DAYS OF OUR UNLIVES: SNAKE WEEK

Covert activities such as this one can tax a vampire's natural reserves of stealth: the silent footstep, the graceful leap over forbidding gates. My Docs land silently on crushed gravel and my eyes dart uneasily across our surroundings, lest any of the
many creatures that lurk here betray our intrusion.

This is great fun. I swear I can hear the 007 spy theme playing in my head.

I glance up at my accomplice, who is carefully shimmying down the iron gates because he doesn't have the balls to take a flying leap over them like I just did. "Get down," I admonish in a hushed whisper. "This part is tricky. If we wake up the Big Guy, there's gonna be trouble for sure."

I start to crawl across the gravel and motion for him to do the same. Sharp rocks slice through the thin material of my jeans. Behind me I hear a frustrated sigh. "Spike, these are very expensive slacks."

I gesture at him to be silent, lest the Beast awaken. We continue in this manner, slowly, stealthily, our preternaturally strong bodies a triumph of silence and grace. Almost there. Just a few... more...

((**BBBRRRRRIIIIINNNNNNGGGGGG**))

An unearthly buzzing shatters the still air. I follow my first instincts, which are to turn behind me and slap him upside the head.

He fumbles clumsily with the offending instrument, unable to silence the racket. "Give me that," I whisper harshly, snatching it from his hand and putting a stop to its complaint. "Jesus Christ, Angelus, you can't remember to turn on the fucking cellphone when we need it, and you can't remember to turn it off when we don't."

His voice rises in indignation. "Well, I'm *SOR*-"

"Ssh!!!" I admonish angrily.

But it's too late. The Beast has risen. It is big, it is powerful, and it is NOT happy about being awakened at 2 a.m. Its triumphant howl trumpets through the darkness. I rise slowly, knowing that there's no turning back now.

"Fuck," I murmur helplessly.

Angel comes to stand behind me, shaking his head. "Elephants," he growls. "I hate the goddamn elephants."

***

I blame television.

There's something to be said for contenting oneself with one's own surroundings. Sticking to what you know. Don't go seeking out the Unknown. Television, unfortunately, has brought the Unknown right into my living room, and Spike is fascinated.

It's Snake Week on the Discovery Channel.

At first I was grateful for educational programming. It was a nice change from the music videos and Jerry Springer episodes that usually shatter the quiet peace of my apartment.

Oh, who am I kidding. It's been neither quiet nor peaceful since Spike moved in.

He's been glued to the set all week. At first it was pleasant. The apartment was a good deal less messy; at least, the mess was confined to the area of the couch (Spike's been trying to perfect that throw-popcorn-in-the-air-and-catch-it-in-your-mouth technique ever since he first arrived on American shores). But as the week progressed, all he could talk about was the snakes. By Thursday, he'd decided that he wanted to see snakes. Real, live snakes.

I knew I was in trouble when I awoke to find Spike leaning over me with a big grin on his face. The last time this happened, I ended up being moshed. Or moshed into. Or moshed at. Or something.

"I wanna go to the zoo."

"What? Who? Huh?" I sputtered, rubbing my eyes.

"The zoo! Where the bleedin' animals live. You *have* heard of the zoo?"

"What? *Why?* What the hell's at the zoo?"

"The snakes! And also the bats. And spiders. And maybe a few wolves. Are there wolves in captivity?"

"Not legally, no."

"All right, no wolves then. But piranhas. And penguins."

I raised one eyebrow quizzically. "Penguins?"

"Yup."

I sighed. "Spike, the zoo closes before sunset."

That's when he began to grin wickedly. "Well, then, we're just gonna have to show up uninvited, aren't we?"

So here we are, hiding behind the monkey cages while a security guard strolls past, shining his flashlight suspiciously into every corner and searching for whatever caused the uproar among the elephants.

"Let me eat him," Spike whispers.

"No."

"Aww, come on!"

"You're not eating the security guard, Spike!"

"It'll be fun."

"Shut. Up."

"Bloody ponce!"

"So help me God, Spike, we will turn around and go home right now..."

He falls silent and begins to sulk.

He's so *good* at that. It starts in the eyes, really, and sometimes that's enough. That look that says "you can't possibly mean it. You know you only live to please me. You live for my smirk when you amuse me, my moan when you pleasure me, my scream when you make me come, and you no longer exist outside of the way I make you feel, so don't even try to deny me what I want, because you don't have the strength." And Jesus Christ, it's true, as much as I don't want to admit it... but he
doesn't stop there, he isn't that merciful. He pulls in his cheeks, ever so slightly, just enough to accentuate the lines of those beautifully crafted cheekbones. Those cheekbones are a fucking work of art. *God* crafted those cheekbones.

I'm gushing, I know. Deal with it.

He tips his head forward... ever so slightly... enough to make the dim light play off the curves of his face as he pushes his lower lip out in a rapturous pout. And then... he blinks. Twice, in rapid succession.

And I *melt.*

I can't help it. I melt. I'm putty in his hands. He could lead me to the ends of the earth. He could lead me into Hell. He could lead me into another mosh pit.

I sigh. "What do you want to see first?"

He grins. "The snakes."

***

Snakes are *so* *fucking* *cool.* The way they move, as if they're swimming over the surface of the earth. Tongues flickering briefly, long enough to taste the air. Cool bodies, beautiful patterns. I watch in amazement as a bloody huge python winds slowly and torturously around a branch. Meanwhile, my Sire comes up behind me and, in a similar manner, curls his arms tightly around my waist, burying his head into my shoulder, twisting his fingers through my hair. He's gotten strangely
touchy-feely all of the sudden.

They say that snakes are a phallic symbol.

There's something magical about the buggers. Slow and sensuous and somehow otherworldly, like something left over from the days when our kind ruled the earth. No coincidence that so many demons look like bloody huge snakes.

I glance behind me and he's staring at them in awe, wide-eyed. There are no snakes in Ireland... they say St. Patrick drove 'em out. No wonder Catholic SoulBoy is so damn enthralled. No wonder his hard-on is digging into the back of my jeans...

I grab his hand, a gesture reserved for times like these, when no one's watching. He sucks in a breath in surprise.

"C'mon," I purr. "There's still lots to see."

***

"Which one you like the best?"

I curl my lip in disgust, peering at the creatures behind the glass. "None of them."

"Oh, come on!"

"No, really. They're repulsive. Why does anything need that many legs?"

He grins. "If *I* had that many legs..."

"Oh, hush."

"Seriously? I think they're fuckin' awesome. Thought you liked critters." He gives me a lascivious smile, sidles up behind me, and perches his chin on my shoulder. "You certainly seemed to enjoy the snakes..." He cups my ass with one hand, and then slides down lower... lower... between my... oh, shit.

I reach behind me and clasp his wrist in a bone-crushing grip. "I hate spiders. And chickens. Spiders and chickens. They give me the creeps."

He looks at me and begins to snicker.

"Really! All those legs. Not good for anything but crawling all over everything. I mean, what other purpose are they gonna serve?"

He begins to smile.

Oh, I know that smile.

I dread that smile.

"Only one purpose *I* can think of, mate."

Why do I keep giving him stupid ideas?

He looks around quickly in what might be construed as a guilty manner, except Spike couldn't feel guilty if he tried, so I know it's just a moment of uncharacteristic caution. Then he pulls the sleeve of his duster over his hand and jabs his fist quickly
through the glass.

"What the hell are you doing?" I cry incredulously.

"Nothing," he says innocently. He then reaches in with one hand and grabs a handful of rare, expensive African spiders.

I just close my eyes. I don't wanna know. I don't wanna know. I can't be held legally responsible if I don't know...

He opens a pocket in his duster and drops the spiders in. "C'mon."

"Spike," I gasp, alarmed, "are you *stealing* the spiders?"

He crooks an eyebrow at me. "Of course not."

I sigh in relief. "Good."

He turns to leave. "I'm gonna feed 'em to the piranhas."

***

"Here, fishy," I call, leaning over the fence that separates us from the piranha pond. I pull another spider from my pocket and dangle it over the water. "Here, fishy fishy fishy..."

We took the long way around to get here, stopping to see the bats and the lizards and the penguins, but by that point the spiders were starting to crawl out of my coat. So here I am, tossing them into the piranha pond and watching 'em rip the buggers to bits.

He sighs, leaning against the fence, and watches with an apathetic acceptance as I pull a huge tarantula out of my pocket. "You realize that's a six-hundred dollar tarantula."

"Uh-huh." I drop it in and two bloody huge piranhas nearly shred one another fighting over it. Kinda like vampires. I glance over at him and notice with glee that he's making Facial statement #4, a sanctimonious little smirk that can be best interpreted as "I'm really getting off on this but I can't act like it 'cause I've got a soul and I'm not supposed to enjoy this sort of thing, even though those piranhas are really fucking cool."

"Are you done yet? We've been here all night."

"All night, my bollocks. It's only four in the morning."

"As I said..."

"Stop acting like a bloody human, Peaches." I toss the last spider in. "Damn. It's over so fast, y'know..."

"Yeah. Tragic." He glances at his watch. "You done?"

I stand before him and lean forward, pressing my body intimately against his. He's impatient to leave because he wants to go back to the apartment and fuck me into the mattress.

It's not gonna be that easy.

I lean in close to him and brush my lips against his, my teeth tugging his lower lip into my mouth. "Oh, never fear, pet," I purr. "The night's just getting started."

***

He runs up to the next pen and peers over the fence with a childlike grin. "Crocodiles!"

I glance at the sleeping beast before us. "That's an alligator, Spike, not a crocodile."

"Same thing." He makes to leap over the fence, and I grab him by the shoulder. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'm gonna wrestle him."

The most alarming thing is that statements like that don't even shock me
anymore.

"No, you're not."

"Aw, c'mon!"

"Spike," I growl, "I couldn't keep you out of the mosh pit. But I'll be *damned* if I watch you get ripped apart by an alligator."

"I can take him!"

"No."

"I can!"

"I *said* no."

It's times like this when I wonder why I stay with Spike in the first place. Then I have to remind myself that I stay with Spike expressly because of times like this. Because he's a hundred-and-twenty-six-year-old child. Because he can find magic and mayhem in any situation. Because he makes me forget all those things that I don't want to remember. Because he makes me
smile.

In a typical display of rebellion, he hoists his leg over the fence again. I grab him by the waistband of his pants and haul him off. "Fuck off!" he shouts, keeping a deathgrip on the iron bars. "Christ on a cross, why the hell don't you ever wanna let me have any *fun?*"

"As pleasant as the idea of watching you get ripped to bloody shreds is right now-" I retort, struggling to drag him off the fence, "I don't relish the idea of climbing in to pick up messy chunks of Spikeflesh after that alligator has his way with you."

"I bet you'd like to have your way with me," he growls, getting his other boot over the edge of the fence.

"All- in- good- time," I grunt, and give his jeans one final tug. He loses his grip on the bars and we both topple to the concrete below. We land with our legs tangled together, his lips only inches from mine.

All in good time.

I look up at him and sigh.

"If you leave the alligator alone," I concede, "I'll buy you an ice cream."

And they think vampires can't father children.

He grins. "Snackbar's closed."

He's gonna get us both arrested one of these days.

"Fine," I say, relenting at last. "I'll steal you an ice cream."

***

"Aren't you done yet?"

"Will you calm down? I'm workin' on it."

"This really isn't a good idea."

"It's this or the crocodile."

"Alligator."

"Whatever."

"We're gonna get caught."

"We've already broken into the bleedin' zoo! We destroyed the spider case! We fed one species to another! You think there's an extra criminal charge for invading the snack bar after hours? For someone whose very existence defies the laws of man and nature, you sure do worry a lot about authority, Peaches."

"Whatever. Hurry up."

"I *said* I'm workin' on it. Hold on to your hairgel."

"I thought you were good at this..."

I look up in annoyance. I'm William the Bloody, goddamnit. Greatest highwayman, pickpocket and general causer of mayhem known to Whitechapel. I know what I'm doing. "I'm *very* good at this. I'm just a little out of practice, is all."

"You did fine with my lockbox," he growls.

"That was with a hairpin. Standard lock-picking equipment. This, however, is a mangled ballpoint pen. James Bond himself couldn't pick a lock with a mangled ballpoint pen." I give one last twist and the door pops open. "But I can, by God."

***

"Chocolate chip."

"No."

He sighs. "Peanut butter fudge."

"Nope, none of that, either."

"Cookies n' cream?"

I dig through the packaged ice cream bars. My hands are starting to get
frostbitten. "Sorry."

He rolls his eyes in consternation. "Fuckin' hell! Chocolate cherry?"

"Uh-uh."

"Bloody fascists."

"Not really getting the connection."

"Huh?"

"Fascists... ice cream..." I pull out a package and brush the frost away from the print. "Orange sherbert?"

"Hell no. Don't you remember World War Two, mate? I never met a Nazi that ate ice cream. Where *were* you in the Forties?"

"Montana. Brooding."

"Naturally."

I reach the bottom of the ice cream freezer. "Chocolate crunch?"

He shrugs. "That'll do." I toss it to him and he tears the paper off with his teeth, swallowing the ice cream in big gulps.

"Don't do that."

"Why not?" he demands, and then immediately begins to flinch in agony, pressing one hand to his forehead. "Oh, Christ..."

"Because you'll get an ice cream headache, that's why."

"Oh, sod off."

I put a comforting arm around his shoulder. "You'll live. You wanna go home now?"

"Hell no." He pulls away. "We haven't seen the lions. I wanna compare that poncey tattoo of yours to the real thing..."

"It's not a lion."

"The hell it's not!"

"I told you this already. It's a griffin."

"Yeah, whatever."

I would argue, but this would only bring us back to the alligator/crocodile debate. Spike has a limited understanding of the animal kingdom, mostly fueled by the Discovery Channel, Zaboomafoo, and the writings of Lewis Carroll. If I don't drop itnow, before long we'll be arguing about panthers and jaguars, wallabies and duck-billed platypi, sphinxes, jabborwockies, and turtle soup. I've heard it all before. I affect a sigh, but as tired as I am, I *would* like to see the lions. There's somethingmajestic about them... feral... powerful... almost...sexy. Yes, you heard me right, I said the lions are sexy. Jesus Christ, I think I've been around Spike too long.

"Fine," I concede. "The lions it is."

***

"No."

"Why the fuck not?"

"For all the obvious, legally binding reasons."

"Don't be such a ponce."

"I'm just cautious!"

"I thought you wanted to see 'em."

He briefly slips into Facial statement #4.5, so called because it's closely related to #4. This one I call "Can Angelus come out to play?" "I don't want to see them badly enough to break and enter for them," he growls. "What you're suggesting is *highly*
illegal."

"I think we've already crossed that bridge, Peaches..."

"The theft of ice cream and spiders is one thing," he retorts. "This is... a *lion*... a big...predatory... *expensive*... *lion*... you are talking about breaking into the lion's cage."

"No," I reply calmly, "I'm talking about breaking into the little building where they keep all the lion's cages so they can store all the lions at night and prevent blokes like you n' me from fuckin' with 'em. Totally different matter. For one thing, easier. For another, marginally less illegal. And for third, less likelihood of gettin' eaten."

"You're gonna be the death of me, Spike."

"Yeah, well, you *were* the death of me, and you copped a feel in the process, so I should say you bloody well owe me one." I search through my pockets for something to help me pick the large and intimidating lock that keeps us out of the lion's pen. One mangled ballpoint pen, check. Not sufficient to break into this bad boy. One crushed African tarantula, check. It would
serve well to gross Angel out, but you can't pick a lock with it. And the toy surprise I've got saved for Peaches later this evening, check. That's about it. A crushed pack of cigarettes, my Zippo, a comic book, and the $20 I stole from his pants pocket. None of this is particularly helpful.

Finally I wrap my hands around the doorhandle. And begin to tug. "Help me,
ya ponce," I snap.

"What?"

"Put your bloody arms around my waist and help me pull."

"No."

I glance over my shoulder at him, push my lower lip out slightly, and blink.

Works every time.

Within about five minutes, the lion's-pen is open.

***
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