Thinking that one of Sunnydale's myriad tangle of sewer lines had gone bad, Spike casually swaggered into the alley behind what had been, for the last four nights, his job. Gagging, he reeled backpedaling out of the alley. That was no ruptured sewer line– whatever was making that reek, was dead.
Not only was it dead, it was REALLY dead, as in dead with the sincerity of Sunday morning cornball televangelists when asking you to empty your bank account on Jesus's (and their) behalf or the I.R.S. when it came to that same bank account, forget Jesus because well, "render unto Cesar what is Cesar's and we're Cesar" and all that bollocks.
In other words, BLOODY HELL, whatever it was, stank– which was saying an awful lot for someone who spent most of his time in sewers and among the dead in one form or another, be it ambulatory like him, or laying unobtrusively on a slab quietly moldering into dust without bothering anybody unless they had dust allergies.
Still, it was the last night on the job, he was supposed to get paid, and well, he had sod all else to do. Rummaging around in the pockets of his duster, Spike pulled out a somewhat mashed cheap cigar, bit off the end, and lit up. After a few reeking puffs of tobacco with a bouquet like the bleached remains a dog turd on somebody's front lawn, Spike cautiously ventured forward.
What Spike found aggressively stinking beneath a heaving blanket of maggots at the base of the loading dock, had once been a man. There were shoes, Wingtips, the bald, greasy dome of a toothless skull, some long bones, and a soggy suit and power tie mingled with visibly liquefying human flesh. Puffing furiously, because as revolting as the messy heap was, it could be, ahem, profitable, Spike knelt, poking at the turgid mess from a safe upwind distance with a broken broom handle he'd found nearby in the hopes that maybe whomever it had been, had a wallet and some loose change, or at least a pawnable watch on them when whatever had happened had happened.
The putrid mess farted, heaved, and then dissolved further with even more flatulent eruptions when stirred, leaving the bones, the Wingtips, and the maggots at high tide. "Oh my, my, my— is a this signet ring to go with that gold tieclip that I spy with my lit'l eye?" To avoid having to touch the filth which coated it, Spike thrust a wooden chopstick he'd been keeping in the lining of his duster into the gold and obsidian man's ring and held it up, admiring his lucky find. This meant beer for dinner, and blood, the good stuff…
Someone cleared their throat meaningfully at him.
"Sod off, I'm busy!" Cigar jutting from the corner of his mouth, Spike looked up grumbling at having been interrupted in the middle of something so… so... gainfully entertaining, followed by, "Bloody hell, it's the Schnelz!" He rose, pocketing his salvage in spite of the stench.
His worst daymare, (aside from the Initiative getting hold of him again or worse, Buffy truly giving him the boot) Inelda Schnelz, stood outlined by the light spilling from the little office she lurked in like an obese trapdoor spider in the open back doorway.
Torn right sleeve flapping, she tossed down a shovel, followed by a Hefty bag.
Spike glared up at the toadlike old lady as they landed in the gassy puddle so that glop splattered up on his Doc Martens and the lower hem of his duster as he stepped backwards to avoid being cold cocked by a gardening tool. The rat had been a tasty bonus, and bloody hell, dumping a bag's worth of dried up kiddie bones on some vacant lot that had once been a church had been a welcome break in the routine, but this? "Hell no!"
"It's either this or pay for what you did to the chair and the desk in the Security Office last night." She grated flatly at him.
Oh. That.
Spike stooped, trading the broken broom handle for the shovel and bag.
"And while you're at it, get rid of the car." She gestured with one large, knobby hand at an older model BMW parked at the mouth of the alley before slamming the door behind her.
All but dancing with frustrated rage, Spike settled for dropping the bag and shovel and giving her two double-fingered salutes, one per hand.
The door flew back open. Spike shoved his hands deep into his duster pockets, bag and shovel at his feet.
A large, half-used jar of Vicks VapoRub flew out and landed with a clatter.
The door slammed shut again.
Scowling around his cheap cigar, Spike picked up the jar of ointment, smeared a generous portion under his nose, hurled the container so that it shattered on the back wall of the building behind him, and with a stinging upper lip, began shoveling the remains of Jacob Raus into the Hefty bag to the snarled tune of the Sex Pistol's "God Save the Queen".