back. He took a sip from his pint and wrapped his free arm around Drusilla's shoulders. "Don't expect many of them from this lot."
"That one is pretty." Dru pointed to the one with the spiky black hair, a padlock chained to his neck and carrying a white bass guitar. A black leather jacket hung off his shoulders. "Many will follow him.
"That tosser?" The black-haired boy stood, sneering at the audience. "Don't feature him leadin' himself, much less leadin' people." He took another drink off the pint, dropping it and letting it shatter at his feet.
Dru took a step forward. Her black shawl fell off her shoulders. "I see cities falling to dust. Blood stains and millions of dead policemen, Spike, and all because of him."
He lost her laughter in the amplification as she twirled into the crowd.
He hadn't needed an invitation, but she invited him in anyway. She remembered him from before. From England. She wore just her knickers. The boy slept in his clothes on the bed. She poked at him, calling his name. "Sid. It's him. That guy."
"That's all right, luv. He isn't the person I was plannin' to talk to, anyway."
May 1977
London
One match would've set the place alight.
One match would've solved all his petty problems.
The black-haired bloodbag lay under a ratty blanket, red t-shirt covering his chest. His American bint was curled up in a ball in the corner, her works abandoned next to her. He kicked at a pile of clothing and beer bottles.
One match.
Dru's hair covered the swastika on the front of the boy's t-shirt. His blood was on her lips and a blissful smile stretched across her face.
Spike pushed the corner of the blanket, revealing the face of a china doll, glass eyes closed to the world. Outside, the first hints of morning light were rising over the city.
One match
He struck a match on the wall, lit a cigarette and dropped it on the blanket. A needle of flame came up from the blanket. He watched the fire grow, consuming what it touched.
There was enough in a discarded bottle of beer to stuff the fire before it grew. Spike took a drag from his cigarette, then left the room.
Her blonde hair fell in her face as she lit a cigarette. "He's, like, really going to get big. We're going to clean up, and we're going to get big."
His hand pulled the knife from the boy's pocket and opened it. He could feel the embossed eagle on the handle, warm against his palm.
October 1977
Manhattan
Just like with Hercules, the last of the labours is the bitch.
What few minions that aren't dust have found a hole, riding the storm out. Fuck them. They'll only claim the glory.
Spike paced the platform, swinging around the pillars. His dog-tags clinking together and the hum of the lighting were the only sounds. He slid off his jacket, letting it drop to the corner.
He's earned the trust. He's snuffed the enemies. He's found the perfect nest and he's jockeyed for position. This one last thing and he'd have it all together.
Dru loved him the last time.
He heard the train before he saw it, rumbling through the tunnels, and without question, she was on it.
Death and glory. Sod all else.
She didn't really notice when he kissed her. It stopped her rambling on.
It's revenge, more than anything. Tit for tat, so to speak. The darkness of his life, separated for so long. The better part of a century together, and his love left for him. It's only fair that he'd take something of his.
She certainly didn't notice when his face changed. She did notice when the blade went in.
January 1978
Dallas
She wore a battered straw cowboy hat when he found her. Its former owner leaned against the wall of the alley. The pearl buttons of his shirt were snapped open to his waist and blood leaked down his neck and off his lips. The sound of the guitar cut through the cement walls.
"I thought I'd find you about."
The heels of Dru's thigh-high boots scraped over the gravel of the alley, coming toward Spike's black motorcycle boots. "You're different, Spike."
"I've made us a home, Dru. I want ... I want you to come."
Dru moved closer and ran her hands over the black leather covering chest. The hem of it bumped against his combat boots. "You've changed your look."
"I ran into a bit of trouble. It's all been taken care of, luv."
She moved close, hands reaching under the long black coat. Blood dripped from her lips as she smiled. "You've done it again, haven't you?"
"I did it for you, luv."
Drusilla's smile faded as she backed away. "My silly, careless boy." She caresses his face, then backed away, walking toward a graffitoed tour bus on the street.
She didn't scream or cry. She kept quiet, crawling with what strength she could to the bathroom, where she could close the door, keeping him out.
He knew how much blood she lost. He knew how much blood she had. She'd never make it.
He turned and left, stopping to tuck the knife back in his pocket. Have to get out before the shadows get too small.
September 1978
New York City
"If you want the personal touch, I can't be fucking bothered."
Drusilla knew he was there. Spike knew that much. She sat at a table, near the stage. He stood in the shadows in the back, where they stood the last time they were there. A much better band, with a much better singer than her new boy there.
They came to his town. His town. Paid for with blood and fear. How dare they rub his face in it? And no, he couldn't hurt her. Ever. She knew that, and she used it. And her new pet.
Now I wanna be you dog!
Now I wanna be you dog!
Now I wanna be you dog!
Well come on!
He saw her standing on the side of the stage, unkempt blonde hair swaying as she moved to the music. He'd never touch the boy, never harm a hair on his head. But he'd go down anyway.
October 1978
New York City
Spike stood under the elevated tracks, shielded from the sun as he fed quarters into the payphone. The other end picked up on the third ring. "There's trouble in Room 100." He hung up, then swung at the phone, shattering it and spreading change around his feet. He drew his coat around him and went back to his car. He had things to do. Bodies to find. As it started, the radio started up, cranked loud.
Still oh out on those pills
Cheap thrills Anadins
Aspros anything
You're condemned to eternal bullshit
You're sealed with a kiss
Kiss me