Fanfic: I Wanna Be Sedated (1/1)

[smokingmirror]

Title: I Wanna Be Sedated
Author: Avarice
Rating: PG
Pairing: -
Spoilers: The Initiative.
Summary: Sometimes unlife is just... crappy.
Word Count:
Date First Posted: -
Date Revised - 11-05-2011
Beta: -
Awards: Fabulae ML Fiction Favourite
Notes: Spike POV. Improv fic - silver, hollow, fitting, wander. This is the fic that Jossed Joss! Sort of... I wrote this about a week and a half before Spike was caught singing 'I Wanna Be Sedated' in s5 to Buffy. Amused me :)
Feedback: always welcome, as is constructive criticism.

Some nights, it just doesn't pay to get outta your crypt.

I'm sitting at the Bronze wi-

Why is it called the 'Bronze'? Stupid fucking name. All the other good metals taken? Satan forbid they actually called it something with any value, like Gold or Silver. But no, it's the Bronze.

Shitty metal for a shitty place.

Anyway, at the Bronze, enjoying a beer or five.

Well... drinking beer.

Tolerating beer.

Cor, this stuff is crap.

What did that Eric Idle bloke say? Drinking American beer is like making love in a canoe -- it's fucking close to water.

From the mouths of Britons. A-fucking-men.

Bronze, beer, boredom.

Got nothing else to do right now. Reached my nightly quota of hollow taunting, fighting and stalking. Yet to reach any conceivable limit on alcohol consumption.

As far as I'm concerned, there is no limit.

Anyway, at the pathetic teeny club. Much mediocre beer. Incredibly bored. Fast becoming drunk and morose, and not in that particular order.

Ordinarily, this is enough. But the fucking higher Powers decide to give Spike a go. They want to see just how far they can push him before he cracks. Or cries. Or stakes himself. Or fries his brain trying to disembowel moronic teenagers wearing leg warmers, snap bracelets and crimped hair.

It's 80’s night at the Bronze.

What gets my goat (stupid phrase that, too. I don't have a goat, and if I did, I wouldn't touch it, anyhow) is that this walking fodder has no idea about the eighties. They see big hair, Thompson Twins, green eyeshadow and Boy George.

Not even close, tossers.

What you've got is the remnants of the 70s punk and glam is spilling into the new decade where electronica -- the ancestors of today's techno shit -- is developing. Add David Bowie and Adam and the Ants, and you've got this awesome miasma of music, attitude and yes, hair.

'Miasma'?

Shit, Watcher talk.

Need more booze.

Anyway, the eighties wasn't just useful for the music.

The cartoons fuckin' rocked.

I swear, just thinking about Danger Mouse and Thundercats gets me all misty-eyed.

Hm... I wonder what would happen if the Thundercats chased Danger Mouse? Maybe they could maul Penfold... little shit. Never did like 'im. Of course, Underdog and ol' Huckleberry Hound could probably take on that group of pussies...

But... back to the plot. Bronze, beer, getting shitfaced, yadda yadda.

I know whoever's up there is punishing me. I spent an hour playing pool with Axl Rose. The chit at the bar is a pair of hooped earrings away from being one of the Bangles, and I keep getting singed by the crucifixes worn by the Madonna imitators. Fuckin' hell, the only ones who should get around with their underwear showin' are supermodels, or superheroes.

Or superheromodels.

Okay, snorted up my beer with an image of Paingel doing his dark avenger routine, complete with professional pout on the catwalks of Paris.

I drink I'm thunk.

But the point -- and I do have one -- is that I've gone through my share of situations... dangerous, pleasurable, and downright painful. Sorta the same thing when you look at it closely. Fitting, really.

Anyway, I pride myself on being able to cope with the shit I'm constantly getting dealt. Whether it's the return of noncy grandsires, maulings by mobs or the US military or getting dumped -- twice -- for things that look like they came outta my nose... I can handle it.

And the 80/s is like an old friend.

But one... just one thing could cause me to crack. Or cry. Or stake myself. Or fry my brain trying to disembowel moronic teenagers wearing leg warmers, snap bracelets and crimped hair.

And in a typical 'fuck you' to my prayers, this drunk lass looking like the pre-eminent 80’s fashion victim staggers up to me, touches my hair (can't even shove her away -- where's the justice in the world?) and gushes "I've always loved your songs! Can you sing Flesh for Fantasy?" before wandering off to dance with Robert Smith... or someone, I dunno.

Well, at least it wasn't Rebel Yell.

Sigh. More booze.

Some nights, it just doesn't pay to get outta your crypt.

~finis