Kid
Monday night, August 28, 2000
Xander slid his sunglasses off as he stepped past the tacky beaded curtain into Willy's Alibi Bar.
He paused, slowly taking measure of the demonic patrons in the place. From his research and
travels, he could identify at least three-quarters of the packed bar by their electromolecular light
patterns and knew which of Willy's customers would most likely try to cause him problems.
Sometimes being one of the only humans in a club or bar was a real pain, because the non-humans tended to think he was prey.
In reality, he was the ultimate predator.
Spike stood out like a beacon in the jumbled mix of tiny moving lights. The enhanced vampire
was playing billiards with an elf, if Xander's identification skills were on the mark. Someone was
getting laid tonight, he thought, and it wasn't him.
Scowling, Xander picked a spot at the bar and claimed it as his own, the two Collbox demons previously occupying the space suddenly coming down with painful headaches. The only other
human in the Alibi Bar was behind the counter, and by the weasely tone of voice, Xander
recognized that it was Willy himself.
"Hey, I know you, don't I?" Willy said, leaning his hands on the bartop in front of Xander. "It's
Xander, right?"
"Warat," Xander ordered without acknowledging Willy's question. The demon brew
was a favorite of his when he was in a semi-foul mood. The strong drink would kick him in the
slats before he decided to start toying with others' brains.
"Woah, that's a pretty bold choice for a boy like you," Willy commented. Xander speared Willy
with a cold glare. Willy backed off quickly. "Right. Warat it is."
Xander idly tapped his finger on the bar as he waited for his drink. Hunting at the Bronze had
been a disappointment, there hadn't been nearly enough vampires there to burn off his energy
from the storm. He'd come to Willy's to give Spike the Hawk, then head into the woods to blow
up a few trees.
"Here you go, kid," Willy said, setting a shotglass before him.
"It's Xander," Xander growled before slamming back the foul liquor. He twirled the shotglass
over and thunked it, rim first, on the counter. "Not 'kid.' I hate being called 'kid'." His father
had called him 'kid.'
Turning around, Xander let out a short, high-pitched whistle. The noise in the bar stopped
abruptly and all eyes looked to him.
All eyes, that was, except for Spike's. Spike continued to study the layout of the billiards
table, the only sign of him having heard the whistle was his hand shooting up to snatch the bike
keys from the air.
End