Spike sloppily strolls through the streets looking for some action as he has done every night for years, but action he finds to be somewhat dulled these days. His post bacchanalia walks seem dimmer. Even though there are bar fights, and general squabbles, he finds himself bored. Spike has never had a lust for blood himself. He is a vicarious watcher. He has seen many people die, and has shed tears for them. There is something about this pain that he enjoys, even when it’s his friends. He is out tonight looking for a cheap thrill; a bum throwing a glass bottle at someone would even help him get his jollies. It’s ironic, for Spike, to enjoy such things really; even he knows it’s a weird fetish for him to have, as a self-proclaimed pacifist. He’s usually quiet for the duration of his vicarious strolls, but tonight he has decided a different approach.

            He decides to walk down a different alley, one he doesn't usually bother going down. As he passes a few crates filled with discarded wine bottles from the back of an Italian restaurant, he sees something on the floor. From a distance, he thinks that he might have found a trail of rubies. He stumbles a bit, feeling that last shot of whiskey hitting him at an inopportune time. He proceeds to vomit onto the crates, leaving dripping trails of a plethora of colors like-able to a mosaic that just happened to be melting from the heat of the magma and ash of Vesuvius.

            He regains his composure, lighting a cigarette to rid his mouth of the taste of bile and partially digested food, not to mention the alcohol. He looks back towards this trail of rubies and finds that they look like they aren’t jewels at all, but rather are droplets of red shimmering in the moonlight. He moves even closer and sees that the drops are in a trail behind a dumpster, increasing in size. He wonders to himself, if these were rubies, if only they were, he’d be rich, but now the shapes are far from looking like they were cut and polished. They look much thinner, much less clotted, and more like small puddles. In this alleyway, with all the rubbish, the area just in front of this dumpster looks a lot like a marsh or swamp, and as he nears it with his unsteady feet, behind the dumpster, he sees a hand.

            This sort of thing he finds not so surprising. He figures it’ll just be a dead body. He nears it closer and the hand moves. A weak cough protrudes from behind the dumpster, and he jumps back startled. He pulls the dumpster back.

            “Go away,” an otherworldly voice groans.

            “But you’re hurt, and still alive.”

            “I want to die here, alone,” the man says with even less energy backing his voice.

            “What’s the purpose in that?”

            He looks the man over and sees that he doesn’t look like anyone he has seen before. Spike usually knows people or is at least good with faces. This man isn’t wearing any sort of crew colors, or a button.

            The man looks up at him, bloodied around his mouth, foaming. He speaks through the blood. “I came here only a few days or so ago. I thought there was an opportunity here, but all the doors to work seemed shut…”

            “Well, it’s rough when you first…”

            The man coughs up a mix of mucus, blood, and perhaps some lung. However, he continues. “… I tried all I could to get out there, to make myself look presentable. You see this suit of mine? I made it myself. Back home, I was a tailor. With what little money I had, I asked someone to lend me their shop for a few hours and I purchased some fabric. I thought this would help me stand out, but now look at it.” Aside from the blood soaked lapels, the suit’s bullet holes or stab wound (Who could tell in this light?) make it surprising that it’s barely held together at all.

            Spike looks the man over further, into his bloodshot and clearing eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want me to get you some help?”

            “No, I’ve tried this world, and it tried me. Clearly, we weren’t a match for each other…”

            “But what happened?”

            “Some guy claiming to be part of TylerDurden’s crew started spitting on me down the street in front of people. I had just gotten a gun, and I figured to myself: maybe this’ll make people interested in me. I thought I could hit. I really did, but well… I missed, and he took a pause… I wasn’t sure if he was going to shoot back, but he shot me back plenty…”The man coughs a lot more, bloodied saliva dripping down the sides of his mouth like a child who had eaten too much ice cream, and let it melt on their face.

            Spike looks at the man, and asks, “Do you smoke?”

            “No.”

            “Are you sure there’s nothing that can be done for you? You don’t have any children?”

            “I came here because I had no other family. There’s nothing I need done.”

            Spike drops his cigarette, and leans down to the man. “I hope there aren’t more like you roaming these streets, and I hope they can only be granted mercy.”

            Spike takes the man by the neck with both his hands. The man doesn’t resist, and with a snap, after a few moments from tremors through his body, he falls into stillness.

            Spike wipes his hands off on the un-bloodied part of the man’s suit. He reaches into the man’s pocket looking for a form of identification, and finds nothing but a few poker chips. He looks into the man’s clear eyes, reflecting the moon, and closes them. He pushes the dumpster back up against the wall a bit, and kicks the man’s hand behind it, concealing him. He looks around, finding no witnesses. He thinks the man would’ve appreciated it that way.

            Spike walks solemnly off the scene, back onto the main street, deciding that it is probably time for another drink as he’s feeling too sober now. He lights his cigarette, letting the first bit of ash fall into the gutter, and follows the streetlamps to the nearest speakeasy.