He wanted to rip his childe's lungs out and use them as throw pillows. He wanted to pull the
peroxide-dickhead's nails out one by one and drip lemon juice on the wounds. He wanted to
make Spike cry in pain and beg for mercy.
A loud roar of jealous rage echoed in the night.
Spike and Buffy. Buffy and Spike. How wonderfully, sickeningly cute. They were like two peas
in a pod. He was surprised they weren't wearing matching outfits. He was surprised he hadn't
vomited all over his shoes.
She was suppose to move on with her life and find a normal boy to be with, not a two-century
old moron -- correction, a two-century old short moron. He was going to hang Spike by his
tongue from the ceiling and see how long it would take for him to touch the ground. He was
going to give the rat-bastard a holy water enema.
He punched the wall, shattering the cement, shattering his hand. He didn't care. The green-eyed
monster ran rampant through his mind, egging him on. He wanted his childe to hurt as much as
he was hurting. He wanted Spike to die.
He wanted Spike to love him.