Spike is moshing. Stirring up trouble. Out comes one bloodied face from the pit, then another. He's a blur, elbows hard and flashing, steel-toed Docs on the move for unsheathed feet to smear. But nobody moshes barefoot.
Faith watches from above. The silver skulls at her ears flash in the colored lights, throwing reflections on her tattooed cheeks, jawline, the pulse of her jugular. Her long dreads tonight are a deep shade of aubergine. She is bored.
No finesse, she thinks. He doesn't care who he wrecks. There, he just put out the eye of some vagabond wretch. Big deal. No class. She hates it when he's higher than a kite. Nowadays, it's always. She's waiting to make her move.
Spike's body grinds across the pit until he's dancing directly under her perch. His aimless carnage is nearing its peak as he sends a willowy Deadhead down. That oaf. Faith launches herself then. Her full colored skirts and wild hair are a cloud descending into the pit. Her bangles are flashing like lightning. Her eyes gleam as she watches her green Dr. Martens crash down on his skull. He's out.
And she's dancing the Watusi on his chest. Flesh mashing nicely against bone, perhaps the crack of ribs. One gleaming arm she sends in the direction of a Don Juan account executive riddled with HIV, so pretty in his poser ripped jeans and one tiny silver hoop - down you go! Broken nose.
Her torso she flings against the belly of a vagrant pregnant girl on smack who crumples and contracts on the floor. She used to beat her sisters with a brush. You never can tell. Faith's foot finds the knee of a kid who stalks old women for their pension checks and a thrill or two - down! The knee bends backward, a look of surprise coming over his face.
By the time the club closes she's weeded them all out. Dawn is approaching and she wants to surf. Come on, William. She peels the bloodied vamp from the pit. What hit me? She just smiles. They hoof their way down back streets toward Ocean Beach, Spike wheezing and cursing, stopping in the Panhandle to cop a spoon.
Faith doesn't wait or slow. She wants to feel the sand between her toes and dance on those high waves too cold for mortals. She knows her night's work was just fun and games, really. Just biding her time until The Purge. Still, every little bit helps. And the trick is not to get there from here, but to relish the task along the way.
That in mind, she stops to stoke
a clove, handing one to an urchin slouching on the concrete. Smoke
up, sister, she says. Take a little drag off death.