Spike has felt a bit off all day, so sitting at the bar once he’s off work and drinking seems like a good idea. It’s been a weird night, where he finds he’s been telling patrons exactly what he thinks of their orders (“Why would you want to eat something so disgusting? Do you know what we put in that?”) to telling them exactly what he’d like to do with them (“God, your skin looks like dark chocolate and I’d love to taste it.”). He’s pretty sure, based on some of the responses he’s gotten, that there is some sort of truthy-weirdness going on in town.
Since his other option is to lock himself in his house till it passes, which sounds boring in the extreme, he’s decided that drinking is the best way to handle anything potentially embarrassing to tumble out of his mouth. And so, he’s sitting at the bar, deep in his whiskey, as he continues to blather on to whatever poor soul had asked him about being a vampire with a soul. “Angel had it wrong. Having a soul doesn’t bury the monster within. The monster is always there. Always part of you. You can’t ignore it. Maybe Angel’s soul works different, curse and all. And yeah, there’s guilt. I had lots of guilt at the beginning. But only for the innocents. But some people…they deserve to die. Not gonna waste any shame on them. Don’t feel sorry for them, don’t regret ending their lives. But I don’t go around looking to murder anyone. And yeah, I mostly stick to animal blood. Tolerable, at best. But, anyway, I won’t feel guilt, not anymore, for being what I am. And if that means that occasionally, I want to participate in some consensual drinking of human blood, then who the fuck cares? Angel can sod off and fuck himself, wherever he is.”