It's Only Rock 'N' Roll, Part Five
London, 1976--“I’m just saying,” said Billy, “that I don’t think a vampire would look like that, what with the white face make-up and what not.”
Spike laughed. They were very drunk, and coming down off the first good show he’d seen since he’d gotten back to London. This kid, Billy, and he had gotten to talking. Turned out he was one of those rare, brave souls that could admit he still loved the Beatles. Smart kid. Big ideas. But he’d never make it in music looking so plain.
“So, what do you figure a vampire would really look like, then?” asked Spike, catching the eye of a bird he’d been chatting up earlier. She smiled at him from across the room.
“I don’t know, said the boy. “Like everyone else. That’s why you couldn’t see ‘em coming.”
“And how’s the bloke on stage supposed to communicate that he’s a vampire, then, without the Bela Lugosi?”
“What? Bloody hell should I know," said Billy. "I’m just saying, if I were going to dress up like a freaking creature of the night, I’d do it right!”
“You’re bloody pissed, mate,” said Spike, rising. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an appointment.”
Spike crossed the room, took the girl by the hand, and walked her out the side door to the alleyway outside. Within moments, they were kissing, and clutching at each other. She began fumbling madly at his belt buckle, and he pressed the pointed metal studs of his wristband tight into her back. She gasped, and clutched at him. He felt her flesh give way as his fangs sank into her neck. She gasped, and, in a moment, was gone.
She fell to the ground, and Spike wiped the blood from his chin. It was then that he realized that Billy was watching from the alleyway.
The two locked eyes, then Billy turned and bolted. Spike considered going after him, but decided against it.
Some time later, he saw the boy again, on the cover of an album.
He’d gotten a new look. And it seemed he’d kept his promise.
And, at last, the end:
It's Only Rock 'N' Roll, Part Six
New York City, 1981—”Coming on Christmas,” thought Spike, idly, as he made his way from the small, Manhattan graveyard where Nikki Wood was buried. Small grave, simple marker, but cemetery space—like all Manhattan rents—goes for a premium.
He didn’t know why he felt drawn to visit. Reminiscing, perhaps. It’s not like he thought about her much. Holidays made him sentimental.
There was a pall over New York, one the encroaching holiday couldn’t quite lift. Spike felt it, too. Someone once told him that they could see a hole in his soul. The words burned at him for a long time. Pricked at him like bee stings. He was a dead man walking. He knew this. He couldn’t drink it away, or pummel it into submission, or drown it in music. Sometimes, he just couldn’t see the fucking point.
He strode across Central Park to the make-shift marker recently erected. A small crowd hovered near it—despite the late hour and cold—lighting candles, praying, singing songs. The body wasn’t here, of course, but that didn’t really matter.
Spike glided through the crowd, patiently stalking his way toward the marker. One word was emblazoned there, in mosaic tile: “Imagine.”
A young couple in tie-died shirts were weeping and waving incense.
Bloody Hell.
Spike stared at the marker for a long time, lost in thought, when a woman wearing too much patchouli asked him, “Where you a fan?”
Spike met her with a sideways glance and a thin grin.
“Of sorts,” he said. “We met once, a long time ago. He gave me a right bit of advice. Took it to heart.”
“What sort of advice?” she asked.
“Doesn’t matter. Like I said, it was a long time ago. But I’ll tell you one thing, I don’t think he’d appreciate us lot sitting around and moping for him.”
The girl looked struck. Spike pulled a flask of whiskey from his coat—Nikki’s coat, once—and took a pull from it.
“Don’t look like that. If I were trying to be cruel, you’d know it.”
Spike knew an easy mark when he saw one, but decided to let this one go.
“Get out of here,” he said, raising his voice, “The whole lot of you. He’s the one who’s dead, not you. Go off and sodding live.
With another pull of whiskey, he stormed off, all the while feeling their stares boring into the back of his head. He began to laugh.
“All we are saaaayyyy-ing,” he sang, as loud and as gloriously off key as he could muster, “is give peace a chance.”
And maybe, he thought, someday he would.
I like your choice of guest stars, Victor.
It's OK?
It's bloody wonderful.
I knew - I just knew - that you'd end with Lennon's murder.
I like your choice of guest stars, Victor.
Thanks. I honestly wasn't too sure about these.
Billy's almost inevitable, I think, with the look and all.
edit: Will you be doing the later punks?
I'm still joying over the idea of him walking into the Chelsea Hotel, looking down at Sid and Nancy, and muttering "Nah, too easy....."
Oh, those were really lovely, Victor. Amazing.
Anne, insent.
