(and another chunk)
Glory reclined on her couch and nibbled on one of her dark chocolate truffles. "So is he awake yet?"
Dreg peered at the slumped vampire tied to the chair. "I don't know, most holy. How would I tell?"
She sighed and got to her feet. "Like this, dumdum." She grabbed a handful of Spike's hair and yanked.
"Ow!" Spike yelled. "Leave off, you stupid bint!"
Glory crouched down in front of him. "Excuse me?" she asked sweetly, tapping her fingernails on his left kneecap.
"Um--oh. Sorry. Thought you were someone else."
"Like who? You have a lot of people knocking you around?"
He snickered. "More than you could ever believe, pet. Slayer's got a tendency to come around and do the threatening thing."
She jumped to her feet. "You thought I was the Slayer?"
"Don't know what I was thinking." He studied her for a moment, making no effort to disguise his interest. "Must be the concussion. Slayer's got nothing on you."
"Vampires don't get concussions. And, um ..." She smoothed her dress and made an effort to tidy her hair, then shook herself. "Anyway, before you distracted me with the passing out thing, I was asking you who knew where the Key is."
"As if anyone would let me know anything--"
She backhanded him. "I don't care if anyone would tell you, bleach head, do you know who does know where the Key is?" She smiled as his shoulders began to quiver. "So you ready to talk now?" Then she heard him laughing. "What are you laughing at!"
He raised his head and sneered at her, blood running down from his split lip. "Bleach head? You call yourself a god? Come on, Xander Harris comes up with better lines than that."
Glory grabbed him by the throat and lifted him, chair and all. "Don't you know who I am!"
"Yeah," he coughed. "Glory, god of used to be scary."
She raised a clawed hand up to his face. "I could rip your eyeballs out and smush them under my foot."
He laughed again and shook his head. "No, no, don't go for the eyeballs now, you haven't even broken all my fingers yet. Come on, where's the classic progression of pain? And where's the psychological torture? All you've given me is bad diction and B-movie villain ranting."
She shook him. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
He sneered. "Somebody who was raised by Angelus, Scourge of Europe. Now there's a bloke who knew the potential of common household equipment. You're kindergarten class compared to him."
With a shriek, she threw him and the chair against the wall. The chair exploded, and Spike hit the floor in a tangle of ropes, chains, and potential stakes.
"Full marks for freedom, lad," he muttered to himself, "zero points for sense." He scrambled to his feet, tried not to count how many ribs were broken and stabbing into useless-but-painful internal organs, and crashed through the door.