Spike City Chapter 2
Continuing with my no-stressing policy for posting, here's the next part of Spike City. Apologies in advance. This is unbetaed. I'm very, very nervous about doing shanmara's fantastic manip justice.
Beautiful, inspiring manip by the wonderful shanmara
Chapter 2
The itch was back in Spike’s belly, the need for violence. He peered at himself blearily in the fogged bathroom mirror, turning his head this way and that. The condensation-slick glass reflected the dark stubble shadowing his jaw, and a grumpy face, blue eyes smudged with fatigue. Probably shouldn’t have tied one on last night, or brought the skinny little pillow biter home. But what the fuck, it felt good at the time.
Porferro was used to his excesses by now, but the morning of a contract meet, Spike generally tried to look professional. Inspired more confidence in him, that did. But not this morning. Spike couldn’t be arsed to shave, no matter how much Porferro would whinge about him being a slovenly fuck. If he tried to scrape a razor over his face, he’d be in danger of cuttin’ his own sodding throat.
Attempting to get with the program, Spike rubbed a towel across the shower-flattened mess of his hair, trying out a few smiles that only succeeded in making him look scarily off his trolley. The dull thump of too much booze pulsed behind the paper-thin skin of his temples, dragging a self-pitying moan from his gut. Felt like somebody had stepped on his head. He reached for the medicine cabinet, pulling out the giant, industrial size bottle of aspirin, dry swallowing a handful.
Forcing them down, he grimaced at the bitterness coating his tongue, which looked and tasted like the bottom of a bird cage when he stuck it out to examine it. Not that he’d ever... Though he’d been pretty wasted now and then, so who knew?
When he leaned closer for a better look, the red road map of his eyes sprang out at him, a thousand miles of wrong turns down an unmarked highway. That’s what gettin’ snockered the night before a contract meet did for you, he told himself. But what the hell, when had that ever stopped him?
Spike retrieved his cigarette from the edge of the sink, and tucked it into the corner of his mouth. He’d been burning the candle at both ends lately, and it was starting to show. Irritation made him grind his teeth, his stomach burbling with acid. No use trying to dandify himself. He cared sod all what he looked like anyway. Made him feel mean and dangerous to be all whiskered up. Course, he was mean and dangerous.
He contemplated throwing the can of shaving cream at the mirror out of sheer perversity, hearing the satisfying crash of metal on glass. His fingers twitched. Then he realized all those shiny splinters on the floor would probably cut his feet to ribbons. He settled for heaving his razor at the wall with a few accompanying curses, and felt better for it, fit of temper subsiding.
The tile floor was cold under his bare feet as he padded across it and back to the bedroom to dress. The unpleasant sight of domestic chaos greeted him on arrival. There were clothes strewn everywhere, the bedside ashtray jammed with cigarette butts and partially chewed wads of gum. A toppled chair lay by the door to the living room, testimony to a drunken stumble in the dark. The aroma of stale cum overhung everything. Spike’s lip curled distastefully.
Thank Christ, it was Tuesday, one of Tara’s day to do for him, get the place looking tidy again. He felt like hell. Pulling a couple of suits out of the closet, he flung them on the torn up bed, tossing a white shirt after them, then a handful of ties. Go-to-meetin’ clothes. He stared at them expectantly, the headache still chewing at the backs of his eyes.
His nerves had were coiled wires vibrating the length of his spine, making his toes jitter nervously. He needed somebody to kill. Hunting was the only purpose Spike had. It threw a crystal clarity into the darkness of his mind, bringing sense to chaos. The dance was everything, prey and predator locked in a lethal complicity that reached out and wrapped him in its calming embrace. Gave him...purpose. Gave him...peace.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Here it is.”
Porferro tossed the file across his desk, mouth pinched in a disapproving line. Spike swept it up easily, hiding his smirk as he flipped the manilla cover open and stared down at a neat stack of typed pages and photographs. Porferro’s organization was meticulous. Almost as meticulous as Spike.
Except for today, that is, when he’d showed up at Porferro’s office unshaven, in jeans and a leather jacket; a soft white shirt, open at the throat, the only survivor of his morning haberdashery efforts. Earned him the evil eye from the fastidiously clad older man, elegant in shades of gray, from the neatly cut waves of charcoal hair to the pristine lines of his slate gray suit.
Porferro tapped his manicured nails on the desk impatiently.
“Do you accept?”
“You’re a bit nervy today, ain’t you, mate?”
Spike grinned, knowing the grammar would tick the man off further, crunching on the toes of one of his pet peeves. He waited for the git to reprimand him. When the man only scowled, nostrils flaring a bit, like an angry bull, Spike shrugged and returned his attention to the file.
He flipped by a few pages, looking for the identifying shot. The photograph, when he came to it, was black and white, the lines sharp, evidently taken with an expensive camera. A strong face stared up at him, intense eyes, mouth a grim twist of moral certitude. Just the kind of tosser Spike liked in his sights.
“Give me the cliff notes now. I’ll check the rest out later.”
The man across from him grimaced at Spike’s cavalier attitude. “Liam O’Halloran. Goes by the name Angel. One of those crusading reporter types. He’s got his nose in my operation, and I want it cut off, Spike. There’s too much at risk to have some Clark Kent wanna-be throwing a monkey wrench in the works. I want him terminated. The quicker the better.”
“Yeah. I can see that.”
Spike shuffled the pictures, looking for a full body shot, coming up with one taken beside a car, the punter about to climb inside. He was smiling, one corner of his lips tipped up, telegraphing a snarky amusement. Spike stilled over this one, his eyes boring into the photo’s shiny surface. His gut tightened up a smidgeon, something oozing quietly into his belly, taking him by surprise. Interesting.
“‘k. Got yourself a deal.” He squiggled a quick figure on a corner of one of the dossier’s sheets, then passed it across to Porferro, whose lips pursed disapprovingly.
“You think a lot of yourself, my friend. Maybe too much. There are others who would be cheaper.”
“You don’t want cheaper, pet. You want the best, and we both know who that is.” Spike lifted an eyebrow. “Yes or no?”
“All right. Yes. But I expect it done quickly, before he has a chance to publish anything in that rag he works for.”
“Can do. Give me a couple of days and your problem’s solved.”
Spike scooped up the file and rose from his seat. It was good to have the particulars of his next kill negotiated. The smooth folder fit comfortably in his fist as he strode from the office with a small tip of his fingers to Porferro’s pretty slapper of a secretary, lounging sexily behind her computer.
He’d had her once, all big tits, with nipples the size of silver dollars. Maybe he would again. Couldn’t hurt to stay on her good side. He grinned. The side with the fat little arse and the quim like a snapping turtle. Near took his cock off, she did. Spike gave her a squint of his eyes and a soft pucker of his lips, hinting at things they both remembered. She flushed hotly and stuck her tongue out at him.
Down in the mid-morning streets, the milk-white glare of unfiltered light burnt his retinas, the way the smog burnt his lungs. He pulled a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket and slid them on in relief. Spike didn’t like the day, too bright, too....revealing. He was a night person. Maybe he’d been one of those vampire poufs in another existence.
A chuckle surprised him. He was in a bloody good mood for havin’ the hangover from hell. Makin’ jokes and all. Might have something to do with the taunting smile that was hidden somewhere between the pages of the dossier in his hand. He shook the folder open, checking the first page, the down and dirty on Liam O’Hallaron, aka Angel. Spike noted his home address was on the south side of town, not too far away, his place of business the L.A. Times.
Spike huffed a whistle of approval. No wonder, Porferro was worried. The Times was the farthest thing from a small time operation. If upstanding businessman Mark Porferro was busted as a drug dealing, whore-mongering, politician-bribing thief, with an order of Murder Incorporated on the side, he’d be spending the rest of his prissy little life in the slammer, being some big, tattooed bruiser’s butt monkey. That is, if he wasn’t breathing the funny gas in a room built for one.
Tutting with annoyance, Spike realized he could have asked for a lot more money. Still, all wasn’t lost. There was always the possibility Porferro would give Spike a bonus. It had been known to happen in the past. A present of....say, an ear or a pair of bollocks might prove just the incentive the wanker needed. He could be generous when the spirit took him.
“Right, then. On with it.”
Several heads turned to frown curiously at him when he spoke aloud. Spike scowled back, and they looked away with just the right amount of fear blanketing their faces. He didn’t usually showboat, call attention to himself. It went against good business practices, but being in such a damn fine frame of mind, he couldn’t help it. Fuck, he was chuffed. Taking out this pillock was going to be fun!
Beautiful, inspiring manip by the wonderful shanmara
Chapter 2
The itch was back in Spike’s belly, the need for violence. He peered at himself blearily in the fogged bathroom mirror, turning his head this way and that. The condensation-slick glass reflected the dark stubble shadowing his jaw, and a grumpy face, blue eyes smudged with fatigue. Probably shouldn’t have tied one on last night, or brought the skinny little pillow biter home. But what the fuck, it felt good at the time.
Porferro was used to his excesses by now, but the morning of a contract meet, Spike generally tried to look professional. Inspired more confidence in him, that did. But not this morning. Spike couldn’t be arsed to shave, no matter how much Porferro would whinge about him being a slovenly fuck. If he tried to scrape a razor over his face, he’d be in danger of cuttin’ his own sodding throat.
Attempting to get with the program, Spike rubbed a towel across the shower-flattened mess of his hair, trying out a few smiles that only succeeded in making him look scarily off his trolley. The dull thump of too much booze pulsed behind the paper-thin skin of his temples, dragging a self-pitying moan from his gut. Felt like somebody had stepped on his head. He reached for the medicine cabinet, pulling out the giant, industrial size bottle of aspirin, dry swallowing a handful.
Forcing them down, he grimaced at the bitterness coating his tongue, which looked and tasted like the bottom of a bird cage when he stuck it out to examine it. Not that he’d ever... Though he’d been pretty wasted now and then, so who knew?
When he leaned closer for a better look, the red road map of his eyes sprang out at him, a thousand miles of wrong turns down an unmarked highway. That’s what gettin’ snockered the night before a contract meet did for you, he told himself. But what the hell, when had that ever stopped him?
Spike retrieved his cigarette from the edge of the sink, and tucked it into the corner of his mouth. He’d been burning the candle at both ends lately, and it was starting to show. Irritation made him grind his teeth, his stomach burbling with acid. No use trying to dandify himself. He cared sod all what he looked like anyway. Made him feel mean and dangerous to be all whiskered up. Course, he was mean and dangerous.
He contemplated throwing the can of shaving cream at the mirror out of sheer perversity, hearing the satisfying crash of metal on glass. His fingers twitched. Then he realized all those shiny splinters on the floor would probably cut his feet to ribbons. He settled for heaving his razor at the wall with a few accompanying curses, and felt better for it, fit of temper subsiding.
The tile floor was cold under his bare feet as he padded across it and back to the bedroom to dress. The unpleasant sight of domestic chaos greeted him on arrival. There were clothes strewn everywhere, the bedside ashtray jammed with cigarette butts and partially chewed wads of gum. A toppled chair lay by the door to the living room, testimony to a drunken stumble in the dark. The aroma of stale cum overhung everything. Spike’s lip curled distastefully.
Thank Christ, it was Tuesday, one of Tara’s day to do for him, get the place looking tidy again. He felt like hell. Pulling a couple of suits out of the closet, he flung them on the torn up bed, tossing a white shirt after them, then a handful of ties. Go-to-meetin’ clothes. He stared at them expectantly, the headache still chewing at the backs of his eyes.
His nerves had were coiled wires vibrating the length of his spine, making his toes jitter nervously. He needed somebody to kill. Hunting was the only purpose Spike had. It threw a crystal clarity into the darkness of his mind, bringing sense to chaos. The dance was everything, prey and predator locked in a lethal complicity that reached out and wrapped him in its calming embrace. Gave him...purpose. Gave him...peace.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Here it is.”
Porferro tossed the file across his desk, mouth pinched in a disapproving line. Spike swept it up easily, hiding his smirk as he flipped the manilla cover open and stared down at a neat stack of typed pages and photographs. Porferro’s organization was meticulous. Almost as meticulous as Spike.
Except for today, that is, when he’d showed up at Porferro’s office unshaven, in jeans and a leather jacket; a soft white shirt, open at the throat, the only survivor of his morning haberdashery efforts. Earned him the evil eye from the fastidiously clad older man, elegant in shades of gray, from the neatly cut waves of charcoal hair to the pristine lines of his slate gray suit.
Porferro tapped his manicured nails on the desk impatiently.
“Do you accept?”
“You’re a bit nervy today, ain’t you, mate?”
Spike grinned, knowing the grammar would tick the man off further, crunching on the toes of one of his pet peeves. He waited for the git to reprimand him. When the man only scowled, nostrils flaring a bit, like an angry bull, Spike shrugged and returned his attention to the file.
He flipped by a few pages, looking for the identifying shot. The photograph, when he came to it, was black and white, the lines sharp, evidently taken with an expensive camera. A strong face stared up at him, intense eyes, mouth a grim twist of moral certitude. Just the kind of tosser Spike liked in his sights.
“Give me the cliff notes now. I’ll check the rest out later.”
The man across from him grimaced at Spike’s cavalier attitude. “Liam O’Halloran. Goes by the name Angel. One of those crusading reporter types. He’s got his nose in my operation, and I want it cut off, Spike. There’s too much at risk to have some Clark Kent wanna-be throwing a monkey wrench in the works. I want him terminated. The quicker the better.”
“Yeah. I can see that.”
Spike shuffled the pictures, looking for a full body shot, coming up with one taken beside a car, the punter about to climb inside. He was smiling, one corner of his lips tipped up, telegraphing a snarky amusement. Spike stilled over this one, his eyes boring into the photo’s shiny surface. His gut tightened up a smidgeon, something oozing quietly into his belly, taking him by surprise. Interesting.
“‘k. Got yourself a deal.” He squiggled a quick figure on a corner of one of the dossier’s sheets, then passed it across to Porferro, whose lips pursed disapprovingly.
“You think a lot of yourself, my friend. Maybe too much. There are others who would be cheaper.”
“You don’t want cheaper, pet. You want the best, and we both know who that is.” Spike lifted an eyebrow. “Yes or no?”
“All right. Yes. But I expect it done quickly, before he has a chance to publish anything in that rag he works for.”
“Can do. Give me a couple of days and your problem’s solved.”
Spike scooped up the file and rose from his seat. It was good to have the particulars of his next kill negotiated. The smooth folder fit comfortably in his fist as he strode from the office with a small tip of his fingers to Porferro’s pretty slapper of a secretary, lounging sexily behind her computer.
He’d had her once, all big tits, with nipples the size of silver dollars. Maybe he would again. Couldn’t hurt to stay on her good side. He grinned. The side with the fat little arse and the quim like a snapping turtle. Near took his cock off, she did. Spike gave her a squint of his eyes and a soft pucker of his lips, hinting at things they both remembered. She flushed hotly and stuck her tongue out at him.
Down in the mid-morning streets, the milk-white glare of unfiltered light burnt his retinas, the way the smog burnt his lungs. He pulled a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket and slid them on in relief. Spike didn’t like the day, too bright, too....revealing. He was a night person. Maybe he’d been one of those vampire poufs in another existence.
A chuckle surprised him. He was in a bloody good mood for havin’ the hangover from hell. Makin’ jokes and all. Might have something to do with the taunting smile that was hidden somewhere between the pages of the dossier in his hand. He shook the folder open, checking the first page, the down and dirty on Liam O’Hallaron, aka Angel. Spike noted his home address was on the south side of town, not too far away, his place of business the L.A. Times.
Spike huffed a whistle of approval. No wonder, Porferro was worried. The Times was the farthest thing from a small time operation. If upstanding businessman Mark Porferro was busted as a drug dealing, whore-mongering, politician-bribing thief, with an order of Murder Incorporated on the side, he’d be spending the rest of his prissy little life in the slammer, being some big, tattooed bruiser’s butt monkey. That is, if he wasn’t breathing the funny gas in a room built for one.
Tutting with annoyance, Spike realized he could have asked for a lot more money. Still, all wasn’t lost. There was always the possibility Porferro would give Spike a bonus. It had been known to happen in the past. A present of....say, an ear or a pair of bollocks might prove just the incentive the wanker needed. He could be generous when the spirit took him.
“Right, then. On with it.”
Several heads turned to frown curiously at him when he spoke aloud. Spike scowled back, and they looked away with just the right amount of fear blanketing their faces. He didn’t usually showboat, call attention to himself. It went against good business practices, but being in such a damn fine frame of mind, he couldn’t help it. Fuck, he was chuffed. Taking out this pillock was going to be fun!