| The Blank Generation By Kuzibah |
| Disclaimer: Archive- Please email request. Author�s Note: Inspired by a suggestion of wwolfe�s, and therefore included as part of his birthday story. Rated R for (say it with me) language. Disclaimer: Spike and Drusilla belong to Joss Whedon and a bunch of other people, but seriously, they're Joss�s. We all know it. ******************* New York City, August, 1975~ Spike stood in the bathroom of his loft apartment on Avenue B, a slim metal comb in one hand and the fingers of his other slick with pomade. Through touch and long practice he was styling his hair into a carefully lacquered coif. It was out of style, he knew, but he figured as a vampire he had the right, and besides, nothing in the last ten years had enticed him to change. The Hippies? Right. And these disco kids? Even worse. He exited into the main room where Drusilla was carrying on an elaborate party with three porcelain dolls (one headless), a stuffed rabbit, and a wooden duck. She poured blood carefully from a tiny teapot into delicate little cups, then obligingly drained them for her guests, all the while chattering on about the moon, and dogs, and chocolate sweets. Spike lifted his denim jacket from the bed and swung it on. �Spike,� Drusilla sang at him, drawing the vowel out long, like a thread. �Where are you going?� �I�m going to get something to eat,� he said, then gestured at the young man bound to a chair in the corner, who was whimpering around the scarf gagging his mouth. �Should I bring you back something, or is this one going to be enough?� But Drusilla had already lost interest, and was re-arranging her dolls around the tea-table. �Alright, then,� Spike said softly. �Be good, and I�ll be back in a little while.� �I�m always good,� Dru told him, and Spike exited onto the street. He went straight for the subway, as usual with no destination in mind. Just pick a train at random, go where it took him, find his way home later. Gods, he loved New York.. At a crowded station, he moved from one train to another, and six stops later changed for a third, neatly vaulting the turnstiles and snarling at anyone who looked like they might complain. Eventually he found his way back to the surface and started walking, observing as he did the humans around him. Almost at once, groups of young people caught his attention. They were new, not like the teens he was used to. Their hair was cropped short, and dyed in unnatural colors. They were pierced and tattooed, and their clothing was working class. They wore chains and dog collars. There didn�t seem to be any attempt on their parts to be attractive, quite the opposite, in fact. They looked angry and dangerous. For Spike it was like love at first sight. They came to a club; it didn�t look like much from the front, but Spike knew looks could be deceiving. Ornate letters on the canopy spelled out what Spike presumed to be the name: CBGB. A large group of the strangely-dressed children crowded the sidewalk, and Spike could smell an intoxicating mix of emotions in their blood: excitement, like the air during a thunderstorm, arousal, like an exotic spice, and anger, like warm brandy. And Spike wanted it, wanted to drink that blood in hot mouthfuls and let it splash over him like a wave. Then he saw the posters advertising the evening�s act. He almost didn�t see them, they were plain red-and-black, like boxing posters, and the band�s name, The Ramones, looked like a boxing name at first glance, too. He had to get inside. He walked to the head of the line. The bouncer barely spared him a glance before sneering, �wait your turn, like everyone else.� �I don�t think you understand, mate,� Spike said just softly enough to get the bouncer�s attention, and when the man looked up, the vampire allowed the shadow of his ridges to present, and just the slightest glint of yellow to pass over his eyes. He was admitted immediately. Inside the club was dark, filled with smoke and noise. He was jostled along by the crowd, and let himself be carried by the current up front, near the stage. The band was already well into their performance. They played their instruments like weapons of attack, a primal sound, full of passion and fury and *life.* How did I live so long before electric guitars? Spike thought. The sound reached inside him, mimicking the pulse of organs long dead, and he was writhing, howling, letting his body thrash, twist, bend to the relentless assault of the music, knowing by instinct that resistance would cause him to shatter under the force. He felt like he was splitting, dividing, as he simultaneously felt separate from his body and more alive than he could remember. And then he was part of a great rolling mass consciousness as the crowd became a new creature all its own, and Spike was but one cell in the body, a slave to its will. As the music reached a zenith, he found himself entangled with several humans, and he drank from each in turn, not enough to kill or even injure them, but they were as mindless as he, and didn�t even notice. - - - - - - - - - - �Is that my pretty little Spike?� Drusilla called from the shadowed bed as he entered the apartment near dawn. �Yes, it�s me, pet,� he said as he stumbled towards the bathroom. He nearly tripped on the cooling corpse Dru had left sprawled on the floor, and cursed angrily. He snapped on the bathroom light. Dru entered the doorway behind him as he was pulling a bottle of peroxide from a 7-11 bag. �Where did you go?� she asked. Spike reached the medicine cabinet and took out his straight razor before replying. �I think I ended up in the Bowery, love,� he said, then he took a lock of his hair and cut it down to about an inch long with the razor. He smiled as he imagined how he would look� hair ragged, standing up around his head, and bleached as pale as the moon. �What are you doing?� Dru asked, confused. �Well, you see, I�ve had a revelation, baby,� he said as he sliced through another lock. �It�s time to change my image.� ~fin~ Visit the Joey Ramone Shrine at www.cbgb.com/joeyramone.htm Main Menu ~ Return to Stand Alone Menu |