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CHAPTER 3 -- The Men

Xander picked up another rag off the coffee table, wiping the quickly drying blood off his hands. He surveyed the room. It could be classified as a cubical really -- hospital white walls. Well, they were. That was until Spike had gotten trigger happy, hitting a multitude of Mr. Wakefield’s major arteries, severing the head and spraying blood, guts, and Mr. Wakefield’s lunch all over the walls.

Spike had had a bad day. And this is really how all of Spike’s bad days transpired after terrorizing Xander with his caustic sarcasm and snarkiness. But he must admit, putting a round into some guy’s chest who embezzled thousands of dollars from his company and mentally calculating the money they were making for a job well done never failed to take Spike out of his self-pity wallowing.

Spike threw down the rag he was holding, picking at brain chunks and intestines that threatened to stain his shirt. “I wish you Americans would stop eating such filth. A diet of Sloppy Joes, corndogs, and potato chips makes for a messy cleanup.”

“Says the man who lives off the Blooming Onion.”

Spike strided over to the severed head, lying in the middle of the room. He picked Mr. Wakefield’s cranium up by its black gelled hair, turning its still open eyes towards the spatter patterns on the walls. “If you were still alive, mate, I’d make you lick your stomach’s contents off the bloody walls.”

“Did you get in this business just to keep the Brit slang? I can’t tell if you’re just being British or serious, ‘cause man these walls are pretty nasty.”

Spike tossed the decapitated head across the room haphazardly and sighed, “This one’s done. Who’s next?”

“Not sure, I’ll have to call the boss lady, but I do believe it’s a fellow businessman.”

“Another assassin? Really?” Spike was intrigued. If he had to kill another cheating spouse or scorned lover he’d turned the barrel on himself.

“So what does that take us to?” Spike asked.

“It should be up to $850,000 by now. I’ll have to call Anya.”

Spike raised his eyebrow and looked pointedly at his friend, “Yeah, you do that.”

“What?”

“We are perfectly capable of keeping a mental running tab of our bank account. No need to bring your girlfriend into our dark lives.”

“She’s not my girlfriend!” The expression on Spike’s face told him that he could easily argue otherwise, so he let it drop.

“Let’s go get food, killing always makes me hungry.”

“Everything makes you hungry.”

TBC





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