I have to say, I thought I was the toughest guy on the streets of North London back then. Little did I know that I was about to come up against an adversary even stronger than me. That was when I was a human, of course. As a vampire, I can kick his ass from Piccadilly to Leiceister bloody Square, know what I mean?
I was 18 years old and one of the best damn lightweight boxers around those parts. Ah, I remember how I loved the sport. I mean, yeah, I would die for a good Manchester United game as much as the next bloke…but then, that's an empty promise, isn't it?
Football was too much of a team sport for me, anyway. Hey, if my side wins, I'm getting credit for it, you understand. And besides being in a football riot, boxing was about as physical as I could get. The smell of blood and sweat in your nostrils. If only I had appreciated it more.
I was so good at it, too. The other guy would always dance around like a nancy-boy, with the fancy footwork. They call that boxing? I call it Saturday Night Fever. God, I hated that scene…they thought disco was the best music to come out of the '70s? Ever heard of Johnny Rotten, people?
Anyway, while they were jumping all over the ring like big kangaroos, I would just set in on them and give them the pounding of their life. If only we could have used weapons as well. That would have been true happiness. They called me Spike, because of my deadly blows. The railroad spike torture bit is just something I made up later…everybody's got to have a gimmick, you know. And the Watchers just ate it up like tea and scones. They're wild about a morbid story. Besides, I got bloody tired of telling everyone the same thing. The new tale is much more interesting and succinct, don't you think?
Anyway, one night after a particularly gory match, I was walking home through the alleys of London, and I heard a girl screaming ahead. Now, I've always been a sucker for the damsel in distress. They're just so tasty. Oh, but I was a human then, and had a yen to prove myself by being the knight in shining armour. Good thing too, or else I might have ended up as one of those pathetic, piddling mortals.
I ran down the alley, and gave her attacker a punch that sent him flying into the opposite wall. The girl went running off.
"By the way, you're welcome!" I called after her. "Bloody bitch," I muttered as I turned to face the bloke I'd just hit. His face was distorted in a way I'd never seen before, but that didn't phase me.
"You little-" he started.
"Wait," I said, "you've got something on your face." He started to smile. That was right before I punched him straight in the gob. "Oh, sorry, that *was* your face. Now, why don't you hit someone who can take you, pissant, instead of picking on little girls? If you want a prostitue, go buy yourself one," I said, flicking some coins from my winnings at him. "I'm sure you know your way to the whorehouse, mate."
"You are a cheeky little bastard, aren't you?"
"You want to see who's got the most punch around here, step on up. You'd be trying yourself against the lightweight champion of North London, though."
He got up, enraged, and stared at me for a couple of seconds. Then he smiled.
"How'd you like to come work for me, my friend?" he asked.
"Not bloody likely."
Then the big fight scene ensued. Now, you understand, the only reason I lost was because Angelus was a bloody vampire, and too much of a wanker to refuse an unfair fight. Anyway, he sucked me, I sucked him…you get the deal. As I lay there, my soul draining away down the sewers of North London, I looked up at my new sire.
"We're full partners, you understand," I said, "None of this working-for-you bollocks…"
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