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Spike's Journal

Spike's Journal

Spike's Journal

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Spike soft
I snagged Wes’ laptop to type this journal. I’ll load it up when we hit the ground. Wes doesn’t know what I’m working on… probably thinks I’m playing video games or some such rot.

So, here we are at 40 thousand feet… Wes is fagged out but unable to sleep. Too much on his mind, I guess. Too bloody much always on his mind lately - Life and death and relife. Yeah, spell checker says that’s not really a word, but who the fuck cares? Wonder if I can charm a couple more drinks out of the stewardess… give them both to Wes and maybe he’ll actually sleep.

Off to London, via Newfoundland - what a Bloody God-awful flight plan… but better than Wes carrying me off the plane in a baggy, I guess. And we need to get there… get to England. Need to get some answers before Wes goes insane. And if the fuckin’ Council doesn’t ante up they may just find out why my name is Spike. No more chip, me, and I don’t plan on stayin’ quiet while they jerk him around. Bloody Watchers.

It was supposed to be the three of us here. Me, Wes and the Big Poof. But Angel skived off on us - Let the bloody Slayer turn him back into Captain of the Broody-pants and guilt him into staying away. I say, fuck the bleedin’ Slayer. No… been there, done that… happier now.

Happier with Wes. Yeah… the thought kinda gobsmacked me too, but there it is. Happy, and glad to be here… with him… on a plane.

Best shut this down now. Wes’ eyes are finally drifting shut and he’s started to lean in this direction. Quit typing so I’ll make a comfy pillow and maybe he’ll sleep a bit.
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