Angel and Spike are race car drivers. Stop laughing.
Angel and Spike are race car drivers. No, listen.
Angel and Spike are race car drivers and neither of them have figured out that the track is a loop.
And so they go on.
Angel and Spike are father and son. Don't roll your eyes.
Angel and Spike are father and son. This is serious!
Angel and Spike are father and son, and neither of them have figured out that life is a circle.
And so they keep racing.
Angel and Spike keep racing, and neither have seen that if they just stop, they will be ahead of the other.
Angel and Spike can't see it, but we can. Why is that?
Because the track, the ride, the circle, the rollercoaster feels so real that the moment you jump on it you forget the rails are under you. And it's scary, and the seatbelt doesn't make a difference and you can never see the end.
It's late, it's dark, it always is. They're vampires, you see, and the leather just doesn't seem elan-y enough under daylight bulbs.
It's a bar, it's smoky, it always is. They're men, you see, and these are the props that hold them up and conceal their shaking.
Spike lounges, louche and long. It's a trick; he's short, so he keeps his limbs loose to extend his outline.
Angel strides, contained and powerful. It's a glamour; he turns his flailing into a martial art.
Spike lounges and Angel strides with purpose, but Spike is not relaxed and Angel doesn't know where he's going.
"You found me," Spike says, with affected surprise.
"I'll always be able to catch you, Spike," Angel makes himself big, like a cat with his shadow. "Especially when you steal my own damn car."
Spike dangles keys in Angel's face. "Possession and all that. Technically, I only stole the keys."
Angel grabs them and throws them on the bar. They jangle, keys do that. People look up, they do that. "Repossession!" he says. "Er... Hah."
"Pint?" Spike says.
"Whiskey," Angel replies.
"Chaser?"
"Drink."
"Okaaay," Spike turns, orders, turns back. Money is rarely an issue, isn't that weird?
They drink, at each other.
They get drunk, eventually.
"I'll always catch you, Spike," Angel says in the course of a thought that slips out through his mouth on the way from his dick to his brain. "You drive like a drunken fourth-grader."
"With reckless abandon?"
"With vomit and incompetence."
"Same difference," Spike says, and the keys have walked into his pocket all on their own.
It's like a film. The rules don't apply. They never need to piss and dying doesn't change anything. They may disagree.
Drunk driving always seem like a good idea, doesn't it? And bets, you never think you'll lose.
Angel and Spike are race car drivers, for real this time.
Crash and burn.
